ALSO BY
WILLIAM THOMAS
The True Story Of Wainfleet … With Lies By William Thomas
Guys: Not Real Bright and Damn Proud Of It!
The Cat Rules (Everything, Including the Dog)
Never Hitchhike on the Road Less Travelled
The Dog Rules (Damn Near Everything!)
Margaret and Me
Malcolm and Me: Life in the Litterbox
Hey! Is That Guy Dead or is He the Skip?
The Tabloid Zone: Dancing with the Four-Armed Man
Copyright © 2015 William Thomas
All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication, reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system without the prior written consent of the publisher – or in the case of the photocopying or other reprographic copying, license from the Canadian Copyright Licensing agency – is an infringement of the copyright law.
McClelland & Stewart is a registered trademark.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication data is available upon request.
Tony Kornheiser’s primer on “footie football” (this page) was reprinted with permission of the author.
ISBN: 978-0-7710-8159-0
eBook ISBN: 978-0-7710-8162-0
Cover design by CS Richardson
Cover image: © Bob Mccaffrey / EyeEm / Getty Images
Published in North America by McClelland & Stewart, a division of Penguin Random House Canada Limited, a Penguin Random House Company
www.penguinrandomhouse.ca
v3.1
For Monica Rose, who worked so long and hard at reading, typing, and shaping the manuscript of this book that she deserves a co-author credit.
She won’t get one, but dammit, she should!
Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Patrilineal Tree
Matrilineal Tree
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Postscript
Acknowledgments
Zippy Chippy
Photo Insert
The Last Word
A Note on the Sources
Photo Credits
About the Author
PROLOGUE
The Curse: “Winning isn’t everything;
it’s the only thing.”
Like a runaway, riderless horse on the track, deceit is running circles around professional sports today, while corruption in everyday life has honesty and decency beat by two and a half lengths. And everything duplicitous and immoral is acceptable – unless of course you get caught. The scandals in sports and society are coming so fast and so frequent, we North Americans have lost our capacity to be shamed: where once we gasped or cursed under our breaths, now we shrug.
Cyclist Lance Armstrong, the closest we’ve come to watching a real-life Superman in action, systematically set out to bully and destroy the reputation of whistle-blower Betsy Andreu, desperate to keep the lid on all the lies he told about using performance-enhancing drugs. New England Patriots quarterback Tom Brady, a fabulous athlete, felt the need to deflate footballs in order to gain an unfair advantage over his opponent.
What in hell’s name was the team from Spain thinking at the 2000 Paralympics in Sydney, Australia, when they bypassed tests in order to send out fifteen perfectly abled athletes to beat young people from other countries suffering mental and physical disabilities? Yeah, Spanish athletes pretended to be handicapped in order to steal medals from amputees and kids with Down syndrome!
And who can forget Tonya Harding (though many of us have tried)? Tonya won the 1994 U.S. Figure Skating Championships in Detroit, Michigan, after some doofus from her camp wielding a metal baton kneecapped Nancy Kerrigan, her chief rival. (Not being the sharpest blade in the skate rack, I swear the first thing Harding would have done if she had ever won an Olympic gold medal would have been to … have it bronzed!)
What exactly has inspired such reprehensible conduct by people who still stand proudly as their national anthem is played? Winning at all costs. Take no prisoners. Just bring home the gold. Period. “Winning isn’t everything; it’s the only thing.” First attributed to UCLA Bruins football coach Henry “Red” Sanders and often repeated by the legendary Green Bay Packers, Vince Lombardi, that edict has seriously damaged professional sports and, by extension, degraded the ethics of North American society since the 1960s. Before players adopted this near-suicidal attitude, they helped each other up after a hard hit and scolded a teammate for taking a cheap shot. Strategy, not trash, was the topic of talk. Players respected the game and knew full well that it was bigger than any one of them. In the last half century professional sports has gotten bigger but not better, and uglier. Team owners have become media moguls instead of community leaders, and players are now brands instead of true teammates. There used to be a thing called “fan allegiance” whereby you lived and died with your favorite team, be they great, awful, or ordinary. Today a struggling team like the Toronto Maple Leafs can expect to be roundly booed by their fans, who then toss their team jerseys onto the ice like so much expensive litter.
Every time professional sports crank it up a notch with more intensity, more violence, and more blind will to win, they use the mantra “Winning isn’t everything; it’s the only thing” to sell their juiced-up product. Over time that quote has become an easy excuse for abhorrent and dangerous behavior.
With sports our metaphor for life, ordinary citizens have become, by osmosis, much like the professional athletes they pay too much to watch. As long as results are attained, cheating is okay. Sabotaging a colleague is smart strategy, and greed really has become “Wall Street good.” The means justify the end, and the means – drugs, lip readers, bullies badgering their own teammates, bounties paid to injure an opponent, concussions, suicides – really are mean. If “Kill or be killed in order to win” is the curse, then a quote by Cassius Longinus might lead us to the cure. “In great attempts,” said the Greek philosopher, “it is glorious even to fail.” Trying and striving and persevering – those are the elements that spell true success in the field of sports and in the game of living. Winning is a welcome reward, but losing ought not to be a life-or-death consequence.
Stupendously, at the turn of this century, a racehorse by the name of Zippy Chippy became America’s greatest “attempter.” Glorious was this horse in failure, tireless in the trying game. There was no winning, no cheating, no million-dollar contract for this remarkable athlete, because when all was said and done and put out to pasture, he was the great Zippy Chippy – a record-setting, always-struggling, full-striding scoundrel who became the best thoroughbred in professional racing at stealing people’s hearts.
KINDA HORSE
There are a few spectacular racehorses – Secretariat, Man o’ War, Citation, Kelso, Count Fleet, Native Dancer, and now American Pharoah. There are many great racehorses – Affirmed, Seattle Slew, Dr. Fager, War Admiral, Seabiscuit, and Whirlaway. There are terrific horses that you can’t help falling in love with – Smarty Jones, John Henry, Ferdinand, Northern Dancer, Funny Cide, Tom Fool, and beautiful Barbaro.
Running their little hearts out at only a few days old and winning races well before they turn three, each of these highly bred horses must have instinctively aspired to run in the greatest race of all: the Kentucky Derby at Churchill Downs in Louisville, Kentucky. The Derby is the first leg and signature race of the Triple Crown, the Holy Grail of horse racing.
As the oldest continuous sporting event in American history, dating back to May 17, 1875, the Kentucky Derby is the Super Bowl of horse racing, the Stanley Cup for thoroughbreds. The Kentucky Derby and Louisville are to horse racing what the Masters and Augusta, Georgia, are to golf. The Derby is such a classy event, that even the lead ponies have their own lead ponies. This single race attracts so much wealth that people who attend the race are actually required to purchase an old Kentucky home before they’re allowed to sing “My Old Kentucky Home.” Every trainer in North America fantasizes about someday running his best horse at Churchill Downs; every jockey yearns to hear the paddock judge yell, “Riders up!” on Derby day, followed by the crowd, as one, shouting, “They’re off!”
There isn’t a racehorse in all of North America that did not dream of one day being saddled up for the legendary “Run for the Roses.” But only the amazing Zippy Chippy stopped to smell those flowers … usually while coming around the clubhouse turn. While winning was great and blue-blooded breeding was important, Zippy wasn’t much of a racetrack social climber. He mostly followed his heart – and, okay, all of the other horses in most races – but still, he preferred his own individuality to trying to keep up with the Smarty Joneses.
ONE
A champion runner doesn’t even know he’s in the race.
He runs because he loves it.
Anonymous
Zippy Chippy was bred to be a champion. He was procreatively designed not just to keep pace with other racehorses but to verily blow them all away coming down the homestretch. He was conceived by two half-ton horses rutting for money at the end of a long lineup of remarkable heritage. Sparked by spectacular bloodlines and infused with expensive sperm, Zippy Chippy’s pedigree was steeped in high-stakes success.
Zippy was the great-great-grandson of Native Dancer, the dominant “Gray Ghost” who lost only once in his career of twenty-two races. Zippy was also the great-great-grandson of Bold Ruler, the father of Secretariat, the greatest thoroughbred of them all. He was a direct descendent of Triple Crown winner War Admiral, who won twenty-one of twenty-six starts, nosing out Seabiscuit to become Horse of the Year in 1937. War Admiral was the son of Man o’ War, the horse who smashed world records and won races by as much as one hundred lengths on his way to winning twenty-one of his twenty-two starts. Count Fleet, the 1943 Kentucky Derby winner who captured the Triple Crown by twenty-five lengths in the Belmont Stakes, also contributed to Zippy’s DNA chart.
Zippy Chippy was the grandson of none other than the great Northern Dancer, the little Canadian colt that was passed over at his 1962 yearling auction, forcing corporate tycoon E.P. Taylor and Windfields Farm to keep him.
The runt of the 1961 litter that stable hands joked looked like a golden retriever was not small but low, stocky, and powerful. Built like a military tank, Northern Dancer was fearless, unyielding, and above all, feisty. This muscular colt had more than a will to win; he had an unnatural hatred of losing. The “Pocket Battleship” seemed to have something to prove to his doubters every time he went to post. And he did.
In a brief two-year career, the bonny bay colt had fourteen victories in eighteen trips around the track, never once finishing out of the money. His short, choppy strides worked like the pistons of a powerful V8 engine. Detroit could not manufacture the horsepower Northern Dancer naturally possessed.
In 1964 Northern Dancer won the Kentucky Derby in a jaw-dropping time of two minutes flat, breaking an eighty-nine-year-old record. He then won the Preakness and Canada’s Queen’s Plate, the oldest continuously run sports event in North America. His earnings of $32,258 per start would soon pale in comparison to the money he’d make for a one-night stand with an ovulating mare.
Cited by the National Thoroughbred Racing Association as “one of the most influential sires in thoroughbred history,” Northern Dancer was, simply, the most magnificent stud in the history of thoroughbred racing. His initial stud fee of $10,000 was higher than any Canadian horse before him and it quickly skyrocketed as his first crop of youngsters started piling up victories. In 1970 his son, Nijinksy II, became the first horse in thirty-five years to win the English Triple Crown. In the early eighties, servicing up to forty mares a season, his stud fee was $300,000 and his annual income was $12 million. In 1981, ten of Northern Dancer’s offspring sold at an auction for $13,335,000; the sire himself had been passed over at $25,000. Soon he was earning $1 million for one regal roll in the hay. (Although technically, that’s not how it’s done.) In the spring of 1982, Windfields Farm’s syndicate of shareholders, led by Charles Taylor, turned down an offer from a French consortium to buy the horse for $40 million. Northern Dancer was twenty-six years old at the time; the life expectancy of a thoroughbred is twenty-five to thirty years. Still, with great riches came low humor. When Taylor asked his right-hand man how an afternoon’s breeding session had gone, stable manager Joe Thomas replied, “Perfectly. Except he spilled about half a million dollars’ worth on the floor.”
By the time of his death in 1990, Northern Dancer was genetically responsible for one thousand stakes-race winners; his progeny of 295 winning horses amassed career earnings of $183 million. In the 2015 Kentucky Derby, a full twenty-eight years after Northern Dancer bred his last mare, every one of the eighteen horses entered in the race often called “the two most exciting minutes in sports” boasted this stud’s name on the sire side of their charts. That’s more than strong genes; that’s Kryptonite DNA delivered by bullets.
When aficionados of horse racing hear the names Northern Dancer, Man o’ War, Count Fleet, Bold Ruler, Native Dancer, or War Admiral – all ancestors of Zippy Chippy – they put their hands together and look to the heavens. Zippy’s blue-blooded ancestry was royalty at its absolute richest! You have to go back to King Solomon to strike gold that glitters more brightly than Zippy Chippy’s natal star. This planned production was akin to breeding a Princess Grace of Monaco with a King Juan Carlos of Spain and … unfortunately coming up with a Prince Harry. Look, it’s not an exact science, okay?
It didn’t take long at all – kind of a “Wham! Bam! Thank you, Listen Lady.” She would be Zippy’s mom; Compliance was his dad. Odd that the mother of Compliance was a mare called Sex Appeal and the grandfather of Listen Lady was a stallion named What a Pleasure. Stud services rarely come with this sort of civility.
Eleven months after the romp in the rutting barn, on April 20, 1991, a slime-soaked little foal slipped out of dam Listen Lady and onto the soft straw floor in a stall at Capritaur Farm in upstate New York. This dozy, all-brown baby with his big head, spindly legs, and a tiny white pyramid imprinted on his forehead struggled to his feet, took two steps forward, and stopped.
He was not hesitating at the shock of his new and unfamiliar surroundings, because even back then, Zippy Chippy was fearless. He was not hesitating at the uncertainty of his physical capabilities, because really, he would develop into an “iron horse” of sorts, making a mockery of the statistic that the average thoroughbred makes about fifteen starts.
At only a few minutes old, Zippy Chippy came to a full stop in order to look around and get a handle on things. He took his sweet time gazing off into the dist
ance at nothing in particular, or possibly a cloud formation in the shape of a bunch of carrots. Taking his time and daydreaming – this would be his style and his philosophy of life. And really, who are we to judge a dreamer as being less relevant than a doer?
So this cute little unstable fellow stood his ground in that barn on that spring day so many years ago, and his body language verily screamed, Hell no, I won’t go! But nobody listened to him, so he lay down and had a nap.
Men seldom do listen. They refuse to stop and ask for directions when they’re lost, which prompted comedian Roseanne Barr to say that only a man can read a map because only a man can imagine that one inch equals ten miles.
Men never listen when it comes to horses, either, believing that they know best when it comes to how to breed ’em and bet ’em, how to train ’em and ride ’em. They also don’t listen to their horses – the very reason we have “horse whisperers” but not “human whisperers,” although a certain former U.S. president sure could have used one: “No, Bill, hit that thing with a gavel or something. Nobody’s going to believe that intern is coming to the Oval Office to deliver a pizza!”
Somewhere from the back of the small crowd straining to peek into the stall, a voice, maybe that of a seasoned trainer or a wizened stable boy, said, “He’s on his feet and lookin’ good!” And based on that assessment, Zippy Chippy was destined for a career as a racehorse. Every race day his handlers would haul him out of his comfortable stable and lead him onto a track, where he got his shoes all dirty; if it had been raining, the muck would splash all over his chest and sometimes right in his face. Along with a healthy appetite, Zippy Chippy’s quirkiness was established at birth.
There is little doubt that Zippy wanted to run … east to the Adirondack Mountains, where he’d do a bum slide across a frozen Lake Placid, or north up to Canada, where he would seek refuge as a “track dodger” and score a sweet healthcare package. Running free over grassy knolls with your mane being combed by the wind – that’s what horses were meant to do. He just didn’t want to run in a race with other horses. That was demeaning, and too confrontational. Being saddled in leather and then decorated with silks of bright, tacky colors – good gawd. Was there no trainer in North America who had ever heard of soft tones, like camel or even taupe?
The Legend of Zippy Chippy Page 1
