One year later, Garden State Park was completely demolished, leveled to the ground, with only its iconic wrought-iron gates still standing. I know what you’re thinking, but no, Zippy was not involved, although he did his best to start the process in the barn the day they wouldn’t let him run.
Once a classy racetrack, today Garden State is just another North American mall with a mixed-use town center housing shops, restaurants, and condominiums. There’s no pink hotel, but there are boutiques and swinging hot spots, so yeah, they paved paradise to put up a parking lot. Instead of a statue of the speedy Spend a Buck, who captured the 1985 Kentucky Derby with a courageous wire-to-wire victory … now they have Bed Bath & Beyond.
And the first day of spring, the vernal equinox? It is indeed the symbol of eternal hope – and also lost causes.
NOBODY LIKES TO
BE TRICKED
Walking up the ramp and into his traveling trailer for the long ride home after several months of waiting to race and then being told he couldn’t, Zippy Chippy must have felt like he’d been tricked. Given the shaft, as it were, like South African golfer Bobby Cole was while playing a practice round for the 1967 Masters against the legendary Sam Snead. The seasoned veteran loved to bet as much as he loved to win, especially against the younger players on tour.
On the tee of Augusta’s thirteenth hole, a dogleg left par five guarded by very tall pine trees, the fifty-five-year-old with “the sweetest swing in golf” hit the ball a couple hundred yards into the clearing where he’d have an easy second shot up the fairway toward the unseen green. “Slammin’ Sam” did it just the way it’s supposed to be done, including his trademark fade at the end.
The twenty-year-old Cole was pulling out a low iron to match his opponent’s shot when Snead said, “You know, Bobby, when I was your age I could hit the ball right over those trees at the corner.”
It was a double dogleg dare and the rookie took the bait. Bristling, the well-built young man pulled out his driver and strode to the tee, where he verily crushed the ball. Like a little white laser, his golf ball made a high arc, towering into the tops of the trees, where it knocked around a bit and then dropped into a bed of pine needles below. From there it would take at least two more shots to come even with the master’s tee shot.
Cole was still eyeing Snead suspiciously as they walked off the tee and down the fairway. Then Snead smiled at him, winked, and said, “Of course, when I was your age, Bobby, those trees were only ten feet high.” And Slammin’ Sam, spry and sly as ever, went on to collect the ten-dollar bet.
FOURTEEN
The senator has got to understand … he can’t have it both ways.
He can’t take the high horse and then claim the low road.
President George W. Bush, admonishing Senator John McCain while savaging the English language
With the word out that Zippy Chippy was a high-risk performer, it’s likely all Massachusetts racetracks would have followed New Jersey’s lead. However, Three County Fair in Northampton was not a racetrack, per se. It’s … a county fairground. And not just any fair – America’s oldest agricultural fair, shearing sheep and tossing cow patties with distinction since 1818. Besides the tractor pull and the demolition derby, beyond the tilt-a-whirl and the stuffed toy shooting gallery was Northampton Fair, a thoroughbred track that ran for ten days every year, starting Labor Day weekend and attracting quite a variety of contestants, some of whom had rarely (or never) won a race and were one step away from becoming a ride for children or from joining a police force. Some horses had been winners at bigger tracks but were now on the downside of their careers.
Beginning in the mid-1800s, fairgrounds were once a rip-roaring piece of Americana and, all over the United States, offered a crude form of horse racing for $50 purses or sides of beef or jugs of cider. Some tracks were narrow, limiting the size of the gate and, therefore, the number of horses allowed in a race. At Marshfield the horses had to run under the seats of the ferris wheel as it rotated overhead. All fairground tracks were small and referred to as “bullrings” for their tight turns. Bubba Wilson, a leading rider, recalls the routine: “Turn hard left at the French fry stand. Then hard left again where they sell funnel cakes. Takes nerve, I tell you.”
In the fifties and sixties these Massachusetts fun tracks hit their peak of popularity. “Purses weren’t much, but motel rooms cost $3.50 a night and beer was a dime,” recalls Carlos Figueroa. As an owner and trainer, Figueroa won five races in eight days with the same horse in 1963, which warranted a visit by the SPCA. “I told them I run Shannon’s Hope short distances, six and a half furlongs, no farther,” he said. “This Paul Revere, he’s a hero in Massachusetts but he ran his horse twenty-six miles in one night.” Just the sort of marvelous, offbeat character you meet at a racetrack, Figueroa became known as “King of the Fairs.”
As track ratings go – “A” for Aqueduct and “B” for Finger Lakes – the old Massachusetts fairgrounds circuit gets a “C” for chicanery. Though the racing was hugely popular back then, bettors did not much appreciate the Massachusetts circuit’s lapses into unrehearsed comedy, like jockeys jumping off horses that were leading but not supposed to win the race; like a long shot bet down to even odds just minutes before a race and winning by a dozen lengths; like the track steward who read the riot act to eight jockeys that whoever was carrying a “buzzer,” an illegal electric shocker, better toss it before the race started or there would be hell to pay. After the race the steward went to the starting gate area where he found not one but eight buzzers.
In the early 1970s a welcome crackdown by state police brought integrity back to the fairgrounds circuit and it flourished. Good local horsemen took pride in presenting their best horses at Northampton, and even Kentuckian Dale Baird, the greatest trainer of all time with 9,445 wins, brought his brood to the oval in Pioneer Valley, Hampshire County.
The Great Barrington Fair track closed in 1983, leaving the Northampton half-mile oval the last fair still operating in Massachusetts. In the eighties, before the casinos opened in nearby Connecticut and the state lottery began offering scratch tickets, Northampton recorded huge handles.
In one day, Labor Day 1989, bettors laid down $893,000. Tom Creel, Racing Secretary, said, “We have fun here. We give the cheap horses a chance. Zippy Chippy deserves a chance.” Not exactly a resounding endorsement by racing’s head honcho, but hey, it’s better than New Jersey. “Anything’s better than New Jersey” became the mantra of Zippy’s handlers after the Garden State Park debacle. It was easy to understand why Felix Monserrate was now referring to New Jersey as “The Bad Apple.”
Competing for the crowd’s interest and cash at the Three County Fair were the pigs with numbers on their backs that raced on a nearby smaller track. Pig jockeys were not allowed to be any taller than that guy on TV who used to yell: “The plane, boss! The plane!”
It was with great trepidation that Felix entered his horse in race number eighty-six at this track in western Massachusetts. At eighty-five losses and sharing the record with two other horses, at least the shame was split three ways. The odds on both Gussie Mae and Really a Tenor both winning their eighty-sixth races were phenomenal, but they did. The odds on Zippy Chippy, a horse that had lost at ten different racetracks and come dead last fourteen times, winning his eighty-sixth race were astronomical. You had a better chance at getting Betty White to pole dance on “Old Farts Night” at the American Legion, in Fredonia, New York. Not impossible odds, mind you, but long. Really long.
But did the September 5, 1999, tote board at Northampton Fair show Zippy going off at 100–1, a number that would reflect reality? No. First of all, the highest possible odds against a horse winning are 99–1, and secondly, the faithful had crossed state lines. The horse’s dutiful disciples had come here to the “Baked Bean State” wearing Zippy Chippy memorabilia, taking photos, and offering him good luck charms. By race time, they had elevated him to the favorite.
Earlier in the day Feli
x had led his horse and his jockey onto the track where the official starter was certifying gate tickets for horses who had not raced in the last six months. It may have been standard procedure, but it wasn’t until the buzzer rang and Zippy with Clemente Crispin aboard bolted clear of the machine, that Felix began to breathe again.
On this cloudy but warm fall afternoon, Zippy proved to be a “gamer.” From the gate’s sixth post, Zippy challenged Haylee’s Halo for the lead before settling in at third place for the second half of the circuit, a position he gamely held until the wire. The footnotes told the real story: “Zippy Chippy dueled for the lead on the outside, steadied between horses on the second turn, bore out on all three turns and tired on the third turn.” Zippy, it seems, always preferred the road less traveled, and the wider and longer one as well. Taking such a circuitous route may have been hereditary. Zippy’s great-great-grandfather Native Dancer, easily one of the top ten thoroughbreds of the twentieth century, won almost every great race he entered (twenty-one of twenty-two), the exception being the Kentucky Derby. During that race in 1953, after being bumped twice in that Kentucky classic, jockey Eric Guerin seemed to be fleeing from danger when he led Native Dancer on a wild chase that ended with the horse losing in a photo finish. One commenter at the time said that Guerin “took that colt everywhere on the track except the ladies’ room.”
Given the grand tour Zippy took, finishing third was flattering.
On his back was yet another new jockey, Clemente Crispin, the twenty-sixth rider of his career. Zippy went through jockeys the way other horses wore out their shoes. And as if the horse needed any more pressure, he had a $4,000 claiming price on him. Felix knew how badly Zippy needed a win to end the cursed streak, and the claiming race offered easier competition.
Zippy managed to end up in the money, and, most importantly, after the race the stewards did not have to go looking for him in the starting gate. He won $250, enough to cover the gas money for the return trip home to Farmington. They say it’s lonely at the top, but the bottom can’t be much of a prize when you’re nothing for eighty-six. Once the results were posted, all three horses who finished behind him committed suicide.
Felix was discouraged but stuck by Zippy with the same blind faith and innate stubbornness for which the horse himself was famous. After Zippy lost his eighty-sixth race and became the sole holder of the most fruitless record in racehorse history, you could hardly expect Felix to be effusive in praise of his enigmatic gelding. I mean, this is the horse that would spin out on the turns or bite another horse near the finish line or go over and visit some diminutive relatives at the Pony Rides or try to snag a hot dog from a dozy kid on the merry-go-round, and what did Felix have to say? “If this horse wanna run, he run. He give you the best he got. But he don’t wanna run all the time.” And really, who does? It’s tiring and it can get you down, especially if you’re looking at nothing but big, sweaty butts all the time.
Confidentially, Felix was flat-out relieved. His horse had finally broken from the gate and had had a good trip around the track – and, above all, he had not been claimed. For the marked-down price of $4,000, somebody, anybody, could have bought the now quite popular Zippy Chippy on a whim or a bar bet or just for a laugh. Having dodged that bullet, Felix vowed never to enter Zippy in a claiming race again.
Now that Zippy Chippy alone held the record for consecutive losses, Felix had little to lose by continuing to race him. Any thoughts Felix had about hanging up Zippy’s halter were trumped by a gush of glory from the unlikely source of People magazine. In the May 8, 2000, issue featuring Julia Roberts’s smile on the cover, Zippy was profiled in an appropriate section slugged “also-ran.” The magazine described Zippy’s pedigree as “bluegrass blue blood.” Felix, who had been broadsided by Zippy that morning, characterized his horse as “meaner than an outhouse rat,” while Zippy just wished with all his heart that magazines were printed on pancakes instead of paper. A year later, at the same Northampton Fair fall meet, Zippy was back for what proved to be his best race ever, in front of an overflowing crowd that was almost exclusively there to watch him. September 1, 2000, was a brand-new day for Zippy Chippy.
Covering the event for the Daily Hampshire Gazette, Scott Cacciola was impressed by how Zippy “paced serenely around the stable … hardly [giving] a glance of recognition to the dozens of media types that had gathered around his stall.” As the horses lined up behind the starting gate for this five-furlong maiden match, Zippy could hardly ignore the presence of his fans. “The name Zippy Chippy seemed to emanate from the grandstand like a mantra,” wrote Cacciola.
Oh, how Zippy loved an audience. Watching him in the barn, Andy Walter, also of the Gazette, observed: “He had dancing feet, and he would sometimes swing a wider arc to impel human bystanders to move out of the way.” Following the horse outside, Walter added: “The show really began when Zippy cantered out onto the track. With jockey Juan Rohena onboard, he walked the length of the homestretch, then turned around when he reached the end of the stands. Zippy began kicking his hind legs out and to the right, higher and higher, as the laughter of the crowd grew. Zippy, it seems, has a sense of humor, or a Type A personality.”
Out of the gate lickety-split, Zippy took the lead and never looked back. He dispatched no less than three horses – Carousing, Riches Rocket, and Black Rifle – to take the all-out lead. Out front by six lengths, Zippy was not so much running on a dirt track as swimming in unchartered waters. At the far pole he had Black Rifle by a head, and with great resolve and confident strides he held that two-foot lead all the way into the stretch. That’s where things got rough.
Into the stretch Black Rifle’s bumping became so bad that Rohena held Zippy back a bit. The Zipster strained hard on the reins and recovered enough ground to keep pace with his brawling adversary. As the two drew up head and head in front of the grandstand, Zippy was fighting off a belligerent Black Rifle, who was getting way too close and ramming him as they sped toward the wire.
The crowd went wild. A loud roar erupted from beyond the fence, the punters screamed and whistled, and the faithful waved their winning tickets as Zippy Chippy now led a field of seven horses down the dusty chute. Normally, leading a race, Zippy would be nodding to his closest rival that it was safe to pass on the right. Not today. Today Zippy was in the zone. Today Black Rifle would need the greatest race of his dismal career to beat him. So far, in six outings, Black Rifle had never finished better than sixth.
Calling this classic duel, the track announcer could barely believe his own words: “And here they come … Zippy Chippy and Black Rifle, it’s Black Rifle and Zippy Chippy … it’s Zippy Chippy and Black Rifle … and at the wire it’s Black Rifle by a neck!” After the initial sounds of anguish, the track went silent. It quickly became clear to all in attendance, including Felix Monserrate, that Zippy Chippy had very nearly won a race. It was so quiet, as the Texas playwright Horton Foote would say, that you could hear an ant piss on a pillow.
Juan Rohena and Zippy Chippy had been banged around by Black Rifle’s wiry and wily Frank Amonte Sr., who even at the age of sixty-three still liked to ride rough. Furious, Rohena immediately lodged a claim of foul with the Northampton stewards, alleging interference in the stretch. Chaos erupted on the track. Rohena was standing in the saddle, screaming at the officials up in the booth, while Felix was grabbing the jockey by the leg, yelling, “No, no, no – I don’t want him to win like that. Not on a protest!” Ten very tense minutes passed while the inquiry sign flashed on the board and the stewards screened the tape. Badly needed comic relief was provided by Carousing, who had thrown his rider, Bubba Wilson, and was now enjoying being chased around the track by the outrider. Zippy Chippy and Black Rifle circled in front of the grandstand while their riders eyed each other contemptuously, with Rohena still jabbering at a silent Amonte.
Both jockey and trainer knew Zippy had won the race, fair and square. What would Felix do if the stewards allowed the complaint to stand, dropping B
lack Rifle to second and elevating Zippy Chippy to first place? Not wanting to win on a technicality, would Felix then protest the protest?
None of it mattered in the end as the stewards dismissed the official complaint, as they most often do. The track record’s footnote read simply, “Just missed.” The results, the controversy, the dubious record might best be described by the name of the horse that finished third: Judge Not.
Oh why, oh why couldn’t the race have been four and a half furlongs instead of five? Why couldn’t Zippy have leaned in a little at the finish line? Why didn’t Rohena give his horse a sharp clip with the crop coming up to the wire? Why couldn’t Black Rifle have arrived at the track constipated that day? So close, and yet … Zippy Chippy was once again best man to yet another groom, Black Rifle, who today stood tall at the altar. With this, the first victory of his career, which would end sixteen days later at the same track when he was retired after no one claimed him, Black Rifle became the third thoroughbred to win only one race in his lifetime, and it happened to be against Zippy Chippy. The Zipster’s losing was a curse that bordered on a conspiracy.
“Next time lucky,” his followers repeated as they lined the fence and surrounded the paddock to congratulate him. “He’s got heart,” said fan Marie Klebart, who had driven up from South Windsor, Connecticut, to see her favorite horse. Amazing many onlookers, Zippy had pulled a “Mitt” – as in Romney. With no business being in the race, he actually made it exciting and oh-so-close. Zippy had lost, but only by that big, hard, mule-like head. In doing so, he earned $510, which would cover not only the gas but the snacks and tolls on the trip along the New York State Thruway.
The Legend of Zippy Chippy Page 12