Grim realities par for the course

INTERVIEW: RUBY WALSH:As Ruby Walsh aims for a third Grand National, his thoughts are with a fellow jockey who lies seriously injured in hospital, writes DONALD McRAE

RUBY WALSH slips through a side door to his favourite pub in Kilcullen with a quiet smile on his face. His entry is so unobtrusive that a stranger to this small and pretty town in Co Kildare, or to the brutally compelling world of jump-racing, would not imagine the grey-haired jockey has just made history and become the subject of a song written by one of Ireland’s most famous singers.

Walsh was serenaded by a beery chorus of “Ruby, Ruby, Ruby, Ruby”, inspired by the Kaiser Chiefs’ song Ruby, after every one of his record seven winners at the Cheltenham Festival last month. Yet the release of Christy Moore’s The Ballad of Ruby Walsh, a song of humour and pathos about the singer being saved by the jockey at Galway Races, sits more comfortably with him.

However, as he sits hunched over his cappuccino, chitchat about Cheltenham, Galway, or even the Grand National has to wait. Instead he speaks with fierce passion. In a more ordinary interview he pats away the usual questions without saying much beyond suggesting that riding horses is a grand way to earn a living – especially as he claims to merely “steer” his winners home. But there is no time for amused self-effacement now.

Walsh, bearing the ache of the weighing-room on his face, cannot escape the image of a young jockey, 21-year-old Matt O’Connor, lying injured in Cork University Hospital. O’Connor fell from his horse over a week ago at Thurles and Walsh is stricken. “Matt’s fighting for his life now,” he says pointedly. “He hasn’t regained consciousness and they’ve put him in an induced coma because of the bleeding on the brain. You wouldn’t wish it on your worst enemy – let alone someone you like.

“Matt is a rising star, a polite, lovely, hard-working fella. But this stares us in the face as jump-jockeys. It can happen at the Grand National at Aintree or in a beginners’ chase at Thurles.”

Walsh looks up. His face is gaunt and pale. And even if his eyes remain clear and his voice calm, the words are harrowing. “As a jump-jockey death is always around the corner. That’s not being dramatic. That’s realistic. You only have to think of Kieran Kelly and Seán Cleary.”

The names of Kelly and Cleary, his two friends who fell while racing and died within three months of each other in 2003, echo across the wooden table. But I don’t need to ask why Walsh, amid such danger and tragedy, rides on. The words are already tumbling from his mouth in a headlong rush. “Death can come but, listen, we have the will and desire. It’s pure passion. We’re all the same. We all started at 16 with that burning sensation in our stomachs, wanting to be the next Richard Dunwoody.

“And then AP [Tony McCoy] came along. At 21, the age Matt is now, we all want to be the next Tony McCoy. That’s what drives us on.”

Only Walsh can now rival McCoy, the perennial champion jockey. With his majestic capacity to win the races that matter most, Walsh might even claim supremacy – except that, like McCoy, he never boasts. There is no point in claiming to be better than your closest rival, and great friend, when one of you might soon be stretched out in hospital.

“McCoy’s as hungry a bastard as he was 10 years ago. He has incredible passion but he’s also shown us how to conduct ourselves. McCoy has raised the bar unbelievably – whether in desire or fitness or behaviour. He’s the greatest.”

O’Connor’s fall is also a reminder of the serious trouble Walsh endured four months ago, with McCoy at his side. In a race at Cheltenham, Walsh remembers, “a horse came down on me and ruptured my spleen. In hospital, with [my wife] Gillian and McCoy, I wasn’t feeling great but I said the pain was okay. Gillian was worried so she leaned down and said, ‘You’d better tell them how bad it is.’ So I did. They took a scan of the spleen. The surgeon said it was ruptured but he wanted to keep me in for 10 days of observation to see if it might start to heal itself. I’m thinking, ‘Jesus, this is too sore to ever heal. Just take the f***er out.’

“McCoy says, ‘Ten days! Ruby can’t be waiting that long. You should rip it out.’ The surgeon says he can’t just take out a spleen. But McCoy insists, ‘Take it out.’ The surgeon goes to see the Cheltenham track doctor – who explains to him how we think. So the surgeon agrees to operate. When they opened me up they saw the spleen was mangled. There was no way it would’ve healed.”

Walsh chuckles darkly, until I ask him about Gillian. “She worries. We got engaged one Christmas Eve and on New Year’s Day, I’m falling off and breaking my vertebrae. So she knows the risks. Gillian was immense that week of the spleen. She was rock solid.”

Twenty-seven days later Walsh, without his spleen, was racing again. He shrugs when asked about a fall that could have ended his life. “In certain circumstances you can die from it. But I was lucky it wasn’t my kidneys. The spleen filters your blood every three and a half minutes and because I’ve now got a cavity instead of a spleen I’ll need three new vaccinations every year, and each day for the rest of my life I’ll take an eighth of an antibiotic.”

His Cheltenham triumph 16 weeks later seems even more remarkable. The most winners anyone had ever ridden during the Festival was five. Walsh managed his miraculous seven. “It’s a once-in-a-lifetime achievement,” he concedes. “I had a good book of rides but the only one I was sure would win was Master Minded. The rest were in the balance. When I got number six, on American Trilogy, a 20-1 shot, I thought, ‘Jesus, an hour before the Gold Cup. That must end my good luck.’ But then Kauto Star jumped a flawless race to win it.”

McCoy joined him for a few celebratory drinks that delirious Friday night. He might have had only one Festival winner but McCoy’s extraordinary victory on Wichita Lineman in the William Hill Trophy is described by Walsh as the greatest ride of the week.

“Only McCoy could have done that. I pulled up alongside him and said, ‘You got there’. McCoy said, ‘Just’ – but he was smiling. And when McCoy smiles you know it’s special.”

Today, McCoy will try to win the National for the first time, at his 14th attempt, knowing that his friend has been victorious twice before – on Papillon in 2000, when Walsh was only 20 and riding a horse trained by his father, Ted, and on Hedgehunter in 2005. Walsh has decided to pursue his third win on My Will.

“So much depends on the weather and the going. I’ve been watching the forecast closely and it looks like it’s going to be pretty good. So I’ve gone for My Will. He finished fifth behind Kauto in the Gold Cup, so he’s a good horse in good form. He’s brave and tough and he’ll never let you down.

“When I won on Papillon my dad said if the horse was a man he’d be one of those flash bastards who walks round with his shirt open, showing off his chest hair and his gold chains. My Will is more down to earth. He reminds me of a hard-working midfielder who grafts away without catching the headlines. The National might change that.”

If heavy rain had been forecast Walsh would have opted for another of his father’s horses, Southern Vic. “My dad knows I’ve got to choose the horse that suits me best on the day. But no other achievement of mine will ever beat winning on Papillon for him. I didn’t believe then I could ride a Grand National winner. I was just thrilled to be there. And then to have such a good ride on a horse trained to perfection by my dad was better than anything I could ever hope to experience again.”

Walsh still believes the Gold Cup is superior to the National. “In the Gold Cup the best horse almost always wins. But the National is a lottery. No matter how confident and focused you are, no matter how good a ride you give your horse, you still need so much luck. You can be going beautifully but, because it’s a handicap with 40 horses, bad luck can just bite you on the arse. It is a prestige race and the public love it – but it boils down to luck.

“Aintree is daunting. It’s big, tricky and trappy. You’re going at 35 miles an hour, looking at each horse’s numberplate to try and work out who’s still standing. You charge down to the first and the rush is incredible. If you get over that, and the second, you’re hoping they won’t freeze at the ditch. They can get spooked at any of the first three and that’s why they worry me the most. Look at last year – that’s where Mick Fitz[gerald] got cut down.”

Fitzgerald, who once said winning the National was better than sex, was in danger of being paralysed for life. He recovered, but never rode again. Walsh is mortified by the prospect of his own retirement but, at a reminder that he turns 30 in May, he retorts, “I’m still five years and 10 days younger than McCoy. I could go another 10 years if I’m lucky – because I can’t imagine not being a jockey. It doesn’t bear thinking about it.”

At least he’s already been immortalised in song. “I know,” Walsh grins. “The Kaiser Chiefs’ song is catchy enough but it’s got f*** all to do with me. I can just about stand people singing it at me because it means I’ve ridden a winner. But the Christy Moore ballad is a serious honour. Christy is way out my league. It feels very strange he should sing about a jockey like me. But it’s great.”

Then, amid the shadows of our little corner in Kilcullen, Walsh remembers Matt O’Connor again. He suddenly looks grave – with little to celebrate.

O’Connor’s condition has improved from “critical” to “serious but stable”. Walsh sounds heartened when he calls me later to offer a more hopeful update – with the news that O’Connor’s doctors were considering the possibility of gradually bringing out him of his coma.

“Fingers crossed he’s going to be okay. We’re not going to stop worrying but at the same time we can’t stop racing. Matt wouldn’t want it any other way. This is what we do, whether it’s at Thurles on a Thursday or the National. We try to win but, mostly, we just hope all of us come out in one piece.”

GuardianService