Mention the Triple Crown to me and my mind goes back to Martin Sheen and the memorable evening we endured some years ago with a feisty thoroughbred horse trainer. Although the robust, rough-hewn horseman never has taken home the coveted trophy, he was no stranger to the Kentucky Derby, the Preakness, and the Belmont, where he experienced the rare thrill of being a contender for the most elusive prize in sports.
Martin Sheen loved horse racing. For him it wasn't just the excitement of watching magnificent equine competitors display their power and skill; he was fascinated by the people of the backstretch, whose lives were totally intertwined with the race horses they mentioned. When he heard about a trainer who had a story to tell, Martin wanted to tell it. He discussed a possible biographical screenplay with writer, producer, director, and mentor Garry Marshall. Garry suggested I work with Martin on the project.
In all humility, I felt I was perfect for the job. At that time, I knew nothing about racing, nothing about Santa Anita or Hollywood Park, and didn't want to learn. But, as an animal lover, I figured I'd get along really well with the horses.
Arrangements were made for Martin to drive me to the track where we would meet producer and racing fan Fred Roos, who would spearhead negotiations with the trainer for a movie about his life.
On our trip to the track Martin talked about his family, including the brother who trained horses in Florida. I learned that their mother was Irish, their father, Spanish. It may have been this diversity in his background which instilled in him a genuine compassion for others, especially those who suffer. He impressed me as exceptionally intelligent and sensitive, qualities which helped to make him the great actor he was.
Martin also told me how much he admired Tony Randall and used him in his acting endeavors. Mia Farrow once told him he reminded her of someone in the scene they had just done together.
"Tony Randall?" he asked. "That's the one!" she responded.
Martin was also a fan of the late James Dean and the living singer, Bob Dylan. Years later he encountered an associate of the music legend who offered to introduce him.
"I couldn't," he said. "I mean, it was Bob Dylan!"
How odd but endearing, I thought, that this successful, respected actor, whom many considered a genius at his craft, felt too humble to be in the presence of his idol.
When we arrived at the track, Fred Roos, Martin, and I met briefly for pep talks and last-second strategizing before proceeding to the restaurant where we hoped to entice the successful trainer into putting his life in our hands--figuratively speaking, of course.
"That's a working man's hand," he told Martin as Fred made the introductions and a round of hand-shaking ensued.
The trainer had no idea he was meeting a gifted, accomplished actor. In his eyes, Martin was a tough working man. He liked that. So did Martin. There was an instant bond. We had sprung from the starting gate like sure winners.
We sat down to the dinner that was not to be. Fred Roos affirmed his and Martin's devotion to racing. He expressed their appreciation for the trainer's contributions to the sport. I silently sipped my glass of water.
Martin explained his desire to immortalize the trainer on film. Although he and I had no track record with writing blockbuster movies, he suggested an analogy: If we were untried yearlings who demonstrated the passion and potential to be champions, the trainer would take a chance on us, wouldn't he? Very clever, I thought. So did the trainer. Smiles everywhere. We all glowed with confidence and camaraderie. The finish line was within reach. Right there. Just steps away. Inside my head, crowds roared approval.
The trainer was relaxed now--and talking. There were outstanding horses in his barn; the possibilities were exhilarating. But the workers...If only he had decent workers! Ones who spoke English. And did their jobs. The trainer's day had not gone well. Ours was heading in the same direction.
The rant against his Mexican workers continued. Martin's Spanish blood was seething, but he remained responsibly nonviolent. His restraint was remarkable. Fred Roos sat motionless. It felt like a living nightmare.
Suddenly, it was over. Martin, Fred, and I were walking out, shaken and disappointed. The words used to facilitate our hasty exit are long forgotten, or were lost at the time when neurotransmitters shut down in dismay. But, there was no shouting, no fisticuffs. We left physically intact.
"I heard you met a bigot," Garry said the next day. "I'm sorry." I wasn't. It was a learning experience.
