SPECTATOR SPORT
The gallant gelding
Frank Keating
TWENTY years ago this week, Red Rum won the first of his three Grand Nationals. In between, he was also second on two other occasions. Some reckon the ancient steeplechase was on its last legs — what with the dilapidated course, lack of regular sponsors and the cruelty lobby — before Red Rum galloped into the cockles of the nation's heart.
Certainly, ever since the gallant gelding's astonishing string of cavalry charges, annu- ally the Grand of its title has become even grander and the National bit more all- embracing as it brings together for a rivet- ing afternoon sons and lovers, neighbours, nobs and nobodies, debs and plebs, and proles in their shoals.
It may be cruel to horses. But its sole object is heroism — and excessive cruelty to bookmakers. Not one winner (and a heck of a lot of losers, too) in the running of the race which began at Aintree in 1839 has been anything but heroic. As the old Victorian refrain rum-ti-tiddled, so this Sat- urday: Ye lads who love a Steeplechase and danger freely court, sirs,
Haste forward all to Liverpool to join the gal- lant sport, sirs; The English and the Irish nags are ready for the fray, sirs, And which may lose and which may win is very hard to say, sirs!
Although he might not, for once, be champion jockey this year, I'll be having my usual fiver on Peter Scudamore's ride. It is amazing, really, that the good fellow has never won a National. It is 34 years already since Peter's dad, Michael, won the thing on Oxo — and afterwards, in the tradition- ally carousing night at the Ade1phi in Liver- pool, as Michael was preparing to 'get drunk for a month in celebration', his train- er, Willie Stephenson of Royston, sobered him up by bawling him out 'for coming too soon'.
Oxo — what a red-hot name for the memory. The gobbledegook names of the neurotic nags of the flat seldom conjure up any romance these days. But I can rattle off — without trying too hard, and certainly not cribbing any record books — the names of Aintree's heroic hunters. Where are they now? Where's Freebooter? Or Nickel? Coin? Quare Times? Or Royal Tan? Remember Early Mist, and good ol' ESB, who panted past when Devon Loch sank? And might Nicolaus Silver be whinnying, nostrils wide, this special week in Trapalan- da — the place the gauchos know as heaven for good and faithful horses?
What about Mr What? Or Team Spirit? Or Jay Trump? Or Gay Trip — who won when the two words of his name still com- bined to mean only a jolly good day out?
How goes Ayala in Trapalanda? Thirty years ago this week, Ayala won at 66-1, rid- den by 18-year-old Pat Buckley. The week before, between races at Sandown Park, Pat had popped into the gents' loo. On the way out, he bumped into that leathery- faced old chuckler, Keith Piggott (Lester's Dad), Ayala's trainer.
Said Keith, 'What you doing next Satur- day, boy?' Said Pat, 'Watching the race on television, sir."What, haven't you got a ride, boy?"No, sir.' Said Piggott, 'You have if you can make ten stone by Saturday's weigh-in.'
And, sure enough, Buckley kept Ayala's nose in front of Carrickbeg in a resplen- dently gallant run-in. Carrickbeg was rid- den by an amateur, John Lawrence, now Lord Oaksey. M'Lord shook hands with Buckley, dismounted sadly, weighed in and found a telephone to dictate 1,500 glis- teningly heroic words off the cuff to the Sunday Telegraph. It remains the best bit of sportswriting I can remember.
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