It’s all well and good for some people to be flittering about the country, climbing mountains and wearing cowboy suits, but back on the farm there is work to be done, horses to be looked after, sales to be trolled for next year’s talent. With no yearlings on the ground, Siobhan and Bill are going to have to scour the bushes to find a prospective two-year-old for 2014 racing. And what better place to start than at the August Yearling Sale at Ocala Breeders Sales with over 800 possible candidates? Siobhan can’t knock them all out with her lofty standards, can she? Well, almost. Before we get into all that, however, we’d better introduce you to a player in this drama:
The Man With The Dragon Persona
Nobody ever called Ward Theisen a pussycat. Germans have a knack for being uncuddly and Ward took it to a new level. Perhaps, in his trade—Ward was a builder and did a lot of the original work on Disney World—intimidation was a handy tool. Construction workers are not known for their Incredible Lightness of Being and cannot be effectively manipulated by Mr. Rogers, after all. So it’s only natural, after awhile, if this trailboss mentality sort of sets in and becomes a predominant part of one’s personality. But there was a lot more to Ward Theisen than that.
After leaving the construction business to younger hands, Ward got into the horse trade. Like Siobhan and I, he wasn’t interested in the buying and selling aspect of the business, he wanted to race. And in almost no time, he came up with a horse named Din’s Dancer, who was good enough to run in the 1988 Kentucky Derby. Din’s Dancer was trained by an old-timer named Jack Van Berg, a midwesterner and a crusty old codger like Ward, himself. If Ward had heroes, they were the old curmudgeon horse trainers like Van Berg, Allen Jerkins and Charlie Whittingham, guys who wanted to train their horses and be left alone to do it. The less notice they got, the less press they had to talk to, the better. If Johnny Carson ever called, they probably asked themselves “Who the hell was that?” Anyway, Din’s Dancer finished up the track in the Derby and when his career was over, Ward brought him home to Ocala and got into the breeding business. He and his wife, Geraldine, lived next street over from us in Fairfield, where they kept their mares and youngsters. We went over there all the time, listened to Ward pontificate on matters equine while Geraldine rolled her eyes. Ward was actually very funny, in his own way, and despite being occasionally overbearing, was really just looking for somebody to play with.
WT: “Well, I see you guys are over here again, checking out my feed. You probably want to know how I produce such high-quality animals on a regular basis. It’s understandable.”
Bill: “What we really want to know is what you’re feeding them that’s causing them all to have epiphysitis (enlargement of the growth plates in the forelegs of young horses).”
WT: “WHAT? What epiphysitis? These horses are champions. You should only wish you had horses like these.”
Then, of course, Ward would go back into the house and read up on everything he could find about epiphysitis in order to make the proper adjustments, none of which he would ever admit to. Ward enjoyed and respected a good argument—he really didn’t cotton to a lot of yes men. That said, he would almost never admit he was wrong. His concessions were in whatever actions he took, post-argument. He actually had a gleam in his eye during verbal jousting, enjoying the process, happy for the game. But the opponent must possess some finesse, a bit of savoir faire, something lacking in most of his antagonists. It’s sort of like American tourists bartering in Mexico. The Mexicans enjoy the Art of the Deal, the give and take, the haggling over price, the slow concessions. Most of the Americans merely try to bludgeon them down, no sophistication, no empathy, no fun, really. Ward was like the Mexicans, he wanted a little fun.
Tough as he was, over the years, age had the audacity to creep up on Ward. Siobhan and I found ourselves over there more often, particularly at foaling time, when the struggles of extracting a foal from a mare often became overwhelming for Ward and Geraldine. Other neighbors jumped in and helped get the job done, but the handwriting was on the wall. “Don’t get old,” advised Ward. “It’s such a pain in the ass!” Even with significant heart issues, he continued to feed his horses with the aid of a golf cart, a task which took him forever. If you drove by in the afternoon to check on him, he’d be sitting out front taking a breather between paddocks, ready for a little conversation.
Bill: “What the hell is taking you so long, Ward? Christ, I drove by an hour ago and you’re practically in the same place. Let’s pick up the pace.”
WT: “Hey, they tell you to stop and smell the roses, right? So that’s what I’m doing. While there’s any roses to smell.”
Ward eventually died of congestive heart failure, leaving the whole ball of wax in Geraldine’s hands. She was not equipped for the task and enlisted the aid of her daughter, Lynn Eklund, the only one of their offspring with any experience in the horse business. As Geraldine faded, the onus fell on Lynn and her husband, Brian, to eventually disperse the horses and dissolve the estate. One of them, a big roan colt named Bull Ensign, happened to be entered in the August, 2013, Ocala Breeders Yearling Sale. I liked another one better.
Ward Theisen Yuks It Up With The Boys
The Rest Of The Story
Her mother’s name was Devilish Brunette, a nice Diablo mare, winner of over $140,000 and one of the incarnations of the Florida Stallion Stakes. The mare had produced eleven foals, nine to run, ALL of them winners. Two of these were stakes-winners, the marquee performer being Devilish Lady, a graded stakes-winner of over $400,000. What’s not to like? By proven sire Montbrook, she was very correct, if small, and had a feisty attitude. She pranced confidently around the walking ring outside the sales pavilion. Her consignor, Rick Tortora, hoped she would bring $20,000, which put us in the ballpark. That was our red line figure, our top bid. A lot of people looked at the filly in the walking ring and I had my doubts we could get her for our price. I was right. I hung around with a bid of $18,000 and the competition blew right past me, arriving at a final price of $30,000. Curses, foiled again! This was not an unusual happenstance. Luckily, this is not baseball. You’re never out until the last horse of interest has been sold. Moving right along then….
Now came one of the true challenges of horse sales—that being, do you want to go after your second choice (Hip #604) thus forfeiting an opportunity to bid on and perhaps get an acceptable earlier horse, or do you want to wait and take your chances? I decided to risk it. Hip #604 was, after all, Siobhan’s first choice—and my second—of the day. He was by Graeme Hall, a successful sire, whose babies we always checked out. It was difficult to find a Graeme Hall with good conformation, but this colt, while not perfect, was very good for a horse by this sire. He was big, but not enormous, fairly striking in appearance and seemed pretty mellow. He was also a half-brother to a horse named Imawildandcrazyguy, which had won just under $670,000, was stakes-placed and had run well enough in the Kentucky Derby. He was something of a plodder but he had won at two, significant to me, and he had hung around for a long time, continuing to race at six. Besides, who wouldn’t take a plodder who won almost $700,000? Nobody I know. Also, Graeme Hall seems to put a little speed into his offspring, so there’s that.
While we were looking at the colt, Siobhan noticed the mare’s name. “This is Ward’s pedigree,” she said. Small world. Turns out, the colt grew up one street over from us. Siobhan remembered seeing him in a paddock at Ward’s old place while out walking around the block with our neighbors, the Hollises. “What do you suppose Ward is up to?” I asked her. “Depends where he is.” she said. I thought about that one for a minute and looked back at her. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Coulda gone either way.”
I took up a position against a side wall of the pavilion, halfway back, so I could see who was doing the bidding. Lynn and Brian were in front of me but I couldn’t see Francis Vanlangendonck, who had consigned the horse to the sale and was probably out in back. It didn’t make much difference, anyway, I had a price I was willing to pay and that was it. I was just curious to see who got involved and how it went. The majority of consignors bid on their own horses—a fact that horrifies and astonishes neophytes to the horse business—but they certainly have the right to determine their own value for their product and buy it back if their goals are not attained. Often, the final two contenders for a horse are the current owners and one other bidder, which is fine with me. I have been on both sides of the issue. I have also gone back to a consignor after a horse has not sold and purchased one after the sale. Lynn threw out a few bids early, I got in around $14,000, raised at sixteen, again at eighteen. I figured it was just me and Francis’ guy and things were slowing down. He went to nineteen. I went to twenty. The bid sat for a while as the auctioneers attempted to goose it up a little more. The bid spotter nodded at me to be certain I recognized mine was currently the top bid. I nodded back. After what seemed like a very long time (it always does), the hammer came down and I got the horse. Lynn and Brian turned around to see who bought the colt, and smiled. Coincidentally, Lynn had just recently discovered The Flying Pie and had written me a note the week before about it. She said she was glad Siobhan and I had the colt. I told her he’d be running in Miami. Breeders’ awards might still be in the offing for the dwindling Ward Theisen estate. Then, we packed him up and shipped him back to his old neighborhood—Eisaman Equine, a few miles down the road from his old stomping grounds. And there he’ll laze about, eating, growing and meandering about his paddock during recess. On October 1, somebody will walk into his stall and introduce him to circling in both directions, the point of which will escape him. Eventually, someone will get on his back, which will seem somewhat alarming. One day, he will walk out to the race track and jog, then gallop around it. This schedule will continue for what will seem like forever, which is fine. Horses like rigid schedules. Sometime early in February, barring injury or illness, some rider will ask Bull Ensign to run a little faster, then a lot faster. “Oh, I get it!” he will think. “This is actually kinda FUN!” That’s what we hope he thinks, anyway. Nobody likes a sullen racehorse. It would only be fitting if one of Ward Theisen’s last horses, owned by his old pals, brought him some final measure of glory. Hold on—the phone’s ringing. Not ringing, really—it’s playing My Old Kentucky Home.
Bill: “I think I know who this is….”
WT: “How’d you guess?”
Bill: “Well, the ring tone was a dead giveaway.”
WT: “Well, I see you finally got some sense and bought one of my horses. He must have been perfect if Siobhan passed him through.”
Bill: “Actually, she said he turned out a little….”
WT: “You’re making that up. I can see him from here. I just can’t understand how you could buy such a superior animal for $20,000.”
Bill: “Well, that’s easy, Ward. I was the only one left bidding. Hell, I might have been the only one left bidding from $14,000 on.”
WT: “You got a steal. It was the bargain of the century!”
Bill: “So listen, Ward, I might need a little help someday. I mean, he might be a mudder and I’ll be looking for a little rain. Maybe I’ll need a race to come off the grass—or stay ON the grass. If I’m out in front in the stretch, let’s keep the wind down. I’ll be keeping in touch.”
WT: “Hey, I got you covered up here. Hell, I’m the head of the Racing Commission, that’s the kinda stuff we do all the time. I got your friend, Stuart Bentler, on the thing with me. I get him women and he does whatever I want, so we’ll be looking out for you.”
Bill: “Good to hear. Sounds like everything’s working out for you up there.”
WT: “Yeah, but looks like Geraldine’s gonna be on her way soon. She’ll be up here to nag my ass so I have to make hay while the sun shines. Oh, and listen—I’m saving you a spot on the Racing Commission—it’ll be like old times on 115th Avenue.”
Of course, it will never be like old times on 115th Avenue. We were younger then, with ridiculous zeal and impossible expectations. Age provides edification and enlightenment, we realize there’s a little of Don Quixote in everybody. You rein in your expectations so you won’t be as disappointed when they are not achieved. But there is still a tiny bit of magic afoot in the land. It yawns, stretches and rouses itself on rare occasions. Maybe one day, the magic will spot a big grey colt rumbling across a racing strip in little Williston, Florida, and decide to descend on him. Stranger things have happened. Why, once upon a time, a grouchy old contractor who lived one street over in our neighborhood raised a horse which ran in the Kentucky Goddam Derby.
Consignors And Buyers Compare Notes
Looking Outward To The Walking Ring And Barns Beyond
Last Minute Inspections In The Walking Ring
Bill’s Favorite Filly In The Sale. (He Liked The Horse, Too.)
Bull Ensign At Eisaman Equine
The Man With The Dragon Persona
Nobody ever called Ward Theisen a pussycat. Germans have a knack for being uncuddly and Ward took it to a new level. Perhaps, in his trade—Ward was a builder and did a lot of the original work on Disney World—intimidation was a handy tool. Construction workers are not known for their Incredible Lightness of Being and cannot be effectively manipulated by Mr. Rogers, after all. So it’s only natural, after awhile, if this trailboss mentality sort of sets in and becomes a predominant part of one’s personality. But there was a lot more to Ward Theisen than that.
After leaving the construction business to younger hands, Ward got into the horse trade. Like Siobhan and I, he wasn’t interested in the buying and selling aspect of the business, he wanted to race. And in almost no time, he came up with a horse named Din’s Dancer, who was good enough to run in the 1988 Kentucky Derby. Din’s Dancer was trained by an old-timer named Jack Van Berg, a midwesterner and a crusty old codger like Ward, himself. If Ward had heroes, they were the old curmudgeon horse trainers like Van Berg, Allen Jerkins and Charlie Whittingham, guys who wanted to train their horses and be left alone to do it. The less notice they got, the less press they had to talk to, the better. If Johnny Carson ever called, they probably asked themselves “Who the hell was that?” Anyway, Din’s Dancer finished up the track in the Derby and when his career was over, Ward brought him home to Ocala and got into the breeding business. He and his wife, Geraldine, lived next street over from us in Fairfield, where they kept their mares and youngsters. We went over there all the time, listened to Ward pontificate on matters equine while Geraldine rolled her eyes. Ward was actually very funny, in his own way, and despite being occasionally overbearing, was really just looking for somebody to play with.
WT: “Well, I see you guys are over here again, checking out my feed. You probably want to know how I produce such high-quality animals on a regular basis. It’s understandable.”
Bill: “What we really want to know is what you’re feeding them that’s causing them all to have epiphysitis (enlargement of the growth plates in the forelegs of young horses).”
WT: “WHAT? What epiphysitis? These horses are champions. You should only wish you had horses like these.”
Then, of course, Ward would go back into the house and read up on everything he could find about epiphysitis in order to make the proper adjustments, none of which he would ever admit to. Ward enjoyed and respected a good argument—he really didn’t cotton to a lot of yes men. That said, he would almost never admit he was wrong. His concessions were in whatever actions he took, post-argument. He actually had a gleam in his eye during verbal jousting, enjoying the process, happy for the game. But the opponent must possess some finesse, a bit of savoir faire, something lacking in most of his antagonists. It’s sort of like American tourists bartering in Mexico. The Mexicans enjoy the Art of the Deal, the give and take, the haggling over price, the slow concessions. Most of the Americans merely try to bludgeon them down, no sophistication, no empathy, no fun, really. Ward was like the Mexicans, he wanted a little fun.
Tough as he was, over the years, age had the audacity to creep up on Ward. Siobhan and I found ourselves over there more often, particularly at foaling time, when the struggles of extracting a foal from a mare often became overwhelming for Ward and Geraldine. Other neighbors jumped in and helped get the job done, but the handwriting was on the wall. “Don’t get old,” advised Ward. “It’s such a pain in the ass!” Even with significant heart issues, he continued to feed his horses with the aid of a golf cart, a task which took him forever. If you drove by in the afternoon to check on him, he’d be sitting out front taking a breather between paddocks, ready for a little conversation.
Bill: “What the hell is taking you so long, Ward? Christ, I drove by an hour ago and you’re practically in the same place. Let’s pick up the pace.”
WT: “Hey, they tell you to stop and smell the roses, right? So that’s what I’m doing. While there’s any roses to smell.”
Ward eventually died of congestive heart failure, leaving the whole ball of wax in Geraldine’s hands. She was not equipped for the task and enlisted the aid of her daughter, Lynn Eklund, the only one of their offspring with any experience in the horse business. As Geraldine faded, the onus fell on Lynn and her husband, Brian, to eventually disperse the horses and dissolve the estate. One of them, a big roan colt named Bull Ensign, happened to be entered in the August, 2013, Ocala Breeders Yearling Sale. I liked another one better.
Ward Theisen Yuks It Up With The Boys
The Rest Of The Story
Her mother’s name was Devilish Brunette, a nice Diablo mare, winner of over $140,000 and one of the incarnations of the Florida Stallion Stakes. The mare had produced eleven foals, nine to run, ALL of them winners. Two of these were stakes-winners, the marquee performer being Devilish Lady, a graded stakes-winner of over $400,000. What’s not to like? By proven sire Montbrook, she was very correct, if small, and had a feisty attitude. She pranced confidently around the walking ring outside the sales pavilion. Her consignor, Rick Tortora, hoped she would bring $20,000, which put us in the ballpark. That was our red line figure, our top bid. A lot of people looked at the filly in the walking ring and I had my doubts we could get her for our price. I was right. I hung around with a bid of $18,000 and the competition blew right past me, arriving at a final price of $30,000. Curses, foiled again! This was not an unusual happenstance. Luckily, this is not baseball. You’re never out until the last horse of interest has been sold. Moving right along then….
Now came one of the true challenges of horse sales—that being, do you want to go after your second choice (Hip #604) thus forfeiting an opportunity to bid on and perhaps get an acceptable earlier horse, or do you want to wait and take your chances? I decided to risk it. Hip #604 was, after all, Siobhan’s first choice—and my second—of the day. He was by Graeme Hall, a successful sire, whose babies we always checked out. It was difficult to find a Graeme Hall with good conformation, but this colt, while not perfect, was very good for a horse by this sire. He was big, but not enormous, fairly striking in appearance and seemed pretty mellow. He was also a half-brother to a horse named Imawildandcrazyguy, which had won just under $670,000, was stakes-placed and had run well enough in the Kentucky Derby. He was something of a plodder but he had won at two, significant to me, and he had hung around for a long time, continuing to race at six. Besides, who wouldn’t take a plodder who won almost $700,000? Nobody I know. Also, Graeme Hall seems to put a little speed into his offspring, so there’s that.
While we were looking at the colt, Siobhan noticed the mare’s name. “This is Ward’s pedigree,” she said. Small world. Turns out, the colt grew up one street over from us. Siobhan remembered seeing him in a paddock at Ward’s old place while out walking around the block with our neighbors, the Hollises. “What do you suppose Ward is up to?” I asked her. “Depends where he is.” she said. I thought about that one for a minute and looked back at her. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Coulda gone either way.”
I took up a position against a side wall of the pavilion, halfway back, so I could see who was doing the bidding. Lynn and Brian were in front of me but I couldn’t see Francis Vanlangendonck, who had consigned the horse to the sale and was probably out in back. It didn’t make much difference, anyway, I had a price I was willing to pay and that was it. I was just curious to see who got involved and how it went. The majority of consignors bid on their own horses—a fact that horrifies and astonishes neophytes to the horse business—but they certainly have the right to determine their own value for their product and buy it back if their goals are not attained. Often, the final two contenders for a horse are the current owners and one other bidder, which is fine with me. I have been on both sides of the issue. I have also gone back to a consignor after a horse has not sold and purchased one after the sale. Lynn threw out a few bids early, I got in around $14,000, raised at sixteen, again at eighteen. I figured it was just me and Francis’ guy and things were slowing down. He went to nineteen. I went to twenty. The bid sat for a while as the auctioneers attempted to goose it up a little more. The bid spotter nodded at me to be certain I recognized mine was currently the top bid. I nodded back. After what seemed like a very long time (it always does), the hammer came down and I got the horse. Lynn and Brian turned around to see who bought the colt, and smiled. Coincidentally, Lynn had just recently discovered The Flying Pie and had written me a note the week before about it. She said she was glad Siobhan and I had the colt. I told her he’d be running in Miami. Breeders’ awards might still be in the offing for the dwindling Ward Theisen estate. Then, we packed him up and shipped him back to his old neighborhood—Eisaman Equine, a few miles down the road from his old stomping grounds. And there he’ll laze about, eating, growing and meandering about his paddock during recess. On October 1, somebody will walk into his stall and introduce him to circling in both directions, the point of which will escape him. Eventually, someone will get on his back, which will seem somewhat alarming. One day, he will walk out to the race track and jog, then gallop around it. This schedule will continue for what will seem like forever, which is fine. Horses like rigid schedules. Sometime early in February, barring injury or illness, some rider will ask Bull Ensign to run a little faster, then a lot faster. “Oh, I get it!” he will think. “This is actually kinda FUN!” That’s what we hope he thinks, anyway. Nobody likes a sullen racehorse. It would only be fitting if one of Ward Theisen’s last horses, owned by his old pals, brought him some final measure of glory. Hold on—the phone’s ringing. Not ringing, really—it’s playing My Old Kentucky Home.
Bill: “I think I know who this is….”
WT: “How’d you guess?”
Bill: “Well, the ring tone was a dead giveaway.”
WT: “Well, I see you finally got some sense and bought one of my horses. He must have been perfect if Siobhan passed him through.”
Bill: “Actually, she said he turned out a little….”
WT: “You’re making that up. I can see him from here. I just can’t understand how you could buy such a superior animal for $20,000.”
Bill: “Well, that’s easy, Ward. I was the only one left bidding. Hell, I might have been the only one left bidding from $14,000 on.”
WT: “You got a steal. It was the bargain of the century!”
Bill: “So listen, Ward, I might need a little help someday. I mean, he might be a mudder and I’ll be looking for a little rain. Maybe I’ll need a race to come off the grass—or stay ON the grass. If I’m out in front in the stretch, let’s keep the wind down. I’ll be keeping in touch.”
WT: “Hey, I got you covered up here. Hell, I’m the head of the Racing Commission, that’s the kinda stuff we do all the time. I got your friend, Stuart Bentler, on the thing with me. I get him women and he does whatever I want, so we’ll be looking out for you.”
Bill: “Good to hear. Sounds like everything’s working out for you up there.”
WT: “Yeah, but looks like Geraldine’s gonna be on her way soon. She’ll be up here to nag my ass so I have to make hay while the sun shines. Oh, and listen—I’m saving you a spot on the Racing Commission—it’ll be like old times on 115th Avenue.”
Of course, it will never be like old times on 115th Avenue. We were younger then, with ridiculous zeal and impossible expectations. Age provides edification and enlightenment, we realize there’s a little of Don Quixote in everybody. You rein in your expectations so you won’t be as disappointed when they are not achieved. But there is still a tiny bit of magic afoot in the land. It yawns, stretches and rouses itself on rare occasions. Maybe one day, the magic will spot a big grey colt rumbling across a racing strip in little Williston, Florida, and decide to descend on him. Stranger things have happened. Why, once upon a time, a grouchy old contractor who lived one street over in our neighborhood raised a horse which ran in the Kentucky Goddam Derby.
Consignors And Buyers Compare Notes
Looking Outward To The Walking Ring And Barns Beyond
Last Minute Inspections In The Walking Ring
Bill’s Favorite Filly In The Sale. (He Liked The Horse, Too.)
Bull Ensign At Eisaman Equine
