Hail to the Chief

by Barry Weisbord 

A year after Alan Goldberg and I stumbled into the employ of Walter Kelley in 1972, Mr. Kelley stated, in his typical self-deprecating way, “You college boys have learned enough from me. You need to go work for someone smart. I'll try to get you a job with Allen Jerkens.” 

We had met Mr. Jerkens the previous winter when we were stabled by him at Hialeah. As able-bodied enthusiastic young guys, Al and I were recruited into the legendary afternoon football games. So when Mr. Kelley pitched me to work for “The Chief” in the fall of 1973, you might say I received a football scholarship to Jerkens University. 

Maybe Mr. Kelley knew exactly what he was doing. I surely didn't. 

That fall, the Jerkens barn ruled Belmont's Saturdays. Onion's defeat of Secretariat at Saratoga had started a stakes explosion–Prove Out, Kings Bishop, Garland of Roses, Step Nicely, Blessing Angelica all won major races. 

I wish I had had the horsemanship experience at that time to take better advantage of the lessons I could have learned from him. What I did learn–and learned to love under his tutelage–changed the course of my life. His competitive nature, his attention to detail, his caring for employees, his team-building, his acts of kindness to the backstretch community, and, most importantly, his love of the sport were unparalleled. I was so proud to be working for his stable. 

He created a special sense of community–we worked hard, we worked long (he was the first to take the horses out to walk and graze every afternoon), we played together, we ate together. Progressive technology companies hire consultants to formulate versions of these techniques to boost productivity. Allen Jerkens knew them by instinct. 

The most important moments for me were the meals. The breakfasts at Liz's Kitchen, the dinners at Koenig's, were the times when all you wanted to do was listen. The stories. The insight. Allen might have been as great a historian of racing as he was a trainer. That's when you really felt the depth of his love for horse racing. It was contagious. 

The 1973 Woodward might have been the moment to seal my fate–Prove Out was 16-1 against the legendary Secretariat. The night before the race, as we were turning out the barn lights, I asked, “Chief, can you beat Secretariat again?” Jerkens said, “Prove Out can't get beat.” He didn't. I cashed. 

I didn't know anything. I was a hotwalker. I did nothing to affect the barns success that fall, but the effect on me was life changing. 

I was so lucky to have gotten my football scholarship. 

Thank you, thank you, thank you Mr. Jerkens.