MY OLD MAN MY OLD MAN
I guess looking at it now my old man was cut out for a fat guy, one of those regular little roly fat guys you see around, but he sure never got that way, except a little toward the last, and then it wasnāt his fault, he was riding over the jumps only and he could afford to carry plenty of weight then. I remember the way heād pull on a rubber shirt over a couple of jerseys and a big sweat shirt over that and get me to run with him in the forenoon in the hot sun. Heād have maybe taken a trial trip with one of Razzoās skins early in the morning after just getting in from Torino at four oāclock in the morning and beating it out to the stables in a cab and then with the dew all over everything and the sun just starting to get going Iād help him pull off his boots and heād get into a pair of sneakers and all these sweaters and weād start out.
āCome on kidā heād say, stepping up and down on his toes in front of the jockās dressing room,ā letās get moving
Then weād start off jogging around the infield once maybe with him ahead running nice and then turn out the gate and along one of those roads with all the trees along both sides of them that run out from San Siro. Iād go ahead of him when we hit the road and I could run pretty stout and Iād look around and heād be jogging easy just behind me and after a little while Iād look around again and heād begun to sweat. Sweating heavy and heād just be dogging it along with his eyes on my back, but when heād catch me looking at him heād grin and say, āSweating plenty?ā When my old man grinned nobody could help but grin too. Weād keep right on running out toward the mountains and then my old man would yell āHey Joe!ā and Iād look back and heād be sitting under a tree with a towel heād had around his waist wrapped around his neck.
Iād come back and sit down beside him and heād pull a rope out of his pocket and start skipping rope out in the sun with the sweat pouring off his face and him skipping rope out in the white dust with the rope going cloppetty cloppety clop clop clop and the sun hotter and him working harder up and down a patch of the road. Say it was a treat to see my old man skip rope too. He could whirr it fast or lop it slow and fancy. Say you ought to have seen wops look at us sometimes when theyād come by going into town walking along with big white steers hauling the cart. They sure looked as though they thought the old man was nuts. Heād start the rope whirring till theyād stop dead still and watch him, then give the steers a cluck and a poke with the goad and get going again.
When Iād sit watching him working out in the hot sun I sure felt fond of him. He sure was fun and he done his work so hard and heād finish up with a regular whirring thatād drive the sweat out on his face like water and then sling the rope at the tree and come over and sit down with me and lean back against the tree with the towel and a sweater wrapped around his neck.
āSure is hell keeping it down, Joeā heād say and lean back and shut his eyes and breath long and deep,āit aint like when youāre a kid Then heād get up before he started to cool and weād jog along back to the stables. Thatās the way it was keeping down to weight. He was worried all the time. Most jocks can just about ride off all they want to. A jock loses about a kilo every time he rides, but my old man was sort of dried out and he couldnāt keep down his kilos without all that running.
I remember once at San Siro, Regoli, a little wop that was riding for Buzoni came out across the paddock going to the bar for something cool and flicking his boots with his whip, after heād just weighed in and my old man had just weighed in too and came out with the saddle under his arm looking red faced and tired and too big for his silks and he stood there looking at young Regoli standing up to the outdoors bar cool and kid looking and I says, āWhatās the matter Dad?ā cause I thought maybe Regoli had bumped him or something and he just looked at Regoli and said,āOh to hell with itā and went on to the dressing room.
Well it would have been all right maybe if weād stayed in Milan and ridden at Milan and Torino cause if there ever were any easy courses its those two. āPianola, Joe My old man said when he dismounted in the winning stall after what the wops thought was a hell of a steeplechase. I asked him once, āThis course rides its-self. Itās the pace youāre going at that makes riding the jumps dangerous Joe-We aint going any pace here, and they aint any really bad jumps either. But itās the pace always ā not the jumps that makes the troubleā.
San Siro was the swellest course Iād ever seen but the old man said it was a dogās life. Going back and forth between Mirafiore and San Siro and riding just about every day in the week with a train ride every other night.
I was nuts about the horses too. Thereās something about it when they come out and go up the track to the post. Sort of dancy and tight looking with the jock keeping a tight hold on them and maybe easing off a little and letting them run a little going up. Then once they were at the barrier it got me worse than anything. Especially at San Siro with that big green infield and the mountains way off and the fat wop starter with his big whip and the jocks fiddling them around and then the barrier snapping up and that bell going off and them all getting off in a bunch and then commencing to string out. You know the way a bunch of skins gets off. If youāre up in the stand with a pair of glasses all you see is them plunging off and then th...