The Legend of Zippy Chippy (24 page)
Read The Legend of Zippy Chippy Online
Authors: William Thomas
Our planet no longer rotates on an axis; it spins on an axle and leaves behind the sounds of screeching tires and the smell of burning rubber. The world itself deserves a whole lot more from its residents than merely making it go faster. Ironically, speed in this digital age is killing the sport of horse racing; the young cannot comprehend the beauty of a gloriously slow afternoon at the track.
We seriously need to slow down, relax, and abide by a new “It takes as long as it takes” mantra. I say
new
, but that's only in relation to us. Zippy Chippy always followed the slow and easy path, both in life and on the track. Was Zippy's first loss any different from his ninety-first? Not really. Did the pressure of rushing, running, pushing, and passing others in order to get ahead of them cause Zippy to get stressed out? Hardly. He was ten years old and playing tag with four-year-olds around a half-mile dirt pile. It was fun.
Despite his age, Zippy Chippy's routine remained the same: get up, eat, go out, take a whiz, walk to warm up, drop a load, toss the exercise rider, lose a race, walk to cool down, shower, kick Felix in the ass if he was around and just before bedtime, and yell “Fire!”
to keep the other horses in the barn on their toes.
Repeat same regimen tomorrow, unless they lock me in my stall again for no apparent reason
.
He didn't just respond to the beat of a different drummer; he slow danced through life, the way Ray Stout and Cathy Billyard did at my high school prom. We were certain that if we watched them long enough and closely enough, we would see their feet move eventually.
Slow is good and calm is nourishing, and if we are to save ourselves from ourselves in this time-sensitive, 24/7 workplace we call life, we need to look no further than the pace of Zippy and the patience of Felix. Sometime soon, when we all get back to a measured and manageable quality of life, it will be important to remember who led us all the way down the stretch to this conclusion â Zippy Chippy and the man who loved him like a son. The slow movement has to prevail; healthcare systems cannot possibly keep pace with chronic stress, which, according to the Human Sustainability Institute, is now directly linked to the leading causes of death: heart and lung disease, cirrhosis of the liver, suicides, and accidents. Remember, Zippy was breaking records for serenity long before slow became cool. And Zippy's records did not come with the cumbersome baggage of â what do you call those shiny things with the engravings? â oh yeah, trophies. In the race toward tranquility for a saner, better world, Zippy Chippy set the bar for leadership.
And his fans â appreciating the boldness of this horse that dared to take them in a different direction, to buck the odds, to forgo speed in favor of amusing misdeeds â came out in record numbers to watch this endearing scamp perform. Zippy's career had been guided by the hand of time, not the stopwatch of the track.
“THE BOOK”
In the summer of '68, I was painting Eddy's house and occasionally covering his illegal betting business whenever his day job got in the way. There were no less than four bookies working out of four different hotels in Welland, Ontario, and Eddy was the worst of them. While a good bookie wrote his bets down on flash paper that would burst into flames at the touch of a match, Eddy recorded his on the sports page or the electric bill, or on the back of his hand if he was in a hurry. Most bookies had limits, but Eddy would take any bet at any time and dare you double or nothing if you won. Eddy was the original “Be kind to animals” guy; he gave all his money to the horses. On the days when he did make money, he'd go to Garden City Raceway the same evening and lose his winnings on the Standardbreds. He was a very bad bookie and a hopeless gambler, which is like a pimp with an addiction to sex.
One day Eddy filled his station wagon up with kids, his own along with some of their friends, and took them all to Marineland in Niagara Falls for the afternoon. Upon returning home, he realized that with all the ticket stubs and food wrappers flying around at Marineland, he had accidentally thrown away the previous day's betting log, which he had written on a napkin. Quickly he put all the kids back into the car, drove to Marineland, and, despite the attendant telling him that the park would close in thirty minutes, again doled out the cash for ten tickets. He spread the kids out in different directions and had them go through trash cans looking for “Daddy's grocery list.” They never found it. That evening he had to call every
person who wagered with him and ask them what they had bet on the previous day's races.
On a good day Eddy might take in a few hundred dollars before he managed to gamble it away. On that day he lost $1,200.
“How can that be?” I asked.
Eddy laughed at my naïveté. “Look, kid,” he said, “if I asked you what horse you bet with me yesterday and you already knew the results, you wouldn't give me a loser, would you?” Some guy who had not won a bet all year had the daily double twice.
The first time Eddy got caught taking book, a judge threw the case out of court for lack of evidence. He was trying to swallow his bets, which were written on a page from a telephone book, when the cop who was choking him around the neck suddenly let go because Eddie was turning blue. GULP! Evidence disposed of.
Second time not-so-lucky, but fortunately Eddy served his time at a low-security prison not too far from Waterloo Lutheran University where I was studying, so I could visit him. The man is long gone, but oh, what a pair they would have made, Eddy and Zippy Chippy. The world's worst bookie covering the odds on the world's worst racehorse.
Life is one race I never want to win.
I'd rather stroll around enjoying the scenery
.
Aditya Chandra
By 2002, with only three racetracks in the Northeast allowing Zippy Chippy to participate in their programs â Northampton Fair in Massachusetts, Penn National in Pennsylvania, and ThistleDown in Ohio â Zippy's travel schedule was grueling.
Four months past his last race and now eleven years old, Zippy's best shot to win came on January 31 at Penn National on a cold, clear day, with a considerable purse of $10,100. He started in the fourth pole position, where he broke cleanly from the gate only to fall back to sixth in the seven-horse field. He struggled to catch up to the pack, breezing along at a pace less hectic than the one set by the other horses, horses that had thoughts of winning. As the footnote read, he “shuffled” back to last place, where he remained for the rest of the race. Zippy wound up thirty-three lengths behind the winner, Judge Me Ladies. Dancing to his own beat, Zippy couldn't even manage a little jig with Dig That Jazz.
As he trotted down the track toward the barn with the tote board behind showing his favorite 7â2 odds, Zippy was nodding his head in approval. As the fans crowded the apron's fence to get
close to him, everybody, including the horse himself, was aware that with this ninety-second loss in a row they were making history. Fans at small, tattered tracks like this one and bettors at simulcast screens and off-track windows all over North America were wagering on this darling ne'er-do-well.
Before Felix and Zippy had left on this road trip, a researcher at Syracuse University Press had contacted Felix asking for biographical material on his infamous gelding. The university published the prestigious
Encyclopedia of New York State
, and Zippy Chippy's story was being included in their next edition. When he and Zippy arrived at the Northampton track, Felix was shadowed by a Los Angeles screenwriter who recorded his every move. “He's the neighbor of the guy who made the movie about the other horse,” said Felix, referring to
Seabiscuit
producer/director Gary Ross. “He thinks my horse is a better story.”
Owner and horse may have been getting a little full of themselves. A cartoon by Pierre Bellocq referencing Laura Hillenbrand's fabulous book
Seabiscuit
was still making the rounds. In it, Zippy is lounging inelegantly in his stall, book in hand and phone to ear when he says: “Great book Laura! Now, what about the other modern day American legend?”
Zippy's racing career was transcending speed and records to resonate with real-lifers, those who lived in that hard place called everyday reality. From the standpoint of the spectators as well as the guy who counts the track money, he'd certainly done his job. Using the dirt ovals as his stage, Zippy the bad actor always gave a great performance. Whether he dwelt or drifted wide, challenged the leader or dueled with the nag that was running dead last, he always found a way to deliver high-value entertainment. Each outing was colored by unpredictability and chock-full of suspense. Be it zany humor or socking drama, Zippy delivered like
a champion. Ever the optimist, more than ever surrounded and outnumbered by naysayers, Felix's comment was “They'll have to catch him next time!” Lord knows, after some amusing track theatrics, they usually did.
On the long drive back to Farmington from Penn National, Felix gripped the wheel hard trying to think of a new strategy for Zippy's next race. But behind him, riding in his mobile trailer, Zippy wasn't worried at all. He was taking in the countryside and having fun scaring people who walked by his van at rest stops. Zippy took his mission â making people smile â seriously.
However, some sportswriters didn't understand Zippy's role as a consummate equine entertainer. One columnist referred to the horse as a “low-stakes mistake.” Really? Today, more than a half century after its debut and spectacular failure, a mint-condition 1958 Edsel Citation convertible purchased for under $4,000 sells for $100,000. In 2010, the Liberty Head nickel, an American five-cent piece mistakenly “struck” with the year 1913 instead of 1912, sold for $3.7 million. A mistake is only an error, unless it's a massive, unique, mind-boggling mistake. Then it becomes a highly valued folly, a one-of-a-kind rarity, a thing of exclusive beauty, and a piece of unusual history. I'm referring, of course, to the dashing cad, not the poorly designed car.
Back at Penn National a month later, Zippy racked up loss number ninety-three. Three to Tango won that race, and even Patient Pete came in thirteen lengths ahead of Zippy, who for some reason put the brakes on coming into the stretch. By dwelling on the track and not in the starting gate, Zippy had come up with a new way to not win. At least this time he beat somebody â Ferby's Fire, by half a length.
Equibase, the online record of thoroughbred racing, will forever show that Ferby's Fire was beaten by Zippy Chippy! That's like
when former U.S. attorney general John Ashcroft, at the time a senator from Missouri, lost reelection (we're talking incumbent here) to a dead guy! You don't live down losses like that in just one lifetime. Ferby's Fire would run one more race, then pack it in. Once you're beaten by Zippy Chippy, pulling a Dickie Dee Ice Cream wagon down Elm Street becomes a more appealing profession.
Changing the subject as he undressed Zippy in the backside barn, Felix quoted his hero, the late President John F. Kennedy. Felix would regularly remind his handlers at the track, mostly Puerto Ricans, of the patriotic tether that tied them to their new homeland, America, and the president who embraced believers of the American dream.
“My fellow Americans,” he said, hoisting a can of beer as Zippy tilted his head, trying to grasp the words, “ask not what you can do for your country, but what your country can do for you.”
Yes, “disbelievable” but Felix always got the words ass-backwards, and his training techniques were lost on his horse, and â¦Â the man had a good heart and he meant well, okay?
ZIPPY CHIPPY'S REAL FATHER
Officially, Zippy Chippy was born on April 20, 1991, at Capritaur Farm in upstate New York, and sired by a stallion named Compliance. However, while watching the coverage of the fiftieth anniversary of the assassination of President John F. Kennedy, I think I spotted Zippy's biological father. With his large head and dark coat, Black Jack, the well-built, riderless horse in JFK's funeral procession, looked an awful lot like Zippy Chippy, complete with a small white star on his forehead.
Black Jack had become a funeral horse in the same way Zippy Chippy had become a thoroughbred. “He was not suitable for riding, he wouldn't pull anything, he threw all his riders, and he refused to go on parade.” That from the man who recruited him. Sound familiar? Sixteen years old at the time of JFK's funeral, Black Jack was not qualified for anything except strutting proudly down the street as the caparisoned horse in military funeral processions.
Despite his ornery attitude, Black Jack was much admired for his spirit and great physique when he joined the army at Fort Myer, Virginia, on November 22, 1952, to be all that he could be. He served in the Third U.S. Infantry Regiment, known as the Old Guard, performing the duties of the riderless horse in more than one thousand Armed Forces full-honors funerals.
America's grief on that cold and somber Monday in late November 1963 was mirrored in the sight of Black Jack clomping down the eerily quiet streets of Washington, D.C. All along the parade route, mourners wept amid the muffled rumble of
military drums. Carrying a saber and an ebony English riding saddle with black boots reversed in the stirrups, Black Jack was led by nineteen-year-old Pfc. Arthur Carlson, who must have done horrible things in his previous life to draw this particular assignment. The riderless walk began with the horse stepping on Carlson's foot and ripping his boot off.
“I thought he broke a couple toes on my right foot, but he didn't,” said Carlson later.
On what was supposed to be a stately walk along Pennsylvania Avenue from the Capitol to the White House and on to St. Matthew's Cathedral, Black Jack kept throwing his head back and dancing around his handler. He pounded the pavement loudly when he was supposed to be standing still, frequently fidgeting whenever the procession slowed or stopped. At one point the video shows him high-stepping down the street with his head and tail bobbing like he's auditioning for the Royal Canadian Mounted Police's Musical Ride. By protocol, poor Carlson was forbidden to scold his steed or even speak to him as Black Jack dragged him sideways and then forward, finally pushing away the man's hand with his nose. At the White House, instead of standing at attention, he kept resisting his handler in the same way Zippy always fought the crew that tried to cram him into the starting gate.
After witnessing Black Jack taking Carlson for a wild walk from a position directly behind the horse-drawn caisson carrying the coffin of the slain president, a writer from the
New York Times
kindly described him as “spirited and difficult to handle.”
Normally serene and dignified, the caparisoned horse is supposed to be the sacred symbol of a fallen soldier who is never to ride again. At no time, however, did Black Jack bring the expected pomp and circumstance to the event being watched by a TV audience of 175 million.
On that fateful day in Washington, Black Jack looked like Zippy Chippy on the loose and raising hell on the backside. Surprisingly, the Kennedys were not at all upset, believing that Black Jack had personified the spirit and individualism of the other Jack. Their beloved Jack.
The similarities between the two hell-raisers is uncanny, and I for one believe that crazy-ass Black Jack was Zippy's long-lost biological father. Make no mistake about it: in addition to all his other antics, Zippy Chippy was perfectly capable of fâking up a funeral â¦Â in his spare time, of course. He was still mostly a racehorse.
