Maybe a month and a half late, but still somewhat appropriate timing here, as Cigar succumbs at the age of 24.
But what Drape, Bailey, D. Wayne, and all the rest neglect to say is that Cigar, for all his greatness – and there’s a smattering of hagiography in these write ups to be sure – didn’t stick. And short of becoming the first horse to fly across the finish line, could not have endured. I wouldn’t even be aware that he’d passed if not for stumbling across it in a hardcopy of the paper while waiting to clear a typical bureaucratic hurdle this afternoon.
A scant 20 years later it’s an entirely different world. Cigar, quite simply, came too late. He not only failed to blossom as a 3-year old, but he shone—and this is certainly not his fault—at the very end of an era, one to be eclipsed by a culture in which, horse racing certainly, but also reflection, consideration, and even memory itself, have been discarded.
As an example – and, I recognize some will blanche at this comparison – ask your coworkers over the age of 45, whether they identify as sports fans or not: “’Citation?’ That name mean anything to you?”
Follow by asking those under 35 the same question regarding Cigar…
But, that’s enough negativity. Farewell Cigar. You certainly held existence value for me, long after you stopped competing.