Читать книгу Frankie: The Autobiography of Frankie Dettori - Frankie Dettori - Страница 10

As summer approached in 1986 I was getting uptight at the knowledge that I wouldn’t be able to race in England for almost another year. Every morning I was going through the motions, partnering nice horses in their work, often upsides decent jockeys. But in the afternoons I was forced to be a spectator, normally in the betting shop. Years ago apprentices were allowed to start at an incredibly early age in this country. Lester Piggott, for instance, was only twelve when he rode his first winner at Haydock in 1948. Times change, and almost forty years on you had to be at least sixteen before you could ride in public here. The rules are a bit more relaxed in Italy where apprentices can be licensed at fifteen and a half, so I began to count down the days to 15 June when I would reach that landmark. My dad swiftly organised three rides in a week for me at home towards the end of the month. I flew to Milan, met the local stewards and was immediately granted a licence.

I prefer not to dwell on my first ride on a filly called My Charlotte at Milan, on Wednesday, 25 June. The best I can say is that at least I didn’t get in the way of the others. I’d been dreaming of this day for years and then it was over in a flash, so quickly that I cannot recall too much about it except that I was hopelessly nervous. I couldn’t believe how quickly things happened around me. My Charlotte made a poor start, we trailed the field into the straight, the race finished and we were stone last.

It seemed to flash past at a hundred miles an hour and as far as I can tell I learned nothing from it. I barely knew my own name, let alone how to push along a racehorse to improve its position. Emotion and excitement took over. We jumped out of the stalls, the rest was a blur and at first I wasn’t even sure where we’d finished.

After a stern talk from my dad, I was back at Milan racecourse three days later to ride a big, chestnut filly called Maria di Scozia, trained by Alduino Botti, in a nine furlong race. Now I am not saying that the Dettoris had a monopoly on Italian racing at the time, but the family was responsible for four of the eight jockeys. Lined up against me was my uncle Sergio, my cousin Robert and my dad on Nina Hagen, a stable companion of Maria di Scozia.

This time, primed by my father, I jumped out alongside the others and somehow managed to make the running. As we came to the bend we were still in front and I thought I was doing well as we raced round it into the straight. In my innocence I hadn’t realised that by taking such a wide route I could have let the entire field up my inside. The next thing I began to hear a screaming sound close behind me. It was my dad ordering me to move over to the rail. By then I was pushing so hard I was already close to exhaustion. The harder I tried the more uncoordinated I was. Head down, arms flailing, I almost fell off when I tried to hit my filly in a pitiful attempt to make her go faster.

To my amazement, we still led the race with less than two furlongs left and now my father was shouting even louder. ‘Hit her, hit her again, push her, whatever you do keep her going”, he cried. He could have saved his breath. Poor Maria di Scozia was weary, totally confused by the little dervish on her back. As we weakened, Maurice Depalmas came past on the inside to take the lead on Perzechella before, with less than a hundred yards left, Nina Hagen swept by on the outside with my dad sitting as quietly on her back as a church mouse. By some miracle my filly held on for third prize, which would barely have bought a round of drinks.

Then the fun started. Although I was knackered I felt a sense of pride that we’d finished in the first three. That was definitely progress after my feeble attempts on Wednesday. My feeling of elation didn’t last long. As I headed back to the unsaddling enclosure people began laughing and making gestures at me. The closer we got to the stands, the louder the comments grew. I started a panic attack, wondering what I had done wrong. It was one of those moments in your life when you are so embarrassed you just want to run away and hide. But first I sheepishly removed the saddle, before disappearing to the sanctuary of the weighing room.

Soon a stewards inquiry was called. I trooped anxiously behind my dad into the stewards’ room and watched in bewilderment as the film of the race was replayed. At last I knew why everyone was so amused and, to my intense relief, I wasn’t the guilty party. That was my father who, in his desire to help me ride a winner, could clearly be seen on the film whacking the backside of my horse with his own whip all the way round the bend. What made it far worse was that, since our two horses were in the same ownership, they were coupled together for betting purposes. That meant that punters could pick up their cash if either of our horses won. If my filly had held on and won, we would probably have been lined up before a firing squad, but as my dad’s horse did eventually prevail, we escaped with a sharp lecture.

Things didn’t improve much on the final ride of my brief trip to Italy. This time I made the mistake of believing I knew all about being a jockey. The chief sufferer was the grey horse I rode in the race, which was a minor event at Turin. I finished third again, despite hitting my mount at least fifty five times in the finishing straight. Nor am I exaggerating. I remember thinking if I whip it all the time it must win. My dad, who was very tidy and effective in a finish, used a floppy whip with big flaps on the end. In trying to copy him in Turin I was so loose and out of rhythm that I struck myself almost as often as I hit my mount.

I did ride a winner soon after I returned to England. It came in the annual donkey Derby held at the Recreation Fields at Newmarket not far from my digs. Several well known riders took part and some of them failed to finish because donkeys are notoriously unpredictable and delight in dumping their jockeys. I managed to win my heat on one donkey, then sat tight on mine in the final and was so pleased at winning that I gave an extravagant salute as I passed the post. You would have thought I’d just won the Derby at Epsom.

Another event that left a big impression on me was a night out with Paul Eddery and his family in Newmarket. Paul was in the top flight of jockeys and lived with his wife Sally in a superb flat with white carpets, vast white sofas and beautiful pictures. While everyone else drank pink champagne I remained on fruit juice. To me Paul’s home was straight out of Dallas. We all ended up that night with two of Paul’s brothers, Robert and David, at the Onassis restaurant in town. The Eddery family made me so welcome, treated me to dinner and left me wanting more of this way of life. I thought it was brilliant.

Nineteen eighty-six was the year I started to lead up a few horses at the races. One of the first was a two-year-old called Vevila who was just beaten in a decent fillies maiden, ridden by Pat Eddery, at Sandown in May. The way she was working before her next race at Lingfield’s evening meeting two months later convinced me that she was a certainty. I conjured up £200 from somewhere and put the lot on her pretty nose. But as so often in racing there was a snag. Pat was due to ride her again, but first he had a more important engagement at Ascot that afternoon on the brilliant Dancing Brave. He had two more rides before flying to Lingfield for our race due off at 5.50. It was always going to be tight and unfortunately for me he failed to arrive in time. Rae Guest, our stable stalwart, took over on Vevila and was beaten a short head.

At the time I blamed the jockey because, like most losing punters, I was always talking through my pocket. Maybe Pat would have made a difference, but anyway the result left me skint. Since we were staying overnight at Lingfield the rest of the lads in the hostel headed for the local pub at the end of racing. Without the funds to join them I settled for an early night. My black mood wasn’t improved by the shocking state of the hostel. It was filthy in those days, and as my bed didn’t have any sheets on it I had to make do with a rug. Perhaps that’s why I was up at the crack of dawn.

Wide awake and with hours to kill before we set off for Newmarket, I returned to the racecourse, climbed over the security gate and made my way to the weighing room where I sat on the scales, pretending to be a jockey. Then I wandered past the deserted grandstands to a big marquee beside the paddock. To my surprise some tables were still set as if waiting for customers to arrive.

The temptation was too much. Almost without thinking I removed a large, clean tablecloth, converted it into a sack and began filling it with six glasses, six large plates, six smaller plates, six soup bowls, six cups and saucers, and matching cutlery. It seemed the ideal present for Val who certainly couldn’t afford such a smart set of china. On top of my booty I placed an empty champagne bucket. Then, after checking that no-one was in sight, I carefully placed the swag on my back, and began to make my way towards the stable lads’ hostel.

With every step I took I could hear the crunch of the china moving in the homemade rucksack. As I approached the security gate I was horrified to hear the sound of dogs barking ferociously, and when I looked over my shoulder my blood turned to ice as I saw two dobermans galloping towards me. There was barely time to escape. The moment I dropped my booty the sound of smashing crockery could be heard all over the racecourse. Just about the only thing that survived undamaged was the champagne bucket. I paused to snatch it up, then gave a passable impression of Linford Christie as I sprinted for the gate with the hounds of hell on my heels. I reached it with seconds to spare, clawed my way desperately up the fencing out of their range, clambered over the top, jumped down on the other side and disappeared back to the hostel as fast as my legs could carry me. When I reached my room I hid under the bed and was too frightened to emerge until the rest of the lads were ready to leave for Newmarket.

I spent a lot of time falling off horses during my first year in England because I rode with my knees under my chin. The more I was told to drop my stirrups to a sensible height, the more I resisted. It was a case of being too flash. The horse that gave me the most trouble was a lively grey three-year-old colt called Dallas who was being aimed at the Cambridgeshire in October, one of the biggest betting races of the year. Talented but quirky, Dallas was one of those cunning horses who could whip round and drop you without a second’s warning. He used to dump me regularly to the delight of everyone else riding out. One moment we’d be trotting along quietly, the next he’d be standing over me, as I lay cursing on the ground, as if to say what are you doing down there? He did it out of high spirits, rather than malice, and even when I couldn’t cling on to the reins he didn’t run away. All the bruises and embarrassment seemed worthwhile when he won the Cambridgeshire ridden by Ray Cochrane.

By then I was preparing to resume my riding career in Italy. Luca Cumani wasn’t keen on the idea because he preferred to have me working in the yard over the winter. Also he was anxious to make use of the weight allowance inexperienced apprentices like myself can claim until they have ridden a certain number of winners. He saw no point in wasting that allowance in Mickey Mouse races in Italy, but my dad was determined that I should further my racing education. So, early in November 1986 I flew to Milan once more.

I had a couple of rides straight away, then set off on 16 November to Turin for a race where I was to partner a horse called Rif, which had been bought by my father to give me some much-needed experience. Rif was no great shakes. I remember that he had big floppy ears and was one of those horses that went best in bottomless ground. It was a typically miserable winter’s race day in Turin, horribly cold and wet with heavy going—ideal for Rif. The place had the atmosphere of a graveyard with a massive, deserted grandstand and a handful of frozen punters—but for a few unforgettable minutes it felt like Royal Ascot in June as I squelched home on Rif to record my first win as a jockey.

We started well, sat handy, pulled out in the straight and won tidily without my needing to attempt too much with the whip. I have the photograph to this day in the snooker room at home. Afterwards I was exhausted and ecstatic. When I caught up with my dad I wanted to rush up, hug him and shout about my great achievement. But I’d been brought up so strictly that I was almost subdued as I described my precious first triumph to him. People always say winners breed confidence and I tend to agree. The next day I doubled my score with another success in an apprentice race at Livorno for the young trainer Andrea Picorarro, who’d spent a bit of time with Luca at Newmarket. I made the running on this one and thought I gave it a decent ride.

When I was a small boy my father once took me with him to a church in the mountains near Livorno to pray to the Madonna di Montenaro. It was something he tried to do every year to ask for a safe passage through the season, and it left a lasting impression on me. My trip to Italy as an apprentice gave me the opportunity to visit the church again and collect a medallion to protect me while I was racing. I tried to follow my dad’s example because I believe in God but, as I became busier in England, it became harder to find the time. Since Italy is a very superstitious nation it seemed natural to put my faith in positive omens, but eventually I was carrying so many bits and pieces round my neck and in my boots it was getting silly. So I took them all off and now I rely on one normal crucifix.

Soon I moved to Naples for the rest of the winter to work in a satellite yard run for Aldo Botti by his wily assistant trainer Peo Perlante. It was to prove quite an education in more senses than one. Naples is only a few miles along the coast from the brooding monster of Mount Vesuvius, which erupted in AD 79 sealing Pompeii in a ten-foot blanket of ash, lava and mud.

Naples racecourse at Henano is in the bowl of another, much smaller volcano, long extinct. The public sauna baths we used almost daily to lose unwanted pounds were pretty basic. It was little more than a cave in the mountain rock with hot tubs of water. The centre of the sauna was so hot you could only last a minute there at a time. It contained a small, round hole, covered with wood. If you were brave enough to lift the cover you found yourself staring down hundreds of feet into infinity. The whole place stank of sulphur, a bit like rotten eggs.

It was during hours spent in that sauna that I first became friendly with Bruce Raymond, a vastly experienced jockey who was on his way home from a riding stint in Hong Kong. He is a gentleman and I respect him because he had to work extremely hard to make it as a jockey. He was always immaculate, on or off a horse, never swore, and conducted himself in an old-fashioned way. I came to respect his judgement and have often turned to him for advice.

Another fine jockey in Naples that winter was Marco Paganini, the shining new star of Italian racing. I was average, at best, in those days and tried to learn from him and Bruce by watching them in their races. I stayed at the home of Tonino Cantante, one of the yard men, on a small council estate. Most of the lads working alongside me were apprentices, too, and since they were more established they tended to get the rides when racing took place once or twice a week. I wasn’t flavour of the month with Peo Perlante, who always left me last in the queue when it came to riding for the stable. He did me no favours at all. Maybe it was to do with an old feud with my father. Whatever the reason, I had to rely on other stables for spare rides.

Obviously it helped that I was light and that my claimer’s allowance would reduce a horse’s weight even further. The racing was as low-key as you could find, but I was gaining valuable experience away from the glare of publicity and over the course of four months I managed fifteen more winners. I was doing all right, though deep down I was aware that I rode like an Italian. I badly needed to add some polish.

People often ask whether I would have been as successful spending my entire apprenticeship in Italy. I’ve no doubt about that one. Staying in my own country would not have been a great idea. Because of my dad, life would have been too easy for me, and that’s the last thing you need if you want to fight your way to the top. Perhaps my dad sensed this. Yes, I’d have ridden plenty of winners because doors would have been opened for me, but how much further would I have gone?

If you are faced with a harsh challenge, self-pride takes over. By sending me away to England, Dad was dropping me in the ocean with a lot of sharks circling. When they first let me loose I was nothing because I was too young to know my limits. Just to prove that I could survive, I eventually became bigger than all the other fish. If I’d stayed in Italy I’d have lacked the motivation that being in England provided. Most of all I forced myself to be successful for my father. He was the one I wanted to please above all others, although it was unbelievably difficult in the first few months in Newmarket. Once I moved to Naples that winter I began to flourish. There were other delights, too.

After racing on Sunday a gang of us would go for a meal together, then end up watching blue movies in a seedy, backstreet cinema. Some of them would then set off for a liaison with the local call girls. At this stage of my teens I’d had a few girlfriends but was still pretty innocent and several furlongs behind the others. One night they all decided it was time for my sexual initiation. All the boys were eager to take me to their favourite prostitute who plied her trade in the back of a big car parked at the top of the hill in the red-light district.

They decided that I should take my turn first, issued their instructions, then bundled me into the back with the waiting girl. She removed her skirt and skilfully helped me wriggle out of my trousers, before producing a giant pink condom that looked more like a balloon or a Michelin tyre, slipped it on and asked me if I was ready. As if I would have known! What followed was a blur, a bit like my first ride in a race. Again I was hopelessly nervous and everything happened much too rapidly. I was definitely not in charge and I remember wondering what all the fuss was about.

Aware that it was my first time, she tried to help me as best she could but for me the earth didn’t move—though the car certainly did. The boys were all standing on the pavement, peering through the back window, cheering me on, and when they saw me moving they immediately began rocking the car violently up and down. When it was all over, or I thought it was all over, I grabbed my trousers and opened the back door, ready to escape. I was immediately seized by several pairs of arms and propelled into the middle of the road as three of my pals fought for the right to be next to continue the contract with the hooker who’d just got rid of me. I thought it was hilarious.

Another encounter was not so funny. Each night on my way into work on my moped I passed through the area where most prostitutes touted for business. Every lamp-post at night had a call girl underneath it, and one of their pimps used to deliver bundles of wood to them from a three-wheeled cycle to fuel the bonfires that kept them warm. As I sped past, my eye was caught by a gorgeous, tall blonde wrapped in a fur coat. She wore fishnet tights and stiletto heels and was just like one of those girls from Charlie’s Angels. The first few days I just looked at her then, gaining in confidence, I’d wave and beep at her every evening as I rode by. Sometimes she turned round and gave me the eye. At night I used to dream that soon she’d be mine.

My fantasies were cruelly shattered. As I approached her on my moped I began to beep as usual in friendly greeting. She turned to see who was coming, spotted me, gave me a look of pure venom and lifted her skirts. Even at 30 mph I couldn’t fail to notice that she, or rather he, was an extremely wellendowed man. I was so horrified I almost crashed in my haste to escape. I rushed home, locked myself in, and climbed into bed terrified that he would chase me and assault me. I was traumatised for days afterwards and changed my regular route to avoid any chance of further contact.

While I was enjoying myself in Naples, Luca Cumani was monitoring my progress, increasingly unhappy that I was wasting my valuable claiming allowance in what he considered to be races of no consequence in the middle of winter in Italy. In England, apprentices start off claiming 7 pounds until they have ridden fifteen winners. Luca was furious that I’d already passed that point. He made urgent contact with my father and soon I was on my way back to Newmarket once more.