Читать книгу Frankie: The Autobiography of Frankie Dettori - Frankie Dettori - Страница 12

My first task in the spring of 1988 was to find myself an agent to help book my rides. The obvious choice was Mattie Cowing who had shared so many entertaining days with me in Cuthie Suttle’s betting shop. Mattie was already handling Bruce Raymond’s rides, but he turned me down because he was not convinced that I took my job seriously enough. Next I turned to Simon Crisford, the Newmarket correspondent of the Racing Post, but he—sensible fellow—said he had to look after his own career and was not going to let me drag him down! Years later we would become the best of buddies working together for Godolphin. Eventually I signed up with Cliff Woof who’d just opened a jockey’s agency with Willie Ryan as his first client.

After a winter tightening up my style in the warmer climate of California, I felt stronger and more confident than before and was determined to make a quick start in my second season. Once again rides were scarce in the opening weeks, until I was given a crucial opportunity on Heroes Sash for Luca Cumani in a valuable race at Haydock at the end of April. Ray Cochrane, by then our stable jockey, was at Newmarket for the 2,000 Guineas that day. When he heard Luca was struggling to find a suitable rider for Heroes Sash, he suggested ‘Give the kid a chance.’ Heroes Sash didn’t win but I did nothing wrong and from that point I started to pick up some decent spare rides.

Nineteen eighty-eight was the year of Kahyasi who gave Luca his first Derby success. The horse was owned by the Aga Khan and looked after by my pal Andy Keates, who’d been telling us all winter that his charge was Derby material. Most of the lads were on at nice prices. I remember watching on TV in my tracksuit as Ray brought him through to win at Epsom, before setting off for a run to try to lose some weight as I had a light ride at Carlisle the next day. I put it all back on and more at a mother and a father of a Derby victory party that night which carried on until the early hours.

There was a price to pay the following morning as, with thumping heads, Colin and I set off on the four-hour journey to Carlisle, wearing tracksuits, with the heating turned full up on a boiling hot summer day. We both felt terrible—which probably explains why, between us, we failed to tack up his mount Expound securely for the opening race. As a result his saddle began to slip after a furlong and Expound was beaten in a photo finish with Colin perched precariously on his back.

Five minutes later, his work completed for the afternoon, Colin came swanning into the weighing room clutching a large ice-cream. It was too much for me as I struggled to boil away excess pounds for my single, lightweight ride which I knew had little chance. I seized the ice-cream, spread it all over Colin’s face and fled into the sauna before he could retaliate.

Things began to pick up later in June with my first double win on Norman Invader and Mischievous Miss at Redcar, swiftly followed by the success of Follow The Drum at Folkestone. Andy was unable to lead up Norman Invader as he was recovering at home from serious injuries sustained when the horse kicked him in the face. He was found unconscious in Norman Invader’s box with his face in bits, and countless broken bones in his jaw and cheek which caused him to be off work for almost three months.

Early in July I won on a nice horse of Luca’s called Casey at Catterick. We were hacking up until I complicated matters by easing him so heavily in the closing stages that we only just scraped home by a neck from the fast-finishing runner-up Kirsheda. Some of the Yorkshire punters shouted abuse at me as I returned to unsaddle, but I was certain that we’d held on. I was smiling when I came back, but only with relief, and the stewards gave me a telling-off for being too confident. If I’d been caught on Casey, they warned, I would have been suspended and heavily fined. The next morning I stole the headlines for all the wrong reasons. The Racing Post declared ‘Frankie Lives Dangerously’.

Worse followed when Luca called me in and watched the video with me before delivering an almighty rocket. A few days later Casey’s owner, Gerald Leigh, sent me a photograph of the win with a cryptic note which read ‘Too much attention to the camera and not enough to the finish!’

I’d been waiting for the chance to gain my revenge on Norman Invader for almost killing Andy and finally got the chance when I was booked to ride him in the Magnet Cup at York. I taped a piece of lead into the flap of my whip, then started to hit Norman Invader with it as soon as we moved into contention about three furlongs from home. I am ashamed to admit that I really wanted to hurt the horse, to punish him for what he had done to Andy. I gave him a good hiding. It was madness, of course, a horrible thing to do. The chief sufferer, apart from the horse, was my greatest friend Colin Rate who was making a move up my inner on Chartino. In a sense I killed two birds with one stone. As Norman Invader hung left-handed away from the whip he almost put Colin over the rails. I heard a lot of cursing and shouting just behind me in a familiar Geordie accent, but by then the damage had been done and both of us finished towards the rear. Somehow the stewards missed what happened—but Luca didn’t and we were both on the carpet in his office once more. If he’d known about my whip I suspect I would have been looking for alternative employment.

A stormy July reached its climax ten days later when I returned to Catterick to ride Torkabar, owned by the Aga Khan. The horse was a red-hot favourite to win an uncompetitive maiden, but he was a monkey and had thrown away victory in our previous race at York by veering violently in the closing stages. Once again he was determined not to put his best foot forward. The more I asked, the more he resisted.

Just after we passed the line a well beaten third I lashed out with my whip in temper and struck him over the head. It was done out of frustration after losing my rag, and I knew immediately I was in the wrong because hitting horses on the head is unacceptable. It was a childish thing to do. Once again I was marched before the Catterick stewards and this time they weren’t so lenient. I made up some story about giving him a tap to prevent him ducking through a gate towards the paddock. The panel listened in stony silence before banning me for three days for improper riding. That wasn’t the end of the matter.

The following morning I was standing in the doorway of a stable in the bottom yard, facing inwards, half-heartedly scratching around in the straw with a pitchfork when I received a painful kick up the backside which sent me sprawling head first in the far corner of the box. I almost ended up in the feed manger. The next moment Ray Cochrane was leaning over me, going absolutely mad, shouting and screaming that I’d let the side down by my treatment of Torkabar. It was bad enough, he suggested, to strike any horse over the head. But to do it to one belonging to the stable’s principal owner, the Aga Khan, was idiotic. I quickly got the message and started mucking out the stable with new vigour, then slowed down again as soon as Ray disappeared out of sight.

Luca was away in America at the sales, but when he returned he let me have it with both barrels and promptly suspended me from riding for a further two weeks. A fortnight on the sidelines at that stage seemed like a lifetime, but I knew I was in the wrong so I had to take it on the chin.

The second head lad Stuart Jackson was also keen to keep my feet firmly on the floor. He always seemed to be waiting for me when I bounced into the yard after a good day at the races. Some days he’d hide behind a door, then kick me in the backside for the hell of it. On other occasions he’d ask how the race had gone, listen to my description of how clever I’d been, then wait until my back had turned before kicking me. When I protested he’d reply mysteriously ‘You know what that’s for.’ It was all part of Luca’s strategy to keep my head from swelling.

I picked up the winning thread again on Burnt Fingers at Haydock on 5 August and completed my second double at Yarmouth later in the month. I also collected a fine of £200 on the same afternoon for giving one of Luca’s a ‘quiet run’. Since Allez Au Bon wasn’t fit enough to do himself justice in the race, Luca was keen that I looked after him and didn’t finish too close to the red-hot favourite, Pure Genius, who won easily. Unfortunately I overdid the waiting tactics.

August ended with a significant breakthrough with my first winners for the multiple champion trainer Henry Cecil—who was still the King and had shared two victories in the 2,000 Guineas with my father. I was thrilled that Henry turned to me when Steve Cauthen was injured. My first success for him came in a maiden race at Newmarket on Opening Verse, who eventually won the Breeders’ Cup mile in America. Two days later I rode my second winner for Henry as part of another double at Wolverhampton.

It had been an eventful season and the best was yet to come. Late in September Luca called me into his office to say that the Aga Khan would be running two pacemakers for our Derby winner Kahyasi in the Prix de l’Arc de Triomphe, the highlight of the season in Paris, and I would be on one of them—Roushayd. It was a fantastic opportunity for someone with such limited experience. The Aga must have forgiven me for my behaviour on Torkabar.

The weekend went like a dream. At the age of seventeen I found myself climbing aboard a private jet at Cambridge late on Saturday with a group of trainers, jockeys and racing managers all heading for Paris. Anthony Stroud was in charge of the party, who all seemed to be staying at the Ritz. As I hadn’t booked a room, I had to bed down on a couch in a massive sitting room in Anthony’s suite. I was still living in digs at the time and had never seen anything like it. When everyone else headed off for a night out, I was left on my own with the newspapers, a vast television, a bowl of fruit and a big cocktail bar which I didn’t dare touch. Within minutes I was on the phone to mother saying guess where I am? I can still remember my excitement at such luxury.

The plan the next day was for Rae Guest to tow the field along for the first mile on Taboushkan before I took over on Roushayd, with Kahyasi waiting to pounce late. But just as I made my move Tony Ives arrived alongside on Emmson, said ‘Where are you going, son’ and squashed me on to the rails. Tony killed me, the rascal, and that was the end of my pacemaking duties. Every time I tried to get out someone else would come and hold me in.

At least it didn’t make any difference because Kahyasi ran well below his form, finishing sixth to the Italian winner Tony Bin, ridden by John Reid. Two weeks later my dad managed to get beaten on Tony Bin in a five-horse race in Milan!

That first ride in the Arc was the highlight of my season which had produced twenty-two winners. I’ve ridden in the race every year since. I love the track and the special atmosphere that crackles with excitement on Arc day. For me it is one of the great races in the world.

Once the season was over early in November I headed for California again to continue my racing education at Santa Anita. This time I had the correct documents so was able to move around the course without looking over my shoulder like a criminal. At home in England I was beginning to build a bit of a profile, with the occasional interview and report on my winners, but in America I remained an anonymous figure, just one of the legions of foreign workers drawn together by a shared love of racing. That way, at least, nobody noticed my mistakes.

I even picked up a couple of race rides, but any danger of becoming over-confident was swiftly ended during a brief discussion with the record-breaking trainer Wayne Lukas. After completing four lots for Richard, I sought out Lukas one morning, introduced myself, and offered to ride out for him at any time. I was trying to drum up some business and he was the best trainer in America.

He looked me up and down, then replied with a devastating put-down: ‘We’re in good shape right now’, the short interview clearly at an end. Since then I’ve ridden in the mornings for all the biggest trainers in the game in America, including the legendary Charlie Whittingham and Bobby Frankel. But you can be sure I will not be offering my services to Wayne Lukas again.

Soon it was time to return to England for the 1989 flat season for which I’d been installed as 3-1 favourite to be champion apprentice, but when I caught up with Cliff Woof he hinted that I should look for a new agent. This suited me because now he had several more jockeys on his books and was developing other business interests in racing. I wanted someone who could work full-time trying to get me rides. Once again I turned to Mattie Cowing. This time, with a bit of encouragement from Bruce Raymond, he agreed to take me on. Mattie still suspected that I was a scallywag but he’d seen me ride enough winners in 1988 to know that I could do the business and Bruce wasn’t quite as busy as before. It was the start of a brilliant partnership. What began as a commercial arrangement soon developed into a close friendship. Mattie was a star and treated me a bit like an uncle looking after his favourite nephew.

Shortly after I joined him Mattie converted the small spare bedroom of his flat into an office. Once we were up and running I bought him a computer to make his job easier. He spent the mornings on the phone, ringing trainers, putting me forward wherever possible, then headed for Cuthie Suttle’s betting shop to watch the racing. He was one of life’s punters and now, working with Bruce and myself, he was better informed than ever. But he still used to lose his cash most days.

Luca rarely has his horses ready for the early part of the season, so I had to look elsewhere for support in April and May. The first Dettori to make a big impact that season was my father who won the Italian 2,000 Guineas on Sikeston for English trainer John Dunlop.

Things improved dramatically after I rode two winners at Newmarket on 13 May. The first of them came in a valuable sprint that was shown live on TV. My horse Didicoy was well backed and I produced him fast and late to catch Hafir on the line. That was a massive victory for me, the start of a fantastic season. Half an hour later I managed a second narrow triumph on Khaydara. I was on my way!

Another double at Catterick twelve days later set me up for a month of unrelenting success in June. Whatever I touched turned to gold. In the space of three weeks I achieved four trebles. The first of them came at Leicester, where I lost my 5 pounds claim by winning on Versailles Road, trained by Susan Piggott. She had taken over her husband’s training licence in January 1988 while Lester was serving a prison sentence for tax evasion, and she kept it when he was released in October. It was my first ride for them.

One of my trebles that month illustrates the crazy routine that flat jockeys are forced to follow at the height of the season. The day before this treble I had ridden at Brighton’s evening meeting and didn’t reach home much before midnight. The next morning I left for work at dawn, rode one lot for Luca, then hitched a ride with Willie Ryan to Redcar, where I managed a double. Then it was off again on another long-distance trek to Warwick where I won the final race of the evening shortly after 9 p.m. on Tears Of Happiness. At least we could catch up with our sleep on Sundays in those days. Not any more. Now there is wall-to-wall racing seven days a week and all the boys are exhausted by high summer. It’s reached the point where they almost welcome a suspension which forces them to step off the treadmill.

It was on one of those Sundays that I experienced my first and last game of cricket. I foolishly allowed myself to be talked into turning out for the Cumani XI against a team representing fellow Newmarket trainer Michael Stoute who, as a native of Barbados, is a cricket fanatic. I spent the first half of the afternoon bored witless in the field, hoping desperately that the ball didn’t come my way. Later, when it was my turn to bat, I wandered into the middle without a clue, stood there holding my bat awkwardly in front of me and was bowled first ball by Stoute. I hadn’t realised how fast the ball comes at you! To this day the game is a complete mystery to me and I cannot understand why apparently sane people like Michael and Julian Wilson, the ex-BBC racing presenter, are obsessed with it.