Not with words, but with a melody, Bill Connell told me what was on his mind when I picked up the phone: “Ta-didida-didida-didida-dah!” It was his rendition of the “call to post” that announces the arrival of horses on the racetrack.
“Bambi, I’ve got an itch,” Bill said. “The bugle’s calling. I’ve been selling hot dogs like crazy. I’ve got some money set aside. Pick a date. Let’s go.”
The winter meeting at Santa Anita was well into its second month, and we had yet to make our annual pilgrimage to the racetrack beneath the San Gabriel Mountains. I promised Bill I’d find a day that I could get away. That was my last conversation with him. Two nights later, he died unexpectedly but, by all reckoning, peacefully.
