“We’ll never see another one like him.”

By Jude T. Feld

The chair behind the typewriter is empty.

The teletype is silenced forever.

Joe Hirsh is dead.

I first met Joe when he came to Santa Anita to cover the Strub Series victories of Spectacular Bid. I was making the charts for the Daily Racing Form and was part of a great crew of guys who loved their work, Joe included.

Dressed in a black suit and black overcoat, Joe was on the backside on a daily basis up to the Strub, gathering notes, renewing acquaintances, even holding court at Clockers’ Corner, telling racing stories alongside Laz Barrera and Charlie Whittingham.

On the morning of entries, about 10:30, he appeared at the Daily Racing Form’s section of the Fred Purner pressbox, grabbed the day’s paper off the stack, and looking over his glasses, as was his custom, he said to columnist Howard Senzell and I, “You boys would happen to have a shoe brush?”

A shoe brush? Howard and I thought a little manure on your shoes made it look like you were working.

Legendary DRF trackman Jay Woodward had to look away to keep from busting a gut. He knew Howard and I were dying at the request we could not fill.

“No Mr. Hirsch,” I finally piped up. “But I’ll take your shoes down to Eddie Logan and have them shined if you wish.”

Joe smiled.

“That’s alright,” he said. “I’ll just walk down and see Eddie myself. And Jude, please call me Joe.”

After he left, Jay called me an ass-kisser.

I went out that night and bought shoe brushes for everyone on the crew and faux autographed them, “Joe Hirsch,” with the words Official Shoe Brush written on the side. I still have mine somewhere. I left one blank, for Joe, in case he asked again.

Giving up the charts, for the next twenty years, I trained racehorses, and every time he saw me, Joe would say hello, calling me by name. To me, that was amazing. Joe Hirsch, the greatest writer in the history of the American turf, took time out of his busy schedule to stop by my barn and check on me. Incredible.

In 2001, I moved to Kentucky, and rekindled my friendship with Cliff Guilliams.

We had learned the ropes of the pressbox together in 1978 at James C. Ellis Park. A place we dubbed, “The Saratoga of the West.” I was apprenticed to DRF trackman Jack Valentine and Cliff was the protégé of Don Bernhardt, the racing writer for the Evansville Courier-Journal.

Unbeknownst to me, Cliff and Joe had become close friends in the interim and during that time, Joe’s health had declined dramatically.

I told Cliff the shoe brush story.

“That’s Joe,” he said. “Classiest man I know. We’ll never see another one like him.”

When Joe came to Keeneland to cover what would be his last Toyota Blue Grass, the 2003 edition won by Peace Rules, Cliff picked him up at the airport, got him to his hotel and gathered him each morning for his trips to the backstretch.

Joe decided to throw an intimate post-race dinner party one evening during Blue Grass week, and surprisingly, I was on the guest list.

Although it was painful watching Joe eat while debilitated by Parkinson’s disease, the conversation around that table was amazing. How glorious to spend three hours with one of the greats of the game, talking about the sport that I love.

When it came time for dessert, Joe ordered his favorite – key lime pie, but noticing I had been drinking rum all night, he looked straight at me, peering over his glasses and said, “Jude, you must have the bananas Foster. It is amazing.”

During Derby week, Joe would call me for information from Keeneland for his columns and every once in a while, during the summer, he would call about a horse to ask my opinion, and then in the fall to find out if I had any scuttlebutt on a Breeders’ Cup entrant. Then he retired, and the only info I got on Joe was from Cliff.

I know Joe followed the game as best and as long as could and although the columns weren’t typed and sent, I’m sure they were spoken to anyone who came calling.

Shoe brushes and bananas Foster – I think Joe would love to be remembered that way.

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