The lesson of the Grand National

FRANK SULLIVAN

March is here and once more the eyes of horse lovers throughout the world are focused on Aintree and the Grand National.

Perhaps a word about the Great English racing classic might not be amiss at this time, particularly since it comes from one who, during the past five years, has not missed a single showing of the ninety-three-year-old stake at the news-reel theaters, and who therefore feels, with all due modesty, that he is a veteran and an expert on the subject. (As a matter of fact, there is a hit of the horse in me. 1 have been inoculated so often, for varying ailments, with serum derived from horses that I frequently find myself whinnying.)

Now, in this brief analysis of the Grand National I shall have to use some terms that may not be quite intelligible to the average layman, and I therefore ask the reader's indulgence while I insert here, for his guidance, a list of abbreviations of technical racing terms which I may have occasion to use, together with their meanings:

B. g.—Bay gelding.

Ch. m.—Chestnut mare.

Gr. h.—Grey horse.

Ch. h.—Charley horse.

Bl. m.—Black mare. (I shall also use this abbreviation in referring to Black Maria and blanc mange.)

Br. b.—Brown betty.

El. ch. d.—Elderly chestnut duke.

R. b.—Roan baronet.

Mo. c. s.—Mottled country squire.

Da. d., a.—Dappled duchess, aged.

Fr. p. b.—Frantic piebald bookmaker.

Remember also that a male horse is called a stallion, and when desexed he is a gelding; that a female horse is called a mare, while a female foal is a filly, as contrasted with a male filly which is a colt. And bear in mind that when a colt grows older he ceases to be a foal and becomes a colt, or horse, so that in racing parlance there is no foal like an old foal.

Now then, I guess we're equipped for a right-o understanding of the Grand National and its true significance in the realm of sport.

It had its inception in 1839 at a gathering in an inn near Liverpool frequented by sporting gentry. There were present several members of the nobility, among them Lord Eastcheap of Eastcheap, Lord Mooth and his son, Viscount Bogle, Baron Comyng of Comyngon-Down, and several commoners including a Mr. Snodgrass, a Mr. Hetherington-Beffle, and a Mr. Fondle.

The party had dined well. Lord Eastcheap was asleep on the mantelpiece. Viscount Bogle had pursued one of the serving maids, a comely wench, into the kitchen to get a glass of water. Mr. Hetherington-Beffle was trying to get his head out of a flagon of port into which it had been stuffed by Mr. Snodgrass on a bet. Baron Comyng was underneath the table, munching idly on the fringe of the cloth, which he had mistaken for shredded cabbage.

Someone—possibly Lord Eastcheap in his sleep—suggested that they invent a new steeplechase, as everyone seemed tired of the old ones. The proposal met with instant favor. It was first suggested that the race be limited strictly to the nicer class of horses, those who really mattered, and with only gentleman riders. Fortunately for the future of the great classic this proposal was vetoed and it was decided that it would be much more fun to throw the race open to any horse with four or more legs, ridden by any rider, gentleman or not, legs wild.

The question of the gentleman rider is one which has vexed horse lovers since Adam delved and Eve span. What is a gentleman rider? What is the difference between a gentleman rider and one who is not? Leisering and Hartmann, in their admirable Der Fuss des Pferdes in Rucksicht auf Bau, Verrichtungen und Hufbeschlag (Dresden, 1870) define a gentleman rider as one who never kicks a horse when he is down. I think, however, that that definition does not quite express all the nuances implied in the sacred phrase '"gentleman rider", and I am therefore going to coin a definition which will serve us until a better (or perhaps you will say worse) one comes along. A gentleman rider, to my way of thinking, is a rider who always tips his hat to a mare, who never fails to rise when an elderly stallion enters the room, who is kind to fillies in distress and who never, under any circumstances, uses the wrong stirrup.

• The Grand National was an instant success and one of the reasons for its enduring popularity has been the fact that its founders decided to open it to any creature that could pass for a horse. There were some very amusing incidents as a result of this ruling, notably the famous mixup in the late seventies, when young Lord Brampton appeared before the stewards and demanded that he be allowed to enter his aunt, the Honorable Jane Queeden-Hadden, in the race. The stewards disallowed his Lordship's request and it was a good deal of a pity, I have always thought, because the field was mediocre that year and the Honorable Jane could have won. True, she was a hit sickle-hocked, but she could have been blistered.

In the early days of the Grand National there were sometimes, alas, evidences of monkey-business and skullduggery. In 1862 a rumor went about Liverpool after the race to the effect that that year's winner had ibex blood in him! This, fortunately, proved to he a canard, as it was discovered that although the winner in question did indeed have an aunt, a chestnut mare, who had had an unfortunate affair with an ibex, the scandal had in no way touched him. British racing circles breathed once again. (As a matter of fact, in this connection it is interesting to recall that on the evening when the Grand National was founded, Baron Comyng had suggested that they strike a really new note and open the stake not only to horses hut to gnus, zebras, elands and their ilk. His colleagues, all of whom were conservative Britishers of the county type, frowned on this innovation. British racing was not then prepared for so radical a departure.)

Today, of course, matters are quite under control and the rule is that a horse starting in the Grand National must carry at least 147 pounds, including jockey, but the latter must not carry anything such as gats, rods, blackjacks or other impedimenta which could be used to prevent other riders from passing him.

The Grand National has always been utterly unpredictable. Past performances count for nothing. Anything may happen. That is part of the race's charm. In 1901 it was run in such a blinding snowstorm that nobody was sure who won. In 1902 it was run in another snowstorm which, however, turned out to be white spots in front of the spectators' eyes, the result of Liverpool cooking and too much celebrating the night before.

In 1928 Easter Hero, carrying a heavy load, got stuck on top of a high jump and remained there, sneering at the rest of the field as they galloped up. Baffled by this strange behavior on the part of a colleague who had hitherto been the last word in conventionality, the field refused the jump and cantered back to their respective stables, all except an outsider named Tipperary Tim. He had already got over the jump and he won h. d. (hands down, a technical racing term).

Not only was Tipperary Tim a rank outsider, hut he was a roarer! And not only was he a roarer, but he had a tube in his neck! And breeding has been reduced to such a science on the turf that I shouldn't be a hit surprised if he had also been equipped with a private elevator to enable bis rider to mount and dismount.

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In any event, I do think that for a roarer to go ahead and win like that, in spite of everything, is pretty darn good, and we could all learn a lesson from Tipperary Tim, particularly in these times when so many of us are inclined to mope and bewail our lot. For that matter, some of our greatest men have been Tipperary Tims, in a manner of speaking. They were "roarers", yet they conquered. Alexander the Great bad fits. Beethoven was handicapped by deafness. And look at Anthony Trollope. He bad to work in a postoffice but be still managed to write novels. Or was it the other way 'round? And was it Trollope?

Tipperary Tim isn't the only horse to win the Grand National in spite of obstacles. It has been won by grunters, and by horses with three withers and no pasterns, and by horses afflicted with the staggers, the jiggers, the knickers and the bockers. And Shaun Goilin, winner in 1930, didn't know who his own father was! (For this reason Shaun Goilin's name is never mentioned in select British racing circles, and if by any chance it is, all gentleman riders get up and leave the room immediately.)

Nor has the sterling sportsmanship which has made the Grand National a classic been confined to the horses. Riders who have been faced with difficulties apparently insurmountable have carried through to victory. In 1854 the Honorable Peter Merle suffered an attack of acne on the eve of the race and his doctor advised him to withdraw. Merle refused and entered the race, finishing a beautiful thirty-fifth. Likewise there have been plenty of instances of owners sticking bravely to their posts in the stands and watching the race through to the finish, despite the most adverse and discouraging conditions. On one occasion K. E. VII (technical racing term for King Edward VII), although suffering from a severe headache as a result of some bad truffles be bad eaten, refused the offer of several members of bis entourage to watch the race for him, and insisted on watching it personally to the finish. King Edward was a great sportsman and frequently had horses entered in the Grand National.

That, then, is what I mean by the Spirit of the Grand National. If Waterloo was won on the cricket fields of Eton there is no telling what may be won on the race course of Aintree, and I should indeed feel more than recompensed for the WTiting of this little article if I could be sure that as a result of it I had made even one single person feel that, after all, Life is but a Grand National on a vast scale, and we the contestants. And the point is, my friends, that whether we are gentleman riders or just jockeys, whether we are stallions or fillies, whether we are roarers or grunters, bettors or bookies, we should all do the Very Best we can.

That, to me, is the lesson of the Grand National.