Paying Homage to the Exceptional Pan Zareta
With opening day of the Fairgrounds set for November 21, and in response to an article appearing at Horse Racing Nation, written by Matt Shifman and titled, Who Says Horses Don’t Run Enough These Days, memories from my early days as a horseman's son began resurfacing.
As a young man growing up around people involved in the world of horse racing, quite often, I found myself privy to some heated arguments. The focus of those discussions was whom it was people believed to be most deserving of the title of America's “Greatest Race Horse.”
Just as it is now, and always will be, opinion always differed. Although it did seem some names rolled off the tongues of the participants of these talks more often than others.
Names like Man O' War, Bold Ruler, Seabiscuit, War Admiral, and Northern Dancer.
As I recall, these horse's names were included in several of those conversations. On the contrary, I seldom heard a mare's name surface. The one exception to that trend came in the name of Pan Zareta.
To the contrary, this speedy miss was often mentioned, and with good reason, as I would later realize.
Dubbed by the Texas State Historical Association as “The greatest filly in racehorse history” Pan Zareta could easily be described as an iron-horse of American racing.
Although I encountered conflicting information as to the exact span of her career, following seems to be the one most recognized.
Born in 1910 and beginning her racing career on Jan 7th of her second year, Pan Zareta went on to race one hundred and fifty-one times, prior to retiring in 1914. That is a lofty accomplishment in a three-year span, by any account. Morever, she won or placed in more than 100 of those races.
By comparison, the ten horses listed in Mr. Shifman's article have a combined total of 411 starts for an average start per horse of 41.
It amazes me to think about all this mare accomplished. In a time when transportation was slow and difficult by today's standards, Pan Zareta plied her trade at venues all across America, Mexico and Canada.
During her career, Pan Zareta set or equaled 11 track records, three American records and held the world record at five-furlongs for thirty-five years.
It is no wonder she had a Ballad written to honor her, or why the name “Pan Zareta,” came to belong in those conversations I spoke of earlier.
Pan Zareta became a Hall of Fame member in 1972. Today Pan Zareta rests in the infield of the Fair Grounds next to 1924 Kentucky Derby winner, Black Gold. A Stakes Race is named for her there.
~Written by Fred Tunks
Wayne Heath Porter immortalized Pan Zareta in the following poem:
Come all ye-men who have a yen for horses that are fast; For some who won while others run, and some who could not that. Come gather round, let's all sit down .. can you buy a drink or two? My hands may shake, and my voice may break, but I'll tell the tale to you. It's of the race and a burning pace, and fortunes hung by a hair; Between a stud of the steel dust blood and the gangling chestnut mare. If you'll but look on the record book, you there can check this rhyme.
T’was out the states and but five-eights, A World's record was the time, Tho some have cried, ‘The timer lied,’ and said ‘It could not be.’ But the record's right, in black and white, and I was there you see. I checked the clock from tick to tock, and I'll swear the time was true. T’was long ago, in Mexico, where blows the silvered sand; In a border town, where sports abound, hard by the Rio Grande.
Juarez the name, and the course the same, and many yet recall. How the race was run in the glittering sun, there beside the 'adobe wall. The stud, Joe Blair, was stabled there ... at five-eights he was best: The long and the tall, he had beat them all... the fastest In the West.
When a Texas mare, with chestnut hair, came in from New Orleans; Her owner lush and her backers flush, their pockets lined with greens. Her fame was known, she was not alone, many were there to greet her; The gangling mare, with chestnut hair, they called her ‘Pan Zareta.’ When two champs meet, there looms defeat for one, or else the other; Now the talk was rife and it led to strife, and brother turned on brother. When a quiet word, that someone heard, was suited all around; How the little horse, if the course was short would run her in the ground. The mare had speed, they'd all agreed ... her record was on file. Of races run, which she had won... at three-fourths of a mile.
Now the lead to take, from a lightning break, Joe Blair was like a ghost, on a five-eights run, he had always won, but five-eights was his most. ‘The Texan heard this whispered word,’ and he would take a dare. Tho he tempted fate, at but five-eights, he said "We will beat Joe Blair,". .. Such language bold, t’was backed with gold, and they knew it was no bluff. And they knew the mare, with chestnut hair, was bred from fighting stuff. But they liked the stud... come dry, or mud, and no equine was barred, For the lithe stud of the steel dust blood was game, and battle-scarred.. The owners met the date was set, and terms were written in; Five-eights to go, come rain or snow, and a purse all for the win. 'The Juarez crowd talked long and loud, they seemed to like Joe Blair; The Texas men, they had a yen, for the gangling chestnut mare.
Some words were said, to others led, to bet they were inclined; Some lowly fins and then some tens... then C-notes hit the line. Both meek and proud, in that motley crowd, would bet, and bet With flare; The spick and the toute and the roustabout, and a bum, and a millionaire. For each crack made, was more dough to fade and some would bet their store; When short of jack they pawned their tack, and then they'd bet some more. The day dawned bright and the time drew near, and nerves were drawn and tense; As they led them into the paddock pen, and then a short suspense.
The groom was there with the chestnut mare, and would talk to her as a child; In a lingo kin to racing men it set her mind a-mild. She'd prance around, and paw the ground and nudge him with her head; She'd cock her ear, ‘as it to hear’ each word as it was said. The crowd would stare at her silken hair, as it glistened in the sun; The silvered gold in her tail's soft fold, a skein the gods had spun. Then came the jocks, who were hard as rocks and both had won renowned; They were shorthand-slim and gaunt and grim for they knew the chips were down. The little stud of the steel dust blood was pert and wide awake, And I'll always think he was in his peak, as fit as hands could make. At the bugler’s sound they led 'em out, and the track was lightning fast; Then a short parade, ‘all bets were made’ they were to the post at last. ' The starter was fair, and he held 'em there till they were nose and nose; Tho they'd strain and sway to be away, and the Jocks were on their toes.
Yet a moment still, before the thrill... the barrier went up with a flop; Then a streak of red and out ahead ‘the stud had broke on top.’ The Juarez crowd cheered long and loud, and hats were in the air. For no equine, when broke behind, had ever caught Joe Blair.
The gangling mare, with chestnut hair, came out with a leap and a bound; Tho her start was slow, the jock bent low, and she began to cover ground. But little Joe Blair, ahead out there, was winging on his way; In the jockey's eye, it was do-or-die, and they had four lengths of daylight, Many a man, as gamblers can, began to count their winnings; Then a mighty wail as along the rail, they saw the mare beginning.
As she hit her stride how the jock did ride, and she began to close. With a pace that burned around the turn, and they were ‘nose-and-nose.’ The stud was game, and the jock the same, and they fought like demons there; He'd strive and strain a yard to gain, then come back to the mare. The quarter was done in twenty-one , and three-fifths of a second more; Three-eights to be in thirty-three, and two-fifths was the score. On they went as a bullet sent from out the mouth of a gun; Side by side, and stride for stride, and both were full of run. Each jock was quick, for every trick to help his mount along; As artists can with a master hand, how they nursed them babies on.
The colors streamed, and flashed and gleamed as they raced the track as a team; The pink and blue and purple hue, and the red and gold, and green. It was nip and tuck, and the gods of luck were playing neither one; They were on their own, and all alone out to run and ride and drive. In forty-four and four-fifths more the blazing half had gone;
They'd just begun, for it was then ‘they’d settled down to run.’ With a maiden's disdain for an arrogant swain, the mare's eyes blazed and burned; From the stud's cold scorn, contempt was born, that soon to hatred turned. , Then ears were backed, and sinews cracked, and pain with every breath; T’was nerve and vim and struggle grim, and battle to the death. Though I'd bet my all, I stood enthralled and soon forgot my greed; And gain or loss, gold seemed but dross, as I watched ‘two game hearts’ bleed. They'd surge and lunge, and leap and plunge, like tigers after prey; As on they came with eyes aflame, like demons raised to slay. On they'd jump, from head to rump, their straining muscles flashed; And rolled and spun in the guttering sun, as on for home they dashed; My heart stood still amidst their might as the Jocks would lift them on.
At the rhythmic beat of flying feet, and a wave of flesh and bone.’ The stud was crazed at the burning blaze that kept there by his side; The gangling mare, with chestnut hair, she seemed to hurt his pride. ' In the sun's bright glare he fought the air although there was no use; Like a phantom, grim, she stuck to him, and he could not shake her .
And crowds were mad and wild and glad, as fortune ebbed and flowed. As hopes would soar, the din and roar would ever rise and rise; As if lightning flashed and thunder crashed, from out the dear blue skies. ' Then a mortal fear ‘as the end drew near’, and both jocks held their whip; With the wire, “gray,” just yards away, and something had to give.
The stud was 'spent, for that deathly sprint had wore him to the bone; Yet there was no blame, his heart was game, and he had tried to beat her home!
True sports of yore and champs galore will all be there to greet her;
That gangling mare with the chestnut hair, they called her ‘Pan Zareta’