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Boyd Browning Jr. looked at The Saratoga Special display case in the front of the old feed store on East Avenue and smiled at the copy of Recollections of a Life with Horses, by Humphrey S. Finney.
Fasig-Tipton’s president reads the book from time to time, just as a refresher, just as a reminder of Finney, the man they named the pavilion for and for whom we owe pretty much everything that happens in the next two days.
The world didn’t end, I didn’t get hit by lightning, I didn’t blow the turn and wind up at Siro’s. Despite the byline, “In the Paddock, by Tom Law,” I wrote yesterday’s column in the spot. It was about Eddie Arcaro’s son, Bobby. Never fear, the Cup of Coffee streak, going back to Wednesday, July 25, 2001, is still intact. We rolled past 500 last summer, next stop, 1,000.
Look out, Cal Ripken.
Eddie Arcaro walked around the house, counting to 12. He drove his car, counting to 12. He walked to the jocks’ room, counting to 12. He walked out of the jocks’ room counting to 12. Never 11. Never 13. Always 12.
“If you can go an eighth of a mile in 12, you know the time of the race. It’s your barometer,” Arcaro would say. “If you know how fast you’re going for that eighth, you got it. No one has to tell you. If you do it often enough, it becomes an automatic. By the way, if you go enough 12s in the mile, you go in 1:36 and you just win the race.”
Months ago, Mimi Voss asked me to make an introductory speech about Tom Voss for his Hall of Fame induction. I told her I’d be honored – then started sweating. It went off without a hitch (or many hitches) Friday, but I pretty much stuck to the abridged version. Here’s all of it, or most of it, from a Word doc on my computer labled simply, “Voss.”
“Who is that chestnut horse?”
Nobody answered.
The chestnut horse free-wheeled around the shedrow at Lizzie Merryman’s barn at Fair Hill Training Center for the second time – big, scopey, long head, free-walking, a natural sequence of momentum and verve. Jockey/exercise rider Billy Hollick sat still as a sprinkle on a doughnut, long leg, bracing against a horse who naturally walked too fast.
Tyler Gaffalione walked back to the jocks’ room after finishing second in Wednesday’s fifth. He was the happiest second-place jockey all meet.
“It’s a dream come true,” the 22-year-old said. “The nostalgia, you can just feel it here, as you’re walking on the grounds, you just think about all the great riders, the great horses and the great trainers who have been here, to be here on any day is amazing.”
I was going to write a story about Melissa Cohen, assistant trainer for Rick Violette, winner of the Godolphin Industry Award last year. I was going to meet Cohen at the barn and spend a day with her. I asked her what time to meet her. She said, “4:30…4:35.” I set my alarm for 4:00 several mornings. Setting an alarm and abiding by an alarm are two different things. I did not meet Cohen at the barn at 4:30.
“Mr. Hooshean, Mr. Hooshean, when does the pony let me go?”
“He doesn’t let you go,” Mike Hushion said.
“Oh, OK, Mr. Hooshean.”
“Hey, are you the Lady Eli guy?”
“That’s me.”
“That was brilliant.”
“I just got lucky.”
It’s the moments that make Saratoga. The minute and the magnanimous moments in time that stitch together the Saratoga quilt. They start early in the morning and don’t stop until late into the night. They are the reason you’re here, the reason we’re here. Each year they’re the same and they’re different.
So far this year…
