The charm of horse racing lies primarily in the animals that do it—their beauty, grace, power and their degree of class. But there is an undeniable attraction to the colorful human beings that make it happen. The purpose of this blog is to share my stories about some of these characters. My requisites in the selection: I had dealings with them, their antics and accomplishments should not be forgotten, and they are no longer with us.

   I have dealt with a number of America’s greatest horse trainers. None evokes more delicious memories than Angel Penna.

   Angel Penna was a son of Argentina, but as a horseman he was international in every sense of the word. Linguistically, he took a crack at three different languages, sometimes simultaneously! He was surely one of the greatest Thoroughbred trainers who ever lived and also one of the most challenging with whom to communicate.

   He trained stakes winners Law Court, Montubio, and Southjet (the latter two winning grade I’s) for Dogwood Stable.

   Never in my relationship with him did I know exactly what the hell he was talking about. 

   That’s an exaggeration because somehow he managed to be a most delightful and expressive companion. He had a marvelous sense of humor, and he was very witty (I think). His face helped immeasurably because it was constantly and eloquently assisting with his dialogue. There were fearsome scowls, moments of beaming exuberance, beatific benevolence, vigorous rolling of the eyes, glances heavenward to invite God’s sympathy, weary looks of resignation, and constant shoulder shrugging. All of these were accompanied by guttural grunts and a strange quasi-tap dancing shtick to help sell his point. You eventually got the gist of all this pantomime. 

   One of our horses, Montubio —once suffered a severe case of colic. The vet was summoned. He oiled him in an effort to unblock the impacted bowel. The treatment was successful, and soon the horse was able to eliminate waste material.

   When I called Angel to ascertain the horse’s condition, I was delighted to hear the lilt in his voice and to get his down-to-earth report: “Oh, he ees very fine now. He have many uh…uh…poo-poo!”

   Angel defined the word volatile yet was as kind a fellow as you would ever know. An unforgettable character.

   He looked like my idea of a dashing, decidedly upscale gaucho. Angel was of moderate height but had short, bandy legs attached to a torso belonging to a bigger man. He was heavy, not fat, and strong, with very wide shoulders. Penna’s face was weathered, with a prominent nose and bright, intelligent eyes. His hair, beginning to thin, looked as if it had been painted on his head.

Penna was a natty dresser. No blue jeans for him. He wore cavalry twill trousers, a smart checkered shirt with an ascot or, at least, a colored handkerchief knotted debonairly around his neck. He usually wore a sport coat. His paddock boots were shined daily, by someone in the barn, I would imagine. This was a trainer who would probably be attired in a dark blue business suit when he saddled a horse. He had style galore.

Angel Penna with Blitey (Courtesy of NYRA)
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Penna trained in Argentina, Venezuela, France, and America and produced champions in the latter three. He won practically every great race in Europe, including two Prix de l’Arc de Triomphes (Fr-I) with the fillies San San and Allez France.

   San San’s regular ride was Jean Cruguet, but he had been injured five days before the Arc and was replaced by Freddie Head. After winning the race, Angel first went to find Cruguet. He cupped the rider’s face in his hands and tearfully commiserated that the sidelined jockey had not been able to experience the thrill of this victory. Never mind that a week earlier Angel might have chased Cruguet out of the stable yard in a towering rage.

   Penna won practically every great race in Europe except the English Derby (Eng-I), and many great races in this country but not the Kentucky Derby (gr. I).

   Over here he trained for Ogden Phipps, Gus Ring, Frank Stronach, Dogwood, and Peter Brant among others.

   His wife aided him enormously. Elinor Penna served as sort of a conversational facilitator, explaining a little here, cuing Angel at certain times, and defusing when necessary. She was a former sports commentator, a keen student of the racing scene, well-connected socially, and a wit of the first dimension.

   Angel sired a son, Angel Jr., to whom he was devoted. This Penna is now one of America’s most prominent trainers.

   Talking on the phone with Penna was the most difficult form of communication because you were robbed of the visual aids. When “call waiting” was first offered, for some reason Angel, who really did not relish talking on the phone, ordered it on his barn line. This service threw him into a constant tizzy, and he switched in confusion back and forth from one caller to another, often pursuing the wrong subject with the wrong party and usually disconnecting both parties.

   Elinor puzzled, “I don’t know why he wants to tackle two callers. He can’t even talk to one person on the phone.”

   I once gave Angel a gigantic Nijinsky filly to train. Her name was Helenska. He took a long time with her, as he was prone to do. Of course, I wanted to get a line on her, and I periodically sought his opinion.

   “What do you think of this filly so far, Angel?” I would ask from time to time.

   “Ahhh! Too beeg…too beeg!” he would exclaim, throwing his arms and head skyward, to seek devine assistance.

   The filly bucked her shins finally, and I took her back to the farm to be fired.  When she got over this ailment, I decided to send her to another trainer because I was convinced Angel did not like her (Is that not what “too beeg…too beeg” implied?).

   She did go to another barn. When Angel recognized her training on the racetrack one morning, he went ballistic. It seems he loved the filly all along, was looking forward to getting her back, and was crushed that I had insulted him by sending her to another man.

   He called me up and “fired” me, told me to remove my horses from his barn. Knowing this storm, legitimate though it may have been, would blow over soon, I phoned the next day and was finally able to smooth his ruffled feathers. This was one time when Elinor’s interpretive services were badly needed.

   He was truly an internationally renowned trainer and had ruled the roost on three continents. He was the man! He knew it, and his barn knew it. It was run with the precision of West Point. His staff adored him, struggled to please him, and treated him like a king.

   He was at his barn 14 to 16 hours a day. When the Allen Jerkenses and the Pennas went out to dinner, four cars were necessary. Both Elizabeth Jerkens and Elinor Penna knew that Allen and Angel would be going back to their barns for an hour or two after dinner.

   Amazingly, Penna could get a horse ready to run a mile and a quarter—and win—first time out. Inexplicably, he never seemed to breeze the horse. He had what he called “happy gallops,” which were just that: exuberant, open gallops that lasted maybe a half-mile, but more likely a quarter-mile. There was nothing noteworthy or detectable in his training regimen that would explain this singular magic. And you sure as hell couldn’t ask him. He might take a long time to get a horse ready to run, but when his horses were led to the paddock, they were ready to crack. His horses were happy and they were fit, or they weren’t put in the entries.

   He liked to ride Vasquez, Bailey, and Cruguet, and he loved Angel Cordero, who had a flair for kidding him into a jolly frame of mind. But one time Cordero could not.

   Penna had brought to this country a very good horse named Lyphard’s Wish. The colt was ready for his first race, and Angel Cordero would be riding him.

    Penna was not noted for his precise riding instructions, but he knew exactly what he wanted.  According to Cordero, Penna’s instructions were something like, “Don’t take no hold.  If they walk, you walk. If they go fast, you walk.  When you get there…you move!”  If this is verbatim, one can understand the jockey’s confusion (although Cordero never paid any attention to instructions anyway!).  Cordero swore that Penna always instructed to “move when you get there.” But he never said where “there” was!

    This day Lyphard’s Wish, fresh and running for the first time in strange surroundings, roared out of the gate, hit the front, and ran off with Cordero. At the sixteenth pole, the rank horse was out of gas and got beat, thoroughly embarrassing Cordero and infuriating Penna in the process.

   When the rider dismounted and weighed in, there was Angel Penna doing his little jig of rage. The veins in his neck were distended, he was flinging his arms about, and his visage was wreathed in wrath.He sputtered for words powerful enough to express his utter contempt for Cordero’s ride.

   “What you do? What you do? You ride thees horse like a uh, uh, black man!”  The Puerto Rican Cordero replied, as he walked with the trainer back toward the jockey’s room, “Well, hell, I am a black man. What do you think these are—blonde curls?”

Angel Cordero thought it was funny. So did Angel Penna—about two days later.

More of Cot Campbell's stories are included, among a host of others, in The Best of Talkin' Horses.

The charm of horse racing lies primarily in the animals that do it—their beauty, grace, power and their degree of class. But there is an undeniable attraction to the colorful human beings that make it happen. The purpose of this blog is to share my stories about some of these characters. My requisites in the selection: I had dealings with them, their antics and accomplishments should not be forgotten, and they are no longer with us.

You had to love Jimmy Jones. Like a baby who first stares at you vacantly and then explodes joyfully into a crinkly-eyed, big smile, so did Jimmy Jones engage you. In the first seconds of contact, he seemed at the same time slightly worried, a tad solicitous, a trifle wary, but searching hard for a reason to smile.

He was one of the "the Jones Boys," one of the greatest horse-training teams in the history of the game. His father was Ben "B.A." Jones, a big, beefy, gimlet-eyed man who brooked no affronts and earned a reputation for being a first-class Midwestern saloon brawler.

Jimmy, on the other hand, was a good-natured, roly-poly little fellow who exuded what appeared to be a childlike innocence. He seemed intent on achieving the most pleasant possible social intercourse with his fellow man, with a voice that was sifted through gravel and a mind like a steel trap!

The Jones Boys came out of Parnell, Missouri, and despite the substantial and inevitable degree of sophistication that must have come simply from the glitter and glamour of winning eight Kentucky Derbys, they remained "Parnell" to the core. The boys left the country, but the country never left the boys.

They made their indelible mark when they signed on as private trainers for the vaunted Calumet Farm, and they quickly set about creating a dynasty that has never been equaled. Their names are associated with the creation of such racing luminaries as Citation, Coaltown, Ponder, Hill Gail, Pensive, Bardstown, Whirlaway, Armed, Bewitch, Tim Tam, Two Lea, Barbizon, Iron Liege, Wistful, On-and-On, A Gleam, etc., etc.

Never has any other horse-training feat equaled the skein of great horses turned out for Calumet by the Jones Boys.

Ben Jones (L) and Jimmy Jones (R) with Iron Liege after winning the 1957 Kentucky Derby

Much of the year they operated in two divisions. In 1948 Jimmy had the Florida division that included Citation-a horse who would make anyone's top-five-horses-of-all-time list. Jimmy actually trained the horse, but when he brought him to Kentucky for the Derby, he had to turn Citation over to his father, who was seeking to tie the record of Derby Dick Thompson, with four victories in that classic. Being a good son (with little choice in the matter!), Jimmy seemed good-natured about it at the time. But in his later years his bitterness at this injustice surfaced, and he was rather outspoken about it.

I loved Jimmy's recount of bringing the mighty Citation to Louisville: "Coaltown was my father's horse. He had Coaltown in Louisville while I had Citation in Hialeah. When I come up to Louisville with Citation, some of them boys from Louisville started kiddin' me, sayin', ‘What you doin' here?' I told them, ‘I come over to win the Derby!' They said, ‘You won't see anything but a big brown hiney (Coaltown's); that's all you'll see.' I said, ‘If he beats this horse, you just call me imbecile for the rest of my life.' "

But my best story has to do with an earlier time, the early 1930s in Chicago.

A Deal They Couldn't Refuse

The boys were training for Herbert Woolf out of Kansas City. They had good, solid stock (they were a few years away from winning their first Derby with Lawrin), and they were having a dandy meeting at Arlington Park.

One steaming hot July day Jimmy and Ben were driving down State Street in Chicago's "Loop." Jimmy was behind the wheel, chattering away, while Ben stared stonily ahead.

A big black Packard touring car with four male occupants pulled alongside. The thuggish-looking fellow in the front gestured unmistakably toward the curb, and the Joneses pulled over.

"What the hell!" said Jimmy.

A big, swarthy individual emerged from the back seat and sauntered over to the modest Jones vehicle. He had on black pants, a bow-tie, a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and a sailor straw boater.

Jimmy had the sickening feeling that this man looked quite familiar.

The big fellow put a foot on the running board, leaned into the car, and asked, "Which one of youse is the horse trainer...Jones?"

Jimmy piped up, "Why, we both are! I'm Jimmy Jones, and this here is B.A. What can we do for you?

"Well, my name is Al Capone. You heard of me?"

Al Capone

Two quick affirmative nods.

"I like the races, make a bet or two. Every time I go out to Arlington you guys seem to be winning all the races. You must be good trainers," Capone said.

Now these were pleasing sentiments for the big gangster to be expressing, but somehow neither Jimmy nor Ben sensed that beneficial news would follow.

"I wanna cash a few bets, so I might want to hook up with youse. You probably got a live horse or two left in the barn. Maybe we could have some fun together, and I'll take care of you if we do," Al continued.

Jimmy and Ben deduced that if the "live horse" did not generate fun, indeed they might be taken care of in another way.

Before they could respond, Al Capone issued an invitation. "You come have dinner with me. We'll work it out. Tomorrow night at seven at the Cicero Grill, down on Division Street. Unnastand?"

Capone grinned, nodded abruptly, slapped Jimmy on the shoulder, and strolled back to his car.

"Oh, s**t," said Jimmy looking at his father. "What're we gonna do now?"

"Hell, we're going to dinner," Ben replied.

The next night the two horse trainers arrived at the Cicero Grill, an establishment of rather modest appointments. There were very few patrons, but the bartender seemed aware they had not just wandered in off the street for a drink. He greeted them with, "Jones? Go through that door next to the kitchen."

They did. They were the first arrivals-save one-in a small private dining room, with a large table with places set for eight. The only other occupant was a forlorn-looking man in a seedy tuxedo. He was clutching a violin.

"What's happening?" Jimmy brightly sought to break the ice (and perhaps learn something about the nature of the evening ahead). The violinist shrugged unhappily and said nothing.

After about 15 minutes, a mild commotion sounded in the main dining area of the Cicero Grill. The door burst open, and in came Big Al, four of his staff, and, quite surprisingly, a very rotund male child of about 8 years. He wore tight short pants. He bore a strong resemblance to Al and was introduced as "my boy, Sonny."

With much backslapping and playful punches, Al Capone jovially launched the social hour. Soon a surprisingly large number of waiters for an establishment the size of the Cicero Grill were hurrying in with drinks and antipasto for this strange assortment of dinner guests: Capone and staff, two nervous horse trainers, a violinist, and a fat little boy.

Jimmy and Ben had, of course, discussed exhaustively what to do about Big Al's keen interest in their racing stock. They had determined it was a no-win situation. If they complied with Al's demand to cut him in on a juicy gambling opportunity, the best-case scenario would be a nice "tip" if the horse won. However, victory was sure to be followed by a request for another such opportunity, and on and on, ad infinitum.

There was considerable downside risk. If the horse did not win, and Big Al dropped a bundle, the relationship would sour significantly, and who knew what ramifications such a failure might wreak.

It did not take a genius to figure out that the boys were up the well-known creek and did not have a paddle.

Their game plan was to agree vaguely to everything and then hope fate would somehow intervene before the moment of truth. Perhaps some strategic stalling would temper Al's enthusiasm for a gamble of this nature.

The business portion of this night's meeting took place during the consumption of the antipasto, with Al's promise that "some high-class entertainment" would follow. Surely this would not be the violinist?

The "business" consisted of, "Now you boys know how to win races. So next time you got something good, you call me and I'll load up with the bookmakers. Unnastand what I'm saying?"

Jimmy and Ben indicated that they did understand.

With that, a very heavy meal commenced, with Al and his boys-and the fat child-laying down a blistering pace and admirable staying power. During dinner Al had signaled Lenny the violinist to favor the group with some renditions, and the musician began sawing away dolorously with a variety of sentimental selections.

In telling the story in later life, Jimmy remembered the room had no windows, and because air conditioning was rare in those days, the single, oscillating electric fan was badly overmatched by the hot Chicago weather. The wine, lasagna, temperature, and the nature of their predicament were combining to make the nervous Jones Boys perspire heavily. If they had been racehorses, they would surely have left their races in the paddock.

The meal finally ended. Thank God, thought the guests; now this dreaded evening must soon be over.

At this point Al belched loudly, scratched his stomach, reared back in his chair, and said, "Now youse are in for a treat. Sonny has been taking singin' and dancin' lessons; I want him to show you his stuff!"

Al's boys signaled the waiters to clear the table, and the guests-Jimmy and Ben-were told to move their chairs back so they could better appreciate the visual nuances of Sonny's presentation, which would take place on top of the dinner table.

Sonny did not suffer from stage fright. With a boost from one of the adults, he scrambled enthusiastically on top of the sturdy table.

Lenny and Sonny had obviously "worked" together, and it was with seasoned teamwork that the two embarked on "It's Only a Shanty in Old Shantytown." This old favorite brought so much applause that it was followed with the popular "Ma, He's Makin' Eyes at Me." There was a thunderous response in the private dining room, and the Jones Boys carried their share of the load. After five or six other numbers, during which Sonny had managed to break a major-league sweat (and so had the two honored guests), Big Al jumped up and said-Jolson style-"You ain't seen nothin' yet! Now, Angel, show ‘em the Lindy Hop and the Charleston." Lenny was beginning to falter slightly, but not Sonny. This was his (and Al's) big moment, and by God he was going to deliver the goods.

The entire Cicero Grill was reverberating until about 10:30, when Al mercifully declared it was time to put "my singin' and dancin' angel to bed." Goodnights were said with firm reminders to the two horsemen that Al Capone would be awaiting their call with good news of the upcoming score.

Race Day with Scarface

Day after day the Jones Boys played their waiting game, hoping the problem would disappear. A week passed, and they began to have high hopes that Al's lust for a score had been diverted. Then, the dreaded call. "You boys ain't forgot about our project, have ya?" Al had not.

"Uh, no, we're working on it. But the situation has got to be just right. We'll be in touch, " Jimmy explained.

"Be in touch before the week's over!" Al suggested.

The boys had a solid 3-year-old filly named Missouri Waltz. She was worth about $10,000 in those Depression days, which made her a pretty good horse. The two trainers owned her themselves. So they decided that Missouri Waltz would be the vehicle that would activate the project. They would run this nice filly in a $5,000 claimer. Missouri Waltz should win easily. Of course, she would surely be claimed (bought), and though that thought was abhorrent, the alternative was more abhorrent.

They found a race six days away, phoned Big Al, and informed him of the play. Capone was very pleased. This must have been a dull period in gangland activities in the Windy City, for the big fellow seemed inordinately interested in what should have been a "small-potatoes" undertaking. There were several subsequent conversations before the big day.

Race day came, and the betting public found it so strange that the canny Jones Boys would drop this filly so drastically that they laid off her, and she went off at 7-2. She should have been 1-5!

Jimmy and Ben were sweating bullets and not terribly enthused about watching the race with Big Al in his box, about which he was most insistent.

But they did, and agonizing though it was, Missouri Waltz waltzed home by five lengths and paid $9.40. Another good fortune for the horse's owners was that other horsemen either shared the bettors' suspicion or noticed Capone's involvement and were afraid to claim a filly that afforded one of the juiciest opportunities of the Chicago summer racing season.

Capone had done most of his betting with bookmakers around the country. He had done well, but more importantly he looked and felt like a genius.

Big Al was most complimentary to Ben and Jimmy Jones. "I knew you guys were good. You done fine! I tell ya what-you come on over to the Cicero Grill on Saturday night, and we'll put on the feedbag again. We'll get Sonny to put on another show for us, huh? And we'll talk about where we're going from here! We're going to have some fun this summer! And I'll have an envelope for youse."

Jimmy and Ben went back to the barn. While the filly was cooling out, Ben, leaning pensively against the railing in the shed row, called Jimmy over. "By God, I'll tell you where we're going from here. Soon as there's an eastbound train, and it'd better be a night train, we're taking the whole damned outfit to Latonia. We got to quit while the quittin's good. I don't want no more of this, I don't want the envelope, and I sure to God can't stand another evening with that little fat boy!"

The Jones Boys came back to Chicago, cutting a wide swath when they did. But it was at a time when Big Al was residing in a large concrete structure in Atlanta, as the guest of the federal government.

More of Cot Campbell's stories are included among a host of others in The Best of Talkin' Horses. 

   The charm of horse racing lies primarily in the animals that do it—their beauty, grace, power and their degree of class. But there is an undeniable attraction to the colorful human beings that make it happen. The purpose of this blog is to share my stories about some of these characters. My requisites in the selection: I had dealings with them, their antics and accomplishments should not be forgotten, and they are no longer with us.

   Virgil W. "Buddy" Raines was the consummate horseman, a wonderful human being, and one of the most uncomplicated, evenly balanced persons God ever let live.

   He botched a splendid opportunity to be neurotic. You see, no one ever told him he had a right to be.

   Buddy was one of seven children in a poor family. One day an itinerant horse trainer was traveling through Wayne, Ill., and, in keeping with the neighborliness of the times, was invited to have a meal with the Raines family.

   At supper he looked around the table, admired the young manpower sitting there, and said, "Man, I wish I had me a strong little boy to help out with my horses!"

   Mr. Raines, keenly cognizant of having an excess number of mouths to feed in times that were hard, said, "Well, hell, take that one," pointing unmistakably at Buddy.

   He did, putting Buddy straight to work in what would be the beginning of 80 years in the horse business. After several years as virtually an indentured child servant, Buddy was traded to another horseman. That fellow kept him, worked him, and then "gave" him to a man who was to play a significant part in the boy's development.   

   This was Whistling Bob Smith, who at that time was the trainer of the powerful Brookmeade Stable of Isabel Dodge Sloane.

Hall of Fame Trainer
Whistling Bob Smith

   Buddy primarily galloped horses for him and later began riding races on the flat and over jumps.

   Whistling Bob Smith (so called because of a usually sunny disposition) had a wife who was very kind. She liked Buddy and was the first to be concerned that whatever education Buddy had received thus far had come from life on the racetrack. She insisted that Buddy—age 16 and doing pretty well financially as a jockey apprenticed to the Brookmeade outfit—be enrolled in school. The schooling could be fitted into his daily barn and racetrack responsibilities.

  So enroll he did. Trouble was the young man was shaving every day but his educational background was that of a 6-year-old. Buddy Raines had to start out with first grade.

   Someone once asked him, "Buddy, wasn't that awfully embarrassing to be in class with all those little kids?"

   "Hell no! I was the only sumbitch in the first grade that drove a Pierce Arrow to school!"

   Buddy was a perfect example of how the worldliness of the racetrack can turn an ignorant person from humble origins into a relative sophisticate.

   Buddy socialized as an equal with giants of industry; he traveled abroad with one of his adoring patrons, Donald Ross; columns were written about him by such as the renowned Red Smith; the legendary chairman of the Coca-Cola Co., Robert W. Woodruff, was delighted by him and once named one of his bird dogs "Buddy Raines."

Buddy Raines at Saratoga in 1962

   Buddy wore clothes that would have pleased Cary Grant. He never knew a stranger, was easy with any man or woman from the loftiest station in life, had impeccable manners, was an engaging conversationalist, and most important of all, he was comfortable and happy in his own skin.

   His would surely have been a less captivating story had he not been "given" to that horse trainer who stopped for a meal.

   Some of Buddy's unpredictable savoir-faire brushed off from Whistling Bob, but certainly not all of it. Mr. Smith had some rather startling gaps in his urbanity. He retained a fierce addiction to The Lone Ranger, a popular radio serial of the '30s and '40s featuring a phenomenally benevolent masked cowboy and his faithful companion, a steadfast and taciturn Indian named Tonto.

   Each day just before 4:30 in the afternoon, Whistling Bob would surreptitiously dart into the tack room, shut the door, and then emerge 30 minutes later, flushed with excitement. Bob may have been the oldest member of The Lone Ranger Fan Club, but by no means was his dedication lacking.

   All the help knew what he was doing, but they tactfully refrained from discussing this topic with the big boss.

   When Brookmeade ran a horse in a stake (which, of course, it frequently did), the late afternoon timing of this featured race unfortunately would conflict with the Lone Ranger episode of that day. One surmises that on these occasions, Whistling Bob opted for the paddock and saddling duties and not for his Philco. Perhaps he knew some 10-year-old fellow fan who could re-create that day's adventures for him.

   One day Buddy's boss left the shed row and popped into the tack room for his daily fix.

   At five o'clock, just as the last strains of "Hi-Yo Silver!—Away!" were dissipating into the ether, Bob threw open the door and yelled in complete disgust, "Who do those jokers think they're kidding!"

   "What's the matter, boss?" Buddy rushed up and asked solicitously.

   With a wild look in this eye, Bob Smith exclaimed, "This is crazy! Get this: The Lone Ranger is holed up in a canyon. He's in a helluva gunfight with some rustlers. So he sends a smoke signal to Tonto, who has got to be at least a mile away. No more than one minute later that son of a bitch rides up to help! There's no way in the world he could have got there that fast. Man, I don't know what they're trying to pull!"

   In addition to The Lone Ranger, Whistling Bob also was a devoted backer of his horses. If he had one ready and the odds were right, he would shove the shekels through the windows with both hands.

   Once, in later years, when that great outfit had long since won the Kentucky Derby with Cavalcade, the Belmont with High Quest, and Buddy was still assistant trainer, the old trainer was struck down with a grave illness.

   Bob lay seemingly comatose in his hospital room. One afternoon during rounds, his doctor entered the room. A family member asked him about Bob's chances.
   The doctor, under the impression that Smith was unconscious, walked the visitor over to the corner of the room and answered, "Truthfully, it's about 10-1 against his survival."

   The 10-1 registered with Whistling Bob. His eyes popped open, and he rasped, "Say, Doc, that's too good a price to pass up. Just reach in my pants pocket and get out a ten-dollar bill. I'll take that bet for a sawbuck!"

   Buddy Raines was a very popular man. I doubt that he ever had an enemy. But, in the words of Red Smith, he was "an enemy of silence." He had a thousand great stories and he would tell them.

   In between times, he played a role in the careers of many a great racehorse. Among them Cavalcade, Open Fire, Cochise, Timely Warning, Greek Song and Greek Money.

Buddy Raines, shown here at Pimlico in 1990, trained three consecutive winners
of the Maryland Million Classic, 1989-1991; first with Master Speaker and
then back-to-back with Timely Warning

More of Cot Campbell's stories are included, among a host of others, in The Best of Talkin' Horses. 

The charm of horse racing lies primarily in the animals that do it—their beauty, grace, power and their degree of class. But there is an undeniable attraction to the colorful human beings that make it happen. The purpose of this blog is to share my stories about some of these characters. My requisites in the selection: I had dealings with them, their antics and accomplishments should not be forgotten, and they are no longer with us. — Cot Campbell  

   You've heard of people who "broke the mold." Well, "Cousin" Leslie Combs is one of them.

   In his day, if he wasn't king of the horse business, he was in strong contention; and he was under the impression that he already owned that title.

   He would tell you he was going to sell you a horse, you were going to pay through the nose for it, and you were going to have the time of your life in the process. And then he would deliver the goods. He bred and sold some wonderful horses.

   I bought some horses from his Spendthrift Farm through the years, but I am a bargain buyer and, therefore, just a tiny blip on his radar screen. He didn't expend much of his legendary charm on me. He didn't want to run me off, but peewees like me were slim pickings for a salesman like Leslie who had two rows of seats in the Keeneland sales pavilion warmed by the affluent derrieres of such as Dolly Green, Art and Martha Appleton, Frank McMahon, Franklin Groves, John Olin, Martha Kilroe, Elizabeth Arden Graham, and John W. Hanes.

   Woody Stephens, the legendary trainer, used to say, "If you want to be a big flea, you gotta get on a big dog!"

   Believe me, that was the battle cry of Leslie Combs.

Leslie Combs

   Monday night at the Keeneland summer select yearling sale was Combs Night, and Spendthrift might be selling as many as 18 yearlings. You can bet Cousin Leslie had planned painstakingly and struggled tirelessly to orchestrate the successful sale of each.

   And could he get the job done! He reigned for 15 consecutive years as Keeneland's top consignor and held the title three other years.

   Ryan Mahan, now head auctioneer at Keeneland, tells a typical Combs story. It took place when Mahan was a young bid spotter (assigned to Combs' section) on the July night the maestro was selling a Northern Dancer colt, a half brother to the great Mr. Prospector.

   When the clock struck eight that night and the auction staff began its announcements before the first horse was led in the ring, Combs and his guests were already well ensconced in their seats. The host had seen to it that the cocktail hour at the big house had started early enough for all guests to become sufficiently relaxed, and then he had hustled them into limousines so that the motorcade to Keeneland could get started at 7:30. This was a night for punctuality!

   Leslie had long since decided that one of his perennial sales-time guests, Dolly Green, who had been left half the real estate of downtown Los Angeles, should be favored with ownership of the beautifully bred colt that was the star of his consignment.

   Interesting, Keeneland was concerned about including the colt in its "select" sale. His front-end alignment was somewhat askew. As the Irish say, one leg went to Limerick and the other to County Cork! But Keeneland had been assured by Leslie that he had him sold and that the colt would bring one million dollars or more. Naturally, they took him.

   Arriving at the pavilion, the Spendthrift aggregation settled in the two rows of seats, with much last-minute stage direction from Cousin Leslie. The seating had to be finely tuned so that no heavy-hitters were left unattended out in left field.

   Leslie had situated himself next to Dolly Green, you may be sure.

   The big colt (for promotional purposes Combs referred to him as "Pretty Boy") was due to sell about 9:15 p.m., and Leslie's severe challenge was to see that Mrs. Green did not become bored during the hour and fifteen minutes she would be required to wait. In the interim Leslie had other important horses to sell, and he wanted to "can all the fruit" before and after Mrs. Green's anticipated featured transaction.

   The sale started. Spendthrift sold a filly and a colt early in the sale. Everything was humming along satisfactorily. But about 8:20 p.m. Dolly Green turned to Leslie and complained, "Leslie, I'm cold!"
   "Yes, Dolly, Keeneland does keep it too cold in here. I've told 'em about that! You just cuddle up next to Cousin Leslie," Combs leered.

   Feeling the need for some stimulus for the pending task, Leslie called out to Ryan Mahan, tuxedo-bedecked and spotting bids in the aisle ten feet away. "Hey there, Mr. Bid Spotter, my 'Pretty Boy' (the Mr. Prospector half brother) is gonna be in here in a few minutes, and you'll see the pretty boy that is going to win the Kentucky Derby!" He squeezed Dolly's arm delightedly. Ryan, fully cognizant of the drill, smiled responsively and nodded vigorously.

   Ten minutes went by, and Dolly's attention span was in serious trouble. "Leslie, I'm freezing! It's uncomfortable in here."

   "It certainly is, Dolly." (Aside to the spotter: "Let's turn that damned thermostat up a little, son!")

   "Here, darlin', take Cousin Leslie's coat. If all these people weren't in here, the two of us would do some snuggling. I'd get you warm!" He cackled charmingly and gallantly draped his blue blazer around Dolly's bare shoulders. He sent his son into the bar for a cup of hot coffee laced with a shot of brandy.

   It was now 25 long minutes away from the appearance of Hip Number 101, for Leslie the focal point of the evening...the year! Could Dolly last? It was going to be close.
   At 9:05 p.m. Dolly rose to her feet. "Leslie, I simply must leave. I am most uncomfortable!"

   Leslie, on his feet now, screaming at Ryan and putting on a show for Dolly: "Goddamn it, boy, get Bill Greely (Keeneland general manager). I want this temperature fixed. This lady is cold! And my 'Pretty Boy' is fixin' to come in here, and we want to see him."

   Ryan nodded worriedly, and before another horse came into the ring, he hightailed over to the thermostat and pretended to fiddle with it. He then gave the high sign to Combs that everything was corrected. Trying to help, Ryan leaned in to Dolly Green and assured her, "Ma'am, we've warmed it up. You'll be comfortable now!"

   This ploy was good for 10 minutes. Now the colt was in the ring.

   Combs had his coat on Dolly, his arm draped around her, and was practically sitting in her lap. She was drinking her hot coffee, and at last she seemed somewhat interested in the proceedings.
   Hip Number 101 opened at $300,000 then jumped to $400,000. The reserve had been reached, and now any bids would be live ones.

   Leslie turned and smiled expectantly at Dolly. She nodded vaguely, and Ryan bellowed, "Yep!!!" The colt went to $500,000.

   Combs might have signaled to someone in the pavilion. The bid jumped to $600,000.

   At that point the great showman leaned forward in his seat, waved idiotically at the colt in the ring and sang out, "Hello there, 'Pretty Boy.' You gonna win that Derby for Leslie and Dolly aren't you, 'Pretty Boy'?"

   Dolly whispered impatiently to Leslie that she wanted to bid again. Leslie's hand on her shoulder fluttered for $700.000.

   Mysteriously, the bid kept jumping on past a million, until Dolly bid a cool million two hundred.

   At that point Dolly stood up and said, "Oh, Leslie, I just can't bid anymore." It was her bid. She didn't have to.

   With his arm around her, they were starting up the aisle. Surprisingly, they heard "One million, three hundred thousand." Leslie couldn't believe it. But with the guts of a bandit, he whispered, "You might just want to try one more bid, darlin'. Shall we do just one more on our 'Pretty Boy'?"

   In exasperation she said, "Oh, I suppose so, but then do let's go."

   Leslie Combs, looking back over his shoulder and never breaking stride, unabashedly but emphatically waved in another bid—for $1,400,000. Sold!

   The twosome disappeared out the door, and Leslie Combs deposited her into the warmth of the waiting limousine.

   Dolly had some nice horses through the years, but this one was certainly not a standout. His name was Yukon. He never won. He never even raced. With that pedigree, he did go to stud but did not emulate either his daddy or his half brother.

[Historical note: Dolly Green bought a total of four horses for $2.2 million that July night in 1980.]

The charm of horse racing lies primarily in the animals that do it—their beauty, grace, power and their degree of class. But there is an undeniable attraction to the colorful human beings that make it happen. The purpose of this blog is to share my stories about some of these characters. My requisites in the selection: I had dealings with them, their antics and accomplishments should not be forgotten, and they are no longer with us. — Cot Campbell  

    A contest to determine the most popular man in the history of Thoroughbred racing would surely find Mack Miller's name in the finals. And 2 to 1 to win it! Quite an accomplishment, because, while he was certainly not born with a silver spoon in his mouth, he ended up with a mouth full of silver ladle. Because he served as private trainer (and close friend) for two of the richest men in the world, and two of the most appreciative and understanding when it came to the vagaries of racing. They were Charles Engelhard, the platinum king, and then Paul Mellon, the renowned sportsman and philanthropist.

 So, Mack might have had a target on his back. But because he was such a nice guy, and his ability was so respected, no one ever took a shot at him. You never heard him criticized, and that spoke volumes about the man. He reeked of quality. Interesting that he was the one American horse trainer that any other horse trainer would go to for advice and not feel that they had compromised their own expertise. He was what Dr.Larry Bramlage is today in the veterinary field.

   Mack Miller was the quintessence of success and quality in Thoroughbred racing. He was a tall, handsome fellow, great smile, cheery way about him, always nicely turned out in Brooks Brothers garb. Sociable to friends, fans and associates, but around his barn he saw to it that things were popping, and popping in the direction that he wanted. Ask former assistants like Neil Howard, Pete Vestal, Danny Furr, Mike Cline, Jeff Minton and other impressive names.

Mack Miller

   Sometimes in one's career it seems a matter of supreme importance for some big shot to speak to you and call you by your name. You need to feel that you have arrived, or are about to. Hearing "Hi Cot" from Mack one day was big stuff to me in the mid-seventies. Another time at Saratoga, I was thrilled when he asked me to clock a horse for him.

   Mack came from a small-town, Norman Rockwell-type family. His father was superintendent of motor vehicles in Versailles, Ky. His mother was a saintly lady who sang in the choir at the Presbyterian Church. Mack was fond of proclaiming, "My mother could sing like a bird." That same Presbyterian Church delivered a rousing, standing ovation when Mack and Martha Miller strode down the aisle to the Miller pew on Sunday morning after his Sea Hero had won the Kentucky Derby.

Sea Hero

   Miller grew up under rigid rules about what was right and wrong, and he played by them all his life. And he did not dig— or condone — anyone who didn't. He shunned for a time a couple of super popular Hispanic riders who were suspected of chicanery. He adored Jerry Bailey ("He had the finest countenance, the nicest outlook"), but he fired him when it became apparent that during a period in mid-career Jerry was laying on the sauce a bit strong (Jerry later fixed that problem for good, and Mack got him back).

   Mack Miller's middle name was integrity. He led the league in self deprecation...and hypochondria, by the way. He was truly a world-class, charming companion, but he would regale you with maladies or diseases he was coming down with, or sing the blues about the poor condition of his stock— "not a horse in the barn can run a lick."

   Mack's first experience with horse racing was leading broodmares out to pasture at Calumet. He was a lean, lanky six-foot-three, and tipped the scale at all of 130 pounds. He looked like a plucked chicken. So between lack of experience and heft, the mares really dragged Mack to the paddocks. He held on though, gained experience, and before long, through his hometown connections, was able to take a few horses to the race track for some, good-old-boy, "hardboot" breeders in Central Kentucky. He carved out a solid reputation for horsemanship and honesty in the process. Then, by God, he developed a champion (Leallah)! And— as horses can do — she helped put him in the big time.

   He was offered a delicious draft of horses to train for a new man in the game— Charles Engelhard. This big opportunity sputtered off to a dismal start, much to Mack's anguish. Typically, Mack, with the string at Belmont at the time, and embarrassed about their accomplishments, called up Mr. Engelhard, asked if he could come to his home in New Jersey to talk with him. When they met, Mack told his client he was doing such a terrible job that it was only right that he resign. Engelhard, no dummy when it came to judging people, said, "No, you're not going to resign. Instead, you're going to train all my horses. You're my private trainer. You're on the payroll from here on in." Mack gulped, said OK, went back to Belmont, and soon the fog lifted. The stable began to sizzle, one good horse after another.

   Charlie Engelhard died after some years of that association. Mack trained for his widow for awhile, and then the job with Paul Mellon opened up. Mellon had decided to split up with his longtime trainer Elliott Burch. This presented a painful, sensitive situation, as Elliott and Mack were best friends, but Elliott was going, one way or another, so Miller took over one of the most prestigious jobs in racing. And he never looked back. Sea Hero, Fit to Fight, De La Rose, Java Gold, Assagai, Tentam, Halo, and on and on. Dangerous to start naming his big horses, because he trained a gang of them.

   Being an old-time guy with old-time ways, he brought his stock into Aiken, S.C., to winter quarters. So, Mack really had three homes: Versailles, Garden City, N.Y., and Aiken. He wintered in Aiken in a home and considerable acreage given to him by the grateful patron Charlie Engelhard.

   He toiled in Aiken with such racing luminaries as John Gaver, Mike Freeman, Buddy Raines, Frank Wright, Woody Stephens, Angel Penna, Jim Maloney and many others of the same ilk. He adored Aiken. He loved playing golf, which he did almost every afternoon.

   In the heyday of Aiken, the training of racehorses was ruled by the greatly revered, no-nonsense Greentree trainer, John Gaver. Mack Miller became a luminary of unexcelled luster eventually, but was not in the early days. He learned from the Princeton-educated Gaver, was greatly influenced by him, and stood in awe of him. He was anxious not to displease him.

   One winter Mack was training Halo, an outstanding grass horse. Halo, during his racing days and later at stud, was one surly, disagreeable, rough customer. He gave Mack many a gray hair. Halo took great pleasure each day, when sent out in one of the large sets of trainees, in dumping his rider. He would then gallop around the track several times. His exuberance gratified, he would conclude his adventures by crossing Two Notch Road, plowing into the Greentree training complex, where he would attempt to breed each and every horse being cooled out on their walking ring. This intrusion into the Greentree compound was quite disruptive, and annoyingly repetitive, Gaver felt. One day, after such an episode, Gaver ran into Mack down at the clockers' stand and said, "Mack, you're going to have to take care of that son of a bitch! Or I'm going to castrate him! Since Halo became one of the best sires of his days, it is fortunate for the breed that Mack was able to control Halo's unscheduled trips to Greentree.

   Mack Miller was certainly a creature of habit, and his habits did not include late hours. If Kentucky was not scheduled to play basketball on TV, he would organize dinner with pals. This would begin at 6:30 p.m., involved two martinis, and around 8:30 p.m. Mack was looking for the party to break up.

   Mack took enormous pride in cooking cheese straws. Around Dec. 1, the cheese straw program would be heavy on Mack's mind, so there would be an ample supply for all his pals at Christmas. When invited to his house, one had access to cheese straws until you choked. For the drinkers, these were washed down with martinis "mixed to Paul's (Mellon, that is) recipe."

   When he and Paul Mellon retired— and the two events were definitely associated — Mack and his splendid wife, Martha, moved back to their family roots in Versailles, and he fell into a quiet life on Morgan Street. He would make an occasional foray over to Keeneland for the races or the sales, but not much of that.

   MacKenzie Miller— truly "one of the ones."

More of Cot Campbell's stories are included, among a host of others, in The Best of Talkin' Horses.  

The charm of horse racing lies primarily in the animals that do it—their beauty, grace, power and their degree of class. But there is an undeniable attraction to the colorful human beings that make it happen. The purpose of this blog is to share my stories about some of these characters. My requisites in the selection: I had dealings with them, their antics and accomplishments should not be forgotten, and they are no longer with us. — Cot Campbell    

   Horatio Luro-El Gran Senor. Has there ever existed in the world of Thoroughbred racing a human being who combined as much exquisite horsemanship with as much glamour? I do not think so.

   He was a tall, handsome boulevardier from a distinguished Argentine family, a charming polo-playing and lady's man, who came to the states before World War II, teamed up with Charlie Whittingham in California and they hustled their way into the top of the Big Time in the racing world. Again, with a combination of superb horsemanship, chutzpah and personality.

Horatio Luro, Courtesy of NYRA

   To meet Horatio was to never forget him. He looked like "somebody." He stood six foot-three, had a pencil-thin mustache, quite handsome, with a dashing, elegant, but devilish, look about him. He dressed in the finest tradition of Saville Row. Even in the early days, when he was flat broke, he was somehow able to wine and dine and operate with the cream of high society. He knew how to buy a good horse, and he surely knew how to train one. He had a fling with the gorgeous actress, Lana Turner (quite an accomplishment), and later was married for 37 years to a truly impressive lady.

   No horse trainer ever had a deeper impact on the Thoroughbred breed. He brought to this country the splendid Princequillo and developed him into one of the greatest stayers of his time. At stud, with Bull Hancock at Claiborne, Princequillo became the dominant influence of stamina in the sport. Later Luro took a blocky, little bay horse that did not meet his reserve when E.P. Taylor sold him as a yearling and made him into a magnificent race horse and arguably the greatest sire that ever lived. His name was Northern Dancer. The Senor won the Derby with him; he also won it with Decidedly. Space would literally not permit a list of other distinguished stakes winners trained by Luro.

   Like most great characters with panache and charm, he was not always easy. He was a prima donna, had a temper, and since he never quite mastered all the nuances of the English language, he could stumble verbally into awkward situations. That's when his wife Frances, who was sophisticated and urbane, and oozed charm from every pore, could help out immeasurably when some diplomacy was needed. However, his own legendary brand was usually quite adequate. An example of that was tested when he ran a filly at Atlantic City. She was winning quite easily, but inexplicably, when approaching the wire, she careened over the rail, ran into the lake and panicked. Sadly, she drowned before anyone could reach her. Later, Horatio lamented, "How am I going to call the owner and tell him that the filly was winning the race but then drowned?"

   Much earlier, he had encountered another awkward situation back home in Argentina. Never in my rather long life have I encountered-or seen-a human being that had actually engaged in a duel. Horatio Luro did! In a dispute over a polo pony board bill, Horatio struck the landlord, an Argentine nobleman. The infuriated injured party "demanded satisfaction." Seconds were chosen, weapons selected. Luro was given the choice, and because his adversary had just returned from a hunting trip, swords rather than guns seemed the smarter option. Horatio took a quick course in fencing, which paid off significantly. He was advised that because of his six foot-three height, he should simply keep his weapon extended into the face of the other shorter man. This he did, and his raging opponent ran into the sword, nicked his arm, blood was drawn, and the duel had been satisfied. Perhaps Thoroughbred racing would have been the poorer had revolvers been the choice.

   A well-documented example of his temper came at the expense of a jockey named Eddie Belmonte. Subbing for Luro's regular rider in a race at Saratoga, he was told to take the horse back and make one big run. Instead Eddie broke and gunned the horse to the lead and hustled him to stay there. He ran out of gas. Luro had placed a rather sizeable bet on the horse, and when the rider dismounted the Senor tried with considerable enthusiasm to choke him-in front of the grandstand. He was suspended for 30 days for this rather unpleasant behavior.

   He was not reluctant to take suggestions from assistants and exercise riders. And he really hit it off with jockeys remarkably well. He liked Bill Hartack, respected his opinion, and adopted a number of his suggestions. Hartack, a wonderful rider, had the disposition of a viper, but there was mutual respect and harmony between him and the Senor. The well-used expression of today, having to do with asking too much of a horse, was born prior to the running of the 1960 Blue Grass Stakes. Horatio told Bill, "This is not our main objective. Do not squeeze the lemon dry." Hartack was a man who could squeeze the hell out of the lemon, but he did not on Victoria Park that day. Still he deserted him in the Derby a couple of weeks later, and energetically rode Venetian Way to victory.

Luro shaking hands with Hartack in the Preakness
Stakes winner's circle

   Horatio's aforementioned wife, Frances, owned a large farm near Atlanta in Cartersville, Ga. Luro converted this into a training center, and Dogwood was one of its clients in the late sixties and early seventies before we built our own farm. Frances was very prominent in Atlanta (and most other) social circles. She had a daughter, Cary, who was named "debutante of the year," and subsequently was married a fair amount of times. Still another nuptial was being planned at the farm for Horatio's much-married step-daughter, and it was to be a big social event, involving a rehearsal, and a gala rehearsal dinner. Horatio was, of course, summoned back from Belmont Park for the event, and he groused, "I do not see the need for rehearsal. She has done this many times, and must be familiar with the procedure by now."

   Frances and Horatio were at the very top of the social ladder in the glamour days of racing. Being new to the game in the early seventies, my wife Anne and I were flattered when they took note of us in some insignificant way. This led to an embarrassing situation one year in Florida. Frances was the chairwoman of the elegant Flamingo Ball, which took place at Hialeah. She, of course, was hustling participation, and zeroed in on Anne and me. Now Frances was wonderful and gracious, but she did have a little con in her. And she did mean to fill up the tables at the Ball. She cooed to Anne and me, "Horatio and I are so hoping you all will join us at the Ball!" We thought this meant, "Come sit with us at our table." What a nice social breakthrough for a young couple! What she really meant was, "Buy two tickets to the Ball, and use them."

   We arrived at the Ball, and breezily informed the person at the door that we were guests of the Luros'. Oddly we were not on the list. Obviously an omission. So, we paid for two, went in, and excitedly sought out the Luro table. It was chock full of heavy-hitters, of course. Frances waved cordially, but vaguely. We got the picture, and found a couple of spots at a table-near the kitchen.

   Horatio and Frances were a great team. Just as Penny Chenery contributed to the overall image of Secretariat, so did Frances Luro contribute enormously to the dashing, debonair persona of the Senor. He trained well into his eighties, then turned over the stock to his beloved step-grandson, Billy Wright, who still operates Old Mill Farm in Cartersville, Ga.

   We will not see the likes of Horatio Luro again.

Luro with Northern Dancer before the Blue
Grass Stakes

The charm of horse racing lies primarily in the animals that do it—their beauty, grace, power and their degree of class. But there is an undeniable attraction to the colorful human beings that make it happen. The purpose of this blog is to share my stories about some of these characters. My requisites in the selection: I had dealings with them, their antics and accomplishments should not be forgotten, and they are no longer with us. — Cot Campbell      

   The nicest compliment I ever received came from big, blustery Doug Davis, a horseman's horse trainer.

   Perhaps the nature of the compliment will indicate that I have been pitifully desperate for kind words. But I loved it.

   In my early years in the horse business, I found it quite expedient to buy horses on terms. Oversimplified, this means I bought the horse by paying one-third of the purchase price down, took possession of the animal, and deferred the balance over two payments six months apart. This was unheard of in this industry when I first started doing it. I could do it because I had earned a good reputation. Any deviations from the payment schedule would be in favor of the seller. I saw to that.

   One year in a horses-of-all-ages paddock sale at Saratoga, Doug Davis was selling (on behalf of his major patron) a good race filly named Jill the Terrible. She figured to be pricey, but I wanted to buy her. Before the sale I asked the owner, whom I knew only slightly, if he would provide me with terms if I were the successful bidder. He was a little skittish about this, hemmed and hawed, and said he'd have to think it over and get back to me.

   Later that day, this fellow walked up to me and said, "I asked Doug Davis if he thought I would be safe in selling that filly to you on terms. Doug told me, ‘Well, I just wish that son of a bitch owed me a quarter of a million dollars!' "

   From that day on, I've had a warm spot in my heart for Doug Davis.

   Doug had style, presence, and charisma. When he walked into a room, you knew he was there. He made any gathering more interesting. He was a big man with a thunderous voice and a gaudy appetite for life.

   As a child he must have been influenced by Tom Mix or Hopalong Cassidy because he went "western" all his life. When he died, his estate included 75 pairs of cowboy boots and 60 cowboy hats.

Until Wayne Lukas wrested the title away, Doug Davis was the winningest trainer in Keeneland history. This was accomplished when Keeneland certainly offered fine racing, but was not as stylish as it is today. Doug was predominantly a "Midwestern" trainer. He seldom ventured to big-time tracks in New York, Florida, or California. He had mostly Grade B stock, much of which he bred from Hempen, a stallion owned by Davis and known for throwing speed and precocity. 

   When the colt got good, Doug loaded him up in a gooseneck trailer, threw in Charlie, his famous and remarkable stable pony, and a few more runners, and headed up to the Spa.

   This entourage created a bit of a reaction at Saratoga. In the first place, gooseneck trailers were not de rigueur at Saratoga. Doug himself went over with "the Establishment" like a bastard at a family reunion, and on top of that, he had a stable pony that actually functioned without a bridle!

   I must admit, the first time I ever saw Charlie smoothly shepherding a jittery runner to the post, I was flabbergasted. Charlie was equipped with not one bit of leather from his shoulders forward and depended entirely on his own incredible savvy and an occasional bit of knee or heel pressure (or mental telepathy!) from the rider.

   The Saratoga outriders and stewards were aghast when Doug came on the track the first morning. Astride the seemingly nonchalant and bridleless Charlie, the old Kentucky boy was taking Annihilate ‘em out for a gallop several days before the Travers.

   An outrider came loping up to this strange little group and said, "You'll have to get that pony off this racetrack. He hasn't got a bridle on!"

   Doug explained, "Aww, I know, but he's fine. Charlie don't like anything around his head." He thought that would take care of the intrusion.

   "Off! Right now! We're not going to have lead ponies out here with no bridles on them. We've got the safety of the racetrack to consider. Go borrow another lead pony," the outrider firmly ordered.

   Doug was not one to duck a confrontation. He shot back, "Well, this lead pony has forgot more about racetrack procedure than all the damned outriders and stewards in New York State will ever know. If this pony goes, I go, and so does this horse that come here to run in the Travers." Doug turned his caravan and headed back to the barn.

   He was loading the gooseneck a few minutes later when up hustled a steward and said that they had decided to make a dispensation. Charlie (without a bridle, of course) could escort Annihilate ‘em on the racetrack and to the post for the Travers.

   The press had a field day with this brouhaha.

About five o'clock three days later the odd couple, Annihilate ‘em and Charlie, were the featured attraction in the post parade. Every eye was glued on them.

Annihilate 'em winning 1973 Travers Stakes

   Annihilate ‘em easily won the 1973 Travers, but it was almost anticlimactic to the post parade featuring the Kentucky horse's bridleless escort. The colt's victory finished off properly one of the most colorful chapters in the history of that fine race.

   Saratoga lore will always maintain a prominent spot for Annihilate ‘em. And Doug Davis. And for Charlie-just a working guy who "didn't like anything around his head."

   While he was for many years the winningest trainer at Keeneland, one year, despite running two or three horses every day, Davis did not win a single race.

   In racing, a "duck" (yes, a fowl!) is presented to the trainer who finishes the meeting without a single winner to his name. I don't know the reason for this custom. But there is always a lot of chortling around the racing secretary's office about whether so-and-so (ideally a high-profile trainer!) "is going to get the duck."

   This particular year Doug had slightly aroused the ire of his good friend and longtime training competitor, Herb Stevens-a crusty citizen and bona fide character in his own right.

   Early in this Keeneland meet, Herb had entered a first-time starter in a maiden claiming race. Much to Herb's surprise, Doug claimed him. While this action did not enrage Herb, it did get his attention. After the race, when the horse was ensconced in his new barn, Doug came running over to his pal Herb and said, "Herb, I couldn't help it. This damned owner of mine out in Arkansas made me claim that horse. I didn't want to."

   Herb said later, "I didn't care about losing the horse, but it made me mad as hell that Davis would think I was dumb enough to believe that cock-and-bull story."

   On closing day at Keeneland, Doug had three runners. The first two ran in early races and failed to hit the board, and now he had one last chance, in the last race.

   Herb Stevens had, of course, been keeping tabs on the big guy, and he was not pulling for Doug to mar his winless record by knocking off the 10th and last race.

   About mid-afternoon Herb strolled into the secretary's office. The staff had purchased and put on display a life-sized, lawn ornament-type duck, to be presented to Davis, if he kept his dismal record unscathed in the last race.

   He then alerted the press box, the track photographer, and anyone else he could think of to be in the Keeneland walking ring for a very meaningful ceremony. He arranged for several other fellow trainers-individuals who would tend to enjoy the nature of the project-to grab Davis after the last race (if indeed, he did not win it) and escort him to the ceremonial site.

   The training fraternity got the exact result it desired: Doug's horse did not even threaten. So Doug was steered, almost forcefully, back to the walking ring.

   There, gleefully assembled were every racing writer in central Kentucky, a variety of photographers, most of the staff of Keeneland, and a sizeable group of curious racing fans now exiting the track past the walking ring. It was a splendid crowd, and in the middle of it was Herb Stevens with the duck-on a leash!

   Accompanied by lusty jeering, Stevens dealt thoroughly with Davis' lack of accomplishment at this Keeneland meeting, made the presentation, and concluded with, "Now, Doug, this makes us even!"

   A resulting photograph of Doug, staring balefully down at the duck he held on a leash and clearly at a very unaccustomed loss for words, is a classic. It still hangs on the walls of several racing secretary offices and press boxes at tracks where Doug Davis plied his trade.

   It may have been the only duck Doug Davis ever received.

The charm of horse racing lies primarily in the animals that do it—their beauty, grace, power and their degree of class. But there is an undeniable attraction to the colorful human beings that make it happen. The purpose of this blog is to share my stories about some of these characters. My requisites in the selection: I had dealings with them, their antics and accomplishments should not be forgotten, and that at least most of them are no longer with us. — Cot Campbell      

   To me, John M.S. Finney, legendary president of Fasig-Tipton, was a man who had never been young...yet he would never be old. He was John Finney; he was there and was always going to be...and thank God for it. So vivid was his personality that it was inconceivable that he would not continue to enliven the Thoroughbred racing scene. But he died in 1994.

   Selling Thoroughbreds was his game, and he will always be remembered as the head of Fasig-Tipton. He worked for that fine auction company most of his life and was bred to run it. And run it he did, in his own colorful style, at a time when it was in its heyday. But John was painting with broad strokes indeed, and his grandiose expansion plans collided with the economic reality of the late eighties, and problems arose. He left Fasig-Tipton late in his business life and became a high-level bloodstock agent. He was successful, of course, but his name will always be synonymous with Fasig-Tipton.

Finney with Ky. Gov. Brereton Jones

   The colorful son succeeded a colorful father, the legendary Humphrey Finney. John said he was perceived to be "the second cup of tea from the same bag." He may have been at first, but the second cup proved plenty potent.

   Keeneland, Fasig's only real competitor then, was solid, sensible, and perhaps almost paternal. Fasig-Tipton was run in what seemed to be a loosey-goosey style by a fun-loving, delightful, but ever-so-effective bunch of characters. On the team along with Finney were Ralph Retler, Laddie Dance, D.G. Van Clief, Walt Robertson, Boyd Browning, Terence Collier, and Steve Dance, with Tyson Gilpin and Clay Camp not officially on the staff but firmly connected as "house consignors." To say that they were jovial men would be like saying that Frank Sinatra could carry a tune.

   Fasig-Tipton was "Robin Hood and his Merry Men" to Keeneland's "King Arthur and the Round Table." In the role of Robin Hood himself was John Finney.

   No human being ever enjoyed the good life as much as John Finney. John's great wit was celebrated. Never had a more impish, rapier-like wit fueled an endless supply of deliciously spicy anecdotes. No man ever possessed such a flair for walking amongst socialite-sportsmen, aristocrats, con artists, and good old boys and keeping them all placated. It almost seemed an incongruity that he combined these characteristics with what was an unswervingly rigid code of ethics.

When Fasig-Tipton was in that particular bright period in the mid-eighties, the company generated considerable cash flow. Finney wanted to make hay while the sun was shining and had his eye peeled for expansion opportunities. Some made sense; some did not. One from the latter category was his trip to Georgia to discuss with me the possibility of buying the Dogwood operation. He already knew a lot about us, but that "affinity," as he typically termed it, would not have worked, and we both quickly realized it.

One thing that intrigued Finney was the aforementioned Dogwood concept of buying horses on terms. Terms were old stuff in private transactions, but the idea of doing so with horses sold by consignors at public auction was avant-garde, to put it mildly.

   With me, invention was the mother of necessity! Coming from an area where banking connections understood precious little about the Thoroughbred industry, it was difficult in the early days to arrange an adequate line of credit-and this was in an era when horses were selling like expensive hotcakes.

   Consequently, I conceived the idea of going to a consignor and saying, in effect, "If I am successful in buying one of your horses (with no pre-arranged price in mind, of course) -I want you to permit me to pay for that horse over a period of a year."

   Spendthrift Farm and Leslie Combs was the first to go for it. Lee Eaton, the pre-eminent sales agent of the day, embraced the idea, and soon practically every consignor was willing to sell me horses in this manner.

   The sales companies liked it fine. They got their full commission out of the first payment. Furthermore, it put another strong bidder in the market (with a little more guts than he might normally have had paying cash). Additionally, though I might not end up with the horse, my presence might have pushed the ultimate buyer a little higher.

   An example of John's complete fairness is the fact that Fasig-Tipton had its own financing arm. It was called TECO (Thoroughbred Equity Company), but its arrangement was nowhere near as beneficial to me as the terms I was enjoying. Finney knew this, and still he tried wholeheartedly to sell any reluctant consignor on cooperating with the Dogwood terms "package."

   He was smooth as silk, but on one occasion he did lose his cool.

   In 1975 John's pal LeRoy Jolley (another renowned wit), won the Kentucky Derby with Foolish Pleasure.  

   After the Derby the colt shipped to Baltimore for the Preakness at Pimlico. Foolish Pleasure was going to have a maintenance breeze five days before the race, and LeRoy invited John Finney to come out to Pimlico at 7:00 a.m. when the Foolish Pleasure entourage would leave the barn and head to the racetrack for the breeze. As with all racehorses-and Triple Crown runners for damn sure-there was no leeway in the timing. He would go at 7:00!

   John was delighted, and he invited Terence Collier, a key Fasig-Tipton staffer, to come along. Terence asked if he might bring two visiting equine auction executives from Europe. John said fine. They would all meet in the lobby of the Cross Keys Hotel, where they were staying. The time would be 6:30 a.m. -sharp!

   The next morning John and Terence were there, but the two visitors were late. John paced a bit, went and got the car, and pulled it up front. By now it was 6:40, and both he and Terence were fuming. At 6:45 the two men showed up, and off they roared to Pimlico, about ten minutes away. John was quite tense-for him.

   They pulled up to the stable gate just before 7:00 and encountered a rather heavy-handed and dimwitted security guard whose job (for this week only) was to see that no evildoers had access to the Preakness horses.

   He had a clipboard, and he had been instructed to register each visitor's name and record the purpose of his visit to the barn area at Pimlico.

   John led off, told his name, spelled it several times, and informed the fellow that all of them had been invited to the barn of LeRoy Jolley. The guard painstakingly registered this information, dropping his pencil several times and making a few erasures in the process. The clock was now right at 7:00.

   Next Terence Collier's name was slowly recorded, but without any significant hitches.

   The third man was an Irishman named Peter Mulvagh. His brogue and unusual last name had the guard moving at a snail's pace. After several false starts, with laborious explanations about why this high level of security was essential, the guard registered Mr. Mulvah.

   But now the acid test was coming. The fourth gentleman was a Frenchman.

   His name was Jean Baptiste De Gaste.

   At this point John Finney could see that the opportunity to view Foolish Pleasure's work was slipping away.

   The guard leaned his head in the car and asked, "Now what is your name, sir?"

   John floor-boarded it, as he yelled out, "Tom Smith, goddamn it!"

The charm of horse racing lies primarily in the animals that do it—their beauty, grace, power and their degree of class. But there is an undeniable attraction to the colorful human beings that make it happen. The purpose of this blog is to share my stories about some of these characters. My requisites in the selection: I had dealings with them, their antics and accomplishments should not be forgotten, and that at least most of them are no longer with us. — Cot Campbell

[Editor's Note: Due to an error in source material, an earlier version of this blog had the incorrect winner of the 1984 Epsom Derby. The content below has been corrected.]  

Arguably, Lester Piggott is the greatest jockey who ever lived.

I did not know the English rider well, but he was certainly one of the most interesting humans I have ever been around, or known about. He was the quintessence of charisma, but with some distinctly negative vibes thrown in. God knows he did not invite small talk...and did not suffer fools gladly, if at all.

But when Lester Piggott walked into a paddock, or anywhere, you knew "somebody" had arrived.

Lester was called "The Long Fellow" (among numerous other things!), because he stood five foot eight, and did 112 pounds. He should have weighed 145 pounds. He had a battleship gray complexion, a face like a prune, and the disposition of a puff adder. Lester ate practically nothing. It was said that dinner usually consisted of a leaf of lettuce, a glass of champagne (Dom Perignon), and a cigar.

He came from a racing family that could trace its roots back to the 18th century. He began riding races for his father's stable when he was 10 years old. Lester became a sensation, winning the Epsom Derby when he was 18. And then he went on and won it eight more times. He won close to 4,500 races, so to say that he was a superlative rider is not even scratching the surface. Let that suffice. It was also his personality that made him unforgettable.

His personality was fashioned not from traits of exuberance or clownish behavior; nor from charm, warmth, or jovial wit; and God forbid that the milk of human kindness would have contributed to Lester's persona!

The makeup of Lester Piggott would have more to do with his fanatical determination to win; his ruthless approach to securing the right horses to do it with; his taciturn, dour, penurious nature; and his completely independent, mischievous, impertinent demeanor.

These are not usually endearing character traits. Therefore, you would think Lester Piggott would surely have been the most detested man in European racing. Not so. While not beloved perhaps, he was accepted and sought after socially. Why? Probably because he has always been authentic. During his years as a jockey, Piggott could, and did, deliver the goods better than anyone else ever had. He was the king.

Lester took the art of miserliness to the same lofty plane at which his riding prowess stood. He had quite a reputation for going on the cheap. This may have been a factor that lead to his conviction of tax fraud. He was jailed for a year. The Queen had bestowed on Piggott the distinguished Order of the British Empire. Sadly, the disgrace of his jail time caused the honor to be rescinded.

He resumed his career as a rider in 1990, and about 10 days into his comeback he came to America and won the Breeders' Cup Mile (gr. IT). In a brilliantly timed race, he produced Royal Academy at just the right moment, came roaring down the middle of the stretch, pumping and flailing and riding like a "man with his pants on fire." Surely one of the greatest moments in the history of the Breeders Cup. Lester Piggott was 54 years old.

One of Lester's greatest talents, and a contributing factor to his enormous success, is that he knew practically every horse in his country and the good ones around the world. I remember seeing him in the winter of l990, vacationing and lolling around the bar at the Hialeah 2-year-old sales grounds in Miami. Dogwood's good colt Summer Squall was in Florida and preparing for a Classics campaign. Lester-in his sly, impudent way-stopped me and said, "You are not going to run that horse a mile and quarter are you?" He thought he knew what practically every horse could and should do. This knowledge and the skillful presentation of it at the right time enabled him to steal mounts from other riders, and did not endear him in the jockey community. He was often abrasive, but when there was a worthwhile objective, he could-in his mumbling, compelling way-charm the pants off of his target. It should also be said that when a fellow jockey was injured, Lester was inevitably the first caller at the hospital.

For many years he was stable rider for the great Vincent O'Brien. When he thought Lester was getting a little long in the tooth, he did not renew the contract. The next year in the 1984 English Derby, the trainer ran the royally bred El Gran Senor for the powerful owners, Robert Sangster and John Magnier. That colt was outgamed in a furious stretch drive to Secreto. Piggott was aboard Alphabatim in the race and even though he didn't win, he couldn't help but offer a dig to the dejected trio as he walked back to weigh in. The rider looked over impishly and mumbled, "Missing me?"

Stories about this interesting man would easily fill a book, and several have been written. The following simple incident probably demonstrates clearly all of the foregoing observations on the intricacies of Lester Piggott.

Lester was invited to go pheasant shooting by Harry Carr, a prominent English horseman, on his property at Wickhambrook, near Newmarket.

Lester was standing in a line of guns between two well-known jockeys of yesteryear, Jimmy Lindley and Joe Mercer. Quite a few birds had come Lester's way, and none thus far had suffered any ill effects.

Toward the end of the drive when the beaters and their dogs had approached to within 50 to 60 yards, a large cock pheasant came running down the fence line.

To Carr's absolute horror, Piggott quickly threw his shotgun to his shoulder and took aim.

Harry shouted, "No, no, Lester! You cannot shoot it when it is running!"

"The bugger won't stand still!" Lester replied and quickly followed this with a blast that practically blew the bird in half.

The rider is very much alive, and, I gather, enjoying a quiet life in England. He has certainly had his share of excitement, and has created an untold amount of it.

The charm of horse racing lies primarily in the animals that do it—their beauty, grace, power and their degree of class. But there is an undeniable attraction to the colorful human beings that make it happen. The purpose of this blog is to share my stories about some of these characters. My requisites in the selection: I had dealings with them, their antics and accomplishments should not be forgotten, and that at least most of them are no longer with us. — Cot Campbell

   Fred Hooper was his own man—for 102 years! And he was one in a million. He seemed to have been born knowing about a racehorse, and when he was able to indulge that knowledge, he got the job done.

   The only significant "career-path" education this poor boy ever got was as a graduate of Moler Barber College in Atlanta. After he practiced for a few months cutting the locks of derelicts that wandered in off the streets for a free one, he packed his comb, scissors and clippers and headed out for the construction camps that were mushrooming across Dixie. He cut hair, did some prize fighting, hustled around, and by osmosis, learned the rudiments of construction. In time Hooper Construction Company was building highways, airports and race tracks. Fred got rich. He was smart, tough and has been described as "unabashedly unsophisticated."

   Fred Hooper understood livestock, liked racing (and the gamble that it involved), followed bloodlines and really did have an authentic eye for an equine athlete. In 1943, he hauled off and went to the Keeneland yearling sale, and bought a colt by Sir Gallahad. That sucker won the Kentucky Derby two years later. His name was Hoop Jr. Hooper picked out the horse, and from that time on he depended on his own judgment on how to breed them, and how to train them. He had knowledgeable trainers but they knew going in that the boss was Fred Hooper.

 1945 Kentucky Derby winner Hoop Jr.

Did he ever breed some good ones! The super stars were Susan's Girl, Crozier, Admiral's Voyage, Copelan, Precisionist, Tri Jet, and Olympia (about whom more in a moment). In total, he bred more than 100 stakes winners and they earned in excess of $50 million (when fifty big ones was tougher to come by).

 Whenever I would run into Fred, I would tell him that I had just enrolled in Moler Barber College, hoping that maybe that would make my horses run like his did. Not a great line perhaps, but he liked it.

 His expertise also ran to the ability to discover and launch some of the greatest jockeys in the history of racing. Lord knows how he was able to uncover Braulio Baeza, Laffit Pincay Jr., and Jorge Velasquez. He brought them out of Central America to this country and sponsored them.

 But on to Olympia.

 Olympia turned out to be one of the fastest horses of all time and a predominant speed influence on the breed. It was Olympia who was to represent the Thoroughbred in one of the shortest, and most dramatic, races ever run: the famous match race against the fastest Quarter Horse in the world.

 Stella Moore was her name and a quarter-mile was her game!

 Stella had defeated a very fast California Thoroughbred named Fair Truckle. The swift mare's owners next approached Hooper and threw down the gauntlet: quarter mile, Tropical Park in Miami, $25,000 put up by each side, Stella Moore versus Olympia.

 The super-quick Olympia was as game as Dick Tracy. And so was Fred Hooper. Done!

 Fred Hooper and Olympia, 1966

There was to be no pari-mutuel wagering on this match race. It was an exhibition, approved by the state.

 The race was on, and a sell-out crowd filled the Tropical Park grandstand. Half the attendees showed up in ten-gallon hats and cowboy boots. And they were loaded with Stella Moore money.

 Fred Hooper covered every dime of it and was looking for more at post time.

 In charge of these special proceedings was the racing secretary of Tropical Park, Pat Farrell. A big part of his job that day was recording the bets. As he received money (legal tender), he pushed it into the top right drawer of his desk and locked it. At post time, he then locked the door to the racing secretary's office and rushed out to see the making of racing history.

 At this point Hooper had put up his $25,000 stake, as had Stella's man, and Hooper had single-handedly covered about one hundred grand in bets from numerous Quarter Horse enthusiasts. This was very big money in the late forties.

 When the starter sprung the latch, Olympia flashed his vaunted speed, got the drop on Stella Moore, and held her safe to the wire, winning by the rapidly vanishing margin of a head.

 The finish was scary, but not nearly as scary as the settling of the bets.

 After pictures were taken and hands were shaken, a big crowd went back to Pat Farrell's office for the settling-up ceremonies.

 With a big smile on his face, Pat withdrew his key from his pocket, held it up as a magician might have, and with a flourish inserted it into the lock on the drawer. He flung the drawer open for one and all to behold the absolutely staggering cache of greenbacks, now belonging to Fred Hooper.

 The drawer was empty.

 Pat Farrell looked as if he would lose his lunch. His face was ashen, and he thrust his hand into the drawer as if he might be able to feel the money, even though he certainly could not see it!

 The atmosphere in the room as decidedly tense.

 Finally, Farrell jerked the drawer completely out of the desk. The bigger drawer beneath it was housing a truly splendid clump of greenbacks. There was the stash of cash.

 There was no back panel in the top drawer, so as Farrell hurriedly pushed the final batch of bills toward the back of the drawer, the dough had dropped out of sight into the bottom compartment.

 Hooper collected, gave a grand to Pat (slowly recovering from a near coronary!), nodded politely to the vanquished cowboys, and headed back to the barn. It had been a great day for the breed.

 Fred Hooper felt strongly about his opinion, and he was a gambling man. This story proves it.

   Alfred Vanderbilt enjoyed playing tennis with me. The reason he enjoyed it is that he was a very bad tennis player, and he sought the company of others of equal ability. I fit the bill. He liked ladies—in every sense of the word, I'm sure—so it was usually mixed doubles at Saratoga. Typical of Alfred it suited him to play at public courts rather than the tonier Saratoga Golf and Polo Club, where very stylish grass courts were available.

   While the Vanderbilt name is synonymous with heavy brass—stupendous wealth, Alfred never seemed terribly aware of it. If he was important, he was not absorbed with it. He was nice enough looking, with a casual, slouchy way about him. His countenance bore no hint of exuberance, and if he was burning with enthusiasm on some project (and he often was) you could not tell it. His pedigree was staggering; if he had been a yearling he would have definitely been a cinch for the select session of the sale. On the top he was New York Central Railway. On the bottom, Bromo-Seltzer.

Vanderbilt with Arthur Godfrey in 1955

   When he was 21, his mother gave him a nice present:  the 600-acre Sagamore Farm (and 50 horses) in the lovely rolling hills of Maryland. From then on he dedicated his life to horse racing, and he made a monumental impact on the game. He made no bones about it—he simply adored every aspect of Thoroughbred racing. He devoted his energy to the farm, the breeding, training, racing; and also to the running of great racetracks and many of the important organizations of racing. He never wavered from his dedication to the sport—repeat sport—of racing horses. He once said, "I have this wonderful feeling about racing. It's not just that I love horses. I'm like the person who goes to the circus and falls in love with the whole show, not just the elephants."

   Alfred Vanderbilt in his day was probably the most respected man in the racing industry of North America.

   He bred and campaigned one of the five greatest horses that ever lived. Native Dancer was undefeated except for when Eric Guerin got him in a blind switch and lost the 1953 Kentucky Derby. He also had Discovery, Next Move, Bed O'Roses, Find, Social Outcast, North Sea and many other slightly lesser lights.

   He was long-time head of NYRA, operating those three race tracks while simultaneously resuscitating and popularizing semi-moribund Pimlico. His presidency breathed life into that old place by staging the wonderful War Admiral-Seabiscuit match race. A controversial but logical move was to remove the picturesque hill in the middle of the racetrack, so people could see the races. He was the first racetrack operator to introduce the photo finish camera and the electrically operated starting gate. All of this, mind you, when he was in his twenties. His racetrack managerial career was interrupted by World War II, during which Alfred joined the Navy, captained a PT Boat and was decorated for bravery. After the war, he resumed his career.

    He was a clever, impish, whimsical, interesting  man, and he attracted such diverse pals as Oscar Levant, George Abbott, Ernest Hemingway, Hal Prince, Fred Astaire, the Duke of Windsor, and a wide variety of characters in every walk of life. He was comfortable in his own skin. For example, he once made an indelible impression on me when I spied him at a typically frenetic cocktail party in Saratoga. We all know that it is absolutely essential that at a cocktail party you must never be caught without someone to talk to. Unthinkable that you would not be screaming at someone! Not with Alfred. At one point I can see him, with his back to the crush of revelers, simply standing by himself staring out a window. He would have been glad to talk but it was not important either way.

   One day in the crowded paddock at Saratoga, he took great pleasure in pointing out to a friend (the Secretary of the Treasury at the time) that he had a hole in the seat of his pants. Conceivably this story is apocryphal, but when jockey Ted Atkinson was about to ride a Vanderbilt long shot in a mile and three-quarter race, Alfred showed up in the paddock with a sandwich, a flashlight and a compass, commenting, "It may be dark before you get back."

   His later years literally proved dark for him. A degenerative eye disease made him close to blind. While he was losing his sight, his son was killed in a mountaineering accident. And Alfred was discouraged with the way racing was trending. Still, he kept a few horses, and each morning his driver took him to the racetrack for training. He stood on the apron and heard—not saw—his horses go by. He could hardly distinguish a large object. If I passed him I would say, "Good morning Alfred. It's Cot Campbell." He could then come back with a greeting.

   But late in the game he got "Derby Fever." He had some horses with trainer Mary Eppler, and he asked her to go to the sales and buy a colt "that could win the Derby." She made a good try. She bought a colt and Alfred named him Traitor. He won the Futurity and was placed in the Champagne. The racing world got excited that a Vanderbilt horse finally would complete that which Native Dancer sought—and deserved. Alas, he did not get to the Derby.

   Alfred Vanderbilt—whose birth was announced on the front page of the New York Times in 1912—died in 1999. He passed while dressing for a trip to the racetrack. He was going there to sit while the races took place.

   The ground rules for these blogs, which we began in late winter, were that I would write about colorful, old-time horsemen with whom I had some relationship.  And—to facilitate candor—preferably the subjects would no longer be with us. Now I write about one who is with us...barely, I think. And, certainly he is no professional horseman.

   Mickey Rooney. He is a horse lover and a horse player of major proportions, and he claimed to have once climbed aboard Seabiscuit and breezed him six furlongs. I wonder about that, because I think "Silent Tom" Smith, trainer of that great horse, was exceedingly picky about who did what with Seabiscuit. And it is pretty well established that Mickey's imagination has been known to run afoul of the facts. However, the very audacity of that brag—as shaky as it seems to be—entitles him to be a subject of these blogs.

   Mickey Rooney, star of National Velvet,The Black Stallion, and other racing pictures, is no dummy about a racehorse. Mickey has certainly spent a lot of time at racetracks, was a stockholder in Santa Anita, and owned some horses.

Photo Courtesy of the University of Tennessee Libraries Special Collection/Clarence Brown Collection

    I have always been a great admirer of his acting. Despite his usual raucous and frenetic roles, no less an authority than Sir Laurence Olivier said he was the best single actor produced in America. It is firmly established that in the thirties and forties, he was the number one box office attraction in the world! Then, too, I have always found it noteworthy that he had an affair with Lana Turner, and got married to Ava Gardner, among some other very pretty women.

   I got to know him pretty well. It started when I thought it would be cool to name a horse for him. We happened to have a mutual friend, and he presented the idea to Mickey. I then got him on the phone, he was delighted with the idea, and gave me permission to name a good-looking bay colt, sired by Nashua, "Mickey Rooney."  The horse didn't turn out very well.  But that's beside the point!

   At the time of Mickey's equine adventures with us, he was appearing in the wonderful burlesque review Sugar Babies.  While our friendship and business relationship existed primarily on the phone, his equine involvements quickly expanded, and within a few months he owned shares in five horses.

   Mickey did not sweat the small stuff, and the small stuff often included funding his purchases.  He would say, "I'll take a share of that Vaguely Noble colt, and let me get a piece of that Nijinsky filly. Just tell Otis (his business manager) to take care of it!"

   The problem was he did not tell Otis to take care of it!  Otis knew nothing about it and did not wish to hear about it.  He had heard about enough already.  Consequently, it was tough to get paid for the horses Mickey "bought." Some of them almost died of old age before Mickey and his business manager got on the same page.  This, of course, presented me with some fierce fiscal challenges, and finally Dogwood and Mickey got a divorce (not the first for either!).

   At the outset of our relationship, Mickey, an avid gambler, instructed me to "bet five hundred every time a Dogwood horse runs."  I knew this was not a good idea and told him, "Mickey, if my own dear, departed mother gave me such instructions, I would decline to follow them. I love you dearly, but I can't bet for you." Smartest move I ever made.

   In those days and now, I went to New York fairly often and would always make arrangements to stop by the Broadhurst Theater and call on Mickey.  I wanted to bring him up to date on his horses and, hopefully, discuss his always alarmingly delinquent account.

   Business sessions with Mickey were experiences you would never forget.

   The only time he could see you was just prior to his going on in Sugar Babies.  Curtain was at eight.  So Mickey would say "Meet me in my dressing room at 7:45."  This impressed me as rather tight scheduling, so I would invariably arrive at 7:30.  Mickey would invariably arrive at 7:55.  The system suited me fine because when the meeting was over I would hustle into the theater and see the delightful show for the umpteenth time, having bought a ticket, you may be sure.

   His dressing room was a ramshackle, disreputable hovel.  Mickey had his favorite chair, in which he would hold court (for the brief time you got to see him).  It was a huge, overstuffed chair that looked as if it might have been bought secondhand from the immigrants' lounge on Ellis Island.  Much of the original cotton that held it together was now strewn around Mickey's dressing room.

   Just before eight, Mickey would breeze in, strip down to his Jockey underwear, and plop into his chair.  He would quickly run through the opening pleasantries and then recite a litany of projects he was going to undertake, most of which were creative, promising, and fascinating.  If you ever complimented him or asked him about some accomplishment in the past, he would quickly brush you off and move into the future.  (ME: Mickey, your performance in Bill was absolutely incredible. You've got to win an Emmy for that!"  ROONEY:  "Yeah, but lemme tell you—Martha Raye and I are going to do a musical based on the comic strip Maggie and Jiggs!")

   Now it would be 8:05.  I could hear the overture strike up.  As it finished, Mickey would be enthusing over another project.  I could hear audience laughter and applause as Ann Miller, his co-star, finished her first number.  With one nude leg thrown over the arm on the battle-worn chair, Mickey would be explaining his ten rules for a happy life.  I would offer, "Now, Mickey, I know I'm taking too much of your time, but let me ask you about that last filly you bought a piece of..."

   "Aw, don't worry.  Did you hear about the commercial I'm doing for the Animal's Rights Foundation...they're going to..."

   My watch read 8:20.  The musical has now been going on for 20 minutes, and the star is still in his underwear!  A barely audible knocking signal comes at the door.  Still Mickey is talking, now discoursing on his religious conversion.  I can hear two comics on stage, and their routine is bringing down the house.  Still he talks: I listen.

   Suddenly, as if an electric impulse has surged through his short, fat body, he is out of the chair.  He grabs a clown suit off the coat rack, leaps into it, zips up the front, grabs my hand, pumps it once, and goes flying out the door.  As I walk down the rickety stairs, I can hear him on stage, belting out lyrics.

   "If you know Suzy like I know Suzy.  Oh what a girl...!"

   Ah, Mickey Rooney.

   I wish I had him back.

Courtesy of thereelist.com

The primary attribute of Palace Malice is that he is a very good racehorse, having won the Belmont Stakes, Jim Dandy Stakes, and $1,481,135. But there are other plus factors. One, he is a big, powerful, handsome animal with a most ingratiating personality, deserving of his hefty fan base.

Certainly, we do not choose racehorses based on their affability. Some of the greatest have been mean as hell. In fact, most of the good ones tend to be a trifle edgy. But it is nice when you are able to admire one for his derring do, but love him because he's also a good guy. This one is truly a good guy.

I think if Palace Malice had a human counterpart he would be Derek Jeter, the great Yankee shortstop. Pleasant, enthusiastic, steady, strong, brilliant and durable.

Palace Malice has raced at Belmont Park, Saratoga, Gulfstream Park, Fair Grounds, Keeneland, and Churchill Downs. Dirt, Polytrack, slop. On his back it has been necessary to have the assortment of Javier Castellano, Rosie Napravnik, Garrett Gomez, Edgar Prado, and Mike Smith...with John Velazquez coming up. Not once has he failed to try. Never put a foot out of place in any paddocks, quietly gone about his business in post parades, and then run like hell when the races got underway. That night he would eat his supper, gaze inquiringly out his stall door, and the next day be rearing to train. Sound, thank God.

In the marvelous hands of Todd Pletcher, he performs in the morning with steady eagerness, doing just what is asked of him. No need to stimulate him with a workmate; he will go as fast or as slow as you want him to. His gentlemanly demeanor should not be a surprise, because his education began at Lane's End Farm and was furthered by Niall Brennan, by Brad Stauffer at our barn here in Aiken, S.C., and then by Pletcher.
He spent a short amount of time in Aiken—one of the great places, and a town whose main economic force is horses. When he went off and began dancing in the big dances, the citizenry started following him, especially because his name was rather fun to latch onto. Palace Malice's pre-Kentucky Derby campaign was flashy and promising, so Aiken was really tied on when the Derby came around.

Palace Malice was fitted with blinkers for the first time, and when he broke from the gate—with 72 hooves of l8 horses popping like firecrackers in the sloppy track—he took off with Mike Smith like a scalded dog. As he flew down the backstretch with the Dogwood colors sparkling three lengths in front, the uninitiated, in Aiken and elsewhere, said, "Oh boy, look at this!" The initiated looked at the sizzling early fractions, and said, "Oh my God, he can never last." And he did not. Still it was an exhilarating, rather unforgettable performance, and had many of his supporters on their feet and screaming. 

So, when the Belmont rolled around five weeks later, Aiken was primed for redemption. And they got it. When our colt romped to an emphatic victory, the town went crazy. Happily, I happened to blurt out in the winners' circle (to NBC-TV's Bob Costas):  "They'll be dancing in the streets in Aiken, South Carolina tonight!" That delighted and cemented the deal in this part of the Southland. His televised win in the Jim Dandy, and his sterling effort in the Travers, have gone on to fuel a well-defined epidemic of "Palace Malicitis."

Palace Malice winning the Belmont Stakes...

...and then the Jim Dandy Stakes at Saratoga seven weeks later.

We don't think about this much. But there is a truly splendid thing about the sport and industry of Thoroughbred horse racing. And it is that here we have a large, four-legged beast, unable to make any of his own self-aggrandizing utterances, and residing in a lowly, 12' by 12' box stall. And, for some inexplicable reason he is imbued with a unique combination of ability, courage, poise—class!—that can strike thrilling delight in the hearts of so many people who watch him perform. And that they can form a wonderful personal affinity with him. His striving becomes a distinct part of their own persona.

This equates to priceless anticipation, joy, excitement...ingredients often not easy to come by, and, in many cases, experienced by recipients that could use some.

Cot Campbell (R) and Mike Smith hoist the Belmont Stakes trophy   

Thirty-five years ago the Arabs started coming to America to buy Thoroughbred racehorses, and everyone in the game was in a frenzy to latch on to a "Mohammed" or a "Khalid" or some son of the desert. Dogwood Farm—then in Georgia—thought we had rung the bell when we were introduced to Prince Faisal bin Salman bin Abudlaziz Al Saud. Prince Faisal was in Columbus, Ga., at Fort Benning studying to become the next Minister of Defense of Saudi Arabia; an office held by his father.

He was a bona fide prince of that oil-rich country, and a guy who reportedly adored racehorses and the life that went with them. Naturally, we were dying to show him around.

Not surprisingly, he had a sizeable entourage—lawyers, bodyguards, court jesters...and the lovely Princess Asiya. One of his Georgia staff suggested a visit, and we agreed upon a day. We would tour the barns, show the horses in which shares were available (of course!), and then repair to our guest house for what needed to be a very high-class lunch.  

My wife, Anne, researched the cuisine of Saudi Arabia and gathered that there really were no dietary restrictions. Therefore, we would use this occasion to introduce a fine, highly-prized Kentucky ham given us earlier, along with other supporting culinary offerings associated with the Thoroughbred world and sporting life.  

The day arrived. Prince Faisal and his group came rolling through the Dogwood gate in a huge motor home, emblazoned with the crest of Saudi Arabia. We hosts were assembled at the race track poised at sort of a quasi-attention, ready to ooze charm.

The visitors filed off the motor coach, introductions were made, and the program began.

Prince Faisal at the time was a chubby, little fellow, rather puzzlingly clad in a beige jump suit, which also sported the Saudi crest. He was highly effervescent, responsive; and truly loved seeing several sets of Dogwood horses. After a most satisfactory and promising morning, we went to the guest house for lunch, where there would be just the right touches one would want to solidify the visit of Arab royalty.

The menu consisted of the aforementioned ham, a nice salad, and an old favorite—Kentucky Burgoo.

The first in the buffet line was an Atlanta attorney. He looked worriedly at the offerings, and then cleverly sought to save the day by exclaiming, "Oh, Anne, I see you are serving corned beef. How nice!"

Anne briskly straightened him out, "No, no! That's a Kentucky ham!"

At which point, a pall fell over the group. Faisal muttered desultorily, "Oh, I am afraid we cannot eat any type of pork. But there are so many other nice dishes." Like hell there were! The salad was heavily laden with bacon bits. And the burgoo could not have existed without the pig's contribution. The meal—and the day—were rapidly headed downhill, due to the menu's strong reliance on the hog.

While we labored gamely through several conversational topics, Anne had rushed into the kitchen and was preparing some cheese biscuits. After what seemed an eternity, she zoomed back into the dining room with an earthenware dish filled with the piping hot (I mean steaming!) cheese biscuits. She offered these first to Princess Asiya.

It bears noting that the Princess was a staggeringly buxom young woman, and was wearing that day a blouse that amply demonstrated her décolletage.

Just as Anne proffered the earthenware dish, inexplicably it broke in half, and several of the hot cheese biscuits fell into the cavity housing the royal Arabian bosom.

What else could go wrong?

At that point, the situation was so bad, it was almost good. We all laughed a great deal. In fact, when the royal motor coach departed through the Dogwood gates an hour later, the prince good-naturedly bid us goodbye on the vehicle's public address system, "Anne...next...time...give...me...CORNED BEEF!"

Did Prince Faisal buy any shares in our horses? No.

Many years ago I established a successful Thoroughbred training farm in Southwest Georgia. It was truly a triumph of energy and enthusiasm over stupidity and bad judgment. When energy and enthusiasm began to wane, I sold Dogwood Farm.

Back in the early days of 1975, we were making some headway, presenting Dogwood, and its mild Georgia winter climate, as a fine place to break yearlings. But we badly needed more outside (non-Dogwood) clients for training. The big breakthrough came, but not without its price. Here's the story:

One of the leading trainers in North America was a man named Frank Merrill. He had a lot of horses, and he campaigned in Canada in the summer and went to Florida in the winter. He had been sending his client's yearlings to a farm in Ocala for breaking and early training, before he took them over for campaigning. I had targeted Frank as an ideal client for Dogwood—lots of horses controlled by only one man.

For some time I had been talking to Frank about giving us his business. I knew he liked the idea, but he was reluctant to leave his Ocala connection. I thought we were making headway, however, and it was a project that was heavy on my mind.

One day in July, I was due to fly to England to look at a couple of older horses that I was thinking of buying. I was at our Dogwood business office in Atlanta, had my bags with me, and was set to fly out on a late afternoon plane to London. I got a phone call that morning; it was Frank Merrill. He said he wanted to talk to me about the training arrangement, so I needed to fly up to Canada that day and have dinner and discuss the matter? The timing was not convenient, but I absolutely had to go.

I quickly rearranged my plans. My secretary booked me on a flight to Buffalo, leaving later that morning. Frank said I should fly to Buffalo because the current Canadian race meeting was at Ft. Erie, right across the border, and we would spend the night at his cottage near Ft. Erie. Fine. I made arrangements to fly to England the next day from up there.

It was a hot day when all this developed, but since I was going to England where the weather is usually cool, I had on a fairly heavy suit. And since I was going to be in England a week, I had packed a big bag and a garment bag and had my briefcase with me. I had no time to go to the bank. I had only twenty-one dollars on me, but I knew Frank would meet me and I could cash a check through him in Canada.

I arrived in Buffalo at 2:30 p.m., but I didn't see Frank or any emissary. My bag came up, but Frank did not. I thought I'd better call him. I got his wife, and she said she was sure he must be on the way.

"Be patient. You know Frank, he's always late (heh heh!)," she offered helpfully. At 3:30 I called again. Frank's wife told me to catch a cab to the cottage. She promised he'd either be there or would arrive shortly.

So I lugged my bags to the curbside, hailed a cab, and asked the driver how much to take me to 532 Dalton Road in Ft. Erie. Eighteen dollars. Close, but that was okay. Off we trekked to Frank's cottage. I gave the driver twenty bucks, since he helped haul the baggage up to the door (and it was hotter in Canada than it was in Atlanta). I had one dollar left...and was a long way from home.

I had no choice but to sit down on the steps in the hot sunshine and hope and pray that Frank showed. No cell phones then. I was sweltering and dejected at this point, and I'm sure I looked the part, sweating heavily in my cavalry twill suit.

In the yard next to his cottage, four small children were playing rather noisily. They noticed me, of course, and they observed that I seemed in a foul mood. After awhile it dawned on them that I might somehow fit into the afternoon's recreational activities.

Soon a rock came whistling over my way! With all four crouched behind bushes in the yard, a rock barrage then started in earnest. This was definitely too much!

Summoning up my sternest demeanor, I warned, "Now, see here, you children, this is going to have to stop. We're not going to have any rock throwing!" Like hell we're not. Now it was like the barrage at Omaha Beach.

At this juncture, one of them yelled out, "Hi there, old Poo Poo Man," a term which seemed to capture the fancy of all the assailants.

Picture this. Here I am on a sizzling hot day, burdened by some very heavy baggage, one dollar in my pocket, no transportation, no idea where my acquaintances are, in a strange land, with four tiny children throwing rocks and screaming "Poo Poo Man" at me.

This was not one of the great afternoons of my life.

I decided that I must seek a less hostile atmosphere. I picked up my bags and struggled up the street, to what destination I did not know. After about a block I was ringing wet. A pickup truck came by, and when I dropped my bags and began waving frantically, he stopped. I told him I was looking for a motel, and he said he was going by one about a mile away—the best news I had heard all day long. He took me there, I checked in with my credit card, and things began to look up, relatively speaking.

After numerous phone calls, I finally talked to Frank later that night. He seemed only vaguely aware that he had caused me some slight degree of inconvenience. Showing remarkable restraint, I pleasantly made arrangement to meet him at his barn the next morning. We talked then, and, perhaps in a fit of remorse (although I doubt it), he agreed to send me 20 horses to train.

He continued to send me horses for some years after that. But I did pay a price.

In the world of commerce, nothing could be more colorful and fascinating than an auction of Thoroughbred horses.  For instance, at Keeneland in Lexington each fall for almost two weeks, around 4,000 horses are sold, and people come from all over the world to pay prices that cause the average to be in the neighborhood of six figures. Every two minutes an enormous drama for a new cast of characters plays out. We in the horse business take all of this for granted, but the machinations of the auction scene are truly staggering.

I bought my first horse at public auction in 1967. She cost $900. I have been buying them steadily ever since—in Kentucky, Florida, New York, Maryland, California, England, and France. Dogwood has bought maybe 1,800 horses for its partnerships and spent a couple of hundred million. I doubt that any outfit has been that steady for that long.

For 48 years I have arrived at every auction in a state of excitement; and I have left in a state of exhaustion and relief. At public auction, I have bought a Preakness Stakes (gr. I) winner (Summer Squall) winner, and a Belmont Stakes (gr. I) winner (Palace Malice) and many, many others that could not outrun a fat man going uphill.

But, speaking of drama, few auction purchases could compare to the "bad news-good news" Dogwood brouhaha of 1988.

In the eighties, the most popular stallion in the world was Northern Dancer. His yearlings were bringing astronomical prices, averaging well over a million dollars. At a sale (which shall be nameless) I bought a lovely Northern Dancer colt for $1 million. Though the price scarily exceeded my comfort zone, I was overjoyed. I knew I could walk through that pavilion one time and syndicate him for probably $1.2 million, so great was the demand for Northern Dancers as racehorses, and so extraordinarily high was their residual value as breeding animals no matter what their race record. I was really flabbergasted when the auctioneer knocked him down to me because the Arabs (and other heavy hitters) were in an absolute feeding frenzy for sons of the great stallion.

The attendant brought me the sales slip to sign. I did. He then gave me the yellow receipt, which I stuck in my pocket, while people congratulated me and the always continuous sales pavilion murmur increased markedly in volume over this surprising sale.

The next horse was in the ring when the auctioneer suddenly intoned, "Ladies and gentlemen, there has been a dispute in the bidding over the last horse, and we're going to reopen the bidding."
At this point, losing my cool (with damned good reason, I still feel), I held my receipt aloft and yelled out, "How can there be a dispute? Here's my receipt for the horse!" Now the entire pavilion was deathly silent. The announcer proceeded to read aloud a pertinent condition of sale..."the auctioneer shall have the right to adjudicate any disputes arising from the bidding."

What had happened was that the team of one of the major Arab buyers was inexplicably "asleep at the switch." Maybe they were expecting that it would take more time for the bidding to get to the neighborhood where they would jump in and get serious. At any rate, they got shut out, and I "bought" the horse. This was the "dispute." So the bidding was reopened.

The Arabs bid $1.1 million. I upped it $50,000; they went up another $50,000 and got the horse. That was the "bad news."

Understandably, sales companies do not like to (1) leave money on the table, and of much greater importance in this case, (2) they are loathe to irritate Arab buyers. I think the auctioneer simply overreacted and went impulsively beyond the bounds of acceptable judgment.

After stalking dramatically out of the sales arena, I quickly saw that the most practical recourse was to calm down. If I sued, the horse would have been tied up legally until he died of old age, and I had little to gain by rupturing my longtime relationship with the sales company involved. I think its officials knew they had—in the heat of battle—blown it. However, they could hardly admit this (because of legal action possibly being taken). They later wrote me what was close to an apology. The press had a field day with the incident. I must say, I did rather enjoy that!

What was the "good news" in this equation? The horse never won a race.

Many diverse theories, techniques, procedures, tools, skills, and outright voodoo-isms go into the acquisition of young Thoroughbred horses. But what the whole rigamarole boils down to was once explained to me in indelible fashion by one of the greatest race riders who ever lived.

The story starts with Dogwood's purchase in the mid-80s of an expensive yearling colt. At the Keeneland July sale, I bought for $230,000 a big, handsome son of Seattle Slew and the fine stakes-producing broodmare Miss Suzaki. What a superb prospect he was!

Back in Aiken, S.C., we developed the dark bay colt in the most patient, conservative manner. We really took more than a year to get him ready to run.

In the fall of 1984, this colt, Slewzuki, was sent to California to the fine trainer John Russell. The colt had trained quite nicely, and we had picked out a race for him Dec. 9 at Hollywood Park. Of course, we had secured the services of the finest rider in that or any other jockey colony: Bill Shoemaker. Shoe!

To say there was a great deal of pressure attending this colt's debut is a masterpiece of understatement. The other partners were excited; I was definitely excited, and, of course, I was going to California to see the colt run.

The day arrived. He was in the sixth race. I came in the night before and watched him have an easy gallop the next morning (just to take the edge off). This colt was as sharp as "jailhouse coffee!" After the fifth race, I rushed to the paddock. The colt came in looking an absolute picture. I could not have been prouder. John Russell put the tack on him, and he and the other 2-year-olds went out on the walking ring. The riders came out. Shoemaker, befittingly dazzling in a brand new set of Dogwood colors, walked over to John and me.

I would remind you here that Shoemaker was known to be rather laconic. They did not call him "Silent Shoe" for nothing. The trainer and I greeted Bill, shook hands with him, and he favored us with a barely audible murmur.

Now, I know better than this, but I did feel that it was necessary to import to Bill that this was not just any old race, but it was the debut of what should become one of the true legends on the Turf. This was important. So I said, "Well! Bill, this is a colt by Seattle Slew. I got him for $230,000 last summer at the Keeneland sale, and we have really taken our time with him."

Shoemaker looked up at me and softly replied, "Oh."

I pushed on, "Bill, he's out of a wonderful producing broodmare named Miss Suzaki. She's had two stakes winners. Never thrown a blank!"

"Hmm," Shoemaker observed.

Now I was becoming desperate. Somehow I felt I had not yet ignited the fire, so I became more aggressive in my approach.

"Just look at that colt, Bill! Doesn't he look like a hell of a horse?"

Shoemaker cocked his head over to the right, glanced at the colt, then looked back at me, grinned almost imperceptibly, and said: "Well, now, if this big son of a b***h can just RUN a little bit, we ought to be all right, shouldn't we?"

Unfortunately the son of a b***h couldn't.

Editor's Note: Slewzuki started 16 times and didn't break his maiden until he was 4. He did win two races and finished second four times.
 

The Breeders' Cup World Championships is wonderful, invaluable to racing...and thank God we have it.

However, what a shame that its late fall timing killed the most wonderfully glamorous and unique race of its time—the Washington D.C. International.

This race was run for many years at Laurel Park. Conceived by John Schapiro, Laurel's very stylish owner, the invitational grass race at a mile and a half attracted the stellar turf runners of every major racing nation. Dogwood's horse Nassipour was an American representative in 1984.

But it was a dog—not a horse—that was the star that year.

Schapiro glamorized the International marvelously, by surrounding it with glittering parties. It was a highlight of Washington's fall social season. Usually one of the major embassies hosted a beautiful dinner. In 1984 Canada did the honors.

Washington was seriously cold that weekend and, unfortunately, the party's size required a large tent for the dinner portion of the event. But cocktails were served inside in the lovely embassy foyer.

Our Dogwood contingent was bowled over by the gorgeous party and its extremely elegant setting. And we were charmed when we observed the ambassador's family dog, a tremendous Irish Wolfhound, wandering amiably among the distinguished guests during cocktail hour. This was a very appealing, "down home" touch to what otherwise could have been a rather stuffy affair.

Ambassadors whose countries had entrants in the race were all present. That year, Russia—despite the still chilly Cold War relationship with the United States—was represented by a horse in the International. That country's ambassador was certainly there, and he was most distinctive. He was tall and spare, with prominent features supporting a huge, but very patrician, nose. He had a luxuriant head of wiry, gray hair that swept back in wild profusion from a high, pallid, blue-veined forehead. He looked like a mad scientist or a symphony conductor.

When the dinner hour was announced, we filed apprehensively into the uncomfortable climate of the tent (we are talking cold!). Space heaters blew hot air throughout the spacious tent, and the embassy staff actually handed out thermal socks as we went in.

Our table for 10 happened to be adjacent to the Russian ambassador's, and we watched with interest as this stork of a man stalked somberly past us. He was clad in a dramatic, floor-length fur coat, ideal for Russian winters and not a bad idea for this night in Washington. After removing and draping the coat over the back of the chair, he seated himself.

The congenial family dog had also strolled in with the other guests. Undaunted by the frigid conditions, he had reclined between the two tables to await the evenings proceedings.

The meal was served, the wine replenished generously, and the party was going nicely, considering the temperature.

After dessert and coffee, the Canadian ambassador rose to toast the fine horses that would face the starter the next day. He then remarked on the great, healing significance of friendly competition at the International at a time in Cold War history when relations between many nations were tenuous.

The Russian ambassador decided at this juncture that he was cold, and he shrugged himself into his great fur coat.

With that, the huge dog, dozing several feet away, jolted to attention. He jumped up and stood riveted by this heretofore unobserved large, hairy object. His head was lowered like that of a bull before a charge.

Inexplicably, this animal (who stood a good six feet tall when on his back legs) leapt onto the back of the unsuspecting diplomat, planted his front legs on the man's shoulders, and began—with astounding enthusiasm—to make love to this irresistibly attractive, furry creature.

Thrusting vigorously, with a seriously rapt demeanor about him, this dog now completely stole the attention of the entire party. The host began to falter slightly in his remarks but could hardly stop and scream at his "pet." He had no choice but to continue gamely.
But the "mother of all dilemmas" lay with the Russian ambassador; never would his skills of diplomacy be so severely tested.

First he looked around with some understandable surprise to ascertain the nature of the attack. When he had assessed the situation, he addressed the problem by shrugging his shoulders discouragingly and glaring menacingly at the beast, while uttering a sharp but well-modulated command. It did not work.

The huge wolfhound picked up the tempo, if anything.

What a problem! The ambassador must bring closure to this unseemly episode. The speaker was by now just going through the motions; the audience was tittering audibly, and some members were in stitches. Everyone in the tent was aware of this spectacle.

The ambassador had several choices, none of them promising.

He could get up and walk out. But this was fraught with risk. He couldn't be sure just what the response of the Irish Wolfhound might be. Would this stimulate him further? Then, too, how would it play that a high-ranking diplomat was vanquished from the field by the amorous attentions of a large dog!

He could turn and smite the dog forcefully, sending a signal that this activity was not at all suitable for this occasion. But we're talking here about a very, very large dog, in a most intense frame of mind. Would this be a judicious course of action? Of considerably less significance at this point, the animal was the house pet of the host (who would have cheerfully slit the animal's throat right about then).

Third, he could try removing the garment that triggered all this misery in the first place.

The Russian did take off the coat, struggling mightily and trying not to stand up and attract further attention while he did so. He then tossed the troublesome garment several feet away between the tables. This did the trick.

The dog, now dismounted, looked completely crestfallen. He stared first at the now inanimate fur coat, then at the seething ambassador. Had he been able to shrug his shoulders as if to say, "Well, it was nice while it lasted," he would have done so. He then lay down to resume his nap.

By this time the party was in complete chaos. Amidst audible giggling, the host lamely finished his lofty remarks. We clapped politely, adjourned, and headed for valet parking, with the Russian ambassador leading the way.

It has been said that I have a good eye for a horse. Certainly I have bought a great many. Some were good and many were not. Admittedly, when I have picked out and bought a good horse (like Palace Malice for instance), I can get a little high on myself. But, I have a framed copy of a certain sales catalog page hung prominently in my office, and a glance at this will quickly bring me down to earth.

We have to go back to 1969. I was at the Keeneland Fall Sale where I intended to buy a few yearlings. Armed with my marked catalog, I was going through the barn area, and I stopped at Barn 21, where I asked to see hip number 128. This big, bay colt was brought out, and he had great charisma. But when I asked the showman to walk the horse straight toward me, it was quite clear that he had a very crooked right front ankle, very obvious as he winged it out to the side. I told the boy to put him up. He was clearly damaged goods, and I did not want to waste valuable time.

I remember quite well when he sold that night. I was seated on the front row in the pavilion, and when the big doors opened and he was walked in, you could easily see him throwing that right leg out to the side as he approached. The auctioneer knocked him down for $1,200, which is “peanuts” for a racehorse. But this colt was never going to stand training. I pitied the obviously green buyer who would pour thousands into this horse—all for naught. I congratulated myself on my good eye, enabling to avoid such disasters.

I thought no more about him.

Then, in 1971, during a period when I covered the Triple Crown races for a chain of Southern newspapers, I was in Louisville for the running of the 97th Kentucky Derby. It was a tremendous field that year--20 horses. When the horses broke and came through the stretch the first time, it looked like “The Charge of the Light Brigade.”

Bold and Able and the Calumet speedster, Eastern Fleet, were showing the way early on. Deep into the backstretch those two were still zinging along, but salty horses like Bold Reason, Jim French and Unconscious were right there in contention. The field must have been strung out for a sixteenth; the stretch runners biding their time. The real race had not yet begun. Now into the turn, here came Jim French looking for running room on the rail. The front runners were beginning to shorten stride, and the stretch runners were launching their bids. In the very back of the pack there was a big horse that was passing horses like they were tied to a tree! I did not know the horse-- or the colors-- but he was going to have something to say about the finish of the Kentucky Derby!

In mid-stretch Jim French gained the lead on the rail, Unconscious was making a furious bid right behind him, with Eastern Fleet trying to hang on. But on the outside that big, bay stretch runner was coming hard. The rider had wheeled him out from the rail looking for daylight, and he was asking the question…and getting the answer! That horse was sweeping through the Churchill Downs stretch like a tidal wave. But whose colors were those? Who was that horse?

He hit the front at the sixteenth pole and began to draw off.

Suddenly, as the field came toward us, I noticed a funny thing. He was flinging that right leg out to the side in a curious way. You guessed it. I later confirmed what I suspected. That was the yearling colt I had smugly rejected two years earlier. He won the Kentucky Derby in 1971, went on to win the Preakness, in track record time, and was later sold to King Ranch for a lot of money.

As I type this, I look up on the wall in my office at the framed, yellowed catalog page for the *Pretendre- Dixieland II colt, on which I have noted, “Right front crooked!”

I am the genius who turned down Canonero II for $1,200.

Canonero II preps for the Kentucky Derby at Churchill Downs.
Photo: Blood-Horse Library