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Rick Violette passed away more than a month ago. That still seems difficult to believe, let alone write. The news of Rick’s passing trickled in the afternoon of Oct. 21 through the usual channels, by phone calls from friends, social media or news reports online, and hit the game hard.
“What is that?”
Of all the questions in all the world, there is nothing like that question when it comes to living in the country. Sometimes, it’s from Miles. Sometimes, it’s from Annie, she will add “the hell” in there. And sometimes it’s me, with “the f***” added in for good measure.
Clip-clop, clip-clop, clip-clop, clip-clop . . . the hoofbeats closed in as I crossed Union Avenue toward the Oklahoma stable area at Saratoga Race Course. About halfway across, I looked back and a big-but-little bay horse was on my heels and closing in.
He reminded me of a first-grader at recess on the first day of school. Unsure. Shaky. Lost in a “I’ve-never-been here-before” way.
“Come on, you can do it,” I found myself instinctively saying.
Valdez made his seasonal reappearance Saturday. The 11-year-old veteran jumped straight and true, gave us a moment of interest, a hint of hope and then faded, pulling up before the last in the handicap chase at Ascot. The windmill is slowing. At least, I guess, it didn’t go poof. Remember, when it went poof back in March?
Here’s that one.
It’s November. Time for Thanksgiving. Time to regroup.
I admire and respect a daily blog. I just can’t seem to fulfill one and I also wonder how I could possibly have anything interesting to say every day. As one of my great editors once said, “Quit apologizing for not writing and write.”
The end is near. Two weekends, four meets left in the 2018 season.
Well, they dropped the flag at Far Hills. Epic day at the sport’s biggest meet. American-breds went 0-for 33. Irish-breds won four, British-breds won two and a French-bred won the other. Yielding ground will do that.
“Are you less nervous today than you were on Oct. 29, 1983?”
“Probably,” Dad answered.
“Definitely,” I answered.
Just like old times, I woke up worrying, fretting, irritable. My wife, Annie, recognized it, she had seen it in 1994 after we had our first date. Misdirected stress, snapping at anybody in the way, kicking the cat, the dog, hell, anything I could find. Self indulgent, ridiculously self-absorbed, it was how I handled the pressure of riding races, well, handled, would be a stretch. I rode races for 13 years and have spent the next 18, apologizing for how I acted on race days.
