Louie Olah’s uniform hangs on two hooks in the corner of the color room, hidden in the forest of colors spreading wall to wall. Navy Aqueduct shirt, red pens and his glasses in the chest pocket. Khaki pants, worn-leather belt, with an Aqueduct overnight from Thursday, Feb. 7 folded in the back pocket. A pony can of Sprite, Olah’s soda, sits chilled in the fridge.
It’s Walter Arc’s tribute to Olah, longtime color man who died in March.
“The last day, he hung up his clothes. He worked on Sunday with me and said ‘See you next week.’ Next week never come,” Arc said. “I keep it here, because he loved it here.”
On Monday morning, Olah will receive another tribute when the New York Racing Association dedicates the Saratoga color room to Olah. The first race will be run in the memory of Louie Olah.
A 4-foot-8-inch icon, Olah mentored Arc for 10 years; washing, drying, organizing and tracking a battalion of silks. Olah – going strong at 79 – worked on Sunday, went in the hospital the following day and died of heart failure six weeks later.
It’s the first Saratoga since without Olah.
“He was a constant in the room,” jockey Richard Migliore said. “You walk in the room and he was there. He was a terrific character, he’s sorely missed. You can’t replace him.”
Valet Harry Rice began his 30-year term in the room in 1976, working as Olah’s assistant.
“It was amazing how he could remember colors. An owner would come in and ask for a set of colors that hadn’t been used in 20 years, he’d say, ‘Oh, yeah,’ and pull them right out,” Rice said. “He enjoyed coming to the room, playing around, always singing, you’d hear him coming down the halls at Aqueduct. He loved doing what he did. The racetrack was his life.”
Born in New Brunswick, N.J., and raised on Staten Island, Olah rode races for 22 years and moved to the color room upon his retirement in 1967. His career as a jockey was modest. His career as color man was legendary. For the next 40 years, Olah manned the color room. Jockeys and valets counted on him while abusing him. Olah was the butt of most jokes. Adoration comes in its own unique way in a jocks’ room; the more you’re picked upon, the more it means they like you.
“We don’t have anybody else to abuse any more. Harry went to see him in the hospital and I gave him a dollar to give to him. I knew he’d keep the dollar, he’d have thrown away the card away,” said Eddie Brown, assistant clerk of scales. “He’s really missed. We abused him, but we loved him. Great little guy. He was a Damon Runyon character. It’s a nice tribute to him. The sign is huge, I said, ‘Why’d you get such a big sign? He was only this big.’ ”
Inside the color room, Olah’s black binder – about 100 sheets of paper past full and 40 years in the making – sits open to Billy Mott’s page, red ink scrawled from top to bottom of a tattered sheet.
“This his book, nobody could understand this,” Arc said. “I follow his own system, the next guy who comes, I don’t know what they’re going to do. They wanted to put in a computer and Louie said, ‘We’re going to get kicked in the ass.’ This way, they need both of us. I don’t change anything.”
Olah organized his room by trainers and then the color of the colors. Frankel’s owners silks hang on the first partition. Asmussen, Toner, Rice. Kelly, Dutrow, Mott, Pletcher, Tagg, Kimmel . . . rows and rows of silks. After the trainers, they’re organized by colors. Blue, yellow, red, white . . . then rows of in-betweens. Walk in the room and you’re suddenly in the middle of a kaleidoscope.
“It’s a shame he didn’t get to enjoy his retirement, but he would have never retired,” Rice said. “He set the world record for selling candy bars for his granddaughter. I told him you sell so many they’re going to hold your granddaughter back, the school will need the money. She won every prize, stereos, bicycles, TVs. He’d run around with this little box, like he was selling them for himself.”
Olah was an institution in the room. For Jose Santos and Jose Santos Jr. For Richard Migliore and Joey Migliore.
“It was a rite of passage when your son or daughter was bigger than Louie,” Rice said. “He was like 4’10”, all the jockeys’ kids, all the valets’ kids would measure themselves with Louie.”
Olah would stand on his toes.
