Farewell to a Friend

4.45am. I couldn’t sleep. It had been teeming down for hours. The heat and humidity seemed sub-tropical in this little enclave of Hackney, reminiscent of faraway climes.

I’d fidgeted for hours, thoughts swimming – drowning, more like, in the monsoon outside my bedroom window – after events of the evening before.

Not wildly sentimental, though far from immune to affairs of the heart either, it had been an emotional few days. An all too rare weekend foray to Dorset, son Leonardo in tow, to visit my dad – Leon’s nonno – was bathed in sunshine, both literally and metaphorically. Though I never speak it, it comes to mind often that, at this stage in our lives, one never quite knows when it will be the last such trip.

Those thoughts were granted more resonance on Monday when an offer was finally accepted on my late mother’s house, thirteen months after her passing. Though not especially close to her, she’d appeared more prevalently in my consciousness in recent times, for reasons that the shrinks could go to town with, doubtless. We only have one mum, after all, and Leon only had one nonna.

But nonna’s gone, and this was a surprisingly sore reminder.

In truth, twelve hours ago, none of this was in the forefront of my mind. I was watching the second race at Carlisle, praying for rain. He needs rain, does our lad. Half of our lad is owned by myself and three other Geegeez syndicateers: Jim, Pete and Charlie. The other half is owned jointly by his trainer, Wilf Storey, and his former owner, and breeder, Ray Tooth.

Just an average plodder on good ground – below average, truth be told – he’s ten pounds better on soft, and most of a stone and a half more of a man on heavy going.

Let it rain. Please let it rain. The Racing UK chaps were of the view that, if the forecast was correct, it would be heavy by the last race. Our lad was in the last race.

And then it came. A heavy shower passed over the corner of Cumbria in which Carlisle’s racecourse is reposed. The talk was of stamina-sapping conditions, of attritional scraps up the hill that hinders tiring progress through the final furlong. Perfect for our lad.

Except it wasn’t. The winners were not the soft and heavy ground horses. Not the known ones anyway. Most had never encountered such an apparently deep surface before. Race times were slow but not funereal. No, not funereal, let’s go with another word. Not pedestrian.

And then there was the pace in our race. Despite the big field of fifteen – you get another place for sixteen, eh? – there was little to no known early pace in that large group of middling stayers. That was a worry for a chap as one-paced as our fella. Still, hope springs eternal, and it was good to soft, soft in places, after all.

The trip, a mile and three quarters, the big field, the track and the going were all largely in his favour, and he’d have his best chance for a while of going close. When he won at Hamilton, it was soft and they went the sort of breakneck gallop that had him off the bridle from the gate.

It might sound odd to the fleetingly familiar with racing, but that’s when we knew he had a chance: when they went so hard early that our boy could barely keep tabs at the back. A bit like Zenyatta, though a thousand pounds below her level, he just keeps galloping when the rest can no longer raise a leg.

It was the same at Nottingham last season when confronted with heavy ground. He sluiced through it. Big feet, probably. And here, for the first time since Hamilton, was a race with his name on it.

I wagered accordingly. Not heavily: after a few recent reversals, the punting belt had been tightened, and here it was only released a couple of notches. But still enough to score most of three grand if he prevailed. After all, he was a 22/1 chance. Except he wasn’t. If there was genuinely any real juice in the turf, and if at least one horse pushed on, he was more like a 6/1 shot. But 22/1 was the price on offer. That’s called value, they tell me.

Post time came, 7.15pm on 13th September. The triskaidekaphobics would have a field day. Our chap, occasionally recalcitrant at the stalls in recent outings, was first in, quiet as a mouse. A couple of minutes later, the other fourteen loaded, he was last out, slumbering when he should have been lumbering from the boxes.

But he had his position, two or three from the tail and, although they didn’t go a searching gallop, the field was strung out – fifteen lengths first to last after a quarter mile, thanks to the rag, Belle Peinture’s, interjection.

Perhaps it was the longer trip, because in spite of the washing line formation our boy was still lolloping along on the bridle. They’re not going quickly enough, I muttered to my disinterested wife and child, who had been obliged to suffer the unscheduled interruption to cBeebies.

Come on Kevin, make your ground, don’t give them a start in a foot race you can’t win… I do babble when watching our boys.

Kevin – Stott, a jockey considered good enough to get the Godolphin leg up 126 times to date – gave him a peach of a ride. Making his move half a mile out, Nonagon came with a surprisingly smooth run, widest of all as they fanned across the track into the straight.

At the two-furlong pole, he was going best, with the debatable exception of the 2/1 favourite. Shortly before the furlong pole, his run petered out, quickly, desperately disappointingly. My initial reaction was that he didn’t stay, that his one run used him all up, or perhaps that it wasn’t quite soft enough.

Your first 30 days for just £1

But then it all unravelled, initially unbeknown to me.

Even in the mobile age, there remain communication problems. I had taken Leon for bath and bed time, missing a call from on-course Jim. When I returned downstairs, I read his cryptic text message:

“Sadly horse broke down. Not sure what happens next. Phone out of juice. Will call when I get home”

Shit. Broke down? What does he mean, broke down? He finished sixth, just didn’t quite get home. Surely.

Both Jim and Wilf were incommunicado as they drove back to York and Muggleswick respectively, so it was an agonising wait for news, which came shortly before 10pm, when I got hold of Wilf.

Wilf is 78, the same age as my dad, and a horseman of the old school. A bloody brilliant horseman, a farmer, and a lover of animals more generally. He’d not be soft, having weathered the fat end of four score County Durham winters, most of them tending the land.

But he had the husk in his voice of one who had taken a blow, emotionally. Mainly, I think, he felt for his daughter, Stella. She does so much of the labour with the Storey horses, her dedication and work ethic, well, stellar. She’d been in tears at the course apparently, and was inconsolable when they’d got home.

Nonagon suffered a ruptured tendon, presumably somewhere between the quarter mile and furlong poles, and it was bad. Sufficiently bad that, in Wilf’s opinion, he should have been euthanized at the track. “But they don’t like that”, he said, referring to the racecourse administrators.

So our boy, in deep distress and under heavy sedation, was loaded back onto the horsebox. Mercifully, a small mercy, the return trip was less than ninety minutes.

The prognosis for Nonagon is terminal, I’m afraid. The injury is severe, and he is unlikely to see evening stables tonight. Writing that wells me up. It shouldn’t do. I mean, he’s just a horse.

Except, of course, he’s not “just a horse”. They’re never “just a horse”. To his owners – Jim, Pete, Charlie and myself – he’s our soldier, our boy, our lad: a horse who tried his guts out every time he stepped on a race track. You can’t teach them to try.

Nonagon was a slow racehorse, but he could be slow for a lot longer than most others could be a beat quicker; and, in the right circumstances, that made him look like a Rolls Royce. A working man’s syndicate’s Rolls Royce.

If we owners, who waltz up on race day to swill the gravy and dream of the kudos of the winners’ enclosure, are upset, then spare your sympathies for Wilf, and mostly for Stella, whose love and care made the story possible.

Nonagon, like all of Wilf and Stella’s horses, was a cast off. Asked to do too much too soon – well, early return on investment is so important in a racehorse, isn’t it? – he injured a tendon as a two-year-old. That tendon.

Wilf patched him up, and gave him a year and a month in a field. At the end of it, he had an autumn three-year-old who might make a racehorse at four, Nonagon’s body allowed the time it needed to mature and to mend. His trainer always maintained he had ability, especially in the early days when that precious commodity looked conspicuously absent.

And, after a tongue-swallowing incident when running his best race to that point at Ripon, he had that most rudimentary of aids - the tongue tie - applied on every subsequent start (except the time at Newcastle when the stalls team couldn’t get it on him).

It helped him breathe. It helped him win two races. And it helped him bring a hell of a lot of joy to his owners, his trainers, his breeder and his matchmaker, Tony Stafford, whose introductions joined all the preceding parties in this unlikely union.

Horseracing is the ultimate numbers game, awash with lows that, as the cliché hackneys, make the good days so sweet. We have to celebrate the good days, a point emphasised and underscored by the dark dawn to which I awoke to scribble this half-baked homage.

It could have been worse. After all, Nonagon is just a horse.


Your first 30 days for just £1
46 replies
  1. Richard says:

    So sorry about that news Matt. I have never owned a horse, but know how difficult that I would find dealing with that situation

    A brilliantly written and moving piece which you can be proud of.

    Best Wishes.

    • Spandex says:

      Excellent stuff Matt, takes me back to when I was an owner. Deepest sympathies on your loss.

    • Paul says:

      So sorry to read about any horse being put down. They’re such beautiful animals. Your piece was brilliant, thanks for sharing it with us. This kind of grief just has to take its own time to move on. All the best.

    • arjaydubya says:

      Half-baked homage Matt? It was a beautifully written piece, and I’m just wondering if you are in the wrong business.
      Could there be a best-selling novel sometime in the future?

  2. Kate Austin says:

    Ah sweetheart. Ruby says they’re outside the back door & yes, I get that. What he didn’t say was, they’re inside our hearts. So sorry Matt & for all who loved him.

  3. Lucky says:

    Sincere condolences, Matt. It must have been difficult to pen this article with the pain so fresh in your mind, but once again you have written a masterful piece which has given us all food for thought.
    Kind regards

  4. KIngTen87 says:

    Very poignant Matt. In the same way a pet is never ‘just a pet’, I know full well I would feel the same attachment to each and every racehorse if I ever got to the chance to become involved with any. Your time and effort and the rollercoaster of emotions they invoke in and off the track would make almost anyone become attached, although whether they would be man enough to admit it is a different story…

  5. mick w says:

    very sorry we love a bet but this is the sad part -we all want to see them grow old and spend time in a field all the best

  6. Johnners77 says:

    Thank you for sharing this very personal piece with us Matt. It really brings home the love that owners have for their horses – your poignant writing has highlighted the need for us to appreciate fully the efforts the horses make on our behalves and for our enjoyment. Sad though it is, his campaign ended doing what he clearly loved, galloping away in the mud and doing his best for all his connections. Sympathies to you all and of course to the trainer who will be equally gutted. Mark J

  7. Michael says:

    So sad to hear about your loss , it’s bad enough being a spectator when such a thing happens before your eyes, and watching a bereft jockey tearfully walking back up the course , and also knowing how the connections must be feeling when being advised of the final decisions
    Commiserations Mat , lovely article

  8. john lees says:

    I have had the privilege of breeding and owning racehorses,they become part of your soul,they run in your veins,and occupy your mind with eternal hope and wellbeing,they are part of you. To you all that were part of Nonagon, look back and enjoy his experiences that very few of us were able to share in life.

  9. John says:

    Very well written Matt. Comiserations to everyone involved. Losing an animal is always hard.

  10. Dion Penston says:

    Like all the above comments so sorry for losing him racing has a habit of bringing you back to reality at times.

  11. Malcolm Coyle says:

    Life is so fragile. Like a passing cloud…it is gone.

    Just….a very good horse.

  12. Steve says:

    ”They’re never “just a horse”.”

    An excellently written piece, Matt, that conveys the emotions I think we all recognise when we see or hear of any horse going wrong or getting hurt in a race….and that’s without the additional attachment of being an owner.

    RIP Nonagon

  13. Sondrio2 says:

    A very moving article Matt. I’m up in Cumbria at whinfell forest for a short break so havnt really followed the racing, any horse lost is particularly heartbreaking for us racing enthusiasts but one owned by someone we associate with albeit in the web world is even more painful. Thank you for sharing your emotions , it was a brilliantly written expression of your obvious pain at the sad loss of a gallant racer.

  14. Robert Smith says:

    So sorry to hear bad news Matt – thoughts are with you. As you so rightly say they are never just “a horse” or a dog or cat for that matter. War Regards Bob Smith

  15. William Bunyan says:

    Such sad news Matt, I was at Hamilton that day he won, and had backed him, he was given a superb ride by S.Gray, weaving his way through the field in the final 2 furlongs, winning very cleverly by about 1/2 a length.
    Such a shame for a real nice horse and my sympathies go out you and all the rest of the team, I’m sure the clouds up above will be soft enough for him to win many a more race, in the big racetrack up above. A brilliantly written tribute to a true friend. Gallop on The Nonogan.

  16. Carole says:

    My boy is retired. My son tells me my boy could still ‘ make the grade’ with his pedigree. Even though the knee fracture is fully repaired and post 3 years. I still couldn’t risk my boy.
    I couldn’t walk in your shoes for all the tea. My condolences

  17. Philip Clayton says:

    Dear Matt,
    Until reading this I had no idea of Nonagon’s fate and I had backed him e/w for a small sum and had been surprised that he hadn’t made the frame; now I know why. When all is said and done owning a horse inevitably means they are more like a loved pet and the attachment has to be different than when just punting on them. I am sorry for your loss and the loss felt by the Storey’s who would have been even more deeply attached to Nonagon. I just hope he did not suffer too much and shame on the racetrack for prolonging his pain. Philip

  18. Phil. Root says:

    A moving piece Matt. My sympathies to you and all connected to Nonagon.
    All the best Phil.

  19. martinoski says:

    Sorry for your unfortunate loss Matt. Always sad to hear the passing of any racehorse. He wont be forgotten I’m sure, but hopefully this can allow you to appreciate and embrace your involvement in your other horses even more as you never know whats round the corner.

  20. whoami says:

    That’s very sad news but a beautifully well-written tribute to your horse.


  21. Bob Nally says:

    So sorry to hear your news Matt, unfortunately that is racing and we have to live with both the highs and the lows as we follow our hobby.

  22. Paul says:

    Very well written tribute .
    To some of us animals are almost as dear to us as people

  23. Paul Liversuch says:

    Not being a racing fanatic (I’m just here to try and make some supplementary income, to be honest!) I found your article quite an insight into the world of racing and very well written – you weren’t a journalist in a former life by any chance?
    I’m sorry to hear of your recent losses of four-legged friend and mother, and whilst I realise they are not on the same scale I can understand your emotional ties to both, only in different ways.
    There are some nice comments on here and I’m sure you will receive some slight relief from them.
    Good luck for the future and keep writing the articles ☺

  24. Rob says:

    Dear Matt.
    Your article brought a few tears to my eyes. I understand your emotions only too well. Writing this must have been very difficult.

    My condolences to you and your team, most especially to Stella who was obviously incredibly close to Nonagon as I imagine she is to all her charges.

  25. Topspur says:

    Sorry for your loss Matt. Put my cat down 2 days ago and am absolutely in pieces. Our little, and not-so-little friends certainly leave their mark on us.

  26. Mike Page says:

    Very sorry to read this but hanging onto the thought that in this country most race horses are well looked after and can have a good life. Condolences and Best wishes to all the connections

  27. Doshtosh says:

    It’s far from a “half-baked homage” So sorry to read of this loss, time will help but never heal. Hopefully there are happier days ahead.

    You have my deepest sympathy and best wishes, Matt.

    John Carney.

  28. Alistair Kennedy says:

    So sad matt. As a part owner in a syndicate I dread that moment will ever happen. Well written and best of luck in the future.



  29. Everyone calls me Paul says:

    Thank you for putting it all into perspective, Matt. I will try to hold on to that lesson. The piece does you, and all involved with Nonagon, proud. Condolences to you all.

  30. RomJim says:

    Just re-read your piece and sitting here crying my eyes out.
    Beautifully written piece.
    thanks for this and for your friendship.

  31. Graham Coia says:

    So, so, sorry to hear this sad news, Matt. Never feel the need to apologize for getting emotional. My thoughts are with you and your boy’s team.

Comments are closed.