If my home was on fire and I could save one item, it would be the picture of my parents at Hollywood Park. A tiny two-by-three inch bronze frame of a photo taken in the summer of 1977, forever captures my parent’s youth and innocence in this country. My father is wearing a light blue shirt with a pattern of traditional design in dark brown. The weekend before, my mother had sewn his shirt, along with her own outfit for the big day. She was wearing a pulu tasi: a blouse with a matching floor length skirt that also had the same traditional Samoan patterns that interrupted the golden color of the material.
Behind them in the photo is Hollywood Park Race Track, trimmed in an earthy rust hue and crowned with flags along the top of the building. The outside walls had checkerboard squares designed to mimic the Jockey’s silk attire. My parents are radiate with life smiling with satisfaction after a long day at the races, when Dad won. Had they placed their bets according to the ‘favorite to win,’ instead of my father’s analysis prior to the race; that photo would not have been taken. My mother’s face is young and soft and I know because I always touched it. My siblings and I are the first generation Samoan, born to our parents who meet in this country. We are part of the original fifty families that migrated to the U.S., not out of necessity but out of hype.
During the 1950’s & 60’s, hundreds of Samoan’s were encouraged by the USO to abandon fertile beautiful land, in exchange for a ‘proper education’ in Amerika. We watched television shows that subconsciously programmed doubt, “Who you know, is not who you think you know...” So I touched my mother’s face often to be sure she was not an Alien from outer space like all the scary shows on T.V. In the picture her wild hair lost its fight to obey the rollers she used from the night before. My father who is not smiling is much darker in complexion to my mom’s creamy-colored skin. His eyes are content with a faint smile from his lips, yet full of conversation that he will save for later. As one of his children, we knew exactly why Daddy would smile like that: he was privately thinking of something else.
Body language communicates much more than words - just like the horses my father loved to watch race. My father did not celebrate his winnings out loud at the park that day because he didn’t bet on the ‘favorite.’
Willy Shoemaker, a local rider in Southern California knew every turn of this racetrack. Between Shoemaker and Laffit Pincay Jr., these riders would intuitively connect and respect the majestic creatures they rode. J.O. Tobin, a thoroughbred racehorse born on the east coast, was my father’s pick for the race. My mother’s retelling of that day would begin with, ”Your Daddy like that horse because Shoemaker was the rider.”
It was summertime the day before the 4th of July when the track accommodated a sold out crowd. A motley crew of families, horse enthusiasts, gamblers, young and old people from the surrounding cities were present. We were all there for one particular reason: the infamous Seattle Slew was in town. The Triple Crown winner, referred to as Slew, was honored throughout the world for his amazing speed and bold spirit. Undefeatable in every race, this Thoroughbred was not only bigger than the rest, he was faster, arrogant and a straight out black stallion. Some would argue that he neither came with a great pedigree, nor was purchased with top dollars. This grand beauty that had a habit of people-watching, did not obey anyone that pressed him to conform. The attention of all racing fans worldwide had come to Inglewood, California to watch this hot-blooded horse run like hell. My aunt and uncle along with their three children, as well as my family of eight, were all at the park. My mother had made her famous fried chicken Samoan style with cut green onions for garnish, along with her usual Calrose sticky white rice. We picnicked on the grass joining hundreds of other families that would come to Hollywood on the weekends. Here on the lawn is where my mother and her sister would sit and gossip for hours. Once they exhausted trading stories they would join their husbands usually before the 5th race.
A few summers before my siblings and I thought it was just a park but didn’t realize it was a racetrack. This is when we were able to go through the tunnels that lead to the field, where a great multitude of people gathered. Men with hats, smoking pipes leaving a trail of sweet tobacco perfume behind as they walked by. Others paced around aimlessly in a trance with rolled up Racing Forms they used to slap the other hand with. Still there were those engaged in ‘horse talk’ in an effort to convince the other, why a particular horse or jockey was better than another.
As children we would make our way through a sea of legs running around picking up multi-colored losing tickets scattered on the ground. Adults during the 1970’s at the Track were not annoyed with kids running around bumping into their thighs. The ramp was our ‘go to spot’ to run up and down the hill pretending we were the horses. Growing up at the track I remember the thunderous rumble of the horse’s hooves that I could feel in my guts. The sound from these amazing creatures with flared nostrils, would sometimes create condensation from their laborious breathing. Some of the jockeys would hold the reins in one hand while using the other to whip the back end of the horse. Others would pull tightly forward and back in a comical motion as if it made the horse run faster. Then you had jockeys like Shoemaker that would squat above and not sit, almost motionless like being a part of the Thoroughbred. Loud grunting sounds could be heard just behind the fence, as both horse and rider would tear across the Finish Line. The cheers from the assembly would roar passionately; mingled with the announcer’s play-by-play voice blaring through the speakers. This was more than a thrill - it was an intoxicating two minute rush.
The Herald Examiner Newspaper, had extensive details concerning horses that my father would buy religiously to study. Like so many other racing enthusiasts; he would analyze the run time, bloodline of the steed, the jockey, the trainer, where the horses ran before, and a half dozen other minor details. After his second cup of morning coffee that I was responsible for making, he’d take out a pen and carefully begin to circle details. He’d make notes on the margin and after an hour he would carefully fold up the newspaper and tuck it away. Dad would bet on the horse or rider the following weekend after he had studied the Examiner. Although he loved to watch Seattle Slew race, the French jockey was foreign to him. So he went against the grain and decided to bet on Willy Shoemaker.
But Sunday, July 3, 1977, was not a normal day at the track. In Southern California this was the event of the summer for racehorse fans. When Hollywood Park hosted thousands of locals from both San Bernardino and San Fernando valleys. Out of towners mingled together with workers from McDonald Douglas Aircraft, to movie studio executives from Studio City and Burbank. Those that lived along the foothills from Glendale, Pasadena, to Monrovia were present. Beach communities from Malibu to San Clemente turned out. There were off duty nurses and bank tellers, farmers from Orange County, dishwashers and waiters from Los Angeles, and a tiny group of Polynesian immigrants were in the crowd that day. Anticipation from elated smiling faces, with light-hearted laughter was the mood that energized the track. We were all waiting for the main race when Seattle Slew, horse number 2 would debut at Hollywood Park.
It was the Sweepstakes with a winning purse north of $300K when the legendary racehorse of the 1970s came to Los Angeles. The only undefeated thoroughbred in history that won the Triple Crown just three weeks prior, was here in the flesh.
The Park collected more than sixty-five thousand admires of this gorgeous beast on four legs. Collectively, Southern California gathered to see this stunning animal up close and in person. The uninhibited, powerful and intelligent Seattle Slew was here in real life! The winner of the Preakness, the Belmont, and the Kentucky Derby, swayed many to gladly exchange money for a winning ticket. We were also mesmerized with Seattle Slew, watching him on television run at Belmont against Run Dusty Run and Iron Constitution. Hypnotic is the only way I can explain how Slew ran that course with a perfect rhythm of speed. Even when he ran that ridiculously packed race at the Kentucky Derby, he kept the same pace almost the entire course out in front.
Midway between the fence that separated the track from the multitude, and just shy of the finish line was my Dad’s spot.
My father asked his brother-in-law in our native tongue, “You know this horse Seattle Slew is untamable according to the papers.” Uncle responded with his grainy low laugh, as he nursed his beer. Intrigued by the multitude, my father looked around at the sea of humanity and added, “Can you believe the size of this crowd? Who are these people from everywhere that really don’t give a shit about this sport?” He chuckled. “Everybody is here for Seattle - that’s all. Nevermind them my brother. Next week” He laughed after finishing his Budweiser. “They will all be gone and you can come back and it’ll be like normal again.”
Peering into his empty cup uncle asked, “Want something to drink?” Like all men, subconsciously unaware of being in public; my father adjusted himself with a quick tiny squat while adjusting his parts, “Yeah. A 7-Up or Ginger Ale.” Dad would habitually check and re-check his watch every minute, while gazing at the track waiting for the bugle to announce the main race. “Sure you don’t want a beer? I have never seen you drink. How come you don’t drink uso?” With crossed arms he began to tap his fingers on his biceps and continued watching the track while ignoring his brother-in-law’s question. After uncle discarded his cup he asked, “Hey how come you like these horses so much? There are no horses in Samoa! Uso look, we are here to have a good time with family and play a little money watching your favorite horse run.” Swaying left and right with both hands planted in his pockets he added, “See these animals are here for our entertainment man. Relax, don’t be so serious” Here’s where the road splintered slightly.
My parents are not tree huggers. They are not animal activists. Although sometimes I think Mama is, when she tries to take care of every stray cat or dog in the neighborhood. Islanders are naturally in tune with animals regardless if it were a shark in the ocean, or a thoroughbred horse. They know animals like Billy Turner; Seattle Slew’s first trainer.
Before the 8th race of the day, the Clydesdale’s walked the course kicking up turf as they pranced along. I stood in the midst of my siblings and cousin’s ranging in ages between twelve and five years old. We became giddy as the massive horses passed by and we began to sing the “Anheuser-Busch Breweries” commercial jingle:
“Here comes the king, here comes the king, here comes the big number 1
Here comes the king.
Budweiser beer the king is second to none
Here comes the king.
The king is coming. The king of cold.
When you say Bud you said it all! When you say Bud you said it all.
Dah dah dah-dah dah dah-dah dah da-da-dah”
The bell rang and the gates snapped open!
Hot-blooded horse number four J.O. Tobin, bolted from the metal door and was instantly out in front. Around the first turn riding the rail was Seattle Slew behind Tobin by 2 lengths, followed closely by Text and Affiliate. Palm trees that lined the track interrupted the view briefly, along the back stretch when three horses broke from the pack. Seattle Slew rode neck and neck with Text chasing after Tobin. The shouting voices from onlookers quickly synchronized with their eyes, as J.O. Tobin was leading now by 3 lengths passing the Fire Turn. The roaring mob in the stands began to stomp their feet almost in unison as the structure trembled in response. Those along the fence that lined the final stretch shook it violently as the excitement continued to build. From the center of the track a cloud of birds exploded into the air flying in a circular motion then flew towards the finish line. The monotone voice of the announcer continued his reporting which boomed through the loudspeakers, competing with the frenzied raucous of the masses. You could feel everyone’s heart racing with the horses on the field as the jockey’s turned for the straight away heading for home. The sound of the crowd was deafening with a feverish pitch that continued to rise even higher. Into the final stretch, the ovation from thousands of fans screamed at the top of their lungs hollering for Seattle Slew. But J.O. Tobin had an incredible six length lead now as Text and Affiliate, passed Slew who was still on the inside rail. Heading for home Affiliate passed Text as Seattle drifted further back, while holding on to fourth place.
The magnitude of the tumultuous arena never before heard at Hollywood Park, rivaled a gladiator match from ancient Rome. Within a blink of an eye J.O. Tobin had an 8 length lead crossing the finish line in 1:58 seconds, just a hair shy of breaking the mile and a quarter record. Affiliate placed second, followed by Text who showed third. This was the greatest upset in horse race history when Seattle Slew crossed the wire forth, losing by 16 furlongs behind the winner. Everyone was on their feet. Not a single person was left sitting down as they witnessed the impossible happen - the day Seattle lost a race. The Triple Crown all muscle Slew was slain by a technical knockout from J.O. Tobin. His rider, Willy Shoemaker was the guy my dad placed his bet on.
The papers would later write the usual sensationalism about Seattle losing to Tobin, with little or no mention of Tobin’s impressive run time. They were brutal towards Slew's performance, casting a negative shadow over the horses’ owner. Every good trainer will rest their horses until the following season giving them time to recuperate. Within a matter of weeks, Seattle Slew was at Hollywood Park after being tranquilized twice for the journey to the west coast. The papers also mentioned that Slew appeared agitated, sweating profusely at the stables where devotees swarmed around him – but only a few people paid attention to the details.
My father noticed during the final stretch, the Frenchman let-up on his reins allowing Slew to run at his own pace that became a gallop. Both horse and rider didn’t feel the need to prove anything at Hollywood Park. There was no down time after running the muddy course at Belmont where the 3 year old ran the best race I’ve ever seen. He swept the Triple Crown winning 9 out of 9 races. However this was Hollywood: the place where you sell out for fanfare; but Seattle Slew would not bend to the masses that turned out in droves. And I am so glad! The horse notorious for looking jockey’s in the eye to communicate, “Move the hell over I’m come through! You can watch my tail whip your face and kiss my ass.” He would make a way whenever boxed in by other runners, find his opening and take his rightful place in the lead.
“Never take for granted what you have.” Dad said after the race as some of us were crying. “That horse that lost is the fastest horse on earth. He came from nowhere, but is the smartest animal among those men. He was sick because of no rest. That’s why I didn’t put my money on him. Listen carefully, don’t go with the crowd. Trust your gut even if it goes against the things you love like Seattle Slew. Do your homework. That is the best horse in the world right now but the people in charge of him should have let him rest or even show him as a Scratch.”
When I look at that picture of my parents I would wonder, did my dad know something that the Herald Examiner mentioned earlier that week? Did he have friends at the stables? Or maybe it was one of the ticket agents that tipped him off about Seattle’s condition upon arrival. I’ll never know as my Father passed away just like Seattle Slew – both gifted and powerful with the same habit of sweating profusely when agitated in a large crowd. A typical reaction when powerful beings, my father included, are muzzled to fit the masses. Glad I listened to my Dad. Hope you got a lesson from my hero.
Written by: Terry Leifi-Silverstein, no chat bot assistance needed.
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