Who Wants To Be a Jockey?

Every person who has ever watched a horse race, at one time or another in his life, has wanted to be a jockey.

It doesn't matter how old, how tall, or how large the person is. He (or she) watches the Belmont Stakes, the Kentucky Derby, or just a seven-furlong event at Turf Paradise in Phoenix, AZ. and they are convinced if they had been on the horse they bet on (and lost), they would have won the race.

If you're a city slicker and have never lived in the country, you may find this premise hard to believe, but it's true. I have played Hialeah, Santa Anita, Del Mar, Hollywood Park, State Fairgrounds, Louisiana downs and many other tracks. I have partied with losers and winners, dated hot walkers -- and some of them really were hot -- and even interviewed balding, overweight millionaire thoroughbred horse owners who had pacemakers inside their chests. One man, who was in his 70s, stood six-three and weighed 280 pounds.

'If I had been born with a smaller frame, I'd have been a jockey,' the mogul told me, stabbing the air with his cigar. 'Its the greatest way in the world to earn a living.'

Now I have ridden a lot of horses over the past 50 years. Some I rode in my teens at Kennywood Park near McKeesport, PA. , just eight miles from where I was born. There is something about the smell of a horse -- maybe it's the hay -- that gets to you at a certain age.

When I moved out West, I continued riding and took up saddle broncs in weekend rodeos. It was fun, challenging and dangerous. And I loved it.

At 6-1 and weighing 200 pounds, I could never have qualified as a jockey. The top jockeys tilt the scales at under 120 pounds. They are athletes and they have hands so strong they could probably pull apart an Oak tree.

One night I met Willie Hartack at a bar in Arcadia, CA., just a couple of miles from Santa Anita Race Track. He was dancing with a statuesque brunette whose physical dimensions could have qualified her for the centerfold in Playboy Magazine.

Willie was feeling no pain. Whatever he was drinking had put him in the kind of kind of atmosphere where he was king of the world -- and he knew it. When he learned I was a reporter for the Los Angeles Herald-Examiner, he came over to the table where my brother and I were sitting.

'Gordon Jones is a friend of mine,' he said. Jones was our horse handicapper on the sports page. 'Great guy and a good handicapper.'

My brother couldn't resist asking Willie what made a winning jockey.

'Lots of thin things,' Hartack said. 'So many things I couldn't begin to list them all right here. Come on out to the track tomorrow. I'm riding four horses. The first three are ready to run and look like winners. The last one is a piece of s--t. He's just out for exercise'

Well, my brother and I made it to the track. You'd have gone, too, under the circumstances. Willie's first three horses ran out of the money, finishing seventh, eighth and fourth. We lost money on all three races.

The fourth horse broke from the gate at 12 to 1 odds and won by six lengths.

As we tore up our losing tickets, Legs looked at me. 'It probably took him three races to sober up,' he muttered.

No, I have never been a jockey. But I did ride in a real horse race once. It happened at the annual Hell-za-Popping Days Rodeo in Wickenburg, AZ., nicknamed 'The Dude Ranch Capital of the World.'

Paul DeGruccio, a fine photographer who worked with me on many stories for People, the National Enquirer and other mass circulation magazines, and I had gone to the rodeo to cover an all-girls Brahma Bull riding competition.

To warm up the crowd, the rodeo committee decided to hold some cowboy races at a baseball field near the rodeo arena. The rules were simple: for a $20 entry fee, you could compete in the race. The committee would match the entry buy-ins and give all the money to the winner.

As Paul shot photos, I wandered over Doyle Williams, a friend who owned a ranch near South Mountain. He was standing next to the rodeo grandstand talking with his brother, Red.

'Hey, Son,' said Doyle with an engaging grin, 'how'd you like to do something you can brag to your grandkids about.'

'If you survive,' Red added.

'I have a horse that you can ride in the Cowboy Race if you'd like,' Doyle continued, ignoring his brother. 'Hell, I'll even pay the entry fee. If you win, keep the money and write something about it for your newspaper.'

'Where's the horse?,' I said. 'Sounds exciting. I'll do it.'

The two brothers led me over to the corral where a strapping Palamino stood, pawing the ground.

'He can run,' said Doyle, rubbing the animal's neck. 'Takes him a little while to get cranked up, but he'll give you a race.'

Paul couldn't wait for the race to start. 'I want to record you riding this horse so MY grandchildren can watch it,' he said, smiling. 'Maybe we can sell it to the Enquirer.' Paul is from Brooklyn. 'He's a good looking hoss,' he said. 'Looks just like Trigger.'

The race started at 1 p.m. There were 10 entries, and first place would pay $400.'

All of the riders lined up near home plate on the baseball diamond. Several hundred people gathered around to watch the race. The rider to my right had a flaming red beard and wore a tall stovepipe hat that gave him a bizarre look. He finished a can of Coors Beer, burped and tossed it toward a trash can.

'Let's get this race on, Bro,' he said, hunching forward over the Pinto he was riding.

I'd like to say I won that race. I surely would. Or even finished second or third. But I didn't. When the starter's gun went off, 10 horses shot forward in a cloud of dust. I couldn't see anything because the Palamino had broken dead last.

The red bearded man on the Pinto shot forward like a rocket. A family with a pickup truck had parked too close to home plate. No problem. The bearded cowboy with the stovepipe hat yelled like a Comanche Indian and leaped his horse over the bed of the pickup, scattering sandwiches, beer and soft drinks in all directions.

The pinto won the race. I finished eighth.

And I will never again try to be a jockey.

Author: Geno Lawrenzi Jr.

(Geno Lawrenzi Jr. is an international journalist, magazine author and ghostwriter. If you have a unique gambling story to share with him, you may qualify for a cash award. Send your story with all the details to glawrenzi@gmail.com ).