As Always, His Tribute Was Moving

He walked so proudly, he must have felt 5 feet tall. Kicking up the dust of the Santa Anita track, regal in red silk, Bill Shoemaker looked as large as Kareem Abdul-Jabbar did on his ride into the sunset of sport. No win, no place, no show, no matter--he was still king of the sport of kings, the Greatest Shoe on Earth.

Eight pipers and six drummers paraded forth, preceding him from a tunnel, kilts swaying in the breeze. Behind them Shoemaker strode, 4 feet 11 inches, 98 pounds and larger than life. This procession he followed to a stage near the finish line, where he mounted the steps and delivered a kiss to his 9-year-old daughter, Amanda, next to whom he stood eye to eye.

In full view of both Arcadia and America, Cindy Shoemaker bent down to smooch the man who had won more than 2,500 races at this track alone. If ever their daughter needed one last opportunity to sing “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Anita,” this was it.

And then, Shoemaker had to do a jockey’s hardest job.

He had to stand still.

Bill Shoemaker always felt better when he was moving. Now, however, he had to stand at attention and listen to a man who plays horseshoes, President George Bush, say, via satellite transmission: “You’ve thrilled us all.” He had to stand there and address as many as 64,000 railbirds who had played Shoe’s horses, to whom he said: “Well, we’ve had a lot of fun.”

Oh, how he longed to be back in the saddle. Willie Shoemaker never was much one for standing on ceremony, never much one for showing emotion, revealing feelings. Sometimes he could be as inanimate as a photo finish. On any oval, anytime, anyplace, Shoe would give you a hard-charging two minutes for your hard-earned two bucks, but then would discuss it as nonchalantly as though he had just gone ‘round and ‘round on nothing quicker than a carousel.

But this was a horse race of a different color. This time, nostalgia caught Shoe from behind, the way Nashua had so much difficulty in doing. When he turned around and saw Sandy Hawley and Gary Stevens and Eddie Delahoussaye and Chris McCarron and Laffit Pincay and so many more of his friendly foes, the guys he rode beside, as loyally as outlaw riders of the Old West, Shoemaker’s voice broke and a teardrop trickled down his cheek.

He turned to wipe it away. “Sorry about that,” he said.

Thanking the guys for, well, for just being the guys, Shoemaker saw his opening and made a move for it. The time had come to put the whip to all this pomp and circumstance, to get back on the track where he belonged, to get this Shoe on the road. He took a deep breath and declared it to be post time, 40-plus years and 40,000-plus races from his very first, his maiden.

“Welp, one more race to go,” Shoemaker said.

Annnnnnd . . . he was off. Off to change into the silks he would ride atop Patchy Groundfog, a four-legged athlete who would never fully appreciate his role in horse history. Already the opening line was being posted at 1-9, only because the tote board doesn’t tote ‘em any higher. Everybody present was putting a couple of bucks on Bill. One way or another, he was going off the favorite, even if it was strictly sentimental.

Four Kentucky Derby winners, five Belmonts, two Preaknesses, all these were behind him. That very first winner of his, Shafter V, hit the finish line when Harry Truman was in the White House, when satellite transmissions were neither necessary nor possible. “Nobody knew anything about me, and nobody wanted to know anything about me,” Shoe remembered.

Ten minutes before the final ride of a man revered, Jay Cohen took out his long-stemmed trumpet and played a little extra fanfare on the call to post, jamming for the occasion. On television, Jim McKay heralded the entrance of “the greatest jockey there has ever been.” Hawley later said the post parade gave him goose bumps. Patchy Groundfog could not be reached for comment.

Into the gate Shoe was led, dry of cheek, steady of hand. Any emotional pangs he might have felt, he kept hidden and denied later. Just another ride in the country, that’s all it was, he said. Hawley said it felt like a Kentucky Derby to him, and McCarron called it as thrilling as a Triple Crown race, but to Shoe, it was a canter down a bridle path. To stand still on a stage was hard; to straddle a saddle was simple.

Trevor Denman, the track announcer, was as excited as Shoemaker wasn’t.

“Bill Shoemaker got a beautiful break!” Denman shouted as the horses broke from the gate.

“Bill Shoemaker makes his move, the last time we’ll see those magical hands!” as his mount made a run at the leader.

“Three-eighths of a mile to go, and Bill Shoemaker is putting the pressure on now!” Denman cried out.

Poor old Patchy Groundfog was just along for the ride.

With an eighth of a mile to go, Denman ripped up all remaining objectivity like a losing ticket.

“COME ON, SHOE!!!” he called.

And on Shoe came, huffing and puffing, thinking he had a chance, coaxing whatever his steed had left, whipping the “1A” that identified him to those few who needed it, shrugging with realization as Delahoussaye came whooshing past him on Exemplary Leader, making him look as though he he was, well, standing still.

“He gave it all he had,” Shoe said afterward.

A pause, as brief as a heartbeat, a hoofbeat . . .

“And so did I.”

No. 1-A in your program, No. 1 in your hearts, Billie Lee (Willie) (Bill) Shoemaker dismounted Saturday, got down off his high horse. Jockeys have come and gone, and have never looked bigger, never looked better, not even Jim Palmer’s. The Shoe is on foot for good now. What a ride.