Page 22 - The Game June 2006

22 The Game, June 2006 Your Thoroughbred Racing Community Newspaper
Cats and Horses
By Peter Gross
It’s a thought that has been on my mind for quite some time, but I think it was this year’s Kentucky Derby that really made it spring to life.
That was a nice win by Barbaro, but longshot Bluegrass Cat finished second and it was just two races earlier that the filly Pussycat Doll had won the Humana Distaff Handicap on grass and I could hear myself thinking, “Why do so many horses have names with feline references?”
A quick scan through any day’s racing form will present many horses with catlike names. I see Natalicat in the first at Churchill, Unkatzable in the third, Kittyhawk in the fifth and Stream Cat in the 9th.
On the workouts page in the Form, I run across Kat’s Golden Ways, Klepto Cat, Top Kitten, Bully Cat, Coolridge Cat, Tiger Claw, In Like a Lion, Northern Tiger and just to assure my point, Gottahaveacat. On May 14, the second race at Woodbine was won by Cats Are Tricky. Cats every- where and not a litter box in sight.
So I’m beginning to work on a theory which is this: In the ongoing and completely unresolved argument over
which is the better animal-acatoradog
- it seems that horse
people lean more to
the feline side of life.
You will rarely see a
dog in the backstretch,
but the stable cat is a
basic requirement.
And in the name
department, I have yet
to see a horse with a
dog-like name. No
Rover, no Rex, no
Dogbone, no Woof
Woof Woof (though
lovely name), no Bark This Way, no Doggonit, nothing from the canine world seems to make it to the track.
The first paw of blame (or credit) should be pointed directly at Storm Cat, a grandson of both Northern Dancer and Secretariat, neither of whom showed the slightest interest in catnip. At $500,000 a pop, Storm Cat is the top kitty of the thoroughbred stud world and many of his powerful offspring boast both his power and his name. To cite just a few of his 1183 foals, we have the aforementioned
Bluegrass Cat, Hurricane Cat, Cat Thief, Tabasco Cat, Chubasco Cat, Ambitious Cat, Mountain Cat, Indigo Cat, and just for a change of pace, Where’s That Tiger.
Now here’s a pop quiz: Has there ever been a great horse with a dog’s name?
Go ahead, I chal- lenge you. Name one!
pouch of Tender Vittles, but who’s admitting to it?
What it all adds up to is the fact that the feline world is full of beautiful, graceful, dignified animals, who have remarkable reflexes and powerful legs built to propel their bodies at remarkable speeds. The cat, in its own special world can run with blazing quickness and pounce in the blink of an eye on an unsuspecting prey. All of these attributes, of course, are necessary for a champion horse and maybe having the name of a cat imbues the equine athlete with those rare and highly desired commodities.
If you read all the entries at any particular track, you’ll have a hard time running through all of them without finding a cat reference. I see Highland Cat in the 9th at Belmont, Tiger Valley in the 5th at Churchill, Mary Cat and Precious Kitten in the 6th at Churchill, Wisdom Cat in the 9th at Hollywood, Knotty Kat in the 2nd at Woodbine and then, suddenly, it jumps out at me - hope for other species that would have horses named after them.
In the 9th at Fort Erie, there’s a horse called Port’s Chipmunk.
Peter's cat Max by Unknown out of the Mouser Mare Maxine
that would be a
See, you can’t.
So we have this world of wonderful, powerful and immense thoroughbreds, hundreds, maybe thousands of them bearing feline names, but, does anyone ever name their cats after horses? Have you ever met a kitty named Danzig, or Ruffian, or Mr. Prospector, or Gladiator, or Cigar? Somewhere, someone must have a cat named Affirmed, but I’ve never met it and you’d think one person somewhere opens her kitchen door and calls out, “Here Secretariat, come on kitty kitty, come here Secretariat!” while holding an opened
Never Give Up
Race riding became more enjoyable and definitely more profitable after my wild ride on Bouncing Bessie. We had been moving slowly with The Heckler all winter, giving him the time and the careful miles he needed to get back into racing fitness. But Bouncing Bessie was ready to fire. We were back in the gate for a mile and a sixteenth on a cold spring day. Even with her good gate behaviour, the 11 hole left us stranded on the outside. I was five wide on the first turn and never had an opportunity to get any closer to the rail. In spite of being in the middle of the track on the second turn, she grabbed the lead at the head of the stretch. There was only one horse who had the ability to beat her, a horse just in from Florida and fitter than the local horses. Gonzalo Prosper had her saving ground on the inside and he was shut in on the rail. Way on the outside, Bessie and I had the lead and I could taste my first victory. But it wasn’t to be. Gonzalo piloted through and nipped me at the wire. At 35-1, being beaten a head looked impressive. I was in the win picture but not in the winner’s circle. In spite of my frustration at not breaking my maiden, it gave me a different perspective. From that time on, 35-1 odds made me feel like I was on the favourite.
A Canadian trainer from Ontario appeared on the scene who would not only keep my roster of mounts healthy but keep me entertained as well. George Halligen had a barn full of promising two year olds and Flash, a very fast pony horse. Flash was an ex-racehorse with a big white blaze and a temperament to match. One morning when I was to work one of his two year olds, George ponied me to the 3/8 pole where I broke off. Flash beat me a length at the wire.
George had a filly named Maria Janina, who gave me my first experience riding a two year old race. On film, it was impossible to say which horse hit who as the inexperienced fillies ran ping-pong style all over the track. Maria Janina held her own, staying in the middle of the pack and moving forward whenever it was physically possible. We crossed the wire in fifth place.
Another two year old of George’s was to introduce me to the inevitable experience that all jockeys dread. It was a damp afternoon as I approached the gate
was responsive. I was
certain I could keep him
focused and on course. I
was determined to get a
good break and be up with
the leaders. When the
latches opened, I was out quickly, whip cocked by the third stride, my arm ready to swing back. But an odd vision caught the corner of my eye - a horse seemed to be staring at me. Without further warning, his head collided with my chest, knocking me clear out of the saddle. My horse was still under me momentarily until the mystery
The Heckler and Jockey Paddy Head #4, in a photo at the wire
horse made full contact and knocked my colt over sideways. I was headed for the mud, and so was my lovely grey mount. The slop acted like a cushion as my shoulder made contact and I was thrown clear from the thousand pound horse crashing behind me. Skills developed during high school gymnastics had me tightly wound in a ball as I rolled across the track, and rolled, and rolled. Finally, I hit something solid, a post on the inside rail, and came to an abrupt halt.
I heard the voice of Harry Morgan, the outrider, telling me to get into the infield or back to the gate before the horses came
around. I had no idea what was up or down, never mind inside or out. Seeing the pony horse’s ample rump, I followed him back to the starting gate. As I wiped the dirt from my eyes I noticed another odd sight, my thumb was pointing in the wrong direction. I held it up for one of the gate crew to inspect but he turned pale and looked away. The ambulance arrived and though I protested, I was told it was the only transportation back. When we arrived at the grandstand, the stares from the bettors embarrassed me though they couldn’t tell I was blushing beneath all the mud. A reporter for the Boston Globe, Sam McCracken, followed me to the infirmary, plying me with questions about what had happened, questions I couldn’t answer with any certainty. The track doctor gave him a signal I didn’t notice and Sam kept me occupied with more questions while the doctor popped my thumb back in place.
Now, I was definitely on vacation, with two fractures in my thumb and several torn ligaments. The odds of returning to the races by the time The Heckler did were higher than 35-1, but I was used to long odds.
The disappointment of breaking my thumb instead of my maiden lasted as long as the healing process. Luckily, I was a quick healer, back in the saddle in a fort- night. The thought of The Heckler being ready before I was gave me motivation to put up with a little pain, a lot of pain if I used my hand carelessly when being legged up. Like most jockeys, I discovered that pain is a constant companion.
CONTINUED NEXT PAGE - SEE HECKLER
aboard a two year old grey colt named For All Reasons. I could see a horse’s rump directly in front of me. Then all vision from that point on was obscured as a ghostly blanket of fog rolled in. A few weeks earlier I would have been in fear of my life knowing that the cameras situated around the oval would show nothing until the final few strides before the wire. Though I didn’t have to sit in the sweat box like many of my fellow riders, my voice now carried as much weight as theirs. I felt in my heart that this was the day I would finally break my maiden.
My colt had impressive workouts and
A Head at the Wire
The seventh in a series of real life stories by Paddy Head majeek05@hotmail.com