One of my earliest duties in journalism was to go to a local race track on Saturday afternoons, record the results (including positions of all the horses in the field three or four times during a race), the weights, distances, jockeys' and trainers' names and wagering and then phone them back to the paper, which was the Brisbane (Australia) Sunday Mail.

This was work reserved for the lowliest of the low, given to the most pimpled members of the editorial hierarchy in order to keep them busy and teach them a thing or two about getting details right. Boy, were we kept busy.

The races were only 40 minutes apart and it took about 45 minutes to phone in the details -- so that every new start would have us falling about five minutes behind. At the end of the day, when the grown-ups were already in the bar, we poor apprentice scribes would have to stay an extra hour to finish all the details. In this frustrating milieu, I got to love the crazy ways of the track. It was nothing if not exciting.

Which brings me to Big Brown's failed attempt to win the Triple Crown at Belmont on Saturday evening. This was supposed to be the biggest story in racing history for years. It turned out to be the biggest fiasco.

Never have I seen journalists so bought into their own pre-prepared narrative as I saw from the sorry crew at ABC. From the start, the commentators treated Big Brown as if he were Christ arriving on Earth. The other horses barely existed for ABC; they were merely extras doomed to play the role of sacrificial lambs for the benefit of the Great One, the super intelligent Big Brown, horse among horses, divine creature among men and women assembled to pay him homage.

Unfortunately, Big Brown had failed to read the script which said he was supposed to win. Instead he turned out to be the Titanic of the track. The supposedly unsinkable/unbeatable hit an iceberg of an unknown origin.

When it became obvious that he wouldn't win, the commentators were totally flummoxed. Something is wrong with the universe! He must be ill! Was he kicked? Did he stumble? They floundered about with the remnants of their script, showing no wit or inclination to realize that the story had changed. While here was an upset for the ages, the very stuff of sports, they couldn't see beyond Big Brown. Finally, almost as an after-thought, they switched their attention briefly from the horse that finished last to the one that finished first, Da' Tara.

Too little, too late. It would never have done at the old Sunday Mail. There you learned to move fast as the situation changed and you stayed until you got the job done.

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