Small breeder perspective – “From city slicker to manure picker” – Richard Zwirn

If any of you have read the articles that Josh Pons has submitted to The Blood-Horse, I think you will absolutely enjoy this submission by our friend Richard Zwirn, who has been breeding horses on a small plot of land outside Saratoga Springs. We have been guests of Richard and Kay, enjoying time in the paddocks with the mares and foals. Thankfully when I asked Richard to provide the readers of the website with some insights of the life a small breeder, he agreed to do so in a series of articles. Here’s the first installment, enjoy!

I grew up on Manhattan’s Upper West Side. I loved sports—and the Yankees, Packers, Knicks and Blackhawks.

It was while playing stickball one summer day when a friend yelled, “timeout.” A few others gathered around him to listen to “Pack at the Track,” on a transistor radio. I strolled over, a bit ticked off that I was already in the batter’s box ready to take my cuts. When the horse race was being announced, however, there was something magical taking place—if only in my mind. A story being told. A painting being brush-stroked.

In the following months we listened to and watched such horses as Susan’s Girl, Riva Ridge, Forego, and the mighty Secretariat gallop away from their competition. It was mesmerizing. One day I found myself at the actual racetrack—and I couldn’t take my eyes off the horses being prepared for the upcoming race in the paddock area. One by one, they were being walked, groomed, stretched, saddled. Each one was “poetry in motion.” Finely tuned athletes–within the most beautiful species on earth. Personalities seemed to show. Idiosyncratic behavior was evident. Even athleticism was easy to detect —- if you studied closely. I fell in love with the sport.

For the next decade or more, I continued to study—-every day and night. Racing Forms, sales catalogues, books/videos, TV shows/replays, industry news, breeding leader lists, stud books, and the like. I felt I was equipped in terms of handicapping understanding, pedigree knowledge, and ever changing marketplace values/trends. Now what I needed was hands-on horsemanship experience.

We bought a house—up near Saratoga Springs, New York. This locale was by design. It is arguably the thoroughbred horse capital of the world. It houses the country’s oldest, finest track—and the sport’s Hall Of Fame and National Museum. It has dozens of thoroughbred farms sprinkled throughout the area.

Next—with blood, sweat and tears — we built our own farm. Barn. Fencing. Water. It’s only eight acres. Four paddocks. No employees. We do it ALL ourselves. For the last twenty-four years. The learning curve was steep. I picked many a brain when it came to farm layout, daily routines, horse care and most importantly, foaling. My children christened  it, Rainbow Fields Farm, on behalf of the rainbows we see after nearly every afternoon shower that arrives here.

We bought our first mare in 1997. Her name was Sis Henry—a close relative of the immortal John Henry. She was in foal to a son of Seattle Slew. When she was dropped off at our farm and the driver said “here is your horse.” I had never yet led a horse in my entire adult life. Heady stuff. (She only stepped on my toes twice on the way to the barn.)

Sis Henry taught me everything I know.

This mare was my equine sensei. Just from the look in her eye or subtle movement of an ear or her feet, she gently—patiently—conveyed to me ”Rich, you kidding me? Not like that.” In time, I was able to listen. Carefully. Consistently. With the herd, she was the extreme alpha. With me? We were partners doing our best to create harmony and positivism. I believe without her, I would have either “folded” or ruined many a horse.

As proof of my equine naivete, Sis Henry had her first foal for us on the evening of a COLD February 18th, 1998. It was, indeed, a miracle. We were all there. We kept real quiet. I pulled it out to help towards the end. The kids dried off the foal. My wife, Kay, had her first experience giving an enema (she is now nicknamed “The Enema Queen”) We went inside at midnight and watched the festivities in the stall on our closed circuit TV— from the warmth of our kitchen. The adrenaline was still flowing when we were playing the, “What shall we name it” game. On the counter was a box of clementines. My daughter suggested  the name, “Clementine.” And so it was…we thought.

That name lasted less than a day. Our vet came and pronounced, “Zwirn’s, congratulations on your beautiful, healthy colt.”  COLT! So, it was to be “Clem Henry” from that point forward.

Fast forward many years—and some fifty-seven foals. Kay is still “The Queen.” Sis Henry is buried up on the hill. The adrenaline still rushes. The dreams, too. But, the high is tempered by the lows we have witnessed during this time. This undertaking is not for the faint of heart.

It has been a gift — of which we experience every day—-the foals frolicing in the fields, the mares lovingly protecting their babes, the sun and moon rises, the morning dew on emerald fields, the sound of horses munching on hay in the darkness, the smell of fresh cut grass, and the dreams of helping to develop a great racehorse.

But, as the saying goes, “If it was easy, everybody would be doing it.”