Of all the sporting events I attended, Derby was No. 1

	The Derby experience was like no other. What could be better than people watching and sipping mint juleps while watching a fantastic race? Bill Frakes/SI
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By Jim Gorant

In 2005 I set off on a quest to attend what were in my mind the 10 ultimate sports events (Super Bowl, Daytona 500, Final Four, Masters, Kentucky Derby, Wimbledon, Wrigley Field, Ohio State-Michigan, Lambeau Field and Opening Day at Fenway). The adventure resulted in a book, Fanatic: 10 Things All Sports Fans Should Do Before They Die, which comes out this month. Below is part of the chapter depicting my trip to the Kentucky Derby (my favorite of the 10 events), where I was joined by my wife, Karin, and two good friends of ours, Kevin and Tara.

The day is grand, sunny and beautiful, about 83 de­grees, with big puffy clouds floating by. The atmosphere is some­thing like going to a football game in your best church clothes. There's a sense of sophistication and formality, and yet we're out­side, we're drinking, and the air is filled with excitement. Thus far we've lunched, seen notables -- Richard Branson, [former] Minnesota Vi­kings coach Mike Tice -- and people-watched.

The best perch for this proves to be a small balcony overlooking the paddock area, which is three times as jam-packed today as it was yesterday. This is the Derby as advertised. The brave men who've strayed from the blue blazer and khakis dazzle with red sport jackets, green trousers, linen suits, and plenty of seersucker, occasionally even accompanied by a bow tie and a straw boater. The women are a kaleidoscope of colors and shapes and hats, from tame wide-brimmed straw ones to outsize, crazy things that force other people to duck every time the wearer turns around.

One woman goes by sporting a number with a long line of black feathers attached. "Oh, my," Tara says, "someone got a hot glue gun for Christmas." Karin, to her dismay, spots a woman wearing the same dress as she. "Well," offers another lady standing near us. "As long as she's down there and you're up here, it's not a prob­lem." On our other side I listen in as one woman tells another con­spiratorially, "She bought a $600 hat from Neiman and her husband told her no way. So she took it back and traded it in for one that cost four hundred."

Back in our seats, we sip ceremonial mint juleps and place bets on the next race. I'd say the flavor of the drink is not what I ex­pected, but I didn't really have any expectation of what it would taste like. I just assumed it would be good. Why else would it be such a hallowed tradition? Truth is, the mint julep is a bit of an ac­quired taste, neither sweet nor smooth nor necessarily tasty. I per­sist, though, because it's the Derby and I'm going to drink a mint julep, dammit, which I suspect is exactly how the tradition has survived.

Having grown bored of the hat watching, the women strike out to find a gift shop. As the race starts, Kevin and I are standing casually. Through turn one we start to yell for the 5 horse, on whom we've plunked our dough. Down the backstretch we start to stretch and crane and rise up onto our toes. Finally we jump onto our chairs to get a better view of the horses rumbling out of the last turn and into the homestretch. The 5 horse is running third. The entire crowd has risen and the level of noise ratchets up in a mish­mash of contradictory wishes, prayers, and enthusiasms. I'm yell­ing "Go 5, go 5," while Kevin has opted for something a little less cliche but that makes up for its unorthodoxy with an admirable simplicity and straightforwardness: "Run faster," he screams. "Run faster!"