set me up for the win on Filipia’s way out the door, and he had promptly and persistently ignored her. Even with so much at stake, old Sourface was too proud, too stubborn, and too sure he could fix me himself to even consider that the girl might have been right.
Every jockey I met after the Arkansas tumble went to the whip early and stayed there. While that tactic does work on some horses, I was not one of them. In true spite of the whip, I won what I needed to win to survive. Just survive.
I had seen enough of what happens to Thoroughbreds who land at the bottom. Though I was but a baby, in many ways, I was wised up enough to the game to know that I needed to run well occasionally to kindle the hope.
As a three-year-old, I raced five times. Gary himself took me all over. Maryland. West Virginia. Florida. We’d pick up jockeys at whatever track we were running.
Despite Gary’s meddling with my blood and oxygen and nerves by dosing me up with any legal substance, and a few that maybe he’d agreed to look the other way on, despite all that fiddle-faddle, I won enough purses to buy my dam and Edensway the time they needed to reestablish their breeding program. Of course, my cousin stayed out there doing his part for Edensway. Covert had sealed his place in the bloodlines. In the meantime, my path was altered.
There are reasons to alter a colt. More reasons to geld than not to, I suppose. Apparent to everyone was that I would never amount to the new-era champion that the racing world pined after. Mrs. Eden decided not to breed me. They had to sedate me to cut me, but cut me they did. Some other colt, maybe Covert, would keep the bloodlines winning.
By then, Marey’s next colt, whom I had never met, was two and burning it up. My little half brother. Doctor Tom had bred Marey to a different stallion to clean up the pedigree. My record had at least helped to prove her a good dam.
When I raced as a four-year-old, I remained in the gate for my first three races, never broke. Gary brought me back to Virginia. “We just need to regroup a little bit,” he told a reporter from
Kentucky Bloodlines
. “I feel like he’s setting on a good race, for sure. I know he can do it. The question is, does he want to?”
As a five-year-old, I raced seven times. Five times I finished dead last. Twice I won. Seems like the older I got the worse I performed.
The funny thing is, in those two races the circumstances of loading into the starting gate did, indeed, give me pause to find the bloodlines, but not a soul recognized the differentiator.
I sure wasn’t reeling in a fortune, but winning on ninety-to-one odds, every now and again, kept me barely ahead of even money. Winning enough so that Marey and Edensway Farm would reap some benefits.
Seven different jockeys, a new one for each race. I couldn’t tell one from the other. Never knew their names. I’m sure they knew mine.
No doubt, I’d have raced all my life for Filipia.
Almost worked out for both of us.
On reflection, I know the girl lied because she loved me. Shoot, she loved horses. Had lived her entire life among us. And even more so, that child loved her family. Thanks to her, I gave my own family a fair chance at good lives.
Because of the success that Filipia and I had found together, folks were reluctant to give up on me. They knew what I could do. As a result — and I attribute this saving grace to Filipia — nobody sent me to the claiming stakes to run me ragged and empty till my feet and legs and mind were shot. No sir, my jockey’s lie was told for my well-being as much as her own.
So, how could I have ever been anything but grateful for Filipia? After Gary fired her, my whole life changed. And my future did, too. Whatever was on my horizon would not include winning Grandfather Dante’s Triple Crown. I had tumbled down so far that even a miracle couldn’t earn me half a chance at the three tests.
I n a last-ditch effort to salvage something of my career
Every jockey I met after the Arkansas tumble went to the whip early and stayed there. While that tactic does work on some horses, I was not one of them. In true spite of the whip, I won what I needed to win to survive. Just survive.
I had seen enough of what happens to Thoroughbreds who land at the bottom. Though I was but a baby, in many ways, I was wised up enough to the game to know that I needed to run well occasionally to kindle the hope.
As a three-year-old, I raced five times. Gary himself took me all over. Maryland. West Virginia. Florida. We’d pick up jockeys at whatever track we were running.
Despite Gary’s meddling with my blood and oxygen and nerves by dosing me up with any legal substance, and a few that maybe he’d agreed to look the other way on, despite all that fiddle-faddle, I won enough purses to buy my dam and Edensway the time they needed to reestablish their breeding program. Of course, my cousin stayed out there doing his part for Edensway. Covert had sealed his place in the bloodlines. In the meantime, my path was altered.
There are reasons to alter a colt. More reasons to geld than not to, I suppose. Apparent to everyone was that I would never amount to the new-era champion that the racing world pined after. Mrs. Eden decided not to breed me. They had to sedate me to cut me, but cut me they did. Some other colt, maybe Covert, would keep the bloodlines winning.
By then, Marey’s next colt, whom I had never met, was two and burning it up. My little half brother. Doctor Tom had bred Marey to a different stallion to clean up the pedigree. My record had at least helped to prove her a good dam.
When I raced as a four-year-old, I remained in the gate for my first three races, never broke. Gary brought me back to Virginia. “We just need to regroup a little bit,” he told a reporter from
Kentucky Bloodlines
. “I feel like he’s setting on a good race, for sure. I know he can do it. The question is, does he want to?”
As a five-year-old, I raced seven times. Five times I finished dead last. Twice I won. Seems like the older I got the worse I performed.
The funny thing is, in those two races the circumstances of loading into the starting gate did, indeed, give me pause to find the bloodlines, but not a soul recognized the differentiator.
I sure wasn’t reeling in a fortune, but winning on ninety-to-one odds, every now and again, kept me barely ahead of even money. Winning enough so that Marey and Edensway Farm would reap some benefits.
Seven different jockeys, a new one for each race. I couldn’t tell one from the other. Never knew their names. I’m sure they knew mine.
No doubt, I’d have raced all my life for Filipia.
Almost worked out for both of us.
On reflection, I know the girl lied because she loved me. Shoot, she loved horses. Had lived her entire life among us. And even more so, that child loved her family. Thanks to her, I gave my own family a fair chance at good lives.
Because of the success that Filipia and I had found together, folks were reluctant to give up on me. They knew what I could do. As a result — and I attribute this saving grace to Filipia — nobody sent me to the claiming stakes to run me ragged and empty till my feet and legs and mind were shot. No sir, my jockey’s lie was told for my well-being as much as her own.
So, how could I have ever been anything but grateful for Filipia? After Gary fired her, my whole life changed. And my future did, too. Whatever was on my horizon would not include winning Grandfather Dante’s Triple Crown. I had tumbled down so far that even a miracle couldn’t earn me half a chance at the three tests.
I n a last-ditch effort to salvage something of my career
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