THE SPORT OF KINGS

by Vijaya Chandrasoma

Thoroughbred horse racing began as one of the favorite pastimes/sports of the British monarchy and aristocracy over 300 years ago. During the British occupation of Ceylon, horse racing was both a sport and an industry, with beautiful racecourses in Colombo, Galle and Nuwara Eliya. On independence in 1948, we inherited a large horse racing industry from the British, popular till the late 1950s, when it died.

The reason for this demise was the politicians’ sanctimonious but accurate assertion that gambling was against the precepts of Buddhism. But gambling in casinos in Colombo was perfectly in tune with Buddhist principles as long as the pious politicians were adequately compensated.

The real reason for the demise of the sport in Ceylon was that the local industry relied on the importation of racehorses, instead of establishing a breeding industry. When the nation was dragged into a foreign exchange crisis in the late 1950s, we ran out of money to import thoroughbreds. Our neighbor, India, took the wiser course, and today boasts of a large horse racing industry, with home-bred racehorses and nine racecourses, making a significant contribution to the nation’s employment and economy.

My father, former civil servant, M. Chandrasoma, was a keen racegoer, and rarely missed a day of racing. We lived five minutes from the racecourse in Colombo, and spent our April holidays in Nuwara Eliya, when that beautiful town and racecourse had its annual “season”. Galle was a few miles from my father’s hometown of Hikkaduwa, a couple of hours’ drive from Colombo. The whole family was sometimes included in these memorable excursions, and I learnt to have my first bet on a horse (usually 50cts. each way) at the tender age of eight.

I went to England, where my father was on overseas assignment with the Shell Company, just before horse racing ended in Colombo. He had earlier served in the Ceylon Civil Service, the quintessential public servant, the epitome of the characteristics of justice, honesty and integrity for which that elite service was renowned. (Of course I am biased!). He resigned from the service after 19 and a half years, the last two running the Port of Colombo, the love of his life.

I mentioned the precise period of his 19 and a half years of service, because, had he served an extra six months, he would have been eligible for his pension. However, my father was nothing if not pigheaded, and when he saw an injustice caused by political expediency which went against his principles, time was of the essence, financial benefits be damned, he couldn’t abide the situation a minute longer.

He had a dispute regarding the operation of the Port of Colombo, which was his responsibility, with that consummate politician, Prime Minister SWRD Bandaranaike. When his objections were summarily rejected by the PM, at whose pleasure he served, he saw no alternative but to tender his resignation immediately. He cleaned up his office that very afternoon. Truth be told, there was little to clear except a few London Times crossword puzzles; he was not the type of civil servant who regarded a full in-box as a sine qua non of a hard worker). He came home to the lady, my mother, who had, unbeknownst to her, been promoted, once again, as the only love of his life, now that he had been jilted by the Port of Colombo.

In the good old days, it was customary for rich parents to be on the lookout for young civil servants, considered by society to be the most eligible partners for their daughters. Of course they had to check other vital boxes, ethnicity, religion, caste and in some cases, skin color and even shoe size. The marriage of my parents, which was not arranged by their parents, checked many of the boxes, except the one considered to be the most socially offensive. My father hailed from the barely acceptable Karawa caste, which was however a few steps higher than that of my toddy tapping mother.

However, she possessed one even more essential asset, which sent her vaulting to the heights of the basically hypocritical, ever bigoted Sri Lankan society – money. So, by happy accident, my father achieved with much more finesse what many of his civil service colleagues had to negotiate – he met my mother in the university, fell in love with her and achieved the enviable outcome of marrying both the woman he loved and a pension guaranteed till death did them part.

I have many memorable experiences of our many visits to the racecourses in Sri Lanka. To recount them all would be impossible in a short essay, but I recall a most memorable trip to Boossa with one of my father’s closest friends, Mr. Singham Sellamuttu. They had planned a Saturday at the races in Galle, but for some reason that escapes my mind, my father couldn’t make it. Uncle Singham suggested that I accompany him – I was 16 years old – and I jumped at the pleasure of spending a day at the races with a man I greatly admired. We had a wonderful day at the races, and our return drive to Colombo was punctuated by many stops at resthouses from Galle to Colombo – Hikkaduwa, Ambalangoda, Bentota, etc. where we stopped for yet another one for the road. As in many endings of children’s stories of yore, I returned home, tired but happy, with a slight twist. I was also very drunk.

We got to Colombo way past midnight, a two-hour drive which took over five, and my father was pacing up and down our driveway at our home, worried sick, imagining all types of disasters which could have befallen us. When we finally reached our destination, he was horrified to see the state we were in. He started angrily upbraiding Uncle Singham, accusing him of corrupting his teenage son. (Though he did have an inkling that the process had already begun, he was no fool). Uncle Singham, with that considerable charm he could muster, defused the situation, saying, Relax, Tissa. Your son is much better company than you are, and drove away, leaving us both with smiles of affection in our faces.

But I digress. My father carried on his passion for horse racing during his stay in England. We were, however, confined to our books in our efforts to gain access to a good university. But there was horse racing on television almost daily, and I was entranced with the beauty of horseflesh competing in the most attractive of racecourses in England.

In due time, my parents left us to our own devices and returned to Sri Lanka. I had secured a place at Christ Church, Oxford, but the offer was made in October 1959 to start my academic career in October 1960, one full year later. That was the stage of my life when I made the first of numerous mistakes and wrong choices which ruined a possibly promising career.

There were family reasons I couldn’t spend that year in Sri Lanka. So I led the life of Riley in London, with many Sri Lankan friends, generally having a lot of fun. We received the princely allowance of 45 pounds per month (about Rs. 600 in those good old days), which enabled us explore the many delights that London had to offer an 18-year-old. The relative innocence with which I had arrived from Colombo swiftly evaporated when I was happily introduced to the pleasures of the demon drink, fast women and slow horses.

The environs of London are peppered with some of the finest racecourses in the world. Epsom Downs, where the most famous horse race in the world, the Epsom Derby is run; Royal Ascot, which is the midsummer championship of horses of all categories, sprinters, milers, middle distance horses and stayers. Glorious Goodwood, renowned as the most beautiful racecourse in the world. All these, and even a few lesser courses, were well within our means, and I took every opportunity of attending, especially when big races were on the program.

These famous English courses, and their French counterparts like Longchamps in Paris, had a great advantage over the thousands of great courses all over the world. Those international courses host the most famous events, like the Breeders Cup in the USA, the annual world championships of horses in training; and the venues of the horse races with the biggest purses, the Saudi Cup in Riyadh ($20 million) and the Dubal World Cup ($12 million). And many others.

But these are all flat tracks, one pretty well much like the other. Like flawlessly made up and manicured models, most pleasing to the eye, but paradoxically lacking in appeal entirely because of that outward perfection. Undoubtedly, the betting, dining, service and entertainment facilities in these racetracks were far more luxurious than their British and French counterparts. Many are sited in spectacular locations.

Like Santa Anita in Los Angeles, California, set against the scenic backdrop of the San Gabriel Mountains, and Del Mar, creation of “The Old Groaner”, Bing Crosby; a coastal track, “where the turf meets the surf”, two hours south of Los Angeles. But while their surroundings are often most appealing, the flat, circular tracks themselves are totally devoid of personality or character.

My home racetrack while I was living in Los Angeles was Santa Anita. I used to go there many Saturday afternoons during their season. While I enjoyed the racing, they never made my heart skip a beat as did the prospect of the joyful excitement of a day of racing at Royal Ascot.

To add a little comic relief, I was once invited to Royal Ascot by an undergraduate friend at Oxford, whose father had a private box. I must have cut a pretty ridiculous figure, a brown-skinned man decked in the full paraphernalia of top hat and tails! I had even picked a rose from the Dean’s Garden for my lapel. Thank God I was at an age when I was completely devoid of any sense of shame.

The tracks of most of the racecourses in England and France are contoured according to the undulations of their terrain, the ups and downs which make them more beautiful and even more challenging. I wish I had the talent and the space to describe the wonderful memories I have of these courses. Even today, I get goosebumps when I see on TV a group of the best-bred and most beautiful of animals, thundering around Tattenham Corner at Epsom, with four furlongs (880 yards) of an uphill finish ahead of them to the winning post, testing the stamina and courage of the finest three-year olds of the year.

As high as the purses for winners of classic races are, the real money to be made in the industry is in breeding. A stallion, after he is retired from racing, is allowed by the US National Thoroughbred Racing Association and the Jockey Club in Britain to service a maximum of 140 broodmares per year. A Kentucky or Epsom Derby winner will command around $300,000 per foal, fetching an annual income of $4.2 million, and a stud value of over $70 million.

Those stallions with the best blood lines usually retain their potency till age 20, or 17 years spent out in pasture, frolicking with the fillies. Retirement that adds real meaning to the phrase “Golden Years”.

I had the great good fortune to see such a stallion in action at the breeding shed of a trainer in Rotorua in New Zealand. The beautiful animal was led to the mare obviously in heat, with great expectations. Our hero climbed on top, and the whole operation took about 30 seconds, at the end of which he started dismounting. But not before the mare, in furious frustration, delivered a well-aimed kick at his chest.

Some things never change, whatever the species. As Dean Martin used to sing, “Wham! Bam! Thank You Ma’am! Hope you’re satisfied!”