those who we miss most.

​When I look through two-year-old races in Ireland in my Racing Post my natural instinct is to see how many Aidan O’Brien has entered. It’s not as if I worship the Ballydoyle runners, though I obviously admire O’Brien as both a trainer and as a man. It’s just that his dominance sets him apart. To read through the entries for a maiden for two-year-old colts at Leopardstown or the Curragh and not witness an entry from O’Brien would be like reading a Christian Bible and finding no reference to God. He is that significant.
There are people like that, jockeys and trainers who have risen above their colleagues and peers to become icons of the sport and when in retirement leave a void that it takes many months or even years to fill. It was like that when A.P. McCoy was riding and it took many months to shake the habit of looking out for what he might be riding. It is the same now with Ruby Walsh. Indeed, in my head the Irish bumpers were the province of Nina Carberry and Katie Walsh and since their retirement amateur races in Ireland have lost their lustre.
When Lester Piggott retired the first time, not so much after his second retirement, it was his name I continued to search for when perusing entries. Actually, after his second retirement I kept on expecting to see news of his latest comeback. In fact, I still wouldn’t be surprised if he made one final bid for glory, so synonymous is his name to the sport. Ask anyone in their sixties or over to name a jockey and I would expect his name to be the answer more times than even Frankie or A.P.
I admit that on the flat, these days, my eye is immediately drawn to any horse ridden by a female jockey, almost to the neglect of any other horse especially when it comes to the all-weather. Over jumps I always look first to see what Bryony is riding and usually lament how few rides someone so talented receives. Though that is a general lament for any underused and skilful jockey of either gender.
I have just finished reading ‘On The Level’, by Henry Cecil. This book, published way back in 1983, hardly covers 1/10th of Cecil’s career and begs the question why the author chose to write it. That’s not criticism of the book as it is far from the worst horse racing book I have read. It’s quite good, actually, and if you stumble across it, I would recommend you buy it. It’s just from the high ground of retrospect it reads like a murder mystery just before the main suspect picks up the murder weapon and goes in search of his victim.
The thought that nagged at the back of my mind throughout was why didn’t someone stop Henry from smoking cigarettes, which for the great man, and sadly millions of others, is the murder weapon in question.
Also, from his very own words it is plainly obvious that he loved his wife, Julie, and yet upon his death he had married twice more. When I come across a biography of Cecil, there must a few about, I will doubtless discover the truth of how this seemingly happy marriage unravelled but as of this moment it is as great a mystery to me as the disappearance of Shergar.
His character, especially his natural inclination toward reservation and pessimism, are all over ‘On The Level’. There is a truly funny story about his grandmother’s funeral, which is worth the price of the book alone and veiled tales of the people who worked for him, rode for him and who owned the horses that brought him fame. In 1983, though, Henry Cecil was nowhere nearly as well-liked as he was at his death and I suspect he always had it in the back of his mind that his success might evaporate with one indiscretion or error of judgement. I would imagine he was particularly hard on himself if he considered he had given the wrong riding instructions to a jockey or if an owner took a horse away from him, as was to happen much later in his career when Sheikh Mohammed removed horses. Which is somewhat ironic as Sheikh Mohammed now owns Warren Place and has spent untold amounts of money modernising the facilities.
As it must be for many people, when it comes to the flat, it is Henry Cecil’s name I continue to miss most. He is, perhaps, the ghost that loiters unseen at every Royal Ascot, Epsom Derby, Goodwood and all the big Newmarket meetings. Indeed, the Newmarket open day this year is even named in his honour, such remains the influence of him as a man.
He will always be remembered for being the trainer of Frankel, of course. I just hope that in a hundred years’ time it is not the only fact that is synonymous with his name.