Page 198 - Speedhorse, February 2019

Come all you men who have a yen for horses that are fast;
For some who won while others run, and some who could not last.
Come gather round, let’s all sit down – can you buy a drink or two?
My hands may shake, and my voice may break, but I’ll tell the tale to you.
It’s of a race and a burning pace, and fortunes hung by a hair;
Between a stud of steeldust blood, and the gangling chestnut mare.
If you’ll but look on the record book, you there can check this rhyme;
‘Twas out the states and but five-eighths – World’s record was the time;
Tho some have cried, “The timer lied,” and said, “It could not be.”
But the record’s right, in black and white, and I was there you see.
I bet my dough and I saw them go, I watched the race all through;
I checked the clock from tick to tock, and I’ll swear the time was true.
‘Twas long ago, in Mexico, where blows the silvered sand;
In a border town, where sports abound, hard by the Rio Grande.
Juarez the name and the track the same, and many yet recall
How the race was run in the glittering sun, there by the ‘dobe wall.
The stud, Joe Blair, was stabled there – at five-eighths he was the best;
The long and the tall, he had beat them all - the fastest in the West.
When a Texas mare, with chestnut hair, came in from New Orleans;
Her owner lush and her backers flush, their pockets lined with greens.
Her fame was known, she was not alone, many were there to greet her;
The gangling mare, with chestnut hair, they called her – Pan Zareta.
When two champs meet, there looms defeat for one, or else the other;
Now the talk was rife and it led to strife, and brother turned on brother.
When a whispered word, that someone heard, was bruited all around;
How the little horse, if the race was short, would run her in the ground.
The mare had speed, they’d all agreed – her record was on file.
Of races run, which she had won – at three-fourths of a mile.
Now a lead to take, from a lightning break, Joe Blair was like a ghost;
On a five-eighths run he had always won, but five-eighths was his most.
The Texan heard this whispered word, and he would not take a dare,
Tho he tempted fates, at but five- eighths, he said: “We’ll beat Joe Blair.”
Such language bold, ‘twas backed with gold, and they knew it was no bluff; And they knew the mare, with chestnut hair, was bred from fighting stuff.
But they liked the stud – come dry or mud, and no equine was barred,
For the little stud of steeldust blood was game and battle scarred.
The owners met; the date was set, and terms were written in;
Five-eighths to go, come rain or snow, and the purse all for the win.
The Juarez crowd talked long and loud, they seemed to like Joe Blair;
The Texas men, they had a yen for the gangling chestnut mare.
Some words were said, to others led, to bet they were inclined;
Some lowly fins and then some tens – then C-notes hit the line.
Both meek and proud, in that motley crowd, would bet, and bet with flare; The spick and the tout and the roust- a-bout, and the bum and the millionaire.
For each crack made there was dough to fade and some would bet their store; When short of jack they pawned their tack and then they’d bet some more.
The day dawned clear and the time drew near and nerves were drawn and tense; As they led them in to the paddock pen, and then a short suspense.
The groom was there with the chestnut mare, would talk to her like a child;
In a lingo kin to racing men and it seemed to set her wild.
She’d prance around and paw the ground, and nudge him with her head; She’d cock her ear, as if to hear each word as it was said.
The crowd would stare at her silken hair, as it glistened in the sun;
The silvered gold in her tail’ soft fold, a skein the gods had spun.
Then came the jocks, who were hard as rocks and both had won renown;
They were short and slim and gaunt and grim for they knew the chips were down.
The little stud of steeldust blood was pert and wide awake;
And I’ll always think he was in the pink, as fit as hands could make.
At the caller’s sound they led ‘em out, and the track was lightning fast;
Then a short parade – all bets were made – they were at the post, at last.
The starter was fair, and he held ‘em there till they were nose and nose;
Tho they’d strain and sway to be away, and the jocks were on their toes.
Yet a moment still before the thrill – the barrier went up with a flop;
194 SPEEDHORSE, February 2019
LOOKING BACK - AN EXCERPT FROM JANUARY 1970 ISSUE