Time for Far Hills. The biggest day in American steeplechasing racing. Seven races worth $580,000. Talented horses. Beautiful course. Ground should be fair. Race chairman Guy Torsilieri sent a photo to me, taken from the bottom of the turn, showing the sweeping uphill finish, the amphitheatre in the cold light of day. Saturday, it will be in the searing heat of race day. Not necessarily the temperature. Torsilieri texted, “Must bring back memories.”
Like a family reunion.
First, we called it Essex and we hoped to win the Samuel K. Martin Memorial. Owhata Chief did a couple of times. Heart Of The Desert, Hawaiki, Mod Man…riding in the horse van, up and back on the day.
Red Raven in 1983, my brother holding the race pony on the ground at the start while I clung for my life. The great Ray Norton bellowing down the line, “I know you Red Raven down there, don’t you even think of turning until I tell you to turn.” Going up the hill with Chip Miller on Wind River and some pony clubber on Sparkplug, “You can do it Sparky. You can do it Sparky.” We won, I fell off. The ambulance picked me up while the trophies were thrown in my tack bag. The beginning of a 17-year odyssey of being a jump jockey.
Abacus in 1991, the family needed that, Dad losing his job a few weeks earlier. Winning the Grand National on Rowdy Irishman in 1997, of course, then taking the train back into Manhattan, my worlds colliding. Atomistic, my old friend, coming through in 1999, he was so brave to keep galloping to the last timber fence. Falling on Indispensable in 2000, knowing it was over.
And then as a spectator, admittedly, hoping someone would beat McDynamo the first few years and then hoping no one would by the end. That’s the sport, when a horse turns you into a fan – his fan. Good Night Shirt, feeling a sliver of involvement. Dictina’s Boy winning one for Riverdee.
This year, we bring Yellow Mountain and Lillehammer to the big show. Neither would have been on the A Team at the beginning of the year. That, too, is the sport. We are tilting at windmills a bit. Aren’t we all.
When I venture to Cheltenham each March, I’m asked about our racing. I always tell them about Far Hills, “We have courses that I won’t let you see, but you would like Far Hills. Proper course, good ground, big purses, huge crowd, atmosphere…you would love it.” Years ago, I stood in the jocks’ room at the end of the three-day Festival and tried to convince Willie Mullins to venture to Far Hills. He was politely listening – far from booking the plane – and Ruby Walsh overheard the conversation. The all-time greatest Irish jump jockey looked up, nodded to the all-time greatest Irish jump trainer. Walsh didn’t say a word, just nodded his approval.
It’s the best we have.
