“NUDE PHOTOS AID SCIENCE”
If you found yourself in a red-light district in the spring of 1951 and you had a spare quarter, you could purchase SIR! A Magazine for Males and read the story behind this cover headline. The magazine was the strangest of hybrids, a girlie gazette straining to pass itself off as a scientific journal. As pornography, it was a crashing failure. The featured model in an article on “Latin Quarter Lovelies” is shown hopping around in nothing but four one-quart-capacity Egyptian fezes—only one of which is on her head—with pasties stuck to the bottoms. The cover story asserts that corpulent people tend to be jolly and helpfully offers shots of nude models as proof. In another piece, “PURE SCIENCE UNCOVERS ANCIENT VICE,” the life’s labors of a University of Chicago classics professor are distilled into a discussion of how “The Antics of the Ancient Greeks Would Make Modern Playboys Drool with Envy.” Somehow the magazine endured, thanks to advertising from “rupture control” companies and a pharmaceutical outlet that sold thirty days’ worth of “genuine Male Sex Hormones” in a plain brown wrapper for $5.
SIR! came to grace my bookshelf after I typed the name George Woolf into an Internet auction search engine and turned up the magazine as a match. I didn’t have much hope for it, but the mystery of how an unpornographic, unscientific jockey landed in a pseudo-scientific porn magazine got the best of me. I shelled out $2.50 and gave SIR! a home. When it arrived, I flipped through and discovered, sandwiched between the trusses and jolly jiggling women, a wealth of tales of the Iceman’s exploits: setting his tack on fire, sleeping on the jocks’ room roof, riding pantsless down a homestretch before a grandstand full of fans. I called Woolf’s old friends and asked them about the stories. They verified all of them and even provided details the magazine had missed. SIR! had merit after all.
Writing this book has been a four-year lesson in how history hides in curious places. I obtained the narrative’s basic framework from the usual suspects—newspapers in the Library of Congress and other archives, official track chart books, racing histories, magazines. But the narrative they offered, though intriguing, was incomplete. The textures of my subjects’ personalities, their complex relationships, motives, fears, thoughts, and secrets, all remained elusive, as did the small but telling details that give historic figures immediacy and resonance in the imagination. My subjects had long since died, but I was convinced that they must have left behind some detritus. I began prowling Internet search engines, memorabilia auctions, and obscure bookstores, writing letters and placing “information wanted” ads, and making hundreds of calls to strangers in hopes that someone or something could illuminate what seemed to be a lost past.
The story wasn’t lost. It was scattered all over North America, tucked in back pockets and bottom drawers. A remarkable quantity of information came from an odd assortment of memorabilia, most purchased, some borrowed from a proselytizing sect of collectors. A few items were bad investments—a disco tribute to Seabiscuit springs to mind—but most yielded something of value, sometimes a note that gave an added dimension to a man, sometimes a forgotten anecdote or a critical explanation. In faded magazines and moldy newspapers I discovered rare photos, long interviews with my subjects, conversations between them, and exhilarating eyewitness accounts of events in their lives. My subjects’ private lives and the world they inhabited unfolded in the pages of almost a dozen forgotten autobiographies of horsemen stretching back to 1913 Kentucky Derby–winning rider Roscoe Goose. On a crackling audiotape I heard George call out to Red from the back of Seabiscuit, standing in the midst of a roaring throng. A 1945 Jockey’s Guild yearbook found in a Virginia bookshop yielded details on Frenchy Hawley and the stomach-turning mechanics of reducing. I unearthed Seabiscuit’s signature board games, pinball machine, wastebasket, postcards, and “endorsement” ads for two beer brands, two lines of Seabiscuit oranges, whiskey, a hotel, a humor magazine, a dry-cleaning service, and ladies’ hats. I was the only bidder in an auction for what turned out to be a rare film of the Seabiscuit–War Admiral match race, one of a half-dozen race films and newsreels I was able to obtain.
My greatest source was living memory. An ad placed in the Daily Racing Form on Breeders’ Cup day yielded a stack of letters. At least ten were written on the backs and in the margins of tip sheets and racing programs. One was composed in crayon on a slip of paper torn into a rough hexagon. Nearly all were penned in the sweeping Victorian script of a lost age. I picked up the phone and started calling these people and the hundred or so potential sources I found through racing contacts. Once or twice, my call wasn’t well received. “How old do you think I am?” snapped an angry octogenarian when asked if he had known any of the Seabiscuit crew (he died of old age a few months later). Some were a little too eager to talk. “You sound like a young girl!” a gravelly ninety-something man thundered into the phone. “I like young girls!” Some told me more than I ever imagined, like the aged horseman who described his bodice-ripping romps with the Molino Rojo girls, then asked me not to print his name “’cause my ex-wives might not like it.” Most of the time, my interviewees welcomed me into what one source called “those dear, dead days” and allowed me to linger as long as I wished.
The luxury of researching those who achieve the extraordinary is that their lives play out before many observers. I spoke with people who saw Red Pollard hitch his toboggan to his pony, tumble down under Fair Knightess, spout Shakespeare and throw fists in the jocks’ room, draw his last breaths in a nursing home built on the ruins of a track on which he once rode. I followed Woolf through the memories of friends, from a grade school classmate to a man who saw him die and sat vigil over his body on the day of his funeral. I found a groom who handled Seabiscuit for Fitzsimmons, the boys who galloped him for Smith, and several dozen witnesses to his races. I was even contacted by a nearly hundred-year-old former groom living in a telephoneless trailer in the desert, who is evidently the last person on earth who recalls the Lone Plainsman telling of his youth on the mustang ranges. The Detroit cemetery worker; the wife speaking for a husband muted by a stroke; the ancient trainer living through his last summer tethered to an oxygen tank; the clerk at a mail-order seafood company; the operator of the Seabiscuit liquor store in Hercules, California: each had something to contribute. Again and again, when I was able to check their testimony against records kept at the time, the accuracy of their statements was verified: the color of War Admiral’s blanket, the precise time of Seabiscuit’s half-mile split, a quip Red made seventy years ago. Ultimately, I gathered an almost uninterrupted memory record of the story I wished to tell from those who recall the sound, the smell, the feel of it, and who divulged secrets, such as Red’s blind eye, that finally solved mysteries more than half a century old.
The completion of this book is tinged with sadness, as several of those who helped create it didn’t live to see it in print. Among them was Sonny Greenberg. A bug boy with Red Pollard and George Woolf, Sonny was, he cheerfully admitted, a pathologically bad jockey, once steering a horse around a turn with such ineptitude that he “lost more ground than when the Indians sold Manhattan for a string of beads and a bottle of whiskey.” Sonny may not have had Woolf’s skill, but he was an astute observer of life in the Howard barn and racing in its golden era. Putting up with at least seven hours of my questions, Sonny animated life in Seabiscuit’s time—the purr of Woolf’s blue Cord roadster, the torment of reducing and the taste of jalap, the wicked, misunderstood humor of Tom Smith. Sonny, who in racetrack lingo told me that his advanced age left him “on the ‘also eligible’ list—I could draw in at any time,” drew in on May 6, 2000. It was Derby day.
On two of the most fascinating days of my career, Alfred Gwynne Vanderbilt, Jr., told me in candid detail how he masterminded one of the most spellbinding sporting events in American history, the meeting between Seabiscuit and War Admiral. Vanderbilt went on to own a magnificent gray horse named Native Dancer, who lost only one race, the Kentucky Derby, by less than a foot. Vanderbilt stayed in racing for two thirds of a century, even after macular degeneration left him unable to see his beloved runners. In November 1999, he spent the last hours of his life at the track, handing out cookies at Belmont Park. I will never forget his eloquence, his wit, and his magnanimity.
Other generous contributors who passed away before the completion of this book include the brilliant trainer Woody Stephens, who spent a couple of long afternoons telling me about his youth as a jockey; his equally accomplished archrival and friend Charlie Whittingham; Lucien Laurin, trainer of Secretariat; former jockey Sam Renick; former Turf and Sport Digest editor Raleigh Burroughs (“Honey,” he told me a few months before his death, “there is nobody else who is older than I am; I’ve got patina all over me”); and trainer Henry Clark.
The list of others whose stories fill this book is lengthy. I long ago ran out of words of gratitude for Colonel Michael C. Howard, United States Marine Corps. The great-grandson of Charles Howard and the grandson of Lin Howard, he trusted me with the treasures of his family—scrapbooks, photographs, cards, personal notes, clippings—and gave me immeasurable assistance and encouragement in reconstructing this story. From the beginning of this project to the end, Colonel Howard went to enormous effort to furnish me with the information that has given this story color and depth. His kindness and generosity will always be an inspiration to me.
I contacted Helen Luther and her husband, Tommy, one of the finest jockeys of his era and the true father of the Jockey’s Guild, in hopes of finding a little information on Red Pollard; I emerged with a lifetime of stories and a set of surrogate grandparents. Abundant thanks also go to Pollard’s daughter, writer Norah Pollard Christianson, and his sister, Edie Pollard Wilde, who entrusted me with intimate and sometimes painful details of the life of the Cougar. Wad Studley, who can talk horse with the best of them, taught me about the wilder side of Tijuana and the stranger nicknames of the racing oval. Bill Buck, who grew up with Red and George, was my greatest source on their bug boy days. Noble Threewitt, without whom Tom Smith and Charles Howard would never have met, told me about rooming in a stall with Smith in Tijuana; Noble’s wife, Beryl, shared her recollections of George. The gifted horsemen Keith Stucki and Farrell “Wild Horse” Jones thrilled me with tales of what it was like to skim over the track aboard Seabiscuit and offered an inside view of the Howard barn. Bill Nichols recreated Ridgewood, where he worked as a ranch hand. Jane Babcock Akins, daughter of Doc Babcock, told me of the day Frankie Howard died. Johnny Longden took me back to George’s school days.
I am also grateful to trainer Jimmy Jones, who survived the rampage of Tijuana’s manure mountain and the leviathan that was Ten Ton Irwin. Harold Washburn told me about Smith’s homemade bell, the match with War Admiral, and the legend of the Iceman. Joe “Mossy” Mosbacher taught me about life on the road for bug boys. Leonard Dorfman put me in the grandstand as Seabiscuit accelerated alongside Stagehand in the 1938 hundred-grander, a performance so extraordinary and heartbreaking that it brought him to tears. Ralph Theroux, Sr., gave me a glimpse of the Seabiscuit–War Admiral match race from the infield, at least the part he saw before the steeplechase fence he was standing on collapsed. Jack Shettlesworth told me what Red really said to George in their notorious 1938 NBC radio interview. Mike Griffin, disabled in a 1930s racing spill, taught me about the perils of a jockey’s life. Eddie McMullen spoke of Pollard as an older rider. George Mohr and Larry Soroka took me inside the Fitzsimmons barn. Thomas Bell, Jr., reminisced about Tom Smith and his father’s life on the racing circuit. Gerard Oberle described the day Seabiscuit was to meet War Admiral at Suffolk Downs.
Kathy Gold, R.N., of the Diabetes Wellness and Research Foundation, explained diabetes treatment in the 1930s. George Pratt, Ph.D., of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, instructed me on the physics of the racehorse. Matthew Mackay-Smith, DVM, medical editor of EQUUS, treated me to his boundless wisdom on equine veterinary medicine. Marvin Bensman, Ph.D., University of Memphis (www.people.memphis.edu/~mbensman/welcome.html), answered my questions on the history of radio.
Thanks also to Frank Whiteley, Joe Perrato, Howard “Gelo” Hall, Betty Raines, Bill Boland, Hugh Morgan, Barbara Howard, Michelle and Charles Howard III, Warren Stute, Bart Baker, John Wilke, John Nerud, Rex Henshaw, DVM, Mike Salamy, Daniel Guiney, Bob Nanni, Richard Holland, Bobby DeStasio, Joe Dattilo, Ken Hart, J.R. Buck Perry, Jr., Buddy Abadie, Elmer L. Taylor, Achilles Zephirius Achilles (“Ace”), Dale Duspiva, Fred Dayton, Don Mankiewicz, and Art Bardine.
Many people assisted me in tracking down facts and sources. The freakishly efficient Tina Hines provided indispensable help as a research assistant, digging up documents at the Keeneland Library; Keeneland’s Cathy Schenck and Phyllis Rogers pored over their archives in search of books and photos. Chick Lang, who knows where all the bodies are buried, scoured the industry to locate interviewees. Jane Goldstein and Stuart Zanville at Santa Anita found sources and photos. Debie Ginsburg, Karen Bowman, Joanne Tober, and Jessica Appleby at the Thoroughbred of California and the Burke Memorial Library mailed reams of information. Patricia Ranft at the Blood-Horse made up an infinitely useful index. Tom Gilcoin and Dick Hamilton at the National Museum of Racing answered racing history questions. Kip Hannon sent terrific archive video of Seabiscuit’s races. Dorothy Ours, who knows the lives of Man o’ War and Samuel Riddle better than anyone on earth, answered a long string of questions.
Jenifer Van Deinse, Bob Curran, Eric Wing, Joan Lawrence, Howard Bass, and Tom Merritt of Thoroughbred Racing Communications and/or its successor, National Thoroughbred Racing Association Communications, answered questions, located sources, and helped check facts. Lynn Kennelly at the Willits, California, Chamber of Commerce raided her local library archives and emerged with priceless information. Vicki Vinson sent me memorabilia and wrote a marvelous article on this book. Jan Romanowski helped me discover information I’d missed and tracked down one of my most important sources when all my efforts failed. Jane Colihan at American Heritage advised me on obtaining photos. Susan Kennedy picked through Bay Meadows’s records in search of one elusive photo.
Suzan Stephenson at the Bowie, Maryland, Public Library’s Selima Room, a treasure trove of racing literature, helped me unearth volumes of information; Dian Hain told me of the Selima Room’s existence. John Ball and John Giovanni of the Jockey’s Guild helped me gather facts on the lives of jockeys of the 1930s. Paula Welch, formerly Special Projects Editor of the Daily Racing Form, found articles and helped in the photo hunt. Victoria Keith, founder/editor of Thoroughbred Champions (www.ThoroughbredChampions.com), and researcher/co-editor Kathleen Jones, served as valuable sources of facts and encouragement and sent Triple Crown–themed flowers. Dace Taube at the University of Southern California Library worked late to sift through photos. Joe Hirsch and Jay Hovdey of the Daily Racing Form, Tommy Trotter and Julie Hazelwood of Vessel Stallion Farm, Joseph Martin and Rick Snider of the Washington Times pointed me to excellent sources. Jim Maloney sent clippings. Richard Needles sent his fine artwork of Seabiscuit. Richard Brunner sent racing records.
Thanks also to Billy Turner, trainer of Seattle Slew; Kit Collins; Diane Brunn at the University of Kentucky Agricultural Library; Arlene Mott at Interlibrary Loan in Rockville, Maryland; Martha Cantarini at the historical racing site Second Running (www.secondrunning.com); Steven Crist, Irwin Cohen, and Logan Bailey of the Daily Racing Form; Mark Shrager; Dale Austin; Ronnie Nichols; Leon Rasmussen; Andrew Beyer of The Washington Post; Tracy Negrin; Sean Lahman; John Thorn; Bob Kaplan; Steve Murtaugh; Cricket Goodall; Debbie McCain; Becky Shields; Dave Hicks of NYRA; Gary McMillen; James Lehr; Warren Bare; Gary Madieros; and the National Agricultural Library.
My special thanks go to Richard F. Snow, editor of American Heritage, for helping me get this project off the ground. In the fall of 1996, Richard saw the potential of this story in my query letter and gave me the honor of contributing to his splendid magazine, which has been my addiction for as long as I can remember.
Perhaps the greatest privilege I have enjoyed in producing this book has been the opportunity to work with my agent, the exceptionally skilled, kind, invincible Tina Bennett. A woman with the perfect solution to any dilemma, Tina helped me transform an article into a book proposal, then into a manuscript, assisting me in shaping my thoughts, offering valuable criticism, and making my dream of telling this story to the world a reality. My eternal gratitude goes to Isaac Barchas for introducing me to Tina. Thanks also go to Tina’s assistant, Svetlana Katz.
Susan Avallon read at least ten drafts of one section of this book, but never complained, and her criticisms improved the work enormously. My EQUUS editors, Emily Kilby and Laurie Prinz, pored over my rough draft and gave me the benefit of the expertise that has made their magazine a paragon of excellence. Professor Megan Macomber, who has been gently guiding my work since my freshman year at Kenyon in 1985, once again treated me to her marvelous instinct for words. Journalist Susie Hiss Thomas did a careful reading of the first stabs at this story and offered her wisdom. Thanks also to my mother, Elizabeth Hillenbrand, who helped in innumerable ways to get me through this long and sometimes difficult process.
I am deeply indebted to my editor at Random House, Jonathan Karp, who saw the promise in this story and gave me the best possible forum in which to tell it. Jon was always enthusiastic, made house calls when I could not come to him, and studied the manuscript with a sharp eye. My work is vastly better for his keen judgment. I also send thanks to Jon’s assistant, Janelle Duryea.
Since the day in 1996 when it first occurred to me that a book should be written about these men, Borden Flanagan has given his unwavering support, infinite patience, and tireless assistance. He has set aside much of his own life to pore over each of my drafts, offer insights, and smooth my prose. My manuscript has benefited immeasurably from his command of language and ideas. Without him, this story would have remained untold. He has my most profound gratitude.
My final thanks go to Tom Smith, Charles and Marcela Howard, Red Pollard, and George Woolf for living lives of singular vigor and grace, and for giving us the incomparable, unforgettable Seabiscuit.
Laura Hillenbrand
September 2000