Frankie: The Autobiography of Frankie Dettori. Frankie Dettori
me with a pitchfork and huge wheelbarrow, Tonino gave me my orders. ‘You start at that end, I’ll start at the other and we’ll meet in the middle’, he suggested. This was an alarming development because I could see at least two dozen horses’ heads peering out at us over the doors, and this madman, who I’d just met, obviously thought I was going to muck out half of them. I started to protest. ‘But Tonino, in other stables where I’ve been you only have to do three horses.’
I’ll never forget his reply: ‘Well, there is no-one else here for the moment so just get on with it.’ I did, too, though I’d finished only two boxes after he’d completed ten. I was doing the job properly just as I had been taught by Sergio Cumani and Aldo Botti. Each of the two boxes was immaculate by the time I closed the doors. When Tonino came to inspect my efforts he was clearly unhappy at what he discovered. ‘Don’t waste so much straw. Just chuck out the worst, put the rest back and freshen it all up’, he explained. It was an early education into the harsh economics of racing for most trainers who have to balance the books. Tonino then helped me finish the remaining boxes before taking me back home for supper with his family.
The next morning I was up early as usual dressed in my smart jodhpurs and shiny boots—which proved to be a bit over the top since all the lads at the others yards in Pisa wore jeans and trainers. On the drive to the stables Tonino stopped to collect a double espresso, poured it into an empty bottle, then knocked on the window of the lads’ hostel beside the yard. A large hand emerged from the window and grasped the coffee. Moments later a dishevelled, unshaven, fat guy came stumbling out of the hostel to join us, the life-restoring coffee clutched in his hand. This turned out to be Tonino’s head lad Chippolo.
So now we had three to share the workload—and what a workload! We mucked out 25 horses between us and each rode eight of them at exercise. Naturally I fell off a couple of times that first morning and by the time we’d finished I was close to collapsing. The place seemed more like a circus than a well-run racing stable. How on earth was I going to survive?
My early attempts in the saddle on Tonino’s horses were embarrassing. Because I still had the puppy fat of a schoolboy my body wasn’t prepared for the shock of riding so many horses each morning. Some ran off with me, others dropped me, and one or two could barely be bothered to put one leg in front of the other as they hacked half-heartedly down to the start of the area where they used to work round a six furlong sand track. Then when we turned round ready to canter back they were off like Spitfires.
Being run away with by a big, hard-pulling racehorse is not for faint hearts and it happened to me most mornings. The harder I tried to hold them by pulling on the reins the faster they galloped. Tonino bollocked me all the time, but always with a smile on his face.
One day I completed seven laps of the circuit on a horrible old gelding which always took liberties with me. The further we went the weaker I became until my arms gave out. I was screaming at Tonino to help me, and eventually he did by placing the horse that he was riding firmly in our path just as we were in danger of setting out on our eighth lap. The old thief stopped in two strides and sent me flying over his head.
Another time at the end of the morning I was on a difficult horse which launched me into orbit as he prepared to charge up the gallop. I managed to cling onto the reins but I was still so short at that stage that I couldn’t jump back into the saddle without help. So Tonino stepped off the sprinter he was riding, came to my assistance and, in trying to give me a leg up, sent me tumbling straight over the other side onto the ground again. In the mayhem that followed both horses broke loose and we were left to walk home.
However many times I hit the ground I always bounced back for more. As my strength developed and my muscles firmed up I began to grow in confidence—to such an extent that within six weeks I was riding work on his better horses alongside decent jockeys. In the beginning I was so exhausted after riding eight horses each morning that I’d fall asleep all afternoon back at Tonino’s house before returning with him later for evening stables. After a few weeks he decided he didn’t need me back at the yard at the end of the day. Then I had much more time to myself and would play video games and wander around the town with his girls and their friends once they had finished at school. On Sundays we never missed the local disco.
Suddenly I was growing up fast. I was a typical young teenager, desperate to be cool and trendy, though that’s not so easy when you are exceptionally small. Tonino’s girls did their best to keep me in my place by giving me a hard time. Life was beautiful without the strict regime of discipline I had grown up with at home. How I welcomed my new freedom! I loved every minute of my stay with Tonino, Antonietta and the girls. They introduced me to the sort of normal family life I had never experienced before. That was the point where I began to come out of my shell.
It helped that I was starting to believe for the first time: I could become a jockey. I felt by then that, if necessary, I could ride a horse the wrong way round standing on its quarters. Looking back now, I realise I was pretty advanced for my age after sitting on so many horses every day all through the winter. When work was over I’d be arguing and fighting with Tonino’s girls, enjoying ourselves in the way that youngsters do.
I wished my stay would never end but, late in March, after four months my dad returned from a riding tour of Australia and South Africa and soon I was on the move again. He drove down to collect me from Pisa, then on the return journey to Milan started to outline his grand plan for my future. It was not so much a discussion, more a lecture. First he wanted to send me away to England for six months. Then it was on to France for a further six months. After that he would let me come home to Italy in midsummer. It was a crucial timescale because in those days apprentices in Italy could starting riding in races once they were fifteen and a half and I would reach that milestone in mid June, 1986.
When I had the chance to speak I made it clear that the last place I wanted to be was England. I pointed out that I’d been hopeless at English at school and much preferred to continue my racing education in my own country. But as usual in these matters my thoughts didn’t count. My dad’s mind was made up and he was keener than ever to send me to England once he took me to ride out with him the next morning at Aldo Botti’s yard in Milan.
Before he went away at the start of the winter, my riding had been a disappointment to him. Now he was visibly shocked at how swiftly I had progressed. Within days Aldo was happy to let me lead important work on top-class horses due to run in the Italian Classics. It was fast work too, upsides some of the best jockeys in Italy. I was riding with my stirrups as short as ever, too short really. I listened to the instructions and carried them out to the letter. I could see for the first time that my dad was proud of his son, and that heightened his ambition for me. So England it would be, to join Luca Cumani, the son of Sergio—but not before a setback that could have ended my career before it ever started.
Once I was back at home in Milan I swapped my bicycle for a little moped to speed up my daily journey from home to Aldo Botti’s yard where I was working until my departure for England. To beat the boredom of my daily run of just over a mile I used to clock myself, then try to beat my own record by missing out a junction or a couple of traffic lights.
I was made to buy a large crash helmet, but appearances already mattered to me and I didn’t feel very cool with my head encased in something that resembled a big mushroom. Nor was it compulsory to wear one, so it used to hang idly from a hook on the scooter. Only grown-ups wore helmets then—all the kids I knew rode their scooters bare-headed.
So off I raced to work one morning early in April, intent on setting a new personal speed record. I was making good time too, as I approached a junction leading to the stables. One fork was for cars, the other was for horses and had sand on top of the tarmac. To shorten the route I turned onto the road reserved for horses, skidded on the sand, lost control and found myself hurtling along the ground towards a large lamppost. I put out my right arm to save myself but careered with sickening force into the post.
As I lay in a heap, groaning with pain, I knew I’d hurt myself badly. My right elbow was in bits and my head hurt like hell. Soon an ambulance arrived and I was carted off to hospital. X-rays confirmed that I had shattered my elbow into over twenty pieces. My dad then arrived and was immediately furious with me