It, of course, is the story everybody loves

in these days of national political gridlock,

antagonism, polarization and blatant racism,

when an American soldier, five year prisoner

of war, is booed on touchdown on U.S. soil

and prejudged and excoriated by every non-

veteran pundit, newscaster and otherwise

media ignoramus, it’s obvious America is

stalled out on the potholed highway of life.

The good-looking kid who’s mother was

bought for a song has everyone singing “My

Old Kentucky Home,” listening to “Revelry”

in Maryland and hearing Frank Sinatra, Jr. belt

out his dad’s song, “New York, New York” in

New York – a commoner in Camelot, a would-

be prince in a land of kings, a would-be king

in the land of equine gods. A number’s geek,

a blue-collar California cowboy, a long-term,

mediocre rider turned into a veteran-in-his-own-

right trainer all looking for a “who-could-believe

-it” legacy was on the verge of handing America

what it needed in this moment like every other

moment in America’s past when something

mythical, something magical, something whim-

sical was needed and now would, for two and

a half minutes, provide it, but it was not to be.

The double crown, an unbelievable feat, was

not to be a triple. The crazy politicians would

continue their crazy ways, cynicism would

prevail, fear, again, would rule the day and

after it all, all the jeers and tears, the beautiful,

golden boy with the flying white feet, upon

whom rested so many hopes, just looked for-

ward to a big bucket of oats and lots of rest

in the California sun.