But wait! A yellow inquiry sign began flashing on the board. A foul had been claimed! Zippy’s former (weren’t they all?) jockey Willie Belmonte, who today was aboard Unblessed, lodged a formal complaint claiming that Short Notice had interfered with his mount in the first turn. It was obvious to the crowd that Belmonte and Unblessed had been bumped by Edgar Paucar’s winning mount, but was it intentional, and did it affect the outcome of the race? With the most to gain from the inquiry, Howard Lanci stayed away from the fray, taking Zippy for a jog far down the track.
Silence dampened the mood of the track as bettors took their eyes off the inquiry sign only long enough to check their tickets. If Belmonte’s claim of foul was upheld, then his horse, who had come in third, would be moved up to second and Short Notice would be disqualified. The second-place horse would be moved up to first place, thereby making Zippy Chippy the race winner. Oddly enough, once again the Zipster’s future was in the hands of the men with binoculars strapped to their foreheads and video monitors on their desks.
For some of the longest minutes of Felix Monserrate’s life, the track steward pored over the tapes of the race from every angle, trying to analyze the alleged foul. The officials saw the clash, they agreed there was bumping, but was the hit deliberate and therefore a foul?
“He ran a good race,” said Felix nervously, nodding toward his horse, who was still out on the track wondering why he wasn’t being led back to the barn as usual. That bucket of cold water hanging from the wall in his stall wasn’t going to drink itself.
As the four horses involved in the inquiry cooled down and mingled in front of the grandstand, the winner’s circle remained vacant. Zippy looked at it, somewhat confused. Gee, I’ve never been in that place before. Is it new?
And then … a collective sigh came up from the crowd as the ominous INQUIRY on the sign was replaced with the decisive word OFFICIAL. Foul play had been ruled out. Willie Belmonte’s claim had been denied. Having lost the race and then the appeal, Zippy Chippy had been beaten both at the wire and up in the booth. This was the closest Zippy had come to winning in nine years of trying, including the mesmerizing match against Black Rifle that had taken place exactly three years before.
“He was in front by six lengths,” said Felix, the excitement in his voice betraying the fact that he’d never before witnessed his horse with such a commanding lead. “They had to run to catch him today. He was on top today.” They nodded in unison, the trainer and his fidgeting horse.
For five fast furlongs over soft and hallowed soil, Zippy Chippy had been on fire. Full-striding down that beaten path, he looked downright Jack Londonish: I would rather that my spark should burn out in a brilliant blaze … Today Zippy knew where the finish line was and how to get there in a timely fashion. In less than two divine minutes, it seemed that Zippy Chippy had had his bum patted by the gods of thoroughbred racing.
If Felix was stunned by the loss, Zippy’s fans were devastated. The horse himself was so upset that he shaved a full ten seconds off his backside victory dance. Back in his stall, he polished off his dinner like it might be his last meal ever. Racetrack officials could be fickle, but feed bags were forever. Many believed this would have been an excellent place to hang up Zippy’s halter, while he was almost on top for once. However, Felix, seeing the glass as half full and then topping it up with a can of Coors, took the near win as a sign that things were finally turning around. Yeah, in the trainer’s eyes, Zippy’s losing streak was ripe for the breaking.
“You watch, next week. We gonna win,” boasted Felix, talking to anybody and everybody at once. “This much he lose by,” he said, as if he were telling a fisherman’s tale about a trout he’d hooked and lost.
And Zippy may very well have won the next time out. He was fit, he was primed, he was due. But torrential rain that week washed out most of western Massachusetts and the race card along with it. From horses to humans to Mother Nature, there were many obstacles to winning a race, and Zippy Chippy had come up against them all. His racing season was done. A sad bit of irony here is that Short Notice only ran three races in his career, using this one to crush the Zipster.
The squeaker with Short Notice made all the sports headlines. LOSS NUMBER 98: AT LEAST ZIPPY GOT OUT OF THE GATE! Nobody knew it at the time, but this valiant duel with Short Notice would be Zippy’s last great hurrah.
Zippy Chippy’s future as a racehorse may have been in serious doubt, but according to Felix, the rest of his life never was: “Even if I die, my daughter is never going to let him go out of the family. He been like family for all of us.” Felix Monserrate, president and CEO of the American Foundation of Underdogs.
THOSE CURSED AND BLESSED
CHICAGO CUBS
Plagued by a 106-year championship drought, the Chicago Cubs had the dubious distinction of being the worst team in Major League Baseball and professional sports in general. Incredibly, the NFL, the NBA, and the NHL hadn’t even been created back in 1908 when the Cubs’ sad streak began.
Known as the “Lovable Losers,” the Cubs haven’t even appeared in the World Series since 1945, when the Curse of the Billy Goat came down on their superstitious heads. All was going well for the Cubs that year; they were up two games to one against the Detroit Tigers. Billy Sianis, owner of a popular pub called the Billy Goat Tavern, was in the stands cheering on his hometown heroes. Murphy, his goat, was right beside him, drinking beer and eating everything the fans threw his way. But there’s always one party pooper, and this one happened to be P.K. Wrigley, the owner of the field and the franchise. He ordered that Sianis and Murphy be removed from the ballpark because they were “stinking up the joint.”
Outraged, Billy left Wrigley Field with his goat in tow, but not before he uttered those fateful words: “The Cubs, they ain’t gonna win no more.” The hometown team lost that game, as well as the series, to the Tigers. With the Cubs out of the playoffs yet again, the tavern owner sent a telegram to Wrigley that read, “Who stinks now?” The Cubs did not win a National League pennant until 2015, seventy years after “goatgate.”
And yet the team was still wildly popular with American sports fans, fiercely defended and much loved by their diehard following. In the summer of 2013, the Cubs finished in last place, but they were second in attendance. When true fans swear allegiance to their team, the game itself makes the trophy look tiny. A ballpark for the ages, a sunny day, the Cubs, a chili dog, and a beer – what’s not to love about America’s pastime? Believers in the Windy City may moan and groan, but they could never get mad at their Cubs.
Before the fall of 2015, the closest the Cubs ever came to breaking the curse and the losing streak was at Wrigley Field on October 14, 2003, when they were about to defeat the Florida Marlins in game six of the National League Championship Series. They were up 3–0 in the game and 3–2 in the series. Moises Alou jumped high from the warning track to haul in a long fly ball from the bat of the Marlins’ second baseman, Luis Castillo. But a guy in the stands beat him to it. Cubs fan Steve Bartman interfered with Alou by reaching down and grabbing the ball that was about to enter his glove. Rattled and believing the Curse of the Billy Goat was back, the Cubs quickly gave up eight consecutive runs and were eliminated from the playoffs the next day. The ball thief was escorted from Wrigley Field by police for his own protection in what is now known as the “Steve Bartman Incident.”
Great spoilers in sports history: Billy Sianis, Steve Bartman, Black Rifle, and Short Notice. I hope you’re all quite proud of yourselves.
TWENTY-TWO
Every day may not be good, but there’s
something good in every day.
Anonymous
Should he, would he, ever race Zippy Chippy again? That was the question Felix Monserrate was asked every time he faced the media as well as his family and fellow tracksters. Although his answer was yes one day and no the next, he knew one thing for sure. When people – and yes, Zippy qualified as a person; after all, he had been covered in People maga
zine – stop doing what they love, they die from the inside out.
“People say, ‘Put him inside the fence, he will be happy.’ He will not be happy. Not Zippy,” said Felix, the homestretch philosopher. “It’s like when someone is working for thirty years and he loves his job and you retire him, send him home, he get sick. People die from doing nothing.” Standing next to Felix, Zippy swished his tail back and forth liked he was agreeing with his trainer … or simply swatting flies.
Felix was bang on. Anything with a soul, be it humans or horses, shrivels up and retreats into a shell when separated from the love of life. Far too many people fail to make a healthy transition to retirement and die slowly, longing for a return to their life’s work, which is all they ever knew.
So, hand to harness and over uncertain ground, Felix and Zippy continued to walk the rocky path of racetrack life together. Both wanted to finish as winners in their careers, but the synergy and the alignment of the stars had so far never been quite right. Whether it be in the sweet stillness of dawn, or the end of a long day sharing a beer, there was always more hope in their stable than hay. Although second place was as close as Zippy had ever come to winning, number ninety-nine had a real ring to it. Plus, Zippy loved the Three County fairgrounds; you could smell the hot dogs browning on a midway grill all the way from the starting gate. People standing around with food in their hands, distracted by the sounds of the rides, were easy targets for the Zipster.
Saturday, September 4, 2004 was a nice day in western Massachusetts, perfect for a long race of six and a half furlongs in order to win a slice of a $3,100 pie. Thousands of fans showed up to see Zippy Chippy make his ninety-ninth career appearance, and his tenth at this now rickety yet rich-in-history track. They came in throngs adorned with clothes bearing his name; they bet in big numbers, knowing the tickets would probably never get cashed. They celebrated the mere sight of him. Here at Northampton Fair, Zippy was not just another horse. Here, he was listed as the fairground’s top attraction, followed by the Russian American Kids Circus, an all-day blues festival, and Megatron, “the world’s largest mobile roller coaster.” And, given the steel shoes he was wearing, don’t think that he couldn’t have kicked the crap out of that machine too!
It was also exactly one year since Zippy had missed the first win of his career by a neck, followed by an inquiry denied. Now thirteen years old, Zippy charged around Northampton’s paddock, preparing for yet one more race against seven other members of racing’s Never-Won-One Club. A cherry would be broken today; the only question was whose.
The Zippy Chippy story was resonating with audiences everywhere. The media, both local and national, stood five deep around Zippy’s stall, peppering Felix with questions he had answered so many times before. They were harder on Felix than usual, claiming that ninety-eight losses in a row was plenty for this horse’s career, calling yet again for his retirement. Other trainers, jealous of all the attention Zippy was getting, were also highly critical of Felix. They dropped lines to the press like “mockery of the sport” and “sick of hearing about such a great loser.”
Three County Fair, very pleased with the commotion he created and the money he generated, sided with Zippy Chippy and not his critics. Said steward Russell Derderian, “Fans realize that betting on Zippy Chippy is probably a hopeless pursuit, but that doesn’t stop them.”
Zippy, on the other hand – who made it a point never to read his own press clippings or listen to trainers, particularly his own – was bristling to get the bridle on. Hell, he’d almost won his last time out! He had beaten his former jockey Willie Belmonte by two feet at the wire. He had won $500. He had embarrassed Streak Face and Stoker Bill by eleven lengths. Zippy Chippy was on one of his best losing streaks ever!
The real odds of him winning this race were almost incalculably long, but on the scale of sentimentality, a horse all hopped up and ready to roll at two losses shy of a hundred carries a lot of weight. A klutz maybe, but this horse had guts. Zippy’s resolve in the face of overwhelming odds and near-certain defeat made for a story that only common folk could relate to. While the handicappers and horsemen laughed at the horse that had never won a race, lines of little people, real people with hard jobs and soft hearts, gathered on the apron of the track. Been there too, big guy, they were saying with thumbs up and fists pumping above their Zippy Chippy hats. They nodded in empathy, they clapped their hands in commiseration, and they shared the unspoken dream of winning someday too. Maybe today?
Think about it. You’re a vacuum cleaner salesman who has just had ninety-eight doors in a row slammed in your face. How eager are you to make the walk up the steps to house number ninety-nine and force yourself to knock on that door? They called him hopeless and they described his efforts as lame, but they were wrong. This horse had game. The press could print all the silly headlines they wanted – 98 AND LATE AGAIN – but this was a horse who walked the walk, ran the race, and finished them all. Say what you want about his record; a decade after being gelded, Zippy Chippy still had balls.
Shining from a slight sweat and pulling his handlers along the paddock walk, Zippy neighed and nickered his approval to the gathering of groupies. Taking the lead from Woody Allen, Zippy had come to believe that with this bunch, half the job was just showing up.
As the colorful medley of maidens and their riders gamboled toward the starting gate, a rumble of thunder rolled over the racetrack, spooking some of the horses. But not Zippy. A triple threat today – number one in the program, number one at the pole, and number one in the hearts of the crowd – Zippy was unfazed by the lightning flashing in the distance. Breaking cleanly from the start with an easy gait, Zippy took a good lead, but his early sprint was checked by jockey Joe Riston, who pulled him to the rail at the first turn and steadied him into the middle of the pack. After that, Riston “sat chilly” on the horse, doing nothing but going for a ride. Perhaps he was saving some of the speed Zippy had shown in his last race for the late stages of this one.
By the first pole, Summer Deposit had assumed the lead, with Zippy in a comfortable third. By the half pole the leader was ahead of the pack by five lengths, and Zippy had dropped back to fifth place. Into the stretch, Summer Deposit held strong to the lead while Zippy slipped back to seventh, fighting his rider all the way down the stretch. Frankly – and he’d had these heated discussions with Felix before – why did he even need a jockey? They were always pushing and shoving him around, holding him back when he was ready to fly, slapping his ass with that whip when it was obvious he was tired or wanted to slow down and maybe have a quick visit with his fans in the grandstand. Plus, he’d be a helluva lot faster without 112 pounds of aggressiveness on his back. Jockeys! They were worse than mothers-in-law and backseat drivers.
It was clear that Zippy’s enthusiasm had been curbed. He never recovered his pace. Summer Deposit rolled to an easy victory, and Slim Cat, Father Dooley, and yet again Takin’ Up Space all hit the wire ahead of Zippy, who finished thirty-two lengths behind the winner. Officially, Zippy came in last, because Ordvou pulled up lame. One smart-ass in the backside said that by the time Zippy got back to the barn, he tiptoed in so as not to wake the other horses.
As Zippy snorted and kicked, Riston tried to cool him down. He looked like he was mad as hell, like he’d been wronged. Later, in the tack room, the jockey put it all on the horse. “He seems like one of those attitude horses,” said Riston. “It just seems like he couldn’t ever settle down and couldn’t relax.”
Obviously totally unfamiliar with his mount, the rider could not have been more wrong. He was not an attitude horse. Zippy Chippy was Attitude Horse of the Century.
Felix was uncharacteristically furious, and not above throwing the blame across the room. “The jockey wouldn’t let him run,” he said. He railed into the microphones, using the harshest words he had ever uttered to one of his riders.
Felix took one last look at Summer Deposit having his picture taken in the winner’s circle and be
ing petted by a clutch of well-dressed family members. He was taking this loss bitterly. It wasn’t often that he criticized one of his jockeys – mainly because they were usually so mad they didn’t hang around long enough for him to talk to them. But the frustration was showing on the man’s face when he gave his take on Zippy’s performance: “There wasn’t any speed in the race, so I told the jockey to go for the lead and stay there as long as he could. But he don’t do that for me.”
As if he needed another problem beyond the ones that came naturally to him, Zippy had been shortchanged. Objects in the barn seemed louder than usual today as they collided with Zippy’s shoes. “The people love him because he always tries,” said Felix. Still, the sadness lingered in his voice and eyes as he finished, “Zippy has the right to be mad.”
All things considered, this should have been Zippy’s best shot at a win. He had been eager, the field had been slow, and a win had been in the rarified air of the impending storm that had started in the sky and spread to the expectant fairgrounds crowd. Today of all days, Zippy needed a bad ride like Dr. Phil needs a haircut. Riston had ruined the race, but Zippy took the rap – ninety-nine losses in a row. To err is human; to go zero for ninety-nine straight is … horse. To mark Felix’s words, Riston had ridden this horse for the last time.
Zippy should have gone off at Ordvou’s odds of 84–1, but fan loyalty had put him on the board at 5–1, the favorite of the day. All you gotta do is believe.
The Legend of Zippy Chippy Page 18
