This is an excerpt from the book:
Champions by Setback, Athletes Who Overcame Physical Handicaps
by DAVID K.BOYNICK
THE ICEMAN OF THE SADDLE
George Monroe Woolf
THEY called him by many names, King George, Sit Chilly,
The Money Rider, Lead Pad, The Montana Cowboy. But one
fitted as though tailor-made and this was the one that stuck
The Iceman.
His coolness in controlling 1200 pounds of thundering
horseflesh, his faculty for carrying through his plotted strat-
egy in a race despite provocation of other jockeys or beguiling
circumstances made the name a natural one.
"He was all fire inside and all ice outside," said Marshall
Cassidy, a leading race starter and executive secretary of the
New York Jockey Club.
George Monroe Woolf was his name, but The Iceman be-
came his accolade, and his epitaph.
The racing world bespoke his greatness in the tackroom,
the stable and the clubhouse. From Gulfstream Park in
Florida to Santa Anita in California, they used to say, in
tribute to his precision sense of pace, "He rides with a clock
in his head/'
THE ICEMAN OF THE SADDLE
In admiration of his powerful hands, amazingly large for
a man who was five feet one inch tall and weighed 115
pounds, they would remark, "Georgie could hold an elephant
an inch away from a peanut until it was feeding time."
No jockey was his superior in an understanding of horses
and the racing folk would recognize this by saying, "The
horses run kindly for Georgie."
This was his heritage, a love and understanding of horses.
It came from his grandfather, a trapper of wild horses in
Utah, and from his father, Frank Henry Woolf, a range rider,
stagecoach driver and horse breeder in Montana and Western
Canada. For several years Frank Woolf managed the race
horse farm of the Prince of Wales, later known to the world
as the Duke of Windsor following a brief reign as Britain's
King Edward.
George was born in Cardston, Alberta, Canada, in May of
1910. When he was still a tot his father moved the family
back to Montana, to a ranch which ran for many acres along
the boundary of a Blackfoot Indian reservation.
The boy grew up with horses. The stable was his nursery,
and instead of fairy tales he drank in stories of great horses
and their riders. Hardly was he out of diapers when he started
riding himself, first on a gentle, retired stage horse and then
on younger and more spirited animals, including the Indian
ponies.
At eight the blond, blue-eyed boy was riding his father's
quarter horses in races over makeshift courses, tied to the
saddle by rawhide thongs. As he grew older he worked on
ranches, in stables, occasionally riding. For the rest of his life
he never stopped riding.
It was inevitable that he become a jockey, a status that he
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CHAMPIONS BY SETBACK
achieved when he was fifteen. At that time, he weighed ninety
pounds.
Over the greater part of his career he was accounted one of
the world's best riders. To many turf followers he was with-
out a peer.
Invariably, after he became a star rider, the turf writers
would seek him out when he arrived from California each
spring to ride on the circuit of major eastern tracks, what the
racing people called the "Big Apple." Often one of the ques-
tions of the interviews was, "What was the greatest horse you
ever rode ?"
He tired in time of giving a direct reply and made a little
game out of it. He'd say to his wife Genevieve, who always
accompanied him on his trips, "What do you say, honey?
You can read my mind."
The brown-haired girl would declare, like a child reciting
for company, "Mr. George Woolf, the well-known jockey,
has ridden more than 3500 horses. Some were great, some
were good and some were bad. But in Mr. Woolf 's opinion
the grrrrrreatest of them all was the 'Biscuit Seabiscuit."
The little man in the big western hat and the cowboy boots
would grin and say, "That's it, fellows. You heard the lady."
His tribute to Seabiscuit should have been unnecessary.
How could any turf follower not remember that day at
Pimlico when the litde man rode forth on the little horse in
the most famous match race in America? Seabiscuit against
War Admiral
The greatest race horse of his time, War Admiral was
called, and the race followers of a continent who came to
Baltimore for the match established the son of the immortal
Man o' War a four-to-one favorite. He was the unbeaten
THE ICEMAN OF THE SADDLE
champion of the three-year-olds and the winner of the triple
crown the Belmont, the Preakness, and the Kentucky Derby.
Only three times before had a horse achieved this.
And Seabiscuit ? Although he had lost thirty races out of
thirty-five as a two-year-old and fourteen out of twenty-three
as a three-year-old, he had developed into a great racer, the
holder of fourteen track records. But at five years old he was
in middle age as race horses go. And always he ran under
handicaps. His front knees were sprung, the left one quite
badly, which gave him a splayed, duck-like style of running.
Once, with The Iceman riding him, he ruptured the sus-
pensory muscle of his left leg (and a quick-witted news
photographer obtained a famous picture showing the horse
limping from the track, leaning on the cooperative shoulder
of the little jockey). In most cases such an injury dictated the
retirement of a race horse, but Seabiscuit came back.
Not the least of his handicaps was excess weight. The little
horse loved eating so much that finally he was muzzled for
twenty-two of the twenty-four hours each day. But still,
particularly during enforced layoffs, he put on weight and
had to be exercised wearing a rubber hood to sweat the fat
off him.
Five times before the match race had been scheduled but
always it had been canceled, twice because of injuries to Sea-
biscuit And when the terms for the race on November i, 1938,
were agreed on by Samuel Riddle, owner of War Admiral,
and Charles S. Howard, owner of Seabiscuit, they gave the
Admiral what all race experts agreed was a huge advantage
almost an assurance of victory.
War Admiral was regarded as the fastest breaking horse in
the world. And once he jumped out in front he almost in-
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CHAMPIONS BY SETBACK
variably stayed there, a tireless locomotive of the track. Riddle
insisted on and was granted a walk-up start. The getaway
flag would fall only if the two horses approached the starting
line nose and nose. Thus he made certain that War Admiral's
jet-propelled breakaway could not be hampered by a fluke,
such as might occur in a mechanical starting gate.
Seabiscuit, on the other hand, was only an indifferent
starter. His forte was hanging on like a bulldog and driving
through in the stretch.
All these facts were carefully calculated by the bettors, who
ran up the odds against SeabiscuiL Strangely, few were
swayed by the singularly appropriate experience of the
'Biscuit's rider, Georgie Woolf .
Few modern jockeys have had much experience with a
walk-up start; it is used only infrequently today. But Woolf
had had such experience a great deal of it.
As a boy in Montana and Western Canada he had ridden
quarter horses, the short, tough-muscled cowponies, in scores
of races, always with a standing or walk-up start
Often the races were held over narrow, winding paths and
the horse which got off in front ran with a strong advantage.
Thus the riders and their horses practiced starting for hour
upon hour.
Woolf did the same with SeabiscuiL His wife Genevieve
said, "Morning after morning George worked with the horse
in walking up to the starting line and dashing off from there.
In the match race a loud bell would be used to signal the start.
To get Seabiscuit used to this George bought the largest alarm
clock he could find and held it near the horse's ear in the ap-
proach to the starting line. As soon as Seabiscuit would touch
the starting line George would set off the alarm."
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THE ICEMAN OF THE SADDLE
The largest crowd to watch a horse race in Maryland sat
tensely in the stands of the hilltop course as the two horses
pranced out of the paddock on to the track.
Charlie Kurtsinger, a capable and methodical rider, was
mounted on War Admiral. Before saddling up he told news-
men that he had never had to call on the champion for his
best "He's got a lot of speed he never showed/' he said.
The big horse and the little horse minced up to the starting
line, but a shade unevenly; and the starter, Marshall Cassidy,
sent them back for another try. Again they approached the
line, and Cassidy sent them back a second time. The crowd
uttered a groan.
A third time they walked up to the line and then, the shriek
of the turf "They're off!"
The shriek turned instantly into a gasp of amazement. As
the bell clanged Woolf 's whip hit once, twice, and a third
time. It had never been used on the 'Biscuit before but Woolf,
master horseman, felt it was judicious now.
The little horse running under the devil's red and white
colors shot away like a bullet. Two bounds and he was in
front. A dozen more and he was drawing away. The Iceman
had done the impossible. He had beaten War Admiral away
from the starting line.
Woolf s juvenile impishness leaped out at this point and,
crouched low over his horse's poll, he twisted his neck and
taunted Kurtsinger, "Didn't think I could do it, did you,
Charlie?"
Never had a jockey given Seabiscuit a better ride. He drew
half a length ahead and made it a full length as the horses
passed the stands for the first time in the mile and three-six-
teenths sprint.
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CHAMPIONS BY SETBACK
Now the surprise lead won by Woolf paid dividends. War
Admiral had started in the advantageous pole position. Woolf
cut across, taking the rail as the horses entered the long
straightaway, increasing his lead to two full lengths.
The horses swept around the clubhouse, The Iceman
steadying the bay, content to hold his advantage. On the back-
stretch Kurtsinger made his bid, calling for the best he said
War Admiral had never been required before to give. The
Riddle horse responded and over the space of sixty yards he
cut down the entire deficit.
"There he goes! 5 ' roared the fans. Now, they felt, War
Admiral would take command.
Woolf, balanced above the postage-stamp saddle, looked
over at Kurtsinger and grinned. "Get the whip ready, Charlie,"
he shouted above the pounding hoofs. "I'm going to make
you run." He let the reins out a bit and Seabiscuit's ears flat-
tened. Nose to nose the two horses swung around the far turn.
Kurtsinger's black and yellow arm came down, flailing at
War Admiral, but he couldn't draw away, couldn't gain an-
other inch.
The horses turned for home and once more The Iceman
spoke. "Good-bye, Charlie," he shouted. He didn't wait for a
reply.
The litde horse flew onward, opening up new distance be-
tween himself and the Admiral, a length, two lengths, three
lengths and crossed the finish line four lengths in front,
setting a new track record.
Woolf brought the steaming Seabiscuit to the winner's
circle as the crowd stood in a thunderous salute to a pair of
sports immortals. Sportswriters pressed the jockey for a state-
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THE ICEMAN OF THE SADDLE
ment, but he grinned and said, "We did our talking on the
track."
Seabiscuit was oblivious to the acclaim. Calmly he reached
around, seeking to nibble at the winner's wreath. He was
hungry.
There were two things that Georgie Woolf feared, deep
water and the hoot of an owl.
"As a boy in Montana," Genevieve explained, "he lived a
great deal among the Blackfoot Indians. The Indian boys
were his friends and he played, rode and hunted with them.
One day an old Indian woman 'told his fortune,' looking deep
into his eyes.
"She warned that his death would come by drowning or
would otherwise be heralded by the hooting of an owl at night.
"Now George never went to school much. But he was
in-
telligent and he read a great deal. Yet he strongly believed
those two superstitions. I remember that sometimes during
the night in our home at Arcadia, California, he'd hear an
owl hooting. George would jump out of bed, take down a
gun and go hunting the owl." She added, "I don't believe he
ever shot one, though.
"As to water, he would never go a greater distance from
shore than he could swim. Twice he was made rich offers to
ride in England and France, but he turned them down. It
would have meant crossing the ocean."
For twenty-five years he made obeisance to the two super-
stitions, but when misfortune overtook him it was without
connection with the Indian prophecy.
It made its appearance in the fall of 1941 after he and
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CHAMPIONS BY SETBACK
Genevieve had returned home to their ranch home in Arcadia
following a successful season during which his horses won
more than 350,000 in prize money.
He began to feel unwell. He tired quickly, slept fitfully. He
was losing weight. Although he drank vast quantities of water
he was always thirsty. "I'm going to loaf, take it easy," he
told Genevieve. He did, but the symptoms became aggravated.
Mrs. Woolf urged him to visit a doctor and he muttered
that he would, "one of these days," but she knew from his
tone that he had no intention of doing so.
He had never been ill and his experience with doctors was
slight. In his mind they were fearfully associated with sur-
gery and catastrophic illness. In the ranch country where he
had lived as boy and youth, a doctor, usually summoned only
in dire emergency, became the confirmation of disaster.
He went daily to the Santa Anita race track, three miles
away, soon to open its racing season. But only infrequently
did he get on a horse. Frank Sullivan, an ex-jockey who was
his valet for twelve years, said, "He used to show up at the
track, stretch out on a bench in the jockey room and say, e l
feel terrible. Sully. I'm worn out. And my eyes are bother-
ing me.' "
He was seeing spots before his eyes and was plagued at
times by double images in his vision. He returned home one
afternoon white-faced and tense. "I almost got killed," he told
his wife. "One of the exercise boys was galloping a horse and
I walked across the track in front of him. I didn't see the horse
and I would have been run down if the boy hadn't yelled.
"I don't know what's the matter with my eyes."
Mrs. Woolf picked up his Western hat from the sofa where
he had flung it and handed it to htm. "You can't put it off
THE ICEMAN OF THE SADDLE
any more, George," she said. "You've got to go to a doctor
and now."
She saw the momentary conflict in his eyes and then read
with thankfulness the evidence of decision in the tightening
of his jaw muscles. "Okay," he said. "I'm going."
He drove in his low red convertible to Arcadia's main street
and parked before the office of a specialist in diseases of the
eyes.
The physician examined his eyes, tested his vision and
found no evidence of disease or malfunction. "Your eyes are
excellent/' he told the jockey. "I suspect that the trouble you
are having with your eyes is a symptom of something else.
How do you feel generally?"
The Iceman told of his constant tiredness, his great thirst ?
loss of weight, and the doctor questioned him further. "I think
I know what your illness is/' he said finally. "You ought to
see your family physician, and I wouldn't delay."
Woolf mumbled his thanks and walked dejectedly from the
office. For a long time he sat in the car at the curb in unhappy
conflict He was apprehensive about what a physical examina-
tion would show and yet he felt he couldn't continue feeling
sick and wretched.
Finally he made up his mind. He pressed the starter button
and eased the car into the traffic. Genevieve had been attended
in a recent illness by Dr. William H. Heidenreich. He would
see him.
It was early evening when the jockey returned home, and
Genevieve caught her breath to hold back an exclamation of
pity at the sick despair in his eyes. Wearily he lowered him-
self into an armchair, and his wife drew up an ottoman under
his booted feet. She removed his hat, loosened his tie.
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CHAMPIONS BY SETBACK
He smiled bitterly. "I've had my last ride, Genevieve," he
said. "I can't ever ride again I'm through."
She remained silent and he resumed. "I went to see an oc-
culist. He said there was nothing wrong with my eyes, so I
went over to Dr. Heidenreich's. He looked me over, tested
my blood and water. He said I've got diabetes. That finishes
me as a rider."
She said calmly, "I know people who have diabetes and get
along all right, George. You'll be all right, too. You'll see.
Didn't Dr. Heidenreich give you any medicine ? What is it
that they take, insulin?"
"Medicine," he snorted. "That isn't going to help. I'm not
going to take it. He made out a diet for me and gave me a
prescription for insulin and a needle and other stuff. You
have to take it every day. Aw, what's the use. I'm finished."
She accepted the futility of seeking to reason in his dis-
turbed state. "Why don't you lie down, George." She began
to pull off his boots.
She went alone the next day to see the physician and told
him, "My husband thinks he's finished as a jockey. He says
he won't take the insulin. Funny," she mused, "he's got all
the courage in the world but sickness has got him beat. He's
like an Indian, fatalistic. I'm going to have to help him. Now
what can I do?"
The physician said, "Diabetes, Mrs. Woolf, is a serious ill-
ness. But thousands of persons have learned to live comfort-
ably with it through proper diet and use of insulin. I don't
see why your husband shouldn't achieve this much at least.
His sickness will be a handicap, but I think he will be able
to return to riding after he has rested and gotten the diabetes
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in hand. Now the first thing you must do is learn about
diabetes."
Diabetes, he explained, is a disease of the pancreas, a gland
located in the abdomen. The illness develops when the pan-
creas loses the power to secrete insulin which the body requires
for the processing of food. With insulin lacking, much of the
food is only partly processed, into sugar, instead of being
utilized in the creation of tissues and a reserve of energy. As
the sugar accumulates it reveals itself in the urine and blood-
stream.
"Because the body is unable to process the food for use as
new tissue and energy," he said, "the patient loses strength
and weight, and he is always thirsty because the body de-
mands water to dissolve the sugar.
"If the patient goes untreated," he warned, "there is serious
danger of diabetic coma and even death.
"Now," he added briskly, "we want to do two things: get
Mr. Woolf to take injections of insulin made from the pan-
creas of animals, and go on a diet which will be heavy on
proteins and light on carbohydrates, which turn readily into
sugar."
He showed Mrs. Woolf the needle and syringe used by
diabetics. He demonstrated how to sterilize the instruments,
how to measure the dose, and how to make the injection in a
fold of loose skin which had been cleaned with alcohol.
Carrying the insulin and equipment she had purchased in
a drug store, Mrs. Woolf returned home- Her husband was
away, probably at the track. While Dr. Heidenreich's words
were still fresh in her mind, she wrote them down and then
turned to studying and experimenting with the syringe and
CHAMPIONS BY SETBACK
needle. She filled the syringe with water and went through
the motions of making the injection.
But the pretense wasn't very satisfactory, she thought. Sud-
denly she arose, went to the refrigerator and took out a grape-
fruit. She spent the next hour, and an hour a day thereafter
for a week, practicing on the grapefruit.
She formulated arguments to present to her husband when
he came home to induce him to accept the medication, but
they were never used. He returned from the track with ab-
dominal pains, his breathing labored.
"I can't take this any more," he said. "Will you call the drug
store and have them send over the stuff that the doctor told
me to get?"
Genevieve held up for his inspection the newly-purchased
kit. "I have it, George. Now take off your shirt. We'll start
by injecting the insulin in your upper arm."
The wondrous secretion coursed through his body as he
slept and when he awoke the next morning the pain was gone
and his breathing was normal. Before breakfast he submitted
willingly to another injection of insulin.
He spent three days in bed. Mrs. Woolf prepared his special
meals and each morning she injected the insulin. Dr. Heiden-
reich came to the ranch to examine him, noted the sharp de-
cline in the sugar content of his blood and urine and showed
Mrs. Woolf how to do the simple urinary test herself.
On the fourth day the jockey got out of bed, dressed him-
self. The flesh had begun to return to his strong little frame.
His eyes were clear. "I feel pretty good, honey," he said.
At the breakfast table she said, "You've had some phone
calls in the past few days but I didn't want to bother you with
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THE ICEMAN OF THE SADDLE
them. Two of them were from fellows who offered to bet a
thousand or two thousand for you if you'd give them a good
tip."
"You knew where to tell them to go?" he asked and she
nodded. "I did exactly that.
"But there were three other calls/' she said, "riding jobs. I
told the trainers you weren't feeling well. I said you were lay-
ing off for a while and would call them later.*'
He said slowly, "Guess well have to tell them all that I'm
hanging up my tack. I can't ride any more."
"George," she said earnestly, "you know that I'll go along
with whatever you want to do. But this is bad. You're not
being fair to yourself. Why, you're young. You're only 31.
You're letting this thing lick you."
He unfolded the morning newspaper, raised it as a curtain
between them. "I can't ride, Genevieve," he said. 'I've got
diabetes." Anger came into his voice. "You don't get over this.
You always have it, as long as you live. How can I ride ?"
During the next three weeks she made repeated appeals to
his pride of courage and career and quoted medical opinion
in an effort to arouse him to break the psychological bonds
which held him rigid. And then, when she had exhausted all
logic and argument, he himself inadvertently gave her a clue
to another expedient
Reading a racing newspaper, he said, "I see where Whitey
bought a couple of horses. Haven't seen him in quite a while."
Her heart leaped from excitement. Here was the man to
help George, the veteran trainer whom he loved and re-
spected as a father.
With difficulty she contained her impatience until George
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CHAMPIONS BY SETBACK
had left the house. Then she picked up the telephone and
told the operator, "I want to call Mr. Lemuel T. Whitehill at
Chula Vista . . ."
George was seventeen when his contract passed into the
hands of Whitehill. Later, as the jockey began to show great-
ness, other trainers would ask Whitehill where and how he
had found Woolf .
Always Whitehill would chuckle and say, "I found him in
Vancouver and swapped a dead horse for him." It was quite
true.
Woolf was riding in Vancouver for a trainer named Fred
Johnson when Whitehill came there looking for promising
horses. He found none but became impressed with the riding
qualities, the perfectly proportioned body and the strong
hands and shoulders of George Woolf.
Whitehill said, 'When the race meeting at Vancouver came
to an end I talked to Johnson and told him I would like to
take the boy with me to California and start him off as a rider
in the big time. I offered to go fifty-fifty in the boy's contract
but Johnson said no, he'd rather sell him outright.
"Johnson wanted a horse, so I traded him a horse called
Pickpocket for Woolf. Pickpocket was shipped to Winnipeg
and died shortly after he was unloaded. It became a standing
joke between George and me, that I got him for a dead horse."
The boy went to live in Chuk Vista, in lower California
near the Tiajuana race track, with Mr. and Mrs. Whitehill.
Mrs. Whitehill mothered him, and she and her husband
guided him through the problems and conflicts of youth.
Whitehill, a stern taskmaster, rubbed smooth his riding
technique, taught him physical conditioning and the practice
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THE ICEMAN OF THE SADDLE
of studying without cease the form and habits of the horses
he was scheduled to mount or to ride against.
He underwent a hazing in the hard world of the race track
at Tiajuana, but his superb riding and his punishing fists soon
won him respect. Temptations were laid before him but his
personal integrity, supported by that of the Whitehills, was
strong and he disdained them.
As a rider he progressed rapidly. "If ever there was a born
horseman," said Whitehill, "Georgie was it. He had ridden
since he was a baby and he had a knowledge and understand-
ing of horses that was uncanny. Riding seemed to come to
him naturally, and you had to tell him something only once."
He began to earn big money, $10,000 a year, $15,000 a year,
$20,000 a year. Later in one afternoon he earned $10,840, ten
per cent of the first prize money won by the imported steeple-
chaser, Azucar, whom he piloted to victory against twelve-to-
one odds in the Santa Anita Handicap.
The Whitehills taught him how to save his money, but in
one matter they couldn't restrain him. He loved the trappings
of the West and bought them lavishly hats, silver ornaments,
shirts, and boots.
He was nineteen when, still living at Chula Vista, he met
Genevieve Braun. Genevieve, fifteen, was a sophomore in San
Ysidra High School. Her parents were employed in a Mexican
border resort hotel.
He introduced her to the Whitehills, who approved of the
pretty, soft-spoken girl. They were married in her senior year
in high school, just before he left for Chicago to ride. To her
tearful plea to accompany him, to leave school, he answered,
"You stay and get your diploma. One of us has got to be
educated."
CHAMPIONS BY SETBACK.
Shortly after his return from Chicago Whitehill called the
jockey into the living room of his home and said., "Sit down,
George. I have something important to talk to you about."
He stood there for a moment, looking down at the rider, then
said:
"Son, the stable wants to buy your contract from me.
They're offering me $20,000." The jockey started to rise and
Whitehill said, "Wait a minute hear me through." Woolf
sank back in his chair and the trainer continued. "I want to
take up the offer, for your sake. That outfit is one of the big-
gest in the East. They've got fine horses and you'll be able to
make much more money with them than you can with
me.
"George, I don't think I've ever given you bad advice be-
fore and I don't think I'm giving you bad advice now. Let's
take up the offer."
Woolf arose now and paced the floor, his head down. He
stopped and looked up at Whitehill. "No," he said. "No, noth-
ing doing. I want to stay here with you. I'm satisfied. I like it
this way."
He pointed a warning finger at Whitehill and the older
man observed sympathetically that it was trembling, "Don't
sell me," he said. "I won't report. I'll quit riding."
Whitehill asked softly, "You're sure, George ? You're sure
that's the way you want it?"
"I'm sure."
The trainer took a letter in an envelope out of his breast
pocket and tore it into scraps. "Okay, George," he said. "That's
the way it's going to be."
It was like tearing up $20,000, but Whitehill said, "I never
regretted it. That boy was one of the most loyal persons I ever
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THE ICEMAN OF THE SADDLE
knew in racing. In time his contract with me expired but he
continued to stay with me, without a contract, for more than
five years. That was the way he wanted it."
Whitehill brought his string of horses to Santa Anita and
he and Mrs. Woolf met in an Arcadia restaurant. She described
in greater detail than she had over the telephone George's
illness and his reaction to it.
"I've done everything I could/' she finished unhappily.
"Nothing helped. He says he's finished as a rider. I know that
some day he'll hate himself if he doesn't go back to the track
at least to prove to himself that he can ride again. I don't care
what he does after that."
"I've been thinking/' the trainer said. "You've tried rea-
soning with him; it hasn't helped. Let's try something else.
Let's somehow get him back to the track, back to horses. The
fever of riding may take hold again."
Whitehill came to the Woolf home for dinner the follow-
ing evening, ostensibly to visit the ailing jockey. He gave no
evidence of surprise or opposition when Woolf repeated that
he was retiring from racing.
"But what are you going to do, George ?" he asked. "You're
not going to cut away from horses altogether, are you?"
Woolf looked shocked. "Oh, no/' he said. "I've thought
about it. When I feel better, say, in a couple of months, I'll set
up as a trainer, try to pick up a few horses."
"But what are you going to do in the meantime?" White-
hill snapped his fingers. "Say, why don't you come along with
me, give me a lift with my horses ? There's no money in it but
it'll give you something to do until you're ready to start train-
ing horses."
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CHAMPIONS BY SETBACK
The Iceman digested the offer for a moment, then extended
his hand. "I'm your man, Whitey," he said.
What followed then was one of the most amazing episodes
in sports. Woolf had been one of the most successful jockeys
in racing. A much sought after free-lance rider, he had been
paid a thousand dollar a month retaining fee by several
stables just for first call on his services. In addition he had
received ten per cent of the winnings of his horses and ex-
penses.
Now he stepped down to the humble and obscure role of
exercise boy, of stable helper, of "hot walker."
He rode Whitehill's horses in morning workouts. He
"schooled" young horses and mature horses who needed re-
fresher courses at the starting gate. He walked horses heated
from a race or workout. He carried water and oats.
His companions in his chores were stable hands, youngsters
aspiring to become jockeys or oldsters whose careers were
long past. They were mystified at his new role, but he vol-
unteered no information and they asked no questions.
The turf followers, the fans, were only slightly puzzled at
his absence from racing. The Iceman, a man of great inde-
pendence, had often laid off for weeks at a time. Only three
or four persons, in addition to his wife, his doctor, and White-
hill, knew of his illness.
It was typical of the man that he never shirked his job,
never complained of the humbleness of his tasks, never be-
rated the fate which he felt had ended his riding career in the
years of his prime.
He adhered rigidly to the diet prescribed by his physician
and prepared by his wife. He had a particular fancy for one
of the items of his diet stewed tomatoes. "He could eat
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THE ICEMAN OF THE SADDLE
stewed tomatoes like some people do candy," Genevieve said.
"If I would give it to him, he would eat it morning, noon,
and night."
He became one of the many thousands who bless the dis-
covery of insulin, but Genevieve continued to administer it
each morning. He preferred it that way.
Woolf never spoke of riding in competition. Never recalled
in words his exploits of the past. Never voiced regret at the
ending of his career. Whitehill, who understood him like a
son, sensed that the constant silence was indicative of a deep
pain, but for a while he was content to let matters continue
as they were.
The new year came, 1942, and the racing season opened at
Santa Anita. Whitehill horses were entered, but none was rid-
den by The Iceman. The jockey received numerous offers from
other owners but he turned them all down, making no ex-
planation. Genevieve and Whitehill noted with hope that
Woolf had made no public announcement of retiring.
The Iceman worked at his menial tasks through January,
through February, through March. Early in April Whitehill
said to Mrs. Woolf, "I've been hoping that George would
come out of it, would want to start riding. I think it's time
we gave him a little push. I've got an idea."
He took a racing newspaper out of his back pocket, un-
folded it and showed her the name of a horse, circled in pencil.
"Remember Challedon?" he asked. "That's the horse I think
we'll saddle up for Georgie."
"Sure," she said. "George won the Pimlico special on Chal-
ledon in 1940."
"Yeah," Whitehill said, "and the horse hasn't won a sweep-
stakes since. They'll love to get Georgie for him,"
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CHAMPIONS BY SETBACK
The next day the trainer telephoned Havre de Grace race
track in Maryland and spoke at length with a fellow trainer,
an old friend. He went then to the stable and found The Ice-
man crouched by a horse, attending to a bruised fetlock.
Whitehill went directly to the issue. "George," he said, "I
just talked with Havre de Grace. The Brann stable is crazy to
have you ride Challedon again on the twenty-fifth."
The jockey drew himself erect. His face had gone white. "I
can't, Whitey. I've got diabetes. I can't ride."
The trainer said, "I told them that . . ."
"You what?"
"Yeah, I told them you had diabetes and you felt you
couldn't ride." He grinned. "Know what they said ? 'We'd
rather have The Iceman with diabetes than any other jockey
without it. Just tell him to be here. We've got to have
him. 9 "
The trainer said, "Think it over, George. Think it dl over."
He turned on his heel and walked away.
Whitehill was prepared to follow up his opening stroke
with argument and even the deliverance of an edict backed
by the authority which he knew invested his relationship
with the younger man. Now, he felt, was the psychological
moment to apply all pressure to jolt the jockey into move-
ment. But there was nothing further for Whitehill to do.
Late that evening the trainer received a telephone call from
Mrs. Woolf . "Whitey," she said elatedly, "George just called
Havre de Grace. He's going to ride Challedon. We're pack-
ing."
The trainer put down the telephone receiver. "The little son
of a gun," he said. "The little son of a gun."
The Iceman, always taciturn about his emotions, never
THE ICEMAN OF THE SADDLE
described to anyone, not even to his beloved Genevieve, the
fight that he fought with himself that night.
George and Genevieve made the long cross-country trip by
train in slow stages to conserve his strength. They arrived at
Havre de Grace on a Monday. The race in which George was
to ride, the Philadelphia Handicap, was scheduled for Satur-
day, the last day of the meeting.
They rented a bungalow near the track and Genevieve
cooked for him, as at home. He was tired from the trip and
he slept and rested a great deal. But he also went daily to the
track to work out with Challedon, owned by William Brann.
So poorly was Challedon rated by the handicappers that,
even though Woolf was to ride him, he went to the post with
the odds sixteen to five against him. Favored were Mioland
and Cape Cod.
Genevieve joined her voice with the voices of twenty-five
thousand screaming fans as the horses surged out of the start-
ing gate in the feature race of the day. A jumble of horses and
color cannonballed out of the chute into the backstretch; and
Cape Cod, ridden by Woolf 's friend Nick Wall, pushed out
in front. They sped along the back stretch, Cape God widen-
ing his lead and Mioland in second place.
Where was Challedon ? Genevieve could not pick him out
in the pack. The horses came around the far turn, spreading
out. Now through her glasses she saw Challedon. He was last
in the field of seven. She f ocussed on the rider. George was re-
laxed, his hands clenched on the reins.
The horses neared the homestretch. The positions were un-
changed. First Cape Cod, ahead by a length, then Mioland
trailed by four horses closely bunched, and bringing up the
rear, Challedon.
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CHAMPIONS BY SETBACK
They entered the homestretch and the crowd stood as one.
Cape Cod was tiring and Mioland was coming up fast. Few
noticed that Challedon was coming faster. Genevieve saw
George's hands thrust out, loosening the reins. Then he be-
gan to use the whip. Suddenly Challedon was third and the
three leaders were running neck and neck. Cape Cod faltered,
dropped slighdy back; and Challedon was second, inches be-
hind the leader but edging up. They flashed across the finish
line and no human eye could name the winner.
The loud speakers blared that the announcement of the out-
come would have to await the printing and examination of
the automatic photo of the finish. And then it came over the
amplifiers. "The winner of the Philadelphia Handicap is
Challedon . . ."
Genevieve kissed her husband in the winner's circle, then
kissed him again for the benefit of the photographers. He
gave her a sly grin and whispered in her ear, "111 put it up to
you, Genevieve. Should I go back to work for Whitey or con-
tinue riding?"
He continued riding, of course. And such riding America
had rarely seen. From Havre de Grace he went to nearby
Bowie and rode Cape Cod to victory in the Bowie Handicap.
He mounted the great Whirlaway at Boston's Suffolk
Downs and drove to victory and a prize of $43,850 in the
Massachusetts Handicap, breaking the world record for total
winnings which had been held by Seabiscuit. He also rode
"Mr. Longtail" to victory in the Brooklyn Handicap, the Nar-
ragansett Special, the Jockey Gold Cup, the Washington
Handicap and the Pimlico Special.
Rationing his strength, he selected only the important races,
the sweepstakes in the main, to ride in. Jockeys like Arcaro,
THE ICEMAN OF THE SADDLE
Atkinson or Johnny Longden rode close to a thousand races
a year. Woolf rode only 263 times in 1942, but his horses came
in first 56 times and on 142 occasions 54 per cent they
finished in the money: first, second or third. But this was only
part of his achievement.
He won a total of 23 sweepstakes, leading all the jockeys in
this category. Moreover, his total of sweepstakes prizes was
$341,680, the highest in racing. Arcaro was second on both
counts.
But the most brilliant facet of Woolf 's riding that year was
this: Despite the facts that he didn't start riding until the
year was one-fourth gone and that he rode far fewer times
than any other front-rank jockey, he led all jockeys in total
winnings with $426,425.
The Iceman was acclaimed for his achievement, but few
knew under what handicap it was done.
It is comparatively easy for a sufferer from diabetes who
lives a sedentary life to administer to himself and prevent
distressing symptoms. It is much more difficult for an athlete,
a jockey.
Insulin reduces the sugar in the diabetic's body. The furious
energy which the athlete-diabetic pours into competition does
the same thing. Thus the athlete must strive to achieve a deli-
cate balance of insulin and energy expenditure and do this
on a basis of expectation. But it is almost impossible to foresee
precisely, when he takes his insulin in the morning, the
amount of energy he will expend during the day.
Woolf 's activity fluctuated from peaks to plateaus to valleys.
He might ride, travel, exercise a horse, or rest.
He went by a simple rule of thumb: a certain dose for days
on which he expected to ride, and double that on days when
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CHAMPIONS BY SETBACK
he planned to be idle. But the body reacts differently from
day to day and, in addition, he could not predict accurately
how active he would be.
In consequence he struggled some days, when his insulin
intake proved insufficient, against the distressing diabetic
symptoms. Other days he fought the equally painful symp-
toms of insulin shock, or reaction, when his medication
proved to be overample.
Ed Christmas, a trainer and an old friend of The Iceman,
said, "People didn't know how sick he was. Sometimes we'd
drive out to the track in the early morning for a workout and
he'd sit there with his head in his hands. I'd say, 'George, you
all right ?' He'd answer, 'Yeah, I'm all right. Don't worry.' His
wife would .bring him the insulin and he'd lie down for a
while and sleep. Then in the afternoon he'd go out and ride
like a demon."
Cassidy, the starter of the famous match race at Pimlico,
said, "Often I saw Georgie Woolf on the verge of diabetic
coma."
One of Woolf 's worst attacks of insulin reaction came on
the train as he was returning home from his successful 1942
campaign. It developed during the night, and Genevieve
awoke to find him vomiting, sweating heavily, and trembling.
She knew the antidote sugar for the insulin to work on. She
raced through the train, found a porter, and obtained several
candy bars. Woolf munched them quickly and the symptoms
disappeared.
The diabetes, however, had one beneficial result. Woolf
was what is known as a "heavy jockey." Despite careful diet-
ing and many hours spent in steam baths he found it almost
impossible to reduce his weight below 115 pounds. Now, how-
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THE ICEMAN OF THE SADDLE
ever, without steam baths or reducing diet his weight re-
mained constant at 113 pounds.
He rode 190 times in 1943 and carried off prizes totaling
271,924, but the next year he shot out again ahead of all the
other riders with aggregate prizes of $461,965. It was the best
year he ever had.
He felt less well in 1945 and rode only 87 times. Still he won
$209,000 with his horses. "Next year we'll do much better,"
he vowed. He had no intention of retiring. To one turf writer
he confided that he intended to ride until he was fifty.
The Woolf s spent the Christmas season at home. Then, on
January 3, 1946, George drove with Genevieve to Santa Anita
to ride "as a favor to a friend."
It was a cheap race, a $3500 claiming race, and his horse,
Please Me, was of small renown. But in this race Please Me
made the headlines he caused the death of The Iceman.
Running behind the field, fighting the bit, Please Me stum-
bled and flung his rider over his head and against the rail.
Genevieve beat the track ambulance to the jockey. He was
unconscious, with deep injuries in his head and face. He was
removed to St. Luke's hospital and died the next morning,
never regaining consciousness. Genevieve and Whitehill kept
a vigil at his bedside until the end.
The people of racing mourned him deeply and at various
tracks across the land ceremonies honoring his memory were
held on January 7, the day of his funeral.
The Community Church in Arcadia could well have been
hidden from sight by the mountain of floral tributes had not
Mrs. Woolf diverted hundreds of these to hospitals and other
institutions.
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CHAMPIONS BY SETBACK
Later the turf writers started a movement to erect a bronze
statue of The Iceman at Santa Anita and commissioned Hugh-
lette Tex Wheeler, the cowboy sculptor, to execute the bronze.
Then the writers asked for contributions. A number of owners
offered each to defray the entire costs, but the writers ruled
that no contribution could be larger than one dollar. They
wanted the entire racing world to take part.
Then from every city and social level in America, from
Europe, from Australia and from South America poured a
stream of dollars, more than sufficient to pay all the costs.
Months after the moving ceremony of the statue's unveiling
and this wasn't until 1949 the dollar bills were still arriving.
Lifesize, lifelike, in boots and silks, saddle draped over his
left arm, The Iceman stands there now in the paddock garden,
within sight and sound of the horses he loved.
He gazes musingly off across the banks of flowers at the
statue of a horse Seabiscuit, who followed him in death.
It is fitting that they stand there together, the little man
and the little horse. They had much in common, greatness of
achievement when the odds disdained them, rawhide courage
a pair who gave all they had and just a little more.
102