The Legend of Zippy Chippy (16 page)

With number one on his silks and at number one in the program, Zippy Chippy, number one in the hearts of the faithful at
trackside, had come in a disappointing last by four yards more than a football field.

Zippy had dwelt at the Finger Lakes starting gate for his third and final time. Incompetence is tolerated at racetracks, which is why eight out of nine horses always manage to lose a race; failure to participate in a race in a meaningful way is not. Felix Monserrate's signature horse had hit this finish line for the final time, setting a Finger Lakes record of seventy losses without a win.

The track steward who would later ban Zippy from Finger Lakes pretty much called the race when he said, “He started way behind the field and finished way behind the field.” You have to hope they don't carve those words into his headstone, but at that point in his career, it would have served as a pretty accurate epitaph.

Although the stewards had little choice but to ban a horse that refused to race, there was quite a split in the vote behind the scenes. Zippy, it seems, had become a sentimental favorite even in the hardened hearts of some track officials. Strict adherence to policy was not supposed to be deterred by sentimentality.

“It was for the public's protection,” said the head steward. “If he's starting ten or fifteen lengths behind the field, that's not giving the bettors a fair shake.” In the cruelest cut of all, he articulated Zippy's problem at the starting gate: “It wasn't that he was coming out slow – that's one thing. It's that he wasn't coming out at all!” As dwellers go, Zippy looked like he was trying to make a real estate offer on his starting gate cubicle in order to live there year round.

Despite his shortcomings, or more than likely because of them, the throng of people who had come out to see Zippy race that day was huge. Many in the crowd wore hats and T-shirts emblazoned with the Zippy Chippy logo. One woman wept openly when Zippy finally did amble across the finish line.

The ink was barely dry on the paperwork to officially abolish him from racing at Finger Lakes when all the big city newspapers in the Northeast waded into the fray. W
AY
O
UT OF THE
R
UNNING
! read the headline of the cover story in
USA Today
, with a photo of Zippy having Felix's trademark blue cap for lunch. Z
IPPO
F
OR
Z
IPPY
, bellowed the banner of the Syracuse
Post-Standard
over a photograph in which Felix appeared to be restraining Zippy in order to save the photographer's life. The Associated Press went with M
AIDEN
'
S 85TH
L
OSS
T
IES
M
ARK
, while the
New York Times
topped their feature story A
LL
-T
IME
A
LSO
-R
AN
. The cutline “Horse goes for record in the futility stakes” appeared beneath a photograph of Zippy and Felix, side by side, calm, happy, and smiling. It was either a magical moment in professional sports or a world-class achievement in airbrushing.

Not only did Zippy hear the fat lady sing, but she had called him out on three straight strikes. The stewards' lifetime ban meant that Zippy would never again be allowed on the premises of Finger Lakes as a competitor.

The loss staggered Felix, forcing him to put on his bravest face ever. “I love him more because everybody puts him down,” he said. Sadly, that was the best Zippy's loyal owner could muster as he got his horse settled in his stall with fresh water, a full feed bag, and a nose rub. Even the cockeyed optimist that Felix had become acknowledged that his old friend's career was probably at an end.

“He's happy. He's healthy. He will be my pet for the rest of his life,” said the man who normally couldn't stop talking about his lovable, unlucky horse but on this day wandered off to a quiet corner of the barn. Zippy Chippy ended his career at Finger Lakes the same way he had started it at Belmont Park: many, many lengths behind non-winning maidens. Criticism of the horse and its owner came harsh and quick.

Said the same steward who voted to ban him: “They were throwing their money away. I'd look up at the board and there would be $20,000 bet on the horse. He was a cult figure, alright.” But cult figures don't cut it in a world of rules and regulations. John Lennon and the status quo were longtime enemies. Ed Sullivan gave Elvis Presley's playful pelvis a rest. Zippy and conformity would never walk together, hoof in hand. RINGGGGGGGG! – that was their rule, not his. If he wanted to admire the crowd from the starting gate or play Simon Says with his jockey, then he would. He did. And now he had paid the ultimate price for individualism. Zippy Chippy was led out of stall seven and hustled out of barn twenty, never to return.

“That horse is just taking up space,” said another steward. “You put a horse in the starting gate and he just stands there, and someone in the stands is betting the rent, well, that's not too funny. A horse just can't waste the public's money like that.”

Taking direct aim at Felix's proficiency as a trainer, Christopher Scherf of the Thoroughbred Racing Association said to a reporter, “There aren't a whole lot of horses who race past his age.” He paused while the dart took flight, then continued, “The horse may be telling you something.” He was right. The average racehorse retires at age five, after about fifteen starts. Zippy was now seven years old, with almost six times as many races.

Bob Matthews, a colorful syndicated columnist for Gannett newspapers, heartily disagreed with everybody and particularly with the decision to ban the horse. As a sports writer with the Rochester
Democrat and Chronicle
, Bob was the scribe who started the fanfare that put thoroughbred racing's legendary darling ne'er-do-well on America's radar. When Zippy went zero for sixty races, the writer with a keen eye for a great story and a blunt approach to putting it on paper made the horse known
to America. Naturally, he liked Zippy Chippy; he just never bet on him. Red Smith, a colleague of Matthews' described Zippy's speed as “excellent for a mule and phenomenal for a fat man.”

“They said he was a blight on bettors. Are you kidding me? He was a great help to bettors … all you had to do was eliminate him from the mix and your chances of winning with another horse improved immediately,” claimed Matthews.

Ironically, by banning the horse who had become the track's star attraction, Finger Lakes officials were hurting themselves and cutting into their own pockets. On his final loss there, his eighty-fifth, Zippy went off at 7–2 on a tote board that should have had him at 30–1. Why? Because lots of people from all over America were betting on him, proudly showing their support for a fellow struggler. Some no doubt wanted to brag about owning a winning ticket on the biggest loser in racing history, but most bet on him because they truly hoped he would win. Through sympathy and souvenirs, Zippy Chippy had become a bona fide American celebrity and the darling of mainstream media as well.

Finger Lakes officials agreed that Zippy was certainly generating publicity for the racetrack, but in their opinion it was all bad. “The horse became a publicity item, sort of a joke,” said one official. “I know Felix really likes the horse, but he should be a pet. I don't think he belongs on the racetrack.”

“Not true,” said Bob Matthews. “All that interest in Zippy was good. He brought a lot of people to the track in an industry that needs all the help it can get.”

When one Finger Lakes official claimed that Zippy Chippy was making the track look “bush league,” Bob's honesty got the best of him. “You
are
bush league!” said the sports commentator, who still hosts a talk show on Rochester's WHAM radio. “Have you looked around this place?” Had they a legal leg to stand on,
it's likely the stewards would have banned Bob Matthews from their track along with Zippy Chippy.

What angered the sportswriter most about Zippy Chippy's lifetime banishment from Finger Lakes was the hypocrisy of a class-B track making such an A1 ruling. With the class thoroughbreds running at Belmont, Aqueduct, and Saratoga Springs just down the New York State Thruway, Finger Lakes should have been focusing on fun. And who had more fun at a racetrack than Zippy Chippy, the “Frat House Flash”?

Now there were three infamous names at unlucky number eighty-five – Gussie Mae, Really a Tenor, and Zippy Chippy – all tied for the record for most consecutive losses in American thoroughbred racing. The real problem was that, at about the same odds as winning Powerball, the other two longtime losers had each won their eighty-sixth race, thereby ending any possibility of stretching their dreaded streaks to eighty-six losses. For now, three shared the notorious title, but if Zippy Chippy incurred one more loss, he would have the dubious distinction of eighty-six losses in a row all to himself. The “Cellar Dweller” moniker was gathering traction.

At this unpromising moment, everybody, including family members, encouraged Felix to sell or retire the horse. At the very least, a second career was highly recommended. Turn him into a show horse, they said, or place him with a local riding stable. Really? A dancer, or a Sunday afternoon prancer? Can you imagine the number of pretty hats Zippy could eat at a horse show? Or the casualty list he could rack up by throwing city slickers off his back on a recreational riding trail? An even worse idea would be to convert Zippy Chippy to one of those “healing horses” that intuitively interact with children suffering from grief or anxiety disorders. Just try and get your brain around that scenario: “Mommy! Mommy! Help! My head is stuck in the horsey's mouth!”

Although putting Zippy out to pasture made perfect sense to most people, Felix was not onside. “I don't care how old he is,” he said. “He's trying and trying and trying, and that makes me happy. Plus, he love to run. Maybe not in every race, but still, he love to run.” Felix was always on Zippy's side.

When asked if he would now sell the horse, Felix replied, “The horse is not happy with anyone else. If you go to his stall, he pins his ears back like he's going to attack you. But that's just an act. He's really just a puppy.”

And Zippy? After he did a little dance around the backside of the barn to let everybody know he had run a great race, he tucked into a bag of his favorite snack, clover and alfalfa, and within thirty minutes of what his fans would call the worst – no, really, the very worst – race of his career, he was softly snoring himself into the deep sleep of an athlete who had left it all out there on the field.

And no, when you match an incredible record for consistent failure, the president of the United States does not phone you after the race. When you run that badly, you're lucky if the security guard lets you back into the barn without asking for ID.

Yet Zippy's entourage, who had lined the rail to wish him well and yell “Better luck next time,” wanted to know just one thing: When could they see him run again?