Cabbie Gets Little Tip, One Way or the Other

“Got any winners?” the cabbie asked me?

He’d spotted my Breeders’ Cup press badge.

“Hey, buddy,” I thought, “of all the titans of world journalism here to cover this Super Bowl-World Series of horse racing, of all these walking wellsprings of racing knowledge and insight, I’m the last guy to ask.

“I know too much,” I continued thinking. “And in this game, the more you know, the dumber you are.”

“Naaaawww,” I said aloud, lapsing into the regional dialect.

The cabbie’s name, I saw on his license, was Frank. He looked as if he might have been one of the Flintstones in a previous life.

I figured, what the heck, give the guy something for his trouble.

“I’ll give you a tip,” I said. “Don’t bet the legs, bet the head.”

Frank gave me a funny look in his rear-view mirror. He lit a cigarette. He already had two burning in the ashtray and another smoldering on the dashboard, but New York cabbies use Camels as incense.

“Yeah,” I said, propping my feet on the front seat, “you have to out-think the horse. Take the Classic, the big race Saturday. You’ve got two certified space cadets running. Gate Dancer and Turkoman.

“These two, their jocks will be lucky to get ‘em to run the track counterclockwise. Running in the same field with these two will be a big adventure.

“Lemme give you some background. You still up there, Frank? I can’t see you through the smoke. Anyway, about these horses. I’ve been talking to their trainers. They both play down the crazy-horse bit.

“Gary Jones, who trains Turkoman, told me, and I’ll read from my notes: ‘He’s not a basket case, like some horses. He’s a little like Gate Dancer was early in his career, but not as bad. He’s a very unusual horse, but he’s finally putting it all together.’

“Maybe so, but let’s look at the charts here. Turkoman. Lugged in . . . drifted out . . . wide turn. . . . “Jones told me, and I quote:

‘He’s always been kind of a big, old gawky colt, kinda green and a little uncompetitive, not sure about what’s he out there for. We kept working, hoping his brain would catch up with his body. It took him a long time to get the message. The other day, winning at Belmont, the real Turkoman showed up. He was there . He meant business.’

“I don’t know about you, Franklin, but I’m from Missouri. One race doesn’t convince me. This horse might run straight this time. He might do a Walter Payton.

“And then you’ve got Gate Dancer. You’ve probably heard about this horse. The hooded wonder. Disqualified from fourth to fifth in the ’84 Kentucky Derby, disqualified from second to third in last year’s Breeders’ Cup Classic.

“He woulda won the Breeders’ big enchilada last year if he hadn’t leaned on Slew o’ Gold like a hooker on a lamppost.

“Check out this horse, Frank-o. He goes to the gate wearing blinkers, hood, rundown bit, bandages, tongue tie and shadow roll. All that, along with the bright purple silks. What’s he doing, running a horse race or going trick-or-treating?

“I don’t know if you’re familiar with all this technical talk about equipment, but this is a lot of gear Gate Dancer is wearing. It’s like Carl Lewis running in a scuba-diving outfit.

“The purpose of all this stuff is to keep the horse from being distracted, and to give the jock more control. The hood, for instance. The crowd noise used to bother Gate Dancer, so the jockey then, Eddie Delahoussaye, suggested the hood, with ear muffs. The shadow roll keeps Gate Dancer from looking down, and the blinkers keep him from looking around.

“They did everything but put sunglasses and a Walkman on this horse. Does it work? Who knows? He’s got one win in seven starts this year. I talked to his trainer, Jack Van Berg. Jack says the horse has cleaned up its act.

“Jack says to me, and again I quote:

‘There was a lot of trial and error getting the right equipment on him. He’s matured so much, and grew up. The only damn thing he ever done was lug in, lay on top of a horse the last eighth-mile, but he hasn’t made a mistake all year. I think he’ll run big.’

“See, Frank, this behavior business is a touchy subject to bring up with trainers. It’s like asking a guy if his wife’s still a little loony.

“They play it down. You listen to the trainers, you figure there’s no problem. We’ve got two reformed horses here. Well, if I’m a jock in the big race tomorrow, I keep my eyes open, know what I mean? Riding one of the other horses in the Classic will be like riding a cab in New York. You don’t take a siesta during the trip.

“How do you handicap a race with these two varmints running, you might ask? That’s just my point, sir. You don’t. Maybe they should let us bet on how many horses will still be on the track at the finish line. I know I wouldn’t want to be a spectator on the infield rail down the stretch.

“So in answer to your question, Franklin, do I have any winners, I’d have to say you’re crazy to bet the big one tomorrow. Close your eyes and jab your pencil at the entry list. I hope this helps you out.”

Just then we pulled up at the track gate. I didn’t tip big, because I hate cabbies who talk too much. I hopped out and Frank, lost in thought and cigarette smoke, went speeding off, not waiting for me to close the door.