Making things happen

... with integrity

Monday March 22, 2004 Volume VI Number 12

ed Pollard was just about as interesting as the thoroughbred that carried the jockey on a wild ride to the Hall of Fame.

A quintessential first born, John (nicknamed Red for his fiery crop of red hair) valued independence as primary among all the virtues.  He was taught self-reliance.  He grew up in privilege.  His father, a wealthy industrialist in Western Canada, created an idyllic world for his wife and five children.  They would groom the horses, combine work and play, explore the forest and lakes and streams meadows and high places by day, and when the evening darkened the skies, the family would gather in the library to explore literary adventure that sparked dreams, stoked the imagination and sharpened language.  Conversation energized the Pollard family.  Mother and father reveled in the quick wit and clever expression of their children.  Mom and dad set the pace. 

None of the five caught on as completely as their oldest, Johnny.

The Pollard mill on the banks of a wide river provided considerable wealth.  But one rainy season brought a downpour that covered an immense portion of the Province all in the same day.  Heavy rains filled every tributary in the mountains, swelling creek beds and running streams to their capacity.  A torrent of turbulence filled the river and banks disappeared under swift current.  Without warning, the Pollard’s sublime world came to a calamitous end.  Uninsured, the mill floated down the river in irretrievable pieces and shortly afterwards the local bank closed down the ruined Pollard operation.  Now homeless, the once proud family wandered from town to town where Johnny’s humiliated father looked for work.  Johnny’s suitcase carried a collection of his favorite books.  Fearless, Johnny could ride.  He stood the height and weight of a competitive jockey.

What little money he earned at the race track, he brought home, until one day, his parents let him go.  He had a gift, his father said, and the time came for him to leave the family behind and become his own man.

He was a jockey by day and a boxer by night.  This rough and tumble world where they called him “Red” was in every respect Darwinian.  Survival of the fittest was a byword.  Clever wit, quick thinking, cons of every sort, all made Red scrappy and streetwise. 

But the exhilaration of the race – that was the best.  On the back of a racehorse in full stride at nearly fifty miles per hour in a pack of other galloping horses and riders jostling for the lead - that was the moment of complete exultation for Red Pollard.  He lost himself.  All the adventure, literary and experiential, came together in a kind of wholeness, completeness.  Nothing else mattered.  The senses peaked, the entire body in high performance mode, the sound of powerful hooves against the raked earth, the fluid motion of muscle built for speed, the powerful lungs inhaling and exhaling in perfect rhythms, and his peers standing in boots and stirrups just like his, reigns in hand, all speaking to their own animal and shouting threats to the others, urging their steed forward, they against him and he against them, battling for position, only one stride away from potential total disaster, it was beyond money, it was an end in itself - its own reward.  Pollard became obsessed, just like his one hundred and ten pound jockey colleagues, all of whom suffered every manner of pain and agony and isolation and poverty just for that moment of glory.

While Pollard seemed just another one of a legion of hopeful jockeys who were mere pawns in the sport of kings, he was clearly different than the rest.  The only one who quoted Shakespeare and Emerson and Thoreau, one of the few with experience in the boxing ring, and with the memory of happier days around the table with a family and loving parents, Pollard stood out.  It was more than his red hair.  When he spoke, people stopped to hear the wit and wisdom and clever humor coming from this unlikely source.  He was a brawny rider, punching and kicking in the rabble around the back stretch and into the straightaway as the best of them, but more than the rest, he drew on his intellect to size up his opponents, understand his horse, and strategize a game plan for every race.  His reputation for winning emerged not so much because of his physical superiority, which was considerable, but his keen insight.  He possessed an intellectual grasp that gave him an edge.  It was a subtle but powerful intimidation. 

It pulled him from obscurity into the national spotlight.

In the depths of the Depression years, the name Red Pollard brought a smile and inspiration to a weary nation.

* * * * * * *

In the early thirties, Charles Howard acquired a broken down racehorse with a non-descript name.  He believed what others did not.  Seabiscuit possessed untapped potential.  The rich San Francisco automobile magnate hired a quiet trainer, a loner named Tom Smith.  Howard believed the same about the trainer – he saw something in him others had not.  Smith’s uncanny capacity to read the subtle signs and understand and communicate with horses struck Howard immediately.

What made Howard a man with such unusual human insight?  The loss of his beloved thirteen year old son in a tragic accident and then angry departure of the boy’s distraught mother drove Howard into a period of painful introspection.  It sensitized him.  He emerged with the determination to make his life mean something.  He became a true believer in the power of the second chance. 

He proved to possess an unwavering commitment to his horse and his trainer.

He just needed a likeminded rider.

He found him.

Red Pollard.

* * * * * * *

Seabiscuit was fast.  Really fast.

It took some time to get this animal to run in a straight line.  He’d been abused.  He trusted no one.  He was the progeny of a line of similar thoroughbreds – temperamental and resistant – he bucked against restraints.  His former trainers never understood.  They believed that harsher punishment and a ready whip would subdue the horse’s wild nature.  But their plan only enhanced the rebellion.  Seabiscuit was a bundle of potential, but no one knew.

Until Howard and Smith. 

Red Pollard, Howard sensed it immediately, was the perfect match.

Pollard and Smith collaborated.  They analyzed Seabiscuit.  They developed a plan - the regimens and routines all calibrated to bring Seabiscuit back to his need for speed.  It was as though the trio, Pollard, Smith and Seabiscuit, found something of themselves in each other.

One day, it all came together.  Smith and Howard stood in the stands as Pollard took Seabiscuit for a full run around the track.  Smith clicked the stopwatch.  His eyes bugged out in disbelief.  He showed it to the horse's owner.  Howard shrieked in delight.

Thoroughbreds generally run their fastest in competition.  No one expects full speed in a solo run.

Seabiscuit, on that fateful day, alone on the track, beat a course record - by two astounding seconds.

* * * * * *

In the 1930s, California thoroughbred racing was considered second rate by moneyed Easterners.  The owners of the new and beautiful Santa Anita Park needed something to attract world-class talent.  Wagering recently became legal again, and taxed, launching horse-racing as a popular national pastime.  They couldn’t build large enough venues to accommodate the crowds.  Radio coverage only accelerated the growth of the sport as millions could listen in to the call of the most publicized contests.

Santa Anita stunned the racing world when they announced the purse of their premier annual race: one hundred thousand dollars.  They called it “The Hundred Grander.”

Even in the East, no one would match it.  The finest racing teams headed West.  All with Hundred-Grander dreams.

Howard, Smith and Pollard all believed they had the horse who would come home with that hundred grand: the unlikely, unseemly, unrecognized Seabiscuit.

In the running, Seabiscuit performed just as they anticipated.  With a record crowd watching on from the field, and millions more listening in to the radio call, Seabiscuit pulled around the home stretch with a comfortable lead.  He stretched on to five lengths ahead of his nearest contender.  Pollard believed he had the hundred grand in the bank.  And then something happened.  Something ominous.  Seabiscuit, with no competition, veered off course.  He turned haphazard toward the center, like the old undisciplined days.  Pollard, assuming victory, seemed to relax.  He pulled back.  Pollard’s friend Richards, riding the favored horse, Rosemont, made his move.  They sensed Seabiscuit’s overconfidence.  He spurted forward in a burst of speed, and closed on Seabiscuit’s lead.

Howard from the stands, sitting beside his giddy wife, shouted, “Champaign for everyone!  Seabiscuit’s gunna win!”

At even though Rosemont closed the gap, Howard believed Seabiscuit crossed the line first.  He shouted celebration.

But there was no announcement.  Only a delay.  The photo went for processing and careful scrutiny by the judges.  A hush fell over Santa Anita Park, and the listening world.

“ROSECRANS WINS!” came the announcement.  Seabiscuit lost by a nose.

Six inches.  A photo finish.

Clear black and white.

The 1937 hundred grand went to Rosemont.

* * * * * * *

Pollard was devastated.  As was Smith.  And Howard.

It would be the most scrutinized finish in racing history.  How could the superior speed of Seabiscuit be eclipsed by the inferior Rosemont? 

Red Pollard took the heat.  He knew he failed as Seabiscuit’s jockey. 

The truth came out.  It was a secret Pollard kept to himself.  No one knew.  Not Tom Smith.  Not Charles Howard.  No one.  Until now.

Pollard was blind in one eye.  His right eye.  He could not see Rosemont coming up from behind; when he did, it was too late.

The hundred grander was gone.

* * * * * * *

It’s Monday morning.  You are a leader.

Success comes at a price.  If you have never suffered defeat, you probably haven’t really known victory, either.  Leaders understand this.  You are in a battle.  There is    competition.  That moment when you lost your concentration, you failed to follow up, follow through, and the big win slipped through your fingers.

But what was it that caused you to persevere?  Honesty.  Integrity.  Facing your fears.  Overcoming the obstacles.

Like Red Pollard.  The loss at Santa Anita haunted him.  He was ridiculed.  Misunderstood.  His secret exposed.

Tom wanted him fired.  Charles refused.  He kept faith.  He believed in Red.

And two years later, Seabiscuit won the hundred grander, with Red Pollard in the saddle.

It was one of many victories.

Are you going to let that defeat, so fresh, so recent, so painful keep you from becoming what you know you can be?  Is that secret out?  Your weakness, your frailty, your blind spot… it’s been revealed.  Will it take you out?

I hope not.

Get yourself back in that saddle – and keep on riding.

It’s where you belong.

Posted in Valley Center, California

© Copyright Kenneth E. Kemp 2004

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