Low life
Bigheads beware
Jeffrey Bernard
Ihope to God that my worries about the future of Frankie Dettori are completely unfounded, as on too many occasions I have seen successful sportsmen ruined as human beings by a sudden and irreversible swelling of the head which is quite cringe- making and also rather sad and embarrass- ing. So far, though, from what I have heard from people who know Dettori well, he remains level-headed and quite charming unlike the slightly unbalanced Chris Eubank and the extremely cocky Willie Carson who sometimes gives the impres- sion that he invented race riding. Big head- edness is not a deformity that afflicts only actors and pop singers. It is a million to one chance against Dettori going through the card ever again, particularly on a six- race card let alone the fairly unusual seven- race card, and his reaction to having done so is one of very pleasant surprise at his luck and his obvious appreciation that you can't come without the horse.
That was fully appreciated about 100 years ago when the then Duke of Westmin- ster berated a jockey — Jem Robinson, I think it was — for being beaten by half a length on one of the Duke's horses. Robin- son, with a touch of sarcasm, said, 'I'm sorry, your Grace, but I couldn't come without the horse.' Dettori realises the same thing.
But what really amazes me most about that talkative young man is the extraordi- nary paradox of anybody at all having actu- ally had a winning accumulator on that never to be forgotten day at Ascot. It may be a contradiction to say so, but it was a bet struck by a couple of insane optimists and in one case a woman who couldn't possibly have been aware that it was tantamount to winning the National Lottery on two con- secutive weeks. Doubtless many punters in the future will make similar bets in the hope that lightning will strike twice in the same place, but then it did once at Ascot quite literally, killing some poor sod some years ago at the second strike.
But, as I say, Dettori seems at the moment to be almost unmoved by anything apart from great joy at his achievement. Willie Carson's cockiness verges on arro- gance and he tries just a little too hard to make self-congratulatory jokes every time he opens his mouth, and Eubank just makes a fool of himself every time he makes an utterance. Gene Tunney, one of my favourite boxers ever, gave himself a nice little slap on his own back when, after having beaten Jack Dempsey twice, he then said that Dempsey was the finest fighter there had ever been.
Of the professional cricketers I have met, they all seem to agree that as soon as Geof- frey Boycott begins to opine his theories on the game everyone begins to yawn. There is something very phoney about false modesty but just an inkling of it can and would be a pleasant change.
Talking of which, I was slightly amazed the other day that such a good judge of matters pertaining to show business, Ned Sherrin, should pick Sir Donald Wolfitt as one of his pin-ups in the Oldie magazine and anyone who fails to see what an enor- mous piece of ham Anthony Quinn is must be blind. He can act one part and that is Zorba.
What makes it doubly annoying is that, apart from the revolting prince Naseen and the aforementioned jolly little Willie Car- son and the unstable Chris Eubank, of all the sportsmen I have met and known, jock- eys and fighters tend generally to be the nicest and David Gower seems to stand head and shoulders above cricketers, whereas it might sound like sacrilege to a Yorkshireman but Fred Trueman simply stands only a head above them like Boy- cott.
Incidentally, I hope to God that I am right in thinking that astrology is a load of utter codswallop, and I have believed that to be so ever since last 27 May when I dis- covered that Gazza and I share a birthday. Such a simple and large baby. It was bad enough before that discovery to know that I also share a birthday with Henry Kissinger. Another baby of sorts but an extremely pretentious one.
Oh well, perhaps I am as bad as the rest of them in a strictly amateur way. The moment of glory I feel to cheer myself up in moments of gloom is the memory of a cricket match I once bowled so well in that our captain took me off for what he called `spoiling the game'. He said he wanted the match to last until opening time otherwise we would be kicking our heels in the pavil- ion. Happy days.
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