Attack of the Barbaro-ians makes no (horse) sense

You people scare me. You freak me out. And worst of all, there's no way to know who you are. You could be the woman who delivers my mail. The man on the next treadmill. My aunt or my cousin.

On the outside you appear normal, but on the inside you're sad and lonely, desperate and degenerate. You're in love with a horse. His name is Barbaro. Your name? I don't want to know your name. I'm still trying to get comfortable with your existence.

So how were the holidays for you, Barbaro? (AP)

A play has been written about people like you. It's called Equus, but you already knew that. For everyone else, Equus is Peter Shaffer's 1973 production about a hormonally advanced teenaged boy obsessed with a horse, a boy who satiates his lust by "sucking the sweat off his god's hairy cheek."

The boy's name is Alan Strang.

You people? You lovers of Barbaro? You're strang-e. You're twisted. You have forced the national media to cover Barbaro, the fallen Kentucky Derby winner, as an actual beat. Updates are available daily, sometimes more often than that, if you know where to look. Some reporters cover the Mets. Some cover the White House. Others cover a horse that can barely walk. This is your fault.

Truth is, Barbaro did become a much more interesting horse after he nearly died, and if he would've had different owners, he'd probably be dead right now. And horse racing might have died with him.

Horse racing is a mostly useless sport that gives gamblers a legal excuse to feed their addiction, a sport whose ugly core is disguised by the televised majesty of the Kentucky Derby and Bob Baffert's hair. In recent years the sport has been rocked by drug scandals, with owners doping up their horses to make them run faster, heal faster, etc.

Along came Barbaro, winner of the 2006 Kentucky Derby by 6½ lengths, the biggest blowout in 60 years. He was a legitimate candidate for the first Triple Crown since Affirmed in 1978, but in the second of those three races he suffered a gruesome injury to his right hind leg. Most times, a horse with an injury like that doesn't leave the track alive. He is put down, euthanized, for humanitarian reasons. Had Barbaro been driven away from Pimlico in a horse hearse, his sport would have joined boxing and men's tennis on life support.

But Barbaro survived. Horse racing lives to see another year, and thousands of people around the world -- I fear it could be millions -- have a new hobby: Barbaro stalkers.

They're out there, only you don't know who they are. Look at your neighbor. Look at your wife. Someone is sending Barbaro gifts, including a Christmas stocking and a Christmas tree made from edible carrots. Someone is writing him songs and poems. Someone is e-mailing him.

The Penn school of veterinary medicine -- where Barbaro has been recovering since surgery on May 21 -- devoted a message board where his fans could be quarantined, er, where they could congregate. It's creepy. Before the message board was shut down for the holidays on Dec. 22, it logged more than 100 get-well wishes in its final six hours.

Some excerpts, and this is not a joke:

Merry Christmas You Handsome Devil!! What a boy! We saw you on TV and you looked more handsome than ever ... (Hope you liked the apples!) xxoo