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How much funny business does go on? Often, the jockey and the horse he is to ride have never met before. The trainer, who has a disillusioned parent's knowledge of the horse's habits and possibilities, gives the jockey a quick fillin, and tells him how to ride the race. Once on the track, the jockey has, like the soldier, the privilege of disregarding instructions and taking the rap for it.
Sometimes, a trainer will imply that this isn't the day: "This horse is not up to a hard race. If he gets tired, don't punish him." Except in flagrant cases, nobody can tell by watching a race whether a jockey is trying or not. Like pro wrestlers, they can put on a great show — lots of whip-waving and scuffling. (If they want to lose, all they need to do is loosen the reins an instant and let the horse's head drop, or run into a jam, or lose a few lengths on a turn.)
On the best tracks, known to horsemen as "the big apple," where rich stables race for prestige as well as profits, not nearly so many horses are "pulled" as the glower ing fans suspect. And if Eddie Arcaro is glowered at more than anybody, it is really a backhanded compliment: fans can't understand how he can lose. Arcaro tries to be philosophical about the booing: "I guess they're entitled to beef if they want to. They're losing their money."
Bedroom Eyes. At 32, Edward George Arcaro looks like a cross between a sleepy Mexican vaquero and Cyrano de Bergerac. He is Italian by descent, Ohioan by birth. His face is thin and olive-complexioned, falling away on all sides from his celebrated nose. (Pretty, blonde Mrs. Arcaro sees beyond the end of his nose, thinks the most striking thing about his face are his "big, brown bedroom eyes.")
In his jockey costume, he looks deceptively thin. Most of his 112 pounds are padded about muscular shoulders, which taper to a slim waist and toothpick legs. In the jockeys' room, where he is cock of the walk, he is by turns charming and churlish, chatty and mum (he likes to read between races — usually bestselling novels). Sometimes, when another rider has done something in a race he doesn't like, his dander rises and he tosses equipment around the room. He can swear as proficiently as any jockey, but when the occasion calls he can speak perfect parlor English.
Unlike the great cigar-puffing Jockey Tod Sloan, who went in for monocles, valets and lavish entertainment (Tod once threw a $25,000 party for Actress Lillian Russell), Arcaro believes in the durable dollar. His chief extravagance is clothes; he owns 40 suits, mostly conservative greys and blues. He drives a 1947 Cadillac, reads FORTUNE to keep hep on industry, and invests in such blue-chip stocks as A.T. & T. He likes Scotch, but mostly on Saturday nights. He knows what happened to some of his predecessors.