The Ghost Horse

by Joe Layden

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  Love, is always insufficient, always a lie. Love, you are the clean shit of my soul. Stupid love, silly love.

  —William Kennedy, Ironweed

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Epigraph

  Introduction

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Author’s Note

  Photographs

  Also by Joe Layden

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Introduction

  SUMMER 2010

  It was almost too good to be true.

  A story about a one-eyed, clubfooted thoroughbred racehorse and the journeyman trainer who scraped together every penny he had (and borrowed what he didn’t have) to purchase a broken and unwanted filly. And how the trainer helped the horse overcome its deficiencies, eventually naming her in part (but only in part, for the trainer was nothing if not complicated) after his deceased wife, the great and only love of his life—a bright and sweet-tempered woman whose gentle demeanor seemed eerily reflected in the horse. The trainer (and now owner) was by nature a crusty and combative sort, the yin to his wife’s yang, a racetrack lifer not easily moved by new-age mysticism or sentiment.

  And yet …

  There were those final days back in 2003, when Lisa Snyder lay in bed, her body ravaged by cancer, and tried to reassure those who loved her with a weak smile.

  “It’s okay,” she’d say. “I’ll see you again. I’m coming back as a horse.”

  Tim Snyder did not then believe in reincarnation. Truth be told, he still doesn’t. But he acknowledged without hesitation the strangeness of this journey, the series of coincidences and almost inexplicable circumstances that brought them together, and the undeniable similarities between the horse and his late wife. So did those who knew the couple well, and who could now only marvel at the story of the filly, Lisa’s Booby Trap, and the down-on-his-luck trainer who apparently had been given a new lease on life.

  “You come across maybe four or five people in your life who are truly special, people who are genuinely good,” noted Snyder’s best friend, fellow trainer, and former employer, John Tebbutt. “That was Lisa. And I’ll tell you something: this horse has the exact same personality.”

  The story of Lisa’s Booby Trap developed quietly (and appropriately) enough in the relative hinterlands of thoroughbred horse racing, at Finger Lakes Racetrack in Central New York, where she rose from obscurity to win her first three starts against modest competition. But it really gained traction in the summer months, when the focus of the racing world, as it does each year, shifted to Saratoga Springs.

  There are only a few places left in the world where horse racing is still followed and chronicled with the gusto of decades gone by; Saratoga is one of them. Each summer a sleepy little Adirondack town (population 26,000) springs to life, thanks largely to a massive injection of tourism that revolves around Saratoga Race Course. The ancient, wooden grandstand, with its elegant spires rising above a mile and an eighth oval, attracts an average of more than 20,000 spectators a day during July and August; for bigger races, such as the Travers Stakes, it draws as many as 50,000 people. The town’s population swells in similar fashion throughout the sweltering summer months, with bars and restaurants filled to capacity, and the streets a virtual carnival, catering with great resourcefulness to a variety of folks—from the blue-blooded horse set residing in the stately mansions of North Broadway to the blue-collared workers who punch tickets at pari-mutuel windows, to the itinerant horsehands who live in near squalor on the backstretch and keep the machinery running smoothly, mucking out stalls, hotwalking horses, and grooming the stars of the show.

  With the passing of Labor Day, it all comes to an end. The New York Racing Association shifts its base of operations downstate to Belmont, and Saratoga lets out a great, exhausted sigh before resting through the fall and winter months. For seven weeks, though, Saratoga Springs is the center of the horse racing universe, a minor league town with a major league sport. And in the summer of 2010, the star of the meet was Lisa’s Booby Trap.

  At first, like a lot of people, I followed the story from a distance. Well, not much of a distance, actually, as I am a Saratoga resident and my home is located roughly a mile from one of the track’s two main entrances. In another life I used to work for the newspaper business, and I spent a lot of time covering Saratoga Race Course. I always felt that the racetrack, like a musty old boxing gym, was a good place to find an interesting story. There were characters aplenty, covering all levels of the social strata. There were men and women who had known unbearable hardship—for example, jockeys who starved themselves to death or vomited after every meal, or took speed and cocaine to maintain weight—and who persevered against ridiculous odds, often because they knew no other life, but also because of their genuine affection for the racing game and the animals at its center.

  In short, they loved horses.

  I’d heard a lot of great stories, but never had I heard anything quite like the story of Tim Snyder. And when Lisa’s Booby Trap stormed down the homestretch a surprise winner in the $70,000 Loudonville Stakes on August 6, prompting the largest ovation of the Saratoga summer (and more than a few tears, as well), there was no choice but to get involved. It is, after all, what writers do. So I called Snyder and introduced myself, told him I was interested in meeting him and perhaps writing a book about him and his wonder horse.

  “Sure,” he said. “Stop by any time. I’m always here.”

  Indeed, he was. Although Lisa’s winnings would later allow him to purchase two inexpensive claimers, Snyder at the time owned and trained just a single horse: Lisa’s Booby Trap. Since he came to Saratoga as something of an interloper, Snyder had no barn of his own, but was instead given a single stall in the stakes barn not far from the Spa’s paddock area (and a metaphorical mile from the pristine, multistall digs of superstar trainers such as Todd Pletcher and Bob Baffert). Although he still had a home (owned by his mother-in-law) back in Camillus, New York, not far from Syracuse, Snyder was essentially a wanderer, living out of his pickup truck and sleeping in a tiny tack room above the stakes barn.

  When I arrived Snyder was seated in a rickety lawn chair not ten feet from Lisa’s stall. With a wiry frame and skin like leather, and a cigarette dangling from his right hand, he looked every inch the racetrack vagabond. There was no pretense about him at all. He was a horseman, had been since he was born. Well, before that, actually. Snyder’s grandfather was a trainer, his father a jockey. Some fifty-six years ago, while watching Warren Snyder ride at Scarborough Downs in Maine, Snyder’s mother, Virginia, went into labor. Within a few hours she had given birth to a son, named Timmy, who entered the world in the track’s first-aid room.

  Snyder shared this story, along with countless others, while thumbing through a scrapbook of his life: pictures of his grandfather and father at racetracks throughout the northeast; pictures of Snyder at the farm he once owned with his wife, a blond-haired woman with a blinding white smile and a
lean, athletic build. She was ten years younger than him, and from a different world. He was a nomadic but talented horseman who had trekked across the country scores of times, picking up work wherever he could find it; a rider who had gotten too big and broken too many bones to keep riding, and who had turned his attention to training. Cheap horses, mostly, that he churned to keep his little operation going.

  She was a former show jumper who felt the lure of the racetrack and took a job as a hotwalker in her late twenties. They’d met one day in 1993 when Snyder nearly ran her down along the shedrow at Finger Lakes. She was young and pretty and Snyder fell for her instantly. Within two years they were married and in business together, eventually accruing a marginally profitable stable of twenty to twenty-five horses. They had a farm, bred and raised their own stock, bartered for others, and won their fair share of races at smaller tracks. Theirs was not an operation designed to produce or acquire Triple Crown champions. It was a way to make a decent and honorable living doing what they enjoyed most.

  “Lisa was my partner,” Tim said. “She was my wife. She was my best friend.”

  And then she was gone. Without her, he was adrift, literally and figuratively. He left home without so much as a good-bye, and spent the better part of three years on the road, self-medicating and steeped in grief.

  “I didn’t turn to drugs,” he said. “Not much, anyway. But I drank a lot. Basically, I had a breakdown.”

  Each night, consumed by loneliness, Tim cried himself to sleep. Days … months … were passed in a near-catatonic state. It went on like that for more than three years, until slowly the pain began to recede and Snyder felt the pull of the only life he knew, a life at the racetrack. He returned to New York with nothing but his name and a fifty-something body still fit enough to gallop horses and clean stalls, and slowly pieced his life together.

  It was less than the life he had, of course, but it was a life, nonetheless. He had support and friendship from his in-laws, and he had work, thanks in part to John Tebbutt, who knew of Snyder’s skill with horses and was only too happy to see him return to the track. But even Tebbutt had to wonder about his friend in the winter of 2010, not so much because Snyder got it in his head to become an owner once again, but because the object of his affection was a big filly of modest lineage, with defects that left her owners and breeders disinterested. The horse was pretty to look at, seventeen hands high, with a glistening dark coat and bright white markings on her forehead. Somewhere in her bloodline there had been a bit of speed and a winning pedigree, but the filly apparently had been dealt a genetic short straw. She was sightless in her left eye and suffered from congenital abnormalities in her left foot and shoulder. One of her previous trainers had declared the filly to be the slowest horse he had ever seen. No one, it seemed, thought she’d ever make it to the starting line.

  But they were wrong.

  Like Shoeless Joe from Hannibal Mo, the middle-aged schlub who sold his soul for a chance to beat the Damn Yankees, Lisa’s Booby Trap emerged from the shadows seemingly without notice or reputation, and took her sport, and the media that cared enough to chronicle it, by storm.

  And then, just as quickly, and with even less explanation, she was gone, victimized by injuries or weak breeding or imprudent decisions by the horseman who loved her … or maybe just plain old bad luck. Some combination of all of those things, most likely. Horse racing, after all, is a brutal and unforgiving game, one that sidelines a large percentage of its most gifted athletes before they even reach adulthood. Regardless, she went away, her trainer by her side, the two of them retreating to the margins of their sport, where happy endings wither and die.

  Most of the time, anway.

  Chapter One

  Restlessness gets in your blood.

  Whether by genetics or circumstance, the tug of the open road, the need to keep moving and changing, fighting the urge to settle down—to avoid getting close enough to anyone who might encourage roots to sprout—is felt more strongly by some than by others. In the case of Tim Snyder, it could certainly be argued that the odd romance of the racetrack life, as weird and nomadic as the circus it sometimes mirrors, was imprinted on his DNA, and reinforced at every step thereafter.

  His grandfather, Earl Snyder, had been a reasonable man living a reasonable life in the rural hamlet of Duanesburg, New York, not far from Schenectady. The family had a small, working farm that required the combined efforts of parents and children to keep it viable. One day, though, as family lore has it, Earl took everyone to the racetrack and quickly became enamored of the life. In fairly short order he had sold off the farm, the livestock, and the equipment to tend them, and used the proceeds to purchase a single thoroughbred racehorse. Bitten badly by the bug, he moved the family to Belmont, New York, and embarked on a spectacularly dreamy and ambitious (if unfocused) midlife career change, one made even more complicated by the fact that it occurred in the thick of the Great Depression: he would be a horse trainer.

  “My grandfather fell in love with horses,” Tim Snyder said. “He couldn’t help himself. And six months after they got to Belmont, his son—my dad—became a rider. A pretty good one, too. He was only fifteen years old at the time—same age I was when I started. But back in those days, I guess no one really cared how old you were—not even at a big track like Belmont. Long as you could get on a horse and hold him straight, you could ride.”

  Warren Snyder was a natural, small and lean, with firm but gentle hands, and an easy rapport with animals. Something else, too. He had a quiet confidence, the kind all jockeys have to some extent—after all, you need a sturdy sack in order to sit atop one thousand pounds of heaving horseflesh as it roars along the backstretch, in heavy traffic, at speeds of up to forty miles an hour. Not everyone is cut out for that sort of work. Very few people, in fact. But Warren Snyder was one of them, a gifted and aggressive youngster who didn’t mind guiding his mount through cracks too narrow for sane or safe passage.

  It’s a truism around the racetrack that there are only two types of jockeys: those who have crashed, and those who are going to crash. It’s also a truism that a jockey is never quite the same after he graduates from the first camp into the second. The ability to harness fear is a skill whose importance cannot be overstated. The “bug boy” (an apprentice jockey often still in his teens) rides with sometimes reckless abandon and a seeming weightlessness that is prized by trainers and owners and bettors, his mistakes and inexperience a fair trade-off in a world that covets speed and rewards risk, both at the window and on the dirt.

  For a while, at least.

  There is no shortage of stories about apprentices who lost the weight allowance that comes with the designation and soon thereafter lost their mojo, and then, naturally, the support of previously loyal and supportive handlers. Fear creeps into the equation, as well, fueled by failure or a stumble and the first chaotic, terrifying brush with mortality.

  In short, for the rider, horse racing is easy. Until it’s not. And then it becomes damn near impossible. A career that in its nascence seemed limitless suddenly becomes grounded in practicality and survival. Forget the Triple Crown; just get me a ride at Rockingham, preferably on a nag that won’t start coughing up blood at the sixteenth pole or snap a tendon while I’m trying to squeeze by on the rail.

  A jockey’s career, like anyone else’s, ebbs and flows over time, for any number of reasons. But the trajectory tends to be parabolic, and once the descent begins it’s hard to slow it down. At the height of his career, Warren Snyder was a semi-regular in the racetrack equivalent of the major leagues, at places like Belmont and Aqueduct, where the horses generally are sound, the purses substantial, and the potential for fame and fortune tantalizingly real. Tim has photos of his dad, youthful and fit, sitting proudly atop his mount in the winner’s circle at Belmont, hordes of racetrack fans in the background, reminders of a time when life held infinite promise and horse racing ruled in the hearts and minds of American sports fans.

  Fo
r whatever reason, Warren Snyder soon found himself in the minors, bouncing from track to track all along the Eastern Seaboard, but primarily at the hardscrabble tracks of New England—places like Rockingham Park in New Hampshire, Suffolk Downs near Boston, and Scarborough Downs in Maine. He rode regularly and with varying degrees of success or failure for more than three decades, eking out a living any way he could. When his body protested the starvation and other reducing methods imposed upon it, and he became too big to secure mounts, he’d do what any seasoned horseman would do: he’d pick up a few bucks as a hotwalker or groom. Anything to pay the bills and support the family.

  Sometimes, though, he’d piss away the paycheck on booze or betting, and it wasn’t long before promise and potential gave way to resignation.

  “When people think of horse racing they tend to think of the glamour and the high level of racing at places like the Kentucky Derby,” said Cheryl Hall, Tim Snyder’s older sister. “But it’s not like that for most people. It wasn’t like that for Timmy and it wasn’t like that for my father. But I want to make one thing clear: in neither case was it because of a lack of talent. It was because of the drinking. It’s funny—Timmy and my father had so many issues with each other, and yet they were so much alike. They were both true horsemen who could have made different lives for themselves if alcohol had not been involved. Drinking changes people; it makes them unreliable. It causes a myriad of problems.”

  Added Tim Snyder: “My father was a well-known rider in some circles, but in the end, he was just a waste of talent, mainly because of the drinking. That’s harsh, but it’s the truth. I don’t know … maybe he had reason to drink. He lost his family, his livelihood, everything, really. By the end he was broken in half. His life story was a story in itself.”

  Warren and Virginia Snyder were, by necessity, an itinerant couple, roaming from one track to another, and one town to another, occasionally expanding on the family in ways almost too weird for words. Cheryl, born in 1949, was the oldest. She slipped into the world slightly ahead of schedule, as her parents were driving to Oaklawn Park Racetrack in Hot Springs, Arkansas. The couple stopped at Harpers Ferry, Virginia, just long enough for Cheryl to be delivered safely. The newborn girl spent her first night on Earth sleeping in the bottom drawer of a hotel dresser that had been rigged to serve as a crib.