The Craziest Horse Race ... ever!

I've had a long relationship with horse racing. There’s even a Stakes Race with my name on it … The Travers, run at the Saratoga Race Track every year since 1864.

As a kid, my father would take me to the Dufferin Race Track in the heart of downtown Toronto. It was built in 1907 and made into a shopping mall in 1955.

In 1958, as a 12-year-old, me and a few buddies got a Saturday afternoon job at the new Woodbine Race Track directing traffic in the parking lot @ 50 cents an hour.

Note: Next month, Woodbine will host the 163 running of The Queen's Plate - the oldest continuous race in North America. Superstar jockey Sandy Hawley won it four times. Somehow, he and I became friends more than 40 years ago.

Now, jump to me as a newlywed homeowner in Toronto's Mississauga suburb with two kids in the early 1970s. It was a neighbourhood like no other ... actors, musicians, policemen, teachers -- 14 adults plus their children. Everyone loved a good time and enjoyed each other's company. I couldn't wait to get home from work to find out what shenanigans were planned for that evening. And, oh ya, the guy next door to me was an official at Woodbine race track.

Note: I pleaded with my racetrack neighbour to put me on a thoroughbred. If you'd like to see the result of that request CLICK ON "They're at the post ... with me in the saddle"

Each summer, my race track neighbour would plan a day at the track for our adult group of neighbours. He'd organize tickets and programs for everyone. Afterwards, our collection of winners and losers would head to his backyard for a barbecue and everyone's kids were invited to join the fun.

Whenever we were at the track as a group, we were together but separate. Some people were betting, some went to the bar, some crossed their fingers and watched the races and some visited the paddock to talk to the horses. On one such track day, I noticed that one in our group had invited a friend to join us.

But he was very aloof, separated from us ... he really seemed to want to be alone. I wondered why he bothered to come.

As the day wore on, I joined him at the bar and offered to buy him a drink. I led with ... "have you picked any winners"? Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say.

He ignored me and walked away.

Two races later, he sidled up to me to apologize for our previous exchange. "I'm really sorry for my behaviour earlier, he offered and seemed genuine. "I've had some very bad luck at the track and I don't like to think about it. I shouldn't have come”. It sounded bad. I didn't press. But, he kept talking.

"Something happened that I still have nightmares about".

OK, this is worse than I thought. Then, he started to tell the story.

He didn't look at me while he was talking. He just stared off into space as he relived his experience. There was a lot of emotion. I don't think he had ever talked about this to anyone else before. I got the feeling I was prying or about to hear something I shouldn't.

"The year was 1961. I got a call from our family lawyer that a horse was running at Fort Erie race track and it was a sure thing". "No other horse in the race will catch this one". "I have inside information from the trainer". "You have to get to Fort Erie today and take lots of cash”.

"I phoned my father -- "we gotta go ... between the two of us, we managed $500".

(I just checked with Google ... $500 in 1961 is the equivalent to $4,650. in 2022 dollars.)

"We bet $250 to WIN and $250 to PLACE"

"We made the 90-minute drive to Fort Erie in lots of time for our race. We were nervous when we made the bet ... because it was a lot of money. When the mounted bugler played the familiar call to the post, my mouth was dry and my knees were shaking”.

“Our horse broke from the gate just as we were told ... he exploded! After the first turn, I looked at my dad ... he was smiling from ear to ear”. “I remember thinking that this was such a great thing to experience with my father ... just me and him, winning at the track".

"In the final furlong, our horse was ahead by 5 lengths ... in my head, I was counting our winnings"

“Then, inexplicably, remarkably, our horse jumped the rail, dumped the jockey, and went for a swim in the infield lake."

I didn't know if I should laugh or cry with this guy. But, I did feel his pain. He never came back to race day and, although I can remember all the details of this event like it happened yesterday, I can't remember his name. But, I can never, ever forget that horse.

His name ... Puss n Boots.

And, in honour of Puss n Boots, every Labour Day at Fort Erie race track,

the owner and jockey of the Puss n Boots Stakes go for a swim in the lake.