Centaur

by Declan Murphy

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I’ll be good enough.’

  Good Enough

  The ability to ride a horse well is the ability to embrace a partnership that is unique.

  It is a partnership between the horse and the rider in which the understanding is implicit – the horse is the true athlete; the rider is simply the enabler. And to enable the horse to run its best race, to enable the horse to win, is to master the act of balancing authority with kinship. The key to success is the ability to empower the horse to understand your will, while still allowing it to follow its natural competitive instinct.

  So we communicate without words, through body language and movement, with an animal that survives in the wild on instinct alone. It is necessary to read the invisible signs. To learn the language of an animal that does not speak.

  Race-riding as a sport has a language and a rhythm and an intensity that sets itself apart. I have always understood this language. This is, perhaps, what set me apart.

  I always did things a little differently. My decision to come to England with Barney Curley, for example, was a decision reached without the consensus of the majority. In fact, I asked exactly thirty people for their opinion and exactly twenty-nine of them told me in no uncertain terms that I was mad to even consider it. Kevin Prendergast had been unceremoniously blunt: ‘You’ll be back home within six months,’ he said, ‘and your boss’ll be in jail.’ But of course I did it anyway. Because nobody understood. I had no real interest in racing; I was just interested in the man. And the fact that I could ride meant that he was also interested in me.

  But riding for Barney was not for the faint-hearted.

  When Barney Curley voiced his opinion on something, he stood by it, and anything he voiced it over, he usually had plenty of knowledge about. The confidence, the ingenuity and the daring that so typified the self-acclaimed ‘bandit of British racing’ served to challenge me, allowing me to push the limits of my skill in ways that I may not otherwise have had the opportunity or the audacity to do. So, whatever my reasons might have been, I am certain that I couldn’t have obtained the racing education that I received from Barney with anybody else.

  One of the best examples of this was my experience riding Barney Curley’s The Hacienderos at Kempton on Boxing Day 1984. Before the race, horse-racing pundit John McCririck had announced on Channel 4 television that ‘the bookmakers were running scared like Christmas turkeys over Barney Curley’s The Hacienderos’, such was the flood of money that Barney had on the horse; it was a huge punt.

  Interestingly, I had already made my acquaintance with the four-legged beast named The Hacienderos in a different life. It was in April of 1984. I was leading the amateur title while still at school, when Kevin Prendergast asked me if I wouldn’t mind taking a day off for the Fairyhouse Festival to ride his horse, Conclusive, in the bumper.

  Given I was busy studying for my Leaving Certificate at the time, I was reluctant to miss a day of school, but Kevin Prendergast was as charming and as compelling as only he could be. ‘This horse will win,’ he had said, conclusively.

  So, of course, I went.

  Before the start of the race, Kevin Prendergast and I were in the paddock, looking at the horses walking around the ring. He motioned at the horses one by one as they walked past, and said to me, ‘Oh, we will beat this one, definitely beat that one, and that one, and that one.’ But then he pointed to a horse – a big, beautiful bay gelding – and he said, ‘But that horse there, that is one of Barney Curley’s, you wouldn’t know what that is, it could be anything! But, apart from that, we will win.’

  So I went out and rode what I thought was a pretty good race on Conclusive, this classy, well-bred horse, and he looked like he was going to be very impressive. Turning into the straight, I’d just given him office to go, and he looked like he was going to win. And then Willie Mullins appeared, all guns blazing, aboard this horse that passed me like the wind with his tail out, and I thought, Where the hell did that come from? Sure enough, it was Barney Curley’s The Hacienderos, an anti-establishment horse, owned by an anti-establishment man, a secret weapon, a beauty. I came back then, after getting beaten, and said to Kevin Prendergast, ‘This was no reflection on Conclusive – that horse that came out of nowhere and beat us? I’ve never seen anything like that in my life! That horse was jet-propelled!’

  I would never have guessed that just seven months later, in November 1984, I would witness The Hacienderos in action again. The race would be at Newbury on Hennessy Day, and once again, he would be racing across the finish line with his tail out, winning by two lengths. But this time, it would be with me on his back. It was my first time on the horse and one of my first winners as Barney Curley’s jockey. I had expected Barney Curley to be unreservedly delighted, but Barney Curley was rarely, if ever, unreservedly delighted.

  As I would soon find out.

  A month after Newbury came the historic Boxing Day races at Kempton, and my second opportunity to prove my worth on The Hacienderos. Come race day, however, Barney Curley gave me a talking-to. On matters he considered weighty, Barney’s tone was always such that, even when he didn’t intend to, he sounded stern. And whether you are eighteen or eighty, when Barney speaks to you in that tone, you tend to take it seriously. ‘You won too easy at Newbury,’ he said in his characteristic dispassionate manner. ‘You don’t need to win by more than a length.’ I remember being nothing short of amazed at his level of expectation, thinking that this degree of precision in judging the pace would have confounded the best of jockeys – it was a 2-mile race, how does one gauge the distance to a length? But, of course, a challenge such as this only served to fuel my fire. That was the brief that had been given, and that was the brief I was about to fulfil – the game had just become exciting.

  The race went according to plan. Turning into the straight, I had plenty of horse underneath me and I could have gone around the horses in front of me, but I decided – valiantly – to go up the inside instead. Riding one of the horses ahead was seasoned jockey Steve Smith Eccles, who glared at me furiously, screaming, ‘Where are you fucking going, kid?’ as I rode past.

  In his eyes, I had violated one of the unspoken commandments of horse racing: ‘Thou dare not go up the inside’ (unless you’re certain you’ve got enough horse to get there).

  He couldn’t believe how such a young amateur jockey, fresh out of school, could exude the kind of brazen confidence that I was riding with. ‘To the winning post!’ I wanted to shout out, in answer to his question, but of course I’d raced by so quick, I was gone.

  I was second in line jumping the second last hurdle and I knew then that I had everything behind me beat. Going into the last hurdle, I was seven lengths down, but I remembered what Barney Curley had asked of me, so I waited patiently. At this point, Graham Goode was saying on the commentary, ‘I hope Mr D. Murphy realizes where the winning post is.’

  I did.

  Because exactly then – as casually as a stroll by the river on a summer’s day – I unleashed the full might of The Hacienderos. I won by a head. Barney Curley had asked me to win by a length; I won by a head. I just couldn’t help myself.

  Later, Lord John Oaksey would say on Channel 4 television, ‘Declan Murphy pulled the fat out of the fire, unnecessarily so in the first place. It was a grossly overconfident ride.’

  Barney Curley would say that it was as good a ride as he had ever seen.

  Steve Smith Eccles would come into the weighing room, fire his saddle on the table, look at me sitting there and say, ‘You are fucking living dangerously, kid!’

  And I would look up at him with a broad smile and say, ‘But I queued up for your autograph at Limerick Races twelve months ago?’

  This was my first proper introduction to the English racing public. Or, I suppose, it was the English racing public’s first proper introduction to me.

  It seemed, I was good enough.

  These were the moments that made my head spin with the lo
ve of winning – these were the highs. But, equally, I had my fair share of lows.

  It was certainly not all smooth sailing for me, and at times it seemed a very rocky passage to traverse. In my initial year with Barney Curley, there was talk of a witch hunt. The side effect of Barney Curley’s reputation meant a constant clashing with the authorities, and I, by association, faced the wrath of the stewards on more than one occasion.

  At Windsor, stewards grilled both Barney Curley’s trainer, Dave Thom, and myself over the running of Experimenting in the Royal Borough Novices’ Hurdle, where he finished fourth. Despite Thom’s explanation that it was Experimenting’s first appearance on a racecourse, and my own assessment that the horse had tired after the turn into the straight, but ran on better ground from the second last, the stewards claimed that the horse had been given ‘no chance of winning’.

  Within a space of four days, Barney Curley’s integrity was questioned once again at Kempton when his horse, The Tariahs, trailed in eighth in the Motorway Novices’ Hurdle. Thom, who subsequently found that the horse was sick and had to stay at the vet all night to get his stomach pumped, was incensed at the allegations levelled his way. Greater, however, seemed to be his concern for me. ‘Declan is the best prospect I’ve seen for years,’ he told the press. ‘He’s got a quiet style and I just hope that the stewards don’t spoil the kid’s future.’

  But I remained unruffled despite it all. Every race I rode for Barney Curley, I was watched like a hawk, but I refused to allow these incidents to affect me in any way. Just like I had a job to do to the best of my ability, so the stewards had a job to do to the best of their ability. Some days I would ride a bad race; some days they would make a bad decision. I didn’t take it personally – I knew I had ridden straight and honest races.

  Notwithstanding the occasional setbacks I suffered simply by virtue of being Barney Curley’s jockey, I had no complaints. If one door shut, another door opened – life usually had a way of working out. I focused less on the disappointments and more on the opportunities, and Barney Curley offered me many. For example, in the summer of my first year with him – and in the following four summers – I accompanied him to the west coast of America. The American Dream – as described so alluringly by Jenny Bannister in the Irish Independent – had beckoned me ever since I was a little boy, and Barney gave me the opportunity to chase my dream.

  Going to America opened my eyes to a brave new world of experiences. Here, I met Charlie Whittingham, one of the most celebrated trainers in US racing history, reverentially alluded to as ‘the Bald Eagle’.

  There are not many nineteen-year-old Irish boys who get lucky enough to meet Charlie Whittingham, let alone spend five entire summers learning from him; I recited the Lord’s Prayer every night.

  My time with Charlie was every bit as valuable as I imagined it to be. I had the opportunity to ride some top-class horses: Kentucky Derby winner Ferdinand, Greinton, and the talented Dahar, who will always be a part of my story. More importantly, I learnt a tremendous amount from Charlie himself – from his direct, understated way – that I would carry with me throughout my racing career.

  Having just had experience of trainers in Ireland and England, one of the most striking attributes of Charlie Whittingham was his remarkable ability to simplify things. For example, I was riding a horse called Áras an Uachtaráin in his morning exercise one day. He was a horse that I knew well, he had been trained by Vincent O’Brien in Ireland, and I felt that Charlie had improved him, ‘remoulded’ him somehow – he seemed in such great form.

  So I asked Charlie. I said, ‘What have you done to improve this horse?’

  And he thought about my question and he looked at me and walked alongside me, and he said, ‘I’ve done nothing to improve him, I’ve just found a system that works best for him.’

  It spoke volumes about Charlie Whittingham, about his sheer genius as a trainer. He was extraordinarily successful, but he was extraordinarily modest. He used his words sparingly, but whenever he spoke, he spoke with great impact. He was tough, but he was kind. He would tell you in his direct, candid style what was right and what was wrong. Under Charlie’s eagle eye, I was really able to hone my talent by riding gallops against the clock. I surprised myself and sometimes I even managed to surprise him.

  It was two days before the Fourth of July Sunset Handicap at Hollywood Park. I was riding Dahar, owned by Nelson Bunker Hunt, trained by Charlie Whittingham, in a workout, and all the clock-watchers were out, clocking the horses.

  Hollywood Park racetrack was set up so you enter the track at the bottom of the home straight. Dahar and I jogged for the length of the straight, but I knew the horse was only going to breeze for 3 furlongs. We broke into canter, and I eased my way in at the 4-furlong pole, so that I was at full pace by the 3-furlong pole. Then I let Dahar run in my hands and quicken half a stride faster for the last furlong.

  So magnificently had the natural competitiveness of the animal been sparked, that he was able to do this in 33 seconds and change. I thought his performance had been extraordinary but the clock-watchers were up in arms: ‘He’s gone too fast, he’s burned the horse out,’ they screamed.

  Charlie Whittingham’s assistant trainer, Rodney Rash, was a tall, handsome man, standing at 6 feet 3 inches, with broad shoulders, lean and taut and full of muscle. And somehow, he was totally oblivious to the magnetic effect he had on the ladies. I would often wonder at his cool, nonchalant ways, and during the course of my time in California, we would have many laughs together.

  At this time, Rodney walked up to me and said, ‘You motherfucker, what were you thinking? You pushed him way too hard.’

  But the big boss never said a word.

  Instead, Charlie Whittingham followed me until the grooms had taken the horse off me and I was standing in the barn alone. Then, he snuck up behind me, quiet as a mouse, and I heard his voice in my right ear, low and intense. ‘Was that as good as it looked?’ he asked.

  I twirled around, being the exuberant kid that I was, and my voice brimming over with enthusiasm, I said, ‘It was better! That horse could have done better!’

  Charlie Whittingham walked away as quietly as he had appeared, without another word.

  That Sunday, Dahar came second in the $287,500 Sunset, beaten by Zoffany by half a length. He had lost his race on the home turn when he got fanned wide at the precise moment in time that Zoffany, brilliantly ridden by Eddie Delahoussaye, snuck through a gap on the inside – tactics that had been thought out by his highly acclaimed trainer, John Gosden, prior to the race.

  The groom that looked after Dahar was a towering African-American man, with a big booming voice, called Mr Ed. He always seemed very fond of me, but in all my time in California, I never understood a word he said – he didn’t have a tooth in his mouth! On that Sunday, Mr Ed hugged me so hard I thought he was going to squash me, all the while mumbling something that will for evermore remain one of the most endearing mysteries of my life.

  The next morning, on the Monday, Alex Solis, the jockey who rode Dahar in the race, came to the barn and handed me a cheque for $500.

  But Charlie Whittingham still did not utter a word.

  Later on, Barney Curley would ask Whittingham what advice the veteran could pass on, from one trainer to another. ‘I expected him to say, feed this or feed that,’ Barney recalled, ‘but instead he said to me, “Keep the numbers small … and never lose that kid Murphy.”’

  It seemed, I was good enough.

  Back in England, I continued to ride in the characteristically quiet style that would soon become my trademark.

  I modelled myself on a combination of Steve Cauthen and John Francome – arguably two of the most iconic jockeys of all time.

  I was still in school the first time I watched John Francome ride. I had never seen a horseman with such grace and elegance and poise. I remember standing next to a hurdle and watching his horse jump – I had never seen anybody clear an obstacle so artfully. Fro
m that moment on, I was a fan. When I came over to England, I tried to watch John Francome ride whenever I could and learn from him. He rode with such effortless ease; in my mind, I thought, Now that is a jockey.

  It was the same with Steve Cauthen, the American jockey who rode for Sir Henry Cecil. He had a similar riding style to that of John Francome, just on the flat. Steve Cauthen on a horse was a thing of beauty – nothing appeared forced; his movements were so utterly graceful, they just seemed to flow.

  They were both intelligent men, elegant riders who rode tactically and stylishly rather than relying on just strength. And while I was still young, trying to be the best I could be with what I had, I thought those two jockeys were the greatest examples of the best way to ride.

  Many years later, I would be fortunate enough to be compared to both my role models. After the Tripleprint Gold Cup in 1993, when I successfully led Fragrant Dawn to victory, John Carter of the Independent would say, ‘Murphy’s nonchalant nursing of this doubtful stayer, bringing him through from almost the next parish to glide past the leader in the shadow of the post, was reminiscent of the former champion John Francome at his arrogant best.’

  In January 1994, after I won an appeal against a two-day ban imposed on me by the Jockey Club, Monty Court, former editor of the Sporting Life, would say, ‘Declan Murphy has been the most confident, articulate occupant of the weighing room since the day Steve Cauthen walked out of racing.’

  It seemed, I would be good enough.

  Slowly, as I began to establish my name on the riding circuits, my distinctive style began to be recognized, and my list of appreciative admirers grew by the day.

  But in those early years, the trouble with the stewards didn’t let up. The Jockey Club seemed determined to stick a knife into Barney Curley, but he was just too shrewd for them. Whatever they planned, the free-punting, shaven-headed gambler was always one step ahead. I proved a far easier target, so they decided instead to get at him through me.