Page 28 - August/September 2008 The Game

28 The Game, August/September 2008 A Change Of Course
had a bad habit. Often, it meant the horse had a habit of nishing last. The trainer hoped I would somehow
Canada’s Thoroughbred Racing Newspaper
characters. Cabtrail stuck to his routine of swivelling his head from inside to outside while galloping in the morning. I was so adept at neck reining him in a race no one seemed to notice the one- handed ride. A seven year old gelding nicknamed Big Red had the biggest front ankles I’d ever seen. He ran once a month and hit the board every time. Meanwhile, I was developing a three year old colt they had just purchased. With the odd name of Yellow Hip, he would t right in with their colourful array of eccentric personalities. While their new prospect prepared for the
The meet at Narragansett seemed endless. I was dividing my morning hours between the Rhode Island track and Suffolk Downs in east Boston. Bobby Venezia had given the horses
a vacation for a couple of months but they were back in full training. I was the rst rider on the Suffolk track at 5am and the last one on the Gansett oval at 10am. Being young and t was a pre-requisite for the job—being desper- ate for mounts was added incentive.
turn the horse into a world beater. I could improve on some horses but producing miracles in a single race
was pretty much impossible. Changing a horse’s performance is a matter of weeks of patient training, a challenge I love, but most of these trainers couldn’t or wouldn’t pay the morning gallop fee. They wanted me to work for the privilege of riding a race, often a single race. If there was no improvement, I was red. If the horse did improve he was turned over to a more experienced jockey. Equine behaviour I could gure out—human behaviour was much more complicated.
outside horse. Back on a straight path by the second stride, we stayed out
of trouble and nished fourth. The brave old fellow had made his monthly contribution.
Though life at Gansett was frustrat- ing, it certainly wasn’t boring. Each day held a new surprise. Occasionally, I would nd myself named on a horse I’d never ridden. Picking up mounts is common for most jockeys but in my case, it meant one thing—the horse
fall meet, the older horses raced every three weeks and paid the bills. I never resented riding these game old warriors.
The next morning, I received a message that the stewards wanted me
at lms. I had no idea what it could
be about. I didn’t have a mount on the Saturday afternoon card but when the replay for the rst race began, I was present. The head-on showed exactly what I had felt coming out of the gate. I brushed the shoulder of the number six horse, straightened and was on my way. The lm rewound and ran again. One
of the stewards stood up, turned to face me and announced, with great authority, “You changed course.”
I was still the stable rider for Wayne and Marie and their unique equine
Every race was an adventure, though not always a pleasant one. Race riding is dangerous enough with the unpre- dictable behaviour of t racehorses and twelve jockeys each with their own agenda. But there is an etiquette that most riders follow to keep every- one safe. That etiquette was missing
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at Gansett. The jockeys were more unpredictable than their mounts and one or two of them were just plain crazy. Personal feuds were often played out
on course. Riders deliberately bumped, jostled and cut each other off. Whips
hit human esh as often as equine. One irate jockey deliberately sideswiped me as we were riding back after a race one night. He swore I had interfered with him.
I didn’t know what to say. Such
a casual brush wouldn’t normally come up on their radar. The head-
on played once again; the other two stewards nodded in agreement and the lms continued. After the last replay, the stewards told me to stay. When the room cleared out, they announced that I had a ve day suspension.
The Rhode Island track seemed
to draw the renegades. Or maybe Narragansett was simply caught in a time warp, trapped in the era of Red Pollard and Eddie Arcaro. The gangster movie was still in production and we were all playing our parts.
I was shocked. Like most people
in that state of mind, I had an odd reaction—I laughed. The stewards didn’t nd it funny at all. “Maybe ten days would be more appropriate?” one of them suggested.
I had ridden two winners for trainer Juan Lescay but the top agents paraded their riders through his barn every morning and got the call on most of his horses. I wasn’t sure how long I wanted to gallop his horses in the morning and watch others ride them at night.
That brought me back to my senses. I assured them I didn’t nd a ve day suspension humorous and quickly left the room before my mouth could get me into any more trouble. The moment the door shut behind me, my anger erupted. The stewards’ daily newspaper lay at the foot of the door and I wiped my dirty boots on it. This gave me
a moment of childish satisfaction.
I ranted and raved all the way to the parking lot, spewing my frustration on anyone or anything that got in my way. Only when I drove out the front gate did I feel relief.
The stewards helped me make that decision.
One Friday night, I was headed into the starting gate for the rst race. Big Red stood quietly in the padded stall. When the latches opened, he broke slightly to the right and brushed the
Change course indeed. I was changing tracks. Suffolk Downs, here I come!
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