Arrived in Nashville Friday afternoon for the Iroquois Steeplechase. The Second Saturday in May.
I keep looking for George Baker and the Marauders and Occasionals. No cricket this year. It won’t be the same without hearing a few “Claaaaaaaaancys,” listening to a free-versing, long-forgotten or never-discovered singer at Robert’s Western World or standing in the tall grass at Pontotoc Farm hoping to God the ball doesn’t come this way.
It’s been 40 years since my first trip to Nashville. Dad found a pony stall on the van for Red Raven. I walked in the paddock and was the only jockey in silks – and English tack. Dad looked around and got concerned so he met me at the start to make sure I got a safe conveyance. I did, as Red launched into gear. He didn’t, as Angelica Fisher, wearing a pie-plate belt buckle and aboard a launching Quarter Horse ran over Dad at the start. Red Raven, a Thoroughbred twin, won the large pony race. Dad wound up with a broken collarbone and some cracked ribs.
They handed me a silver trophy and a check for $500.
I handed them to Dad and he said, “Those are yours.”
I still have both. The silver pitcher collecting dust. The $500 compounding interest for 40 years. Census won the Iroquois a few races later. Dad and I went to the Grand Ole Opry to listen to Roy Achuff and Boxcar Willie. He took me to Darryl’s for dinner and Cracker Barrel for breakfast.
Restricted to amateurs for years after that, it wasn’t until the mid 90s when I came back. To Ridley and Pinkie Swear notching back-to-back renewals of the 3-mile classic. One by a half-length, the other by a neck. Jumps at the last sealed both. Avanico should have been three, but I went outside, instead of inside and Cort Marzullo slipped through on Rowdy Irishman. That stung. And then it didn’t. We lost our friend Cort far too soon and I’m glad “Ferdinand” had his day. I can hear him now, “Seanstein…Seanstein…Seanstein…you should have gone inside.”
Four runners here Saturday. Three at Willowdale. Not feeling overly bullish after a couple of tough weekends. That’s how the game goes, it rocks you at times – many times – and then it offers you a chair at the table again. You never know when. I’m hoping it’s this weekend. Maybe there’s a To Ridley, a Pinkie Swear, a Red Raven on the van this year.
