Spring is a season particularly conducive to rioting (many of us at Princeton rioted at the onset of spring during my sophomore year). On May 1, 1976, our family was on holiday at a resort in Puerto Rico. Before driving into San Juan for dinner, my wife and I watched the Kentucky Derby on television with especially keen interest. The favorite in the race, Honest Pleasure, was (and remains) the shortest-priced favorite in the history of the Derby. He was trained by the trainer of our horses at the time, Leroy Jolley, and we had watched Honest Pleasure develop from the beginning of his two-year-old season. But Honest Pleasure was upset that day by a horse named Bold Forbes, a supposed sprinter that "stole" the Derby by taking the lead at the beginning of the race and holding it to the finish. As it happened, Kentucky-bred Bold Forbes was not only owned by a Puerto Rican, but also had begun his racing career in Puerto Rico. On the way into San Juan after the race, I soon had to halt my car because of the exuberant crowds in the streets, on foot and in cars. It took hours to make our way into San Juan. I had had no idea that horse racing was so popular in Puerto Rico or that the populace was so proud that a top horse was owned by a Puerto Rican!
The next morning's headlines in the local newspaper were all about the previous night's huge May Day Communist demonstrations.
On April 29, 1992, I flew from New York to Los Angeles for board meetings of the two Santa Anita Companies, both listed on the New York Stock Exchange-- one company conducted racing at the racetrack owned, along with other real estate, by the other, a real estate investment trust. My flight arrived about 9 p.m. California time. I got in a taxi, gave the driver my destination, and dozed off. I was jolted awake with when the driver slammed on brakes. We were surrounded by men and women peering into the taxi, their arms loaded with merchandise. My adrenaline pumping, I noted that we were on a local road rather than on a freeway and that there were no other cars on the road; that some of the stores around me, including a liquor shop, were in flames; that my driver was African- American, which struck me as potentially a good thing, as the members of the mob looked African- American as well; and that the doors to the taxi were unlocked. I quickly decided that it would not be a good idea to show fear by trying to lock the doors. The crowd seemed more exuberant than angry. They didn't seem to want to harm the driver, and I couldn't see why they would want to put down their armloads of television sets, clothes, and whiskey bottles to bother with me. Slowly, the crowd in front of the taxi parted; and slowly, the taxi started forward, gradually gaining speed. I asked the driver what was going on, and he told me that the police officers who had beaten Rodney King had been acquitted. As I surveyed the burning buildings along La Brea street, I asked him where the police were. He replied that the police were afraid to come there, which did make me wonder about his judgment in choosing our route. After checking in at my destination, I went to my room and turned on the television set. City Hall, which was right next door to where I was staying, was under siege! During that night and the next two days, 53 people were killed, 2,383 were injured, and there were some 7,000 fires.
That summer at Saratoga, I was dining out on my tales of the Los Angeles riot. At a party, the late Joe Hirsch, the dean of racing writers, asked me where I had been staying in Los Angeles that night.
"Well, Joe, I was staying at the California Club."
"Oh then, you couldn't have been safer, Charlie."
"What do you mean, Joe? You know that the California Club is a ground- floor building, and there is just one employee on duty at night."
"Safest place in the world, Charlie. You know perfectly well that the California Club would never permit anyone to enter who wasn't wearing a coat and tie!"
