Derby Stories You Never Read

            As the Kentucky Derby once again rolls around it’s time, much as we do at Christmas, to remember those less fortunate than us that will be at Churchill Downs on the first Saturday in May.

            No, I’m not referring to the people whose pockets will be picked, purses stolen, or simply lose their last few dollars on the wrong horse and find they can’t afford to pay their hotel bill.  Nor do I refer to the luckless individuals in the infield who will end up getting hit in the head with an errant Frisbee or, worse, by some half naked space cadet who looks like a modern version of Charles Atlas and decided the guy was paying too much attention to his girlfriend.

            And I’m not even thinking about the losing owners, trainers, jockeys and grooms.  Unless they’ve brought in Francis The Mule, which may yet happen, or a born again maiden, which has happened, most of them will go on to varying degrees of racing success that will at least keep them out of the poorhouse.

            Rather I’m thinking about the saddest group of souls that ever visited a track, merely the five hundred or so journalists that have to cover “the greatest two minutes in sports” for millions of readers who will skim through their copy in a matter of minutes and not even notice the byline.

            Granted, there are prestigious writers and columnists who can drop in the day before the Derby, enjoy a cocktail party or two, and get out of Louisville with a fist full of press releases and their sanity intact.

            But for the most part the press corp consists of newspapermen whose Editors thought it would be a great idea if they spent a week at the Derby and wrote Pulitzer Prize material, or at the very least won an Eclipse Award for journalism.

            Someone once said that the Derby may be every owners dream, but it isn’t necessarily every trainers dream.  The same might be said about a lot of the writers covering it as part of the cruelest form of enforced slavery since the Civil War, because there is only so much you can say about one race.

            There are only so many owner and trainer quotes, only so many workouts to report, and unfortunately the horses, being unable to talk, make for lousy interviews.  After a week of falling all over themselves trying to write something original, a lot of writers resort to writing an article about looking for something to write about.

            If they were an Army they’d be in the frontline trenches, geared for a weeklong battle with only a day or two worth of ammunition.  And most of them would prefer to face an enemy in such trenches than an unhappy Editor, especially after he’s seen the expense account.  Never mind that the guy might have subsisted on pork and beans for a week, some people still don’t understand Derby week prices.

            Now I consider myself lucky, I’ve never had to cover a Kentucky Derby.  I’ve certainly been to Kentucky, but my closest association with a Derby Day press box has been the war stories passed on to me by the grizzled veterans of such combat that made it back alive.  In a pre-electronic era they were called ink stained wretches.  Nowadays they should be called survivors.

            Nonetheless, this years Derby will be no different, and newspapers across the nation, from major metropolitan dailies to the Podunk Press, will feature varying degrees of extensive pre-Derby coverage from their “correspondents”, some of whom will return home and check their hospitalization insurance policies to see if psychiatric care is included as one of the benefits.

            Still, if I were covering the Derby, I imagine I’d try and seek out the more unusual stories that even the most dogged of the media might not be aware of, tales that are unearthed long before the press bus leaves the hotel.  And, if any of my peers would prefer to spend their afternoons lounging by a pool and sipping Jack Daniels instead of being pushed, shoved and trampled by five hundred rivals in search of a telephone or a typewriter that works, they might consider the following examples of unique investigative reporting that no one else has ever thought of before.  If nothing else, it should impress their Editors, the readers, and the guy who will subsequently interview the writer at the Unemployment Office.

            Trainer John “Buddy” Babble told the assembled media who gathered this morning to see his horse that there was absolutely no truth to the rumors that his horse had a case of bucked shins.

            “I’d appreciate it if you guys would stop writing about that,” he said, as several suspicious looking gentlemen with bulging coats formed a picket line in front of the barn.  “Everything is perfectly fine, as I told the guy with the metal detector that came through earlier in search of safety pins.

            “Now, as to the real story here, the rumors about my ingrown toenails are, I must admit, true.  But I see no reason why this will prevent me from leading my horse to the saddling paddock on Derby Day and, of course, the winners circle after the race.

            “My podiatrist has devised a special bandage, similar to the rundown bandages you see horses wearing to prevent heel cracks.  My temperature this morning was normal, and I might even jog on Saturday morning as a final tightener, so there’s no cause for alarm.  I’d like to bring the horse out now for the photographers but he’s, well, he’s resting, which my good friend Rocky and his friends over there will remind you of should you decide you want a picture anyway.  And you must understand he’s always been a bit camera shy.  However, if you fellas will step forward, I’ll be happy to give you some great shots of my ingrown toenails for your papers.”

            In an interview with various fans in the grandstand on Derby Day, this reporter by sheer luck met the person who has perhaps had the most financial success over the past thirty years of anyone who has regularly attended the race.  Excerpts of this interview follow.

            “George,” I asked him, “you claim that you consistently make between $10,000 and $20,000 every time the Derby is run.  Could you give my readers a few hints as to the handicapping secrets you have found that account for this success?”

            “What handicapping?  Youse think you can make money on a deal like that?  Secretariat pays $5.00 on the front end, same as Riva Ridge.  Majestic Prince gets you $4.80, Hill Gail is worth $4.20.  You maybe get a Proud Clarion every twenty years or so, that’s pretty slim odds.  That’s why I don’t bet.”

            “Well, George, if you don’t wager, how do you make the profits every year you’ve told me about?”

            “Simple, let me give youse a demonstration.  See that guy over there watchin’ the TV set next to the bar, the one kinda weaving in place?  He’s buyin’ everybody drinks and he’s been showin’ off his winning Daily Double tickets, of which he has a fistful thereof that he keeps stashin’ in his back pocket.  Guess he thinks the tickets are pretty.  Well, so do I, excuse me a few minutes, I got this sudden urge to buy the man a drink.”

            George returned ten minutes later with a wad of hundred dollar bills.  “Jeez, I didn’t think it paid that much,” he said, handing me a twenty.  “Here, you seem like a pretty nice guy, buy yourself a drink.”

            “George, are you telling me that your success lies in the field of theft and dishonesty?  That you are nothing but a common criminal?”

            “Hey, watch that common jazz, that’s for people what get caught, see?”

            “I see.”

            “Now, let me show youse another little trick.  See all them tickets lyin’ on that table over there?  Well, they’re on this race that’s about to be run, and them people are too busy watchin’ the race to pay attention to their tickets.  So I think maybe they should be my tickets in case the horse wins.”

            George promptly produced a pool cue case, put the cue together and stuck a piece of chewing gum on the tip.  “Watch this,” he said proudly.

            Sure enough, as the people were cheering their apparent winner down the stretch, George deftly leaned over the railing with his pool cue and retrieved several $100 Win tickets that were stuck to the gum.  “See?” he said, putting away his pool cue while the people at the table suddenly started looking around curiously for their winning tickets.  “Piece of cake.”

            “Well, I admit it’s certainly clever, but what happens if a guard spots you?  I mean, not everyone waves a pool cue around the track.”

            “Easy, I tell ‘em I’m practicing as a double for Paul Newman, who is going to like do another sequel to ‘The Hustler’ set at a racetrack.  Sequels are big in movies these days, so instead of hassle they all ask me to get ‘em Newman’s autograph when he shows up for the final filming.  Works everytime.”

            “Do you have any other tricks or subterfuges such as this that you make your money with?”

            “Oh, sure, lots of them, only I can’t really talk now, I gotta get to the Clubhouse bar before the sixth race.  Bartender I know there puts double shots in the Mint Juleps when the customers look well heeled, and he only wants 10% of what I can pick up.  That spot’s usually worth a couple of grand alone.”

            “Well, George, I certainly want to thank you for the time you spent with me.  I’m sure the readers will be fascinated.”

            “Hey, I like it too, I appreciate someone interested in my work.

            “By the way,” he hollered as he disappeared into the crowd, “did youse know that your VISA card expired last month?  Pick it up at Lost and Found and get a new one, okay?”

            Jockey Hesno Angel, who will ride one of the Derby favorites this

Saturday, agreed to a special press conference early this morning in the Churchill Downs backstretch before working out several horses.

            Even though it was convened at 5:00 in the morning, the press turnout was unusual, and all three of them were appreciative of the dark glasses and coffee provided for them.

            Angel correctly pointed out that, since everything that could possibly be said about his horse had already been written, he would provide them with some insightful information about his whip collection.

            “Thees,” he began, “is what I call my warm up steek.  I use thees to warm up the older horses, as they are sometimes very smart and very lazee.”

            “Does this take very long?” a reporter asked.

            “Well, it depends on the horse, you know?  Some of them, it takes a leetle longer than others.  Sometimes I give it to the person on the leed pony after I hit the horse a leetle in the post parade and I think he is ready.  Sometimes I wait until I am in the starting gate and then geeve it to the assistant starter, like I say, some of these horses they are very lazee.  And once in awhile I take it weeth me and throw it way on the far turn with the second set of goggles.

            “Now thees,” he continued, picking up another whip that looked like it was made in France and sold only in selected drugstores, “is what I call my ‘in conteention’ steek.  Like maybe I’ll tap the hose a few times to wake heem up so he be ready when we turn for home.”

            “How many times do you usually have to tap them?” another reporter asked.

            “Oh, that depends, sometimes thirty, sometimes forty, like I say, all thees horses they are different.

            “Now this next one is my stretch steek.  I don use thees very much, you can see how painful it might be if you look close at all thees funny little theengs sticking out of it.  But if I really got a chance at the sixteenth pole, say my horse is no worse than teen lengths back, I weel use thees one.  But, like I say, I don use it too much, the owners and the trainers, they are always complaining about the cost of the bandeeges.”

            “What about that one over there?” the third reporter asked.

            “Ah,” Hesno said, smiling as he picked it up fondly, “thees is my favoreet steek of them all.  You see, thees does, how you say, everything.”

            “Well, it certainly looks worn.”

            “Si, that is because many times I use it as my warm up steek and my in conteention stick and my stretch steek.  It is most valuable steek of theem all.”

            “Could you tell us how it works?  I mean, what makes it so valuable.”

            “Valuable?  Ah, senor, weeth this steek I one day become greatest rider in thees country.  And it works very simply, instead of having to peek one of the other steeks, or if I’m not sure how the horse weel run, I just grab thees one and from the time I get on the horse to the time the race, she is over, I simply beat the sheet out of him.  Like I say, one day I weel be the greatest rider in thees country.”