It is always worth keeping a sense of perspective, or trying
to at least. Last night I watched part of the service of remembrance from Ypres
to mark the 100th anniversary of the Battle of Passchendaele.
Despite the fact that my husband thinks I have a heart of flint, I had tears
rolling silently down my cheeks listening to stories passed on to the relatives
of survivors. Stories of complete and utter horror, that many of us, in our
cosy, easy lives these days, couldn’t even begin to imagine.
The wonderful Hope Is High, as honest as her trainer |
And I was thinking about those sacrifices made mostly by men
young enough to be my sons as I drove home from the races today, telling myself
to get a grip for feeling so miserable after what was essentially the best run
of Hope Is High’s career. She was second, beaten a head, after stumbling coming
out of the stalls, losing at least six lengths and causing Silvestre de Sousa
to lose an iron temporarily. Silvestre’s a brilliant jockey – as is evident
from yet another four-timer on the day from him even without our red-hot
favourite – and he did his best to rebalance the filly and work their way into
the race until they had a fighting chance. And fight they did, all the way down
the straight, a head to the deficit at the post, and ahead of the winner The
Detainee two strides later. Ah well, that’s racing. It’s a small disappointment
on an otherwise nice, sunny day, and both horse and jockey have walked away
none the worse, which is the only thing that matters.
This wasn’t what put me in a bad mood. That started when a
foul-mouthed racegoer leaned over the rail, clearly disgruntled at backing a
losing favourite, telling Silvestre he should have “f***ing hit it”. I felt
like hitting him but managed to keep my cool until John’s phone rang as the
‘horses away’ announcement was made. It was from a withheld number and it was
quickly easy to ascertain that John was on the receiving end of an earbashing
from someone, who it transpired called him a number of names and implied that
he had cheated.
The mood darkened further still when the lady serving the
tea in the owners and trainers’ area adopted a ‘computer says no’ attitude and
refused to give John a cup of tea as he didn’t have a voucher (he didn't have
one as he drove the horse to the races and so came in through the stable
entrance instead of the main gate as I had). We both had metal badges but this
wasn’t good enough for the rude person who clearly needs not to be doing a job
which means interacting with members of the public.
As a quick aside, this is now the third incident within a
month or so at racecourses owned by ARC where we or owners connected to this
stable have encountered rudeness from staff in areas specifically designated
for owners. Racecourse staff shouldn't be rude on any part of any course
because everyone who is there is either with a horse and thus is helping to
provide the entertainment, or is a paying customer and is entitled to be
treated courteously on what is often an expensive day out. The first two
incidents came at Windsor, and I wasn’t surprised by Richard Hughes’ column in
the Post on Saturday, which criticised Windsor for its treatment of owners. I
used to love going racing at Windsor because I grew up there so it was the first
racecourse I ever attended and it still feels like going home. I’ll try to
avoid going home now if I possibly can. I don't really want to add Yarmouth to
the blacklist as I always love going there, even though it’s one of the
shabbiest tracks in the country. But it’s convenient for us, the track is fair,
there’s fish and chips or cockles and whelks with a whiff of sea air, plus the
biggest pick ‘n’ mix stall I’ve ever seen. Who could ask for more? Well, a cup
of tea would be nice, I suppose.
I can get over all that but I can’t allow anyone ever to
call John a cheat. I’d like the cretin who phoned him to call back so we could
arrange for him to spend a day shadowing John. That day would involve being up
just before 5am to ride out one lot with Lucinda before Jana, Ivona and Abbie
arrive. The dedicated Lucinda then goes off to work for Juddmonte while John
rides usually another four lots, along with feeding and dealing with the
never-ending amount of admin before either going racing (always driving the
box), or spending the afternoon writing one of his various columns for TDN,
Winning Post or Al Adiyat, or perhaps doing a shift on ATR. If he’s not at the
races, he’ll always be at evening stables, feeding again, perhaps fixing
fences, etc. During all of this he rarely loses the smile and friendly manner
that so many people in this town and in the wider world of racing love about
him.
His smile might slip if he realises I’ve cooked him
something suspiciously spicy for supper, but if it’s good old meat and
potatoes, he’s happy until he falls asleep, usually in his armchair around 9pm.
Underneath the smile, though, just like any other trainer,
John has an unrelenting desire to win. It’s not a win-at-all-costs attitude
that would ever see him overlook the welfare of a horse just to keep the
strike-rate up, but he needs winners for his own sense of pride in the job that
he’s doing, for his owners, their horses, and the people who work with him in
this yard.
Anyone who thinks that John would stop today’s 5/4 favourite
winning by cheating has no idea what it means to him every time another number 1
goes up on the board next to his name. Nobody remembers all the places you
chalk up – and Hope has never been out of the places for John – it’s the
winners that matter. Losing out on one today mattered to John, but being called
a cheat hurt him even more than that.
Even winning would only have brought an extra £1,700 to this
year’s tally – Yarmouth's meeting being embarrassingly impoverished next to the riches on offer this week at Glorious Goodwood – but it would also have brought an enormous amount of satisfaction and
joy. For being beaten that head, we ‘brought home’ £547 instead, though once we
take into account entry fees, jockey fees, box hire, diesel for the lorry and
my car, and Jana’s expenses for the day, more than £400 of that is already
accounted for. And if we hadn’t run Hope, whose form figures at Yarmouth are
2-4-1-2, thus guaranteeing she’s always a good betting proposition there, only
seven runners would have lined up for the race, a figure that the bookmakers
demanding yet more and more fixtures hate to see.
So we played our part, brought our horse along, were
rewarded with abuse and rudeness, and left with a feeling that if ARC doesn't
start to pull its finger out and commit to honouring the minimum £6,000
prize-money levels as called for by the BHA through the extra funding being
made available next year, then it’s really not worth supporting their tracks.
Well, maybe our beloved Brighton, but the staff are never rude there, and it’s
Roy Rocket’s favourite so we have no choice.
Of course, in the wider world, none of this really matters
at all. The sun is sliding down, it will rise tomorrow and I will feel less
grumpy. The boys lost
at Passchendaele enjoyed far too few sunrises in their short lives, and that’s something
which brings true sorrow, even to this flint heart.
3 comments:
Well said Emma. Unfortunately, the cretins are numerous. So too those unsuited to the hospitality industry (the hint is in the name!)
Superb Emma, your piece has eloquently set the record straight while entertaining the readers at the same time. Bravo.
Lovely stuff, Emma.
As you know, with their being no qualification criteria - aside from looking 18 - for having a bet, it brings all sorts.
What still amazes me is that people bother to find the phone number of a trainer (none are immune) and ring them up. Surely if one can go to all that trouble, one can educate oneself on race reading, and the fact that a 5/4 shot has a true chance of around 42% allowing for overround.
Better yet, I'm glad that HIH did what he'd have done the last day with an untroubled run; and I really hope your mystery called and the fine young chap at the racecourse were not on this time!
On, and up; and don't let the (myriad) bastards grind you down.
Matt Bisogno
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