Frankie Dettori - Frankie - The Autobiography of Frankie Dettori

The Autobiography of

FRANKIE DETTORI with JONATHAN POWELL

To my dad Gianfrancowho never doubted that I would make itas a jockey, even when I was not sure.A thousand thanks.

Cover Page

Title Page Frankie The Autobiography of FRANKIE DETTORI with JONATHAN POWELL

Dedication To my dad Gianfrancowho never doubted that I would make itas a jockey, even when I was not sure.A thousand thanks.

One: I Knew I Was Going to Die

Two: Against the Odds

Three: Lost in My Father’s Shadow

Four: Growing Up Fast

Five: I Used to Cry Myself to Sleep

Six: Riding Like an Italian

Seven: Priceless Lessons in California

Eight: Give the Kid a Chance

Nine: A Job Made in Heaven

Ten: Too Big For My Boots

Eleven: Giving in to Temptation

Twelve: Throwing it All Away

Thirteen: Arrested with Cocaine in My Pocket

Fourteen: Sheikh Mohammed Offers a Lifeline

Fifteen: Champion Jockey

Sixteen: A Lion in Paris

Seventeen: Godolphin Comes Calling

Eighteen: The Bookies Were Crying for Mercy

Nineteen: Nobody Had Done It Before

Twenty: A Brief Encounter at Epsom

Twenty-one: Nightmare in Kentucky

Twenty-two: A Horse in a Million

Twenty-three: A Miraculous Escape

Twenty-four: In the Grip of Lester

Twenty-five: An Emotional Night in New York

Twenty-six: A Question of Sport

Twenty-seven: Slow Boat to China

Twenty-eight: Summer of Despair

Twenty-nine: Top Dog Again

Career Record

Index

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Praise

Copyright

About the Publisher

Death came calling with terrifying suddenness on a bleak summer’s day in 2000. It happened as Ray Cochrane and I were taking off in a small plane from Newmarket racecourse on the sort of routine flight to the races that had been part of my daily schedule for the past fifteen years.

One moment we were sitting side by side in the rear seats as our Piper Seneca bumped alarmingly along the grass runway on that wet and windy June morning. The next I knew with horrible certainty that I was about to die as our little plane, fatally damaged on take-off, struggled to reach a height of perhaps 100 feet before plunging towards Devil’s Dyke, a huge ancient bank and ditch that lies between the July track and the main course at Newmarket.

White smoke was already streaming from a crippled engine, and there were the first signs of flickering flames as our doomed aircraft tilted crazily onto its right side, hampered from the lack of full power when we needed it most. In front of us our pilot Patrick Mackey was fighting manfully at the controls to keep us in the air long enough to avoid the dyke on our way down, but his task was impossible from the moment the right-wing engine propeller gouged into the ground just before lift-off.

Not too many people in full health know beyond doubt that they have only a few seconds to live. Ray was icy calm as we waited for the impact that would end it all. Next to him I wasn’t so controlled.

‘We’re going to die mate, we’ve had it!’ I screamed.

So many people have asked me what it was like to stare death in the face. It’s impossible to explain because it all seemed to happen so quickly. I was certain that it was all over, finished, as if somebody had pressed a button to end my life. I was also terrified that it was going to hurt like hell, but my main feeling was one of disappointment at the waste of it all, that I would never see my wife Catherine and little boy Leo again.

The left wing tip was just about vertically above the other wing as we dived towards the bank and the ground rushed up to meet us. If we’d crashed nose first onto the dyke we would all have been killed instantly, no question—smashed to pieces like flies on a car windscreen.

By some miracle Patrick nearly managed to clear the dyke—until the extreme tip of the right wing clipped the top of the bank. This sent us cartwheeling into the ground on the other side of the ditch. The noise of the impact seemed to last forever.

It was a nightmare sound I’ll never forget.

At a time like this you have no control over your fate. If the plane had ended upside down we would all have been trapped in the wreckage and burned to death. There would have been no escape as more than sixty gallons of aviation fuel ignited. Even though we settled the right way up, the force of the impact left Ray unconscious for a few seconds, and I was out of it too.

When we came to our senses we were still strapped in our seats, with the passenger door on my left squashed in on top of me. No escape route there. In front of us poor Patrick was slumped unconscious over the controls, flames were coming from the engines and the horrible smell of fuel was overpowering. I was already aware of a dreadful pain in my right leg. There was also so much blood on my face from deep cuts on my forehead that I thought I’d been blinded. Ray immediately took charge, thank goodness, or I wouldn’t be here to tell the tale.

Spotting that the tiny door used to stow baggage immediately behind my seat was ajar, he kicked the rest of it out, then squeezed forward again to undo my seat belt, dragged me backwards and pushed me out of the narrow opening. The drop onto the ground was probably no more than eighteen inches but I landed on my injured ankle and immediately began screaming from the pain, unable to move.

Lying in a heap near the remains of the tail plane, I was still far from safe.

Terrified that I could be trapped by the flames at any moment, I cried out to Ray for help as he was turning back to try to save Patrick. When he heard me he came back, pushed himself through the broken hatch and dragged me thirty yards or more to safety just as the fire was really starting to take hold.

Then he immediately rushed back determined to rescue Patrick, but by the time he reached the wreckage flames were beginning to appear underneath the plane. Ray should have given up at that point but he was unbelievably brave. Showing total disregard for his own safety, he forced open the pilot’s door on the right-hand side, leaned in, reached towards Patrick and was just about to release his belt when there was a whoosh and the whole lot went up.

Driven back by the ferocity of the inferno and already suffering from burns, Ray then struggled round to the other side of the plane to have another go through the hatch that had provided our escape. By now the first rescuer had appeared, a racecourse worker, who was begging Ray at the top of his voice to get away from the flames, yet still he persisted.

The last image I have of this incredible rescue attempt was of Ray taking off his jacket and trying to use it to beat out the flames, then collapsing in tears of rage, overcome with guilt at being unable to save Patrick, before crawling over to comfort me.

We lay huddled together in an advanced state of shock, like two small refugees silhouetted by the fire. Then the cavalry began to arrive. Soon we were both trussed up and on our way by helicopter to Addenbrooke’s Hospital in Cambridge. The last thing we wanted after our ordeal was to be flying again so soon, but we were in no condition to argue.

As we lay in emergency, shocked, hurting and distressed, neither of us knew quite how badly we were injured. I remember thinking: Why go on as a jockey? What’s the point? I had a lovely wife and a bouncy little son. There was so much more to life than racing. Why not jump off the treadmill and take things easy for a change?