AL

By Jude T. Feld

I am always puzzled when men I hold in high esteem take their own lives.

Are they unaware of the positive impact that they have had on the lives of others?

Do they think their friends have forgotten them?

Or have they just decided that life holds no more joy?

Last Monday, Al Schwizer somehow decided that enough was enough and ended it all.

The world-class exercise rider and former trainer from Amityville, New York had an interesting life on the track and thousands of stories to go along with it. Working for Hall of Fame trainer Bobby Frankel for almost thirty years should get you at least a grand’s worth of tales, but Al had a life before Frankel and after him.

One story Al liked to tell was about his connection to one of the greatest Thoroughbreds in history.

It was 1978 and Al was training at the time. He had lost one of his horses via the claim box a few days before and as claiming trainers do, he carefully perused the past performances searching for a suitable replacement. Al noticed a horse named John Henry entered for $35,000. The son of Ole Bob Bowers was coming off a two-length score at Aqueduct and looked like he was on his way up.

“I decide to take a shot and claim him,” Al said. “So I go and fill out a claim slip. Then, I find out that the owner had taken his money out of the paymaster’s office. Can you believe that? John Henry wins by 14 lengths and never ran for a tag after that. Can you imagine what that horse would have done for my career? The guy takes the money out of the office when we were doin’ good! That’s why I don’t train horses anymore…stupid motherfuckers like that. Let Frankel deal with ‘em.”

I believe Al still holds the record for most horses galloped in one five-hour morning at 50. I think he was working for Johnny Campo at the time, but he got on a ton of horses for Frankel virtually every morning of the year for nearly three decades, including one morning when I personally watched him ride 32.

Al also loved to embarrass me by telling anyone who would listen about the Sunday morning I got run off with on my pony. He teased me for years afterward.

“This motherfucker’s got two hands holdin’ on to the saddle horn for dear life,” he’d say. “The cowboy hat that Lance Alworth gave him goes flyin’ off at the quarterpole and by the time he gets to the eighth pole, he’s blowin’ past his two-year-old filly who’s working in :37. Too bad he ain’t skinny…coulda been a helluva jock…horses run for him.”

One of his other favorite stories involved his old boss.

“We’re at Hollywood Park. It’s the end of the meet and Bobby is fightin’ for the training title. We’ve got five horses in one afternoon and all of them figure. It’s one of those days when the jocks follow instructions, every horse gets a great trip and it’s all comin’ up roses. We win the first four races we’re in and have a 3-1 shot in the last race that Bobby thinks will win from here to the airport.

“The horse looks great in the paddock, saddles up nice and Bobby goes and bets three grand on him. He looks like a cinch turning for home but comes up a little short and gets beat in a photo.

“I’m back at the barn, waiting for my pony to cool out and Bobby storms in the office, throws his binoculars against the wall and yells, ‘Goddammit Schwizer, we can’t get fuckin’ lucky!’

“We win four races on the day and he is pissed we got beat a nose in the last. That’s why he is in the Hall of Fame. Most guys would be livin’ it up in the turf club with their owners, celebratin’ the other four. Not him. He wants to win every time.

“Can’t get fuckin’ lucky…most trainers don’t win four in a meet…I’ll never forget that.”

Having Frankel barn privileges propelled my own training career in many ways. Access to a great trainer and his training chart would be a tremendous boost to any young trainer, but having Bobby’s longtime assistant Humberto Ascanio teach me how to treat horse’s leg ailments and feed “Frankel style” gave me a big edge. So did having Al Schwizer on my team.

One of the many things I learned from Bobby about training horses was that sometimes it was wise to “blowout” a horse the morning of a race. This was usually an eighth of a mile workout from the 4 ½ furlong pole to the 3 ½ furlong pole in 11 or 12 seconds. The little trick was especially effective with old claimers who came from off the pace. Al was the very best at performing this unorthodox training maneuver.

In 1984, I claimed an Oregon-bred gelding named Family Fox at Santa Anita. Despite the fact that his legs looked like they were put on by a blind man, the son of Bob Mathias could really run. He encountered trouble the first time I ran him back off the claim and had to settle for fourth, but the race seemed to do him some good and I felt like he was set for a winning effort. The day before he was to run, I walked across to Frankel’s barn to see Al.

“I’ve got this horse in a good spot tomorrow and I think he’s sittin’ on a win,” I said to him. “But I think he could use a little blowout down the backside.”

“Bobby doesn’t get here ‘til six,” he said. “Have him ready to go at 5:30.”

Family Fox was tacked and walking when a muscle-shirted Al bounced into the shedrow, stick in hand, the next morning. I gave him a leg-up on the light bay gelding and Al took him out for a spin.

“He feels fuckin’ great!” Al said back at the barn. “You’ll get the candy today.”

I handed him a folded up $20.

“No fuckin’ way,” he said. “I ain’t takin’ your money. You’ve got a baby to feed. I know how it is. Kids are expensive.”

Like it always works out in racing stories…Family Fox made a great late charge and won going away under Carlos Delgadillo.

The next morning, Al walked into my office.

“I am the greatest!” he said. “Nobody was gonna beat that motherfucker yesterday. Nobody. I hope you made a score.”

“I did pretty well,” I said. “Let me take you out to dinner.”

“Don’t worry about me,” he said heading to Frankel’s barn. “I make plenty of money workin’ for Bobby. You take care of that baby.”

There were two more kids and lots more winners as time went by. Al never took a dime for his work.

The last time I saw him was a couple of years ago when I was visiting Santa Anita.

“How are your kids,” he asked.

“Just great. They’re 22, 20 and 15.”

“No shit. I remember when they were little…your son, man he was a pistol. Loved rakin’ that shedrow. That kid shoulda gone to work for Lukas. Guess I’m really fucking old now. Nice to see ya’…got four more to go…two are ponying…wanna get back in the saddle?”

It is impossible to know what men hold in their hearts. I know Al’s was pretty big, but I wish it could have held more of the joy he found in his life and less of the sadness that forced him to take it from us way too soon.

This entry was posted on Thursday, January 10th, 2008 at 1:08 pm and is filed under Featured Articles. Responses are currently closed, but you can trackback from your own site.