Despite his shortcomings, or more than likely because of them, the throng of people who had come out to see Zippy race that day was huge. Many in the crowd wore hats and T-shirts emblazoned with the Zippy Chippy logo. One woman wept openly when Zippy finally did amble across the finish line.
The ink was barely dry on the paperwork to officially abolish him from racing at Finger Lakes when all the big city newspapers in the Northeast waded into the fray. WAY OUT OF THE RUNNING! read the headline of the cover story in USA Today, with a photo of Zippy having Felix’s trademark blue cap for lunch. ZIPPO FOR ZIPPY, bellowed the banner of the Syracuse Post-Standard over a photograph in which Felix appeared to be restraining Zippy in order to save the photographer’s life. The Associated Press went with MAIDEN’S 85TH LOSS TIES MARK, while the New York Times topped their feature story ALL-TIME ALSO-RAN. The cutline “Horse goes for record in the futility stakes” appeared beneath a photograph of Zippy and Felix, side by side, calm, happy, and smiling. It was either a magical moment in professional sports or a world-class achievement in airbrushing.
Not only did Zippy hear the fat lady sing, but she had called him out on three straight strikes. The stewards’ lifetime ban meant that Zippy would never again be allowed on the premises of Finger Lakes as a competitor.
The loss staggered Felix, forcing him to put on his bravest face ever. “I love him more because everybody puts him down,” he said. Sadly, that was the best Zippy’s loyal owner could muster as he got his horse settled in his stall with fresh water, a full feed bag, and a nose rub. Even the cockeyed optimist that Felix had become acknowledged that his old friend’s career was probably at an end.
“He’s happy. He’s healthy. He will be my pet for the rest of his life,” said the man who normally couldn’t stop talking about his lovable, unlucky horse but on this day wandered off to a quiet corner of the barn. Zippy Chippy ended his career at Finger Lakes the same way he had started it at Belmont Park: many, many lengths behind non-winning maidens. Criticism of the horse and its owner came harsh and quick.
Said the same steward who voted to ban him: “They were throwing their money away. I’d look up at the board and there would be $20,000 bet on the horse. He was a cult figure, alright.” But cult figures don’t cut it in a world of rules and regulations. John Lennon and the status quo were longtime enemies. Ed Sullivan gave Elvis Presley’s playful pelvis a rest. Zippy and conformity would never walk together, hoof in hand. RINGGGGGGGG! – that was their rule, not his. If he wanted to admire the crowd from the starting gate or play Simon Says with his jockey, then he would. He did. And now he had paid the ultimate price for individualism. Zippy Chippy was led out of stall seven and hustled out of barn twenty, never to return.
“That horse is just taking up space,” said another steward. “You put a horse in the starting gate and he just stands there, and someone in the stands is betting the rent, well, that’s not too funny. A horse just can’t waste the public’s money like that.”
Taking direct aim at Felix’s proficiency as a trainer, Christopher Scherf of the Thoroughbred Racing Association said to a reporter, “There aren’t a whole lot of horses who race past his age.” He paused while the dart took flight, then continued, “The horse may be telling you something.” He was right. The average racehorse retires at age five, after about fifteen starts. Zippy was now seven years old, with almost six times as many races.
Bob Matthews, a colorful syndicated columnist for Gannett newspapers, heartily disagreed with everybody and particularly with the decision to ban the horse. As a sports writer with the Rochester Democrat and Chronicle, Bob was the scribe who started the fanfare that put thoroughbred racing’s legendary darling ne’er-do-well on America’s radar. When Zippy went zero for sixty races, the writer with a keen eye for a great story and a blunt approach to putting it on paper made the horse known to America. Naturally, he liked Zippy Chippy; he just never bet on him. Red Smith, a colleague of Matthews’ described Zippy’s speed as “excellent for a mule and phenomenal for a fat man.”
“They said he was a blight on bettors. Are you kidding me? He was a great help to bettors … all you had to do was eliminate him from the mix and your chances of winning with another horse improved immediately,” claimed Matthews.
Ironically, by banning the horse who had become the track’s star attraction, Finger Lakes officials were hurting themselves and cutting into their own pockets. On his final loss there, his eighty-fifth, Zippy went off at 7–2 on a tote board that should have had him at 30–1. Why? Because lots of people from all over America were betting on him, proudly showing their support for a fellow struggler. Some no doubt wanted to brag about owning a winning ticket on the biggest loser in racing history, but most bet on him because they truly hoped he would win. Through sympathy and souvenirs, Zippy Chippy had become a bona fide American celebrity and the darling of mainstream media as well.
Finger Lakes officials agreed that Zippy was certainly generating publicity for the racetrack, but in their opinion it was all bad. “The horse became a publicity item, sort of a joke,” said one official. “I know Felix really likes the horse, but he should be a pet. I don’t think he belongs on the racetrack.”
“Not true,” said Bob Matthews. “All that interest in Zippy was good. He brought a lot of people to the track in an industry that needs all the help it can get.”
When one Finger Lakes official claimed that Zippy Chippy was making the track look “bush league,” Bob’s honesty got the best of him. “You are bush league!” said the sports commentator, who still hosts a talk show on Rochester’s WHAM radio. “Have you looked around this place?” Had they a legal leg to stand on, it’s likely the stewards would have banned Bob Matthews from their track along with Zippy Chippy.
What angered the sportswriter most about Zippy Chippy’s lifetime banishment from Finger Lakes was the hypocrisy of a class-B track making such an A1 ruling. With the class thoroughbreds running at Belmont, Aqueduct, and Saratoga Springs just down the New York State Thruway, Finger Lakes should have been focusing on fun. And who had more fun at a racetrack than Zippy Chippy, the “Frat House Flash”?
Now there were three infamous names at unlucky number eighty-five – Gussie Mae, Really a Tenor, and Zippy Chippy – all tied for the record for most consecutive losses in American thoroughbred racing. The real problem was that, at about the same odds as winning Powerball, the other two longtime losers had each won their eighty-sixth race, thereby ending any possibility of stretching their dreaded streaks to eighty-six losses. For now, three shared the notorious title, but if Zippy Chippy incurred one more loss, he would have the dubious distinction of eighty-six losses in a row all to himself. The “Cellar Dweller” moniker was gathering traction.
At this unpromising moment, everybody, including family members, encouraged Felix to sell or retire the horse. At the very least, a second career was highly recommended. Turn him into a show horse, they said, or place him with a local riding stable. Really? A dancer, or a Sunday afternoon prancer? Can you imagine the number of pretty hats Zippy could eat at a horse show? Or the casualty list he could rack up by throwing city slickers off his back on a recreational riding trail? An even worse idea would be to convert Zippy Chippy to one of those “healing horses” that intuitively interact with children suffering from grief or anxiety disorders. Just try and get your brain around that scenario: “Mommy! Mommy! Help! My head is stuck in the horsey’s mouth!”
Although putting Zippy out to pasture made perfect sense to most people, Felix was not onside. “I don’t care how old he is,” he said. “He’s trying and trying and trying, and that makes me happy. Plus, he love to run. Maybe not in every race, but still, he love to run.” Felix was always on Zippy’s side.
When asked if he would now sell the horse, Felix replied, “The horse is not happy with anyone else. If you go to his stall, he pins his ears back like he’s going to attack you. But that’s just an act. He’s really just a puppy.”
An
d Zippy? After he did a little dance around the backside of the barn to let everybody know he had run a great race, he tucked into a bag of his favorite snack, clover and alfalfa, and within thirty minutes of what his fans would call the worst – no, really, the very worst – race of his career, he was softly snoring himself into the deep sleep of an athlete who had left it all out there on the field.
And no, when you match an incredible record for consistent failure, the president of the United States does not phone you after the race. When you run that badly, you’re lucky if the security guard lets you back into the barn without asking for ID.
Yet Zippy’s entourage, who had lined the rail to wish him well and yell “Better luck next time,” wanted to know just one thing: When could they see him run again?
YOU JUST KNOW WHEN
IT’S NOT YOUR DAY
You hear that a lot in sports – “It’s not your day” – and Zippy Chippy heard it after every race for ten years, from Belmont Park to Northampton Fair and Finger Lakes in between.
Fifty years ago in baseball, the great Yankee broadcast duo of Mel Allen and Phil Rizzuto were nearly a perfect match. Considered to be one of the greatest voices to call a baseball game, Mel was calm, succinct, and dependable. Less so was Phil, or “the Scooter,” talkative and famous for his unique digressions from the play-by-play. So the day Mel Allen played stand-up comedian was a real role reversal in their seven years of sharing the microphone.
During a game at Yankee Stadium, at a moment when dead air would have given radio listeners a quiet moment to reflect, Mel Allen was the one who wandered off into la-la land.
“You know, Scooter, I’ve been watching two teenagers exchanging kisses in the center-field bleachers.”
“Really,” replied Rizzuto, trying to sound enthusiastic.
“And what’s interesting,” said Allen, “is that he’s kissing her on the strikes, and she’s kissing him on the balls.” To his credit – he was probably shocked into silence – Phil Rizzuto did not invoke his signature saying: “Holy cow, Mel!”
After a very long pause that allowed those who were listening at home with their kids to leave the room and laugh into pillows, Rizzuto said, “Mel, this is not your day.”
On a hot day in July of 1997, Jesus Miranda was Zippy’s jockey of record – and he lost. So yeah, when you lose a race with Jesus looking over your shoulder, that’s how you know it ain’t your day.
THIRTEEN
“Welcome to New Jersey – now go home”: Often passed off as the state motto and printed on T-shirts designed for Guidos and Guidettes.
From “New Jersey, the Attitude Capital of America”
The answer to the question of when and where his fans could see Zippy run again was March 22, 2000, at Garden State Park in New Jersey. In its heyday, “the Garden” was a beautiful track with a dramatic three-sectioned, iron front gate. Around the entrance loomed the gatehouse and, beyond that, the Georgian-style grandstand – both made of wood, since the 1940s war effort had commandeered America’s steel.
Cold but bright, this was the first day of spring – the vernal equinox, when the sun crosses the celestial equator and hope springs eternal. Felix had moved his horse to this venerable track near Cherry Hill in January, thinking that if they were successful, this might be Zippy’s home for a while. Exiled from the track at Finger Lakes, Zippy had spent the last fifteen months on the Monserrate farm, keeping fit and giving the family fits. That balance between running like a racehorse and living like a rogue had become Zippy’s trademark.
Rarin’ to go, he spent the morning in his stall kicking the wall for something to do and occasionally scaring the hell out of passersby on shed row. Just getting back into the swing of things, is all.
“He been runnin’ good and practicing very well,” Felix shouted above the banging noise in the background. Assessing the situation, he latched and locked up Zippy’s stall, hoping the horse would calm down in the dark. Now nine years old and still without reproductive hardware, Zippy was in his prime. At least, that’s how his growing retinue of regular followers felt, many having traveled to New Jersey from track towns in the Northeast, including some from Finger Lakes. The thinking was that as long as Zippy was game to go, they didn’t mind the drive. He wasn’t just with them in spirit; they were also wearing his brand. Zippy wore leather, and his fan base wore “Zippy Chippy tacky” – colorful caps and T-shirts that carried his name and a cartoon likeness of him. One popular shirt read, YOU’LL ALWAYS BE A WINNER WITH US, ZIPPY!
While his horse was slowly demolishing his stall, Felix was reading an oversized Hallmark card from the New Jersey contingent of Zippy Chippy’s rapidly expanding fan club. His banishment had actually brought more sympathizers into his hallowed corner.
“We brought Zippy this card to try and encourage him and tell him we love him,” said Judy Nason, of nearby Hamilton Township. The card was signed and inscribed by twenty members of the horse’s faithful following. A woman named Elizabeth wrote, “The key to a true winner is that you keep on trying.” David added, “Keep trying. God knows there are millions of us who relate to your struggles.” Hearing Zippy behind him, head butting the stall door, Felix was almost brought to tears by the card.
The unswerving fortitude of a horse that keeps on going after so many disappointments had become an ongoing source of endearment for many who themselves had been smacked down in life. People responded to “the Zippy horse” with instinctive sympathy and raw emotion. It was the same feeling you get watching a border collie hopelessly trying to herd his flock of sheep as they wreak havoc on a downtown street, or a goose trying desperately to get all her goslings to cross the busy highway. Sure, they’re making a mess of things, but God knows their hearts are in the right place – and above all, they’re trying to do the right thing.
Zippy’s disastrous record did nothing to dampen his go-get-’em spirit. The losses may have tarnished his résumé, but they could not blunt his ambition. Those three straight dwells might have cost him his career, New York–style, but nothing could curb his love of life and racing. It didn’t matter where he and his owner went; a track was a track and Zippy was ready to race.
Buoyed by his loyal supporters, Zippy Chippy was stoked and all saddled up and circling the paddock at Garden State, waiting for the bugler to deliver the call to post. But the horn would not be heard on cue today, as the men in suits rushed down from their lofty lairs above the grandstand to stop the proceedings. Postponing a race is something that is seldom done. Tracks work like clockwork; the timing may seem casual to an observer, but it is exacting to the masters of the meet. The officials had stopped the show to have a serious word with Felix. They sensed a potential scandal brewing, one that tracks everywhere try very hard to avoid.
Although the trainer assured them his horse was good to go, cleared by the vet and all, the officials of this rundown track that was a year away from the wrecking ball strongly disagreed. Only minutes before Zippy was to be led out onto the red, raked oval for the colorful post parade, a telephone call had come in from Finger Lakes. Racetrack starters share information, and this was kind of a courtesy call: “You might have a problem on your hands!”
The fastidious Finger Lakes starter, noting the banned horse’s name in the Garden’s program, had dropped the dime on Zippy. The Garden State head steward authorized a very late scratch, and Zippy Chippy was done for the day – actually, this and every other day, as long as he was in New Jersey.
Garden State spokesman Ed Vomacka confirmed that Zippy had been disqualified because his name appeared on a list of ineligible thoroughbreds at Finger Lakes. Incredible but true – the horse had been turfed out before he hit the dirt. Zippy Chippy may have been the only thoroughbred in history to lose a race before he even got to the starting gate.
Felix was livid, incorporating a lot more Spanish and a few more expletives into his language than usual. He claimed it was a state ban, lawful only in New York. It wasn’t. Zippy had been ba
rred from racing in New York State and any other American or Canadian track that chose to honor the banishment. Almost all would. Felix could protest all he wanted, but the track officials dictated that his horse needed to get undressed and leave the Cherry Hill premises in a timely fashion. It’s safe to say that Zippy Chippy did nothing in a timely fashion except eat, so his departure from the barn took longer than they would have liked. As he was led back to his stall, he was particularly peeved, because normally he liked to get a little exercise before he returned to the barn for his victory dance. Nobody was happy about Zippy being scratched, except maybe the jockey who didn’t have to ride him. When Zippy was in a bad mood, riding him was like trying to stay aboard a mechanical bull during erratic electrical surges.
Felix in dirty denim had been confronted by well-dressed men his whole career – from the cheap suits of track stewards to the expensive wear of wealthy owners. Never far from his mind or beyond his bashful smile was the old English saying: “On the turf or under it, all men are equal.”
While loading up for home, Felix walked past Zippy’s stall with an armful of equipment, and the horse took a run at him. A sportswriter unfamiliar with their relationship said the horse’s head came over the gate with “the quickness of a cobra.” Equally eye-opening to the reporter was the fact that Felix avoided the attack “with the efficiency of someone completely at ease with such defensive maneuvers.”
Needing to explain the backside skirmish to an unfamiliar press, Felix said, “He’s mean, but in a nice way. You know those wrestlers who talk mean but it’s really nothing? I put him in that category. It’s just an act.”
One confused horse and one pissed-off owner boarded the Zippy Chippy tandem truck and trailer for the drive back to Farmington, New York. Once on the road, Felix was able to see the bright side of the New Jersey fiasco: Zippy’s official record had not gotten any worse. Little consolation, but as they got closer to home, more and more drivers honked and waved at Felix when they passed his vehicle, spotting the Zippy Chippy logo on the driver’s-side door.
The Legend of Zippy Chippy Page 11