Page 10 - March 2008 The Game
P. 10

10 The Game, March 2008 AIJockey’s Handicap
around the shed row. Three weeks had passed since our winning race. The mare and I got along famously but I can’t say the same about old man Mede. I’d called on Bobby for help several times, beginning nine days after Bold Vimy’s win, when I spotted Mede on his way to the racing secre- tary’s of ce. I alerted Bobby, who rushed off to intercept the old rascal before he could run the brave mare again so soon. I didn’t ask how he’d convinced the old miser but I suspected there was money involved. Bobby was probably paying the mare’s expenses until the next race day.
Canada’s Thoroughbred Racing Newspaper
That day had come and I noticed that the chestnut mare looked much healthier than she did in her win picture. There was a rich shine to her coat and the once angular body now rippled with muscle. She even squealed as I walked her along the shed row. She didn’t buck but I could tell she was thinking about it. I put her back in her stall and gave her an early lunch. I loved the way she nickered when I put the grain in her feed tub. Un- like the old man, she appreciated me.
I broke from the two hole and went to the rail. A horse snuggled in beside me and we headed
for the  rst turn. The horses switched leads and the jockey’s stirrup hit my ankle bone. The pain was like an electric shock. I moaned and gritted my teeth. We entered the turn and the jockey hit my ankle a second time. This one brought tears to my eyes. A third bump going into the backstretch and I couldn’t take it anymore. I don’t recall the words that came out of my mouth but I let the young apprentice know that he’d better clear out and give me lots of room.
Humans and animals were re-converging and the air
of familiarity was palpable. Everyone seemed to know everyone else. Everyone seemed to know where everything was. Everyone, that is, but me. I knew trainer Alex Murray, and I knew the location of the bathroom and the cafeteria.
I suppose I also knew what I wanted to know, what I had hoped to learn during this meet. If I was going to continue to write about thoroughbred racing, I was determined to learn,  rst-hand, something about its lead actor: the horse.
One more horse to walk before heading off to the jock’s room. The brisk air had all the horses on their toes and the gelding I was walking was especially playful. He suddenly reared and turned sideways, coming down on my ankle. Sharp pain was followed by a feeling of numb- ness. I hopped alongside the horse until I could get him to his stall and put him away.
I put my mind back on the race, biding my time on the rail. I was in close quarters around the turn but no one touched my ankle. Jammed in tight throughout the stretch, I couldn’t get through until the  nal strides. I passed under the wire in third place.
Thus on Sunday I reported for duty in front of Alex’s tack room a few minutes before 6:00AM. It had been a while since I’d kept such early hours, but in the horse business my conception of early didn’t turn out to be early at all. Alex had been there since 5:00 and informed me that as the racing approached he’d be there earlier still. There was always plenty of work to be done on an urban farm, which is how Alex conceptualized the backstretch.
A Head at the Wire
A Series of Real Life Stories by Paddy Head
the race was over. Just be a trooper and get me through, please!
the 2008 meet. The tenants’ shaggy coats and the empty  ower pots were perhaps the only indicators that they had left, and that another winter had passed. And yet amidst
all of the sounds of a backstretch returning to life, of the neighing and the hoof beats, the laughter and the shouts, there was a sound that was missing. The rafters were empty - the hundreds of birds that sing from end to end of barn after barn had not yet returned. “Neither have the mice,” laughed Alex. “They’ll be back shortly, though – as soon as they realize that we’re here again.”
It was a relief to be up in the saddle. I angled the stirrup to give my leg support and then focused on the race ahead. By the time I reached the gate, my ankle was no longer numb but the pain was bearable. I was thankful they didn’t drug test jockeys.
FBirst Day on the Job
t was a cool morning as I walked Bold Vimy
By Peter Valing
y the looks of things, most of the tenants and their handlers had returned to their stalls at Hastings for
The strange sensation of numbness in the centre of pain told me what all jockeys came to fear—a broken bone. I could put a little weight on my foot but couldn’t bend it enough to walk properly. Somehow, I had to get to the jock’s room where I could ice it, tape it and borrow Hilary Brown’s boots, a size larger than mine. That would get me through the race. The usual  ve minute walk to the grandstand took well over half an hour. I moved in tiny steps to avoid limp- ing and drawing attention to it. To disguise the reason for my snail’s pace, I would stop and chat with grooms and trainers as if I had all the time in the world. Several people had me laughing, a de nite plus. Laughter is a natural pain killer.
When I stood up, the pain was excruciating. I quickly pulled my goggles down to let the tears  ow. By the time the mare halted, I could no longer stand up in the irons and I had to sit in the saddle all the way back. The tears were under control by the time I reached the unsaddling area. I knew I couldn’t stand on the ankle let alone walk on it. Rather than my usual leap from the saddle, I lowered myself gingerly onto my good leg and grabbed a hold of Bobby’s shoulder.
“We’ve got a breakdown!” he called out.
The clerk of scales started to call for the horse ambulance until he realized it was a jockey who was injured. He asked what happened and I had to think quick. I told him I’d crushed my foot in the gate. (Providence was looking out for me as I later discovered that only injuries sustained on the racetrack were eligible for the jockeys’ guild compensation.)
I took my brave ankle to the hospital and
had a cast applied. Amazingly, it hasn’t held any ill feelings from the experience and
doesn’t give me any problems to this day. It seems I’ve been blessed with a body that loves adventure. And there were many more to come! www.paddyhead.ca
My  rst job was to go and mix some bedding for one of the stalls. Where was the mixture? The source of water? The mixing implement? “There, there and over there,” pointed Alex. “Mix it in this wheelbarrow. I’ll be in here clean-
ing up in case you have any questions.” He disappeared
into one of the stalls and I trundled off behind my wheel- barrow towards the hose. I emptied the pellet-like things into the wheelbarrow and began to douse them in water. “Cushy” was how Alex wanted it, which I didn’t want to mistake with “mushy,” so I wheeled the mixture back a few minutes later, half-dry. Poor April, a two-year-old  lly being prepped to race this season, would have spent the night on peas had I not asked Alex if the bedding was up to scratch. Back to the tap I trundled.
Once in the jockey’s room, I gingerly took off my boot. The discolouration had begun and I thought it best to keep it out of view. If the girls saw it, they would veto my decision to ride. I  gured I could handle it. It was my outside leg that was injured and I would take most of my weight on the inside leg. I taped the damaged ankle in riding position and slipped gratefully into Hilary’s boots.
Things went more smoothly when Steve, Alex’s assistant, appeared. From this point onward I was Steve’s shadow, which was pleasant enough, as we had some common interests – journalism, daughters and handicapping – as well as being from Slavic pedigrees, he of Ukranian stock and I partly of Czech. April had just returned from being galloped, and Steve held onto the reigns as Alex hosed off her hooves. He didn’t appear to appreciate this, pulling
My journey to the saddling paddock was a walking meditation. Never before had I been so aware of every step I took. I promised my ankle I would take it to the emergency the moment
Steve circled around with April a few times and then passed the reigns over to me. Immediately upon taking control I realized how precarious my control over this animal was. Though I’m a relatively strong, 160-pound man and April was no stallion in heat, a few upward jerks of her head was enough to remind me that this was a game of trust and  nesse and not a competition of strength. “Watch what
up on the reigns and clawing her hooves over the pave- ment. “We have to get her adapted to all the little routines, “explained Alex. “They’re like teenagers - some more cooperative than others,” added Steve. It was comforting to know that someone else was also getting used to things.
her ears are doing and always remem- ber that a horse is a herd animal. If they sense panic in you, they’ll panic; if you’re calm, they’ll usually stay calm.” I drew on Alex’s advice. April and I were merely going on a relax- ing stroll on a chilly but beautiful morning.
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When I got her into the stall, Steve came over with the beautician’s box. It was time to make April look pretty. I had observed the grooming process before and considered it something between an exercise in aesthetics
and a means by which to capture the handicapper’s eye. Cont. Next Page
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