Page 16 - May 2009 The Game

16 The Game, May 2009
Five Dollars to Buy Horsey! By Peter Valing
Canada’s Thoroughbred Racing Newspaper
“Stable Purses, Lots of Horses,” read the front- page headline of Friday’s Daily Racing Form. It was a welcomed optimistic chord struck amidst a symphony of economic doom and gloom, and set the tone for Saturday’s opening day at Hastings Racecourse. Hours before rst post found me seated on my living room window sill, waiting for the sun to appear and attempting to handicap a few races while simultaneously following the race that was unfolding before me on the oor. My two-year-old daughter, Francesca, was in the lead with her toy horse and jockey while my eight-month old son, Emil, attempted to catch up, nostrils aring and
had missed the most exciting part.
By the time the second race rolled around, I had
she held back the line too long. I began to prompt her when suddenly she blurted out: “Five dollars to buy horsey!” Chuckles came from all around as Francesca repeated her wager. She insisted on holding her own chit as we returned to our bench.
rear hooves intermittently striking those up front. Needless to say, I accomplished little in terms of handicapping, but with my wife’s aid just managed to cram the kids into the car fast enough to make the rst race. “We’re going to track!” Francesca squealed as the stroller rolled through the entrance gates.
Francesca cheered madly from the rail during the third race. Upon its completion, I had to quiet her down with some candy in order not to embarrass myself around my fellow horseplayers. My pick came in painfully last, and my daughter’s cheers were like a megaphone broadcasting my dearth of handicapping acumen. It was then that I decided to alter my wagering strategy. “Say, Francesca, why don’t we go to the paddock to look at the horses?” I suggested.
This time, Emil, too, was aware of what was taking place before him, and his legs kicked wildly as the horses ran by. But it was still Francesca’s show and she stayed with her horse the duration of the race, only brie y falling silent when Ookster disappeared behind the tote board. “Where did Ookster-?” Immediately, the joy returned to her face as Ookster reappeared from behind the board, this time decisively ahead. “We’re winning, Frannie!” I yelled in her ear, and it was then that my heart also melted. As Ookster approached the stretch, I noticed that my girl had her chit pressed to her heart, not with one hand, but with both.
There was a ne crowd already present. Queues
at the mutual wickets and concession stands were sizeable, beverages owed in abundance, and if I wasn’t mistaken, the demographics seemed to have shifted ever so slightly in the direction of youth. Ours was certainly not the only stroller weaving in and out of the crowd. Rather than seating ourselves in the stands, we took up a bench along the rail. The rst heat of horses sprinted past us before I had the chance to wager or to lift my kids over the heads and shoulders that obscured the nish line. Though I had saved myself a few dollars by not having made the wicket in time, the disappointment on my daughter’s face was obvious. This being her third summer at the track, the girl knew the routine and knew that she
Around they went, re ected in my daughter’s widened eyes. “So which one do you like?” She hesitated, her pointer nger suspended in the air. “That one ... no, that one!” As her pointing wasn’t exactly accurate, I asked her to specify. “The yellow one, daddy.” I craned my neck towards the tote board. She had chosen a favorite. As we walked toward the wickets, I schooled my daughter on how to place her rst bet. “O.K., Frannie, when you
This was fatherhood at its best, I said to myself
as I planted a fat kiss on her cheek. By accidentally stumbling upon Hastings Racecourse not so long ago, I have not only been fortunate enough to add
a fantastic pastime to my life and another subject matter to my writing, but I have also opened up a most lively world to my daughter, and hopefully
one day also to my son. Francesca is two years old and can identify the masterworks of at least thirty painters, can make a dry martini and can now lay down a straight bet on a horse, which is more than
I can say for most adults these days. And if Child Services doesn’t take her away from us on account of such retrogressive parenting, I have a feeling she’ll be well-versed in a few more of the timeless arts that in our harried age need desperately to be preserved.
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times as we stood in line, melting the hearts of even the most hardened of gamblers. “My, you’ve grown,” said the mutuel clerk when
I hoisted Francesca onto the counter. “Hi!” said my daughter, clutching $5 in her hand. For an instant, nothing was said, and I knew that the shine would soon wear off my kid if
a chit tucked in my pocket and both kids seated on the rail. “What are horses doing?” asked Francesca. “They’re being put into the gate,” I replied. Her eyes studied the gate intently until the buzzer went and the horses bolted out. Then her body stiffened the same as it had last year, and when the horses charged past us I was surprised not to feel a warm trickle running down my side. Meanwhile, Emil was oblivious to the race, choosing instead to focus his attention on a cloud or bird above. He was six days old when he had rst attended the track, and it was obvious that things had not yet sunk in.
“The horsey’s name is Ookster,” I told my daughter. “She’s a lly, just like you.” I hoisted both my kids back onto the rail. Then as an afterthought, I asked my wife to hold Emil. I had a feeling that my lly was going to buck some during this race. “Go Oookster!” Francesca began shouting in earnest long before the horses were loaded into the gate.
give the lady the money, you say: ‘Five to win on Four.” Her little lips repeated the mantra several
His father, Ralph, a school teacher by profession, had a love of thoroughbreds and worked at the racetrack in his spare time. In the early 1960’s he started Pine Ridge Farm with one horse.
After the horses returned to Manitoba, Shawn remained in Toronto for the remainder of the year galloping horses for trainer Frank Merrill. He had planned to remain for the following season however when his father was injured, Shawn returned to the farm in Manitoba.
Where God Wants Him to Be
‘your older brother is gonna be a lawyer and you probably won’t so lets go break some yearlings. I was 12 years old. I didn’t have a choice.”
“We thought they were Queen’s Plate horses. They were good horses but not the calibre we thought.” said Shawn who was 17 at the time.
“There is always a journey.” Muses Shawn Kennedy, the personable racetrack Chaplain, who has found himself in a job he loves, “This is where God wanted me to be. Still involved with horses, not as a trainer, but as a Chaplain.”
In 1975 Shawn and his brother Scott, who was now attending Osgoode Hall in Toronto, brought two of their best horses to race at Greenwood and Woodbine.
Born in Winnipeg, Manitoba, Shawn grew up on his family’s farm just east of the city located on what is now Bird’s Hill Park.
“Unfortunately she was
female,” says Shawn with a
knowing smile, “We bred her
and ended up with more horses.
And Dad started buying more horses as well
as bringing in stallions.” Soon the farm was at capacity with horses and Shawn and his three brothers were enlisted to help. “Four boys means four grooms.” laughed Shawn.
The family horses raced at Assiniboia Downs as well as in Montreal, Saskatoon and Regina.
From 1976 to 1986 Shawn was training publicly on and off while the family farm dispersed many of their horses. “We had too many horses.” explained Shawn who traveled as a trainer to Greenwood, Penn National and Thistledowns. He had 2 wins, 2 seconds and a third at Greenwood and in his rst year at Thistledowns he amassed 14 wins with only 4 horses.
The eldest brother, Scott, trained in his early 20’s while attending law school and Shawn was given the job of exercise rider, “My Dad said,
“During that time I was going through a career
Chaplain Shawn Kennedy
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