Warren Stute – One Tough Sonofabitch

Warren Stute began his career walking hots and galloping horses, under trainer Yorky MacLeod. He established his own successful public training stable in 1948. He won a million dollar race at age 80, taking the 2002 Godolphin Mile (G1) in Dubai on World Cup Day. He continued to gallop horses throughout his career until suffering a minor stroke in 2002. One of California’s all-time great trainers, he passed away during the night at age 85.

By Jude T. Feld

Late one Santa Anita morning, I was walking back to my barn with my last horse of the day, when Warren Stute, then about 70, brought a young colt to the starting gate in the quarter pole chute for a little schooling. The balky juvenile acted like he had never seen the auxiliary gate in his life and that might have been true as far as I know.

The colt twisted and reared with Warren on his back, his old black velvet helmet now faded brown from too many days in the sun.

Warren hopped off at the assistant starter’s direction and the younger man put a shank over the colt’s nose and led him in and out of the gate several times while Warren waited patiently over at the rail.

Satisfied that the colt would stand, the assistant starter motioned Warren over and gave him a leg-up. Warren adjusted his boots in the irons and was led into the gate. Everything seemed fine for a few seconds and then all hell broke loose. The colt began thrashing and despite every effort of Warren to stay on, he flew out the back of the gate, landing right on his head, denting his helmet.

Having seen someone die of trauma right in front of me on another occasion, I was familiar with the multitude of ashen hues that color a person’s face as they pass away. Warren was on his way out, even before the ambulance arrived.

I waited around ‘til they loaded him and walked sadly back to the barn with a pit in my stomach.

“I think Warren Stute just got killed,” I said to my foreman Jose Ruiz when I got back to the barn.

“Oh my God!” Jose said, crossing himself. “Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure,” I said. “He flew off this crazy colt at the gate and landed on his head.”

“No bueno,” Jose replied.

Gathering my things, I left my office and drove home to Sierra Madre.

“What’s wrong with you?” my wife Jill said as I came in the door. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I think I just Warren Stute get killed,” I answered.

“What happened?” Jill said.

“He was schooling this colt who went nuts at the gate. Warren flew out the back and landed on his head. It was all like in slow-mo.”

“That’s not good.”

“No, and he turned colors right before my eyes. Just like the girl during the earthquake.”

“Oh,” Jill said and gave me hug.

“I’ve got one in, so I’m gonna shower and head back to the track. If I hear anything, I’ll call you.”

Letting the water run over me was a great way to calm down, but I couldn’t get the sight I just witnessed out of my mind.

I dressed, kissed Jill goodbye and headed back to Santa Anita.

Parking in the owner-trainer section, I got out of the car and asked Elmer, the valet, if there was any word on Warren.

“No,” he said. “I heard they took him to Methodist Hospital but I haven’t heard anything else.”

I bought a program, said hello to a couple of high school buddies who used to hangout in the paddock gardens and walked to the escalator heading up to the box seat section.

I waved at Larry the usher, who always worked the finish line steps and rounded the corner into the betting area behind the mezzanine to get a diet coke.

Now I really thought I had seen a ghost.

Who is standing at Mike’s Bar, having a cocktail, in one of his famous shark skin suits?

Warren Stute.

It was like Twilight Zone – Live.

Visibly shaken and at the risk of looking like an idiot, I walked up to Warren and said, “What are you doing here?”

“Having a drink with Mike.”

“I just saw the ambulance haul you away less than two hours ago. I thought you were dead! I went home and told my wife, ‘I just saw Warren Stute get killed.’”

“Looks like the rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated,” Warren said. “Can I buy you a drink?”

Later on that day, Mike the bartender called me over to the bar.

“Was that true? Was he that messed up?”

“I’m tellin’ ya’ Mike, I thought he was dead.”

“He’s a sonofabitch,” Mike said. “Tough as nails.”

Like most bartenders, Mike was right.

Warren Stute was a sonofabitch (that’s for another story) and he was tough. You might say, he was one tough sonofabitch – and they don’t make ‘em like that anymore.

This entry was posted on Thursday, August 9th, 2007 at 1:13 pm and is filed under Featured Articles. Responses are currently closed, but you can trackback from your own site.