Page 17 - March 2009 The Game

Canada’s Thoroughbred Racing Newspaper
a day infamous among
teachers for the wildness
of the student body. For
my last class of the day I
decided to show a movie,
a classic teacher tactical
diversion. I grabbed
“Shakespeare in Love”
from my parent’s collection, which prompted a raising of my mother’s legendary eyebrow.
“I don’t think so,” I told her. I’d seen
the movie and couldn’t remember anything inappropriate. Besides, I argued: “How can you go wrong showing a movie about Shakespeare to a grade 8 English class?”
The Game, March 2009 17 Fort Erie Horsemen Hopeful for ’09 Season
February Feels like Coming Home
The same outlook that led to the old racetrack adage “No one ever died with an unstarted two-year-old in their barn” is keeping Fort Erie horsemen cautiously optimistic that the “Border Track” will open for its 112th season in early May.
February feels like a sort of homecoming at Hastings Park. Familiar faces continue to arrive by the day. Some have spent the winter working tracks in friendlier climates; others return from jobs they’ve taken to help themselves through
the long winter months. I’m always amazed at the variety of occupations people have worked
at or retired from in order to pursue a life in the sport of horse racing. On any given day the Hastings backstretch is populated by roofers, dockworkers, computer programmers, artists, oil riggers, loggers, retired police of cers, bartenders and private detectives. Over the years I’ve met people who’ve given up six- gure incomes to gallop horses; pony-girls with masters degrees
in biology; lawyers and successful businessmen turned trainers who’ve abandoned the wealth and security of a comfortable salary to gamble it all on the racetrack life.
“There’s a better chance of an earthquake happening than Fort Erie not opening,” declared Gordon Mitchell, husband of trainer Sue.
Most will tell you rst and foremost it’s about the horses. But if you keep prodding, many admit they never enjoyed working 9 to
5, or else they couldn’t seem to get along in the “real world.” I know that was certainly the case for me. Before I became a racetrack convert I made my living as a high school English teacher. But three years in the public education system was all it took to educate me into nding another line of work.
Veteran horseman Harry Thacker, also at the Training Centre, admitted “It’s a guessing game” but was optimistic that “New ownership could be the best thing that ever happened to the track.”
It was during one of my last teaching assignments that I nally realized I might be pursuing the wrong career. As a high school English teacher, I never expected to nd myself teaching French at a Catholic elementary school. I was between jobs at the time and travelled east to visit my parents. Ontario was suffering a teacher shortage so I oated my resume around, hoping to pick up some substitute work. I never expected to hear from a Catholic elementary school—I certainly hadn’t applied to any Catholic schools.
But as the kissing intensi ed I realized
I’d never seen my parents do anything like
this. Shakespeare’s tongue was now darting rhythmically in and out of his fair maiden’s throat. I watched in horror as he ripped open her blouse and began rubbing his face between her fully exposed cleavage. This time every student in class turned around and stared at me, their innocent Catholic faces bug-eyed with shock.
Despite the unsettled future, all the trainers interviewed -- except Ezra -- were preparing for the 2009 racing season the same way they have in the past. Those at the Training Centre, like Desourcy, plan to leg up their horses there, then ship to Woodbine for recorded workouts, and then run their better stock at that track early in the season.
The principal of St. Josephs was an ex-nun named Debbie, a small woman with iron grey hair. Even wearing civilian clothes Principal Debbie still looked like a nun in disguise. She admitted I’d be the fth French teacher to hold the position in two months. “It’s a dif cult job,” she warned. “People around here don’t like the French.”
Perhaps only once in a career is a teacher presented with two teachable moments in a ninety second span. I sprinted towards the front of the room, hoping to kill the VCR before Shakespeare reached his obvious intended destination. Halfway up aisle two, I tripped
over a suspiciously outstretched foot and bailed head- rst into the second row, sending desks, chairs and students crashing to the oor. As I
lay on the tile oor collecting my wits, a large gasp escaped the mouths of my delinquent grade eights. I sat up just in time to watch Shakespeare slide safely into home. Even worse, I suddenly realized my class’s gasp had less as much to
do with Shakespeare’s carnal triumph than the sudden appearance of ex-nun Principal Debbie
at the classroom door. Confronted with a teachable moment of her own, Principal Debbie ipped open the fuse panel beside the intercom and killed the power, plunging the room into darkness.
“In the past, a $10,000 claimer in the Fall would be worth $14,000 or so in the Spring because he was rested and sound, and you could be sure he’d make money at the Fort. Now, that same $10,000 horse of last Fall is only worth $10,000 this Spring.”
Hmm, I thought. An ex-nun with a slippery sense of ethics. Maybe I’ll t in here better than I think.
I soon learned my real job as French teacher was to ensure the other teachers got their forty minute break. My break-less days were spent madly wheeling the little French cart up and down the hall beneath the watchful ef gy of the Virgin Mary. I soon tired of cajoling rabid anti- Francophones into singing O’Canada in French. My least favourite class was comprised of 37 delinquent grade eight students who addressed me as Monsieur Steve. By the end of the rst month I began discretely shopping my resume around Montreal, searching for light at the end of my long, dark tunnel. Two weeks later I was called for an interview and just like that my days at St Joe’s were numbered. The end couldn’t come fast enough to suit me.
“Monsieur Steve,” boomed Principal Debbie’s disembodied voice. “I will see you in my of ce after class.”
“Isn’t that a little racy?” she said.
“If I had to bet, I’d bet we’ll have some sort of season. Closing the track wouldn’t have a ripple effect, it’d be a tidal wave!” proclaimed trainer Daryl Ezra.
It took half an hour before I realized how wrong I’d gone. Onscreen, what began as chaste, breathless kisses between two young lovers quickly evolved into long, probing tongues. Students giggled and turned in their seats to gauge my reaction as Shakespeare rounded
rst base and headed for second. In the eld of education this is what’s known as the “teachable moment,” a moment when circumstances conspire in such a way that a quick-witted teacher can turn imminent danger into a triumph of pedagogy. I decided to play it cool. “All right, you guys, settle down. It’s just a little kissing. Nothing you haven’t seen your parents do before.”
“We’re being positive that the track will open, but it’s up to the politicians,” added Martha Gonzalez, who handles the Woodbine string for her husband Nick, who has trained at the Fort for 36 years.
by evenSteven
“I’m thinking positive,” said trainer Brigitte Desourcy, who -- like Sue Mitchell -- is preparing her horses at the Fort Erie Training Centre with its indoor gallop area.
Still, Claudia Whalen, wife of trainer Henry Whalen, wondered “If they decide it’s ‘Go’ on March 31, how are they ever going to get our stall applications processed? The usual deadline is at the end of January.”
“Usually I’ll start my horses in March in the indoor arena,” Ezra explained. “I’d take it easy on them early because I knew I’d have the entire Summer to run them. This year, I started training in December and I have three of my 11 at Mountaineer right now. I have to be more aggressive with my stock in the Spring because I can’t depend on Fort Erie for the long term.
Continued Page 19 - see Fort Erie
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My nal day at St. Joseph’s happened to fall on the last day of school before Christmas vacation,
But what Principal Debbie didn’t know as that for me there would be no after class, because
the second that bell rang I got out of there fast. Seven months later I found a new home on the backstretch and retired forever from the teaching profession—so you can consider this the rst and last ever confession of a lapsed-Catholic school- teacher.
The Game March 2009.indd 17
2/24/09 10:32:00 PM