Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Sunday, March 14, 2010
The Hanging
I was recently reminded of the first winner of the Thoroughbred Times fiction contest. The inaugural winning story in 1993 entitled The Hanging in the Foaling Barn centers around a kooky night watchman at a breeding farm, the farm's owner, and their interaction one fateful night. It's a good read.
Sadly, an incident that went totally unreported as far as I can tell--something far more tragic than life imitating art--occurred on the Golden Gate Fields backstretch last month. A pretty good guy hung himself in Barn 83. I only knew him as Ricky, but I knew him better than most folks back there, even though that ain't sayin' much.
I was smoking a cheap cigar in Barn 82 and trading barbs with a typically cantankerous trainer when a coupla grooms ran up the shedrow. Guy hung himself, they said. He hung himself from a pipe so his body blocked the door to a tack room. I saw the trainer that found him acoupla minutes after he found him. I'd never seen a person look quite like this. I asked him if it was true. He said nothing. His face was lye on wax.
I don't know too many details. Maybe there was woman trouble. Some folks say drugs. Rumors run rampant on the backstretch, though, and shouldn't sully someone's name. What I do know is that Ricky was a cool motherfucker. He'd lived a hard life and worked his ass off. He had a positive attitude. The worst you could say about him was that he was broke most of the time and bummed too many smokes. On the backstretch, that qualifies for sainthood. He was probably illiterate, was a touch cross eyed, and had a kind word to say every time you encountered him. He was a damn good exercise rider, could muck the living shit out of a stall, and could unload a haytruck quicker than you can say five-minute-bang-with-a-two-dollar-whore, and he'd be equally as joyous to involve himself in any such endeavor.
I doubt anyone wrote an obituary about him, and I'm not claiming to be his best friend. I only knew him a bit, but he seemed to epitomize everything that's right about the backstretch. It's a place that if you work your ass off, you can just barely scrape out an existence that most folk find pitiful, but if you love the game, might just be fabulous. The fella probably had some demons--and most of us back there do--but in my book he's a champion. The cat had a good soul. I pray it's at peace now.
Sadly, an incident that went totally unreported as far as I can tell--something far more tragic than life imitating art--occurred on the Golden Gate Fields backstretch last month. A pretty good guy hung himself in Barn 83. I only knew him as Ricky, but I knew him better than most folks back there, even though that ain't sayin' much.
I was smoking a cheap cigar in Barn 82 and trading barbs with a typically cantankerous trainer when a coupla grooms ran up the shedrow. Guy hung himself, they said. He hung himself from a pipe so his body blocked the door to a tack room. I saw the trainer that found him acoupla minutes after he found him. I'd never seen a person look quite like this. I asked him if it was true. He said nothing. His face was lye on wax.
I don't know too many details. Maybe there was woman trouble. Some folks say drugs. Rumors run rampant on the backstretch, though, and shouldn't sully someone's name. What I do know is that Ricky was a cool motherfucker. He'd lived a hard life and worked his ass off. He had a positive attitude. The worst you could say about him was that he was broke most of the time and bummed too many smokes. On the backstretch, that qualifies for sainthood. He was probably illiterate, was a touch cross eyed, and had a kind word to say every time you encountered him. He was a damn good exercise rider, could muck the living shit out of a stall, and could unload a haytruck quicker than you can say five-minute-bang-with-a-two-dollar-whore, and he'd be equally as joyous to involve himself in any such endeavor.
I doubt anyone wrote an obituary about him, and I'm not claiming to be his best friend. I only knew him a bit, but he seemed to epitomize everything that's right about the backstretch. It's a place that if you work your ass off, you can just barely scrape out an existence that most folk find pitiful, but if you love the game, might just be fabulous. The fella probably had some demons--and most of us back there do--but in my book he's a champion. The cat had a good soul. I pray it's at peace now.
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