“Do you find that young riders listen to you?”
“No. There’s nobody smarter than a seventeen-year-old kid.” He glanced at Willy Walsh and smiled. “I know, because I was just as stubborn at their age. Now I find I’m doing the same things the old riders told me to do. It’s too late to thank most of them.”
The camera, shifting quickly to Willy Walsh, showed him sitting on the edge of his chair, listening to Nick Marchione’s sage advice.
“Willy,” Cornwell said, as if all this had been prearranged, “you’re seventeen years old. How do you feel about what Nick just said?”
“I listen to everybody. I always listen,” Willy said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat and wishing it were a saddle instead. “But like Nick said, you can make a million mistakes and some of ’em aren’t even in the book yet. A lot of things happen in horse racing that can’t be explained by nobody, even old guys like Nick.”
“What do you weigh, Willy?”
“Generally round 104 pounds stripped. With rigging an added six pounds, I can ride at 110.”
“Does the rigging include the safety helmet you jocks wear?”
“No. They let us step on the scales without the helmet. It’s a good thing.”
“Why?”
“The new helmets weigh about a pound and a half. That much added to tack would put a lot of jocks in a steam box.”
“A pound and a half,” Cornwell repeated. “That’s a lot of weight to be carrying on top of your head during a race.”
“Yeah, but it’s good to have there in case you go down. It’s saved a lot of lives already.”
“I imagine it has,” Cornwell said. He paused before going on. “Willy, are you a sentimentalist like Nick here? I mean, do you love riding so much you’d stay in this sport whether you were successful or not?”
“Sure I would,” Willy said quickly, “if anybody would have me. We all would or we wouldn’t be here.”
“Not I,” Jay Pratt interrupted, and the camera switched to where he sat comfortably in his chair, exuding poise and self-confidence.
“You wouldn’t?” Cornwell asked. “Why not?”
“It’s a business,” Pratt said, his blue eyes laughing, “not a sport. No one ever told me I had to love horses to be in it. I make decisions every day, just like you do in your business or any other executive. I decide where I want to race and what horses I want to ride. I leave the exercising and training and loving to others.”
Cornwell smiled back at the handsome jockey in the natty-looking sweater and sports jacket. “I’ve heard that you get up just in time to make the afternoon races,” he said.
“There’s nothing wrong with that. Many of the top trainers believe in strong, heavy exercise boys being up on their horses in the morning. It helps to get a horse dead fit in his training.”
“And lets you get more sleep,” Cornwell suggested.
“Why not? I’ve been at this business a long time, almost as long as Nick here.”
“What do you think is the most important quality a rider can have?”
“Confidence is the big thing. Like I just said, I make a lot of decisions every day, and I can’t afford to hesitate. I’ve learned to act quickly and confidently. When I decide to move with a horse, we move, inside or outside. I don’t change my mind once we’re on our way. I decide before I move how much horse I got under me and whether or not I can make it, then I go.”
“And if you’ve made the wrong decision?” Cornwell asked.
“I get in a jam like anyone else. But I don’t make many wrong moves anymore. I keep my horse free of trouble and going all the time.”
“Have you been around horses since you were a kid, Jay?” Cornwell asked.
“No. I was born and brought up in New York City. The only horses I saw were the cops’ horses in the streets and a few that hacked around Central Park.”
“Then why were you attracted to racing?”
“I wanted to get to Florida for the winter months,” Jay Pratt said, laughing. “So I went to the racetrack and learned to ride.”
The camera switched to the man in the next chair, and Cornwell said, “Here’s another rider who has had to work hard to get where he is … Pete Edge.”
“We all know what it is to work hard,” Pete said, looking fierce because of his drooping eyelid and scar. “The difference is that only a few are making money at it.”
Cornwell smiled. “It’s true you’ve had a run of hard luck at Hialeah this season, Pete. How do you account for it?”
“You get a lot of bad horses, like I have, and they make you look like a bum. It’s as simple as that.”
“You were brought up in the city, too, weren’t you, Pete?”
“Chicago. Like Jay here, all I knew about horses at first was that one end bit and the other end kicked. Then I went to the track mornings and found I could stick on ’em.”
“Do you still exercise horses in the mornings?”
“Sure. I don’t have any choice like Jay does, but I’d do it anyway. I keep fit by working. I feel as good now as I did when I was Willy’s age. I don’t drink or smoke and I got a wife who understands.”
“That helps,” Cornwell said, smiling and thinking how incongruous it was for this rider with the tough, scarred face to be talking about living the clean life. But there was no doubt that Pete Edge was strong on fortitude.
“Everyone has a run of hard luck once in a while,” Cornwell went on. “I’m sure you’ll have a successful comeback.”
“I hope so, but I can’t ride any faster than a horse can run,” Pete Edge said, smiling. “Most of those I been riding here eat so much dust I think of them as equine vacuum cleaners.”
“But you’re always in there trying, Pete. No one uses a whip more than you do.”
“That’s not so,” the rider said angrily. “I don’t use a bat more than any other rider. I got the reputation for makin’ more use of it because I swing in a wide arc, hitting my horses more on the rump than the flanks. It can be seen easy from the stands but I do it because it hurts a horse less than whipping on the side and gets the job done just as well. It gives me a chance to use my whip in close quarters, too, and stay in rhythm with my horse’s strides.”
“I see,” Cornwell said, although he didn’t. “And now,” he continued, “we’ll talk to Gustavo Carballido, one of the brightest stars to come out of the Argentine in a long time. Gus,” he asked, “how do you account for the large number of riders who are coming up from South America and the West Indies and are racing so successfully?”
The dark eyes flashed. “The good riders, like the good horses, come from anywhere,” Gustavo said slowly, carefully selecting his words.
“What is the greatest trouble you foreign riders have?” Cornwell asked.
“Learning English so we can understand the orders from trainers,” Gustavo answered, smiling.
“It’s no secret that many of our nation’s top grass races, including the Hialeah Turf Cup, which is coming up soon, have been very profitable affairs for foreign-bred entries. How do you account for that, Gustavo?”
“The South American trainer, he ees a good horseman and he develops a horse well. It ees also summer in South America now and horses are very, very good.”
“So these South American trainers consider it worth-while to fly themselves and their horses north for a shot at valuable races. Is that right, Gustavo?”
“That ees right, I think. Many are here. I ride one today.”
“And you won?”
“No. He no have it. I try to go inside with heem, but he no go. The hole she close and I take heem up or I go down. I get helpless feeling inside.” He put a small hand on his stomach. “I cross my fingers and say a prayer. He stay up and we finish, but not very good. He no like the dirt. Next time we go on the grass and he do better, much better. You will see.”
“I will see,” Cornwell repeated. “Yes, I know that some horses who race well over dirt can’t do the sam
e on grass—and vice versa. For a while the top trainers in the United States were reluctant to race their horses over turf, but that attitude is fast disappearing. Grass racing is a beautiful spectacle and, of course, it’s the only kind of racing they have in South America and Europe. If our champions are to meet foreign champions, it must be done on grass. Besides, there’s no doubt that the international aspect of any race always increases its popularity.”
Glancing at Alec Ramsay, Cornwell went on, “Yesterday the Black proved his grass-racing ability by winning in record time. What did you think of him, Gustavo? How does he compare with the champions of South America?”
“I no see heem run,” Gustavo said. “It ees important for me to see heem run before I say.”
Cornwell said, “You must be one of the very few, Gus, who have never seen the Black race. Television has made him one of the best known horses in the world and his racing record is just about perfect. His time yesterday over a turf course softened by heavy rains was remarkable. For two years now he’s been the U.S. ‘Horse of the Year’ and it seems he is well on his way to earning an unprecedented third championship. Let’s talk to his pilot, Alec Ramsay.”
The camera shifted and Alec, seeing his image on the monitor screen, became uneasy. He was glad when Cornwell went on talking after a few seconds’ pause.
“Alec,” Cornwell said, “there aren’t many horsemen who could bring back a champion after a long lay-up and have him ready for a race like the one the Black ran yesterday. Don’t you agree?”
“Henry Dailey has a master’s touch when it comes to conditioning a horse,” Alec answered.
“Now that the Black has returned to the races, have you any worries about his campaign for capturing another national title?”
“I’m worried,” Alec admitted, “but it’s nice to have such worries. They put 136 pounds on him yesterday, so I’m wondering what it will be in the ones coming up.”
“You mean there’s a point beyond which he can’t go?”
“Sure, and we don’t know where it is,” Alec said.
“Grass racing must be easier on his injured foot,” Cornwell suggested.
“His foot’s okay,” Alec answered. “For a while Henry had him working in a shoe with a thick leather pad. He didn’t want any dirt or sand to work into the sore spot and cause more trouble. But he took off the pad a few weeks ago and replaced it with a wafer-thin piece of leather that seems to be doing the job.”
“It looked that way yesterday,” Cornwell agreed.
“He’s just ‘coming up’ now after not racing so long. He’ll do still better next time out.”
Cornwell studied the crimson-haired youth. “How’s your own thoroughbred breeding venture coming along, Alec?”
“It’s coming,” Alec said, pleasantly. “It’s too early to say any more about it.”
“I hear you’ve got some colts and fillies up at Hopeful Farm that are better than many of the youngsters racing here.”
“That remains to be seen,” Alec said. “We don’t intend to start any of them before next year.”
Cornwell nodded. In Alec Ramsay he saw a very serious horseman who was poised and articulate before the cameras. He appeared to be as comfortable on television as he was on a horse’s back. He should be around racing a long time, and would probably break every record in the book before he was done—that is, unless Henry Dailey pushed him too hard. Henry was the dynamo behind this quiet but determined Alec Ramsay.
“Then you and Henry Dailey were satisfied with the Black’s race yesterday?” Cornwell asked.
“Of course,” Alec said. “He ran a game race all the way. He was in close quarters at first and pulled clear when I asked him to.”
“Then you won’t have any excuses for him in the races coming up? You believe he’s in the full bloom of his career, ready to meet any contender for his title?”
“I can’t say we won’t have any excuses if he’s beaten,” Alec said. “But he won’t permit himself to be beaten without some good reason for it.”
“I suppose you’re right. He has a lot of courage. I’ve seen him come from far back and still win.”
“It takes more courage for a horse to lead all the way and turn back horses that come at him in the stretch,” Alec said. “That’s a lot tougher than running past the other horses.”
“Perhaps you’re right.”
“But the Black is happy either way. It doesn’t make any difference to him which way we decide to run the race.”
“Happy?” Cornwell smiled wryly. “Is that what you said?”
“Yes,” Alec said, “my horse is happy. If a horse isn’t happy he won’t run for you.”
“But as you said earlier, weight might stop him one of these days,” Cornwell commented. “To me, it doesn’t seem fair that great horses should be heavily handicapped so other horses can beat them.”
Nick Marchione spoke up quickly. “I hate to interrupt,” he said, “but you’d better get hold of a dictionary and look up the word ‘handicap,’ Mr. Cornwell.”
The camera switched to the veteran jockey with the gray, thinning hair and spectacles.
“It means the same now as it always did,” Nick went on. “A handicap is a race in which, in order to equalize chances of winning, a disadvantage of carrying more weight is given to a competitor of recognized superiority. If a champion like the Black isn’t up to carrying the weight assigned to him, he shouldn’t be entered in handicaps.”
“That’s true, of course,” Cornwell said. “But the point Alec Ramsay is making, I believe, is that there’s a limit to what his horse can carry without the risk of breaking down. Is that right, Alec?”
“Yes. You put a lot of weight on a horse racing over a long distance and he might break down in the stretch. A tired horse is always more prone to injury.”
“It depends upon the type of horse,” Nick Marchione said. “If he’s big and rugged and trained right, he can carry up to 160 pounds safely. I’ve seen great horses carry as much as that.”
“A trainer is just asking for trouble if he allows it,” Alec said.
Nick smiled into the camera. “You mean it just gives a trainer an excuse for some other trouble he’s having with his horse, and not the high weight that’s on his back. I been around a long time, Alec. I know.”
Cornwell interrupted. “I still think a track should limit the amount of weight put on a great horse’s back.”
“When a racetrack limits the weight put on ‘name’ horses like the Black,” Nick explained, “it usually does it to attract them to the race and therefore attract more people to the stands. But when that’s done it’s not a true handicap. That’s all I’m driving at.”
Cornwell said, “I doubt that’s done very often, Nick. But I certainly feel there should be a weight ceiling for superior horses. No one wants to see them break down.”
“Then they shouldn’t be racing in handicaps,” Nick persisted. “Not if the trainer feels his horse is going to break down under the weight assigned. That’s all I mean. A real standout horse that comes along every so often should be able to carry high weights. I’ve seen a few do it. That’s what has made them great.”
Alec said nothing.
Willy Walsh spoke up. “All I got to say after yesterday’s race,” he said quietly, “is that the Black is one of the great horses of all time. He scares me when I see him run. He just plain scares me, that’s all.”
Jay Pratt grinned. “Maybe the rest of us don’t scare so easy, Willy,” he said. “Like Nick said, a big weight shift onto a horse can make a race mighty interesting.”
“It won’t bother the Black much,” Willy said. “He’s just better than any horse we got around here. I don’t think he’ll be beaten. But there’s always second money every time I go up against him, and that buys a lot of hay. That’s the way I look at it.”
“Maybe the best horse won’t win the next time the Black goes out,” Pete Edge said. “Lady Luck always plays a part in ho
rse racing. I like a rider who can win on the second-best horse once in a while.”
Cornwell glanced at the large clock over the glass-walled booth and nodded to his director. It was time to inject his final comments, and he always liked to conclude his show in the most dramatic way possible.
“Well, any way you look at it,” he said, “the publicity thumpers at Hialeah Park never had it so good. The large host of winter visitors here in Miami have the privilege of seeing the famous Black in the full bloom of his career; this alone will account for many extra thousands of fans turning out every time he runs. The news of his racing over the infield course will heighten interest in the international aspect of the coming Hialeah Turf Cup.”
He paused, and then continued, “And a separate, tasty morsel served up on a silver platter is yesterday’s news from Nassau. The island horse Flame won the Nassau Cup in the same record-breaking time as the Black at Hialeah. However unique Nassau horse racing may be, Flame’s performance is worthy of attention. We suggest that it would be excellent public relations for Hialeah to extend an invitation to this horse to come here to race the Black. And now, thank you, gentlemen, for coming … and good night, all.”
The camera shifted to the riders and the show ended.
FLAME
10
Two evenings after the television show Alec received a phone call and hurriedly left Hialeah Park. He caught a bus which took him the short distance to Miami International Airport where Steve Duncan and his horse, Flame, awaited him.
Intentionally, he had not called Henry at his motel, knowing full well that the old trainer would object to his going anywhere to meet Steve and what Henry continued to call a “phantom” horse. Glancing out the bus window, Alec saw the lights of a huge plane making its landing at the airport. Steve had said on the telephone that he had arrived three days ago, immediately following his race in Nassau. Flame was being held in quarantine by the Department of Agriculture, pending health tests and settlement of his racing status in the United States.