Still trying to process a tough week with the losses of Roddy MacKenzie and Michael O’Sullivan. Read a few pieces, watched a few clips, flicked through some photos and corresponded with a few friends.
As Willie Dowling texted yesterday, “Time waits for no man.”
We compete on the track, no inch given. And yet we hurt, grieve, mourn as one.
Any death in our sport takes me back to Jonathan Kiser, Trish Daniels and a few of our lost brothers, our lost sisters. Ones who nestled their way into our lives, ones who bullied their ways into our hearts. And then, poof, gone forever. Those losses, so young, so vibrant, so alive. Whew, they still sting, still singe, still hurt, still haunt.
I didn’t know Roddy well. He won a point-to-point flat race for me many years ago, I went to his wedding, I’d see him at the races. That’s about all. He had made a life here, made a living, made a lot of friends, made his mark. Forty-five years old and gone.
I didn’t know Michael O’Sullivan at all. But, wow, did I know of him. A young talent destined for the top. I can picture him standing in his stirrups and saluting on Marine Nationale after winning the Supreme at Cheltenham two years ago. A young kid achieving his dream. A rise. A release. The sky was the limit. Twenty-four years old and gone.
The fragility of life. The finality of death.
