What a Ride for Pincay; What a Set of Wheels for Ben Skifich

Until about 5:20 Sunday afternoon, it hadn’t been a particularly good day for Laffit Pincay Jr. or for Ben Skifich.

Pincay, a jockey, had ridden one winner, but also had a couple of disappointing rides. After the fourth race, he almost came to blows with a fan who heckled him on the way back to the jockey’s room.

The guy had been on Pincay’s back like a fat jockey for three days, after every race. So Laffit decided to punch the fan’s lights out, then reconsidered and had the patron removed by a security cop.

“I don’t mind once in a while,” Pincay said, “but three days, every race . . . It really got me bleeped off.”

Ben Skifich, a weekend horse player who wouldn’t heckle a fly, and who lives in Arcadia, a few blocks from the track, hadn’t cashed a ticket. He blew his betting budget the first four races. He got photo’d out of the daily double.

Ben usually goes home after the fifth race anyway, in time for dinner, but Sunday he stayed. After the fourth race his name was picked out of a big drum, and he was one of 13 fans given a chance to win a $50,000 car and a $10,000 check.

He phoned his wife to tell her he would be late.

In the eighth race, the Big ‘Cap, the richest handicap race of all time, Greinton was their horse. Pincay was riding and Skifich was rooting.

Pincay kicked Greinton past favorite Precisionist just before the 3/16th pole, then ran down superlongshot Herat in the stretch to win by three-quarters of a length.

Pincay had himself another Big ‘Cap win, the biggest Big ‘Cap win ever. Skifich, a 50-ish office supervisor at a concrete block company, had himself a bright red Mercedes sports car and $10,000.

When Greinton crossed the finish line, Skifich was the calmest fan in the house. Standing at the rail 20 yards beyond the finish line, Ben barely raised his eyebrows when Greinton pounded past Herat and snorted past the photo-finish light.

“I have to be calm,” Ben said, smiling slightly as the 12 also-rans standing next to him along the rail leaned over and stared at him. “I had a heart attack a couple years ago.”

Pincay, who already has a new car, was considerably more excited. This was no routine finish, what with this mystery longshot running up front until the end.

“When I went by Precisionist, I say, ‘I have a win,’ ” Pincay said. “But he (Herat) wasn’t stopping. Usually with a horse like that, you see him back up (slow down) right away. He wasn’t. All of a sudden I said, ‘Aw, bleep!’

“The horse I was after all the way was Precisionist. I wasn’t counting on him (Harat). I didn’t know who it was.”

Pincay furrowed his brow.

“Who was that horse, anyway?”

In his two previous big races aboard Greinton, Pincay had ridden into trouble. Greinton ran wide in the Million in Chicago in August, and got blocked in the stretch in September in the Marlboro Cup in New York.

“I couldn’t blame myself,” Pincay said of those two disappointing finishes. “I couldn’t avoid (the trouble).”

Sunday all Pincay had to do was stay within striking distance, then outrun the trouble.

“Charlie (trainer Whittingham) told me not to drop back, to get in good position. He was in a perfect place.”

Pincay leaned on the ping-pong table in the jock’s room and watched the Big ‘Cap TV replay on a monitor. He studied the action as his horse made its move.

“Here comes the danger, Greinton!” shouted track announcer Trevor Denman.

Then, at the finish: “What a ride for Laffit Pincay.”

Just then, Harold Wolk, the mother hen (assistant clerk of scales) of the jock’s room, summoned Pincay to his mount in the ninth race. The day’s program was running late due to TV coverage.

“Laffit, let’s go !” Wolk barked. “This race is going on, we ain’t got no lights out here!”

Pincay sprinted to the paddock. Heading the other way, out to the parking lot, was Ben Skifich, on his way home. He had had enough excitement for one day.

Ben said he’s been coming to Santa Anita since 1938. With a straight face, he said this was his biggest day.

“They owed you that Mercedes,” someone told him.

He didn’t get to drive the new car home, though. They let Ben drive it a couple hundred yards, to the parking lot, where it was whisked away, back to the dealership.

Ben didn’t care. That was all the ride he wanted. He doesn’t plan to keep the car. His indicated his wife might have other plans, however.

“She’d love that car,” Ben said.

As he walked toward the parking lot, seemingly in good spirits, I wondered what his homecoming would be like.

“I’m home, dear.”

“How did you do, Ben? Did you win today?”

“Yes, honey, I won a bright red $50,000 Mercedes and $10,000. Let’s go out to dinner and celebrate.”

“Uh, where’s the car, Ben? I saw you pull into the driveway in your Chrysler.”

“They took the Mercedes back to the dealership. You wouldn’t like it. It’s very small.”

“Oh. Then where’s the $10,000, Ben? Did they give you cash?”

“No, dear. They told me they would mail me a check.”

“Your dinner’s on the stove, Ben.”