Writing the Racetrack
… with a literary slant …
Natalie Reinert, exercise rider:
But that was ten years ago, and I’d proven time and time again that I hated real jobs. I hated careers, I hated offices, and salt-laced lunch breaks, and, yes, air-conditioning, too — stale and tasteless and fluorescent-colored days — even worse in New York, where the winter sun rises after the business day begins, and sets before it ends, so that the brightest light you see all winter might be the neon and LED madness of Times Square glowing into a snow-filled sky.
Two horses galloped by, nostrils fluttering and snorting with every stride. I saw a break — the homestretch was empty. I gathered my reins, bridged them against the filly’s neck, and sent her back into a jog, and then a canter.
(Via @sidfernando.)
Elizabeth Minkel, pari-mutuel clerk:
I remember one woman with four young girls who came up to my window and went through the standard routine: frazzled, sunglasses dangling from her lower lip, she flipped through the program as her daughters shouted out horses at random. “I want the three!” one would yell, jumping up and down, and the woman would sigh and mutter, “I guess we’ll have the three,” holding up a single crumpled bill to accompany each bet. I imagined Mother Ginger sweeping a dozen dancing children under her skirts. As she sorted her stack of tickets, handing one to each girl, she glanced over all of her children and looked at me ruefully. “I just hope,” she said, “that I’m teaching them the right thing.”
Happy reading.
Reading Palmer
On the Second Pass, John Williams resurrects Joe Palmer for a new audience:
I don’t want to give the impression that an interest in the sport, or a knowledge of its history, is entirely unnecessary to an enjoyment of This Was Racing. But it’s easy enough to skim any confounding details and focus on the more universal sentiments. Like many great writers and conversationalists, Palmer mostly circled his ostensible subject, rarely landing on it. The most memorable stretches of the book aren’t about racing at all. They’re about recipes for jellied whiskey or the Australian hobby of “kangaroo chasing” or listening to a band torture “My Old Kentucky Home.” (”I could have played it better on a comb.”)
More than half a century removed from his work, it is good to be reminded of what a master turf writer Palmer was. Read the complete review (and then, if you haven’t, “This Was Racing”).
From the archives: An excerpt from “This Was Racing” about trainers Duval and Hal Price Headley, Menow, and the 1938 MassCap.
See also: One of Palmer’s most recognized pieces is “Common Folks,” a near-perfect report of the recently-retired Stymie’s appearance at Jamaica.
Readings: Alexander
News came yesterday that jockey Milo Valenzuela, retired in 1980 and inducted into the Racing Hall of Fame in 2008, had died at the age of 74 following a long illness. Valenzuela rode many good horses, including Tim Tam and Round Table, but none were better than five-time Horse of the Year Kelso, with whom he won 22 of 35 races. The excerpt below from “Chocolate Sundaes and Old Shoes,” by David Alexander, recounts one gallant loss, the 1964 Suburban, and was originally posted on this site April 18, 2005.
The Old Man was running at last like the champion he had always been and he was gaining, no longer inch by inch but foot by foot, and Yacza, who must have thought it was over at the quarter pole, suddenly discovered it had just begun and his whip went down on Iron Peg’s dark bay hide to sting him into the realization that he was no longer playing with the boys he had beaten by six and seven and thirteen lengths, but with the men now; specifically, with the greatest Old Man of them all.
The daffodil-yellow and smoke-gray banner of Bohemia was waving proudly again down the middle of the stretch. The dark face of Milo Valenzuela was grim at the instant it came into the focus of the binoculars I grasped with sweaty paws. And now the crowd broke its silence as they went to the eighth pole and the yards between Iron Peg and Kelso became feet, and as they passed the sixteenth pole the feet became inches.
‘Kelly! Kelly! Kelly!’ It was a keening, plaintive prayer. I think the ones who had backed Iron Peg into almost equal favoritism with the old champ had forgotten the tote tickets in their pockets, for they were yelling, ‘Kelly, Kelly, Kelly!’ too.
A veteran horseman who had no vested interest in Kelso was standing beside me. I knew him as a calm and unemotional fellow. Suddenly his hand began to pound the ledge in front of him compulsively and his voice rose to the shrill hysteria of a schoolgirl’s.
‘Old Man! Old Man!’ he shrieked. ‘Jesus, let the Old Man win!’
The Old Man didn’t win, not quite. But the usually heedless crowd, the crowd that sometimes hissed and sometimes booed when champions have lost, was faced with the rare thing called greatness, and for once the throng fully recognized what it saw.
Readings: Smith
Excerpts from a Red Smith column (“The Melancholy Days are Come,” New York Times, 12/17/1971) that seem apt for this chilly, wet afternoon on which the Aqueduct feature, named for the much admired sports writer, is the final graded turf stakes in New York for the year and apprentice Jackie Davis earned her second career win aboard 9-1 Americanus in the third. Fellow “lady” bug Maylan Studart also picked up a win in the fifth on 6-1 Senor Enrico over the sloppy track.
Now is the winter of their discontent, the melancholy days without a thoroughbred running this side of Philadelphia, the cruel times when New York horseplayers are thrown upon the mercy of Howard J. Samuels and his off-track gambling hells.
Beaming through charcoal-gray darkness, yellow lights on the tote board at Aqueduct gave the time as 4:29 P.M. when the winner reached the finish of the 2,187th race of the season. Moments later the reedy voice of Fred Capossela came over the public address system for the last time…. On laggard feet, 25,380 immortal souls took their leave.
Reluctantly, they would go home. They would note with interest how the children had grown since March. Somehow they would get through 76 dark days squandering their earnings on rent and bed and shoes until the sun would shine again, however bleakly, and the bugle would call the horses to the post….
In the catacombs below stands, a man rapped on the door marked “Lady Jockeys.” “Are your eyes gray or blue?” he asked Robyn Smith. “Green,” she said, “but right now they’re red and green.”
Lady on Horseback
She was wiping away mud kicked into her comely face by Canning and Sip Sip Sip, who had burst out of the fog and rain and gloom in the last few yards to finish one, two in the final race and mete her back to third aboard Advance Warning.
The world’s prettiest jockey had five mounts on Getaway Day. She won smartly with Princely Margin at $50.39 for $2, was third with Advance Warnings and third with Schnappy, an 18-1 shot, finishing sixth and seventh with the others. Princely Margin was her 15th winner of the Aqueduct fall meeting. In 51 days she had 124 mounts and finished third or better with 37. Only nine males had a higher winning percentage.
“You’ve made it in the toughest league in the world,” a visitor told her. “You are one girl who has done what the others talked about.”
She agreed with a matter-of-fact nod….
“Has there been one ride that gave you special satisfaction?”
“The day at Saratoga when I rode Beaukins to a track record for Allen Jerkens….”
David Foster Wallace, RIP
Reported by Edward Champion, confirmed by the LA Times:
David Foster Wallace, the novelist, essayist and humorist best known for his 1996 tome “Infinite Jest,” was found dead last night at his home in Claremont, according to the Claremont Police Department. He was 46.
This is so sad and senseless. A suicide.
I am stunned. To say that Wallace was a literary hero and that his work had a profound effect on how I write, read, think about the world is an understatement. There was a time in my life before racing, when literature and writing were central, when talking about the oppressiveness of the ironic mode and the purpose of fiction and the merits of hysterical realism all seemed very important, because these were not only questions of literature, but of life and meaning. Wallace was an inescapable, but not unwelcome influence, the young writer who best captured the messy modern world, with its distractions and digressions, all of which required navigating with a sort of conscious uncertainty if one was really ever to experience anything. (And if that all sounds quite jejune, well, I was in my 20s and fresh out of a liberal arts college then.)
Wallace wrote with charm and intelligence on grammar, tennis, talk radio, taking a cruise, irony, infinity, etc. He had po-mo groupies, was adored by grad students, attracted his share of skeptics. The 1,079 page “Infinite Jest” was the dystopian, clever novel that made him famous; he became known for his footnotes (and was parodied for same). He was innovative, playful (with a gift for the absurd), and often hilarious, but never light — “he was not unfamiliar with the heft of existence.” His work still had potential; the best was possibly still ahead.
Horse racing was not a subject that drew Wallace’s attention, but he was a former athlete and a sports fan, and he wrote beautifully of what it is about sports that inspires passion in his essay, “How Tracy Austin Broke My Heart”:
Here is a theory. Top athletes are compelling because they embody the comparison-based achievement we Americans revere — fastest, strongest — and becaue they do so in a totally unambiguous way. Questions of the best plumber or best managerial accountant are impossible even to define, whereas the best relief pitcher, free-throw shooter, or female tennis player is, at any given time, a matter of public statistical record. Top athletes fascinate us by appealing to our twin compulsions with competitive superiority and hard data.
Plus, they’re beautiful. There is about world-class athletes carving out exemptions from physical laws a transcendent beauty that makes manifest God in man. So actually more than one theory, then. Great athletes are profundity in motion. They enable abstractions like power and grace and control to become not only incarnate but televisable. To be a top athlete performing, is to be that exquisite hybrid of animal and angel that we average unbeautiful watchers have such a hard time seeing in ourselves.
And that brings me, I hope not too casually, to Big Brown, embodying the latter theory completely at Monmouth. Music Note, also, at Belmont.
“Writers. They always break your heart.” Not unlike horses.
Readings: Kling
“In former days, if a business man was known to be a horse player, his credit was immediately cut off. The office boy who was caught reading a racing paper was fired on the spot. Nowadays, however, the business man not only plays the races, but owns horses as well, and the office boy gets a raise if he can pick some good tips for the boss.” — From “Stuff About Steeds,” by Ken Kling (Maywood, 1941)
Goodbye, Tom Ainslie
“Richard Carter, a newspaper journalist and author who wrote on crime, medicine and baseball but was best remembered for his books on racetrack handicapping under the pseudonym Tom Ainslie, died last Saturday in New City, N.Y. He was 89″ (New York Times).
Among the books Carter wrote as Ainslie are “The Compleat Horseplayer” (excerpt), “Ainslie’s Encyclopedia of Thoroughbred Handicapping,” and “Ainslie’s Complete Guide to Thoroughbred Racing,” a now classic handicapping primer. “Before him, there was a widespread assumption that the only thing a horseplayer would want to read was a pamphlet with some quickie system in it,” said Andrew Beyer of the author. “He was the first person to really write literately and intelligently about handicapping” (DRF).
More from Bill Finley: “Anyone who has ever written a handicapping book, enjoyed a handicapping book or profited from reading a handicapping book owes thanks to Dick Carter.”
Pandora’s Box
From one of the new additions to the Railbird library, found at Lyrical Ballad in Saratoga — which, along with Robin Bledsoe’s Cambridge bookshop, keeps me well-stocked in racing books:
“The new horseplayer opening Pandora’s Box: A Box loaded with disappointment and spirited fun, and always chock full of treasure for lucky guys and dolls.” — From “A Primer for Eastern Racing,” by Norman Kisamore (Dodd & Mead, 1963). Note disappointment comes first, ahead of fun and treasure. The game hasn’t changed so much in the last 40 years …
Readings: Hemingway
From a Paris Review interview with Ernest Hemingway, 1954:
Hemingway: You go to the races?
Interviewer: Yes, occasionally.
Hemingway: Then you read the Racing Form…. There you have the true art of fiction.
Readings: Morvich
The Kentucky Derby, as remembered by Morvich.
At length, after long waiting, the Derby hour struck. It was late, nearing five o’clock. But the air was warm, the sun bright.
Ah, my friend, how to describe the feeling that animated me as little Al Johnson, my jockey, rode me to the barrier? Beautiful women filled the clubhouse boxes. The stands were densely packed, and ablaze with many colors, for these Kentucky women are not afraid to put on gaiety at a fete. And as we moved along, the track, it could be seen there were dense masses of men packing the outer rail to and beyond the quarter pole …
Ah, but when I appeared on the track, you should have heard the clamor. It seemed to me it would rend the heavens above, or shatter my ears. Sweeter music was never heard … ‘Morvich! Morvich!’ was the cry from all sections …
That parade to the post. How describe it? One must see such things to know what they are like. There were ten of us, thoroughbreds, the class of the turf, and let nobody tell you we did not know it. What beautiful things they were, those other horses. I could not help admiring them, even envying them a little, their grace and perfection of form. Yet it was I who was Morvich, the Unbeaten; I, the least well-favored of them all.
At the post I wanted to be off at once. This would not do. There had to be perfect alignment. Several times I darted forward. Finally, one of the starter’s assistants took my head, and held me thus until the barrier lifted. We were off!
The race was in the first hundred yards. For in that distance I was free and clear of the field, I had the rail, and there could be no jam or piling up the turns.
I covered that first furlong in a little under eleven, killed the field at the start, and took the heart and fight out of all those picture horses. First one and then another of the field would forge ahead and try to come up with me. But each who thus bid for fame held on but a little while, then fell away. Behind, I could hear the whip being plied as we came into the stretch, and I knew those beautiful horses were being given whip and spur in the endeavor to force them up to my race. But no whip ever touched me. And I would have run faster had it been necessary, but little Al never let my head out, even in the stretch, but always held me in …
And so I came home, just galloping, at the end. I had taken the lead, I was never headed, and I won by two lengths…. Whatever else I shall do, whatever laurels I shall receive in other races, cannot compare to this:
That I, the ugly duckling, the horse sold four times before an owner could be found who would put faith in me, ran undefeated through a season and won the Derby crown. — From “Morvich: An Autobiography of a Horse,” by Gerald Breitigam (Rotary Press, 1922)
About
Jessica Chapel is a writer and editor living in Cambridge, MA. Railbird v1 was a thoroughbred racing blog that ran 2004-2008; Railbird v2 is a broader collection of notes and links, but still (mostly) about the horses. More ›
Elsewhere
Find Jessica on Twitter and Delicious, Railbird on LibraryThing and Facebook.
Etc.
Links
Search
Side Projects
Spreadsheets/Data
← Home
Copyright © 2000-2010 by Jessica Chapel. All rights reserved.
Site credits: WordPress / DePo Skinny Theme / Dreamhost.