Adios El Presidente

By Jude T. Feld

For the last several months, the first thing I would do when I got out of bed in the morning was turn on the computer and go to bloodhorse.com to see if he was still here. I prayed for a story that he shook it and was back at the barn. It never was written. This day was inevitable I guess. With all the recent reports I had heard at the Breeders’ Cup, I knew it was coming soon, but it still doesn’t remove the sting.

Bobby Frankel is dead.

Everyone who knows me well knows that Bobby was my idol. Starting when we were 16 and 11, my brother Bob and I would go to the paddock and watch him saddle his horses, noting the equipment they wore, they way he put the saddle on, the way he stretched their legs. We pasted the past performances of his winners in a book, studied his workout patterns and the races and angles he used to prepare horses for their optimum effort.

Later on, when Bobby and I became friends, I told him about how much we studied him.

“I made a lot of money on your horses when I was in high school,” I said.

“How the fuck old do you think I am?” he replied.

Bobby trained a talented gelding, Fleet Grounded, to most of the 25 wins on his chart. When the ancient campaigner fell on hard times at age 11, Bobby claimed him back, got him right and won with him again at Santa Anita. Like one of his mentors, the great Buster Millerick, Bobby was never a big fan of winners’ circle photos. He went down and posed that day though, with his assistant, Humberto Ascanio, right by his side.

I bought that photo from the track photographer and had it framed. It hung in my office for the 20 years I trained as a reminder to take very good care of my horses.

Early one morning in 1979, I ventured out to Santa Anita, to visit the barn of Julio Canani, who I had met while working for the Daily Racing Form. The flighty Peruvian-born trainer had a small string and not much help, so when I complained about the cold weather, he handed me a shank connected to a horse named Kinalmeaky.

“Walk this horse,” he said. “It will warm you up.”

It was that fateful day that led to my friendship with Bobby, as Julio and he were best buddies then. As I spent more and more time around the Canani barn, I was gradually allowed into the Frankel inner circle.

What a treat for me, to sit in Frankel’s office and listen to him go over the training schedule with Humberto and Al Schwizer, his top exercise rider, eavesdrop on his phone calls with owners and bloodstock agents and be regaled with stories of his horses and clients, past and present.

With my previous experience on the racetrack, a year of working with Julio and spending every morning going stall-to-stall in the Frankel barn, with Humberto patiently teaching me how to care for a Thoroughbred’s ailments, I felt I was ready to get my own trainer’s license.

Canani broke the news to El Presidente (as Julio often referred to Bobby) one morning.

“You see Julio. You know he doesn’t know what he’s doing, so you figure you can do it too,” Bobby said to me.

That summer, I went to the Del Mar paymaster’s office to put in my first claim. Bobby walked in just after me and asked for a claim slip too. We filled out our paperwork, put the slips in their perspective envelopes and had the paymaster sign off on them.

“Who ya’ claimin’? Bobby asked.

“Puppydogtails,” I said.

“That’s who this slip is for,” he said. “You need the horse more than I do.”

And with that, he ripped up the slip and threw it in the wastebasket.

I got out-shook for Puppydogtails that afternoon but the gesture meant the world to me.

Years later, when Bobby had been inducted into the Hall of Fame, I told that story in front of him, to a few people gathered on the Keeneland apron during training hours. I got some shit for it too.

“You fuckin’ embarrassed me,” he said on the way back to his barn.

“Heaven forbid people don’t think you’re an asshole,” I told him.

On the racetrack, people dubbed him “brash.” Some said he was “a loner.” Others, even a few of his clients, called him “a jerk.”

He was all of those things at one time or another, but Bobby Frankel the man was intelligent, thoughtful and kind. He was full of love but found it impossible to express that emotion – except to his animals – his dogs and his horses.

Anyone who saw Bobby anxiously watching Exbourne, lying in his stall for months, often at death’s door, knew how much horses meant to him. Bobby seemed to impart the will to live to his charge and eventually saved the Juddmonte colt for stud duty.

It was that love of horses and the respect for them as athletes that made him such a fantastic claiming trainer. He took great pleasure in revitalizing horses, especially geriatric ones – getting them sound and feeling good – so they could perform their best.

So it made sense, that when he made the conscious decision to upgrade his stable, his stakes horses would always be at their best for the races or they would be safely kept in their stalls. Although often game in his placement, he never took chances with a horse’s health and welfare and was quick to scratch one if the track was off, the turf course was not up to his stringent safety standards or he didn’t feel a horse was right on the day.

“Better safe than sorry,” he said to me on more than one occasion. “Strawberries one day. Jam the next.”

Bobby Frankel and his down-home wisdom…Who knew?

One day, we were standing at the gap at Santa Anita, enjoying the sunshine and the end-of-the-morning quiet, waiting for our last set to come back.

Some blackbirds were picking the oats out of a big green pile of manure plopped on the racetrack.

“It’s their porridge,” he said, breaking the silence and then he turned and headed back to his barn.

How could you not love somebody who has thoughts like that?

He could be soft but he was ultra-competitive too. Once locked in a battle for leading trainer with Laz Barrera, he handed me an envelope with $3,000 in it on his way out of town.

“I’ve gotta go to New York,” he said. “I want you to bet $200 on everything Barrera runs from here ‘til the end of the meet. I hope I lose the whole fucking thing, but if Laz gets hot, at least I’ll make some money.”

One of my favorite Frankel stories revolves around a day at Hollywood Park when Bobby had saddled four winners. He made a rather large wager on his horse in the nightcap, which looked like it was going to be his fifth winner on the card. Unfortunately, the colt tired a bit late and was beaten a nose in the final stride.

Bobby got his car from the valet, drove back to his barn, got out and walked into his office, throwing his binoculars up against the wall and yelling at Al Schwizer, “God dammit Al. We just can’t get fucking lucky.”

If you knew Bobby, you’d know it wasn’t losing the bet that bugged him. It was only winning four when he could have won five.

He always wanted his horses to run their best but he also wanted the best for his clients.

Coming over with an entrant in the ninth race at Santa Anita one Saturday, I met Bobby in the parking lot.

“Don’t you have two in the Grade 2? I asked. “Where are you going?”

“I’m going skiing,” he said. “I’m gonna listen to Bill Garr call the race on the radio on the way to the airport. I don’t want to see the long faces of the owners if they get beat.”

The Frankel entrants ran 1-2.

Bobby was so proud of his relationship with Juddmonte.

I never had a box at Hollywood Park, so I would often watch my horses run from the Juddmonte box. One day, I was there, all alone. Bobby came over and sat next to me.

“How come you always use the Prince’s box?” he asked.

“Because it says “Judemonte.” I said.

“Judemonte,” he said grinning. “Pretty funny. But seriously, if anyone shows up, go sit in my box. Let me tell you. I am so spoiled. If Juddmonte ever fires me, I am going to have to quit. This is the best job in the world. Ya know what I mean? I’d have to quit training. I could never be happy training for anyone else ever again.”

I could write Bobby Frankel stories for days. I could illustrate his talent with horse after horse and race after race. I could tell you about all the nice things he did for me, and others he did for countless people on the racetrack, but I will respect his wishes.

I don’t want to embarrass him.

This entry was posted on Monday, November 16th, 2009 at 4:07 pm and is filed under Featured Articles. Responses are currently closed, but you can trackback from your own site.