My Feuds With Officials And The Press

Now, if I was curt from the beginning it was because I was working. Absolutely. This gave me an automatic reason. The people may not accept it. The newspapermen may not accept it, but who cares? I don't care, because if I cared what the newspapermen thought, I would have seen this image building and I would have erased it. Like Arcaro did. Great guy. No, my work comes first. Then what people think of me comes second.

There's this thing about reporters having to produce a story quickly on deadline. To me that does not excuse bad manners. It takes no time to say, "Excuse me, Bill, I'd like to ask you a question." Even then, I, as a human being, have a right to say, "I'm sorry, no interview today." As a person, I have that right to say no. But a newspaperman doesn't give you that right to say no. Even if you have said no they'll stand around and keep talking, hoping they'll get one line out of you. And one line will lead to another one. They take the attitude, "I'm walking in here and he damn sight better give me the interview, or else." They rush up to me right after the race is over, before I have a chance to talk to the owner or trainer. Where does my responsibility lie first? To the owner? To the trainer? Or to the press? To the owner and trainer. Nobody can argue that point.

I'd say that 95% of the newspapermen I've met operate this way, and a great number of them take it as a personal insult. I'm not insulting them. I'm not mad at them. I'm annoyed at their attitude and their approach. But to a newspaperman this is an absolute crime. And then they throw this line at you, "The public deserves to know." Well, the public deserves to know what I feel like telling them. I've done my best out on the racetrack—that's the important thing. Now, if I feel like talking about it, fine. That's my prerogative. Another thing about the deadline stuff. I haven't ever seen a newspaperman who took into consideration my concentration, so why should I consider his deadline? What they're saying is, in effect, consider my deadline and forget about your concentration. There's plenty of riders who can talk and concentrate at the same time. I'm not saying they're wrong for giving interviews, because they're not. They have a right to answer anything they want, and if they want to talk, fine. But, man, I'm not that way.

There was a big thing made about my keeping the newspapermen waiting while I signed autographs after winning the 1964 Kentucky Derby with Northern Dancer. First, I never had an appointment with newspapermen after the Derby. They didn't set up an appointment with me, so they took potluck. If I had felt like talking to them, they were there. But I didn't slight them at all. I didn't make an appointment and then refuse to show up. If I had made an appointment with them, I would have shown up. But I had no appointment with them. I had no responsibility at all to the newspapermen. Why should I show responsibility to those men who have done everything in the world to print a one-sided view of me?

I'd rather be broke than give a man an interview who not only doesn't deserve it but who also doesn't even know how to write a sentence exactly the way I said it. I've got hundreds of clippings at home in Miami of things I was supposed to have said, in quotes. I'm not perfect at grammar and I'm not perfect at a lot of things. But I'll be a sonuvagun—I can recognize what I said. I don't have that bad a memory. This is where television is different. You're more or less doing it yourself, rather than putting it in the hands of somebody else to write. I've found the people in TV—no reflection on any one individual newspaperman—but I have found the people who work in television definitely more mannerly. Yeah, and on television I've never misquoted myself.

If I give an interview after a race I care what I say. Sometimes I don't have anything to say, because I'm not sure. And I'm not going to give a typical line like, "My horse didn't like the track." Now, there's a helluva excuse. That's a beautiful excuse. That covers a lot of territory and doesn't mean a thing. He didn't like the track. Why? He didn't like its color? The track's been there for years. He's gotta like the track? How about the other horses? They all liked it, but he didn't. He must be a very unusual horse. Everybody else liked it. He didn't like it.

That sounds exactly like the questions the newspapermen hit you with. "When did you have the race won?" Oh, there's a beautiful line! "When did you think you had the race won?" If a reporter had ever ridden a horse in a race and won, he would never ask that question. I haven't got eyes in the back of my head. No matter how fast your horse is running, there's always a chance that someone else is gaining on you. You just don't really know. A person that's watching the race knows, more often than the jock, when a race is won, because he's looking at the whole scope of the race. He can judge how fast the second horse is running compared to how fast the leader is running. But when you're riding in a race you can't see it like a fan gets to see it. Horses aren't machines. They're subject to making a good run and then stopping. You may think four different times in the same race that you have a chance, and you may think three different times that you don't have any chance. How can you explain something like that? "When did you think you had the race won?" That's a beautiful line.

I have often been asked about my relationship with various owners and trainers. Only they could answer that, but from my point of view I can say but one thing: I don't like to lose. I don't believe in losing, and it would be hard for me to talk pleasantly after I lost. I am angry when I lose.

When I come back from a losing race it would be impossible for me to say, "Now, look, I'm going back and talk to the owner and trainer. I'm a mad sonuvabitch right now, but I've got to talk pleasantly to them to make sure they don't think I'm mad at them." I'm not mad at them. I may be mad at the horse. I may be mad at myself. Sure, I'm mad. I lost. Am I supposed to be happy?

I'll tell you one thing. If I was an owner or trainer, you know who I'd want riding my horses? Me. Because I want my jock, when he loses, to come back mad. I don't care who he's mad at. I want him to be mad. That's the kind of guy I want riding for me. I don't want a guy coming back to me, patting me on the back and saying, "Oh, I got into a little trouble today. Better luck next time. I hope to ride this horse back. Got off a little bad. Jock kind of shut me off down the backside." I don't want this guy riding for me if he's gonna pat me on the back and speak nice to me and tell me my horse should have won. I want my jock to come back and tell me exactly what happened, to the best of his ability. And I want him to be mad. I want him to say he's mad at the other guy just because he wants to whip him. That's why I want me.