By BEN JACKEY
One Great Season
I've lived in horse country nearly all my life, but I can barely tell you the difference between a mare, a colt, and a gelding (I'm the latter since marriage). However, when I place my $2 wager on the ponies, I do study the racing form with great fervor. I always look at past performance, usually the last two or three races. And, of course, I like to see who that horsed raced against. Then, I pick my champion.
Now to the story. Much like Barbaro was formidable on the track, I'm equally imposing on the dance floor. Going into what some were calling a "Derby Kick-Off Party" on Saturday, I knew my competition would be stiff. And the knowledge that OGS founding editor John P. Wise would be in attendance, made my legs -- which rival the width of a thoroughbred's ankle -- tremble. Yet, I was confident based on my previous prep dances.
What John Wise did not know is that I had spent the previous two weekends destroying the wedding reception circuit. My April 10 performance in Dallas was a little rusty. My only competition was a drive-time DJ from Charlotte who spent many nights in the clubs and had all the moves. The dude could dance. Thankfully, there were plenty of fillies in the stable and his attention was diverted. It wasn't a great showing, but I proved I could go the distance. I danced with bridesmaids, brides, moms, dads, groomsmen and even myself. The footwork was a little sloppy after tearing ligaments in my left ankle (thank goodness I'm not Barbaro, by the way). To seal the deal, I actually went to the old stand-bye. It's my version of Kareem's jump hook and Hardaway's crossover; it's The Running Man. When the disco ball went dim, I declared myself the undisputed champion of the dance floor.
The weekend leading up to the big event would prove more of a challenge. This group liked to party -- from the father of the bride to the inappropriate aunt. There was drinking before the wedding, on the way to the reception and well into the wee hours of the night. Much like Lasix for a colt, Jim Beam can provide an average horse with the ability to push physical insufficiencies aside. I like to go straight edge with a long night of dancing on the horizon. They may have been juiced, but I had the juice. My thighs were burning and my equilibrium was failing, but I perservered. The pictures and captions on Facebook do not lie: I was the life of the party and now had my eyes on the Triple Crown of Dancing.
I spent much of the week practicing in between showering and eating. Instead of my long gazes into the mirror, I used the beautiful reflection of myself to hone my skills.
Then came the second to last Saturday in April. The greatest three hours in dance.
I must say, I had to overcome some incredible obstacles. 1) No glow sticks. 2) The distraction of the "only in Kentucky" sight of a highly intoxicated woman inappropriately positioned with a man, locked in a nauseating embrace, all while unintentionally becoming the mascot of the establishment we were in, called "August Moon." And 3) As John Wise warned me before my arrival, the music was absolutely dreadful.
I knew the odds were stacked against me when Soul For Real's "Candy Rain" began blasting through the speakers. What's that, Mr. DJ? You were all out of H-town? Blinkers were a necessity for this race.
The measure of my success was calculated by the number of times my Ryan Seacrest skinny tie was grabbed by both males and females, the amount of random strangers who felt compelled to trade moves with me and the blonde who tried to pull me back to the dance floor in between the tonsillectomies she performed on the creator of this fine Web site.
Again, victory.
I continue to roll around in my garland of roses. Truth be told, I went off at even odds. Like Wesley Snipes said, "Always bet on the skinny white guy."
Jackey is an Emmy Award-winning partier who lives in Louisville.