Stories from Cot Campbell

Doug Davis

EJMitchellKy — Wed, 15 May 2013 15:48:00 GMT

The charm of horse racing lies primarily in the animals that do it—their beauty, grace, power and their degree of class. But there is an undeniable attraction to the colorful human beings that make it happen. The purpose of this blog is to share my stories about some of these characters. My requisites in the selection: I had dealings with them, their antics and accomplishments should not be forgotten, and they are no longer with us. — Cot Campbell

The nicest compliment I ever received came from big, blustery Doug Davis, a horseman's horse trainer.

Perhaps the nature of the compliment will indicate that I have been pitifully desperate for kind words. But I loved it.

In my early years in the horse business, I found it quite expedient to buy horses on terms. Oversimplified, this means I bought the horse by paying one-third of the purchase price down, took possession of the animal, and deferred the balance over two payments six months apart. This was unheard of in this industry when I first started doing it. I could do it because I had earned a good reputation. Any deviations from the payment schedule would be in favor of the seller. I saw to that.

One year in a horses-of-all-ages paddock sale at Saratoga, Doug Davis was selling (on behalf of his major patron) a good race filly named Jill the Terrible. She figured to be pricey, but I wanted to buy her. Before the sale I asked the owner, whom I knew only slightly, if he would provide me with terms if I were the successful bidder. He was a little skittish about this, hemmed and hawed, and said he'd have to think it over and get back to me.

Later that day, this fellow walked up to me and said, "I asked Doug Davis if he thought I would be safe in selling that filly to you on terms. Doug told me, ‘Well, I just wish that son of a bitch owed me a quarter of a million dollars!' "

From that day on, I've had a warm spot in my heart for Doug Davis.

Doug had style, presence, and charisma. When he walked into a room, you knew he was there. He made any gathering more interesting. He was a big man with a thunderous voice and a gaudy appetite for life.

As a child he must have been influenced by Tom Mix or Hopalong Cassidy because he went "western" all his life. When he died, his estate included 75 pairs of cowboy boots and 60 cowboy hats.

Until Wayne Lukas wrested the title away, Doug Davis was the winningest trainer in Keeneland history. This was accomplished when Keeneland certainly offered fine racing, but was not as stylish as it is today. Doug was predominantly a "Midwestern" trainer. He seldom ventured to big-time tracks in New York, Florida, or California. He had mostly Grade B stock, much of which he bred from Hempen, a stallion owned by Davis and known for throwing speed and precocity.

Doug Davis with Annihilate 'em

But Doug trained many stakes winners, one of which went to Saratoga and jerked a knot in the best of the Eastern stock in the prestigious Travers Stakes. This was Annihilate ‘em. He had big speed and was able to carry that speed over a distance.

When the colt got good, Doug loaded him up in a gooseneck trailer, threw in Charlie, his famous and remarkable stable pony, and a few more runners, and headed up to the Spa.

This entourage created a bit of a reaction at Saratoga. In the first place, gooseneck trailers were not de rigueur at Saratoga. Doug himself went over with "the Establishment" like a bastard at a family reunion, and on top of that, he had a stable pony that actually functioned without a bridle!

I must admit, the first time I ever saw Charlie smoothly shepherding a jittery runner to the post, I was flabbergasted. Charlie was equipped with not one bit of leather from his shoulders forward and depended entirely on his own incredible savvy and an occasional bit of knee or heel pressure (or mental telepathy!) from the rider.

The Saratoga outriders and stewards were aghast when Doug came on the track the first morning. Astride the seemingly nonchalant and bridleless Charlie, the old Kentucky boy was taking Annihilate ‘em out for a gallop several days before the Travers.

An outrider came loping up to this strange little group and said, "You'll have to get that pony off this racetrack. He hasn't got a bridle on!"

Doug explained, "Aww, I know, but he's fine. Charlie don't like anything around his head." He thought that would take care of the intrusion.

"Off! Right now! We're not going to have lead ponies out here with no bridles on them. We've got the safety of the racetrack to consider. Go borrow another lead pony," the outrider firmly ordered.

Doug was not one to duck a confrontation. He shot back, "Well, this lead pony has forgot more about racetrack procedure than all the damned outriders and stewards in New York State will ever know. If this pony goes, I go, and so does this horse that come here to run in the Travers." Doug turned his caravan and headed back to the barn.

He was loading the gooseneck a few minutes later when up hustled a steward and said that they had decided to make a dispensation. Charlie (without a bridle, of course) could escort Annihilate ‘em on the racetrack and to the post for the Travers.

The press had a field day with this brouhaha.

About five o'clock three days later the odd couple, Annihilate ‘em and Charlie, were the featured attraction in the post parade. Every eye was glued on them.

Annihilate 'em winning 1973 Travers Stakes

Annihilate ‘em easily won the 1973 Travers, but it was almost anticlimactic to the post parade featuring the Kentucky horse's bridleless escort. The colt's victory finished off properly one of the most colorful chapters in the history of that fine race.

Saratoga lore will always maintain a prominent spot for Annihilate ‘em. And Doug Davis. And for Charlie-just a working guy who "didn't like anything around his head."

While he was for many years the winningest trainer at Keeneland, one year, despite running two or three horses every day, Davis did not win a single race.

In racing, a "duck" (yes, a fowl!) is presented to the trainer who finishes the meeting without a single winner to his name. I don't know the reason for this custom. But there is always a lot of chortling around the racing secretary's office about whether so-and-so (ideally a high-profile trainer!) "is going to get the duck."

This particular year Doug had slightly aroused the ire of his good friend and longtime training competitor, Herb Stevens-a crusty citizen and bona fide character in his own right.

Early in this Keeneland meet, Herb had entered a first-time starter in a maiden claiming race. Much to Herb's surprise, Doug claimed him. While this action did not enrage Herb, it did get his attention. After the race, when the horse was ensconced in his new barn, Doug came running over to his pal Herb and said, "Herb, I couldn't help it. This damned owner of mine out in Arkansas made me claim that horse. I didn't want to."

Herb said later, "I didn't care about losing the horse, but it made me mad as hell that Davis would think I was dumb enough to believe that cock-and-bull story."

On closing day at Keeneland, Doug had three runners. The first two ran in early races and failed to hit the board, and now he had one last chance, in the last race.

Herb Stevens had, of course, been keeping tabs on the big guy, and he was not pulling for Doug to mar his winless record by knocking off the 10th and last race.

About mid-afternoon Herb strolled into the secretary's office. The staff had purchased and put on display a life-sized, lawn ornament-type duck, to be presented to Davis, if he kept his dismal record unscathed in the last race.

Herb said, "Give me that damned duck! I'm gonna make this presentation."

He then alerted the press box, the track photographer, and anyone else he could think of to be in the Keeneland walking ring for a very meaningful ceremony. He arranged for several other fellow trainers-individuals who would tend to enjoy the nature of the project-to grab Davis after the last race (if indeed, he did not win it) and escort him to the ceremonial site.

The training fraternity got the exact result it desired: Doug's horse did not even threaten. So Doug was steered, almost forcefully, back to the walking ring.

There, gleefully assembled were every racing writer in central Kentucky, a variety of photographers, most of the staff of Keeneland, and a sizeable group of curious racing fans now exiting the track past the walking ring. It was a splendid crowd, and in the middle of it was Herb Stevens with the duck-on a leash!

Accompanied by lusty jeering, Stevens dealt thoroughly with Davis' lack of accomplishment at this Keeneland meeting, made the presentation, and concluded with, "Now, Doug, this makes us even!"

A resulting photograph of Doug, staring balefully down at the duck he held on a leash and clearly at a very unaccustomed loss for words, is a classic. It still hangs on the walls of several racing secretary offices and press boxes at tracks where Doug Davis plied his trade.

It may have been the only duck Doug Davis ever received.

Horatio Luro--El Gran Senor

EJMitchellKy — Fri, 26 Apr 2013 19:19:00 GMT

Horatio Luro-El Gran Senor. Has there ever existed in the world of Thoroughbred racing a human being who combined as much exquisite horsemanship with as much glamour? I do not think so.

He was a tall, handsome boulevardier from a distinguished Argentine family, a charming polo-playing and lady's man, who came to the states before World War II, teamed up with Charlie Whittingham in California and they hustled their way into the top of the Big Time in the racing world. Again, with a combination of superb horsemanship, chutzpah and personality.

Horatio Luro, Courtesy of NYRA

To meet Horatio was to never forget him. He looked like "somebody." He stood six foot-three, had a pencil-thin mustache, quite handsome, with a dashing, elegant, but devilish, look about him. He dressed in the finest tradition of Saville Row. Even in the early days, when he was flat broke, he was somehow able to wine and dine and operate with the cream of high society. He knew how to buy a good horse, and he surely knew how to train one. He had a fling with the gorgeous actress, Lana Turner (quite an accomplishment), and later was married for 37 years to a truly impressive lady.

No horse trainer ever had a deeper impact on the Thoroughbred breed. He brought to this country the splendid Princequillo and developed him into one of the greatest stayers of his time. At stud, with Bull Hancock at Claiborne, Princequillo became the dominant influence of stamina in the sport. Later Luro took a blocky, little bay horse that did not meet his reserve when E.P. Taylor sold him as a yearling and made him into a magnificent race horse and arguably the greatest sire that ever lived. His name was Northern Dancer. The Senor won the Derby with him; he also won it with Decidedly. Space would literally not permit a list of other distinguished stakes winners trained by Luro.

Like most great characters with panache and charm, he was not always easy. He was a prima donna, had a temper, and since he never quite mastered all the nuances of the English language, he could stumble verbally into awkward situations. That's when his wife Frances, who was sophisticated and urbane, and oozed charm from every pore, could help out immeasurably when some diplomacy was needed. However, his own legendary brand was usually quite adequate. An example of that was tested when he ran a filly at Atlantic City. She was winning quite easily, but inexplicably, when approaching the wire, she careened over the rail, ran into the lake and panicked. Sadly, she drowned before anyone could reach her. Later, Horatio lamented, "How am I going to call the owner and tell him that the filly was winning the race but then drowned?"

Much earlier, he had encountered another awkward situation back home in Argentina. Never in my rather long life have I encountered-or seen-a human being that had actually engaged in a duel. Horatio Luro did! In a dispute over a polo pony board bill, Horatio struck the landlord, an Argentine nobleman. The infuriated injured party "demanded satisfaction." Seconds were chosen, weapons selected. Luro was given the choice, and because his adversary had just returned from a hunting trip, swords rather than guns seemed the smarter option. Horatio took a quick course in fencing, which paid off significantly. He was advised that because of his six foot-three height, he should simply keep his weapon extended into the face of the other shorter man. This he did, and his raging opponent ran into the sword, nicked his arm, blood was drawn, and the duel had been satisfied. Perhaps Thoroughbred racing would have been the poorer had revolvers been the choice.

A well-documented example of his temper came at the expense of a jockey named Eddie Belmonte. Subbing for Luro's regular rider in a race at Saratoga, he was told to take the horse back and make one big run. Instead Eddie broke and gunned the horse to the lead and hustled him to stay there. He ran out of gas. Luro had placed a rather sizeable bet on the horse, and when the rider dismounted the Senor tried with considerable enthusiasm to choke him-in front of the grandstand. He was suspended for 30 days for this rather unpleasant behavior.

He was not reluctant to take suggestions from assistants and exercise riders. And he really hit it off with jockeys remarkably well. He liked Bill Hartack, respected his opinion, and adopted a number of his suggestions. Hartack, a wonderful rider, had the disposition of a viper, but there was mutual respect and harmony between him and the Senor. The well-used expression of today, having to do with asking too much of a horse, was born prior to the running of the 1960 Blue Grass Stakes. Horatio told Bill, "This is not our main objective. Do not squeeze the lemon dry." Hartack was a man who could squeeze the hell out of the lemon, but he did not on Victoria Park that day. Still he deserted him in the Derby a couple of weeks later, and energetically rode Venetian Way to victory.

Luro shaking hands with Hartack in the Preakness
Stakes winner's circle

Horatio's aforementioned wife, Frances, owned a large farm near Atlanta in Cartersville, Ga. Luro converted this into a training center, and Dogwood was one of its clients in the late sixties and early seventies before we built our own farm. Frances was very prominent in Atlanta (and most other) social circles. She had a daughter, Cary, who was named "debutante of the year," and subsequently was married a fair amount of times. Still another nuptial was being planned at the farm for Horatio's much-married step-daughter, and it was to be a big social event, involving a rehearsal, and a gala rehearsal dinner. Horatio was, of course, summoned back from Belmont Park for the event, and he groused, "I do not see the need for rehearsal. She has done this many times, and must be familiar with the procedure by now."

Frances and Horatio were at the very top of the social ladder in the glamour days of racing. Being new to the game in the early seventies, my wife Anne and I were flattered when they took note of us in some insignificant way. This led to an embarrassing situation one year in Florida. Frances was the chairwoman of the elegant Flamingo Ball, which took place at Hialeah. She, of course, was hustling participation, and zeroed in on Anne and me. Now Frances was wonderful and gracious, but she did have a little con in her. And she did mean to fill up the tables at the Ball. She cooed to Anne and me, "Horatio and I are so hoping you all will join us at the Ball!" We thought this meant, "Come sit with us at our table." What a nice social breakthrough for a young couple! What she really meant was, "Buy two tickets to the Ball, and use them."

We arrived at the Ball, and breezily informed the person at the door that we were guests of the Luros'. Oddly we were not on the list. Obviously an omission. So, we paid for two, went in, and excitedly sought out the Luro table. It was chock full of heavy-hitters, of course. Frances waved cordially, but vaguely. We got the picture, and found a couple of spots at a table-near the kitchen.

Horatio and Frances were a great team. Just as Penny Chenery contributed to the overall image of Secretariat, so did Frances Luro contribute enormously to the dashing, debonair persona of the Senor. He trained well into his eighties, then turned over the stock to his beloved step-grandson, Billy Wright, who still operates Old Mill Farm in Cartersville, Ga.

We will not see the likes of Horatio Luro again.

Luro with Northern Dancer before the Blue
Grass Stakes

MacKenzie 'Mack' Miller

EJMitchellKy — Tue, 02 Apr 2013 15:25:00 GMT

A contest to determine the most popular man in the history of Thoroughbred racing would surely find Mack Miller's name in the finals. And 2 to 1 to win it! Quite an accomplishment, because, while he was certainly not born with a silver spoon in his mouth, he ended up with a mouth full of silver ladle. Because he served as private trainer (and close friend) for two of the richest men in the world, and two of the most appreciative and understanding when it came to the vagaries of racing. They were Charles Engelhard, the platinum king, and then Paul Mellon, the renowned sportsman and philanthropist.

So, Mack might have had a target on his back. But because he was such a nice guy, and his ability was so respected, no one ever took a shot at him. You never heard him criticized, and that spoke volumes about the man. He reeked of quality. Interesting that he was the one American horse trainer that any other horse trainer would go to for advice and not feel that they had compromised their own expertise. He was what Dr.Larry Bramlage is today in the veterinary field.

Mack Miller was the quintessence of success and quality in Thoroughbred racing. He was a tall, handsome fellow, great smile, cheery way about him, always nicely turned out in Brooks Brothers garb. Sociable to friends, fans and associates, but around his barn he saw to it that things were popping, and popping in the direction that he wanted. Ask former assistants like Neil Howard, Pete Vestal, Danny Furr, Mike Cline, Jeff Minton and other impressive names.

Mack Miller

Sometimes in one's career it seems a matter of supreme importance for some big shot to speak to you and call you by your name. You need to feel that you have arrived, or are about to. Hearing "Hi Cot" from Mack one day was big stuff to me in the mid-seventies. Another time at Saratoga, I was thrilled when he asked me to clock a horse for him.

Mack came from a small-town, Norman Rockwell-type family. His father was superintendent of motor vehicles in Versailles, Ky. His mother was a saintly lady who sang in the choir at the Presbyterian Church. Mack was fond of proclaiming, "My mother could sing like a bird." That same Presbyterian Church delivered a rousing, standing ovation when Mack and Martha Miller strode down the aisle to the Miller pew on Sunday morning after his Sea Hero had won the Kentucky Derby.

Sea Hero

Miller grew up under rigid rules about what was right and wrong, and he played by them all his life. And he did not dig — or condone — anyone who didn't. He shunned for a time a couple of super popular riders who were suspected of chicanery. He adored Jerry Bailey ("He had the finest countenance, the nicest outlook"), but he fired him when it became apparent that during a period in mid-career Jerry was laying on the sauce a bit strong (Jerry later fixed that problem for good, and Mack got him back).

Mack Miller's middle name was integrity. He led the league in self deprecation...and hypochondria, by the way. He was truly a world-class, charming companion, but he would regale you with maladies or diseases he was coming down with, or sing the blues about the poor condition of his stock — "not a horse in the barn can run a lick."

Mack's first experience with horse racing was leading broodmares out to pasture at Calumet. He was a lean, lanky six-foot-three, and tipped the scale at all of 130 pounds. He looked like a plucked chicken. So between lack of experience and heft, the mares really dragged Mack to the paddocks. He held on though, gained experience, and before long, through his hometown connections, was able to take a few horses to the race track for some, good-old-boy, "hardboot" breeders in Central Kentucky. He carved out a solid reputation for horsemanship and honesty in the process. Then, by God, he developed a champion (Leallah)! And — as horses can do — she helped put him in the big time.

He was offered a delicious draft of horses to train for a new man in the game — Charles Engelhard. This big opportunity sputtered off to a dismal start, much to Mack's anguish. Typically, Mack, with the string at Belmont at the time, and embarrassed about their accomplishments, called up Mr. Engelhard, asked if he could come to his home in New Jersey to talk with him. When they met, Mack told his client he was doing such a terrible job that it was only right that he resign. Engelhard, no dummy when it came to judging people, said, "No, you're not going to resign. Instead, you're going to train all my horses. You're my private trainer. You're on the payroll from here on in." Mack gulped, said OK, went back to Belmont, and soon the fog lifted. The stable began to sizzle, one good horse after another.

Charlie Engelhard died after some years of that association. Mack trained for his widow for awhile, and then the job with Paul Mellon opened up. Mellon had decided to split up with his longtime trainer Elliott Burch. This presented a painful, sensitive situation, as Elliott and Mack were best friends, but Elliott was going, one way or another, so Miller took over one of the most prestigious jobs in racing. And he never looked back. Sea Hero, Fit to Fight, Java Gold, Assagai, Tentam, Halo, and on and on. Dangerous to start naming his big horses, because he trained a gang of them.

Being an old-time guy with old-time ways, he brought his stock into Aiken, S.C., to winter quarters. So, Mack really had three homes: Versailles, Garden City, N.Y., and Aiken. He wintered in Aiken in a home and considerable acreage given to him by the grateful patron Charlie Engelhard.

He toiled in Aiken with such racing luminaries as John Gaver, Mike Freeman, Buddy Raines, Frank Wright, Woody Stephens, Angel Penna, Jim Maloney and many others of the same ilk. He adored Aiken. He loved playing golf, which he did almost every afternoon.

In the heyday of Aiken, the training of racehorses was ruled by the greatly revered, no-nonsense Greentree trainer, John Gaver. Mack Miller became a luminary of unexcelled luster eventually, but was not in the early days. He learned from the Princeton-educated Gaver, was greatly influenced by him, and stood in awe of him. He was anxious not to displease him.

One winter Mack was training Halo, an outstanding grass horse. Halo, during his racing days and later at stud, was one surly, disagreeable, rough customer. He gave Mack many a gray hair. Halo took great pleasure each day, when sent out in one of the large sets of trainees, in dumping his rider. He would then gallop around the track several times. His exuberance gratified, he would conclude his adventures by crossing Two Notch Road, plowing into the Greentree training complex, where he would attempt to breed each and every horse being cooled out on their walking ring. This intrusion into the Greentree compound was quite disruptive, and annoyingly repetitive, Gaver felt. One day, after such an episode, Gaver ran into Mack down at the clockers' stand and said, "Mack, you're going to have to take care of that son of a bitch! Or I'm going to castrate him! Since Halo became one of the best sires of his days, it is fortunate for the breed that Mack was able to control Halo's unscheduled trips to Greentree.

Mack Miller was certainly a creature of habit, and his habits did not include late hours. If Kentucky was not scheduled to play basketball on TV, he would organize dinner with pals. This would begin at 6:30 p.m., involved two martinis, and around 8:30 p.m. Mack was looking for the party to break up.

Mack took enormous pride in cooking cheese straws. Around Dec. 1, the cheese straw program would be heavy on Mack's mind, so there would be an ample supply for all his pals at Christmas. When invited to his house, one had access to cheese straws until you choked. For the drinkers, these were washed down with martinis "mixed to Paul's (Mellon, that is) recipe."

When he and Paul Mellon retired — and the two events were definitely associated — Mack and his splendid wife, Martha, moved back to their family roots in Versailles, and he fell into a quiet life on Morgan Street. He would make an occasional foray over to Keeneland for the races or the sales, but not much of that.

MacKenzie Miller — truly "one of the ones."

(Editor's Note: A previous version of this story included De La Rose among the horses Miller trained. The grade I winner was trained by Woody Stevens but bred by Miller in partnership with Dr. and Mrs. R. Smiser West.)

More of Cot Campbell's stories are included, among a host of others, in The Best of Talkin' Horses.

Leslie Combs

EJMitchellKy — Thu, 14 Mar 2013 20:58:00 GMT

You've heard of people who "broke the mold." Well, "Cousin" Leslie Combs is one of them.

In his day, if he wasn't king of the horse business, he was in strong contention; and he was under the impression that he already owned that title.

He would tell you he was going to sell you a horse, you were going to pay through the nose for it, and you were going to have the time of your life in the process. And then he would deliver the goods. He bred and sold some wonderful horses.

I bought some horses from his Spendthrift Farm through the years, but I am a bargain buyer and, therefore, just a tiny blip on his radar screen. He didn't expend much of his legendary charm on me. He didn't want to run me off, but peewees like me were slim pickings for a salesman like Leslie who had two rows of seats in the Keeneland sales pavilion warmed by the affluent derrieres of such as Dolly Green, Art and Martha Appleton, Frank McMahon, Franklin Groves, John Olin, Martha Kilroe, Elizabeth Arden Graham, and John W. Hanes.

Woody Stephens, the legendary trainer, used to say, "If you want to be a big flea, you gotta get on a big dog!"

Believe me, that was the battle cry of Leslie Combs.

Leslie Combs

Monday night at the Keeneland summer select yearling sale was Combs Night, and Spendthrift might be selling as many as 18 yearlings. You can bet Cousin Leslie had planned painstakingly and struggled tirelessly to orchestrate the successful sale of each.

And could he get the job done! He reigned for 15 consecutive years as Keeneland's top consignor and held the title three other years.

Ryan Mahan, now head auctioneer at Keeneland, tells a typical Combs story. It took place when Mahan was a young bid spotter (assigned to Combs' section) on the July night the maestro was selling a Northern Dancer colt, a half brother to the great Mr. Prospector.

When the clock struck eight that night and the auction staff began its announcements before the first horse was led in the ring, Combs and his guests were already well ensconced in their seats. The host had seen to it that the cocktail hour at the big house had started early enough for all guests to become sufficiently relaxed, and then he had hustled them into limousines so that the motorcade to Keeneland could get started at 7:30. This was a night for punctuality!

Leslie had long since decided that one of his perennial sales-time guests, Dolly Green, who had been left half the real estate of downtown Los Angeles, should be favored with ownership of the beautifully bred colt that was the star of his consignment.

Interesting, Keeneland was concerned about including the colt in its "select" sale. His front-end alignment was somewhat askew. As the Irish say, one leg went to Limerick and the other to County Cork! But Keeneland had been assured by Leslie that he had him sold and that the colt would bring one million dollars or more. Naturally, they took him.

Arriving at the pavilion, the Spendthrift aggregation settled in the two rows of seats, with much last-minute stage direction from Cousin Leslie. The seating had to be finely tuned so that no heavy-hitters were left unattended out in left field.

Leslie had situated himself next to Dolly Green, you may be sure.

The big colt (for promotional purposes Combs referred to him as "Pretty Boy") was due to sell about 9:15 p.m., and Leslie's severe challenge was to see that Mrs. Green did not become bored during the hour and fifteen minutes she would be required to wait. In the interim Leslie had other important horses to sell, and he wanted to "can all the fruit" before and after Mrs. Green's anticipated featured transaction.

The sale started. Spendthrift sold a filly and a colt early in the sale. Everything was humming along satisfactorily. But about 8:20 p.m. Dolly Green turned to Leslie and complained, "Leslie, I'm cold!"
"Yes, Dolly, Keeneland does keep it too cold in here. I've told 'em about that! You just cuddle up next to Cousin Leslie," Combs leered.

Feeling the need for some stimulus for the pending task, Leslie called out to Ryan Mahan, tuxedo-bedecked and spotting bids in the aisle ten feet away. "Hey there, Mr. Bid Spotter, my 'Pretty Boy' (the Mr. Prospector half brother) is gonna be in here in a few minutes, and you'll see the pretty boy that is going to win the Kentucky Derby!" He squeezed Dolly's arm delightedly. Ryan, fully cognizant of the drill, smiled responsively and nodded vigorously.

Ten minutes went by, and Dolly's attention span was in serious trouble. "Leslie, I'm freezing! It's uncomfortable in here."

"It certainly is, Dolly." (Aside to the spotter: "Let's turn that damned thermostat up a little, son!")

"Here, darlin', take Cousin Leslie's coat. If all these people weren't in here, the two of us would do some snuggling. I'd get you warm!" He cackled charmingly and gallantly draped his blue blazer around Dolly's bare shoulders. He sent his son into the bar for a cup of hot coffee laced with a shot of brandy.

It was now 25 long minutes away from the appearance of Hip Number 101, for Leslie the focal point of the evening...the year! Could Dolly last? It was going to be close.
At 9:05 p.m. Dolly rose to her feet. "Leslie, I simply must leave. I am most uncomfortable!"

Leslie, on his feet now, screaming at Ryan and putting on a show for Dolly: "Goddamn it, boy, get Bill Greely (Keeneland general manager). I want this temperature fixed. This lady is cold! And my 'Pretty Boy' is fixin' to come in here, and we want to see him."

Ryan nodded worriedly, and before another horse came into the ring, he hightailed over to the thermostat and pretended to fiddle with it. He then gave the high sign to Combs that everything was corrected. Trying to help, Ryan leaned in to Dolly Green and assured her, "Ma'am, we've warmed it up. You'll be comfortable now!"

This ploy was good for 10 minutes. Now the colt was in the ring.

Combs had his coat on Dolly, his arm draped around her, and was practically sitting in her lap. She was drinking her hot coffee, and at last she seemed somewhat interested in the proceedings.
Hip Number 101 opened at $300,000 then jumped to $400,000. The reserve had been reached, and now any bids would be live ones.

Leslie turned and smiled expectantly at Dolly. She nodded vaguely, and Ryan bellowed, "Yep!!!" The colt went to $500,000.

Combs might have signaled to someone in the pavilion. The bid jumped to $600,000.

At that point the great showman leaned forward in his seat, waved idiotically at the colt in the ring and sang out, "Hello there, 'Pretty Boy.' You gonna win that Derby for Leslie and Dolly aren't you, 'Pretty Boy'?"

Dolly whispered impatiently to Leslie that she wanted to bid again. Leslie's hand on her shoulder fluttered for $700.000.

Mysteriously, the bid kept jumping on past a million, until Dolly bid a cool million two hundred.

At that point Dolly stood up and said, "Oh, Leslie, I just can't bid anymore." It was her bid. She didn't have to.

With his arm around her, they were starting up the aisle. Surprisingly, they heard "One million, three hundred thousand." Leslie couldn't believe it. But with the guts of a bandit, he whispered, "You might just want to try one more bid, darlin'. Shall we do just one more on our 'Pretty Boy'?"

In exasperation she said, "Oh, I suppose so, but then do let's go."

Leslie Combs, looking back over his shoulder and never breaking stride, unabashedly but emphatically waved in another bid—for $1,400,000. Sold!

The twosome disappeared out the door, and Leslie Combs deposited her into the warmth of the waiting limousine.

Dolly had some nice horses through the years, but this one was certainly not a standout. His name was Yukon. He never won. He never even raced. With that pedigree, he did go to stud but did not emulate either his daddy or his half brother.

[Historical note: Dolly Green bought a total of four horses for $2.2 million that July night in 1980.]

Virgil W. 'Buddy' Raines

EJMitchellKy — Wed, 27 Feb 2013 15:38:00 GMT

Virgil W. "Buddy" Raines was the consummate horseman, a wonderful human being, and one of the most uncomplicated, evenly balanced persons God ever let live.

He botched a splendid opportunity to be neurotic. You see, no one ever told him he had a right to be.

Buddy was one of seven children in a poor family. One day an itinerant horse trainer was traveling through Wayne, Ill., and, in keeping with the neighborliness of the times, was invited to have a meal with the Raines family.

At supper he looked around the table, admired the young manpower sitting there, and said, "Man, I wish I had me a strong little boy to help out with my horses!"

Mr. Raines, keenly cognizant of having an excess number of mouths to feed in times that were hard, said, "Well, hell, take that one," pointing unmistakably at Buddy.

He did, putting Buddy straight to work in what would be the beginning of 80 years in the horse business. After several years as virtually an indentured child servant, Buddy was traded to another horseman. That fellow kept him, worked him, and then "gave" him to a man who was to play a significant part in the boy's development.

This was Whistling Bob Smith, who at that time was the trainer of the powerful Brookmeade Stable of Isabel Dodge Sloane.

Hall of Fame Trainer
Whistling Bob Smith

Buddy primarily galloped horses for him and later began riding races on the flat and over jumps.

Whistling Bob Smith (so called because of a usually sunny disposition) had a wife who was very kind. She liked Buddy and was the first to be concerned that whatever education Buddy had received thus far had come from life on the racetrack. She insisted that Buddy—age 16 and doing pretty well financially as a jockey apprenticed to the Brookmeade outfit—be enrolled in school. The schooling could be fitted into his daily barn and racetrack responsibilities.

So enroll he did. Trouble was the young man was shaving every day but his educational background was that of a 6-year-old. Buddy Raines had to start out with first grade.

Someone once asked him, "Buddy, wasn't that awfully embarrassing to be in class with all those little kids?"

"Hell no! I was the only sumbitch in the first grade that drove a Pierce Arrow to school!"

Buddy was a perfect example of how the worldliness of the racetrack can turn an ignorant person from humble origins into a relative sophisticate.

Buddy socialized as an equal with giants of industry; he traveled abroad with one of his adoring patrons, Donald Ross; columns were written about him by such as the renowned Red Smith; the legendary chairman of the Coca-Cola Co., Robert W. Woodruff, was delighted by him and once named one of his bird dogs "Buddy Raines."

Buddy Raines at Saratoga in 1962

Buddy wore clothes that would have pleased Cary Grant. He never knew a stranger, was easy with any man or woman from the loftiest station in life, had impeccable manners, was an engaging conversationalist, and most important of all, he was comfortable and happy in his own skin.

His would surely have been a less captivating story had he not been "given" to that horse trainer who stopped for a meal.

Some of Buddy's unpredictable savoir-faire brushed off from Whistling Bob, but certainly not all of it. Mr. Smith had some rather startling gaps in his urbanity. He retained a fierce addiction to The Lone Ranger, a popular radio serial of the '30s and '40s featuring a phenomenally benevolent masked cowboy and his faithful companion, a steadfast and taciturn Indian named Tonto.

Each day just before 4:30 in the afternoon, Whistling Bob would surreptitiously dart into the tack room, shut the door, and then emerge 30 minutes later, flushed with excitement. Bob may have been the oldest member of The Lone Ranger Fan Club, but by no means was his dedication lacking.

All the help knew what he was doing, but they tactfully refrained from discussing this topic with the big boss.

When Brookmeade ran a horse in a stake (which, of course, it frequently did), the late afternoon timing of this featured race unfortunately would conflict with the Lone Ranger episode of that day. One surmises that on these occasions, Whistling Bob opted for the paddock and saddling duties and not for his Philco. Perhaps he knew some 10-year-old fellow fan who could re-create that day's adventures for him.

One day Buddy's boss left the shed row and popped into the tack room for his daily fix.

At five o'clock, just as the last strains of "Hi-Yo Silver!—Away!" were dissipating into the ether, Bob threw open the door and yelled in complete disgust, "Who do those jokers think they're kidding!"

"What's the matter, boss?" Buddy rushed up and asked solicitously.

With a wild look in this eye, Bob Smith exclaimed, "This is crazy! Get this: The Lone Ranger is holed up in a canyon. He's in a helluva gunfight with some rustlers. So he sends a smoke signal to Tonto, who has got to be at least a mile away. No more than one minute later that son of a bitch rides up to help! There's no way in the world he could have got there that fast. Man, I don't know what they're trying to pull!"

In addition to The Lone Ranger, Whistling Bob also was a devoted backer of his horses. If he had one ready and the odds were right, he would shove the shekels through the windows with both hands.

Once, in later years, when that great outfit had long since won the Kentucky Derby with Cavalcade, the Belmont with High Quest, and Buddy was still assistant trainer, the old trainer was struck down with a grave illness.

Bob lay seemingly comatose in his hospital room. One afternoon during rounds, his doctor entered the room. A family member asked him about Bob's chances.
The doctor, under the impression that Smith was unconscious, walked the visitor over to the corner of the room and answered, "Truthfully, it's about 10-1 against his survival."

The 10-1 registered with Whistling Bob. His eyes popped open, and he rasped, "Say, Doc, that's too good a price to pass up. Just reach in my pants pocket and get out a ten-dollar bill. I'll take that bet for a sawbuck!"

Buddy Raines was a very popular man. I doubt that he ever had an enemy. But, in the words of Red Smith, he was "an enemy of silence." He had a thousand great stories and he would tell them.

In between times, he played a role in the careers of many a great racehorse. Among them Cavalcade, Open Fire, Cochise, Timely Warning, Greek Song and Greek Money.

Buddy Raines, shown here at Pimlico in 1990, trained three consecutive winners
of the Maryland Million Classic, 1989-1991; first with Master Speaker and
then back-to-back with Timely Warning

More of Cot Campbell's stories are included, among a host of others, in The Best of Talkin' Horses.

Jimmy Jones

EJMitchellKy — Fri, 15 Feb 2013 14:30:00 GMT

You had to love Jimmy Jones. Like a baby who first stares at you vacantly and then explodes joyfully into a crinkly-eyed, big smile, so did Jimmy Jones engage you. In the first seconds of contact, he seemed at the same time slightly worried, a tad solicitous, a trifle wary, but searching hard for a reason to smile.

He was one of the "the Jones Boys," one of the greatest horse-training teams in the history of the game. His father was Ben "B.A." Jones, a big, beefy, gimlet-eyed man who brooked no affronts and earned a reputation for being a first-class Midwestern saloon brawler.

Jimmy, on the other hand, was a good-natured, roly-poly little fellow who exuded what appeared to be a childlike innocence. He seemed intent on achieving the most pleasant possible social intercourse with his fellow man, with a voice that was sifted through gravel and a mind like a steel trap!

The Jones Boys came out of Parnell, Missouri, and despite the substantial and inevitable degree of sophistication that must have come simply from the glitter and glamour of winning eight Kentucky Derbys, they remained "Parnell" to the core. The boys left the country, but the country never left the boys.

They made their indelible mark when they signed on as private trainers for the vaunted Calumet Farm, and they quickly set about creating a dynasty that has never been equaled. Their names are associated with the creation of such racing luminaries as Citation, Coaltown, Ponder, Hill Gail, Pensive, Bardstown, Whirlaway, Armed, Bewitch, Tim Tam, Two Lea, Barbizon, Iron Liege, Wistful, On-and-On, A Gleam, etc., etc.

Never has any other horse-training feat equaled the skein of great horses turned out for Calumet by the Jones Boys.

Ben Jones (L) and Jimmy Jones (R) with Iron Liege after winning the 1957 Kentucky Derby

Much of the year they operated in two divisions. In 1948 Jimmy had the Florida division that included Citation-a horse who would make anyone's top-five-horses-of-all-time list. Jimmy actually trained the horse, but when he brought him to Kentucky for the Derby, he had to turn Citation over to his father, who was seeking to tie the record of Derby Dick Thompson, with four victories in that classic. Being a good son (with little choice in the matter!), Jimmy seemed good-natured about it at the time. But in his later years his bitterness at this injustice surfaced, and he was rather outspoken about it.

I loved Jimmy's recount of bringing the mighty Citation to Louisville: "Coaltown was my father's horse. He had Coaltown in Louisville while I had Citation in Hialeah. When I come up to Louisville with Citation, some of them boys from Louisville started kiddin' me, sayin', ‘What you doin' here?' I told them, ‘I come over to win the Derby!' They said, ‘You won't see anything but a big brown hiney (Coaltown's); that's all you'll see.' I said, ‘If he beats this horse, you just call me imbecile for the rest of my life.' "

But my best story has to do with an earlier time, the early 1930s in Chicago.

A Deal They Couldn't Refuse

The boys were training for Herbert Woolf out of Kansas City. They had good, solid stock (they were a few years away from winning their first Derby with Lawrin), and they were having a dandy meeting at Arlington Park.

One steaming hot July day Jimmy and Ben were driving down State Street in Chicago's "Loop." Jimmy was behind the wheel, chattering away, while Ben stared stonily ahead.

A big black Packard touring car with four male occupants pulled alongside. The thuggish-looking fellow in the front gestured unmistakably toward the curb, and the Joneses pulled over.

"What the hell!" said Jimmy.

A big, swarthy individual emerged from the back seat and sauntered over to the modest Jones vehicle. He had on black pants, a bow-tie, a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and a sailor straw boater.

Jimmy had the sickening feeling that this man looked quite familiar.

The big fellow put a foot on the running board, leaned into the car, and asked, "Which one of youse is the horse trainer...Jones?"

Jimmy piped up, "Why, we both are! I'm Jimmy Jones, and this here is B.A. What can we do for you?

"Well, my name is Al Capone. You heard of me?"

Al Capone

Two quick affirmative nods.

"I like the races, make a bet or two. Every time I go out to Arlington you guys seem to be winning all the races. You must be good trainers," Capone said.

Now these were pleasing sentiments for the big gangster to be expressing, but somehow neither Jimmy nor Ben sensed that beneficial news would follow.

"I wanna cash a few bets, so I might want to hook up with youse. You probably got a live horse or two left in the barn. Maybe we could have some fun together, and I'll take care of you if we do," Al continued.

Jimmy and Ben deduced that if the "live horse" did not generate fun, indeed they might be taken care of in another way.

Before they could respond, Al Capone issued an invitation. "You come have dinner with me. We'll work it out. Tomorrow night at seven at the Cicero Grill, down on Division Street. Unnastand?"

Capone grinned, nodded abruptly, slapped Jimmy on the shoulder, and strolled back to his car.

"Oh, s**t," said Jimmy looking at his father. "What're we gonna do now?"

"Hell, we're going to dinner," Ben replied.

The next night the two horse trainers arrived at the Cicero Grill, an establishment of rather modest appointments. There were very few patrons, but the bartender seemed aware they had not just wandered in off the street for a drink. He greeted them with, "Jones? Go through that door next to the kitchen."

They did. They were the first arrivals-save one-in a small private dining room, with a large table with places set for eight. The only other occupant was a forlorn-looking man in a seedy tuxedo. He was clutching a violin.

"What's happening?" Jimmy brightly sought to break the ice (and perhaps learn something about the nature of the evening ahead). The violinist shrugged unhappily and said nothing.

After about 15 minutes, a mild commotion sounded in the main dining area of the Cicero Grill. The door burst open, and in came Big Al, four of his staff, and, quite surprisingly, a very rotund male child of about 8 years. He wore tight short pants. He bore a strong resemblance to Al and was introduced as "my boy, Sonny."

With much backslapping and playful punches, Al Capone jovially launched the social hour. Soon a surprisingly large number of waiters for an establishment the size of the Cicero Grill were hurrying in with drinks and antipasto for this strange assortment of dinner guests: Capone and staff, two nervous horse trainers, a violinist, and a fat little boy.

Jimmy and Ben had, of course, discussed exhaustively what to do about Big Al's keen interest in their racing stock. They had determined it was a no-win situation. If they complied with Al's demand to cut him in on a juicy gambling opportunity, the best-case scenario would be a nice "tip" if the horse won. However, victory was sure to be followed by a request for another such opportunity, and on and on, ad infinitum.

There was considerable downside risk. If the horse did not win, and Big Al dropped a bundle, the relationship would sour significantly, and who knew what ramifications such a failure might wreak.

It did not take a genius to figure out that the boys were up the well-known creek and did not have a paddle.

Their game plan was to agree vaguely to everything and then hope fate would somehow intervene before the moment of truth. Perhaps some strategic stalling would temper Al's enthusiasm for a gamble of this nature.

The business portion of this night's meeting took place during the consumption of the antipasto, with Al's promise that "some high-class entertainment" would follow. Surely this would not be the violinist?

The "business" consisted of, "Now you boys know how to win races. So next time you got something good, you call me and I'll load up with the bookmakers. Unnastand what I'm saying?"

Jimmy and Ben indicated that they did understand.

With that, a very heavy meal commenced, with Al and his boys-and the fat child-laying down a blistering pace and admirable staying power. During dinner Al had signaled Lenny the violinist to favor the group with some renditions, and the musician began sawing away dolorously with a variety of sentimental selections.

In telling the story in later life, Jimmy remembered the room had no windows, and because air conditioning was rare in those days, the single, oscillating electric fan was badly overmatched by the hot Chicago weather. The wine, lasagna, temperature, and the nature of their predicament were combining to make the nervous Jones Boys perspire heavily. If they had been racehorses, they would surely have left their races in the paddock.

The meal finally ended. Thank God, thought the guests; now this dreaded evening must soon be over.

At this point Al belched loudly, scratched his stomach, reared back in his chair, and said, "Now youse are in for a treat. Sonny has been taking singin' and dancin' lessons; I want him to show you his stuff!"

Al's boys signaled the waiters to clear the table, and the guests-Jimmy and Ben-were told to move their chairs back so they could better appreciate the visual nuances of Sonny's presentation, which would take place on top of the dinner table.

Sonny did not suffer from stage fright. With a boost from one of the adults, he scrambled enthusiastically on top of the sturdy table.

Lenny and Sonny had obviously "worked" together, and it was with seasoned teamwork that the two embarked on "It's Only a Shanty in Old Shantytown." This old favorite brought so much applause that it was followed with the popular "Ma, He's Makin' Eyes at Me." There was a thunderous response in the private dining room, and the Jones Boys carried their share of the load. After five or six other numbers, during which Sonny had managed to break a major-league sweat (and so had the two honored guests), Big Al jumped up and said-Jolson style-"You ain't seen nothin' yet! Now, Angel, show ‘em the Lindy Hop and the Charleston." Lenny was beginning to falter slightly, but not Sonny. This was his (and Al's) big moment, and by God he was going to deliver the goods.

The entire Cicero Grill was reverberating until about 10:30, when Al mercifully declared it was time to put "my singin' and dancin' angel to bed." Goodnights were said with firm reminders to the two horsemen that Al Capone would be awaiting their call with good news of the upcoming score.

Race Day with Scarface

Day after day the Jones Boys played their waiting game, hoping the problem would disappear. A week passed, and they began to have high hopes that Al's lust for a score had been diverted. Then, the dreaded call. "You boys ain't forgot about our project, have ya?" Al had not.

"Uh, no, we're working on it. But the situation has got to be just right. We'll be in touch, " Jimmy explained.

"Be in touch before the week's over!" Al suggested.

The boys had a solid 3-year-old filly named Missouri Waltz. She was worth about $10,000 in those Depression days, which made her a pretty good horse. The two trainers owned her themselves. So they decided that Missouri Waltz would be the vehicle that would activate the project. They would run this nice filly in a $5,000 claimer. Missouri Waltz should win easily. Of course, she would surely be claimed (bought), and though that thought was abhorrent, the alternative was more abhorrent.

They found a race six days away, phoned Big Al, and informed him of the play. Capone was very pleased. This must have been a dull period in gangland activities in the Windy City, for the big fellow seemed inordinately interested in what should have been a "small-potatoes" undertaking. There were several subsequent conversations before the big day.

Race day came, and the betting public found it so strange that the canny Jones Boys would drop this filly so drastically that they laid off her, and she went off at 7-2. She should have been 1-5!

Jimmy and Ben were sweating bullets and not terribly enthused about watching the race with Big Al in his box, about which he was most insistent.

But they did, and agonizing though it was, Missouri Waltz waltzed home by five lengths and paid $9.40. Another good fortune for the horse's owners was that other horsemen either shared the bettors' suspicion or noticed Capone's involvement and were afraid to claim a filly that afforded one of the juiciest opportunities of the Chicago summer racing season.

Capone had done most of his betting with bookmakers around the country. He had done well, but more importantly he looked and felt like a genius.

Big Al was most complimentary to Ben and Jimmy Jones. "I knew you guys were good. You done fine! I tell ya what-you come on over to the Cicero Grill on Saturday night, and we'll put on the feedbag again. We'll get Sonny to put on another show for us, huh? And we'll talk about where we're going from here! We're going to have some fun this summer! And I'll have an envelope for youse."

Jimmy and Ben went back to the barn. While the filly was cooling out, Ben, leaning pensively against the railing in the shed row, called Jimmy over. "By God, I'll tell you where we're going from here. Soon as there's an eastbound train, and it'd better be a night train, we're taking the whole damned outfit to Latonia. We got to quit while the quittin's good. I don't want no more of this, I don't want the envelope, and I sure to God can't stand another evening with that little fat boy!"

The Jones Boys came back to Chicago, cutting a wide swath when they did. But it was at a time when Big Al was residing in a large concrete structure in Atlanta, as the guest of the federal government.

More of Cot Campbell's stories are included among a host of others in The Best of Talkin' Horses.

Angel Penna Sr.

EJMitchellKy — Mon, 04 Feb 2013 02:57:00 GMT

I have dealt with a number of America’s greatest horse trainers. None evokes more delicious memories than Angel Penna.

Angel Penna was a son of Argentina, but as a horseman he was international in every sense of the word. Linguistically, he took a crack at three different languages, sometimes simultaneously! He was surely one of the greatest Thoroughbred trainers who ever lived and also one of the most challenging with whom to communicate.

He trained stakes winners Law Court, Montubio, and Southjet (the latter two winning grade I’s) for Dogwood Stable.

Never in my relationship with him did I know exactly what the hell he was talking about.

That’s an exaggeration because somehow he managed to be a most delightful and expressive companion. He had a marvelous sense of humor, and he was very witty (I think). His face helped immeasurably because it was constantly and eloquently assisting with his dialogue. There were fearsome scowls, moments of beaming exuberance, beatific benevolence, vigorous rolling of the eyes, glances heavenward to invite God’s sympathy, weary looks of resignation, and constant shoulder shrugging. All of these were accompanied by guttural grunts and a strange quasi-tap dancing shtick to help sell his point. You eventually got the gist of all this pantomime.

One of our horses, Montubio —once suffered a severe case of colic. The vet was summoned. He oiled him in an effort to unblock the impacted bowel. The treatment was successful, and soon the horse was able to eliminate waste material.

When I called Angel to ascertain the horse’s condition, I was delighted to hear the lilt in his voice and to get his down-to-earth report: “Oh, he ees very fine now. He have many uh…uh…poo-poo!”

Angel defined the word volatile yet was as kind a fellow as you would ever know. An unforgettable character.

He looked like my idea of a dashing, decidedly upscale gaucho. Angel was of moderate height but had short, bandy legs attached to a torso belonging to a bigger man. He was heavy, not fat, and strong, with very wide shoulders. Penna’s face was weathered, with a prominent nose and bright, intelligent eyes. His hair, beginning to thin, looked as if it had been painted on his head.

Penna was a natty dresser. No blue jeans for him. He wore cavalry twill trousers, a smart checkered shirt with an ascot or, at least, a colored handkerchief knotted debonairly around his neck. He usually wore a sport coat. His paddock boots were shined daily, by someone in the barn, I would imagine. This was a trainer who would probably be attired in a dark blue business suit when he saddled a horse. He had style galore.

Angel Penna with Blitey (Courtesy of NYRA)
Order This Photo

Penna trained in Argentina, Venezuela, France, and America and produced champions in the latter three. He won practically every great race in Europe, including two Prix de l’Arc de Triomphes (Fr-I) with the fillies San San and Allez France.

San San’s regular ride was Jean Cruguet, but he had been injured five days before the Arc and was replaced by Freddie Head. After winning the race, Angel first went to find Cruguet. He cupped the rider’s face in his hands and tearfully commiserated that the sidelined jockey had not been able to experience the thrill of this victory. Never mind that a week earlier Angel might have chased Cruguet out of the stable yard in a towering rage.

Penna won practically every great race in Europe except the English Derby (Eng-I), and many great races in this country but not the Kentucky Derby (gr. I).

Over here he trained for Ogden Phipps, Gus Ring, Frank Stronach, Dogwood, and Peter Brant among others.

His wife aided him enormously. Elinor Penna served as sort of a conversational facilitator, explaining a little here, cuing Angel at certain times, and defusing when necessary. She was a former sports commentator, a keen student of the racing scene, well-connected socially, and a wit of the first dimension.

Angel sired a son, Angel Jr., to whom he was devoted. This Penna is now one of America’s most prominent trainers.

Talking on the phone with Penna was the most difficult form of communication because you were robbed of the visual aids. When “call waiting” was first offered, for some reason Angel, who really did not relish talking on the phone, ordered it on his barn line. This service threw him into a constant tizzy, and he switched in confusion back and forth from one caller to another, often pursuing the wrong subject with the wrong party and usually disconnecting both parties.

Elinor puzzled, “I don’t know why he wants to tackle two callers. He can’t even talk to one person on the phone.”

I once gave Angel a gigantic Nijinsky filly to train. Her name was Helenska. He took a long time with her, as he was prone to do. Of course, I wanted to get a line on her, and I periodically sought his opinion.

“What do you think of this filly so far, Angel?” I would ask from time to time.

“Ahhh! Too beeg…too beeg!” he would exclaim, throwing his arms and head skyward, to seek devine assistance.

The filly bucked her shins finally, and I took her back to the farm to be fired. When she got over this ailment, I decided to send her to another trainer because I was convinced Angel did not like her (Is that not what “too beeg…too beeg” implied?).

She did go to another barn. When Angel recognized her training on the racetrack one morning, he went ballistic. It seems he loved the filly all along, was looking forward to getting her back, and was crushed that I had insulted him by sending her to another man.

He called me up and “fired” me, told me to remove my horses from his barn. Knowing this storm, legitimate though it may have been, would blow over soon, I phoned the next day and was finally able to smooth his ruffled feathers. This was one time when Elinor’s interpretive services were badly needed.

He was truly an internationally renowned trainer and had ruled the roost on three continents. He was the man! He knew it, and his barn knew it. It was run with the precision of West Point. His staff adored him, struggled to please him, and treated him like a king.

He was at his barn 14 to 16 hours a day. When the Allen Jerkenses and the Pennas went out to dinner, four cars were necessary. Both Elizabeth Jerkens and Elinor Penna knew that Allen and Angel would be going back to their barns for an hour or two after dinner.

Amazingly, Penna could get a horse ready to run a mile and a quarter—and win—first time out. Inexplicably, he never seemed to breeze the horse. He had what he called “happy gallops,” which were just that: exuberant, open gallops that lasted maybe a half-mile, but more likely a quarter-mile. There was nothing noteworthy or detectable in his training regimen that would explain this singular magic. And you sure as hell couldn’t ask him. He might take a long time to get a horse ready to run, but when his horses were led to the paddock, they were ready to crack. His horses were happy and they were fit, or they weren’t put in the entries.

He liked to ride Vasquez, Bailey, and Cruguet, and he loved Angel Cordero, who had a flair for kidding him into a jolly frame of mind. But one time Cordero could not.

Penna had brought to this country a very good horse named Lyphard’s Wish. The colt was ready for his first race, and Angel Cordero would be riding him.

Penna was not noted for his precise riding instructions, but he knew exactly what he wanted. According to Cordero, Penna’s instructions were something like, “Don’t take no hold. If they walk, you walk. If they go fast, you walk. When you get there…you move!” If this is verbatim, one can understand the jockey’s confusion (although Cordero never paid any attention to instructions anyway!). Cordero swore that Penna always instructed to “move when you get there.” But he never said where “there” was!

This day Lyphard’s Wish, fresh and running for the first time in strange surroundings, roared out of the gate, hit the front, and ran off with Cordero. At the sixteenth pole, the rank horse was out of gas and got beat, thoroughly embarrassing Cordero and infuriating Penna in the process.

When the rider dismounted and weighed in, there was Angel Penna doing his little jig of rage. The veins in his neck were distended, he was flinging his arms about, and his visage was wreathed in wrath. He sputtered for words powerful enough to express his utter contempt for Cordero’s ride.

“What you do? What you do? You ride thees horse like a uh, uh, black man!” The Puerto Rican Cordero replied, as he walked with the trainer back toward the jockey’s room, “Well, hell, I am a black man. What do you think these are—blonde curls?”

Angel Cordero thought it was funny. So did Angel Penna—about two days later.

More of Cot Campbell's stories are included, among a host of others, in The Best of Talkin' Horses.

Warner Jones

EJMitchellKy — Thu, 17 Jan 2013 20:09:00 GMT

"Hahhhd dam, Buddy!"

That was his war cry. In a gruff, gravelly voice that rumbled like a freight train barreling over a trestle, that which followed from Warner L. Jones was sure to be either interesting, valuable, or funny…and much of the time outrageous.

This famous Kentuckian was the master of Hermitage Farm, a major breeding establishment just outside of Louisville. He was a bona fide "drinking man’s drinker" in his day but joined Alcoholics Anonymous in 1964, and never took another drink before he died in 1994. He cut a wide swath before and a wider, more important swath afterward. He accomplished much in both eras, but certainly an incredible amount in his sober years.

A tribute to his charisma and charm was that many, many people thought they were Warner’s best friend. He had several hundred best friends, and I was one. One reason I qualified was that my early years were similarly tumultuous by my own doing.

He liked for me to help him on his reserves at sales, meaning that Warner got me to bid on his horses to see that they got to the right "neighborhood." One noteworthy example involved the highest-priced yearling ever sold. This Nijinsky colt out of My Charmer, the dam of Seattle Slew, brought a final bid of $13,100,000. He asked me to bid "up to $10 million." I asked no questions and did it, although he didn’t need me. I had to hurry just to get the opportunity to raise my hand once during this history-making transaction.

Warner made a lot of money, but he did start with some money. He had a pedigree about like that Nijinsky colt. And he came from a background that would have provided a lot of "advantages."

When he was about 10, he was enrolled in Aiken Preparatory School in South Carolina. He had never been away from home in his life, and despite his legendary toughness and outward bravado, he was understandably homesick. One day, he was staring out his classroom window thinking about home and family, and he was overcome with homesickness (a serious malady, as most of us know). Warner started quietly sobbing. A big day student sitting in front of him turned around to look at Warner, laughed, and began taunting him.

"Ooh, just look at the mama’s boy. Him is crying for his mama! Is he homesick for Kentucky?" On and on it went

When Warner was telling me about this incident, I commiserated with him, "Gosh, that was terrible, Warner! What did you do?"

"Hahhhd dam, buddy. When recess came, I grabbed that big son of a bitch and kicked his ass all over that school yard!"

That was Warner Jones: sensitive, but tough.

Warner spent much of the year on entertainment and "sales promotion" designed to assure that when his yearlings went to market they would bring good money. In the early '80s, the Arab sheikhs were spending millions at yearling sales in this country, creating a feeding frenzy in the horse business. Every consignor dreamed of making strong connections with this bottomless supply of greenbacks. Gaining direct access to the sheikhs themselves, however, was extremely difficult. These mysterious men of Saudi Arabia and the United Arab Emirates had zero interest in social invitations.

But each of the Arab princes had at least one bloodstock adviser. Invariably, these were elderly English horsemen of very refined backgrounds—and sporting military rank designations of captain, major, colonel!, with an occasional lord and sir popping up. And these gentlemen were definitely susceptible to entertainment.

The huge and sudden manifestation of Arab interest was an unexpected bonanza to these types. They were not overly busy beforehand, I think.

One of the most important was Sir Hubert Courtland (as we’ll call him). His connection to one of the most powerful and enthusiastic sheikhs did not escape Warner Jones. While his heart was not really in it, Warner and his wonderfully supportive wife, Harriet, invited Sir Hubert and Lady Marjorie for a week-long visit at their winter home in Delray Beach, Florida.

The English couple accepted and flew over to West Palm Beach, where the Joneses met them. The foursome embarked on what was to be a week of pleasant and varied resort activities, with Warner avoiding any hard sell on the yearling crop going to market in several months. Once they had settled in, Warner suggested to Sir Hubert that a round of golf at Seminole might be just the ticket after a long, tedious journey across the Atlantic.

"Do you know…I’ve never had an inclination to take up that game," Sir Hubert told his host.

This was not good news.

"Well then, tomorrow we’ll take the girls and go out on the boat. The king mackerel are running now, and we could really have some fun," Warner offered.

"Oh, I’m afraid not," Lady Marjorie jumped in. "Both Hubert and I are horrid sailors. We get queasy as soon as the boat leaves the dock!"

That night after dinner, Harriet suggested the two couples play a few rubbers of bridge.

"Not much for card games. Never saw the good of it," Sir Hubert responded.

So the first day ended with golf, fishing, and bridge having been struck off the list. Still, there is plenty to do in Florida.

The next morning after breakfast, Warner suggested they all drive down to Gulfstream Park for lunch and racing.

"Oh, really now! This is my vacation to get away from racing," the English guest replied.

Tennis? Didn’t play.

Backgammon. Afraid not.

Sunbathing on the beach, swimming, strolling on the sand? Sir Hubert explained, "Marjorie’s fair skin simply does not permit it. She would be burned to a crisp in minutes."

Now racing, tennis, aquatic activities, and backgammon were eliminated. What was left? Mud wrestling?

That night the thoroughly discouraged, but dead-game Joneses and Sir Hubert and Lady Marjorie went to the Gulfstream Club for dinner (they did eat!). An orchestra was playing. Warner gritted his teeth and asked the very rotund Lady Marjorie if she would like to dance, hoping fervently that this activity would also be unacceptable. No such luck. She graciously took his hand and the couple glided out on the floor, Warner looking as if he could bite a 10-penny nail in two.

About halfway around the floor, the host smiled dutifully at his partner. She wriggled excitedly and gushed, "Oooh, Mr. Jones, this is heavenly. I do so love to dance. Dancing is truly my weakness, my greatest pleasure. I could just go on dancing the night away!"

In telling the story later, Warner explained, "Hahhhd dam, buddy! Every time I’d get tired, I’d think about those million-dollar yearlings, and I just kept pushing that old fat gal around the floor."

More of Cot Campbell's stories are included, among a host of others, in The Best of Talkin' Horses.