Читать книгу Frankie: The Autobiography of Frankie Dettori - Frankie Dettori - Страница 7

In the late 1970s my father was flying as a jockey. He was the undisputed champion of Italy and increasingly gaining recognition abroad, but to me he was little more than a ghost—a distant, cold, intimidating figure. Life was still pretty tough for the rest of us at the Dettori home in Milan. There were many weeks during the height of the season when I saw him perhaps once in seven days. Usually he left before I was up and returned long after I’d gone to bed, and twice a week he set off at dawn to ride in Rome.

Towards the end of each summer he would be so far ahead of the other jockeys in the battle for the championship that he’d take a short break from domestic racing with a holiday abroad, followed by a few engagements riding in international events around the world. Then he tended to go away for the winters.

I’d often stay with my Godmother, Teresa Colangeli, who acted as my second mum and looked after me in the winter when Dad was away. She was married to a trainer called Vincenzo. When he died fifteen years ago she took over the training licence and is still doing well with her team of horses in Varese. One of her owners, Giuseppe Molteni, is the most successful amateur rider in Italy—and probably the world—with close on a thousand winners. He won three races in a week as recently as February 2004, and still rides out every day at the age of 74. Teresa provided a refuge when I needed one most and was always generous with her time and support. I still speak to her when I can because she has played a big part in my life.

On the days that my father was around when I came home after school, he was a grim, forbidding figure. It was a bit like finding Roy Keane or Graeme Souness in your kitchen. At least he greeted me with a smile and a kiss, but after that he would pop upstairs to change into his shorts, come back down again, watch the news on television without saying a word, then retreat behind his newspaper for the rest of the evening as he studied the form for the next afternoon’s card.

Conversation wasn’t encouraged. If I suggested doing something, Christine’s stock reply would be that he was racing the following day so please don’t bother him. I can’t say it upset me much because I was used to it. His riding always came first and you could see that he was a man with a mission. If things became tricky because I stepped out of line, Sandra did her best to protect me. If necessary she would lie for me, but he could be very rough with her. She was the one who bore the brunt of it. I can remember one incident when he made her kneel in a tray of salt which was an incredibly painful punishment. That kept me quiet for a while because I didn’t fancy the same fate.

He was very wrong in the way he treated us as youngsters but he didn’t know any different. That was how he’d been brought up too, so he was simply sticking to the same rules. Many years later he admitted to me that no-one taught him how to be a father. Now he is as nice as pie and we get on famously.

Most nights Sandra and I used to cry ourselves to sleep. My sister is very strong-willed and by the time she was fourteen she was determined to run away. She told me of her plans to escape back to mum. Sure enough, one day after school she didn’t come home. When my dad realised what had happened he was furious and there was the most terrific row in the kitchen that night as I was going to bed. The upshot was that I was suddenly on my own with Dad and Christine. This proved to be the turning point in my life. In all my time at school Dad had never come to collect me at the end of the day, but the very next afternoon there he was leaning out of the driving seat of a horsebox near the school gates, waiting for me. I can still remember the excitement I felt the moment I spotted him. I dashed up to the lorry, climbed into the front seat and gave him a big kiss.

He promised me a big surprise and he wasn’t kidding. We set off through the streets of Milan until we pulled up a few miles away beside a field that contained three ponies, two that were bay and a palomino. The choice was mine and I had no hesitation in picking the palomino with its white face, mane and tail. For me it was love at first sight. We took the pony home and put her in a field with stabling belonging to a farmer barely a hundred yards from our house.

Looking back now, I think my sister’s sudden departure acted like an electric shock on my father. He realised he’d lost his daughter and was frightened of losing me, too. So he bought the pony to keep me happy. It’s funny how things work out in life. If my sister hadn’t run away and my dad hadn’t bought that pony called Silvia, I might never have become interested in racing. Up until that point I had hated racing, chiefly because I found it so boring. Instead I spent all my time playing football at school and in my spare time. Once I had the pony I had to start looking after it and soon I was taking all my mates from school to watch me riding it round the field pretending to be a jockey.

Having your own pony at the age of eight in a field close to the middle of Milan was quite a novelty in those days, a bit like keeping a tiger in the centre of London. Until then I hadn’t enjoyed my brief skirmishes at riding school. I was as scared as hell, and hated it, perhaps because I was so small. I’d been overshadowed by my sister in whatever I did. She was the posh one, but when she left there was nobody else to lean on, so I had to grow up fast. Having my own pony certainly helped.

On a rare day off at home my dad took me out to the stables, tied up Silvia and demonstrated how to groom her properly and muck the stable out until it was spotless. He said he would only show me once. He brushed her coat, mane and tail, used a pitchfork to remove the dung in the box and replace it with fresh straw, banked it up around the walls, cleaned out the manger, brought in hay for her to eat, and filled the water bucket with fresh water. It was an impressive lesson from a master, for this had once been his daily task as a stable lad in Rome and would eventually become mine when I became an apprentice. It was fun in the summer, but once winter arrived looking after Silvia became a horrible chore. Working in the dark in freezing weather didn’t appeal to me then and doesn’t appeal to me now.

There were consolations. I would rush home from school, put on my jodhpurs and racing silks in the colours of Carlo d’Alessio, run out to the stables, saddle up Silvia and set off on her at a million miles an hour around the field. There was no question of grooming her first or cleaning out her droppings. That lesson from Dad had already been forgotten! All I wanted to do was ride like the wind with my knees under my chin. I never had any doubt that I would be a jockey.

I was barely nine when I rode in my first Derby at the San Siro track in Milan. Never mind that it was only a pony race—to me it felt like the greatest race on earth. I trained and practised for weeks on Silvia in the field at home, but on the big day I was horrified to discover that all the others ponies were giants compared to Silvia and all the other jockeys giants compared to me. The course for this Derby was laid out on the jumping track between the last two fences and probably stretched to less than half a mile. It seemed like a marathon to me and I was a nervous wreck as we formed a ragged line at the start.

There was no fairytale start to my career as a jockey, quite the opposite. It was a case of ‘slowly away, then faded’ for Silvia and her hapless rider. Once the starter’s flag fell we were left behind and were tailed off throughout. To add insult to injury, when Silvia saw the crowd at the finishing line she dug in her toes and sent me sprawling into the water jump.

Despite that humbling setback, my days at school were largely spent dreaming of riding when lessons were over. I was quick at maths and liked geography. In those two subjects I was a furlong ahead of the rest of the class. But I was hopeless at history and my stumbling attempts at English were embarrassing. If only I’d paid more attention to my English teacher.

Silvia and I were inseparable for about a year but the novelty quickly wore off when she began to get the better of me. She was strong and increasingly wilful and there were too many times when I couldn’t control her. She was taking advantage of me, knew every trick in the book, and soon there were days when I was too frightened to ride her. Our partnership came to a painfully abrupt end one afternoon when she ran off with me under a metal paddock rail. I grabbed the pole in an attempt to save myself, but it broke off in my hands and fell onto my chest as I hit the ground. I was in so much pain I could hardly breathe. I thought my ribs were broken, and by the time I was on the way to hospital I’d decided riding was definitely not for me. My plans as a jockey were in tatters. Luckily Dad took the hint and promptly sold Silvia. After that I didn’t go near a horse for a year.

As the smallest boy at school I was the obvious target for bullying, but I became quite adept at avoiding nasty incidents. Christine, who used to work in a bank, offered some sound advice when she suggested thinking my way out of tricky situations. I was dead sharp even then and much cleverer than the bullies, so I usually managed to work my way out of trouble when danger threatened. Somehow I could fiddle my way around confrontations. I didn’t have that many scraps because I usually managed to sidestep when danger threatened. Nothing much has changed since then!

Despite my size, I played a mean game of football at school during the long lunch break which stretched to an hour and a half in the hot Italian sun most days. I was small, light and nippy on my feet and spent most of the time as a goal-hanger lurking near the penalty spot, trying to convert any chances that came my way—and was disappointed if I hadn’t scored a hatful by the end of the game. If the final score was 23-17 then I’d sometimes be responsible for eight or ten of them. I saw myself as Roberto Bettega, who was a famous centre-forward for Juventus in the seventies.

Although we lived in Milan, I supported ‘Juve’—based in Turin—from the moment an uncle gave me one of their shirts for Christmas. I wore it all the time, which was quite a brave thing to do if you lived in Milan. Naturally my first heroes were all giants of Juventus. Initially Roberto Bettega was my inspiration, but I switched my allegiance to Liam Brady when he moved from Arsenal in June 1980. Liam was outstanding in Italy and won two Italian championships with Juve.

A few years later, when I was working for Luca Cumani in Newmarket, I finally met Liam when he came to an open day at the yard. For once in my life I was speechless, hopelessly star-struck, yet he was keen to talk to me because I’d ridden a few winners by then. It was very strange. Liam loves his racing, and whenever I can get to an Arsenal game at Highbury—where he is now head of youth development—I give him a call and meet up with him. Michel Platini, who followed Liam to Juventus, was another of my early heroes.

In those days my pals and I used to climb over the gates into the San Siro stadium at around eleven in the morning, a good three hours before kick-off. We’d hide in the grandstand until people started coming through the turnstiles. That way we could watch the Milan games for free and the money we saved would be spent on tickets for the basketball. Alas, my dream of a football career moved rapidly downhill after a long summer’s holiday when I was about twelve. By the time I returned to school everyone else had grown a foot and I seemed to have shrunk, so I used to get a right pasting when the big boys tackled me. Even so, the manager of the boys’ team I played for at the weekends felt I deserved my turn as captain.

On the big day, the parents of all the other boys turned up to support them but as usual my father was off riding somewhere—and as Christine always accompanied him I was the only one there without family. It hurt at the time and, you know, I can already see the same thing happening with my son Leo when he starts to play competitively in a few years’ time. Every Saturday and Sunday I have to work, too, so he will be missing his dad if he plays football at weekends.

A source of endless fun for me and my friends came at the races on the days we all pretended to be horses and staged our own sprints. Each racehorse carried a plastic number on its bridle in the paddock. These were often discarded before the competitors cantered to the start. We’d collect the numbers, attach them to the belts of our trousers and have our own series of races using branches torn from trees in the park as makeshift whips to whack our own legs.

After a year’s break from ponies I started to get the old hunger back for riding once more. The spark for my renewed interest came from writing reports for the school magazine on the racing at Milan, which my dad tended to dominate. For a while at school I was like a racing reporter. I would go with him to the races at the weekend, have a flutter with my friends, then on the Monday morning I’d cut out the pictures of the finishes from the local paper and write my articles around them. Sometimes I filled as many as six pages with photographs and reports. That was the limit of my endeavour in the classroom. Usually I let two fingers of dust grow on my school books while I sat at my desk dreaming about horses.

Those early trips to the races opened my eyes to the riches that racing offered. Once in a while my dad would take me with him to Rome on a long weekend. The drive from Milan could take up to five hours on the Saturday and we would then walk the track on Sunday morning. One day he pointed out Lester Piggott, who was already a legend with nine Derby winners. ‘Look at him’, said Dad. ‘You could be just as successful if you work hard enough.’ It was a lofty ambition and it made a big impression on me.

We were out on the course at Rome on the morning of the 1981 Italian Derby when we ran into a group of English jockeys, including a baby-faced teenager called Walter Swinburn. I was wearing a tee-shirt and short trousers and here was this young jockey who was all the rage looking hardly any older than me. Glint of Gold, trained by Ian Balding, won the Italian Derby that year, and just over three weeks later he finished a distant second in the Derby at Epsom to Shergar ridden by the same Walter Swinburn.

While Dad was busy riding through the afternoon my mates and I were betting on every race. The pocket money he gave me was usually spent on bets at the Tote window. Most of my pals then were sons of jockeys, too, but we never seemed to benefit from inside information and thought we’d done well if we were left with a few lire after the last race.

Soon I was back at riding school for more lessons. Although I felt a bit stronger and more confident than before, I was hardly prepared for the next step when I started riding out in the school holidays with Carlo d’Alessio’s string of horses, which by then was trained by the two brothers Alduino and Giuseppe Botti following the death of Sergio Cumani. Most of the time, I was restricted to walking and trotting on the roads. If the horse I was on was due to canter or gallop, I’d be replaced by a professional work rider.

I already knew this was the life for me and was further encouraged by two memorable experiences at Milan races in 1983 when I was twelve. The first came on one of those special days when my dad took me into the jockeys’ changing room with him and I found myself sitting next to Steve Cauthen—who was known as the Six Million Dollar Kid for his exploits in America before he moved to England in 1979.

Steve had flown over to ride the English raider Drumalis. I was still so short that when I sat beside him on the bench my feet didn’t reach the floor, but I watched spellbound as this world-famous jockey proceeded to put on all sorts of fancy riding equipment. You name it, he wore it. He had leggings and ankle protectors inside his riding boots, specially designed socks, and a whip with feathers on the end. My eyes never left him as he changed into his silks. I was fascinated by every little detail and it was only when he walked out to the paddock that I spotted a pair of red sponge ankle pads.

The temptation was irresistible. One minute they were there on the ground beside his bag, the next they were in my pocket. My dad, riding Bold Run for Alduino Botti, then inflicted further pain on Steve by beating him on Drumalis by a nose, but by the time he came back to ‘weigh in’ I’d left the scene of the crime. Four years later I’d just begun riding in England when Steve spotted me wearing his distinctive red ankle pads. ‘Those are mine, you thieving little Italian bastard. Give them back’, he demanded in menacing tones. I tried to bluster my way out of trouble but was eventually forced to plead guilty as charged. It was typical of Steve that he forgave me pretty quickly and soon became a great friend by giving me lifts to numerous race meetings in his chauffeur-driven Jaguar.

Four months after nicking Steve’s precious ankle pads I was back at Milan with my dad, walking the course as usual, when a big helicopter flew over us and landed close by. Nobody had ever seen a helicopter at a race meeting in Italy before then. For me at such an impressionable age, it was like witnessing a spaceship drop out of the skies. Moments after the door opened the pale figure of Lester Piggott appeared at the top of the steps, followed by the trainer John Dunlop and others associated with Sheikh Mohammed, a member of the Royal family in Dubai who were just beginning to expand their already considerable racing interests. Dad explained that the Sheikh owned the filly Awaasif who’d been sent from England to run in the Gran Premio Del Jockey Club. She won it easily, too, by six lengths. How strange to think that within a few short years I’d often be travelling in a similar helicopter to the four corners of the world to ride for Sheikh Mohammed.

By now I was totally addicted to racing, mad keen to become a jockey and was finding my last year at school increasingly tedious. I became totally obsessed with the idea of following in my dad’s hoofbeats and couldn’t see any point in remaining in the classroom a second longer. It helped that my dad shared my ambition and finally allowed me to leave school in the summer of 1984 at the age of thirteen and a half.

In a rare heart-to-heart, he had the sense to tell me that the years ahead would test my resolve to the limit. He explained that for every small boy who sets out to become a jockey only one in a thousand succeeds in making the grade. In the back of his mind, and that of Christine—who by then had become my stepmother—was the suspicion that I lacked the necessary motivation and aggression to make the breakthrough.

It is fair to say that in their presence I tended to be quiet, almost meek. That was because I felt intimidated by them. Away from home there were plenty of people to testify that I was almost too exuberant, and at school I was known as the naughtiest boy in the class.

Despite Dad’s well-intentioned warning, I had no doubt that I would become a jockey, too, as I set off to work full-time in a racing yard for Alduino and Giuseppe Botti at the princely wage of around £10 a week. It quickly proved to be a disheartening experience, basically because at well under five stone I wasn’t strong enough or experienced enough to ride big, hard-pulling thoroughbreds.

I hope I didn’t behave too much like a spoiled brat, but that was probably the impression I gave as I turned up on the first morning in my immaculate jodhpurs and flashy jacket. My father was stable jockey and sometimes rode out there, so everyone was scared of treating me badly or giving me any worthwhile challenges. Nor, because I was Franco Dettori’s son, were they prepared to take any risks with me or make me do the dirty or dangerous jobs normally reserved for newcomers.You need someone pushing you constantly to help you improve but I wasn’t given the opportunity, probably because I wasn’t ready.

It was also a major disadvantage that Carlo d’Alessio’s team of forty racehorses was the classiest in Italy. The last thing he needed was one of his expensive stars running away with a new lad who should have been wearing L-plates. So I ended up riding the slowest, quietest horses in the yard which, looking back, was just as well. I continued to live at home and cycled to work earlier than everyone else each morning because initially it took me longer to tie up the three horses I looked after and to muck them out properly.

I enjoyed the routine of caring for the same three horses and brushed their coats until they shone like a mirror, but I was by far the slowest lad in the yard at my work. At least I was doing what I wanted after the restrictions of school, but it was pretty clear after only a few weeks that I wasn’t making any progress. Dad would turn up every few days to check up on me and immediately start shouting: ‘Let your leathers down, you’re riding too short, keep your bum down, try to look tidy—do this, do that, do the other.’ I tried to take it all in, but most of his advice was forgotten by the time I climbed onto another horse and I would be back to riding with my stirrups too short again. The truth is that whatever I did he was never satisfied, and the next time he appeared at the yard he would start shouting at me all over again. This went on week after week until I had the firm impression that he felt I was useless. I began to go into my shell whenever he drove into the yard and kept quiet because whatever I said didn’t please him.

I was frightened of upsetting my father and the trainer. I was also frightened by all the shouting because I didn’t know how to do the job properly and was terrified I’d make a disastrous mistake on a valuable horse. Some of the lads tried to help with useful hints, but no-one had any confidence in my ability and often I ended up on the same horse twice in the morning because it was the only safe one available. She was so lazy and fat she needed to go out twice to lose a little bit of weight.

Things weren’t much better at home in the evenings. That summer my dad fixed a long set of leather reins onto the metal frame of a well in our garden which was covered in ivy. Night after night he’d show how to hold the reins, the right way to make an arch with them, and then encourage me to change my hands on the reins while holding a whip as though I was riding a finish.

At this stage I could trot and canter—but in racing terms I could hardly read or write, and I couldn’t understand why he was taking such pains to teach me the basics. Why the hell did it matter so much? The lessons continued for half an hour or more on most evenings whenever Dad was home. He would start me off, then mow the lawn or sit down and read a newspaper, keeping an eye on me all the while, shouting instructions and occasional encouragement as I wrestled energetically with the reins.

Within a few months I was changing my reins and passing my whip through from one side to the other without thinking about it, all because of those endless lessons beside our garden well. Once I started race riding it came as second nature to me, and even now I don’t think about switching my whip or changing my hands. I just do it. Sometimes after a race the stewards will ask how many times I used my whip in a finish, and I don’t know the answer until I see the video. That’s because I do these things automatically, without a moment’s thought. Although I’m right-handed, all those sessions beside the well helped me become equally effective with the whip in either hand—which is a big advantage for a jockey. Strangely, though, if you ask any of my rivals, they will probably say I am more vicious with the whip in my left hand.

When you are twelve or thirteen and your dad tells you what to do you don’t have any choice. Everything he said I took as gospel. We had our differences, but to me he will always be a genius for clawing his way to the top of the tree by meeting every challenge with the whole of his being until he dominated flat racing in Italy like no jockey had ever done before or since. When I started in racing I was lost in his shadow, but I was hugely proud that he ended 1983 with a record of 229 winners in Italy—a score that is unlikely ever to be matched.

By the time the summer season was drawing to a close I’d reached an important crossroads in my life. In the late autumn everything closes down in Milan, which can be as cold as New York in the winter. My dad didn’t want me wasting my time trotting around an indoor school for three or four months, learning nothing but bad habits. He then had a flash of inspiration by sending me to work for Tonino Verdicchio at his winter training quarters in Pisa, a three hour drive further south. At the age of thirteen it seemed so far away from home that I felt he was sending me to the moon, but it proved to be the making of me.