Time passes quickly these days, even moreso for thoroughbred racehorses, whose careers are often short even when successful. Just over four months ago, American Pharoah won racing’s first Triple Crown in 37 years; in less than two weeks, he will pack up his trophies and retire to the breeding shed to enjoy the fruits of his labors. Before he does that, however, there is one small item remaining on his to-do list: the Breeders’ Cup Classic of 2015. The newspapers are huffing and puffing that no Triple Crown winner has ever captured the Classic. That’s probably because the last TC winner was Affirmed in 1978 and the Breeders’ Cup only began in 1984. As good as he is, American Pharoah will have to run his best race to win this one. For the first time, he will face older horses as well as what remains of the better three-year-olds. But that’s why they pay you the big bucks—in this case, 55% of five million dollars, enough to buy one’s own oatery.
When we last left American Pharoah, he was enplaning for his Santa Anita digs after losing only his second start ever in Saratoga’s Travers Stakes, a decent effort, but lacking the same turn of foot seen in earlier races. The general public, unsophisticated in these matters, was horrified. How could he lose to a horse he had dispatched so easily thrice before? Possibilities abound. Most of the blame was placed on the three short weeks between the Haskell Stakes at Monmouth, won by American Pharoah, and the Travers. But the Travers winner, Keen Ice, had raced in the earlier contest as well, and Pharoah had won the Preakness and Belmont stakes with equal or less time to rest. Here’s a thought. AP’s conditioner Bob Baffert is a brilliant trainer but his decision to fly the horse to California, then back to Saratoga, seemed ill-advised when the alternative was a short van trip from New Jersey to upstate New York. The latter plan would also have given American Pharoah three weeks to acclimate to the challenging Saratoga racing surface, rather than the one week he got. Saratoga is not known as the “Graveyard of Champions” for nothing.
On the improve: Frosted, the outsider.
The Opposition
When handicapping a horse race, the first order of business is the separation of the wheat from the chaff. It’s nice to see the Bible had some useful advice for horseplayers, too. Although it’s a little early and all the entries have yet to be determined, we know four we’re not betting on if they do show up. Those would be Hoppertunity, Hard Aces, Gleneagles and Effinex. The latter, a Jimmy Jerkins trainee, is a notch below the best of these and belongs elsewhere. Gleneagles may run on the grass at Ascot (England) this weekend and, in any case, hasn’t raced since June. Hard Aces is sorely overmatched. Hoppertunity, hot stuff early in his career, has proved otherwise and may not be among the entries.
Looking at the likely contenders, Tonalist, a four-year-old, is proven at the 1 1/4 mile distance of the Classic and is running exceedingly well of late. His tendency to drop far back, however, requires a fast pace to give him any chance and his rallies are steady rather than blazing fast.
Honor Code, 4, is another strong finisher who comes from far back and is flying at the end. Another one who needs a fast pace—which he probably will get—but may not like the distance as well as Tonalist.
Smooth Roller, though a four-year-old, is relatively inexperienced with only four starts but looks to be a comer. He prefers to sit just off the lead and close late. Nice horse, improving each out and with Victor Garcia up, but seems a lot to ask.
Frosted may be peaking right now. His gritty effort in the Travers cost American Pharoah the race when Keen Ice picked up the pieces. Never throws in a clunker but probably still a shade less than the top two.
Keen Ice was able to run down AP and Frosted in the Travers after that duo went hammer and tongs til the end. Constantly improving, but there are more than two horses to beat this time.
Beholder to the fore!
Eye The Beholder
Racing fans used to believe that a filly would never win the Classic. Then, the spectacular Zenyatta finally did it in 2009. But that was Zenyatta. So, once in 31 years. Now, comes Beholder, an exceptional 5-year-old mare from California, unbeaten—some say untested—in her last five starts. And she knows all about beating males. In the Pacific Coast Classic on August 22 at Del Mar, she swooped by nine of them on her way to an 8 1/4-length massacre in her first start at 1 1/4 miles, the distance of the Breeders’ Cup Classic. The two-time Eclipse Award winner is the first female to win the Pacific Coast and the margin of victory is the second-largest ever, superceded only by Game On Dude’s 8 1/2-length win in 2013. And the rider, old pro Gary Stevens, never once cracked the whip, winning in a hand ride.
Trainer Richard Mandella, who won his fourth PC classic, was stunned. “I’ve never felt emotion over a race like this,” he said. When she made that move, it just took my breath away. I’m flabbergasted. I expected her to run well, otherwise I wouldn’t have stuck my neck out like this, but I didn’t expect her to beat up these colts like that.” Among those trounced was 2014 Breeders’ Cup Classic winner Bayern. The final time was 1:59.77, just 3/5 of a second off the track record.
The BCC has the look of a match race with the top two horses both preferring to run on or close to the lead. Look for American Pharoah to break on top with Beholder close in attendance. If AP is in top form, the two leaders could break away from the pack, although Frosted should remain close. American Pharoah is an unusually fast colt who can hold his speed for classic distances, but his adversary is older and more experienced. If you’re looking for a flaw in the mare, she has never won a race on any of her few trips out of California, though once due to injury. She is, however, undoubtedly at her best right now and if the Keeneland track agrees with her, American Pharoah is in for a tough afternoon. Look to her works in Kentucky for guidance.
Horse Tales
In 1986, one of my broodmares, Shannon Rose, produced an attractive filly by an undistinguished son of Northern Dancer named Fairway Fortune. I named her Proud Celia, after my maternal grandmother, and sent her to trainer Ned Allard at Rockingham Park in New Hampshire where Nan, living but a mile down the road, could watch her race. The filly promptly won and my grandmother was thrilled, but no more so than my mother, Marie, who’d bet serious money on the race and went to collect it before a trip to the winner’s circle. As the track photographer lined everyone up for the photo, Allard spotted Marie, not known for her sprinting prowess, heading his way and admonished “Wait for the mother! Wait for the mother!” She eventually made it and was included in the happy photo.
Fast forward one month. Proud Celia is scheduled to run again, a race I will miss due to other commitments in Florida. Celia and Marie will be on their own at the track, which is always a concern. My mother checks the entries column of the Lawrence Eagle-Tribune and discovers Proud Celia is Number 6. Already playing with house money and optimistic after a lifetime of moderate success at bingo tables and slot machines, Marie loads up on her mother’s namesake. But her husband, Pat Ouellette, frowns his concern. “That horse doesn’t look like Proud Celia,” he worries. Oh, don’t be silly, Pat. Here it is right here in the newspaper.
What Marie doesn’t realize is that sometimes horses are scratched the morning of the race. When this occurs, the next horse in the chronological order moves up, inheriting the scratched horse’s post position number. That number is accurately listed in the track program but too late for the newspaper to correct it. In our race, the four horse scratched, thus Proud Celia moved up to Number 5. The six horse was a longshot.
When the horses left the gate, the six horse went right to the lead, my relatives screaming bloody murder for the leader, who they loudly called “Celia” to the utter confusion of neighboring fans who were mystified by the handicapping skills of this small band of oddballs. Thus, while Proud Celia finished an undistinguished fourth, Marie & Company pounded the ticket windows and came home with a bagful of money. Oh, but wait! The winner’s circle! We must get down to the winner’s circle!
“Wait for the mother! Wait for the mother!” Marie hollered, leading her pokey crew to the circle. And wait they did, although certainly pondering who this crew of boisterous strangers might be who sought to share their thrilling victory.
“We figured it out after we got home,” Marie told me. “We laughed like fools for an hour. Your grandmother wasn’t too excited when she found out Celia lost the race after we all thought she won. I gave her fifty dollars, though, and she calmed down. What is it you people always say—that’s racing, right?”
Yes, Ma. That’s racing.
Not to say this sort of thing cannot happen even to more experienced racegoers. Several years ago, Siobhan and I were sitting in a front row booth at Calder Race Course in Miami with our trainer Jimmie Hatchet and a gaggle of other people, including horse owner Fred Brei, who had a horse in the upcoming race. Brei was a cantankerous know-it-all, new to the horse business but unwilling to play the rookie, spouting off about various subjects of which he knew little. The kind of boor who has everybody on hand eagerly awaiting the opening of the trap door which will shunt him to the alligator pit below. It happened soon enough. When the gates opened, Brei began following the wrong horse, screaming and jumping up and down as he became a contender. Jim Hatchet was somehow captured by this fantasy, inheriting Brei’s enthusiasm. The two of them slapped hands enthusiastically as the horses went under the wire, believing their champion victorious. “I KNEW this horse would win!” yelled Brei to no one in particular. Siobhan and Fred’s wife, sitting in the next row, looked at each other, puzzled. What are those boys hollering about? The light soon dawned and everyone sat down, embarrassed. Fred overcame his ignominy and went on to breed the winners of a zillion Florida Stallion Stakes, not to mention a filly named Awesome Feather, who annexed a Breeders’ Cup. We still don’t like him.
One Of A Kind
In last week’s column, we mentioned our initiation into the racing business under the auspices of trainer Bobby DuBois. Subsequently, we moved on to a colorful fellow named Dominic Imprescia, once a used-car lot owner in Fall River, Massachusetts, who decided to race a few horses at Suffolk Downs. Eventually, Dominic decided he could make better decisions than his conditioner and he took over the training, adding a client now and then. He was very successful claiming horses, moving them up in class and having them claimed at a profit, thus luring yet more clients to his barn, pretty soon becoming one of the leading trainers on the Suffolk Downs-Rockingham Park circuit. Dominic moved on to Calder in Miami, spending part of each summer back in New England, graduating to better stock. He formed a useful relationship with Tony Everard of Another Episode Farm in Ocala, a busy training center, Tony sending a number of owners to the Imprescia barn, including the Martin brothers, long-time clients.
Everard bought and trained a Staff Writer colt for the Martins named Timely Writer, who won at Monmouth Park at first asking, then moved on to capture the prestigious Florida Derby at Gulfstream and the equally famous Flamingo at Hialeah. Timely Writer was a big favorite for the Kentucky Derby before developing colic at Churchill Downs, a near-death experience which he overcame and later returned to racing. Suffice to say, Dominic could train a bum or a champion equally well. He could also charm the clients, partly because he always gave them the last word, having been an owner himself once. “I’ll give you my best advice, then you decide,” he often said. “After all, you pay the bills.” Maybe so, but if you proved to be especially errant in your decisions, Dominic would wrap his big arm around you, take you aside and forcefully explain to you what an idiotic thing you just did. Usually, when in disagreement, we tried to compromise.
I always stayed at the Holiday Inn adjacent to and overlooking Calder’s far turn in those days. Anyone of a mind could sit up there and watch all the races just fine. Dominic did that himself for a year after being suspended for having a needle in his shedrow. Assistant Trainer Joe Perez ran the barn and reported to Dominic each morning after training hours up at the top-floor breakfast restaurant, Dominic’s alternate “office.” Imprescia was a big tipper and the eatery was happy to have him. Wherever Dominic presided, a festival broke out.
One morning, DI asked me when I was checking out of the hotel. I told him and he advised me not to check out, just leave my room key with a particular person at the front desk. Later in the morning, Dominic would visit the room, female barn worker in tow, for extracurricular activities. I figured, hey—70 years old—more power to him. Alas, this became an ongoing affair and I began to feel like I, having been to his house for Christmas dinner and other celebrations and being treated beyond well by his wife, Ethel, was aiding and abetting a felony. I balked at continuing the crimes. “Dominic,” I said one day, “your wife is a rock, always there no matter what. You’ve been together for a million years and you get along great. So why, at this stage of the game, are you having sex with other women?”
The old trainer looked at me with a combination of bemusement and resignation. Then, he stuck his palm out the way Italians have been known to do, cocked his head and told me. “Ahh,” he said, by way of explanation, “I just don’t want to bother Ethel.”
That’s all, folks….
