2024 Belmont Stakes

AP / Julie Jacobson

The 2024 Belmont Stakes: A Cosmic Collision of Hooves, Hopes, and Madness

Elmont, New York—June 8th, 2024. The sky over Belmont Park looked like a slow-motion collapse. A massive gray smear of clouds hanging heavy with the weight of expectation, humidity thick enough to choke you, the air vibrating with the kind of tension you can taste. It wasn’t just another race. Hell no. The 2024 Belmont Stakes was the final act of a twisted drama that had been building up since the first gate slammed open in Kentucky, a journey of fate, delusion, and reckless ambition. What we were about to witness was something darker, deeper, and more delirious than anything we'd seen before. This wasn’t just horse racing; it was a war—a full-scale collision of glory and despair, a battle between gods and men, with a little bit of raw insanity thrown in for good measure.

But let’s get this straight right from the start: the 2024 Belmont Stakes wasn’t about the horses themselves. Not entirely. It was about the gathering storm, the electric undercurrent running through the packed stands, through the grandiose venue where they were all waiting—waiting for something. Anything. You could feel it in the air like the first warning rumble of a hurricane. People were ready to explode, and the horses? They were just along for the ride.

The Circus Before the Storm

The buildup to the 2024 Belmont wasn’t your typical parade of mint juleps and pastel hats. No, this was the end of the Triple Crown series, and there was a twisted kind of urgency hanging in the air, a fever pitch of speculation, bets, and strange rumors swirling faster than you could say “horsepower.”

There were 20,000 voices in the stands, each one clinging to its own perverse hope, each one convinced that their horse was going to be the one who defied the odds, broke through the chaos, and made history. Everyone had their pick. It was all part of the game, part of the absurdity of the whole ritual: the myths, the legends, the wild-eyed claims about who was going to emerge victorious, who was going to stumble, who was going to fall apart like an overripe melon after the final furlong.

The horses were being paraded around like gods of war before the battle, the hoofbeats echoing like drumrolls in the distance. And yet, the human side of the equation—the men and women in the stands—were a far more unsettling sight. They weren’t just spectators. They were the true circus, the people who had a nervous tick in their eye, a mania in their step. And who could blame them? When the stakes are this high, when everything feels so fragile and so unreal, when you’re placing bets not just on horses, but on the entire human condition, well, it’s enough to make anyone lose their mind.

The Horses: A Horsepower Circus of Madness

This year, the field was deep. Deep in a way that made your palms sweat just thinking about it. You had Mandaloun, the rock star who had come oh-so-close to glory in previous races. His name was a reminder that nothing in this sport is guaranteed—especially not the future. Then there was the beast named Bourbon Bash—a horse whose legend had only grown as the races progressed. He had the power, the presence of a wild untamed animal, and the sense that this was his moment to claim everything.

But it wasn’t just about pedigree. Jace’s Road, a scrappy underdog, had flown under the radar for the longest time. This was a horse whose form was chaotic but brilliant, a dark horse in the truest sense of the word. The crowd had begun to believe in him—a belief born out of nothing but raw hope, pure desire, and the intoxicating possibility of witnessing a miracle.

Yet it was Whiskey Tango who haunted the field. This horse had already shattered expectations in the previous leg of the Triple Crown with a performance so fierce that people had no idea what to think about him. Was he a force of destiny, or just a freakish anomaly born of pure chaos? There was something about this horse—something menacing, something unpredictable—that had everyone at the edge of their seat. No one was quite sure if he was a hero or a villain, but one thing was for sure: Whiskey Tango wasn’t here to play by the rules.

And then, there was Hallowed Point, the horse everyone in the crowd thought was their ticket to immortality. There was a sort of religious devotion surrounding this animal, a fervent belief that this was the horse destined to take the Triple Crown glory. After all, had Hallowed Point not already burned a path through the first two legs of the series with the kind of form that bordered on divine intervention? The question wasn’t whether Hallowed Point could win—it was whether the universe could withstand the sheer pressure of such a monumental feat.

But this was the Belmont. This wasn’t just a race; this was war.

The Race: Into the Eye of the Storm

And then, at last—the gates opened. The horses surged forward, their muscles rippling, their bodies straining against the confines of their predetermined fates. The crowd went wild, the sound of thousands of voices rising in a single breath. And like a fever dream, the race began.

From the moment the gates slammed open, it was clear that this wasn’t going to be a race for the faint-hearted. Mandaloun shot out ahead, his stride long and determined, but right behind him, Whiskey Tango was already challenging him, his body carving through the air like a wild animal on a rampage. And then came Bourbon Bash, a streak of light, a shock of red in the distance, barreling forward with a speed that bordered on the unbelievable.

Meanwhile, Jace’s Road was struggling to find his rhythm, darting through the pack like a madman trying to break free of his chains. He was there, always there, but something wasn’t clicking. The race was too much—too fast, too brutal.

But the real drama was unfolding in the middle of the pack. Hallowed Point, the supposed savior, was struggling to keep pace, his once-perfect form faltering as the field surged ahead. The great myth of Hallowed Point was beginning to crumble under the weight of reality. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. The gods had failed.

For a moment, it looked like Whiskey Tango might just do it again. The horse was pulling ahead like a freight train, unstoppable, every stride a defiance of the laws of nature. And yet, Mandaloun—that old warhorse, that seasoned competitor—refused to let go. He pushed forward, grinding against the wind like a man on a mission, determined to claim what was his, determined to prove the doubters wrong.

And the crowd? They were beside themselves—chanting, screaming, gasping as the horses tore around the final turn. The tension was unbearable. This was the race of their lives, and they could feel it in their bones. The world had narrowed to this one moment, to this one stretch of track, to these few seconds of madness that would decide everything.

The Final Furlong: A Blur of Fury and Fate

The last stretch was a thing of nightmares. Whiskey Tango—that animal—was still leading, but Mandaloun was coming up fast, a desperate push that seemed almost impossible. There was no telling who was going to cross that finish line first. The stakes had never been higher, and the entire history of this twisted sport seemed to hang in the balance.

But when it came time for the final surge, the world fell silent for a brief moment—a deep, cavernous silence that was filled only with the pounding rhythm of hooves. And then it happened. Mandaloun, the old warhorse, had found his second wind. With a burst of energy that could only be described as divine, he surged past Whiskey Tango, pushing through like a man who knew he had nothing left to lose.

And just like that—it was over. Mandaloun had crossed the finish line first, the crowd going absolutely insane, their bodies convulsing with joy, disbelief, and something darker—something that felt like redemption.

Whiskey Tango, that untamed force, could only watch as his bid for glory faded into the distance. The madness had peaked, but only one horse could wear the crown. And that horse, the one who had defied the odds, was none other than Mandaloun.

The Aftermath: When the Trip Collapses

And as the dust settled, there was no more mystery. Mandaloun had won the 2024 Belmont Stakes, his career redeemed in the most glorious way imaginable. But for those of us who had witnessed it—who had been part of the madness—the victory didn’t really matter. What mattered was the trip. What mattered was that for one brief, insane moment, we had all been part of something far bigger than ourselves.