This is horse racing’s darkest hour.

For the breeders and trainers who make a living off the sport, the despair is palpable. For the jockeys who guide these beautiful athletes, the sadness is tremendous. And for those of us who regularly stand track-side or huddle around simulcast screens, the horror is profound.

Our sport is one that long ago departed the mainstream. Seediness abounds in the gambling halls; many of our arenas have been forced to set aside their dignity and beg for slot machines. Yet four times each year we are allowed to radiate pride, opening our doors to national television audiences and showing off the prowess of our finest athletes. For five weeks each summer, and one weekend in the fall, we reclaim the glory of being the Sport of Kings. The red carpet is rolled out for our celebrity friends, the creaky confines of Pimlico are covered up, and our increasingly dire situation is temporarily forgotten.

So when, on the first Saturday in May – our most revered occasion – at Churchill Downs – our most revered arena – our most horrendous nightmare became a reality, we were horrified.

The media understands this. But what seems to have escaped the cruel penmanship of our critics is that the sorrow resonating through the racing world is not borne out of the embarrassment of euthanizing a horse at the end of an NBC telecast; the sorrow derives strictly from euthanizing a horse.

This is, of course, the second time in recent memory an otherwise shining moment has ended in tragedy. Barbaro was better known – a Kentucky Derby winner who had garnered a national following by the time he lost his prolonged battle. For Eight Belles, fame came mostly in death – a Billie Jean King-esque inspiration who outran 18 of the finest three-year-old horses in the world and fatally collapsed moments later.

Our sadness derives from Eight Belles’ death. Our anger derives from the horrid coincidence. Horses do not routinely meet their demise on the track. It is the rarest of rarities. And while that reality may lack credibility in wake of this happening twice in such a short time span, it is nonetheless the truth. The proof may be found in those of us who head to the track on a regular basis; the crowds that tune in far more than three or four times a year. For us this is a glorious sport. And you can be sure that our love and fascination would never survive frequent brushes with morbidity.

”This is bullfighting,” wrote William Rhoden in the New York Times. Such simply is not true. Horse racing is about the glory, not humiliation, of animals. These gorgeous creatures are treated just like other great athletes. Their handlers are loving and caring; their every need is promptly attended. This is not the circus and this is not Michael Vick’s backyard – these animals are beloved.

Eight Belles is likely to become a martyr, albeit not for any cause capable of preventing her tragic demise even with the aid of hindsight. The jockey’s whip – long a relatively useless tool of the trade – may well become a thing of the past. Synthetic racing surfaces may well become a thing of the present. Even the five week Triple Crown schedule – a tradition as arduous as revered – may be revisited. The horse racing world is not resistant to change; the welfare of our athletes will always be paramount. If this means race-day medication shall, too, go by the wayside, so be it.

What will not change, however, is the affection with which we treat a sport of equal glory and humanity. The pure adoration of the horses that take to the track every day has always been supreme; this shall remain a constant. And the spectacular sportsmanship of such a pure form of competition shall, too, go unchanged.

In many ways, this had all the markings of a year capable of returning horse racing to its increasingly dwindling prominence. As thousands of us gathered at Gulfstream Park for the Florida Derby at the end of March, it became apparent that Big Brown was not merely the finest three-year-old in competition this year – he is, too, the industry’s best chance in decades at a Triple Crown victory. A beautiful athlete capable of making history – this was surely our ticket back into the mainstream. Yet now the word “triumph” is seemingly constantly accompanied by the cliché pairing of “tragedy.” A brilliant athlete overcoming long odds from a disdained starting position – a textbook feel-good tale – is hampered by the story of a filly whose suffering was too great to be continued.

Perhaps the nation will again lend its attention to our fabled sport on May 17, when Big Brown will contend for the Preakness Stakes. A few more might lend their eyes on June 7, when he will likely face the Test of a Champion and make a run for history in New York. But regardless of either race’s outcome, the memory of Eight Belles will loom large – not just for those tuning their television sets elsewhere in protest, but also for those of us who continue to believe in the glory of horse racing.

This may be our darkest hour, but in a sport borne out of mythical athletes, the legend of the Phoenix surely looms large.