Some seven or eight summers ago I came to the Saratoga Race Course with a friend. Which is about all I remember about the day.
I don't remember what day of the week it was. I don't remember what month it was. I don't remember what year it was.
I remember the name of my date, I remember it not going as well as my 18 or 19-year-old self might have hoped, and I remember the stretch run of one race from that day - a horse named Pizza kicking away from the field en route to victory, and Tom Durkin, the clever Saratoga Race Course caller bellowing out, "That's-a-nice-a-Pizza," as the horse crossed the wire.
I remember the line drawing smiles and laughter from the crowd I remember nothing else about, and I remember being reminded, again, why we all love Tom Durkin.