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Form of Gallant Fox in Preakness Will Make Him Derby Favorite

Damon Runyon

Lancaster New Era/May 10, 1930

BALTIMORE, May 10.—“Here comes Sande! Here comes Sande!”

Across the green vale of Maryland, in which rests old Pimlico race track, the cry rose from 40,000 throats yesterday afternoon. Out of a winding reel of bright color, far up the sunlit track, a white jacket splashed with red spots like blood was not to be mistaken.

“Here comes Sande! Here comes Sande!”

The cry was like an echo, so often has it rolled across the Maryland landscape.

Two hundred feet from the wire and “Doc” Cassidy’s Crack Brigade in front with George Ellis pounding his polished sides, when here came Sande, master horseman of his time, with a real race horse under him in Gallant Fox.

Sande “Lifts” Him Over

The shrewd hands of the great Sande seemed to lift his mount over those last few yards of ground. Now the red-hooded head Gallant Fox was in front and moving on and as the pair raced under the wire, the Fox had three-quarters of a length the best of it and the East had a real hope for the Kentucky Derby. From the turn into the stretch the pair had raced almost head and head for the $50,000 stake and not until the last couple of jumps was Crack Brigade defeated.

Six lengths behind the front runners was Snowflake, a filly owned by Walter J. Salmon, who has twice won the Preakness.

The time of the race was 2:00 3-5, which is slow for the Preakness distance, but it didn’t seem slow to the mob watching the ding-dong struggle.

Gallant Fox had a lot of bad luck and Sande had to take him away to the outside of the field at the first turn to get a decent running position.

Tetrarchal, of the Howe stable, which also had Gold Book in the race, got off in front and led the way clear around to the back side with Crack Brigade in close attendance on him.

Sweet Sentiment Weakens

Sweet Sentiment, from the Seagram Stable of Canada, lay third the first time past the stand, but Sande moved Gallant Fox in that hole on the first turn. He closed a terrific amount of ground to get there, coming from almost last.

Then Earl just rated his horse along with Crack Brigade, letting Tetrarchal do the running. This nag died away before the turn into the stretch, when the battle narrowed down to Crack Brigade and Gallant Fox.

The best horse won, but the finish would have delighted our noble visitor, the Earl of Derby, who bred Light Brigade, daddy of “Doc” Cassidy’s horse.

William Woodward, president of the Harriman National Bank of New York and owner of Gallant Fox, saw his horse win and afterwards went into the stand to get his trophy. Only recently Gallant Fox won the Wood Memorial Stakes in New York and is now favorite for the Kentucky Derby next week.

The cheers yesterday were for Sande. Never a more popular jockey straddled a horse. He stood in the weighing-in stand after the race bareheaded and grinning and the crowd yelled again and again. The great rider retired about a year ago on account of increasing weight and raced his own stable, but, finding that unprofitable, he came back this season to ride one of the best horses he ever had under him.

Pays $4 Straight

Gallant Fox paid $4 straight, $4.30 to place and $2.90 to show in the mutuels. A surprising price. Reports that he had sulked in his last workouts probably kept some from betting on him, but he carried a world of money just the same.

The mutuel price is about even money straight and thirty cents above that a place. Behind Snowflake, the third horse, the rest of the field was pretty well strung out. Michigan Boy was fourth and Armageddon, second choice with the bettors, was away back.

This was the fortieth running of the Preakness, which started in 1873. Oddly enough, it was the first time Sande ever rode the winner in this race, though he had won many other big stakes.

Gallant Fox No. 1

Gallant Fox had No. 1 on his saddle blanket and Earl Sande’s shoulders were draped with the red-spotted white jacket of the Belair Stud, one of the oldest breeding farms in Maryland. A scarlet cap was on the head of the one-time king of the ace riders as he went bobbing by in the post parade.

Never a finer looking steed went to the post in the Preakness than the favorite. “Doc” Cassidy’s Crack Brigade was another good looker. The Doctor has a gaudy -light blue jacket and orange sash with orange sleeves and cap.

The pink of the Salmons was about the most familiar colors in the race. L. Schaefer wore them on Swinfield and A. Robertson on Snowflake. There 18 rarely a Preakness that the New York real estate owner doesn’t have a starter.

The Whitneys were missing—Harry Payne and the Greentree. Nothing from the Bradley Barn or the stable of McLean, the Washington publisher. No Wideners either.

Governor Ritchie got a big hand from the crowd and a gush of “My Maryland” from the band as he climbed the steps to the judges’ stand to see the race and present the Woodlawn Vase, the old trophy that goes to the winning owner, who always gives it back. Someday an owner will get everybody very angry by lugging the vase home, but the average owner would be quite contented with the $52,925 that was first money today.

The sun was getting low behind the stand when the bugle brought the horses to post, where Jim Milton, the veteran starter and his assistant awaited them. At that time the proletariat had taken so much of Gallant Fox in the machines the last betting showed him at even money. Armageddon, the Jeffords Man o’ War, kicked up a row on reaching the barrier. He is a bad post actor, and -the other day they had to let the jockey, dismount and walk Eaby, the jockey, dismount and walk the steed around, then remount in the starting stall.

Gallant Fox stood very quietly. So did all the others. The assistant starters wrestled valiantly with Armageddon to get him in the stall. Finally the old familiar cry arose, “They’re off,” the age-old war whoop of the turf, and down the stretch came the rolling ball of color.

Official Washington always makes quite an occasion of Preakness Day. Vice President Curtis, who used to be a jockey long ago, was present with a job lot of Senators and Representatives. Mr. Curtis is a steady customer of the Maryland races, anyway. Governor Ritchie, of Maryland, who hasn’t missed a Preakness in years, was on hand.

Part of the overflow crowd went into the field to sit among the little yellow flowers blooming there. The steady march of Baltimore is gradually squeezing old Pimlico into a little oasis of green and white surrounded by red brick dwellings. The street cars running past the plant seem, from the grandstand, to be traveling the white outer rail of the first turn of the track.

The Preakness was the fifth race of the day and as it came up, as the horse players say, there was a rush for the mutuel machines, under the stand where it was plenty hot, especially for the losers. The mutuels today must have “handled” close to $1,000,000 on the race, through the fields were small and mediocre. The $2 machines got the big play. Scarcely anyone goes to the Preakness without making a bet.

Gallant Fox was sent out at 2 to 1 in the first betting, with the Salmon Stable’s Snowflake and Swinfield at 8; the Howe’s Tetrarchal and Gold Brook at 12 and Doc Cassidy’s Crack Brigade at 5. The two Man o’ Wars in the race, Full Dress and Armageddon, were at 20 and 4, respectively. Michigan Boy was 8 and the Seagram’s Sweet Sentiment was 15. Woodgraft, belonging to the Audley Farm, was 10 to 1.

Gallant Fox came out for a warming up with a stable boy on his back and the crowd went “oo-ah” in admiration. The son of Sir Gallahad, 3d, and Marguerite is a beautiful looking thing—a bright bay in color and powerfully built.

The band played one of the football war songs of Annapolis as the favorite in the big race galloped past—then one about “Sink the Army.” I couldn’t see the connection.

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Schmeling Confident He Can Beat Sharkey

Damon Runyon

Knoxville Journal/May 6, 1930

Arrival of German Carries Damon Runyon Back to Days When Jack Dempsey Was in His Heyday; Maxie Shows Signs of Being a Thinker

NEW YORK, May 5.—The suite in the hotel Commodore occupied by Max Schmeling was a striking reminder Sunday of the quarters of Jack Dempsey when the Manassa man mauler was in the heyday of his championship career.

The same magnificence with which the ubiquitous Doctor Kearns used to pitch the temporary camps of Dempsey was there—a big parlor and a string of connecting rooms, very costly to inhabit. Waiters constantly moving in and out with pitchers of ice water, and trays of edibles. A dozen wardrobe trunks scattered around. The telephone ringing in all the different rooms at once.

And in the rooms the corresponding characters that used to infest the premises wherever and whenever the one-time heavyweight champion of the world set up his tepee. Some of these characters were indeed the very same. There was Professor William McCarney, the ol’ clo’ man of fistiana, for example, all dressed up in his Sunday best, and suave and smiling, and gloriously reminiscent, as he lolled in the depths of a big settee.

Even Joe Benjamin, the sheik of the San Joaquin, was there. He had called with his friend Mendel, the golf pants maker, to pay his respects. The California lightweight was a fixture of the Dempsey entourage in the old days. Of course, the ubiquitous Doctor Kearns was not on hand, but taking his place in the cast was Joe Jacobs, with a huge cigar in his kisser, volubly greeting all comers, and retiring at intervals to the bathroom for important conference with some.

No Privacy Here

The last was a peculiarly Dempseyesque touch. No one was ever able to find privacy in any of the many rooms that Kearns always had at Dempsey’s disposal in a hotel. Only the sanctity of the bathroom afforded freedom from eavesdroppers. Many an important deal in Dempsey’s behalf was consummated in the bathroom by Doctor Kearns. ‘Twas in the bathroom of your operative’s apartment in the Great Falls Hotel, in fact, that the conference was held which decided the fate of the Dempsey-Gibbons battle at Shelby.

A little Dachsund was rolling around the floor of the Schmeling suite Sunday. He had brought it over from Germany for a newspaper friend. You could kick up a purp somewhere around Dempsey’s rooms. A score of newspaper men were talking to the Black Uhlan of the Rhine—or at least they talked to him when he held still for a minute. He was up and down, and back and forth, shaking hands with newcomers, and answering the telephone, or just pacing the carpet with all the restlessness of the Dempsey of a few years ago.

Reminds One of Jack

“My, my,” remarked Joe Benjamin, glancing around at the mob. “It’s just like the old days. And how that guy resembles Dempsey before Jack got his beezer lifted! I never saw anything like it. He moves around a room like Dempsey. Well, if he can only fight as good as Dempsey when Dempsey was his age, I feel sorry for Sharkey.”

Tom McArdle, the pudgy matchmaker of Madison Square Garden, leaned against a table listening to the chatter. Frank Bruen, general manager of the Garden, called early to say hello, and incidentally to ask the Black Uhlan about fighting for the Garden corporation next year if Max win the heavyweight tlte, a point on which Frank got no satisfaction.

Mike Jacobs peered in for a moment. Herman Black, the baron of Atlantic Highlands, sat with a pitcher of water at his elbow, from which he imbibed heavily. Mushky Johnson, the young trainer of gladiators, was acting as a sort of major domo, assisting the callers out of their coats, and into them. Schmeling’s own trainer, Max Mahon, listened eagerly to the chatter, and said nothing. All day long a string of visitors passed through the rooms. It must have been something of a strain on the Black Uhlan, but he kept smiling cheerfully, and talking volubly in his broken English.

Has Rhineland Accent

Max has an accent that reeks of the Rhineland, but it is easily understood after you get the hang of it. Moreover, he quickly assimilates conversation addressed to him in English. In fact he talks more English now than he does German, even to his German callers. When a business proposition is put to him in English he has to revolve it around in his mind awhile, possibly to translate it into German for his own reflection, but for ordinary conversational purposes his English suffices.

He has a world of personality, which is perhaps another way of saying charm. His cordiality is natural. He loves the crowd as Dempsey loves it. He likes the bustle and stir in his hotel camp. Around Tunney’s diggings there was always an atmosphere of restraint. Around Sharkey there is a peculiar air of surliness, and even hostility. The Black Uhlan has that thing which is so rare in human beings, popular appeal.

He seems very confident he will beat Sharkey, and after Sharkey he would like to fight Dempsey. The vague possibility of Tunney returning to the ring was suggested to him, and Schmeling’s eyes brightened. Would he like to fight Tunney? Ach, yes! That would draw a lot of money. The Black Uhlan has an eye to business, you can see that.

Max is Ready to Go

He asked many questions about Sharkey’s battles with Loughran and Scott. Did he box them, or did he fight them? Obviously Schmeling wants to find out as much as possible about his opponent. He is a bit of a thinker, is the Black Uhlan. He expressed himself as anxious to get started to work for his battle under the auspices of the milk fund on the night of June 12 as quickly as possible. His appearance indicates that he has done some little training already, but he said the most important thing is to become acclimated.

“I never saw the guy fight,” commented Joseph Benjamin after he had gotten a good load of the German, “but he acts like a fighter who looks like a fighter. I’ve seen mighty few champions that didn’t look like champions. And this fellow’s got it. My my, how he reminds me of Dempsey!”

And the sheik of the San Joaquin fell into deep reflection. Possibly he was meditating on the last time he saw Dempsey, which was when the Manassa Mauler pegged a big right hand at him, severing a large, and large, and beautiful friendship.

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