A Life Well Lived
Dominic Imprescia was not my first thoroughbred trainer. That distinction would go to Bob Dubois, who I selected after much letter-writing, phone-calling and statistics-searching. Bob lasted a little over a year, during which I won my first race at Arlington Park in Illinois with my first foal, Star Spectre. A powerful, distance-preferring son of Star Envoy nominated to the Florida Derby, Star Spectre returned to Florida and promptly bowed a tendon in his first race back at Calder. It was nobody’s fault, but my then-wife, Harolyn, preferred that we move on and I didn’t argue. She was riding mornings at Another Episode Farm in Ocala and the owner, Tony Everard, sent a ton of horses to Dominic so we went down to Calder to meet him. In addition to being a pretty good horseman, Dominic was quite the charmer and we decided to send our future runners to him.
The first two we sent were Nightqueen and Deadly Nightshade. Dominic called as soon as they arrived and we discussed what they had been doing in Ocala and what we expected of them. Dominic laid out the training plan for the next month and closed with his signature line:
“Don’t worry about nuthin’.”
I would get that reassurance many times in future years as we raced horses from Calder to Suffolk Downs in Boston and Rockingham in Salem, N.H. We had big successes with Thundering Heart, Mito’s Touch and Black Limousine and big disappointments with plenty of others, but we always had fun. Unlike many trainers who would prefer their owners be seen and not heard, Dominic tolerated input and participation. “I’ll tell you what you should do,” he always said, “but you pay the bills so you decide.” What Dominic thought we should do was usually right so we deferred to him more often than not. When we overrode his inclinations and were exposed in defeat, he just smiled.
“Don’t worry about nuthin,” he would say.
Training hours at Dominic’s barn on Saturdays were a hoot. Saturday is the day most of the owners show up to check in on their horses and watch them work. So there was Dominic, who started out as a used-car dealer in Fitchburg, Mass. before taking over the training of his own—and eventually other people’s—horses, parading down the shedrow like a mother duck with a following of wealthy baby ducks in tow.
Working horses, Dominic had the best watch of anyone I ever saw. If a horse worked in 36 and 2, Dominic didn’t call it 36 flat. In those days, the Daily Racing Form had clockers at most race tracks in the morning to record the work times for their readers. At Calder, there was a guy named Thunder (I assume he got the name from bellowing the work times down from above to inquiring trainers), who was unerringly accurate. Dominic would call up to Thunder to get the time and Thunder would report back, upon which Dominic would extend his arm for all to examine the watch. They were always in agreement. It was like a magic act.
Timely Writer
Dominic ran a horse in the Kentucky Derby once. His name was Dr. Renzi (after his owner) and he finished seventh, I believe. He got another chance with Timely Writer, a powerful colt owned by the Martin brothers of New England, sent down to him by Tony Everard. Timely Writer won the Flamingo at Hialeah and the Florida Derby at Gulfstream (Dominic purchased a salmon-colored suit for the former and a somewhat purplish number for the latter. I know you don’t think it’s possible, but they both looked pretty good). He basked in the glow of national television after the two races and looked forward to the big race with a horse likely to be morning-line favorite.
I asked him where he was staying in Louisville.
“Louisville?” he exclaimed, eyebrows arching. “Last time I was in the Derby, I hadda stay in Indiana!”
“Don’t worry about nuthin’,” I told him. I got hold of Churchill Downs publicity and an incredible liaison girl named Claudia Starr. Churchill had rooms blocked off for Derby principals in the prestigious Galt House and we booked Dominic and his wife, Ethel, there. He couldn’t believe it. “How’d you do that?” he asked, in wonder. “Telephone, Dom. You’re a big deal now. They take good care of you when you have a horse in the Derby.”
Alas, however, ‘twas not to be. Timely Writer coliced while at Churchill a week before the race and required surgery in Lexington. It was a great disappointment and a greater one ensued. Following a break to recover from the surgery, Timely Writer returned successfully to the races and entered the Jockey Club Gold Cup at Belmont Park as the favorite. To the horror of everyone watching, he broke his left front cannon bone in the race, triggering a three-horse pile-up, and was euthanized on the track with his head in the hands and lap of Dominic, Jr., his groom. An experience to test the toughest of men. It took quite a while for Dominic to come back from this one, but Time eventually assuaged the wounds and his good spirits found their inevitable way back.
Bill’s Salad Days. Not.
Dominic was not a sophisticated money man, but he had plenty of friends who were. He parlayed some good stock market tips into an impressive portfolio. He bought South Florida condos when they were a good investment. He sold horses for tidy profits and won a bunch of money on the track. Nobody ever thought of him as a rich guy, but he was wealthier than most. I got in a jam one day during my Dark Ages and put a horse in an OBS two-year-old sale in Ocala. When she didn’t bring a decent price, I bid her in even though I didn’t have the 30-day credit requirement with OBS to do this. Naturally, the sales company threw a fit. I called Dominic and laid out the problem.
“Don’t worry about nuthin’,” he said. “Tell them to put it on my account. They can call me.” I didn’t own the horse anymore, but at least she was going to Dominic, who would race her in Florida and give me, as breeder, the opportunity to reap some breeder awards if she won. Which she did, of course, Dominic’s luck being what it was—in cases other than that of Timely Writer.
On another occasion, I had built up a large training bill to Dominic and probably would have been fired by most other trainers. He never said anything about it. One day, two of my horses, Mito’s Touch and Black Limousine, won on the same card at Calder, wiping out the entire bill.
“I thought I might never see that money,” Dominic said.
“Don’t worry about nuthin’,” I told him.
Sainthood Not Bestowed
I don’t mean to give the impression here that Dominic was a saint. Nobody would accuse him of that. He was suspended a couple of times, once for having a needle in his shedrow in New Jersey. He was out a year. He combated this by hiring a trainer named Aurelio (Joe) Perez to handle his horses, while he sat up in the restaurant in the Holiday Inn overlooking the track. At the end of the mornings’ training sessions, Joe would troop over to the Holiday Inn and they would discuss the day’s events. In the afternoon, Dominic would return for the races. This was all perfectly fine with the restaurant as Dominic was a prodigious tipper whom everybody was always glad to see coming.
One morning at Calder, Dominic asked me when I was checking out of my room. I told him it would be around eleven, I had some things to do before the races. He told me not to check out, just leave the room open and he would check out for me later. Dominic never let advancing age get in the way of a good tryst, but I felt a little uncomfortable with this, having also spent time at his home with his wife of many decades, Ethel, an absolute rock of support for Dominic. When I foolishly wondered why all this was necessary, Dominic provided me with one of the classic married-man lines of all time:
“Ah,” he said, “I don’t want to bother Ethel.”
The Latter Days
Dominic always talked about “collecting Social Security,” by which he meant retiring, though most of us doubted it would ever happen. Nonetheless, one day he decided it was time and he turned the horses over to his long-time assistant, Oliver (Buddy) Edwards, a bright, articulate New Englander, but a horse-trainer in spite of the fact. Dominic couldn’t stay home, though, and Buddy would roll his eyes whenever Dom would show up and saunter down the shedrow making “suggestions.” Things eventually came to a boil when Dominic and a couple of partners acquired a horse named Jackie Wackie, who turned out to be a multiple stakes-winner, and Dominic, in practice if not in program, pretty much began training him. This eventually led to a separation between the two and no lack of bad feelings, which took years to cure. They were on better terms several years ago when Buddy unexpectedly passed away at an all-too-young age. “I’ll really miss that kid,” Dom told me. With Dominic, anybody was a kid if he was under eighty.
Dominic drove his car up to his 92nd year, even if it was just to the betting parlor half-a-mile down the road. He always had the biggest Cadillac he could find, and gave up driving grudgingly. He continued coming to the track when he had a horse in or when friends from out of town showed up for the day. The last time I saw him, he was shaky, advancing to his seat with the help of his daughter and Dom, Jr., but he was still his usual charismatic, glass-half-full self, drawing in many well-wishers and admirers who saw him rarely anymore.
Dominic Imprescia, 93, made it to Kentucky Derby day, 2011, went to bed that night and passed away quietly in his sleep. For the last couple of years, Dom, Jr., long perceived as a ne’er-do-well unworthy of the throne, has lived with him and taken care of his needs, however intimate, dispelling any need for nursing homes or outside help. Dominic’s long list of friends are grateful to Junior and maybe a little proud of him. And so was Dominic. Junior told me on the phone the other day that Dom had said to him, “I knew I hadja for some reason.”
Some day soon, Dom’s ashes will be spread at the Calder finish line, near the Winner’s Circle. And whoever is in charge of assigning rank and residence to those no longer living, will unroll the scroll, peer down the record of a life and smile.
“Don’t worry about nuthin’,” he will say.
Training Report
Elf went 24.3, out in 39 flat in her first real work. She gets her final pre-Calder work Saturday and we’re looking for her to knock a second off both times. Juno covered her first two-minute lick in 28 flat. Wilson, in a short break from eating carrots, gets his first 2ML Saturday.
Million Dollar Yard Sale
Siobhan’s really making progress with her EPM drugs. She’s produced a treatment drug which will be on the market not long after you read this. And she just about has a vaccine ready. She told me the other day that all the accoutrements of vaccine production—patent attorneys, field studies, etc.—cost money, so we would have to dredge some up. “How much?” I asked her. “A LOT!” she said. “We might need venture capitalists.”
I always thought venture capitalists were those guys who gave you a big bag of money and took half your company. Siobhan says that’s right. I suggested alternate fund-raising:
“Lemonade stand?”
“Not enough traffic on our street.”
“Yard Sale?”
“See answer number one.”
“How about a car wash? Bake sale? Cookies!”
“Cookies might be good.”
Okay, then. We need all of our friends to commit to buying six thousand boxes of cookies each as soon as possible. This is when you find out who your friends really are.
A Little Learning Can Be Dangerous
Larry, our Fedex man, comes here so often with blood samples for Siobhan he’s like a member of the family. He and Siobhan even share gardening tips and Larry religiously reads his blog every Thursday. He told me the other day that he had learned so much about horses over the last few months that he finds himself getting quietly critical of his many horse-farm customers’ habits.
“Every time a see a long line of buckets on a fence, I want to knock on the door and say, ‘Do you realize you’re inviting serious consequences with these slipshod horse-management practices,’’ he says. But, liking his job, he wisely remains silent. You know, Larry, there’s always the Anonymous Note.
Return Of The Conspiracy Loons
Well, they no longer had Osama bin Laden knocked off, wrapped in gauze and dumped in the ocean when the conspiracy theorists were screaming for photographic proof positive.
“Well, my Uncle Eddie runs a General Tso’s Chicken franchise in Abbottabad and HE didn’t see any Navy Seal raid,” one of them says. “Couldn’t they at least have sawed off a finger?”
“It’s just like the Moon Landing,” squeals another. “Didn’t really happen.”
“Yeah, and what about the mysterious guy on the grassy knoll?”
Of course, much of this doubt could have been alleviated if the governments of old hadn’t lied to us about the whole flying saucer fiasco. Chickens coming home to roost and all.
Out With The Old, In With The Old
Having lost one 93-year-old friend, we felt it imperative to find another. Luckily, 93-year-old Norm from the gym invited us to his dinner party this Sunday afternoon. Siobhan was concerned about what she should wear.
“I don’t want to be all dressed up if everybody else is wearing bathing suits!” she complained.
I reminded her that Norm is 93. And many of his friends are likely to be, well, old. And maybe not wearing bathing suits. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. And if they are, well, maybe it will be a short visit, anyway.
That’s all, folks…..
