The Hall of Fame. And the Hall of Famers I have known.
Carl Nafzger. Inducted 2008. The former bull rider picked his way across a muddy Clare Court back when Street Sense was flying high in Saratoga. “You’ve got to pick your islands,” Nafzger said as he tip-toed across the wet track. “That goes for life, too.” His shoes were buff-polish clean. Mine were mud-puddle brown. Yeah, pick your islands. Street Sense, Unbridled, Banshee Breeze, Nafzger picked his islands all the way to the Hall of Fame.
Jerry Bailey. 1995. In his zenith and The Special in its infancy, I thought he was being short, flippant with his answers until I typed his words and watched his rides. Bailey had reduced riding races to paint by numbers. He could sum up a race like he was choosing words for Wordle. I learned to have another question ready, quickly.
Chris McCarron. 1989. My dad’s favorite jock stood in the paddock at Pimlico before riding Money By Orleans in a stakes on Preakness Day. My dad didn’t say much. McCarron didn’t say much. “The closer I am, the longer I wait.” In eight words, McCarron had simplified race riding.
Bobby Frankel. 1995. Nobody intimidated me more than Frankel. He said Flute was reincarnated. I asked him, “Who was she?” “Whaaaat?” “You said, she was reincarnated. Who was she?” He stammered for a moment. It was the first time I got him to pause and think about a question. We were good after that.
Mike Smith. 2003. The most natural of them all. I worked up my nerve to introduce myself to Smith in 1990. He was riding Bat Prospector, who I was galloping for Mike Freeman. He smiled that big smile, asked me how she was doing, offered me a slice of banana bread from the fruit truck and I’ve been in awe of him ever since.
Dooley Adams. 1970. Tied for third with 301 career steeplechase wins, he asked me to school a horse for him at his farm in Southern Pines in the early 90s. “Sit real still. Use your leg. Keep your hands low. Let him figure it out.” Words to live by when you’re a jump jockey.
Burley Cocks. 1985. Loyal to anyone who worked for him, he gave me a few rides early in my career because I galloped for him during winter break from college. I rode Tostadero in my first stakes at Radnor. A seven-pound bug in a five-horse stakes. He told me one thing, don’t go to the lead. I couldn’t hold a door open back then, Tostadero was five in front at the first, 10 in front at the second and a front-runner from that day forward. I came back and he looked at me. “Did you go get the mail?” I stuttered. He cackled.
Calvin Borel. 2013. “Me and my agent, we’ve been up, and we’ve been down but we’ve always been consistent.” Only Borel could utter a statement like that and make it sound so perfect. The morning after Street Sense won the Travers, Hall of Fame reader Toadie Taylor he read it aloud to me. I liked it even better.
Tom Voss. 2017. Early, way early in owning horses, we sent him Dictina’s Boy. He jumped his first jump in mid-September and Voss said he wanted to run him in early November. Looked like a rush job to me. He said, “Come down and see him school.” I went to Atlanta Hall and the snow-white son of With Approval jet-planed over three hurdles. Voss said nothing. Filling gaps of awkward silence is one of my skills, “I guess he can run, he’ll get some experience, maybe get a check.” Voss took another drag of another cigarette. “Experience? Get a check? He’ll win.” He won.
Garrett Gomez. 2017. The second most natural of them all. In his heyday here, sharing a corner with John Velazquez, he would offer me a seat at end of his bench and explain how he pulled off miracles Saturday after Saturday, stakes after stakes. A shooting star. Here and gone.
Joe Aitcheson Jr. 1978. The all-time winningest steeplechase jockey. He rented a room from my family every summer at Delaware Park. They say don’t meet your heroes; they were wrong about this one.
Tommy Kelly. 1993. I stopped by his son Pat’s barn one morning at Saratoga. Sat down next to Mr. Kelly while he chopped carrots, he told me a story about almost getting stuck with a high-dollar yearling across the street. I wrote a column about it. He wrote me a note, thanking me. It’s in a scrap book at home.
Carl Hanford. 2006. Uncle Carl. My godfather. Barry Bonds had Willie Mays. I had Carl Hanford, the trainer of Kelso.
Janet Elliot. 2009. She demanded your best. She got it once. The New York Turf Writers Cup in 1998. It’s as close as I’ve ever gotten to any of these greats.
Bill Mott. 1998. Still my favorite quote about training horses. “Horses give us the information and we are expected to use it.” His way of saying, no, Favorite Trick couldn’t go 1 ¼ miles in the Kentucky Derby. I watch Mott every morning and he’s still trying to use the information.
Allen Jerkens. 1975. You’ve read every story I’ve got there. I’m just glad he liked me, allowed me to ride along in the golf cart or walk along next to his pony. My biggest regret is I didn’t do it sooner.
Just a few of the Hall of Famers I have known. Thanks for the ride.
