Page 18 - October 2008 The Game

18 The Game, October 2008
Opportunity of a Lifetime By PeterValing
Canada’s Thoroughbred Racing Newspaper
known Nick for years, but still....” It was a bold move by Nick, consider- ing the fact that Lenore had no proven training record. Lenore may have made an even bolder move in accepting the offer, considering the caliber of horses that were at stake and the owner’s famously high expectations.
On the Sunday that I caught up with trainer Lenore DePonte, she had three horses running, two back-to-back. When I spotted her, my rst instinct was to let her be. This was no time for questions. She may be cranky, I thought, on account of the poorer- than-expected performances of horses number one and two. She could also be antsy, awaiting the performance of horse number three.
and moved onto galloping horses at Stampede Park.” In the late 90s, she began working as a hot-walker and groom at Hastings Racecourse. “I worked for a number of great trainers: Robert Gilker, Dino Condilenios, Barb Heads....I learned lots from them,
Under Lenore’s guidance, Spaghetti Mouse has regained and perhaps even surpassed his past form. So far in 2008, he’s won four stakes races in a row, bringing his earnings to a total of $845,560 (a new lifetime earnings re- cord at Hastings). “I think he’s a better horse than he’s ever been. Not only is he dominating at his favorite distance [nine furlongs], but he’s also improved as a sprinter,” says Lenore.
I was about to turn around and
walk the other way when I recalled how pleasant she had been the pre- vious week. I looked at her again.
She wasn’t pacing or wringing her hands. She appeared rather serene, so
I walked over to say hello. Seconds before the race found us engrossed in a conversation. Suddenly, however,
she excused herself and disappeared. Every trainer has their limit.
Until his sudden death of kidney failure in 2006,
Demorest was a
leading trainer at
them and from having listened to the way in which Demorest had dealt with them. “Archie [Spaghetti Mouse’s barn name] had to be turned around. One of my rst decisions in this process was
Archie. He walks him every morning around the track. He’s the only one to gallop him. He’s taken so much time
to get to know the horse, and so when race time comes, he knows exactly what buttons to push and when.” While Pedro works his magic on the track, Lenore ensures that the Mouse is con- tent in his stable. “I massage him, talk to him, keep him company and basi- cally do whatever is necessary to make him con dent and keep him in racing shape.” When the trainer realized that the Mouse wasn’t resting properly
Outside of The Mouse, she has eleven other horses in her stable, most of them owned by Nick. Some, like Chivago, have run consistently in the money, while others, like Aragorn, have been disappointments. With roughly two months left in the meet, she would like to see some of the un- derachievers pull up their socks. “The pressure’s on me to make Mr. Go-Be- tween run like he’s worth the $120,000 Nick bought him for. Right now there’s a black cloud over his stall, but I think that next year, as a four-year-old, he’ll make his mark. He’s got loads of talent and can go all the way.”
A Game Old Warrior
but most of what I learned came from Gary Demorest.”
But Lenore knew the horses well from having walked and groomed
I sought out Lenore after the race in hopes of continuing our conversation. The question of timing was once again on my mind. Lenore’s third horse had run better than her previous two, but again, not up to expectations. Would she still be talkative now that she had run out of horses for the day?
Spaghetti Mouse winning the SW Randall Plate Handicap
Hastings, charged
with such Nick
Felicella-owned
horses as Chelsey’s
Image and Spaghetti
Mouse. When he
passed away, his
assistant Ned Sams
took over the stable.
Meanwhile, Lenore
continued to work
as a groom and applied for a trainer’s license. This decision was to prove highly fortuitous.
to hire Pedro Alvarado. Pedro’s been wonderful with
She was, and we were still talking as the sun began to set. We covered her early horse years quite quickly. Lenore does not come from a rac-
ing background, but began her career with show horses, which she rode as
a young girl and later taught others to ride. In the early 80s, she kept some of her horses stabled alongside thor- oughbreds. “That’s how I rst became interested in horse racing,” she ex- plained. “I started with barrel racing
The 2007 meet was a rough one for Spaghetti Mouse. Out of ve starts, he won only one. “There was a feeling around the stable that a major change was going to take place,” says Lenore. The change came when Nick relived Ned Sams of his duties. Though this in itself wasn’t a major shock to those familiar with Nick’s propensity to change trainers, his choice of replace- ment was.
While she was explaining all of this to me, my mind kept returning to one thought: how did she withstand pres- sure like this in her rst year as a train- er? A horse like Spaghetti Mouse...a perfectionist like Nick Felicella... Yet she seemed so calm and collected, sit- ting there next to the ower pots that decorate her shed row. When asked of her secret, she shrugged her shoulders and smiled. “I got a once in a lifetime opportunity and have to make the best of it.”
“It was an amazing surprise,” Lenore recalls. “Nick asked me if I had a license, and when I said yes he asked me if I would train his horses. I’d
on account of the rumblings from a nearby rollercoaster, she plugged up his ears with NERF cat toys.
I was nearing the end of my apprenticeship and would soon become a journeyman jockey. Had I stayed in college, I would face another two years of education before I received a degree. Only after graduation, would the process of turning theory into practical experi- ence begin. Here on the racetrack, in barely two years I had both theory and practice rolled into one. Several trainers predicted that once I lost the bug, I’d lose my best friend. I felt depressed the rst time I heard this but I soon realized that the trainers said that about every jockey. (My rst big lesson in not taking every remark personally—an ongoing lesson, to be sure, but one that serves me well whenever I apply it.)
condition. His bowed tendon was cold and tight, his competitive spirit primed for action.
The Heckler
A Head at the Wire
A Series of Real Life Stories by Paddy Head www.paddyhead.ca
A ve pound weight allowance was a good friend but the savvy that comes from riding hundreds of races was a more reliable comrade. Fortune deter- mines the imponderables in every race, but experience was now tipping the scales in my favour.
position, The Heckler broke sharply, as was his habit, and then slowed down for the turn. With no horses on the outside,
I let him drift a little when he changed
to his inside lead. Into the backstretch a couple of horses came up on the outside. Uncomfortable being closed in on the rail, Heckler picked up the pace to get his head in front. At that precise moment, the horse barely four lengths in front
Our pace had slowed to a canter. The horses on the outside had swerved to the middle of the track to avoid the horse and they too had lost lengths. Heckler immediately dug in, struggling to build momentum. I gathered the reins and crouched in the saddle, my breath com- ing back in gasps. Desperate to catch up, Heckler barely slowed down for the change of lead on the turn. He was in full stride at the head of the lane. With sheer determination, we began picking up horses. Fans screamed out his name as the old warrior gamely ran his race, closing with every stride. From twenty lengths out of it at the half mile pole we crossed the wire six lengths behind the winner.
The spring meet began at Suffolk and I took full advantage of the few weeks when I would have both the weight allowance and years of experience. I picked up new mounts, each one an adventure, and continued to ride several familiar horses. My sentimental favou- rite was The Heckler. At the age of nine, the big, dark bay veteran was in perfect
On this cool afternoon, The Heckler looked and acted like a three year old. His odds were 10-1 as we began the post parade, a bonus for owner/trainer Bobby Venezia who enjoyed a good bet. For me, passing under the wire rst was enough of a thrill, whatever the odds. I was looking forward to my second win on this amazing horse.
There wasn’t time for my whole life to pass before my eyes. I saw only the dangerous predicament of the present moment. My breath caught somewhere in my chest, my legs clamped desperate- ly to the saddle and yet instinct impelled me to loosen my grip on the reins. Heck- ler swung his head at the last possible moment and squeezed into the narrow opening on the rail. His shoulder nudged the injured horse out of the way and we
I threw my arms around his muscular neck. This amazing horse had saved my life. I promised him right there and then I would return the favour . There would be no doubtful future when his racing days were over. The Heckler would have a happy retirement.
After two years together I felt we
were a team. I was very familiar with
his running style, coming from well off the pace, and I never asked him to pass on the inside, knowing he would balk
in tight quarters. The overland route
was the long way but it enabled the old warrior to stay in stride and keep his momentum. Hugging the rail, especially on the turns, put too much strain on the bowed tendon. In the early summer meet of 1975, a remark in The Daily Racing Form acknowledged our partnership. The morning line had The Heckler at 6-1 odds in the fourth race of the day at a distance of a mile and seventy yards. The comment was, ‘Rider helps.’ We weren’t breaking track records by any means but in 16 races together, we had missed a cheque only once, and been on the board in 50% of the races.
slipped through. As suddenly as the hor- ror began, it ended—we were clear.
Breaking from the number 3 post
of us broke down. He went from a full gallop to a walk in a mere three to four strides.
We both needed a long, slow gallop to dissipate the adrenalin. When we jogged to a halt, I collapsed in the saddle, legs like jelly.
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