Page 32 - March 2008 The Game

32 The Game, February 2008 BTold Vimy
he horses I rode every day where as varied
as the New England spring weather, each presenting their own unique challenge. My skills as a jockey were improving daily but there was another side to racing that was just as important —people skills. The horses were the easier part of the equation.
Racetrackers come from every imaginable back- ground and include every type of personality known to mankind. As the saying goes, on the backstretch you can rub elbows with royalty on one side and the scum of the earth on the other.
To be a successful jockey,
I had to adjust to each
trainer’s style. JC Gilbert
had been a jockey and understood both the art of riding and the science of assessing a horse’s personality. Harry, with his one horse barn, wasn’t as knowledgeable but he understood his unconventional mare, Rountation. Some of the trainers listened to what I had to say about their horses and others simply expected me to follow instructions.
And then there was J I Mede. Everyone at Suffolk Downs knew the old man. My contract holder, Bobby Venezia, made excuses for Mede’s ill temper. The old miser cut corners on every- thing; feeding, grooming, shoeing and gallop- ing. Bobby often paid our farrier to shoe one of Mede’s horses before a race and instructed me
to feed them extra hay when the old man wasn’t around.
I steered clear of the old grouch until a particular encounter. One evening, after
feeding the horses, I changed into a skirt and blouse to meet friends at a restaurant. The following morning several grooms were looking at me in an odd way, pointing and laughing. I asked them what was so funny. One of them had the courage to explain that old man Mede had told everyone I’d left the barn last night looking like a French whore. Furious, I confronted the old man and demanded an apology. With a smirk, he said he was sorry for calling me French.
I had no desire to ride for him but there were other apprentices desperate enough to accept his unusual arrangements. If they nished worse than third, he expected them to reimburse the jock’s mount. If they were off the board in their second attempt, they were red.
One spring day I found myself in the unenviable position of riding only the rst and last race on the card. It looked to be a long, boring day until my valet informed me that Mede’s horse, Bold Vimy, needed a rider and Bobby had requested that I ride the horse.
Bobby was smart enough to be present in the saddling paddock and act as mediator. I swore I wouldn’t pay Mede the jock’s mount if I nished off the board. Mede said he wouldn’t ride me back even if I won by ten. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough and pretty much vaulted myself into the saddle to discover a petri ed lump at the end of the reins. The bridle hadn’t seen saddle
Canada’s Thoroughbred Racing Newspaper
get Tied on
Rwith Chaplain Shawn
ecently, I‘ve been moved, (which at this time of
year takes a lot), to weigh on the term “Acts of God”. I’ve noticed that when things go wrong, really, really wrong, God tends to get a lot of blame. (Like when the “horse that just can’t lose, um..., loses”) But disasters stand out on the Act of God scale, so to research this I turned to the only reliable source for information on this topic- the internet. Did you know that “act of God” is a legal term? This from Wikipedia:
Act of God or act of nature is a legal term[1] for events outside of human control, such as sudden oods or other natural disasters, for which no one can be held responsi- ble. This does not protect those who put others in danger of acts of God through negligence, such as an adult who instructs a group of children to stand under a tree to escape a lightning storm. (This article also
carried an amusing anecdote about one “rainmaker” Charles Hat eld, who was hired by the city of San Diego in 1915 to ll the Morena reservoir to capacity with rainwater for $10,000. (I am not making this up!) The region was soon ooded by heavy rains, nearly bursting the reservoir’s dam, killing nearly 20 people,
destroying 110 bridges (leaving 2), knocking out telephone and telegraph lines, and causing an estimated $3,500,000 in damage in total. When the city refused to pay him (he had forgotten to sign the contract), he sued the city. The oods were ruled an act of God, excluding him from liability but also from payment.)
Hmmm, I wonder if jockeys and trainers can now use the excuse, “acts of God”, after a particularly poor effort.
“He was going to win and had there not been an act of God, he would have!”
“What act of God?”
“The tailwind from the 747 landing at Pearson!”
OK, maybe not.
More research dug up many stories, most too moronic
to pass on, about how God is to blame for many of the hideous disasters that befall mankind- the recent anniversary of the Quebec ice storms, Hurricane Katrina, the Leafs in general. Wait, some are too good to pass up: · “Is hitting a deer an act of God? Will this make my insurance go up if I claim it?
· Posted by yo_mama: Can an atheist get insurance against acts of god? Harrymcwealth: Very funny. Force majeure has nothing to do with religion. (although Force Majeure would be a great name for a race horse)
· And my favourite and this is verbatim: An English E-Petition to stop insurance companies from using “acts of God” “We the undersigned petition the Prime Minister to stop insurance companys using Acts of God as a way to get out of paying out claims. After recent gail force winds insurance companys claim its an act of god, please stop this total farce till proof has been sought that God really does exist and causes these weather extremes causing car and home damage. just another excuse by insurance companys not to pay up.” (Petitions work better if there are no spelling and grammar mistakes! If you want to sign up, it’s too late - the deadline was May 4, 2007 and it closed with...21 signatures.)
While God gets a lot of blame for the bad things, He rarely gets credit for the good. How often have you seen someone invoking deity an eighth of a mile from the nish line while holding a month’s worth of rent in tickets, only to exclaim to everyone who is within earshot how incredibly smart they are when the horse wins. Nor does He get credit for beautiful weather, good friends or the little things that we take for granted every day. Now I realize there are some horses that would take an act of God for them to win. Perhaps this year it would be a good resolution to focus on the “Acts of God” that don’t make sensational headlines, those things that make everyday life in the racing industry worth living. A cup of coffee, a good spot on the rail, now THAT’S an Act of God.
A Head at the Wire
A Series of Real Life Stories by Paddy Head
soap for decades.
There was no pony waiting. I didn’t think the
scruffy, underweight mare had enough energy to run off but she took a strong hold and worked us
both into a ne sweat. When she bowed her head, I saw that the narrow leather straps that held the blinkers in place were as fragile as the reins, ready to break at the slightest pressure.
My anger escalated to panic as we headed to the gate. I tried to get the crew to look at the dilapidated
state of the tack but they were busy with their own problems. One assistant grabbed a hold of the mare and ran us into the narrow stall. He climbed up and straightened the mare’s head for the break. The rein snapped in his hand, brittle as a dried out twig.
“Broken rein!” he screamed urgently.
The nightmare had begun. I begged for another set of blinkers as they attached a new rein to the bridle but the starter called for me to get tied
on. The gate opened and my body went with the horse but my heart lagged far behind. The bottom strap of the blinkers let go with the force of the break.
I recited the Lord’s prayer out loud but only got as far as ‘who art in heaven’ before the rst turn. I was three horses wide. Dear God, please let her bolt to the outside rail!
We entered the backstretch and the last brittle strap was still holding—a miracle. I stopped praying and starting planning my revenge on the miserable old cheapskate who didn’t give a damn if I got killed.
The mare switched to her inside lead and I realized we were on the second turn. We were still on the outside, the blinkers were in place and the homestretch lay ahead. I picked my head up and to my amazement saw only one horse in front of me. And that horse was fading.
I quickly got down to riding. Bold Vimy responded, breezing by the tired leader and sprinting to the wire an easy winner.
I ashed a smile for the camera in the winner’s circle and then got down to business with old man Mede. I told him he could use the winnings to buy a new bridle and some decent feed for all of his horses. He told me I would gallop the mare every morning and cool her. With a grunt, rather than a handshake, I agreed. I was more than will- ing to do what I could for this game little mare. If she could run like this in her present condition, what would she be like after three weeks of good feed and proper exercise?
Fate once again had a surprise in store for me. It wasn’t the mare’s condition that would be in question for the next race—it was mine.
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