Monday, October 22, 2007

Call for Accountability:  Madame Commissioner, Come on Down…

How long does one sit on a fence before one’s booty hurts badly enough to jump off the spikes?

More specifically, how long will racing go on looking at infractions such as doping horses and other illegal—or at least, dicey—practices, before we finally institute a national racing commission that has teeth? How many more years will be whine, “How do we market racing?” before we come to the realization that the answer to this question also finds itself in the long-overdue concept of a national racing authority?

Every other major sport in the United States has a governing board that regulates not just the rules of play but also has the right to oversee every facet of the sport (including athletes’ behavior). OK, you’re right: many infractions are overlooked. More often than not, athletes who “behave badly” (read that, “break the law”) get no more than a slap on the wrist when they ought to go to prison, keys thrown away.

But at the end of the day, it’s that sport’s commission that takes the heat for such bad decisions. Fans weigh in on blogs, on official commission websites—even on CNN. No American athletic endeavor gets to sleaze past the law of the land without landing squarely on the desk of said sport’s Commissioner. Someone, somewhere, is up at night because it’s their job to “…hold this damned sport together.”

And that’s a good thing. Accountability—the willingness to take responsibility, to let the buck stop here—is sorely missing in our beloved sport. And that lack of accountability leads to untold problems, multiplying as they wind themselves out and around like the snakes on Medusa’s head.

Consider this, readers: We need a racing commission, with a strong, smart, ethical Commissioner. This solution covers many bases, will fix many problems, almost from the first day of business.

Follow the logic here, and I think that you’ll agree with me:

Given: American Thoroughbred racing is currently a disembodied spirit. Every state has a Racing and Wagering Board, or a similar government-run office.

Given: The majority of these government offices are run by those who know nothing about Thoroughbreds, or racing them. The majority of Board members are political appointees.

(Don’t get all in my face: of course I haven’t visited the Boards of every state, but I surely know about New York, and Pataki’s and Spitzer’s appointees. I attended a meeting three years ago during which a Board member asked, “What’s ‘milkshaking’?” No kidding. Also, it happens that I did a little 12-page research paper on the topic in January, 2007—so I may actually have some insight to offer.)

The majority of Board members were given their jobs because someone owed them a favor. Let’s say I wake up tomorrow and am named to the Board of Verizon, because I bailed the COO out of jail when we were co-eds together a hundred years ago. Hey, I’m not qualified to run a multinational corporation; I know nothing about telecommunications; and I get itchy and scratchy in the presence of all that polyester ‘round the Boardroom table. But the COO owes me, so…Voila! Suddenly, I’m an expert, and have a gig on the Board of Verizon. Nice.

Nepotism can be a beautiful thing—except when it’s deep-sixing the sport that’s the oldest of all American sports—and the most beautiful.

Well, American Racing and Wagering Boards (not ALL of them, but a large number) are, by-and-large, made up of sycophants and those who won’t balk at kissing up to whomever’s in charge, in exchange for their fat job and state bennies.

Given: This is a problem. We have a system that’s broke, broke, broke. So many states with impotent and/or ignorant Boards, overseeing every facet of our complicated sport. But those facets are made more complicated than they need to be, simply because there are too damned many people stirring the pot. Too many Boards, too many members, too many cooks in the kitchen. Like the Six Blind Men and the Elephant, every state’s Board is going to see The Problem of Racing from the perspective of their own State, its needs and the demands of the Governors breathing down their necks.

It’s like herding cats. So many Boards; so many people making decisions that are based in the need to keep their jobs. And since they’re making rules that relate solely to their individual states, no regard is given to the other states (and Commonwealths); the horses who run there; or their connections.

Given: Racing people lie awake at night, trying to find new and exciting ways to market this sport. This “marketing problem” drives me to distraction: the real marketing problem is that they want to market everything but racing.

We don’t need casinos.
We don’t need scantily-clad Barbie dolls.
We don’t need—or want—malls at racetracks.

How ‘bout, oh, I don’t know—actually marketing the sport in which beautiful, big, half-ton animals race each other faster than the speed of light--the sport that is capable of exploding a human heart at 12 seconds per furlong?

How about marketing said endeavor to the 51% of the population that’s already predisposed to fall in love with horses—and who already make up the majority of the fanbase in the sport?

Just sayin’…

So this Given is that we have all these racing executives, running around like lunatics, trying to find new, exciting programs to get more people to the races. And all we need are the horses, their riders and the opportunity to share one golden second of eternity and glory. The archetypal warrior horse and its relationship to the collective unconscious. It’s such a firmly-entrenched given that it’s entirely overlooked.

Introduce people to Thoroughbreds: the horses, themselves, will get fans to the track.
And new fans can be educated to become savvy, passionate bettors.

But, NO. The highly-paid, Madison Avenue consultants are marketing the sport from the back, forward. They’ve found a thousand other ways to get people to the track—waterslide parks and bouncy-bounces for the kids; Las Vegasesque ambience and car shows.

A thousand other frantic, wild-eyed, loudly-hyped ways to get people to the track.

They get them there—and yet—the authorities Don’t Get It, that getting them there and getting them to stay there and bet are two different concepts. We want them to stay, become passionate evangelists for our sport, and to spend their money betting on the horses. Witness the recent NYRA red-chair giveaway: 72,000 paid admissions. Not 72,000 attendees—these were “spinners,” going through the turnstiles 20 times to get chairs and sell them online. I saw more people walking out after they got their $3 chairs, than those who stayed on the grounds. They fairly ran back out the gates, to fire up their computers and get those badboys on eBay for $25.

Lots of paid admissions—but only a fraction of that number stayed and actually bet on racing that day.

So it’s the last Given, that we don’t need a slick, Madison-Avenue, digital, neon, whorish marketing plan. It actually hurts to watch these people flailing about like so many drowning sailors on a sinking ship.

We need a Racing Commissioner.

We need someone—a horsewoman, I propose—to rise up out of the mess and take the reins. A person who has actually touched a Thoroughbred; has experience, knowledge and education in racing. Let’s give her a big salary, a car, benefits galore—and a staff of bright, engaging, forward-thinking associates who can regulate, market and pull together all the facets of racing under one umbrella.

Imagine that.

Right here, right now, I’m calling for a National Thoroughbred Racing Commission, headed up by a real, live, Commissioner. Someone who’s not afraid of responsibility. A person of integrity; grace under fire; intellectual acumen; passion for the horses; and the strong desire to Do the Right Thing.

Are we afraid that such a person exists? Our sport has a long and storied past of rapscallions, rakes and renegades. We love the lore about Diamond Jim Brady and his tartlet wife, Lillian Russell. We enjoy a tale in which someone “gets away with it”—but do we really want Diamond Jim to run the sport? Do we want to continue to see women treated as frosting on the banquet dessert table? Are we truly happy knowing that the horses who give their all for us are too-often mistreated, abused, doped—and then shipped off to New Holland on their fearful way to Texas?

Do we want to watch the sport die a slow, painful death that it needn’t experience—simply because we have Racing Boards with no experience; post-modern marketing dreams—and no unifying voice, no Commission?

If we’re content with things the way they are, fine. If cobra venom and milkshaking our precious horses is OK by you, great. If reality shows (which have nothing whatsoever to do with reality) and frantic, pseudo-marketing attempts satisfy you, dandy.

But…if you love this sport; if you’re nuts about our magnificent equine athletes; if you want to see this sport successfully sail into the 21st Century—then bang the drum for a National Thoroughbred Racing Commission. Let’s hire some great woman—Broad or Lady, I don’t care, as long as she’s a knowledgeable horsewoman—to be the first-ever Commissioner. Let’s set her free, a contemporary Wyatt Earp, to clean up this sport.

Rascals beware: I’m mouthing off and demanding that a new Sheriff ride into town—and if I get my way, she’ll be packin’ heat.


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Monday, October 15, 2007

On Losing a Legend, and Maintaining Self

No rants, vitriol or even a single drop of venom in this piece: this is the Alpha Mare waxing philosophical, inspired by that which can only be known as One Great Life, Lived on His Own Terms.

Last week, we in racing lost one of our most revered and beloved warriors: the venerable, brilliant, beautiful, irascible, irresistible John Henry.

Volumes have been written about the old man, and volumes more will be penned before this month’s out. This-Turf-Writer will scoop That-Journalist; a new book will be announced—perhaps even a movie. Our sport—all sports—need genuine heroes, so I suppose that the anticipated glut of John Henry Stuff is OK. I’d just like to think that the expenditure of ink and paper; bytes and bits will be because the writer, producer or publisher actually loved the Champion—and not because there’s gold in them thar dead bones.

Well, I have nothing new or insightful to add, about his career as a racehorse. Instead, I have a personal experience to relate to you, one that, when followed through, can help us as individuals hang onto our sense of Self. And, in a culture that insists on the mass homogenization of the individual (even while screaming at us to be original)—a secure sense of Self is absolutely essential.

On the outside, this is a simple story about a woman who, for a few minutes, breathed the same air as a Hero, from his own nostril. If greatness or Geist can be conveyed thus (and Genesis 1, and every other Creation myth indicates that it is)—well, my career as a racing communicator is about to leap out of the gate, for I breathed the same air as John Henry, from his very own nose.

On the deeper level of the tale, there’s a capital-T Truth in here, about ourselves and our place in the Universe. Sound lofty? It’s not that I’m such a great thinker; it’s that every encounter with a horse, especially a Thoroughbred, can lead to such insights, if we allow ourselves to be led.

You see, something amazing happened to me recently. It took five days for my spirit to process it, but now I’ve got the message. Of course I’m sad because I didn’t realize at the time that it was the last time I’d be able to see John Henry on this side of the heavenly plane. On the other hand, I’m profoundly grateful that I experienced him in all his glorious self-ness (as Plato would say)--just four days before he died.

And that remarkable encounter led me to the reason for this week’s column. Sans further ado, let’s go: the Thursday before John’s demise, I had occasion to be at the Kentucky Horse Park. Of course, after my meeting, I made a point to hike to the Hall of Champions, to visit John Henry, Cigar and Da Hoss. The Horse Park is a little light on Things Thoroughbred, so I visually and emotionally gobble up every one they’ve got when I’m there. And certainly these great Champions are truly representative of The Best of Racing.

So my pilgrimage took me to the Hall, and to John Henry’s stall, first-thing.

The guy was in his house, voraciously eating some beautiful sweet timothy. A monstrous pile of it lined the entire right side of his stall; he could have grazed lazily, but instead he threw himself into the task. He barely looked at me: he had work to do, that of eating every last bit of that hay. He drank his water with the same determination, plunging his face into the bucket and drinking deeply.

It occurred to me that this was just how he’d lived his life, too: drinking deeply, he left no award un-won, no divot unturned. John’s passion for his food and drink that day was representative of the spirited manner in which he embraced his life. I was more than “pleasantly surprised” at his physical hunger and thirst. But more than that, I am now touched by the symbolism of that moment. The fact that it was one of his last-ever meals, and that he consumed it with such lust, truly rings as Jungian symbolism at its most profound: the archetypal warrior horse, consuming all in his path on his way to the gate for his last out.

After he dined, he actually came over to the gate, and sniffed my hands, my hair, my face. He let me pet his nose. We stood nostril-to-nostril, then eyeball-to-eyeball, and just experienced each other. I am blessed beyond measure, to have spent such quiet, tender time with a Hero of classical proportions.

Right after our lovefest, his Horse Park friend brought him fresh, cold water. As she entered his stall, the old man actually put his ears back, prepping to bite her! I laughed and said, “Hey, don’t you bite her!” She shrugged, grinned and said, “Heeeeeee’s John…”

Two minutes after he loved me up, and four days before he would pass through the golden portal into Eternity, John Henry was showing no sign that his spirit was diminished. His body may have been failing, but the stuff that made him who he was hadn’t budged one iota since the day he was born.

I love John Henry. Everyone loves John Henry. There’s a gaping hole in the world, now that he’s no longer standing on it. And the thing is—he was probably one of the nastiest Thoroughbreds ever to grace this Earth. This is not news to anyone: just the facts, folks. John Henry was one mean horse. He probably entered Heaven kicking and screaming, and demanding that he be assigned a personal groom, ASAP.

You see, the thing is that John Henry was, and is, beloved by so many people BECAUSE of who he was, not IN SPITE OF. His nastiness was part of the package: love me, love my ‘tude. If you were on-board for his resounding wins and Eclipse Awards—you had to buy the entire tour. John Henry: Champion, Record-Breaker, Mean Horse.

Even in death, John Henry teaches us something of tremendous value. Yes, of course, all the horse-racing platitudes like, “Run your race,” “Don’t look back,” “Hit the wire first,” etc. will be over-used, ad nauseum, in the coming months.

Far more important than racing analogies, I believe, is that John Henry taught us that, as long as we’re true to ourselves, to being that whom God made us to be—we’ll be just fine. It does happen that, when you’re extraordinary at something—people are more willing to put up with your “stuff.” John Henry was, indeed, an extraordinary racehorse.

But his orneriness was part of his charm. So, regardless of whether he won $6 million or not, he would have been beloved by his audience. He wasn’t just an ornery old man: he’d been an ornery foal, I’m sure. He was true to himself and his personality all the way to the end of his life. People loved him because of his insistence on being himself—not in spite of it.

We should all take a page from John Henry’s book, and stick to our guns. If someone doesn’t like you just ‘cause you’re you, well—you don’t need them. If people do have the good sense and insight to adore you because you’re a feisty, ornery, cantankerous horse of a different color—that surely shows that they have exceptionally good taste, and are open to experiencing you in all your self-ness.

John Henry lived his life on his terms. If we study this magnificent Champion’s life in detail, I’m sure we can each find a way to live our lives on our terms. No-holds-barred, take-no-prisoners—living. Drink deeply from that well, and pay homage to the horse who, even in his death, can teach us a thing or two about loving ourselves just as we are.

Don’t Rest in Peace, John Henry: that’s not your style. Run the heavenly oval with all your guts, and bite the other guy if he won’t concede. We wouldn’t have it any other way.


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Sunday, October 07, 2007

My New Crush: Three Cheers for Responsible Breeders!

If we’re going to talk about horseracing, we must consider every facet of the sport. Racing isn’t just about the tracks, racing associations and betting strategies: This sport is so darned complicated in ways that other sports aren’t. The NFL, for example, doesn’t have the responsibility of overseeing the very creation of its players. Steroids and sex scandals abound but the NFL doesn’t have to deal with the creation—or over-creation—of their players. Their athletes have opposable thumbs and can make their own decisions about their lives.

Our athletes have a major disadvantage over the tight end of the Dallas Cowboys in that they are lacking opposable thumbs. (Does that sound odd? I actually believe that the only reason why humans, and not other animals, get to make the decisions on this planet is that they lack that thumb. Can’t drive cars; work a computer; dial 911. If horses had thumbs—you’d better believe that the sport would shape up a lot differently, on every level.)

And horses can’t speak Human. Pity, it’s not that the horses are stupid. It’s actually that humans are generally too dense to understand Horse. The horses try to communicate with us; most of us lack the ability to comprehend their very clear, very distinct language.

If the horses had an easier time of getting their thoughts through to the humans in their lives, they’d most likely request—loudly and strongly—that we cease and desist with the overbreeding of their kind.

Compared with other breeds, Thoroughbred breeding is downright genteel. Everyone knows that. In the case of, say, American Quarter Horses—breeders run amok with the AI. It’s disgusting that a single American Quarter Horse stallion can be responsible for 5,000 foals every year. And that overbreeding leads, of course, to New Holland and the killing fields because those horses are considered to be very, very disposable. Don’t like that shoe? Toss it out. Horse eating too much? Ship her to Texas via New Holland.

But we in American Thoroughbred racing and breeding are guilty of overbreeding on our own level and it must cease and desist, ASAP. I remember hearing Suzie O’Cain (Stallion Manager, Highcliff Farm), stating flatly that the way to stop slaughter is to stop creating Thoroughbreds willy-nilly. And she’s right: I know a breeder who makes horses like a drunken sailor.

Some breeders (including owners) go ga-ga, absolutely blind with glee, when they think about the potential for earnings. And, sadly enough, the earnings that mean the most in racing these days is not on the track but in the breeding shed.

All starry-eyed and running to the bank, the majority of American Thoroughbred breeding has become nothing more than a low-class sex factory. Stallions are known to cover up to four mares a day, in their owners’ wild-eyed quest for Mo’ Money. Some stallions cover 150 mares a year.

Not only does this overbreeding lead to early deaths of the stallions (think about it—Horsie Viagra or no, it’s actually a lot of stress on a stallion to do…that…four times a day)—it’s watering down the herd, literally. The same stallions are being used over and over, regardless of the quality of the nick. The breed (at least in the US) is becoming an incestuous little community, where everyone is everyone else’s sister’s half-brother’s mother’s uncle.

What will this do to the breed in another generation or so? What is it doing to the horses who are produced in this greedy fashion?

I don’t have all the answers, but I’m here to tell you today that one man is standing out as My New Hero: Sheikh Hamdan bin Rashid Al Maktoum. God bless Sheikh Hamdan. He recently announced that two of his Shadwell stallions, Horse of the Year, Invasor and Classic winner, Jazil, will each cover only 85 mares per year, period.

His Highness’ reasons for this decision are those that I just stated: That the breed is becoming watered down, and weaker horses are being produced. He’s looking out for the health and welfare of the horses, themselves. Imagine that, an owner and breeder who loves his horses and creates a policy to prove it.

I love Sheikh Hamdan for taking this bold stand and wish I could shake the Sheikh’s hand, to thank him. He may be only one voice of reason and morality at this time—but he is one. And that ethical stand will hopefully become contagious as others catch on to the genuine goodness of his decision.

Now don’t get all in my face. I know a ton of Thoroughbred owners, breeders and others in the industry who love their horses, a great deal. And they’re not all in the position of a Sheikh, who can make the fiscal decision to not overbreed.

But if others in this industry would just take a step back and BREATHE for a minute…and THINK about the future of the horses, the breed, the sport and the industry…perhaps, just perhaps, we’d come up with some universal policies about breeding. Policies based on morals, ethics and concern for the health of our equine charges.

As long as Thoroughbreds lack thumbs we will continue to make the decisions for their lives. And those decisions must be based on love, respect and concern for the horses.

So you can’t afford to not overbreed? Don’t really love and respect your horses enough to make your business decisions based on compassion? Get another job. Frankly, I’d rather think that the horse I buy at Fasig-Tipton in Saratoga next year has an IQ higher than a rock and legs strong enough to carry her around the oval without shattering into sand. If we keep overbreeding Thoroughbreds, we will hear the peal of the death knell for the sport—and that bell will be rung by our very own hands.


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