richard duchossois | Horse Racing Free Tips

All Stakes Cross Country Pick 5 Pays $93,103

Saturday's all-graded stakes Cross Country Pick 5, featuring top-caliber action from Saratoga and Arlington Park, paid $93,103 for selecting all five winners for the 50-cent wager. The total pool was $328,609.

Saratoga Race Course in Saratoga Springs, N.Y., started the action when High Oak drew away for an impressive 4 1/4-length win in the $200,000 Grade 2 Saratoga Special presented by Miller Lite in Race 9. Trained by Hall of Famer Bill Mott, High Oak won the 6 1/2-furlong main track sprint for juveniles in a final time of 1:16.53 under jockey Junior Alvarado. Off at 10-1, he returned $22.40 on a $2 win wager.

The remainder of the sequence featured all Grade 1 contests, commencing with the $400,000 Beverly D. for fillies and mares 3-years-old and up competing at 1 3/16 miles on the Arlington turf in Race 7. Even-money favorite Santa Barbara [$4], the winner of the Grade 1 Belmont Oaks Invitational last month at Belmont Park, posted a three-length win under rider Ryan Moore, who traveled from Europe for the mount. Conditioned by internationally acclaimed trainer Aidan O'Brien, Santa Barbara completed the course in 1:54.55.

In Saratoga's 10th race, Got Stormy bested males to win the $500,000 Grade 1 Fourstardave for 3-year-olds and up for the second time in her career. Trained by Hall of Famer Mark Casse, Got Stormy, the 2019 Fourstardave winner, bested Set Piece by 1 1/2 lengths under Tyler Gaffalione, hitting the wire in 1:33.09 for the one-mile inner turf contest. Got Stormy [$27] won at 12-1. Her sire, Get Stormy, won the 2010 edition of the Fourstardave.

The premier race day at Arlington – located in Arlington Heights, Illinois – closed the wager with the final two races, starting with Point Me By's 2 3/4-length win in the $300,000 Bruce D. for 3-year-olds going one mile on the turf in Race 8. The Bruce D., formerly known as the Secretariat, saw the Eddie Kenneally-trained Point Me By win as the favorite, returning $5.40. Luis Saez, who traveled from Saratoga for the card, piloted Point Me By to victory, notching a final time of 1:37.70.

Arlington's Race 9 concluded the sequence when Two Emmys edged heavy favorite Domestic Spending by a neck in a thrilling finish to the $600,000 Mr. D. for 3-year-olds and up competing at 1 1/4 miles on the turf. It was potentially the last running for the contest formerly known as the Arlington Million and renamed for long-time Arlington owner Richard Duchossois, honoring the 99-year-old World War II veteran. Two Emmys, trained by Hugh Robertson and ridden by James Graham, went gate-to-wire and put his nose on the wire at 2:03.34 to get the win.

The minimum bet for the multi-track, multi-race wager is 50 cents. Wagering on the Cross Country Pick 5 is also available on track, on ADW platforms, and at simulcast facilities across the country. Every week will feature a mandatory payout of the net pool.

The Cross Country Pick 5 will continue each Saturday throughout the year. For more information, visit NYRABets.com.

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A Chicagoan’s Premature Goodbye To Arlington

ARLINGTON HEIGHTS, IL–The year was 1981. I was approaching freshman year at Wheeling High School, not far from my home, about 15 minutes north and east of Arlington Park.

Three doors down from me at 1512 Clearwater Drive lived a heavy-set, middle-aged man named Bert Loebmann. He and a partner campaigned a then 4-year-old filly named Diablo Morn (that I still remember this name 40 years later is either really frightening or super impressive, you decide). Bert was an enthusiastic horse owner, even if Diablo Morn wasn't going to make him famous–or anyone else, for that matter. Trained by Jerry D. McGrath, she made her first few Chicago appearances in allowance company at Hawthorne (purse $9,700), but she eventually found her level at Arlington the next summer, finishing second with Pat Day for $11,500 claiming before winning two starts later on the grass under John Lively for $13,000. She got her picture taken twice in 32 starts, she earned a shade more than $27,000.

Roughly diagonal from my home, at 707 Clearwater Court, resided Paul Levy, a dark-skinned, shortish man who looked the part of a horseplayer (maybe even a bigger gambler than I ever realized). My parents were friendlier with the Levys than they were with the Loebmanns. Paul was a gambler, but did not own any horses. In my early teens, Paul would take me and his stepson, my classmate Michael, to the track, where we'd try to turn two bucks into an undefined larger sum by betting show parlays. I remember vividly that Paul wanted no part of Sunny's Halo when the 1983 GI Kentucky Derby winner shipped in for the GI Arlington Classic. He insisted Play Fellow was the right horse. He was not wrong and got paid nearly 5-1 for that opinion.

Between my two neighbors, a lifelong fan was created. I attended my first Arlington Million a few months later, its third running. John Henry was looking to add to his victory in the inaugural renewal of America's original seven-figure race, but when it was announced that the turf condition was to be listed as 'good,' I turned my attention a easy-ground loving horse trained by someone called Luca Cumani. I knew nothing of him, nor was I remotely aware that placings in races like the 2000 Guineas, St James' Palace, Eclipse S. and Sussex S. were a highly positive thing. In any event, the task seemed extremely tall for Tolomeo and Pat Eddery, the tote read 38-1 (well, probably read 30-1, to be fair). I proudly bet $2 to show and watched Tolomeo knife through late to take down 'Big John.' He paid $17.80 to show. What did I know from exactas, er, perfectas? I was only 16 and probably wasn't supposed to be betting at all. Tolomeo remains the only 3-year-old winner of the Million to this day. And John got his second in emphatic style the next summer, defeating Robert Sangster's future GI Breeders' Cup Mile winner Royal Heroine (whose sire Lypheor was also responsible for Tolomeo) and Gato del Sol.

Having graduated WHS in 1985, I took a trip to Germany (I'd been named student of the year in the language, hold your applause), but I got desperately homesick, flew home a few days early. Not long after my return, on July 31, and just a couple of weeks before I was set to enter freshman year at the University of Illinois, I learned that the track was on fire. It felt like I could reach out and grab the tower of black smoke all the way from 1518 Clearwater. I got in my Chevy Impala, drove that direction and somehow managed to watch the conflagration from the adjacent train station parking lot. One of the saddest sights I have ever seen. You all know of the never-say-die attitude of Richard L. Ducchossois, the tent city, Teleprompter defeating Greinton to win the 'Miracle Million.'

I became a bit disconnected from racing while in college, though I did make the occasional visit to the OTB in Champaign. I moved back to Wheeling in the early 1990s and met up with Walt, Bill and Jerry, older gentlemen from nearby suburbs, and my friend to this day Rob, roughly my age and who–more than any other person–is responsible for stoking my interest in racing. Every Saturday, without fail, we'd meet on the Arlington apron, watch the horses gallop around, listen to backstretch banter, handicap and plan for that afternoon's rendezvous.

In 1995, I had a close-up with Mariah's Storm. That was cool, given how she has impacted the Thoroughbred breed over the last two-plus decades. Mariah and the locally based Golden Gear were the first two horses I got to know 'up close and personal' that went on to the Breeders' Cup.

I also made the acquaintance of a trainer named Neil Pessin, made my first trip to Keeneland that fall, an overnight car ride with Rob, had breakfast at the Keeneland track kitchen, fell asleep waiting to see A.P. Indy at Lane's End. True story. By the way, did you know Neil ran one in the Million? Coaxing Matt was sixth to Star of Cozzene (minus Lure) in terrible ground in '93.

The 1995 Million holds a very special place all these years later. My late father wasn't much of a racing fan, but he quickly pored over the PPs and asked me to bet on Awad for him. With the late Kevin Goemmer on the mic that year and with dad listening on the radio (WBBM, I think, maybe WIND), David Donk's long-winded galloper took advantage of a lively pace to beat Sandpit (Brz) at nearly 6-1, adding to his 22-1 upset of the GI Secretariat S. two years prior. Marlin completed that same double in 1996/1997 (Stevens masterfully walked the dog) before the track closed for two years.

In the summer of '96, I got to feel what it might have been like when Secretariat paid a visit to Arlington some 23 years earlier. Cigar put better than 34,000 into the stands July 13, looking to equal Citation's modern-day record of 16 victories in a row. With 130 pounds and the weight of the Thoroughbred world on his back, the Horse of the Year turned for home to a deafening roar from the crowd and rolled to a comfortable success. He received a hero's welcome when he came back in front of the stands. Sure glad I decided to leave the company picnic that day to see my equine hero. It ranks as easily my most memorable and thrilling moment as a horse racing fan.

Right there in my backyard.

To herald the return of the Million in 2000, the purse was doubled and Juddmonte's Chester House–maybe the best-feeling horse I've ever seen in the build-up to a big race–gave Bobby Frankel his first of two Millions. Beat Hollow took the 2002 renewal for a mere $1-million pot. Speaking of 2002, the gang and I sat out on the apron freezing our butts off for the only Breeders' Cup hosted by the track. Couldn't have had Volponi, but did cash a nice bet on Vindication.

Other names to grace the Million trophy include the venerable The Tin Man, the versatile Gio Ponti, the popular Little Mike. In 2015, I made a non-working trek to visit my brother out in the far Northwest suburbs and dragged my three kids with (their first plane flight, too). They each were given four $2 win tickets (I guess I kept one of the longshots). My middle stepdaughter was recipient of the $13.80 returned by Illinois-bred The Pizza Man. On a dad/daughter visit to the TDN's Red Bank offices, Maddie 'drew' The Pizza Man on a dry erase board. It still hangs proudly on the fridge a half-dozen years later.

As it was for fans to say goodbye to places like Garden State Park and Bay Meadows, and Suffolk Downs and Atlantic City and Hollywood Park, it was not easy walking out of the paddock for the last time after Saturday's Million (as much respect as I have for Mr. Duchossois, I can't, just can't).

1998 Breeders' Cup Turf winner Buck's Boy | Horsephotos

I will not forget the countless winter Saturdays and Sundays spent upstairs at the Trackside OTB, a place I left a successful Derby future wager on a horse named Monarchos. The place where a vocal contingent of Jamaicans loved to cheer on horses like Jack's Big Mac (pronounced Jacques-a-big-mock).

There was that time standing in front of bank of TVs (I think this pre-dated full-card simulcasting) getting ready to watch the 1996 GII Suburban H. Next thing I know, a bespectacled older gentleman steps over in my direction and encourages me to 'bet Wekiva (Springs), big.' The push came from long-time Chicago Sun-Times turf writer Dave Feldman.

I will always remember scooting over to the track from home or zipping up Route 53 after cutting out of work early when you could get in for free after the seventh to see the likes of Jeremy Jet and Fritz Barthold and Harham's Sizzler and Gee Can He Dance and The Vid. Little Bro Lantis, Mr. Springfield, Downtown Clown, Katie Be Fast, Hunk of Class. Crown's Way horses like Kuma, Major Dandy, You Dancing Devil and Soccory. Asiel Stable runners like Bonita Meadow, trained by the legendary Richard Hazelton, the familiar green-and-yellow colors of top Illinois breeders Team Block. And all those Noel Hickey-trained Irish Acres runners, like Classic Fit and Buck's Nephew and Classic Fit and Thesunshinesbright. Maybe even a Buck's Boy sighting.

Those were good times. Shame there won't be more.

All good things must come to an end, or so they say.

Farewell, Arlington. I sure am going to miss you.

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McGrath: From The Ashes Of Arlington Comes A Lesson For Racing, If The Sport Is Willing To Learn

Over what may possibly be the final Arlington Million weekend ever, those who have spent many a day at the storied racetrack in Arlington Heights, Ill., have reflected upon the people and the memories that have sustained Arlington Race Course through its most dire of moments, including the 1985 fire that consumed the grandstand, only to see it face an uncertain future at the hands of a corporate entity that seems divorced from its origins. Columnist Chris McGrath reflected on the impending loss this week in the Thoroughbred Daily News.

“'Quit? Hell, no!' Anyone who has seen the framed photograph in the grandstand concourse will always remember the caption; nor, in continuing through one of the most sumptuous public facilities in all sport, will they forget the bricks-and-mortar incarnation of that invincible spirit,” wrote McGrath.

Yet here the track stands, on the precipice of destruction once again, this time from the flames of capitalism, according to McGrath. McGrath looks back on the story of former owner Richard L. Duchossois' grit in the face of adversity during his service in World War II, and Duchossois' long-held belief that placing the customer first was the best strategy in business.

“Must we quit, really? Can we really let a wrecking ball pulverize the phoenix that rose from the flames?” McGrath concludes. “One thing is for sure. If we do, then the pain must animate and invigorate the defense of our heritage against further corrosion.”

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This Side Up: A Million Memories, From Heaven to Hell

“Quit? Hell, no!”

Anyone who has seen the framed photograph in the grandstand concourse will always remember the caption; nor, in continuing through one of the most sumptuous public facilities in all sport, will they forget the bricks-and-mortar incarnation of that invincible spirit.

The photo shows the smouldering debris of the Arlington grandstand after the fire of July 31, 1985. Twenty-five days later, the fourth Arlington Million was staged on schedule before 35,000 spectators in temporary bleachers and tents. The “Miracle Million” was won by a horse trained in Yorkshire for Lord Derby, confirming that unprecedented prizemoney was duly awakening horsemen the world over to the possibilities that had meanwhile inspired the inauguration of the Breeders' Cup.

But who, among those attending the bitter rites of Arlington's final international raceday, will still be clinging to that mantra with any real conviction? For there is evidently one inferno that will never be quenched, even by the kind of human fervor, dynamism and imagination that first conceived and then redeemed the Million. And that is the remorseless furnace of corporate avarice, where this cherished jewel of the American Turf faces imminent immolation.

As one of many Europeans first introduced to the American racetrack environment by accompanying turf raiders to Million day–albeit one of few, no doubt, whose lives would ultimately be transformed by this new world–I view Saturday's valediction as a kind of bereavement. With grief, with anger, incredulity and despair. And I can't even be there, to pay my respects at the funeral.

Instead I must console myself in the despondent collation of so many happy memories and somehow reconcile myself to the prospect of this magnificent, bracing city being indelibly cheapened by a monumental lapse into tawdriness. For the fate of Arlington shows what happens when capitalism becomes detached from its vital sources, when the organism starts to consume itself, its own lifeblood absorbed into the unthinking, monstrous viscera of accountancy.

One of my most privileged Arlington memories is a meeting with one of Chicago's definitive capitalists. And he told me something that struck me as very wise.

“We're never going to chase a dollar,” he said. “If you have the best services you can, a quality product, and a competitive price, then we feel the dollar will catch us.”

His name was Richard L. Duchossois, the same man honored today by the final running of a race that can no longer vaunt a seven-figure purse and instead patches up its dignity as the Mister D. S. An apt tribute, undoubtedly, to a remarkable man closing on his 100th birthday: one of the last of the great generation raised in the Depression, their endurance tested and deepened further yet as the vigor and dreams of their prime were diverted, and often fatally consumed, by war.

Mister D. himself shared a vivid recollection of lying on a stretcher in Normandy, one of the dying among the dead. To the overwhelmed medics, these two categories had to be treated as one and the same. They had separated only those who stood some kind of chance. And the 22-year-old Duchossois couldn't argue with their verdict. He was paralyzed from the neck down. After days and nights of combat without respite, sedated, absolved of responsibility, he began to yield to a great weariness. Dimly he heard a shout: “That one over there, you better bring him along.” It was only when he felt the stretcher being raised that he realized who “that one” was.

By a no less tenuous thread of fortune, it turned out that the bullet had not severed his spinal cord. The nerves were only in shock. Lying in a Paris hospital, booked for a passage home, Duchossois could think only of the unfinished battle. If anything, the British pilot in the next bed was a still harder case. He had lost a leg, but between them they got hold of a wheelchair and some crutches. Somehow they clambered through a window, and Duchossois was picked up by some guys from his unit. Though promoted to Major by the time he demobbed, he was technically still AWOL.

Through all the ensuing decades he has embraced through so narrow an aperture in fate, Mister D. never left the front line. From the railcar workshop where it all began, right through making a $2-billion empire, he never lost sight of the importance of personal example and human engagement.

“Providing product, that's mechanical,” he said dismissively. “Customer service, people-to-people, is the most valuable thing we have.”

Sure enough, year after year, anyone tending the European horses at the quarantine barn became accustomed to the appearance every morning of a spry, dapper old man, driving himself over just to check whether any service, however trifling, might have been overlooked.

Now I don't imagine you can be as successful a Chicago businessman as Mister D. without having a good deal of the steel that went into those first freight cars. Nor would I presume the slightest idea whether his wonderful acuity may have been eroded in the nine years since our conversation or, indeed, of his inner sentiments about the ruthless cash-out by the corporation to whom he sold Arlington 20 years ago. After all, as I recall Mister D. himself had a major stake in Churchill Downs Inc.

Be all that as it may, our sport will always have a great debt to Mister D. and it's right to honor him and his family today. (By the way, with his late son Bruce also remembered this time, in the big sophomore prize, we must ask which track and race will now seize the opportunity to present a Secretariat S.?)

For my own part, however, I don't see anything sustainable in chasing the dollars of gaming addicts in their zombie compounds. (Ideally, of course, without the expensive pretext of a race meet: talk about “mechanical” product!) True, the conversion of capitalism's nutrient cells into cancerous ones is a two-way process. All around us, every day, we see consumers idiotically complicit in the erosion of socially vibrant and viable markets, conspiring with a handful of megabrands (which will someday end up transcending all democratic government) in order to get something cheaply and conveniently.

But talking to people who were blessed to be at Saratoga for the meet's spiritual core–the Hall of Fame induction, Whitney weekend, the sale–there's absolutely no question that our sport retains the capacity to impassion a more commercially fertile demographic. And I also believe that our community has sufficient resources, in both finance and flair, somehow to acquire and secure other storied venues vulnerable to the kind of disaster that has overtaken Arlington.

In this instance, to be fair, the people responsible don't feel answerable to anything as nebulous as “horseracing.” What's more, they will doubtless do a very professional job with those tracks that are deemed worth their shareholders' while. But the condemned man knows he will gain no reprieve by gazing imploringly into the hardened, unseeing eyes of the guard.

Must we quit, really? Can we really let a wrecking ball pulverize the phoenix that rose from the flames? One thing is for sure. If we do, then the pain must animate and invigorate the defense of our heritage against further corrosion. Otherwise, to use a phrase popularized by Chicago's greatest interpreter, Saul Bellow, the blaze of 1985 will be as nothing compared to “the moronic inferno” closing around us all.

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