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Late report and a hit for me: Henry Cecil, June 11. Link.
Sir Henry Cecil, champion racehorse-trainer, died on June 11th, aged 70
Jun 22nd 2013 |From the print edition
WHENEVER visitors came to his stables at Warren Place near Newmarket, the home of English flat racing, Henry Cecil liked to show them the roses first. Not the colts, rippling with raw power, or the fillies chattering in their stable, but a bloom fresh-picked by his long, aristocratic fingers. “That’s good scent, yeah? And lots of buds to come.” Leading the way to the stable yard, a lanky, shy, elegant figure with flopping hair, he would add: “This is a rose hedge, you know. When the hips start coming, when they go red, the fillies love them. Better than a sugar lump.”
He knew the names of all the roses, hundreds of them; knew their habits. But he didn’t dig the beds or do the pruning, or any of that stuff. He just wandered among the beds and planned. With the horses, it was the same. Breeding was the owner’s job. Stabling arrangements were the head man’s job (though he kept an eye on every detail, lights left on or horses left bridled, and would thrust his nose like a gourmet into each new delivery of hay). Winning was the jockey’s job: 3,000 wins from his stables, including 25 English Classics such as the Derby or the Oaks, after each of which the Cecil flag would fly triumphantly over Warren Place. But the planning—having a picture of how he wanted a horse to grow—that was the part he did.
It began every day at 5am, with the mist still over Newmarket Heath. He loved those mornings. Cigarette in hand, he would lead the string of thoroughbreds out to the gallops. All the time he watched them, mulling the right work for each horse, the right rider, and when it might be ready. Every day in the yard he floated about asking vague, but decisive, questions: “Rest him tomorrow, don’t you think?” In the evenings, again, he wandered and studied. He would talk to the horses then, one large hand comfortingly on their backs. Find out how they felt. He would say, “It would be lovely if you could go for the Guineas.” And the horse—for they talked back, you know—would say “All right,” or “Not yet.” Patience, patience, patience. There was a moment with a racehorse, as with a rose, when it reached perfection. But if you pushed too roughly, the beauty broke.
Top of the table
He did it all by instinct, not by the book. He was pretty stupid really. Failed the Eton exam. “No brains,” wrote the headmaster on his last report. “Hopeless Henry”, the family said, good mostly at smashing up fast cars and chasing women. But he had a sort of rapport with horses, and his stepfather, Sir Cecil Boyd-Rochfort, trained them for the queen; he fell into this inheritance in 1968, had his first English Classic winner in 1975 and by 1987, his peak year, achieved 180. Sheikhs and lords lined up to send their horses to his stable. He became a staple of the winner’s enclosure, flashy in his white shoes, one hand diffidently lodged in the pocket of his cashmere jacket, as victor after victor came in.
He looked aloof, but wasn’t. He was “Guv’nor”, not “Sir”, merry with his staff, loved by the punters whose racecards he happily signed. The diffidence, too, was a front. He liked to beat people. Every winner was coloured in on a crossword grid in his daybook. Each day of the season he scanned the Racing Post’s trainers’ table to see if he was up a place, or down. He was champion trainer ten times, a record, but wanted more. His jockeys (including Lester Piggott, Joe Mercer, Steve Cauthen) were changed ruthlessly if they didn’t suit. His horse might win, but if the ride was less than perfect he would wince, not rejoice. “Didn’t go according to plan.”
After 1990 or so his whole life didn’t go according to plan. His first marriage broke up, then his second. His twin brother David died of cancer. A virus got into the yard. The owner-breeders he relied on died out, and Sheikh Mohammed al Maktoum, the ruler of Dubai, removed his splendid horses from his stable. In 2005 he saddled only 12 winners, and toppled down the trainers’ table. Then he got cancer himself. On the dawn rides he thought he heard people murmuring, “There’s Henry Cecil. Should have retired long ago.”
Three things saved him. His third wife, Jane, who organised him. His rose garden, into which he wandered when his mind got too jumpy. And the horses, many of them from Khalid Abdullah, a Saudi prince, who never ceased to send them to Warren Place. These had always been his friends. Celestial Cloud, his first winner, whose lumpy spine made him touchy; Oh So Sharp, lean and loving to compete; Twice Over, who won the Champion Stakes at the age of six. Then, from 2010, a miracle for his last years, Frankel. This colt was a prodigy, with his broad handsome face, his huge appetite, a tearaway streak and a long open stride that left the rest of the field nowhere. He was the best he had ever had. Frankel won 14 races on the gallop and retired to stud unbeaten.
Unbeaten was a good word. Henry Cecil had always been a winner. Hated being defeated, you know? Insisted on the positive. His illness meant he was not allowed sugar or cake, but he kept things he loved around him: his cabinets of lead soldiers, the ancient peas from Tutankhamun’s tomb that had germinated again, the Hermès silk ties. Above all these, the roses; and, through the rose-beds, the shining horses waiting for his touch.
Jun 22nd 2013 |From the print edition
WHENEVER visitors came to his stables at Warren Place near Newmarket, the home of English flat racing, Henry Cecil liked to show them the roses first. Not the colts, rippling with raw power, or the fillies chattering in their stable, but a bloom fresh-picked by his long, aristocratic fingers. “That’s good scent, yeah? And lots of buds to come.” Leading the way to the stable yard, a lanky, shy, elegant figure with flopping hair, he would add: “This is a rose hedge, you know. When the hips start coming, when they go red, the fillies love them. Better than a sugar lump.”
He knew the names of all the roses, hundreds of them; knew their habits. But he didn’t dig the beds or do the pruning, or any of that stuff. He just wandered among the beds and planned. With the horses, it was the same. Breeding was the owner’s job. Stabling arrangements were the head man’s job (though he kept an eye on every detail, lights left on or horses left bridled, and would thrust his nose like a gourmet into each new delivery of hay). Winning was the jockey’s job: 3,000 wins from his stables, including 25 English Classics such as the Derby or the Oaks, after each of which the Cecil flag would fly triumphantly over Warren Place. But the planning—having a picture of how he wanted a horse to grow—that was the part he did.
It began every day at 5am, with the mist still over Newmarket Heath. He loved those mornings. Cigarette in hand, he would lead the string of thoroughbreds out to the gallops. All the time he watched them, mulling the right work for each horse, the right rider, and when it might be ready. Every day in the yard he floated about asking vague, but decisive, questions: “Rest him tomorrow, don’t you think?” In the evenings, again, he wandered and studied. He would talk to the horses then, one large hand comfortingly on their backs. Find out how they felt. He would say, “It would be lovely if you could go for the Guineas.” And the horse—for they talked back, you know—would say “All right,” or “Not yet.” Patience, patience, patience. There was a moment with a racehorse, as with a rose, when it reached perfection. But if you pushed too roughly, the beauty broke.
Top of the table
He did it all by instinct, not by the book. He was pretty stupid really. Failed the Eton exam. “No brains,” wrote the headmaster on his last report. “Hopeless Henry”, the family said, good mostly at smashing up fast cars and chasing women. But he had a sort of rapport with horses, and his stepfather, Sir Cecil Boyd-Rochfort, trained them for the queen; he fell into this inheritance in 1968, had his first English Classic winner in 1975 and by 1987, his peak year, achieved 180. Sheikhs and lords lined up to send their horses to his stable. He became a staple of the winner’s enclosure, flashy in his white shoes, one hand diffidently lodged in the pocket of his cashmere jacket, as victor after victor came in.
He looked aloof, but wasn’t. He was “Guv’nor”, not “Sir”, merry with his staff, loved by the punters whose racecards he happily signed. The diffidence, too, was a front. He liked to beat people. Every winner was coloured in on a crossword grid in his daybook. Each day of the season he scanned the Racing Post’s trainers’ table to see if he was up a place, or down. He was champion trainer ten times, a record, but wanted more. His jockeys (including Lester Piggott, Joe Mercer, Steve Cauthen) were changed ruthlessly if they didn’t suit. His horse might win, but if the ride was less than perfect he would wince, not rejoice. “Didn’t go according to plan.”
After 1990 or so his whole life didn’t go according to plan. His first marriage broke up, then his second. His twin brother David died of cancer. A virus got into the yard. The owner-breeders he relied on died out, and Sheikh Mohammed al Maktoum, the ruler of Dubai, removed his splendid horses from his stable. In 2005 he saddled only 12 winners, and toppled down the trainers’ table. Then he got cancer himself. On the dawn rides he thought he heard people murmuring, “There’s Henry Cecil. Should have retired long ago.”
Three things saved him. His third wife, Jane, who organised him. His rose garden, into which he wandered when his mind got too jumpy. And the horses, many of them from Khalid Abdullah, a Saudi prince, who never ceased to send them to Warren Place. These had always been his friends. Celestial Cloud, his first winner, whose lumpy spine made him touchy; Oh So Sharp, lean and loving to compete; Twice Over, who won the Champion Stakes at the age of six. Then, from 2010, a miracle for his last years, Frankel. This colt was a prodigy, with his broad handsome face, his huge appetite, a tearaway streak and a long open stride that left the rest of the field nowhere. He was the best he had ever had. Frankel won 14 races on the gallop and retired to stud unbeaten.
Unbeaten was a good word. Henry Cecil had always been a winner. Hated being defeated, you know? Insisted on the positive. His illness meant he was not allowed sugar or cake, but he kept things he loved around him: his cabinets of lead soldiers, the ancient peas from Tutankhamun’s tomb that had germinated again, the Hermès silk ties. Above all these, the roses; and, through the rose-beds, the shining horses waiting for his touch.
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