Frankie: The Autobiography of Frankie Dettori

The temptation was irresistible. One minute they were there on the ground beside his bag, the next they were in my pocket. My dad, riding Bold Run for Alduino Botti, then inflicted further pain on Steve by beating him on Drumalis by a nose, but by the time he came back to ‘weigh in’ I’d left the scene of the crime. Four years later I’d just begun riding in England when Steve spotted me wearing his distinctive red ankle pads. ‘Those are mine, you thieving little Italian bastard. Give them back’, he demanded in menacing tones. I tried to bluster my way out of trouble but was eventually forced to plead guilty as charged. It was typical of Steve that he forgave me pretty quickly and soon became a great friend by giving me lifts to numerous race meetings in his chauffeur-driven Jaguar.

Four months after nicking Steve’s precious ankle pads I was back at Milan with my dad, walking the course as usual, when a big helicopter flew over us and landed close by. Nobody had ever seen a helicopter at a race meeting in Italy before then. For me at such an impressionable age, it was like witnessing a spaceship drop out of the skies. Moments after the door opened the pale figure of Lester Piggott appeared at the top of the steps, followed by the trainer John Dunlop and others associated with Sheikh Mohammed, a member of the Royal family in Dubai who were just beginning to expand their already considerable racing interests. Dad explained that the Sheikh owned the filly Awaasif who’d been sent from England to run in the Gran Premio Del Jockey Club. She won it easily, too, by six lengths. How strange to think that within a few short years I’d often be travelling in a similar helicopter to the four corners of the world to ride for Sheikh Mohammed.

By now I was totally addicted to racing, mad keen to become a jockey and was finding my last year at school increasingly tedious. I became totally obsessed with the idea of following in my dad’s hoofbeats and couldn’t see any point in remaining in the classroom a second longer. It helped that my dad shared my ambition and finally allowed me to leave school in the summer of 1984 at the age of thirteen and a half.

In a rare heart-to-heart, he had the sense to tell me that the years ahead would test my resolve to the limit. He explained that for every small boy who sets out to become a jockey only one in a thousand succeeds in making the grade. In the back of his mind, and that of Christine—who by then had become my stepmother—was the suspicion that I lacked the necessary motivation and aggression to make the breakthrough.

It is fair to say that in their presence I tended to be quiet, almost meek. That was because I felt intimidated by them. Away from home there were plenty of people to testify that I was almost too exuberant, and at school I was known as the naughtiest boy in the class.

Despite Dad’s well-intentioned warning, I had no doubt that I would become a jockey, too, as I set off to work full-time in a racing yard for Alduino and Giuseppe Botti at the princely wage of around £10 a week. It quickly proved to be a disheartening experience, basically because at well under five stone I wasn’t strong enough or experienced enough to ride big, hard-pulling thoroughbreds.

I hope I didn’t behave too much like a spoiled brat, but that was probably the impression I gave as I turned up on the first morning in my immaculate jodhpurs and flashy jacket. My father was stable jockey and sometimes rode out there, so everyone was scared of treating me badly or giving me any worthwhile challenges. Nor, because I was Franco Dettori’s son, were they prepared to take any risks with me or make me do the dirty or dangerous jobs normally reserved for newcomers.You need someone pushing you constantly to help you improve but I wasn’t given the opportunity, probably because I wasn’t ready.

It was also a major disadvantage that Carlo d’Alessio’s team of forty racehorses was the classiest in Italy. The last thing he needed was one of his expensive stars running away with a new lad who should have been wearing L-plates. So I ended up riding the slowest, quietest horses in the yard which, looking back, was just as well. I continued to live at home and cycled to work earlier than everyone else each morning because initially it took me longer to tie up the three horses I looked after and to muck them out properly.

I enjoyed the routine of caring for the same three horses and brushed their coats until they shone like a mirror, but I was by far the slowest lad in the yard at my work. At least I was doing what I wanted after the restrictions of school, but it was pretty clear after only a few weeks that I wasn’t making any progress. Dad would turn up every few days to check up on me and immediately start shouting: ‘Let your leathers down, you’re riding too short, keep your bum down, try to look tidy—do this, do that, do the other.’ I tried to take it all in, but most of his advice was forgotten by the time I climbed onto another horse and I would be back to riding with my stirrups too short again. The truth is that whatever I did he was never satisfied, and the next time he appeared at the yard he would start shouting at me all over again. This went on week after week until I had the firm impression that he felt I was useless. I began to go into my shell whenever he drove into the yard and kept quiet because whatever I said didn’t please him.

I was frightened of upsetting my father and the trainer. I was also frightened by all the shouting because I didn’t know how to do the job properly and was terrified I’d make a disastrous mistake on a valuable horse. Some of the lads tried to help with useful hints, but no-one had any confidence in my ability and often I ended up on the same horse twice in the morning because it was the only safe one available. She was so lazy and fat she needed to go out twice to lose a little bit of weight.

Things weren’t much better at home in the evenings. That summer my dad fixed a long set of leather reins onto the metal frame of a well in our garden which was covered in ivy. Night after night he’d show how to hold the reins, the right way to make an arch with them, and then encourage me to change my hands on the reins while holding a whip as though I was riding a finish.

At this stage I could trot and canter—but in racing terms I could hardly read or write, and I couldn’t understand why he was taking such pains to teach me the basics. Why the hell did it matter so much? The lessons continued for half an hour or more on most evenings whenever Dad was home. He would start me off, then mow the lawn or sit down and read a newspaper, keeping an eye on me all the while, shouting instructions and occasional encouragement as I wrestled energetically with the reins.

Within a few months I was changing my reins and passing my whip through from one side to the other without thinking about it, all because of those endless lessons beside our garden well. Once I started race riding it came as second nature to me, and even now I don’t think about switching my whip or changing my hands. I just do it. Sometimes after a race the stewards will ask how many times I used my whip in a finish, and I don’t know the answer until I see the video. That’s because I do these things automatically, without a moment’s thought. Although I’m right-handed, all those sessions beside the well helped me become equally effective with the whip in either hand—which is a big advantage for a jockey. Strangely, though, if you ask any of my rivals, they will probably say I am more vicious with the whip in my left hand.

When you are twelve or thirteen and your dad tells you what to do you don’t have any choice. Everything he said I took as gospel. We had our differences, but to me he will always be a genius for clawing his way to the top of the tree by meeting every challenge with the whole of his being until he dominated flat racing in Italy like no jockey had ever done before or since. When I started in racing I was lost in his shadow, but I was hugely proud that he ended 1983 with a record of 229 winners in Italy—a score that is unlikely ever to be matched.

By the time the summer season was drawing to a close I’d reached an important crossroads in my life. In the late autumn everything closes down in Milan, which can be as cold as New York in the winter. My dad didn’t want me wasting my time trotting around an indoor school for three or four months, learning nothing but bad habits. He then had a flash of inspiration by sending me to work for Tonino Verdicchio at his winter training quarters in Pisa, a three hour drive further south. At the age of thirteen it seemed so far away from home that I felt he was sending me to the moon, but it proved to be the making of me.

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