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Northern Dancer
“My” Northern Dancer
There sometimes comes a time in a life when it is appropriate to recognize the concept of “gifts of God”, pure gift. Something that has become a vital part of one’s existence has to be acknowledged for the thrill, the joy and the pleasure that it has brought, through the absolute total generosity of a God loving beyond credit. Such has been the gift in my life of the racehorse, Northern Dancer.
On the racetrack, Northern Dancer became the first Canadian bred horse to win the Kentucky Derby. And in track record time, no less. I was a boy who loved horses, of all types, with a complete passion and dedication. In 1962, at the age of twelve, I clipped out of the paper a picture of a yearling colt offered for sale by his breeder, my then favourite racing stable and farm, Windfields Farm. I was intrigued by this particular colt because his breeding, as given, suggested a relationship to Native Dancer, my then favourite racing great. In truth, Natalma, Northern Dancer’s dam, is a daughter of Native Dancer. Little could I realize, that by clipping that photo, I was latching myself on to a success story rarely seen in racing. Not only did Northern Dancer become a great runner, he was to outdo himself as a racehorse by his performance in the breeding shed as a stallion. I think it can be safely said that Northern Dancer has been the most successful international stallion for the breed in the second half of the twentieth century.
Now all of this makes for a great sports story. But for me, what this horse meant came to literally mean the difference between life and death. The turnaround is swift in breeding racehorses. The horse is retired and bred, the foals arrive the next year, who then become yearlings; and, then, before you know it, the juvenile two year olds are racing. So the generations of descendants quickly fill the page. The Northern Dancer story was one of success after ongoing success. My attachment had come at such a tender age that my whole life from my early teens on has unfolded in time to the dance of the Dancer. The critical time came when I lost my zest, when I drowned in depression for five years and could do almost nothing. Hours spent looking at pill bottles, fantasizing suicide. Hours spent imagining going out to the car in the garage, shutting the door and turning on the deadly fumes. And yet, each week also meant eagerly rising up from my bed of silent despair to welcome the arrival of my latest racing magazines, with their ongoing chronicle each year, each racing season of the wonderful story stamped Northern Dancer. Apart from the endless love of my family, this saga was the sole beacon of light in the black of a total woundedness. God, who, bless his Heart, had, as usual, so much else to silently attend to, threw me a life line and made it delicious. Thus I claim “my” Northern Dancer.
I didn’t have to “own” Northern Dancer for him to be mine. The odds are enormous against my choosing that one colt when I was twelve, and to be so identified emotionally, so bonded with that animal. It has made and still makes all the difference. Complete and utter joy has been the story. God, dearest, you did not have to do this, on top of everything else you have given, but you did, and I swear, I will carry on delighting in the Dancer legacy, accepting this gift as his descendants “keep on dancing”around the world. I announce your bounty to me. How far you go, God, to prove your love! I rest in awe, again. Awesome Again, which just happens to be the name of one of Northern Dancer’s most recent outstanding, champion descendants.
And so, every May 27th, your actual birthday, I have sent a dozen red roses to lay on your marble tombstone in the precious horse cemetery at Windfields Farm where you now rest. Dedication, in the name of precious gift. And I know in my heart, as do all who have ever been graced with the companionship of an animal, that your spirit, Northern Dancer, awaits me in whatever heaven I can ever imagine. It could not be paradise without you - that is the single God-revealed Truth.
Big “what if’s” in the life of Northern Dancer
Nearco, an undefeated European racehorse of the ‘30's, would become the sire of Northern Dancer’s sire, Nearctic. But before that he had to be successfully moved from his home in Italy to England as World War 11 began. He had to take a train through a certain tunnel in his homeland. Less than 24 hours after he went through the critical tunnel, the connection, it seems, was severed as the Germans blew it up. Close call number one.
Mahmoud, an almost totally white coloured, very fast English Derby winner, would become the sire in America of Almahmoud, who would become the dam of Natalma, Northern Dancer’s mother. First of all, Mahmoud would have to get to the States from England across perilous seas in a World War 11 world. He arrived at a seaport all ready to transport across the Atlantic. A sudden, critical complication. His handlers had forgotten the necessary registration papers. Thus Mahmoud’s scheduled ship left without him. And was a short time later sunk by a Nazi u-boat, with all hands and passengers lost. Mahmoud would follow later in a safe passage to America and his date with the mare, Arbitrator, who would foal Almahmoud, Northern Dancer’s grandmother. Close call number two.
Nearctic, Northern Dancer’s sire, arrived in Canada in utero of his dam, Lady Angela. Lady Angela, along with her 1953 foal, Empire Day, a full brother to Nearctic, arrived in Montreal aboard a ship whose crew knew almost nothing about handling thoroughbreds. At first, someone tried to bring Lady Angela up out of the boat by leading her out of her stall in the depths of the ship and taking her away from the young Empire Day. She would have none of that. Increasingly agitated, she fought against her handler to remain with her foal. Luckily for the destiny of all modern horse racing, Harry Green, an important employee of E. P. Taylor and Windfields Farm, purchaser of the mare, arrived on the scene to prevent a hysterical Lady Angela from possibly hurting herself, or aborting her foetus, Nearctic. Mr. Green knew what to do. Remove the foal, Empire Day, first, in sight of the mare, and she would follow calmly later. Thus everything calmed down and we had Nearctic alive for posterity. Close call number three.
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