There isn’t a jockey anywhere who doesn’t owe Lester Piggott, who died on Sunday aged 86, a large debt of gratitude for having transformed their role of riding one horse to the winning post first.
Before Piggott riders knew their place in racing’s hierarchy. The very best such as Gordon Richards and Steve Donoghue were feted and beloved but were also in little doubt about being employees of the rich and powerful. Piggott was the ultimate freelancer who rode the horse he wanted to.
He broke the mould and mostly got to do it because he was so obviously the best.
His old ally Vincent O’Brien once said he wanted Piggott because it meant not having him against you. Ruthless owners used to getting their own way found themselves competing to have the enigmatic and inscrutable figure in their silks.
Cutting off family members: ‘It had never occurred to me that you could grieve somebody who was still alive’
The bird-shaped obsession that drives James Crombie, one of Ireland’s best sports photographers
The Dublin riots, one year on: ‘I know what happened doesn’t represent Irish people’
The week in US politics: Gaetz fiasco shows Trump he won’t get everything his way
It meant other jockeys lived in dread of being “jocked-off” because of the reassurance, — carefully cultivated by the man himself — that regret at not having the best in the business in the saddle at least wouldn’t add salt to any defeated wounds.
The outcome was a crammed CV like no other, topped most notably by an unparalleled nine victories in the Epsom Derby.
Just six days from this year’s renewal of a race that has defined racing, the sport has lost a man who masted the unique racecourse, and the capacity to get on the horse most likely to win around it, like no other.
Piggott won every English and Irish classic at least twice. France’s greatest race, the Prix de l’Arc de Triomphe fell to him three times. He rode some of the greatest horses of the age, including perhaps the most evocatively named champion of all, Nijinsky. But crucial was how he did it on his terms.
This was no stereotypical forelock-toucher currying his master’s favour. Owners were left in little doubt they were lucky to have him and had to pay for the privilege. And if they didn’t, well good luck beating him.
It helped that the remote emaciated looking figure clearly cared less about what anyone thought of him.
A slight speech impediment and deafness in one ear underlined his loner instincts. At a lofty five foot eight he cut a whip-thin figure in silks and the ravages of keeping that body a couple of stone under its natural weight made his face unmistakable.
Throw in a name immediately recognisable to even the most illiterate about racing, an unaffected swagger out of the saddle, as well as a barely concealed contempt for media celebrity, and it was easy to agree with the suggestion Piggott brought an outlaw cool to this most conservative of sports.
He transformed the image of his profession. In this part of the world his name was as identifiable as other big sports figures of the time like Muhammad Ali and Pele. The legacy is generations of jockeys such as Frankie Dettori acclaimed as the highly skilled and highly paid professionals they are.
If Dettori is Piggott’s polar opposite in terms of personality, his popularity echoes the singular pull a top jockey can exert on broad public affection.
During his pomp in the 1960s and 1970s, Piggott was racing to millions, particularly at this time of year. The Derby’s appeal has withered recently, perhaps coinciding with a switch to the first Saturday in June rather than first Wednesday when it had the sporting horizon to itself.
For weeks beforehand there would be speculation as to what ‘The Long Fellow’ would ride and maybe more importantly what he wanted to ride. Labels such as the ‘Housewives Choice’ might be politically tricky now but there were millions of tiny bets riding on it and much more besides.
Those nine winners reflected so much of what Piggott was about in the saddle.
The cherubic 18-year-old that won on Never Say Die outraged some afterwards by impudently saying “it’s just another race.” There was the silky finesse that smuggled Sir Ivor’s suspect stamina to victory in 1968. And there was the whip-cracking ruthlessness that hammered Roberto home four years later.
Perhaps the most indelible image of all came in between when Piggott and Nijinsky appeared to be near-unbeatable during the summer of 1970. They went on to complete English racing’s Triple Crown, a feat unequalled since and maybe never to be so.
It is counter-intuitive in sport to say never again since records are always meant to be broken. But that Triple Crown fact remaining unchanged would feel apt to many, another tiny piece of evidence supporting the belief that in Lester Piggott there truly will never be another.
Statistically the formbooks and the record books will make a very good case to back it up too. But in terms of legacy, it is as close to a sure-thing as the old sport will ever have.
