Despite outward appearances, I knew that my parents were really concerned for me. Dad swiftly arranged for me to be moved to a private hospital where surgeons operated using screws and pins to repair the damage. A few days later, while I was still in hospital, Dad—riding a horse called Wild Dancer—was just pipped by Irish jockey Michael Kinane on Again Tomorrow in a tight finish to the Italian 2,000 Guineas. He blamed himself for riding a bad race because he was still so upset about my injuries—which, at that stage, he feared could prevent me fulfilling his dreams for me to become a jockey.
The damage took time to heal, and when the plaster was taken off I promptly fainted! I then discovered to my horror that I could barely extend my elbow 45 degrees. We were all concerned at first, even though we were told that it would eventually be as good as before with the help of regular physiotherapy. So my routine for the next month was to catch a bus to the nearest swimming pool, where I swam for an hour before returning home to carry out all the chores I’d always avoided in the past. In the afternoons it was back to the pool for more swimming.
Each day I could extend my arm a little further but progress was painfully slow. My dad became increasingly impatient as the days passed and I was still no nearer leaving for England. Eventually he put his foot down and decided on a novel way of sorting out the elbow once and for all. He took me with him to Aldo Botti’s yard and loaded me aboard an old sprinter called Fire Thatch who had once been trained by Henry Cecil in England.
By this stage of his career Fire Thatch was the quietest animal in Botti’s stable, a saint of a horse but one who still had his moments. As I hadn’t ridden for almost three months I was a bit apprehensive, mostly because I knew my arm still wasn’t right. I betrayed my nerves by gripping the reins much tighter than usual as we turned to set off on what should have been a routine canter. Fire Thatch immediately grabbed hold of the bit and set off like a rocket.
A second earlier my arm wouldn’t extend fully. Now, in one moment of extreme pain, both my arms were straight out in front of me as I tried in vain to prevent Fire Thatch from running away with me. We covered five furlongs flat out and every stride was agony for me before he eased to a halt at the end of the gallop. In little more than a minute the horse had accomplished what the doctors and physios couldn’t achieve in eleven weeks. The pain continued for a while as I returned to riding out full-time again for Botti, though luckily there was no lasting damage after this unconventional comeback. My elbow has been fine for years, but still I can’t stretch my right arm quite as far as it is supposed to go.
Once he knew my recovery was complete, Dad was anxious to send me on my way to England. He’d already introduced me briefly at the races to Luca Cumani—who had been an outstanding amateur rider before becoming Henry Cecil’s assistant. Later Luca had set up on his own as a trainer at Newmarket.
I flew from Milan on 10 July 1985 with a bucketful of dreams, one million lira (£366) in my pocket, and an identification tag around my neck so that someone could collect me after we landed at Luton. As the plane clawed its way into the sky I felt as if I was on Mission Apollo, heading for the stars. My life was changing forever and I had no control over it. I was met at Luton by Luca’s chauffeur David, who did his best to make me welcome even though he couldn’t speak a word of Italian.
As we listened on the car radio to the July race meeting at Newmarket, I heard the name of a horse named Lanfranco being called in commentary in the big race of the day. Suddenly I didn’t feel quite so far from home.
Five I Used to Cry Myself to Sleep
Our first stop in Newmarket was the house in the Bury Road which was to be my home for a few short, increasingly unhappy weeks. When we knocked on the front door at around four in the afternoon there was no reply. Since David was keen to take me to Luca Cumani’s yard, I left my big bag outside the back door, at his suggestion, convinced that I’d never see it again. At home in Milan I was used to kids trying to rob you as you walked along the street. Leaving all my precious possessions outside the house seemed to be asking for trouble.
Then we headed for the office at Luca’s yard nearby. He was not around, but his secretary took me to the bottom yard where I met his veteran head lad Arthur Taylor—who could speak some Italian because he fought there in the war as a sergeant in the Cavalry regiment and (I learned much later) had been involved in the battle for Montecassino at the same time as my grandfather Mario.
Arthur handed me a dandy brush and towel, led me to the fillies’ barn and put me to work. I was still wearing my suit, so I took off my jacket, hung it up, unbuttoned my shirt and started dressing the filly over as best I could. Half an hour later Luca appeared at the door of the box, said a brief buona sera!, told me to be in the yard by six the next morning, then went on his way round the yard at evening stables.
It had been a long day and I was already beginning to feel homesick as I was delivered back to my digs—and found to my surprise that my bag was still there. The whole family was there to meet me, including the father who was so massive he resembled the famous old wrestler ‘Big Daddy’. I was shown to my room upstairs under the corner of the roof next to the main road. In the weeks that followed it felt more like a prison than a refuge.
It was little bigger than a broom cupboard with just enough space for a small bed, a sink and a cupboard. Beside the basin was a jug of orange squash. I poured myself a glass, drank deeply then spat it out in disgust. I’d never encountered neat orange squash before and couldn’t imagine how anyone would want to drink it. In Italy I was used to fresh orange juice. It was one of many culture shocks I experienced in the next few days.
My first evening meal in England was another disaster. In an attempt to make me feel at home they laid on a plate of ravioli, but this was far from the delicious treat which I was used to enjoying back in Italy. This ravioli came instead from a Heinz tin! Everyone else tucked in but I thought it smelled awful—and when I tried a spoonful it was awful. The landlord was obviously irritated by my reaction so I struggled through a few more mouthfuls to keep the peace.
The family’s three children sitting round the table were a bit younger than me and we were also joined by several other lads who lived in the back of the house. Conversation was impossible because I didn’t speak any English. The only word I understood was Swinburn. Apparently my new landlord was a fanatical fan of trainer Michael Stoute who employed Walter Swinburn as his stable jockey. Aware that I was working for Luca Cumani he banged on endlessly about Stoute, Swinburn and Shergar, but most of it went straight over my head. I was utterly miserable as I trooped upstairs to bed.
Riding out with the Cumani team the next morning made me feel a little better, though I was overwhelmed by the size of the place and the sheer number of horses we could see on Newmarket heath. After the delights of Milan and Pisa, Newmarket truly did seem like the headquarters of racing, with almost sixty trainers squeezed into the town. Luca trained a string of just over one hundred horses that season, a total that would almost double in the years ahead. Half of them were in the main yard beside the house, with the rest in the bottom yard which was where I started. I’d never been involved with such a huge racing set-up before, and it was quickly made clear to me that the guv’nor, as everyone called him, expected things to be done properly. All the lads seemed in awe of him as he moved around the yard like a Roman emperor.
At lunchtime that first day I used some of the cash my dad had given me to buy a bicycle for £80. That evening I rode it proudly to work, but as the week went on I felt more and more isolated. At fourteen I was several years younger than any of the other lads and nobody much seemed to want to talk to me—except a nice old boy called George Dunwoody who’d trained and ridden horses in Northern Ireland for many years. More recently he’d looked after a Classic horse—the previous year’s St Leger winner Commanche Run.
In a way we were the ‘odd couple’ thrown together by fate, the young Italian nuisance at the start of his career and the veteran stableman who was helping out around the yard at the other end of the rainbow. George always