My mother and father were invited to attend the l980 Kentucky Derby as guests of Mr. and Mrs. Harry Oak who owned the favorite, Rockhill Native. My father and Harry Oak were golf and martini buddies living in retirement in Pompano Beach, Florida.
The smallish gelding that was Rockhill Native went favorite off a win in the Blue Grass Stakes at Keeneland and the fact that his trainer was the ultimate hardboot Herb Stevens.
Local rider Johnny Oldham got what he could out of his mount but he was history by the time Rockhill Native reached the quarter pole. A pall of disappointment fell over the box.
But not for long as my mother began to root demonstrably for the filly Genuine Risk.She chortled all the way to the cash window with a fistful of tickets to win on Genuine Risk at a stout l3-to-1. She was unabashed by the fact that no one else seemed to share her enthusiasm at the result.
My mother raised seven children and demonstrated her talent in countless ways to bring her brood to adulthood. She was smart, beautiful, hard-working, charitable, loving and full of life. But she just could not quite get the hang of pari-mutuel etiquette.
Five years after Genuine Risk I had a pretty decent 3-year-old named Fortinbras who had a longshot’s chance in the Hollywood Derby. My folks happened to be visiting me in California at the time and we all went down to Hollywood.
Frank Brothers trained the horse for my Santa Barbara Stable and partner John Franks.
Frank said the horse was doing well after a groom had mistakenly rubbed the horse with a caustic substance rather than his regular linament. He thought we had a chance off our best stuff.
No one else thought so. The board read 99-to-1.
Mom slipped away to get her bets down. When she returned I asked her how she had bet my horse. “I didn’t bet your horse because I don’t think he’s going to win,” she said.
My nerves were already a bit frayed from the pressure of the situation and I blurted out that she could not sit in my box and root for another horse. She was banished.
Dad arched an empathetic eyebrow but said nothing. Fortinbras ran a heck of a race and came home fifth, beaten only a couple of lengths.
Her horse didn’t win either.
Sep 4, 2008
Aug 27, 2008
IN MEMORIAM
David Mullins
(by Sean Clancy, Saratoga Special, August 20, 2008)
I ran into David Mullins at the Cheltenham Festival, 2002. He gave me a burly handshake and we hustled to the parade to see a Mullins horse run in the hurdle finale. I kept thinking, “Does he have me mixed up with somebody else?” He talked to me like he knew me his whole life. I couldn’t place him or our friendship or when we met or why he was introducing me to his family like I was a brother. We ordered pints of Guinness in the Turf Club, then downed them in one quick elbow bender as he grabbed me by the arm again and said, “Let’s go soak it all up. We won’t be back for a while.” We bolted to the Great Lawn to see the winner come home in the fading light, and feel the buzz of Cheltenham one last time before we went home. I think the Mullins’ horse finished second. I’m still not sure which Mullins it was; cousin, uncle, grandfather or brother. There are a lot of Mullinses out there. All from County Kilkenny, Ireland. Sadly, there’s one less today. David Mullins died Monday.
Mullins, 5l, was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in April. In four short months, our friend, the horseman, the man who rallied for every cause, the dedicated father, the gregarious Irishman who never missed a laugh was gone. It turns out I didn’t know him that well before Cheltenham; he knew me from riding a few races at High Hope and writing a paper about a sport he loved. That was good enough for him-we were friends. That was David Mullins’ world-everyone included.
I called him around Derby week, when it was setting in (for both of us) that he had cancer. I had put off calling him, then stumbled in conversation. “Look, Sean, I’d have hated to have gotten hit by a truck and never felt all this love and support. All my friends, my family, the community have shown me what life’s about. They’re having a 24-hour church service, all my friends are going to church…can you imagine, my friends in church? It’s OK. If a positive attitude means anything, I’m going to beat it.” That was Mullins, still positive while the odds stacked against him.
He almost cancelled his annual Belmont Party, but his friends helped and made sure it happened. Over a hundred friends and family joined him at his house in Lexington, KY. He had a big time. He described it in an e-mail sent to all his friends in late June: A number of friends, knowing how important the tradition of the Mullins Belmont Party was to our family, took it upon themselves to organize the greatest party ever. Most important, they even tidied up.
In and out of hospitals, Mullins studied the Racing Form, looking for mares to claim and sell at Keeneland and Fasig-Tipton’s fall and winter sales. He knew horses. And the value of horses. His Doninga Farm topped the 2001 Keeneland November breeding stock sale in average, when selling Saoirse for $2.2 million. Doninga consigned Platinum Heights, the highest-priced yearling filly in North America in 2002.
He was sharp; I had sent him e-mails since that Cheltenham trip, “David, what do you think this mare is worth?” I sent him one about a Thunder Gulch filly, out of the Fourstardave family. I was wound up and said we need to get some money in an account and claim her. He wrote back, “You’re right, the breeding is excellent, but unless you know something I don’t known, she’s a he and I don’t think even us can fix that.” I got an e-mail this morning about a mare for sale. Based in Europe, she’s related to Cool Coal Man, they asked me what I thought she was worth. I hit forward on my e-mail screen and typed futures@insightbb.com, then stopped, remembering the phone message from my friend Davant Latham. He said he was glad he reached my voice mail because he probably couldn’t talk, told me. David had died and he told how much David talked about the trip he made to Saratoga a couple of summers ago.
Mullins and his runningmate Gerry O’Meara needed a place to crash at Saratoga so they flopped down on two couches at my carriage house across the street from the Reading Room. They brought their own pillows and blankets. I didn’t see them much, I was writing papers and they were living large in Saratoga. Every time I came home, they offered me a drink and begged me to stay awhile.
“We’re in good shape,” Mullins said the day after a Siro’s night, “for the shape we’re in.” Again that was mullins. Hung over, but never hung up. He even tidied up.
(by Sean Clancy, Saratoga Special, August 20, 2008)
I ran into David Mullins at the Cheltenham Festival, 2002. He gave me a burly handshake and we hustled to the parade to see a Mullins horse run in the hurdle finale. I kept thinking, “Does he have me mixed up with somebody else?” He talked to me like he knew me his whole life. I couldn’t place him or our friendship or when we met or why he was introducing me to his family like I was a brother. We ordered pints of Guinness in the Turf Club, then downed them in one quick elbow bender as he grabbed me by the arm again and said, “Let’s go soak it all up. We won’t be back for a while.” We bolted to the Great Lawn to see the winner come home in the fading light, and feel the buzz of Cheltenham one last time before we went home. I think the Mullins’ horse finished second. I’m still not sure which Mullins it was; cousin, uncle, grandfather or brother. There are a lot of Mullinses out there. All from County Kilkenny, Ireland. Sadly, there’s one less today. David Mullins died Monday.
Mullins, 5l, was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in April. In four short months, our friend, the horseman, the man who rallied for every cause, the dedicated father, the gregarious Irishman who never missed a laugh was gone. It turns out I didn’t know him that well before Cheltenham; he knew me from riding a few races at High Hope and writing a paper about a sport he loved. That was good enough for him-we were friends. That was David Mullins’ world-everyone included.
I called him around Derby week, when it was setting in (for both of us) that he had cancer. I had put off calling him, then stumbled in conversation. “Look, Sean, I’d have hated to have gotten hit by a truck and never felt all this love and support. All my friends, my family, the community have shown me what life’s about. They’re having a 24-hour church service, all my friends are going to church…can you imagine, my friends in church? It’s OK. If a positive attitude means anything, I’m going to beat it.” That was Mullins, still positive while the odds stacked against him.
He almost cancelled his annual Belmont Party, but his friends helped and made sure it happened. Over a hundred friends and family joined him at his house in Lexington, KY. He had a big time. He described it in an e-mail sent to all his friends in late June: A number of friends, knowing how important the tradition of the Mullins Belmont Party was to our family, took it upon themselves to organize the greatest party ever. Most important, they even tidied up.
In and out of hospitals, Mullins studied the Racing Form, looking for mares to claim and sell at Keeneland and Fasig-Tipton’s fall and winter sales. He knew horses. And the value of horses. His Doninga Farm topped the 2001 Keeneland November breeding stock sale in average, when selling Saoirse for $2.2 million. Doninga consigned Platinum Heights, the highest-priced yearling filly in North America in 2002.
He was sharp; I had sent him e-mails since that Cheltenham trip, “David, what do you think this mare is worth?” I sent him one about a Thunder Gulch filly, out of the Fourstardave family. I was wound up and said we need to get some money in an account and claim her. He wrote back, “You’re right, the breeding is excellent, but unless you know something I don’t known, she’s a he and I don’t think even us can fix that.” I got an e-mail this morning about a mare for sale. Based in Europe, she’s related to Cool Coal Man, they asked me what I thought she was worth. I hit forward on my e-mail screen and typed futures@insightbb.com, then stopped, remembering the phone message from my friend Davant Latham. He said he was glad he reached my voice mail because he probably couldn’t talk, told me. David had died and he told how much David talked about the trip he made to Saratoga a couple of summers ago.
Mullins and his runningmate Gerry O’Meara needed a place to crash at Saratoga so they flopped down on two couches at my carriage house across the street from the Reading Room. They brought their own pillows and blankets. I didn’t see them much, I was writing papers and they were living large in Saratoga. Every time I came home, they offered me a drink and begged me to stay awhile.
“We’re in good shape,” Mullins said the day after a Siro’s night, “for the shape we’re in.” Again that was mullins. Hung over, but never hung up. He even tidied up.
Aug 2, 2008
SING MELANCHOLY BABY
A horse named Play Melancholy Baby ran at Monmouth Park the other day. It made me think about the story oldtimers would resurrect each year with the opening of Del Mar.
The tale involved Del Mar founder Bing Crosby and a vaudeville comedian named Joe Frisco. Daily Racing Form columnist Oscar Otis liked to dust it off each year when the Turf Meets the Surf at Del Mar.
It seems that Frisco was almost always tapped out and Crosby was his line of credit and rarely repaid. One day, however, Frisco gets lucky and finds a few winners.
He is soon wining and dining friends in the Turf Club when he spies Crosby headed his way. His body language says “pay me”.
Frisco, who speaks with a stutter, quickly takes out a $20 dollar bill and hands it to Crosby.
“H, h, h, here, k, k, kid, sing Melancholy Baby for us,” he commanded.
SHECKEY GREENE
Shecky Greene was another comedian who liked the races and he was a daily Arlington Park visitor when working the clubs in Chicago. My handicapping mentor Buddy Abadie
was a real pro and he brooked no interruptions when the races were on. He would share a box with national HBPA president Jack DeFee or maybe Ed McCaskey, son-in-law of Chicago Bears owner George Halas. Anyone else was invited to sit elsewhere.
Greene was friends with owner Joe Kellman (who later raced an eponymous champion sprinter for his pal) and asked him to intercede with Buddy. One day Buddy relents but tells Joe that the guy must mind his manners. There’s a sizeable bet down on a race and Buddy’s horse stumbles at the break, hurries along the rail to catch up, swings out for the drive and comes up a nose short at 8-l to the odds-on favorite.
Shecky taps Buddy on the shoulder and says, “If I don’t see you I bet the winner.”
They say it took four strong men to pry Buddy’s fingers from the comic’s neck.
BUNDLE BOY
Eddie “Bundle Boy” Meloncon was Buddy’s sidekick on the Chicago-New Orleans circuit. Bundle Boy was a halfway decent trainer but his disposition was such that he’d rather hustle a buck than earn two.
Buddy kept him around as an information source and general court jester. Bundles stretched the friendship from time to time, touting other gamblers after learning Buddy’s figures. If Buddy found out Bundles was killing his odds he would send him into exile.
For a week or two Bundles would hang around hoping that his probation would soon end.
Just for fun, Buddy told the others in the box one day
to jump up and cheer the first time a horse came in a better than l0-to-1.
When a 20-to-1 bomb rolled in the guys arose as one to cheer home the bogus betting coup. Bundles could take no more. He beseeched Buddy to let him rejoin the flock.
Buddy figured he had suffered enough and, besides, he might be useful one day when they shipped back to their hometown New Orleans Fair Grounds.
A FISHY STORY
Back in New Orleans and Bundles invites me to go fishing with him along with my friend Matt Koldys. Matt was the program line maker and calculator in the money room. He was a scratch handicap in golf, a good handicapper and a terrific friend. Like me, he was a once-a-year fisherman at best.
I took one look at Bundles’ boat, a skiff maybe l2 feet long that had seen many a nautical mile. We drove a few hours to the town of Empire, Louisiana, a hot spot for fishing because of the offshore oil rigs.
Catching red fish required no skill and we had loaded the boat to its limit. The clouds began to roll in and Bundle Boy said it was time to go. He fired up the outboard motor but we were not moving. Bundles pulled up the motor and cursed. The propeller had sheared off.
We were in trouble. Big trouble. The seas began to roil, the sky continued to darken and rain began to come down in sheets. We set our sights on an oil rig about a mile away.
Our only means of locomotion was a wooden paddle maybe four feet long and a golf size umbrella which Matt had the foresight to bring along.
Bundles sat in the back of the boat, popping nitro pills for his heart and saying more Hail Marys than the Pope, begging divine forgiveness for his lapses from grace.
I paddled and Matt converted the umbrella into a sail. Luckily, the wind and current were blowing toward the rig. We could see our path to deliverance if we could manage to keep the boat on an even keel. I was a lousy swimmer and, for the only time in my life, I had serious doubts that I would survive.
It was not our hour, I guess, because we did make it, looking like the Owl and the Pussycat who went to sea in a pea green boat. When we were rescued by the Louisiana roughnecks they had quite a laugh at our expense. They also had hot coffee and dry clothes and a crew boat on the way.
Later on I wondered why we hadn’t thrown the fish overboard to lighten our load.
The tale involved Del Mar founder Bing Crosby and a vaudeville comedian named Joe Frisco. Daily Racing Form columnist Oscar Otis liked to dust it off each year when the Turf Meets the Surf at Del Mar.
It seems that Frisco was almost always tapped out and Crosby was his line of credit and rarely repaid. One day, however, Frisco gets lucky and finds a few winners.
He is soon wining and dining friends in the Turf Club when he spies Crosby headed his way. His body language says “pay me”.
Frisco, who speaks with a stutter, quickly takes out a $20 dollar bill and hands it to Crosby.
“H, h, h, here, k, k, kid, sing Melancholy Baby for us,” he commanded.
SHECKEY GREENE
Shecky Greene was another comedian who liked the races and he was a daily Arlington Park visitor when working the clubs in Chicago. My handicapping mentor Buddy Abadie
was a real pro and he brooked no interruptions when the races were on. He would share a box with national HBPA president Jack DeFee or maybe Ed McCaskey, son-in-law of Chicago Bears owner George Halas. Anyone else was invited to sit elsewhere.
Greene was friends with owner Joe Kellman (who later raced an eponymous champion sprinter for his pal) and asked him to intercede with Buddy. One day Buddy relents but tells Joe that the guy must mind his manners. There’s a sizeable bet down on a race and Buddy’s horse stumbles at the break, hurries along the rail to catch up, swings out for the drive and comes up a nose short at 8-l to the odds-on favorite.
Shecky taps Buddy on the shoulder and says, “If I don’t see you I bet the winner.”
They say it took four strong men to pry Buddy’s fingers from the comic’s neck.
BUNDLE BOY
Eddie “Bundle Boy” Meloncon was Buddy’s sidekick on the Chicago-New Orleans circuit. Bundle Boy was a halfway decent trainer but his disposition was such that he’d rather hustle a buck than earn two.
Buddy kept him around as an information source and general court jester. Bundles stretched the friendship from time to time, touting other gamblers after learning Buddy’s figures. If Buddy found out Bundles was killing his odds he would send him into exile.
For a week or two Bundles would hang around hoping that his probation would soon end.
Just for fun, Buddy told the others in the box one day
to jump up and cheer the first time a horse came in a better than l0-to-1.
When a 20-to-1 bomb rolled in the guys arose as one to cheer home the bogus betting coup. Bundles could take no more. He beseeched Buddy to let him rejoin the flock.
Buddy figured he had suffered enough and, besides, he might be useful one day when they shipped back to their hometown New Orleans Fair Grounds.
A FISHY STORY
Back in New Orleans and Bundles invites me to go fishing with him along with my friend Matt Koldys. Matt was the program line maker and calculator in the money room. He was a scratch handicap in golf, a good handicapper and a terrific friend. Like me, he was a once-a-year fisherman at best.
I took one look at Bundles’ boat, a skiff maybe l2 feet long that had seen many a nautical mile. We drove a few hours to the town of Empire, Louisiana, a hot spot for fishing because of the offshore oil rigs.
Catching red fish required no skill and we had loaded the boat to its limit. The clouds began to roll in and Bundle Boy said it was time to go. He fired up the outboard motor but we were not moving. Bundles pulled up the motor and cursed. The propeller had sheared off.
We were in trouble. Big trouble. The seas began to roil, the sky continued to darken and rain began to come down in sheets. We set our sights on an oil rig about a mile away.
Our only means of locomotion was a wooden paddle maybe four feet long and a golf size umbrella which Matt had the foresight to bring along.
Bundles sat in the back of the boat, popping nitro pills for his heart and saying more Hail Marys than the Pope, begging divine forgiveness for his lapses from grace.
I paddled and Matt converted the umbrella into a sail. Luckily, the wind and current were blowing toward the rig. We could see our path to deliverance if we could manage to keep the boat on an even keel. I was a lousy swimmer and, for the only time in my life, I had serious doubts that I would survive.
It was not our hour, I guess, because we did make it, looking like the Owl and the Pussycat who went to sea in a pea green boat. When we were rescued by the Louisiana roughnecks they had quite a laugh at our expense. They also had hot coffee and dry clothes and a crew boat on the way.
Later on I wondered why we hadn’t thrown the fish overboard to lighten our load.
SARATOGA SALE
Once again Four Star Sales brings a select consignment to Saratoga. Come inspect the high class quartet from Glencrest Farm at Barn 4 North..
Hip 27…Malibu Moon colt. First foal of stakes-mare by Saint Ballado.
Hip 61…Forest Wildcat colt. Half-brother to three solid runners, Mr. Prospector dam.
Hip 112…Forest Danger colt. Bred on same pattern as My Trusty Cat (Gr. 1)
Hip 183…Songandaprayer filly. Half-sister to Adieu (Gr. 1), also sold at Saratoga by Four Star Sales.
Hip 27…Malibu Moon colt. First foal of stakes-mare by Saint Ballado.
Hip 61…Forest Wildcat colt. Half-brother to three solid runners, Mr. Prospector dam.
Hip 112…Forest Danger colt. Bred on same pattern as My Trusty Cat (Gr. 1)
Hip 183…Songandaprayer filly. Half-sister to Adieu (Gr. 1), also sold at Saratoga by Four Star Sales.
Aug 1, 2008
ON BROADWAY
Broadway Hennessey has paid immediate dividends in her first three starts since we bought her for Jerry Holldendorfer at the Fasig-Tipton 2-year-olds in training sale at Calder.
The Hennessey filly overpowered her rivals while setting a new track record in her Golden Gate debut. Bet down to l-to-5 in her next start, the Juan Gonzales Memorial, she was the victim of a rare poorly judged race by Russell Baze at Pleasanton.
Baze learned his lesson, as all good riders do, and Broadway Hennessey sat behind the pace in the Wine Country Stakes at Santa Rosa, roaring by the pacesetters with two furlongs to go.
The Hennessey filly caught our eye with a smooth quarter-mile work at Calder. We also noted her similarity to another great Hennessey filly, Harmony Lodge (Gr. 1) who we had plucked out of the same sale a decade ago.
Broadway Hennessey failed to meet her $l50,000 reserve at the Calder sales. We were able to buy her at a discount . She was the only juvenile we bought in Miami this season. We expect you will hear big things from this filly as the weeks and months unfold. She looks the real thing.
The Hennessey filly overpowered her rivals while setting a new track record in her Golden Gate debut. Bet down to l-to-5 in her next start, the Juan Gonzales Memorial, she was the victim of a rare poorly judged race by Russell Baze at Pleasanton.
Baze learned his lesson, as all good riders do, and Broadway Hennessey sat behind the pace in the Wine Country Stakes at Santa Rosa, roaring by the pacesetters with two furlongs to go.
The Hennessey filly caught our eye with a smooth quarter-mile work at Calder. We also noted her similarity to another great Hennessey filly, Harmony Lodge (Gr. 1) who we had plucked out of the same sale a decade ago.
Broadway Hennessey failed to meet her $l50,000 reserve at the Calder sales. We were able to buy her at a discount . She was the only juvenile we bought in Miami this season. We expect you will hear big things from this filly as the weeks and months unfold. She looks the real thing.
ON BROADWAY
Broadway Hennessey has paid immediate dividends in her first three starts since we bought her for Jerry Holldendorfer at the Fasig-Tipton 2-year-olds in training sale at Calder.
The Hennessey filly overpowered her rivals while setting a new track record in her Golden Gate debut. Bet down to l-to-5 in her next start, the Juan Gonzales Memorial, she was the victim of a rare poorly judged race by Russell Baze at Pleasanton.
Baze learned his lesson, as all good riders do, and Broadway Hennessey sat behind the pace in the Wine Country Stakes at Santa Rosa, roaring by the pacesetters with two furlongs to go.
The Hennessey filly caught our eye with a smooth quarter-mile work at Calder. We also noted her similarity to another great Hennessey filly, Harmony Lodge (Gr. 1) who we had plucked out of the same sale a decade ago.
Broadway Hennessey failed to meet her $l50,000 reserve at the Calder sales. We were able to buy her at a discount . She was the only juvenile we bought in Miami this season. We expect you will hear big things from this filly as the weeks and months unfold. She looks the real thing.
The Hennessey filly overpowered her rivals while setting a new track record in her Golden Gate debut. Bet down to l-to-5 in her next start, the Juan Gonzales Memorial, she was the victim of a rare poorly judged race by Russell Baze at Pleasanton.
Baze learned his lesson, as all good riders do, and Broadway Hennessey sat behind the pace in the Wine Country Stakes at Santa Rosa, roaring by the pacesetters with two furlongs to go.
The Hennessey filly caught our eye with a smooth quarter-mile work at Calder. We also noted her similarity to another great Hennessey filly, Harmony Lodge (Gr. 1) who we had plucked out of the same sale a decade ago.
Broadway Hennessey failed to meet her $l50,000 reserve at the Calder sales. We were able to buy her at a discount . She was the only juvenile we bought in Miami this season. We expect you will hear big things from this filly as the weeks and months unfold. She looks the real thing.
Jul 30, 2008
WOE IS ME
A couple of years ago I met a New York documentary producer who was video taping horse players. He wanted to know one thing—what was your most memorable “tough beat”?
After 40 years of steady play it seemed nigh impossible to choose only one. I’d had an elephant sit on my bankroll too many times over the years. Then it dawned on me that my toughest beat wasn’t a beating at all. Worse still was knowing I had suffered a player’s worst nightmare…I didn’t get down!
Gulfstream Park was the scene of the crime in February 2001 and the horse in question was none other than Speightstown, a future champion sprinter for owner Eugene Melnyk..
He had shelled out $2 million to purchase the horse at my suggestion at the l999 Keeneland July Sale.
Speightstown was shipped to trainer Todd Pletcher who was under some pressure to run the horse at Saratoga where the owner had taken a house for the season. Speightstown was trounced in his only start at the spa and came out of it a bit worse for wear.
Melnyk and his trainer had a spat over the winter with the result that some of his horses were shifted to the barn of Phil England in Ocala. Phil patiently worked on Speightstown and had him ready at Gulfstream.
The race in question was run on a Saturday during the 2-year-old sales at Calder. I purchased a plane ticket that would leave Lexington in plenty of time to take in the race.
There was a slight delay at the airport so I sped down Interstate 95 just to make sure. When I turned off I-95 at Hallandale Beach Blvd. I about fainted. Right in front of me was a freight train. And it wasn’t moving.
Precious minutes ticked away and I even considered leaving the car with my friend Diane and running the half-mile or so to the track. Just then the train began to move. We zoomed around the corner and into valet parking.
The first person I spotted was Pletcher who was heading out of the track.
“Did Speightstown win?”I asked.
“By six,” he replied.
Speightstown was 5-l on the program. I was almost afraid to ask the next question.
“What did he pay,” I wondered, knowing I should shut up and leave the man to deal with his pain.
“$29.00”, said Todd in his best monotone.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” I said.
“Do I sound like I’m kidding?, he said.
Now I wanted him to just go away and let me deal with my own pain. All I could think of was Nick The Greek’s famous creed that “the next best thing to playing and winning is playing and losing”. I never even had the chance to play.
Todd eventually got Speightstown back in his barn and turned him into a champion. And all I got was another gambling story…a guy has inside info on a $2 million maiden and gets shut out. It was raining pennies from heaven and I’m standing there holding a pitchfork.
Come to think of it, there was a worse day and it also took place at Gulfstream. That’ll have to be one for another day. Enough sorrow for now.
After 40 years of steady play it seemed nigh impossible to choose only one. I’d had an elephant sit on my bankroll too many times over the years. Then it dawned on me that my toughest beat wasn’t a beating at all. Worse still was knowing I had suffered a player’s worst nightmare…I didn’t get down!
Gulfstream Park was the scene of the crime in February 2001 and the horse in question was none other than Speightstown, a future champion sprinter for owner Eugene Melnyk..
He had shelled out $2 million to purchase the horse at my suggestion at the l999 Keeneland July Sale.
Speightstown was shipped to trainer Todd Pletcher who was under some pressure to run the horse at Saratoga where the owner had taken a house for the season. Speightstown was trounced in his only start at the spa and came out of it a bit worse for wear.
Melnyk and his trainer had a spat over the winter with the result that some of his horses were shifted to the barn of Phil England in Ocala. Phil patiently worked on Speightstown and had him ready at Gulfstream.
The race in question was run on a Saturday during the 2-year-old sales at Calder. I purchased a plane ticket that would leave Lexington in plenty of time to take in the race.
There was a slight delay at the airport so I sped down Interstate 95 just to make sure. When I turned off I-95 at Hallandale Beach Blvd. I about fainted. Right in front of me was a freight train. And it wasn’t moving.
Precious minutes ticked away and I even considered leaving the car with my friend Diane and running the half-mile or so to the track. Just then the train began to move. We zoomed around the corner and into valet parking.
The first person I spotted was Pletcher who was heading out of the track.
“Did Speightstown win?”I asked.
“By six,” he replied.
Speightstown was 5-l on the program. I was almost afraid to ask the next question.
“What did he pay,” I wondered, knowing I should shut up and leave the man to deal with his pain.
“$29.00”, said Todd in his best monotone.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” I said.
“Do I sound like I’m kidding?, he said.
Now I wanted him to just go away and let me deal with my own pain. All I could think of was Nick The Greek’s famous creed that “the next best thing to playing and winning is playing and losing”. I never even had the chance to play.
Todd eventually got Speightstown back in his barn and turned him into a champion. And all I got was another gambling story…a guy has inside info on a $2 million maiden and gets shut out. It was raining pennies from heaven and I’m standing there holding a pitchfork.
Come to think of it, there was a worse day and it also took place at Gulfstream. That’ll have to be one for another day. Enough sorrow for now.
Jul 23, 2008
BY THE TIME I GOT TO SARATOGA...
In August of l969 I am off to Saratoga for the first time. I take some vacation time from the New Orleans States-Item sports pages to discuss more gainful employment with the Morning Telegraph/Daily Racing Form.
My sister Mary wonders if I am going to the big rock concert. “What concert?”, I ask, too absorbed with Thoroughbred fantasies of the spa to consider what else might be going down.
“It’s up in Woodstock, not far from Saratoga. You ought to check it out.”
My wife and I head for Manhattan for an interview with Saul Rosen, editor in chief of Triangle Publications. We meet for a couple of hours at Triangle offices on West 52nd St.
It goes well.
“I’ll be back in touch” says Saul. He then sends us off to dinner at Broadway Joe’s and tickets to my first Broadway musical experience-Purlie, starring Melba Moore.
The next morning we head North to Saratoga. Radio reports of the Woodstock Festival provide a little temptation. After all, we’re talking Bob Dylan, Joni Mitchell, Richie Havens, The Who, Crosby, Wills, Nash and Young, and on and on.
We briefly consider a detour for at least a “look see” at Woodstock but the pouring rain decides the issue and we are back on Robert Frost’s Road Not Taken, fully aware that Saratoga would have its share of rich folks who might indeed Pave Paradise and Put Up a Parking lot.
Class warfare aside, Saragota is too good to be true. We took a place on Lake George and waited for the rain to stop. It never did. No matter, we were in Saratoga on Travers day in a good seat arranged by the fatherly Mr. Rosen. He even instructed Joe Hirsch to treat us to dinner at the Wishing Well.
Arts and Letters is the heavy Travers favorite and we parlay our meager winnings on his nose at even money or so. Braulio Baeza brings him home in track record time in a sea of slop. The jockey has the most elegant posture on a horse that I have seen then or since. Owner-breeder Paul Mellon looks like he’s having fun. We’ll meet again in 1992 in the Belmont Park winner’s circle after Sea Hero wins the Champagne on his way to a Kentucky Derby win. I spent 25 years as a television commentator and that brief moment with Mellon and trainer Mack Miller was the pinnacle.
Saul did get back in touch, five months later, and he sent me off to Vancouver. In those days it seemed like one adventure after another. There are more stories for another day.
My sister Mary wonders if I am going to the big rock concert. “What concert?”, I ask, too absorbed with Thoroughbred fantasies of the spa to consider what else might be going down.
“It’s up in Woodstock, not far from Saratoga. You ought to check it out.”
My wife and I head for Manhattan for an interview with Saul Rosen, editor in chief of Triangle Publications. We meet for a couple of hours at Triangle offices on West 52nd St.
It goes well.
“I’ll be back in touch” says Saul. He then sends us off to dinner at Broadway Joe’s and tickets to my first Broadway musical experience-Purlie, starring Melba Moore.
The next morning we head North to Saratoga. Radio reports of the Woodstock Festival provide a little temptation. After all, we’re talking Bob Dylan, Joni Mitchell, Richie Havens, The Who, Crosby, Wills, Nash and Young, and on and on.
We briefly consider a detour for at least a “look see” at Woodstock but the pouring rain decides the issue and we are back on Robert Frost’s Road Not Taken, fully aware that Saratoga would have its share of rich folks who might indeed Pave Paradise and Put Up a Parking lot.
Class warfare aside, Saragota is too good to be true. We took a place on Lake George and waited for the rain to stop. It never did. No matter, we were in Saratoga on Travers day in a good seat arranged by the fatherly Mr. Rosen. He even instructed Joe Hirsch to treat us to dinner at the Wishing Well.
Arts and Letters is the heavy Travers favorite and we parlay our meager winnings on his nose at even money or so. Braulio Baeza brings him home in track record time in a sea of slop. The jockey has the most elegant posture on a horse that I have seen then or since. Owner-breeder Paul Mellon looks like he’s having fun. We’ll meet again in 1992 in the Belmont Park winner’s circle after Sea Hero wins the Champagne on his way to a Kentucky Derby win. I spent 25 years as a television commentator and that brief moment with Mellon and trainer Mack Miller was the pinnacle.
Saul did get back in touch, five months later, and he sent me off to Vancouver. In those days it seemed like one adventure after another. There are more stories for another day.
Jul 22, 2008
Curlin: Gone from the lawn?
Curlin’s foray into turf racing was inconclusive to a number of observers. To me it was obvious that he is not nearly the presence on grass that he is on a standard dirt track.
Missing in his turf trial was the keen turn of foot found in virtually all grass champions.
The Curlin modus operandi is to stalk and wear down his opponents with his marvelous action and will to win.
His knockout punch did not materialize in the Man O’ War. It’s not likely that he could take on Europe’s best in the Arc and prevail. The nature of Longchamp militates against Curlin’s chances.
First of all, there are usually l5 to 20 horses in the Arc and Curlin’s burly conformation, so intimidating on the main track, may not serve him well in the clinches. Right handed turns are a challenge. So is the deep, wet ground generally prevalent in Paris in October.
Throw in the false straightaway which puzzles many a foreign jockey and shipping to Europe and you have a task too hard. Even for Curlin.
Missing in his turf trial was the keen turn of foot found in virtually all grass champions.
The Curlin modus operandi is to stalk and wear down his opponents with his marvelous action and will to win.
His knockout punch did not materialize in the Man O’ War. It’s not likely that he could take on Europe’s best in the Arc and prevail. The nature of Longchamp militates against Curlin’s chances.
First of all, there are usually l5 to 20 horses in the Arc and Curlin’s burly conformation, so intimidating on the main track, may not serve him well in the clinches. Right handed turns are a challenge. So is the deep, wet ground generally prevalent in Paris in October.
Throw in the false straightaway which puzzles many a foreign jockey and shipping to Europe and you have a task too hard. Even for Curlin.
Jul 17, 2008
WOODY STEPHENS
Back in the mid-seventies I came down from Vancouver to Keeneland to see what I could learn from the July sale. One early morning I came across Woody Stephens and had the temerity to ask him if I might join him as he made his rounds. Only later did I discover that Woody loved an audience I was grateful for the opportunity to see him in action.
One thing I remember him saying was to take time to peer in the stall when shopping for a yearling. “You want to see if he’s a stall walker. If so, the bedding will be disturbed all over the stall,” he warned.
When Woody inspected a yearling he would lift up the tail and drop it from shoulder height.
“A horse has to have some snap to his tail,” he said. “Otherwise there may be some weakness in his spine. A horse has to have a strong spine. Stay away from them if they don’t . I do like coon-tailed horses though. They’re runners.”
Not long after I returned to Canada I was asked to go to a sale at Hollywood Park and try to buy a 3-year-old by Ack Ack. Charlie Whittingham trained the horse for a man who had died. When I arrived in LA I noticed that the colt had virtually no tail, perhaps several inches of stubble where the tail was missing.
I called my client and discussed the situation, mindful of Woody Stephens’ dictum on the matter.It also seemed odd to me that the horse would not have been already sold inside the Whittingham barn. I advised the client to pass. He said try to buy him.
I bought the horse for $45,000 and shipped him to Exhibition Park where he raced soon after arrival. The gates opened and he took off down the track from an outside post position. He ran scarcely 100 yards before he broke down behind with a fractured pelvis.
Coincidence? Perhaps. But I couldn’t help but think of Woody’s tutelage about healthy spines.
A couple of decades passed and I met Woody once again in the Woodbine turf club. He was having lunch with his former top assistant Phil Gleaves. We were all in Toronto for the Molson Million .A raging storm had emptied the place and we had it to ourselves.
Woody wanted to bet every race and relied on my handicapping. We made a few dollars but the real payoff was listening to his stories. He could be a little redundant about his five straight Belmont victories, noting that “I had the exacta in all five”. It left you wondering which meant the most to him, the Belmonts or his betting prowess.
One thing I remember him saying was to take time to peer in the stall when shopping for a yearling. “You want to see if he’s a stall walker. If so, the bedding will be disturbed all over the stall,” he warned.
When Woody inspected a yearling he would lift up the tail and drop it from shoulder height.
“A horse has to have some snap to his tail,” he said. “Otherwise there may be some weakness in his spine. A horse has to have a strong spine. Stay away from them if they don’t . I do like coon-tailed horses though. They’re runners.”
Not long after I returned to Canada I was asked to go to a sale at Hollywood Park and try to buy a 3-year-old by Ack Ack. Charlie Whittingham trained the horse for a man who had died. When I arrived in LA I noticed that the colt had virtually no tail, perhaps several inches of stubble where the tail was missing.
I called my client and discussed the situation, mindful of Woody Stephens’ dictum on the matter.It also seemed odd to me that the horse would not have been already sold inside the Whittingham barn. I advised the client to pass. He said try to buy him.
I bought the horse for $45,000 and shipped him to Exhibition Park where he raced soon after arrival. The gates opened and he took off down the track from an outside post position. He ran scarcely 100 yards before he broke down behind with a fractured pelvis.
Coincidence? Perhaps. But I couldn’t help but think of Woody’s tutelage about healthy spines.
A couple of decades passed and I met Woody once again in the Woodbine turf club. He was having lunch with his former top assistant Phil Gleaves. We were all in Toronto for the Molson Million .A raging storm had emptied the place and we had it to ourselves.
Woody wanted to bet every race and relied on my handicapping. We made a few dollars but the real payoff was listening to his stories. He could be a little redundant about his five straight Belmont victories, noting that “I had the exacta in all five”. It left you wondering which meant the most to him, the Belmonts or his betting prowess.
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