Opinion

Ralph Theroux looked distressed. Always upbeat, the longtime agent/official was anxious as he paced around the apron at the Morning Line Kitchen last Saturday morning.

Theroux always has a story to tell, some are about the old days with The Chief, others are about a set he played the night before with the Off Track Band, others simply meander.

Saturday morning, Theroux didn’t have a story.

“Where’s your office this year?”

112 Spring Street. Across from Spring Street Deli. Carpet. Conference rooms. Kitchen. A renovated school, it has charm, efficiency and comfort. We are back in Patrick the Mailman’s territory for the first time in years. Did I mention it’s across the street from Spring Street Deli?

It is by far the best office in the 14-year history of The Saratoga Special. After 14 years of renting and bartering office space from one end of town to the other, that’s like being voted the best manure pit on the backside. 

In racing news…

Vic Zast’s life will be celebrated this Sunday. A character in a world of characters, Zast died Aug. 6. He was a fragrance executive, racetrack executive, turf writer, golfer, documentary maker, racing fan, friend, father, husband…the list reads long.

I remember when he wanted to write for The Special in our early days. He offered a column a week, I felt like we had arrived – at least, a little – as someone as good as Zast wanted to write for us.

Joe Bravo rapped. Rajiv Maragh dressed like an Indian. Julien Leparoux was a cop and an outlaw. Joe Rocco Jr. wrote his own song. Rosie Napravnik put on weight. Robbie Davis sang a terrible song, but made a great speech. 

And the whole place laughed and smiled and sang along.

Damascus was rooting. Hard. Like a jackhammer. Manuel Ycaza let the reins slide through his hands as Damascus threw his head down, then he’d gather them as Damascus lifted his head. The champion horse kept taking and the champion jockey kept giving. Until he couldn’t. Ycaza heard the crack first, felt it second.

“Take me back to the paddock,” Ycaza told the pony boy, as the 1968 Jockey Club Gold Cup slipped away.

The crowd stopped and looked up. It doesn’t happen very often, at least when there isn’t a bell involved. In the winner’s circle, a crowd assembled, a red carpet was unfurled, Tom Durkin began to explain, Jockey Legend Day. In a matter of steps, the sport’s history washed across the crowd, personal memories of big days and big scores recalled and savored.

Tony Millan walked out of the jocks’ room to saddle Moves Your Soul for the third race.

The veteran valet carried Wilmer Garcia’s tack and trekked from the to the paddock like he’s done a thousand times. Millan looked at jockey Jose Lezcano and stopped. The valet stared at the silks – beige, brown braces, brown ‘P’ and brown hoops. His mind reeled, memories flashed, back 30 some years ago.

Eight minutes.

Wayne Catalano’s flight was due to land eight minutes after Tyler Wolbert’s flight July 21, three days after opening day of the Saratoga meet. The veteran trainer told his new assistant exactly what to do.

“Get your bag and go to the car rental place, I’ll meet you there,” Catalano said. “We’ll get the car and go get our place to stay.”

Sean,

Our first trip to Saratoga was 1973. One week. On a shoestring. We stayed in a motel next to Storyland. Two adjoining log cabins. Breakfast for all from a cooler was orange juice, maybe some fruit, cereal from the individual boxes and milk. Lunch for four kids was purchased at the track for $2.00. Total. Back in the day you could buy a quarter of fried or roasted chicken and an ear of corn on a paper plate for $1. I bought two, broke the ear of corn in half divided the chicken and fed four kids. Dad and I ate fresh Long Island clams. After the races we went back to the motel, fed you kids peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and milk, got a baby sitter, took a shower and went out to dinner and/or the sales. We went out to see Uncle Jack at his daughter, Mary’s (near Troy) and had dinner there once. 

Love,

Mom.