Ralph Moody - Come on Seabiscuit!

Come on Seabiscuit!

W HEN a son is born into a royal family there is usually rejoicing, particularly if that son may some day become king. But there was no rejoicing when, on May 23, 1933, a son was born into the most distinguished Thoroughbred family in America. The moment the newborn colt lurched awkwardly to his spindly legs, he gave promise of being a disgrace to the family, just as his parents had been.

His father, Hard Tack, was Man o Wars most beautiful son, but had been a failure as a race horse because of his fiery temper and bad behavior. His mother, Swing On, was exactly the opposite. Her father, Whisk Broom II, had sired many of the fastest racers on the American track, but Swing On was a flop-eared, knobby-kneed brown mare, too slow and lazy for racing. Even the colts color was against him, for he was a solid, muddy bay, with no distinguishing white strip or star on his face.

Both Hard Tack and Swing On were owned by Ogden Mills Secretary of the United States Treasury and his sister, Mrs. H. C. Phipps, whose Wheatley racing stable was one of the finest in America. She took tremendous pride in her horses, and spared no expense in their care and training, but insisted that only those be kept which would bring honor to her stable. If Hard Tack and Swing On had not been of royal ancestry, they would have been sold as discards when they proved worthless as racers, but there is an axiom in racing circles that blood will tell, that when descendants of two great racing families are mated their offspring is apt to have amazing speed. So the two failures were retired to Claiborne Farm in the heart of the Kentucky bluegrass country, the most aristocratic Thoroughbred nursery in the land, and there their son was foaled.

Because his father was Hard Tack the hard biscuit of the sea the colt was named Seabiscuit. But Noah, groom at the foaling stable, was unimpressed when Seabiscuit arrived. He shuffled to the office and reported, Mr. Hancock, sir, Swing On done had her foal, but he sure dont look like he goin to mount to much. Too big in he qead, too short in he legs, and he got them same knobby knees like he mammy. Runty little thing; reckon he goin be nother Swing On.

Claiborne Farm is one of the most beautiful of all horse nurseries. Its meadows, separated by white board fences, stretch across mile after mile of gently rolling hills, deep in bluegrass, and shaded by groves of hardwood. The stables are horse palaces, surrounded by paddocks, stallion runs, weaning pens, and training strips, each enclosed by an immaculate white fence. There, in spacious stalls knee-deep with fresh straw, nearly a hundred foals are born in a single year. They are never thrown together in large herds, but separated into small classes, like children at a private school. Seabiscuit and Swing On were put into a fifty-acre pasture with nine other Thoroughbred mares and their newborn foals.

Colts are much like children, and their first year is their kindergarten. Each class is chosen with the greatest care, for the colts will remain together through their second summer, and must be as evenly matched as possible in age and ability. All Thoroughbred foals are born with the urge to run, so much of their play at pasture is a series of spontaneous races. And nothing builds as strong racing muscles, or awakens a colts competitive spirit more than these games he plays at pasture.

In every group of colts, as in every group of boys, there are usually two who stand out from all the others. One is the hero; endowed with far more than his share of good looks, size, cleverness, and speed. Another is the outcast: an awkward, runty little fellow, looking as if he might have slipped in under the gate when no one was watching. Seabiscuit was the outcast in his class, and Granville was the hero.

Granville was taller, more finely built, more spirited, and faster than the others. A dozen times a day he would fling up his bushy tail, nicker, and race away across the pasture. Close behind him ran Snark and Flares, with the others bunched at their heels, and knobby-kneed Seabiscuit pounding along in the rear. It would have discouraged almost any other colt, but not Seabiscuit. He didnt know the meaning of discouragement. The farther he was left behind the harder he drove himself, and the longer the race the nearer he came to catching up.

Seabiscuit was champion of his class in only one respect: he had the biggest appetite. With his big head and short, spindly legs, he had to spend more energy than the other colts in running, and it required more food to replace that energy. Even with his big appetite, he grew more slowly than his playmates, but because he had to work harder at his running than they, he developed stronger, tougher leg muscles and sinews. By late fall he was no longer straggling at the tail end of the pack, but running with Snark and Flares, close on the heels of Granville.

During the winter Seabiscuit and his classmates had their own quarters at the stables, with a large paddock where they could run and play on warm days. There they all celebrated their birthday on January 1, 1934, for Thoroughbred foals, regardless of the date on which they are born, become yearlings on their first New Years Day. By early spring most of the colts were nearly as tall as their mothers, and when they shed their shaggy winter coats they emerged as beautiful little race horses. But Seabiscuit was the exception, and looked more like a ragged range pony than a Thoroughbred, for he had failed to shed his winter coat, and his legs and back were two or three inches shorter than the average. He was so much the ugly duckling on Claiborne Farm that when Mrs. Phipps came there in April to look over her yearlings, he was hidden away in an outlying barn.