IT’S Jonathan Sheppard’s spot. It will always be Jonathan Sheppard’s spot.

At the crest of the hill. Heartbreak Hill. In a natural nook, to the side of the last hurdle. A patrol judge, a couple of photographers, a veterinarian, a man with a shovel and a bucket of dirt. That’s it.

Alone. A buoy in the storm. A cocoon away from owners and onus, partners and partiers, hangers on and hanging lower lips. Watch on the jumbotron for most of the race. And then live, the cold hard truth of the last quarter mile, the climb, the last, the finish.

I used to slip down to this corner and watch Sheppard watch. The Hall of Famer, wanting, hoping, thinking he’s alone. Me, the journalist, a tape recorder tucked under my programme, waiting to slink up to his elbow as Flatterer, Mistico, Arcadius and all the others ratcheted up the hill, flew the last and disappeared into Iroquois glory.

Nowadays, Sheppard is gone, his former assistant, Keri Brion, and I, slink our own paths to the spot, along the post-and-rail fence, atop it for some races, against it for others, head down in despair for a desperate few.

We meet for this year’s races, all seven on the sport’s biggest, best day of racing. A cool $730,000 up for grabs. Gordon Elliott is here, his satchel still full from a sweep of the Far Hills card in October.

We, the proud Americans, line up again, trying to defend our turf from a formidable foe. Brion and I smile and say nothing before the first. She knows. I know.

We spring into action and catch my first runner, Vintage Year, when he clips heels and falls in front of us in the opener. All hands on deck, all members of the team. Vintage Year walks away, confused, confounded, and I wonder if it’s going to be one of those days on the day of days. ‘Not today, of all the days, please not today.’

Our next horse, Fulmineo, pulls way too hard and pulls up, the heartbreak long before Heartbreak Hill.

Our third horse, Cyber Ninja, our best hope, fails to fire, always struggling, winds up fifth.

Brion is winless. I’m winless. I debate on abandoning our spot, maybe go to the top of the amphitheatre or, screw it, to the airport, and decide I’ll give it one more try. Sheppard never gave up on the spot. Brion smiles that forlorn smile - nervousness, disgust, pain - when I see her there again, hoping upon hope that the karma shifts.

Change of luck

Rocket One wins the next, we are on the board. I roar him home. Brion is silent, as her day continues to slide. My day is made. One winner - like Cheltenham, like Punchestown, like Saratoga, like Royal Ascot - just get one on the board and the pressure releases. We’ve got one. I breathe for the first time all day.

The next is the big one. The Iroquois. The Grade 1 stakes. Worth $250,000. Twice around the Belmont Park of jump courses. Three miles. Nowhere to hide. Where champions are made. A race my father won twice as a trainer, and I won twice as a jockey. Never together. At 91, retired at the beach, he’ll be watching.

Brion rolls her best dice, upstart novice Swore. I line up one of my worst, unsung veteran Zabeel Champion. Trained by Jack Fisher, the British-bred nine-year-old makes his third attempt at the Iroquois. Third the first time, falling the second time, not much in between. Swore is 6/1. Zabeel is 10/1. We say nothing.

The 10-horse field lines up right in front of us. We meld into the post-and-rail fence, trying to be invisible, making sure Irish raider Zanahiyr and last year’s winner Abaan don’t mow us down with swinging hind ends. Away they go from Stirling Young’s flag. We watch. We simply watch.

Swore flies over fences on the lead, the controlling factor from the flag. Zabeel hangs in there, jumping, loping, but an afterthought in a field of star attractions. He loses his position going down the backside the final time, fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth over the second-to-last. A fence where he fell last year. It doesn’t cross my mind, more importantly, it doesn’t cross jockey Freddie Procter’s mind and, most importantly, it doesn’t cross Zabeel’s mind.

Still pitching

Hanging at the coattails, still pitching his pennies, but a long way from anything. Up the hill, Swore repels, one by one, Zanahiyr, Abaan, Fil Dor, Ziggle Pops, James Du Berlais.

Making just his seventh start over hurdles, in his novice season, the Kentucky-bred son of Broken Vow and jockey Stephen Mulqueen soar over the last. A short run in, it’s his, all his.

I’m still watching Zabeel, the red cap, my mom’s red cap, added late when she couldn’t see the dark blue and light blue, way back in the 60s. I’m still watching that red cap, slicing and searching, getting closer but in slow motion, it’s impossible. No horse has ever won the Iroquois from there.

I watch him launch at the last, still down, way down, fourth, fifth, sixth, I can’t tell. I switch back to the jumbotron and see the inevitable. The game Swore on his way to a glorious win, the gallant Zabeel on his way to a cheque, that’s it.

Then it happens, a slow, surreal slideshow, frame by impossible frame. Zabeel is galvanising, gaining, grinding. I’m imploring, begging, pleading. Brion, feet away from me, is doing the same. Our pleas drowned out in the pit of the Iroquois orchestra.

Zabeel collars Swore near the wire. Three miles and it comes down to three strides. I’m sprinting up the stretch, gone, the impossible oblivion of winning a race. A race like the Iroquois, a race my family has chased for five decades. Then I turn to Brion and throw my right arm around her left shoulder and think of the last horse I want to beat in a race like this.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Sheppard would be delighted and disgusted. I’m okay with both.

OUT of luck in the Iroquois with Zanahiyr, Gordon Elliott plundered wins with Famous Figure and Blue Waters. American-based Leamington Racing campaigned Famous Figure in Ireland, always targeting the $60,000 maiden at the Iroquois. The son of Famous Name dominated nine rivals, scoring by over six lengths for Jack Kennedy.

Four races later, Kennedy scored again with Blue Waters. Owned by Del Rio Racing, the Irish-bred daughter of Blue Bresil slipped through the inside to score by over a length in the $100,000 stakes. Both winners booked one-way tickets and now will campaign for trainer Ricky Hendriks.