Gift horse for the Grand National

DAVID HOADLEY MUNROE

Among horsemen there is an old saying that good horses make good jockeys, and this is true, because it takes more than fine riding to win a horse race. But up in the North of England, in that grey city of Liverpool where the River Mersey rolls into the Irish Sea, they say that good riding matters more than a good horse, if the race is at Aintree, and they will tell you that no bad jockey has ever won the Grand National even if his horse was the best in all the world. Maybe they are right about this, I cannot vouch for it because I have not lived a hundred years, and the Grand National has been run for ninety-four; but two years ago I did see, and at Aintree, a race between a good jockey on a good horse, and a not very good jockey on a better horse, and it was very fine to watch. I cannot say to you that it proved the truth of both these old sayings; but I can tell you what happened.

The morning gallops at Aintree are not to he missed, particularly if the weather is good, which it usually is not, but on this day it was very good, and we were at the course at seven o'clock. It was crisp and cold, the sun was only an hour above the horizon, and there were no clouds in the sky. The shadows were long and angular on the clipped turf as we went in through the Sefton Gate, and out there on the course the great fences looked very black as they rose from the green grass into that clear morning light.

Down to the right of the empty yawning stands was a moving circle of horses in brilliant sheets. A few were flat horses, but mostly we saw big sober steeplechasers that had been there before, and that knew what it was all about, so that they went calmly on the end of lead straps, or with a boy perched above the sheet, and slowly walked themselves warm. Here and there a wild-eyed two-year-old, green as the grass lie trod upon, played up, rearing and plunging, or checked with all four legs braced, to stare astonished at the wonderful antics of Man. And scattered irregularly about were little groups of low-voiced people, and from them arose a quiet tense murmur as each fresh horse came in from the stable. The Grand National was still eight hours away, but for a lot of those people it had really begun months before, with trainers making plans for horses, and then having to change them because one horse banged himself schooling, and another overreached in a race at Newbury; and with jockeys training and doing roadwork to get themselves fit, and worrying about the riding muscle they had pulled two months ago. And the result was that those people were just as dominated by the Grand National now as they would be in eight hours, and they dominated the rest of us almost into silence, so that we knew it was all right to smile, but we didn't laugh because that would make too much noise.

A lot of other people in that crowd were pretty tense, too, even if they weren't trainers or jockeys. Some of them were owners that thought now at last they had a horse who could win the Grand National, and others were people who had bet more than they could afford, and were wondering if it was too late to do anything about it. It was a difficult year for anyone to know what to bet on, because there were so many more good horses than usual—or were they all equally bad? That was the question, and they wouldn't know the answer until afterwards. Mr. Whitney's brilliant Easter Hero was the topheavy favorite, but he wasn't fit. and now the knowing blokes had it that Drintyre couldn't lose. That was confusing, because we didn't like Drintyre for this race, we said that he wasn't a real Aintree horse, but from each of the little groups came the same opinion, that only a fall could stop Drintyre and he wouldn't fall. We turned to look for him in that moving circle, but he wasn't there, and someone said he hadn't come out yet.

But a big chestnut came striding easily through the gate, and was led away into a far corner of this impromptu paddock. He carried his head high and his ears pricked, and he blew softly through flaring nostrils and gazed out onto the great curving course. This was Gregalach. the horse we liked; he had won two years before, and be was a good horse, some even said a great horse, but he had run some bad races lately, and we were afraid that the Gunner Officer, who was with us. had been right when lie said we were too enthusiastic about Gregalach.

Cautiously but with a buzz of interest the small crowd closed in on him, and there were muttered comments behind us.

"'E might do it., yer know. Looks well, don't V?"

"'Oo, Gregalach? Not im! Coin" light in flesh, runs better a bit above imself. I plumps me money on Drintyre. carn't see nothing but Drintyre, I carn't! Ain't yer Yard what Lofty was saying?"

The Gunner Officer nudged us. and smiled beneath his small sandy moustache.

"You wouldn't believe me." he said. "Here it is, straight from the horse's mouth! You'll lose your money on this one."

Gregalach was drawn a little fine, there was no doubt about that, and we had to admit it, but he was still what we had always thought him, the perfect ideal of what a steeplechaser ought to look like if you're thinking of make and shape; and anyway we'd know better after we'd seen him gallop.

A distinguished peer of the realm strolled importantly up to Gregalach's trainer, lie was tall and straight, his bowler hat stood at the one and only angle, and his waistcoat gleamed bright yellow. He nodded magnificently, the trainer touched his cap, and together they examined the horse. Again the comments at our backs.

"I sy, Y don't own Gregalach, do Y? I didn't know 'e 'ad nothing in the National ! "

"'E 'asn't! 'E jest likes to act like Y 'ad!" was the reply in a hoarse chuckle, and we remembered how Lord George Bentinck. a hundred years ago, had proclaimed that "on the Turf, or under it, all men were equal!"

Presently a small, squarely made jockey with a weather-beaten face was tossed up. the crowd split apart, and Gregalach went away onto the course. We followed along behind and walked slowly down to the Water Jump, past which horses were galloping in a broken, irregular line. Some singly, some in twos and threes, they started far ofT to the left, by the big curve at the north corner of the course, came down at us with a growing thunder of hoofs, and flashed by a few feet away. More little groups of people —girls muffed in tweeds and perched upon shooting sticks; men in bowler hats and blue overcoats, with racing glasses slung from their shoulders; trainers in greatcoats and caps; small, slender jockeys dressed in turtle-necked sweaters, breeches, and leggins. All silent and interested as each horse passed, all bursting into talk when he had gone. Drintyre in every mouth, and Ballasport the only horse with a chance to beat him. Even Ballasport's jockey said his horse ought to win—if he could beat Drintyre.

Now more horses had come out, and they were passing faster, closer together—bay horses, chestnuts, a couple of greys, and then Gregalach, galloping with that wonderful reaching lightness that you don't expect to see in such a big horse. Even the Gunner Officer was impressed with that smooth unhurried stride.

Continued on page 58

Continued from page 29

"If he had a different jockey, I'd like him," he said slowly. "But with Moloney up, it's a different—"

Silence and a tightened interest ran through the crowd, and we edged forward. Drintyre was coming, light, and ugly with his unsightly swayed back, but so very fast for a steeplechaser; and behind him the big brown Grakle, moving beautifully, muscles rippling at every stride.

"The fittest I ever saw," said a famous trainer briskly, as Grakle swept on toward the gate. "Ready to the minute, but big and lusty, too. He's well backed, and with stable money, they say Grakle will be one to beat."

There was a chorus of dissent, much of it from wise professionals, all of it agreeing with our own beliefs.

"Well backed, yes, but he's always been that . . . chances his fences . . . he can jump, but will he? . . . He'll never get round . . . fit enough, but he's that careless. . . . I've backed him four years and got nothing to show for it ... a wonderful horse, but not at Aintree. . . ."

The sun had grown warmer, and we unbuttoned out coats, leaned comfortably on the tall white wings of the Water Jump, and watched the horses. Fewer, still fewer, and at length the last had finished his gallop and gone in. The trainer who liked Grakle nodded, remembering the hand-shake of a year ago, and asked what we fancied.

"Drintyre," said the Gunner Officer, and grinned sardonically as we described our quandary: a strong belief in Gregalach, but worry about his condition.

"Not in his best shape, maybe," said the trainer doubtfully. "But I expect he's fit enough, now they've got rid of the splint he had last year on the near fore. It's his jockey I don't like. . . . Put a fiver on Grakle, both ways. You won't be sorry—Tom's taught him to jump, Lyall's riding him."

We thanked him, but shook our heads, and went home to breakfast, with our sides raked by the Gunner's caustic comments.

"Look a gift horse in the mouth, would you?" he said. "I shan't—I shall back Grakle."

It was only eleven o'clock when we climbed to the highest row of seats in the Canal Stand, but already it was half full. An hour later there was not even space to stand in, and it was still three hours to starting time. As far as we could see, in every direction, mighty throngs converged on the course. Special trains stood on the siding beyond Becher's Brook, and their roofs were crowded; and along the outer rail, lining it ten deep even now for the whole of its three mile circumference, a cheerful noisy mob pushed and jostled.

Overhead, airplanes roamed the sky. Passenger planes dipped to the landing field, photographers flew slowly in smooth careful circles, and a few private planes stunted mildly at a great height. Behind us lay the Canal, narrow and almost hidden by the barges covered with makeshift stands, and along the Canal Bank people milled around bookmakers who roared their trade in hoarse voices.

Directly opposite, on the other side of the course, was Becher's Brook, a big fence and gaping ditch. One fence between it and the Canal Turn which was not thirty yards from where we sat. There a horse must jump five feet, swing left like a polo pony and gallop at Valentine's Brook. Another five foot obstacle, this, as close to us as the other, but with the ditch on the far side. Seven fences we would see really well, three more well enough, and each of them would be jumped twice, for the Grand National is four miles and a half, two circuits of the course.

Five minutes to three. The list of scratches was up on the board across the course in front of us. Forty-three horses left in, too big a field, and we thought apprehensively of what might happen. Good horses knocked over by bad, it had happened before, it might again. . . .

The whole stand on its feet, tense, silent, some people white with excitement, others red and breathing hard. Glasses levelled into the sun, peering anxiously toward the distant start. A mass of black dots, bobbing, swaying, moving. They steadied, broke suddenly—

"THEY'RE OFF!! . . . no, he's called them back. Lining up again."

Once more that slow measured advance—a glinting flash of white—the black line leapt forward, and three hundred thousand people screamed! Dust like smoke above the Melling Road, then a mighty wave that rose and broke over that first distant fence! Silks bright in the sun, a galloping phalanx that lifted, dropped and flowed on, with a thudding rhythm we could feel in our feet.

They sailed into Becher's with four horses running abreast, and behind them the field strung out like the tail of a comet.

The leaders turned and came toward us. UP for the Canal fence, with Big Black Boy in front, then Gib, Easter Hero, Drintyre, Gregalach with his long stride and his jockey in orange and gold. That sharp right-angled turn, the whole field galloping by so close we could almost touch them.

Valentine's—a horse refused, Big Black Boy fell, Gib jumped on him and went down. Two jockeys rolling feverishly to the side. A shout, they clung to the ground, freezing motionless, and a horse missed them by inches. The field was away down the Canal side and the Gunner began again:

"Gregalach leading over the Water . . . running well, jumping like a stag, but Moloney's hanging on his mouth . . . Easter Hero's well up . . . Grakle's going well, getting a good ride from Lvall, a damn good ride . . . there's Great Span, Theras . . . Solanum's moving up . . . now he's ahead . . . Tamasha's in front, riderless . . . Easter Hero's tired . . . Tamasha's going to interfere with . . . he has!"

Continued on page 59

Continued from page 58

Tamasha bored deep into the fence at Becher's, but got through in a flurry of flying gorse and fir. Behind him Solanum was thrown out of his stride so that he over-jumped and pitched on his head and his hindquarters came over in a flinging arc. Easter Hero was blocked by the fallen horse, he ducked and twisted like a cat, slid to his knees, and shed his jockey. Then he got up and went on again, but not until he'd bumped Ballasport. and made Ballasport's jockey lose a stirrup—leather, iron, and all. And close to the inside rail Gregalach, Great Span, Drintyre and Grakle went on ahead without anything to

worry about except maybe Tamasha, running loose in the lead.

They came thundering down toward the Canal for the second time, but now there were only twenty horses left, and the jockey on every one of those twenty horses was wondering what Tamasha was going to do, whether he would refuse and run across the course and spill the whole field. He didn't—he jumped way on the outside and fell and that nightmare was over.

Gregalach was ahead when he took off, and he jumped perfectly, but Moloney was still holding on by the reins and letting the horse tow him over, which is always tiring for a horse; and when Gregalach went wide on landing, that let the others gain.

Continued on page 61

Continued from page 59

"Moloney's tiring Gregalach," said the Gunner very calmly. "It's Grakle's race, I think. He's going better than Drintyre."

". . . Ballasport's going up, going up . . . what a ride that boy's giving him with only one stirrup!" The Gunner had forgotten about being calm, and was very excited. "He'll never catch 'em, he's . . . Drintyre, Drintyre's beat! ... he refused. . . . It's Grakle's race . . . Ballasport's down, fell at tlie last fence . . . it's all Grakle, Gregalach's done. . . . No, by God! Gregalach's coming up, coming up, they're level, side by side . . . Moloney's using his whip . . . no, he can't do it. Gregalach's beat . . . he's dropped back. . . . It's Grakle's race."

After a while the numbers went up on the board opposite us and told what horse was first and what second, and that Annandale the 100-1 shot had come in third after Ballasport had

fallen. The Gunner Officer looked at the numbers for a long time, and then he shook his head and folded up his racing glasses and put them away.

"A gift horse in the mouth," he said very softly, and tore into small pieces his ticket on Gregalach.

So the good jockey on the good horse beat the not very good jockey on the horse that some of us will always think is one of the best that has ever run at Aintree. And Grakle made a great jockey out of Lyall because before the race you never heard much about Lyall and afterwards everyone was saying what a fine jockey he was. But you can't say that Moloney proved the old Aintree saying about no bad jockey winning the Grand National even if he had the best horse, because if Gregalach had been fitter, as fit as he was the year he won, he might have beaten Grakle in spite of the bad ride he got, and then a jockey who was bad would have won the Grand National. . . .