Taking a shortcut is frowned upon by racetrack officials. Jockey Sylvester Carmouche was charged with fraud and subsequently suspended. (Yes, of course it had to be his idea; horses aren’t smart enough to fix a race!) And say what you like about Zippy Chippy’s less-than-stellar record. He obeyed the rules and covered all of the required distance in order to lose.
“Winners never cheat, and cheaters never …” Well, Zippy never did either one of those things.
NINETEEN
Perfection is attained by slow degrees;
it requires the hand of time.
Voltaire
An athlete on a hot streak catches everybody’s attention. Joe DiMaggio’s record fifty-six-game hitting streak brought America to a breathtaking halt in those summer afternoons of 1941. Cal Ripken’s 2,632 consecutive games played astounded baseball fans and team doctors everywhere. From 1915 to 1940, the Edmonton Grads women’s basketball team put up 502 wins, 78 of them in a row. Pakistan’s professional squash ace Jahangir Khan won 555 straight matches between 1981 and 1986. However, for the believers, apparently it doesn’t matter if the record is going the wrong way, accumulating losses instead of wins. Records are records, and Zippy was setting a new one every time they wrangled him into the starting gate … hoping like hell he would find his way out.
The year 2001 marked the one hundred and eighty-third consecutive year of the Three County Fair and the seventy-first year of operation for its racetrack. At ten years old, Zippy had just gone through a long, cold winter in the snowbelt of the Finger Lakes, and with retirement still a possibility, there was some doubt as to whether or not he would be back for the start of the race season. Over the past six months, he had received more fan mail, appearance requests, and media interviews than ever before. Concerned about the absence of the track’s biggest draw, a reporter from the Daily Hampshire Gazette called Felix at home.
“You better believe we be there,” said the trainer. “If I die, fuhgeddaboudit. But if I don’t die, we be there.” Track officials at Northampton took that as a yes. No doubt about it, Felix and Zippy shared some admirable traits – like enthusiasm that could not be dampened by a hailstorm, and the work ethic of a Canadian beaver.
On Sunday, September 9, the first day of the fall meet, the midway smells of popping corn, frying onions, and accidents at the pig races wafted around the track. As he strode out onto the reddish dirt for the ninetieth race of his career, Zippy Chippy looked like the embodiment of confidence. And why wouldn’t he answer this call to post with an ounce of bravado and a strut in his step? He was coming off what for him was a winning streak. In a relatively short span, he had trounced two baseball players and two non-thoroughbred racehorses that were trussed up and lugging vehicles behind them.
It was apparent from the outset that the little fairground track in Northampton was not prepared for the media hype celebrating Zippy Chippy’s blind perseverance and dogged willpower to continue to run professionally. Racing against a field of maidens with a combined 0-for-132 loss record, Zippy attracted a feature writer from USA Today, the CBS Sunday Morning television crew, and staff writers for all the major newspapers from Boston to Albany. Looking past the hordes of cameras and microphones at the other horses, who were not surrounded by reporters, Zippy knew only too well that he was the star of this show. A nip here, a hat grabbed there – his unpredictable antics kept the media both on edge and keenly interested. If he could have read his own press clippings, there’s no doubt that at this point in his career he would have been communicating with Felix through his agent.
When the bell rang, Zippy, with Juan Rohena aboard, broke clean and chased a couple of young pacesetters during the early stages of the race. From the fifth position out of the chute, he wound up fifth at the finish. His performance was described tersely as “through early,” which is great if it’s Friday and you’re trying to beat the traffic home. Not so good if you finished sixteen and a half lengths behind the winner, Love Flight. The only horse he beat was Steel Surfing, who failed to finish after “buck jumping” and “high kicking” his way out of the gate. Perhaps he was just mocking Zippy’s running style. Who knows?
In his next start at Northampton six days later, again with a modest purse prize of $3,100, the chart described Zippy’s performance as follows: “dueled, steadied second turn, bore out all three turns, tired.” Well, at least he dueled instead of dwelt. However, floating wide on the turns cost him his stamina, and loss number ninety-one was in the books. Oddly, Limited Speed came in first and Timing Perfect came dead last.
One disgruntled bettor loudly voiced the opinion that Zippy Chippy was so slow that his jockey had to call home from the halfway mark to tell his wife he’d be late for dinner. True enough: Zippy Chippy, more than any other professional racehorse, did not like to be rushed. He was never ahead at the wire, but he was certainly ahead of his time and well out in front of today’s “slow movement.”
Speed boils our blood these days, while deadlines dominate our brains. Soon we will have “virtual assistants” to read our books and give us thumbnail summaries. After Toyota got rid of the “andon cord,” which every employee could pull to stop the assembly in order to address a fault immediately, production increased dramatically. So did the problems the company was postponing fixing. Today Toyota is the world’s largest manufacturer of cars and the world’s largest recaller of cars, thirty-one million and counting.
One-Minute Bedtime Stories is a popular collection of fables parents can read to their children in sixty seconds or less. They’re a little different, in that Snow White is a neurotic chain smoker and two of the dwarfs are named Speedy and Gonzales. These nano narratives accelerate those quality moments with the kids so you can spend more time lying in bed not sleeping, worrying about all the things you have to get done tomorrow, most of which you didn’t have time to get done today.
Our planet no longer rotates on an axis; it spins on an axle and leaves behind the sounds of screeching tires and the smell of burning rubber. The world itself deserves a whole lot more from its residents than merely making it go faster. Ironically, speed in this digital age is killing the sport of horse racing; the young cannot comprehend the beauty of a gloriously slow afternoon at the track.
We seriously need to slow down, relax, and abide by a new “It takes as long as it takes” mantra. I say new, but that’s only in relation to us. Zippy Chippy always followed the slow and easy path, both in life and on the track. Was Zippy’s first loss any different from his ninety-first? Not really. Did the pressure of rushing, running, pushing, and passing others in order to get ahead of them cause Zippy to get stressed out? Hardly. He was ten years old and playing tag with four-year-olds around a half-mile dirt pile. It was fun.
Despite his age, Zippy Chippy’s routine remained the same: get up, eat, go out, take a whiz, walk to warm up, drop a load, toss the exercise rider, lose a race, walk to cool down, shower, kick Felix in the ass if he was around and just before bedtime, and yell “Fire!” to keep the other horses in the barn on their toes. Repeat same regimen tomorrow, unless they lock me in my stall again for no apparent reason.
He didn’t just respond to the beat of a different drummer; he slow danced through life, the way Ray Stout and Cathy Billyard did at my high school prom. We were certain that if we watched them long enough and closely enough, we would see their feet move eventually.
Slow is good and calm is nourishing, and if we are to save ourselves from ourselves in this time-sensitive, 24/7 workplace we call life, we need to look no further than the pace of Zippy and the patience of Felix. Sometime soon, when we all get back to a measured and manageable quality of life, it will be important to remember who led us all the way down the stretch to this conclusion – Zippy Chippy and the man who loved him like a son. The slow movement has to prevail; healthcare systems cannot possibly keep pace with chronic stress, which, according to the Human Sustainability Institute, is now directly linked to the leading causes of death: heart and lung disease, cirrhosi
s of the liver, suicides, and accidents. Remember, Zippy was breaking records for serenity long before slow became cool. And Zippy’s records did not come with the cumbersome baggage of – what do you call those shiny things with the engravings? – oh yeah, trophies. In the race toward tranquility for a saner, better world, Zippy Chippy set the bar for leadership.
And his fans – appreciating the boldness of this horse that dared to take them in a different direction, to buck the odds, to forgo speed in favor of amusing misdeeds – came out in record numbers to watch this endearing scamp perform. Zippy’s career had been guided by the hand of time, not the stopwatch of the track.
EDDY
“THE BOOK”
In the summer of ’68, I was painting Eddy’s house and occasionally covering his illegal betting business whenever his day job got in the way. There were no less than four bookies working out of four different hotels in Welland, Ontario, and Eddy was the worst of them. While a good bookie wrote his bets down on flash paper that would burst into flames at the touch of a match, Eddy recorded his on the sports page or the electric bill, or on the back of his hand if he was in a hurry. Most bookies had limits, but Eddy would take any bet at any time and dare you double or nothing if you won. Eddy was the original “Be kind to animals” guy; he gave all his money to the horses. On the days when he did make money, he’d go to Garden City Raceway the same evening and lose his winnings on the Standardbreds. He was a very bad bookie and a hopeless gambler, which is like a pimp with an addiction to sex.
One day Eddy filled his station wagon up with kids, his own along with some of their friends, and took them all to Marineland in Niagara Falls for the afternoon. Upon returning home, he realized that with all the ticket stubs and food wrappers flying around at Marineland, he had accidentally thrown away the previous day’s betting log, which he had written on a napkin. Quickly he put all the kids back into the car, drove to Marineland, and, despite the attendant telling him that the park would close in thirty minutes, again doled out the cash for ten tickets. He spread the kids out in different directions and had them go through trash cans looking for “Daddy’s grocery list.” They never found it. That evening he had to call every person who wagered with him and ask them what they had bet on the previous day’s races.
On a good day Eddy might take in a few hundred dollars before he managed to gamble it away. On that day he lost $1,200.
“How can that be?” I asked.
Eddy laughed at my naïveté. “Look, kid,” he said, “if I asked you what horse you bet with me yesterday and you already knew the results, you wouldn’t give me a loser, would you?” Some guy who had not won a bet all year had the daily double twice.
The first time Eddy got caught taking book, a judge threw the case out of court for lack of evidence. He was trying to swallow his bets, which were written on a page from a telephone book, when the cop who was choking him around the neck suddenly let go because Eddie was turning blue. GULP! Evidence disposed of.
Second time not-so-lucky, but fortunately Eddy served his time at a low-security prison not too far from Waterloo Lutheran University where I was studying, so I could visit him. The man is long gone, but oh, what a pair they would have made, Eddy and Zippy Chippy. The world’s worst bookie covering the odds on the world’s worst racehorse.
TWENTY
Life is one race I never want to win.
I’d rather stroll around enjoying the scenery.
Aditya Chandra
By 2002, with only three racetracks in the Northeast allowing Zippy Chippy to participate in their programs – Northampton Fair in Massachusetts, Penn National in Pennsylvania, and ThistleDown in Ohio – Zippy’s travel schedule was grueling.
Four months past his last race and now eleven years old, Zippy’s best shot to win came on January 31 at Penn National on a cold, clear day, with a considerable purse of $10,100. He started in the fourth pole position, where he broke cleanly from the gate only to fall back to sixth in the seven-horse field. He struggled to catch up to the pack, breezing along at a pace less hectic than the one set by the other horses, horses that had thoughts of winning. As the footnote read, he “shuffled” back to last place, where he remained for the rest of the race. Zippy wound up thirty-three lengths behind the winner, Judge Me Ladies. Dancing to his own beat, Zippy couldn’t even manage a little jig with Dig That Jazz.
As he trotted down the track toward the barn with the tote board behind showing his favorite 7–2 odds, Zippy was nodding his head in approval. As the fans crowded the apron’s fence to get close to him, everybody, including the horse himself, was aware that with this ninety-second loss in a row they were making history. Fans at small, tattered tracks like this one and bettors at simulcast screens and off-track windows all over North America were wagering on this darling ne’er-do-well.
Before Felix and Zippy had left on this road trip, a researcher at Syracuse University Press had contacted Felix asking for biographical material on his infamous gelding. The university published the prestigious Encyclopedia of New York State, and Zippy Chippy’s story was being included in their next edition. When he and Zippy arrived at the Northampton track, Felix was shadowed by a Los Angeles screenwriter who recorded his every move. “He’s the neighbor of the guy who made the movie about the other horse,” said Felix, referring to Seabiscuit producer/director Gary Ross. “He thinks my horse is a better story.”
Owner and horse may have been getting a little full of themselves. A cartoon by Pierre Bellocq referencing Laura Hillenbrand’s fabulous book Seabiscuit was still making the rounds. In it, Zippy is lounging inelegantly in his stall, book in hand and phone to ear when he says: “Great book Laura! Now, what about the other modern day American legend?”
Zippy’s racing career was transcending speed and records to resonate with real-lifers, those who lived in that hard place called everyday reality. From the standpoint of the spectators as well as the guy who counts the track money, he’d certainly done his job. Using the dirt ovals as his stage, Zippy the bad actor always gave a great performance. Whether he dwelt or drifted wide, challenged the leader or dueled with the nag that was running dead last, he always found a way to deliver high-value entertainment. Each outing was colored by unpredictability and chock-full of suspense. Be it zany humor or socking drama, Zippy delivered like a champion. Ever the optimist, more than ever surrounded and outnumbered by naysayers, Felix’s comment was “They’ll have to catch him next time!” Lord knows, after some amusing track theatrics, they usually did.
On the long drive back to Farmington from Penn National, Felix gripped the wheel hard trying to think of a new strategy for Zippy’s next race. But behind him, riding in his mobile trailer, Zippy wasn’t worried at all. He was taking in the countryside and having fun scaring people who walked by his van at rest stops. Zippy took his mission – making people smile – seriously.
However, some sportswriters didn’t understand Zippy’s role as a consummate equine entertainer. One columnist referred to the horse as a “low-stakes mistake.” Really? Today, more than a half century after its debut and spectacular failure, a mint-condition 1958 Edsel Citation convertible purchased for under $4,000 sells for $100,000. In 2010, the Liberty Head nickel, an American five-cent piece mistakenly “struck” with the year 1913 instead of 1912, sold for $3.7 million. A mistake is only an error, unless it’s a massive, unique, mind-boggling mistake. Then it becomes a highly valued folly, a one-of-a-kind rarity, a thing of exclusive beauty, and a piece of unusual history. I’m referring, of course, to the dashing cad, not the poorly designed car.
Back at Penn National a month later, Zippy racked up loss number ninety-three. Three to Tango won that race, and even Patient Pete came in thirteen lengths ahead of Zippy, who for some reason put the brakes on coming into the stretch. By dwelling on the track and not in the starting gate, Zippy had come up with a new way to not win. At least this time he beat somebody – Ferby’s Fire, by half a length.
Equibase, the onli
ne record of thoroughbred racing, will forever show that Ferby’s Fire was beaten by Zippy Chippy! That’s like when former U.S. attorney general John Ashcroft, at the time a senator from Missouri, lost reelection (we’re talking incumbent here) to a dead guy! You don’t live down losses like that in just one lifetime. Ferby’s Fire would run one more race, then pack it in. Once you’re beaten by Zippy Chippy, pulling a Dickie Dee Ice Cream wagon down Elm Street becomes a more appealing profession.
Changing the subject as he undressed Zippy in the backside barn, Felix quoted his hero, the late President John F. Kennedy. Felix would regularly remind his handlers at the track, mostly Puerto Ricans, of the patriotic tether that tied them to their new homeland, America, and the president who embraced believers of the American dream.
“My fellow Americans,” he said, hoisting a can of beer as Zippy tilted his head, trying to grasp the words, “ask not what you can do for your country, but what your country can do for you.”
Yes, “disbelievable” but Felix always got the words ass-backwards, and his training techniques were lost on his horse, and … the man had a good heart and he meant well, okay?
BAD BLACK JACK:
ZIPPY CHIPPY’S REAL FATHER
Officially, Zippy Chippy was born on April 20, 1991, at Capritaur Farm in upstate New York, and sired by a stallion named Compliance. However, while watching the coverage of the fiftieth anniversary of the assassination of President John F. Kennedy, I think I spotted Zippy’s biological father. With his large head and dark coat, Black Jack, the well-built, riderless horse in JFK’s funeral procession, looked an awful lot like Zippy Chippy, complete with a small white star on his forehead.
Black Jack had become a funeral horse in the same way Zippy Chippy had become a thoroughbred. “He was not suitable for riding, he wouldn’t pull anything, he threw all his riders, and he refused to go on parade.” That from the man who recruited him. Sound familiar? Sixteen years old at the time of JFK’s funeral, Black Jack was not qualified for anything except strutting proudly down the street as the caparisoned horse in military funeral processions.
The Legend of Zippy Chippy Page 16
