by Bill Barich
I was on my way to O’Herlihy’s when the story broke. The pub was in fine holiday fettle. A diligent staffer had dug out a few old decorations from an attic corner, and they matched the antique tenor of the place—some tiny plastic wise men, cardboard angels missing their wings, and a strand of glittery letters wishing everyone a Happy Christmas. In honor of the season, the regulars were defying their ordinarily inflexible routines, stopping in at odd hours and standing or sitting in spots other than their normal ones, and that had resulted in a topsy-turvy effect. They were compelled to talk with people they’d been avoiding all year and were reminded of the reasons why.
T. P. Reilly sat at a table, with his dog Oliver snoring at his feet. He was excited about Best Mate coming to Leopardstown, yet suspicious about Knight’s motives, more so than before. He was beginning to share my doubts, although from a different angle. You can never trust the English, that seemed to be the gist of it. “The harse is not right,” Reilly said darkly. “Your woman lives in mortal fear of Jair du Cochet. One more beating, and she’ll be pulling out her hair.”
“Maybe she’s afraid of Strong Flow,” I said. Paul Nicholls was still considering the King George for his horse, although he leaned toward the less competitive Feltham Novices’ Chase on the same card.
“Now there’s a proper animal,” Reilly raved. “Jumps like a bloody stag.”
“Except when a fence gets in the way.”
“Ah, he’s still learning. Strong Flow has Gold Cup written all over him, next year if not this one. Have another, will you?”
I had another Guinness, a guilty pleasure at midafternoon, and basked in the atmosphere of bonhomie. Peace on earth, goodwill to men, that sort of thing. The faces along the bar had a rosy burnished glow, teased out by the beer and the whiskey, and as I sipped my pint, I thought dreamily about my travels and all the people I’d met, struck again by the relative purity of the National Hunt—purity always being relative—and how the love of the game colored and enriched the lives of those who cared for the horses, a simple but powerful equation.
Dubliners do Christmas with a vengeance. On Grafton Street the next morning, I joined the throng of last-minute shoppers, each on a special mission, searching for the right digital camera or a choice pair of woolly red socks for Uncle Fergal in Ballymurphy. Ornaments, tinsel, they danced on the breeze. The air was crisp, the sky sparkly. A little boy was belting out “Silent Night” for his supper, while coins clattered into the bucket at his feet. From the Brown Thomas department store wafted the scent of a thousand perfumes, the very aroma of a harem. Somewhere, in one pub or another, I was certain Shane Magowan could be heard singing, “Got on a lucky one, came in at eighteen to one …”
At Sawers Fish Market on Chatham Street, I bought a side of wild smoked salmon and a dozen Dublin Bay prawns still in their shells, like little lobsters, to be pan-fried with garlic and shallots, then served with crusty bread to mop up the juices. It was Sheridans for cheese, Gubeen and Durrus from Ireland, plus a wedge of Gorgonzola and a tub of mozzarella bocconcini in olive oil spiked with flecks of red pepper, perhaps the handiwork of an artisan in the Apennines, snow falling there now and the poor artisan—underpaid, undervalued, his horse a loser at Grosseto—trembling in his icy studio when the village beauty knocks on his door with a bottle of grappa under her arm, saying in a husky whisper, “Buon Natale, caro.”
Our Christmas tree came from the Wicklow Mountains, freshly cut and still smelling of the pine forest. A neighbor’s son delivered it. Matt is ambitious, a real go-getter, and his tree business would earn him enough for a trip to New York over the summer, when college was out—to the Hamptons, no less, where he’d seek his fortune on the golf courses. He’d done his research and knew what a caddy could make at the better private clubs (if the tips were as advertised), and though he ultimately got stuck in a ratty trailer in Montauk swabbing out rowboats, he would be the first to tell you what a grand time he had, another Irish youth who’d crossed the sea to commit his American adventure.
The ham and the turkey were on order from our butcher. That was another Irish tradition, Imelda had explained during our first Christmas together. Why both? I couldn’t understand and thought she must be joking until we made the rounds of parties, where hunks of pig and bird were heaped on platters. Salt beef was another new one on me, a pricey seasonal delicacy and as tough as shoe leather, but our guests ate it without objection, just as I’d done as a kid when my mother served us stinky lutefisk she ordered by mail from Minnesota, a tribute to her Norwegian ancestry.
With the tree up and dinner in the oven, Imelda and I walked to town for a drink at the Shelbourne on Christmas Eve. Always at the hotel she met someone she knew, often a friend she hadn’t seen since her school days, Dublin being small and the lives of its residents intricately linked, with no secret ever truly secret. And so it was that night, a medley of merry introductions, and when we left the streets were filled with couples and families on their way home, some of them singing carols. Horse cabs trotted along the fringes of Stephen’s Green, and we heard laughter ringing out like bell tones from the bundled-up passengers, a complement to our own jolly mood.
Christmas morning broke mild and breezy, with a spattering of rain. I remembered Tom Burke and wondered which of his eleven children had rousted him from bed, and if the absence of any frost would grant him an untroubled day. I hoped so. Lying in bed with Imelda beside me, I was filled with good wishes for all mankind, as silly and trite as that may sound, thinking that we all deserve big plates of turkey and ham at a table with those we love at least one day a year. I’d been around long enough by now, and had certainly seen enough, to cherish such rare full-hearted moments and accept them for what they are, a gift.
ON BOXING DAY, the ground came up soft but testing at Leopardstown. I couldn’t rouse myself from a chair by the fire and stayed home to watch the King George VI, suffering from a familiar post-Christmas sensation of being stuffed and never in need of any food again. Two words, Edredon Bleu, rattled around in my numbed brain—“blue eiderdown,” a comforting image on a cold winter day, maybe even to Guillaume Macaire, the French tough guy, who looked to have the race sewn up with Jair du Cochet. Macaire might have viewed Henrietta Knight’s gesture of sending her second-best horse to Kempton as a sop to her outraged fans, as many did.
For me, the matter was not so clear. Edredon Bleu had tried the race once before and failed to stay the three miles, but his season had been so spectacular, with each win an admirable endorsement of his ability to surpass himself, that he might do it again. Then, too, Knight was so finicky about her horses I couldn’t imagine she’d risk one of her best just to placate the outraged Brits. With that in mind, I went to Boylesports, where Edredon Bleu was on offer at 25–1, and promptly bet on Fondmort because I’d won some money on him at the Open Meeting. I blame the ham and the turkey.
Best Mate’s desertion was a hot topic, of course, and Tony McCoy took a potshot at Knight after winning the first race. “I don’t want to start a controversy,” he said, lying through his teeth, “but it’s beautiful ground. I’d like to ride Best Mate over it.” Actually, McCoy had ridden Best Mate twice in the King George, substituting for Jim Culloty, and he’d even won it in 2002. But Knight had been critical of McCoy in her book, suggesting the champ’s aggressive style didn’t suit her sensitive horse. Best Mate was so smart and capable, she implied, that a jockey only had to sit on him—a notion that McCoy, with his king-size ego, found galling.
The King George might have been more competitive if Paul Nicholls had thrown in Strong Flow at the deep end, but he chose the Feltham instead. Again Strong Flow demonstrated his potential when he jumped well, giving the fences plenty of air, but he also jumped horribly at times, taking off far too soon. He smacked two fences squarely, stuck out a single leg on landing, and remained upright long enough for Ruby Walsh to regain control and pursue Ballycassidy, who had jumping problems, too, veering to the left. Strong Flow needed a super
jump at the last fence, and he got it to win. The look on Ruby’s face combined relief and disbelief, the standard emotions of a survivor.
Jair du Cochet was installed as the King George favorite, as expected. First Gold and Swansea Bay also attracted some money, but Edredon Bleu remained a long shot. As usual, the old fellow shot to the lead at the start. Just a week shy of his twelfth birthday, he looked as frisky as a colt. Going along with him was First Gold, who’d won the race in 2000, but Jair du Cochet, once accused of stupidity by Macaire, seemed to be living up to it. He showed no interest in the race and lagged behind the field, clipping the fourth fence and nearly landing in a ditch. It wasn’t a terrible mistake, but Jacques Ricou almost took flight and never recovered, unlike Ruby Walsh. Soon Jair du Cochet was pulled up, and Ricou was greeted with another round of catcalls and scorn.
The useless Valley Henry—I never forgive or forget a horse who has cost me some money—was a faller, and so, too, was Le Roi Miguel. The suspect stayers, those who couldn’t handle the distance, began to unravel at the fourth-last fence, Fondmort among them, and First Gold flattened out, so Edredon Bleu seized the lead on his own. He was still full of run, but Martin Pipe’s Tiutchev, the near-master of Beef Or Salmon, came on to challenge. Nobody is better than Tony McCoy at squeezing the last scrap of energy from a horse, but Tiutchev simply didn’t have enough left. Edredon Bleu rallied for a crowd-pleasing win, every bit as brave as his trainer, who had the courage for once not to cover her eyes. “Hiding in the bushes has not brought me much luck lately,” she said, “so I stood by the railing and watched it.”
DEEP POCKETS. Those were the words that rumbled through my head on Saturday, when I did forsake my chair for a trip to Leopardstown. Paddy Power was sponsoring all the races on the card—very deep pockets, indeed—including the big one, a steeplechase worth almost two hundred thousand dollars. Often I imagine another life for myself, lost in the dream of eternal return, and if I were to be reincarnated as a major-league bookie, I doubt that I’d complain. Twenty-seven horses would be after the prize, but I only cared about the “Dial-a-Bet” chase, a celebration of your phone as a gambling tool, where Moscow Flyer would face a field of five. For once, I’d will myself to root against him. My superstitions had flared up, like a case of hives.
Leopardstow n has the feel of an American track. Trees and mountains, yes, and a glimpse of Dublin Bay, but there’s a slick, sleek pace to the action that pulls in the urban cream, young people from the city center just six miles away. The parking lot was full of fancy cars, but I also saw aged buses that had carried fans in from the country, often older folks flat-capped or trilby-topped. Among the crowd, too, were tour groups from the north, Belfast and Derry lads who’d had a few on the ride down and were fanning the flames with cider and beer. For the moment, Ireland was the center of the jump-racing universe, and the “buzz,” as Ted Walsh called it, had us all tingling.
I felt the buzz when I went through the gate, past a cash machine where a long line had already formed. How strange, I thought. Had everyone forgotten that they’d need money at the track? Then I remembered Elizabeth Bowen (“distress, miscarried projects …”) and understood. Many were the mysteries, and I met with another just ahead—the Leopardstown child-care center, a Jerry Springer—type mobile home, where a kid could be deposited for the afternoon, although a forcefully worded sign warned, COLLECTION IMMEDIATELY AFTER THE LAST RACE. Had tapped-out parents left behind their children in the past? And what had become of the orphans? Sold off as camel jockeys? The mind boggled.
Through the crowd I went, and here was another amazing sight. A really, really, really old man—nearly a hundred, maybe—sat on a folding chair beneath a TV lodged on a shelf that jutted out from a pillar. For this privilege, he had paid an entrance fee of twenty-five dollars, even though he could have watched the races at home for free. But no, he liked being where he was, a boulder in the river of human beings that had to split into side channels to get around him. With his plastic spoon, he was eating what appeared to be a bowl of soup, missing his mouth occasionally but not bothered by the error. How stunning that the old guy was so content! He didn’t want to be anywhere else. The buzz had stung him, too.
I ducked into Jodami’s Bar, where some high school jocks pressed into part-time service were doing the pouring. They acted cool and stored up incidents of adult misbehavior to retail later to their pals. The meet-and-greet dance that Reilly so treasured was in full swing, with Cousin Jimmy shaking hands with Uncle Tommy, while Aunt Maeve nattered about her piano lessons to Niece Fiona. The various clans were conducting their ancient rituals, the Kellys and Mahoneys, O’Neills and Hickeys, with the ladies in bright new Christmas frocks and the fellows sporting their new red ties. In the midst of the babble, I sipped my wine, still too stuffed from the turkey and ham to stomach a pint, and thought about Moscow Flyer.
Apart from the prospect of winning or losing a bet, why should anybody identify with a horse, especially a person like me? I’ve only gone riding a few times in my life, and then somewhat reluctantly, fearful I’ll be thrown, a paranoid delusion similar to the fear that I’ll be trampled around the barns or stables. Ample material for the corner shrink, all right, yet through the years I’ve latched on to some racehorses with a startling fervor—the great Alydar, for example. Though Affirmed defeated my colt in three Triple Crown races, I am convinced Alydar was better, and nothing can change my mind. It’s the same syndrome that compels otherwise sensible folks to root for the Chicago Cubs or worse, buy a used Fort Wayne Pistons’ jersey on e-bay. With Moscow Flyer, I sensed a kindred soul. Weirdly, irrationally, I felt my fate as a gambler was linked to his, so when he won the Dial-a-Bet by miles, I knew in my heart he’d never win the Queen Mother, and that I, too, might take a beating at Cheltenham.
REDEMPTION WAS THE THEME for the Ericsson Chase, held appropriately on Sunday. Best Mate threw off so much star power that more than nineteen thousand people bought tickets to see him. Not that he was the only attraction—Pizarro and Sacundai from Edward O’Grady’s yard, both Cheltenham hopefuls, were also out to polish their tarnished reputations. The weather was ideal, very cold and clear, with the last traces of frost melting. The drying ground wasn’t so testing anymore, described instead as on the easy side of good, so there would be no reason for excuses.
In a reversal of boxing protocol, Best Mate entered the paddock first, the champ preceding the challengers. He looked splendid, elegant, regal—like a lion, as Guillaume Macaire had put it. He seemed delighted to be alone and on parade, accustomed to being loved at home and adored in public. He was clearly attached to his groom Jackie Jenner, who also cares for Edredon Bleu, and nuzzled her once or twice. She knows all his quirks (he only likes his tail and mane brushed, for instance) and often rides him out. She was on him the day he had an accident that could have ended his career, when he stepped on a rusty nail on a bridle path. The nail missed his navicular bursa bone by a fraction of a centimeter. Matey, the vets said, had been lucky.
Henrietta Knight soon joined her horse, as did Terry Biddlecombe and Jim Lewis’s gang. They had a studied nonchalance, that McManus-like talent for concealing their emotions. Biddlecombe may have a heart of gold, but he had the look of a rough customer. By contrast, Knight projected an aura of innocence and sweetness. I felt I could trust her with my darkest and most damaging secrets, even that any hideous thing I confessed to her wouldn’t shatter her composure or alter her positive attitude toward life. I wanted Henrietta to approve of me and tell me I was a decent guy, so I understood why her Oxford pupils had stooped to giving her electric shocks.
The ever-increasing Irish part of me wished Beef Or Salmon wouldn’t let Michael Hourigan down. The bookies made the horse second-favorite to Best Mate, who went to post at 8–11. (The bookies’ handle on the Ericsson was more than a million dollars, most of it on Best Mate, so they took a bath.) In spite of such wishes, I couldn’t bring myself to back Beef Or Salmon. He still had that distracted air
of youthful inattention, while Best Mate grasped the exact nature of his mission. When he hit the track, he showed no hesitation. Instead, he was off at a trot, tossing his head about and eager for the action to start.
For Best Mate, the race was a cakewalk. His performance blew to shreds all the theories about his deteriorating condition. Jim Culloty allowed him to travel along at his own speed, in no hurry—Culloty was unruffled, a picture of calm. There was no point in chasing Batman Senora, the leader, because Batman began banging fences right away, bungling the third and crashing into the fourth, as if he’d been assigned to demolish it. With the Batman fading, Tony McCoy on Colonel Braxton forced the pace, but Culloty still didn’t flinch or make a move. As I suspected, Beef Or Salmon ran no race at all. In fact, something was wrong with him. Timmy Murphy smacked him on the shoulder at every fence, but it did no good. The horse didn’t respond.
So Colonel Braxton pressed on, with McCoy digging in, but Best Mate was relentless. He tracked the Colonel from a leisurely distance, second or third, and approached each fence as he might a divertissement, not an obstacle, jumping over them flawlessly, in a rhythm all his own. When Culloty finally let him go, he vanished in a flash, as though he’d been waiting for that very moment as a child waits for Christmas in a state of suspended animation, and now he was released and running free. His official margin of victory over Le Coudray was nine lengths, but it could have been forty if Culloty had pushed him.
“As good a feeling as I’ve ever had on a racehorse,” Culloty said afterward. Though Knight was front-and-center to unsaddle Best Mate, her courage had deserted her again, and she had listened to the call of the race in a parking lot rather than watching it. The applause that greeted Matey on his return from the track was extraordinary. “I’ve never heard the Irish cheer an English horse like that,” Willie Mullins said to me, but Best Mate was only technically from England—on loan, as it were—since he’d been born and bred on the Auld Sod.
