General Quarters' story rivals Seabiscuit's

LOUISVILLE, Ky. -- If you thought Seabiscuit was a tearjerker, load up on tissues and check out a horse named General Quarters.

The big gray colt with the distinctive white diamond splashed on his forehead cost $20,000. He was claimed after his first race last May by a 75-year-old retired local high school principal who dabbled in the thoroughbred business for more than a half-century without ever turning up even one very good horse.

Better still, General Quarters is not just the star of Tom McCarthy's stable; at the moment, he's the only one in it.

Then again, McCarthy never could afford more than four.

"When you get up to a certain age and things haven't gone your way for a while, it seems pretty far-fetched," he said Wednesday.

According to the morning line, 20-1 is how far-fetched. But why start calculating the odds now, considering how long they were that McCarthy would be here on the first Saturday in May without buying a ticket.

The horse and his owner-trainer are already the sentimental favorites among the sheiks and sharpies bankrolling his competition, and even the cold-eyed trainers who will send 19 opponents to the post are having a hard time rooting against him.

"Here we all thought it was just some principal who hit the lottery, and it turns out he was training quarterhorses with an uncle at Rillito Park in Tucson before I was even born," Hall of Fame trainer and three-time Derby winner Bob Baffert said. "How cool would it be if he won?"

Every once in a while, the Derby showcases a horse inspiring enough to gallop into America's heart. We've been spoiled in recent years by the everyman appeal of Funny Cide and Smarty Jones, and Barbaro's poignant struggle to survive. But when it comes to a real "people's horse," you need to go all the way back to the rags-to-riches saga of Seabiscuit, who regaled an audience suffering through the cruelest years of the Great Depression, to come up with a contender this strong.

McCarthy always loved the racket, even if it rarely loved him back. His career started slow and never really picked up speed. Two days after he got married, his bride, Patricia, was not amused to find out their honeymoon consisted of hitching a trailer to the back of the car and pulling into the parking lot at Arlington Park in Chicago.

"I had a lot of explaining to do," McCarthy recalled.

Apparently, not enough. McCarthy took a job in the Louisville school system as a biology teacher soon after, eventually working his way up to principal.

In the meantime, he bought a farm and raised a family, making each of his kids learn how to do everything around the barn from foaling horses to riding them.

"How long have I been doing this? Let's see: I'm 41," said son Tom, who took a week off from his job at a downtown law firm. "So basically, 40 years."

McCarthy's influence and love of horses extended well beyond his own family. His groom, Jerry Hills, is a former student, and jockey agent Steve Bass is another. Bass felt their bond still was strong enough to call McCarthy in the middle of a news conference after General Quarters won the Blue Grass three weeks ago -- paving his path to the Derby -- and offer client Julian Leporaux for the ride.

Strict as he was during his tenure as principal, McCarthy had the same lasting effect on a lot of kids.

"He pretty much turned me around," said Sharon Kaelin, Seneca High Class of '76. "I got into a lot of things back then -- detention, suspension. I always thought I was so cool. Then I got caught trying to sneak out in my boyfriend's car, and he decided to make me sweep the cafeteria floor in the middle of lunch -- in a dress.

"It was the most embarrassed I've ever been. And I've never been in trouble since. ... So many of us have been talking about what a neat thing it would be for a regular guy to beat all the millionaires, and the whole community is rooting for Mr. McCarthy now.

"But I've had to remind a few of them, 'Hey, you hated his guts back then.'"

As far as discouraging words, though, that's it. Rival trainers with dozens of horses to keep track of walk by his barn and see a horseman who lavishes attention on his lone colt the way they wish they still could.

After the post-position draw, Hall of Fame trainer Bill Mott, who's won more races at Churchill Downs than anyone else, introduced himself to McCarthy, looked him in the eye and said, "You're a natural. Good luck."

McCarthy stood there for a moment and took in the scene. Around him, the rich and the powerful milled about in suits and expensive cowboy boots, swapping stories about the vagaries of running operations he only could dream about.

McCarthy still was wearing the while polo shirt he had on early in the morning, spotted with flecks of blood and mud as he massaged his horse, filled his own feed buckets and even raked the gravel outside a rented stall.

"I've seen this race come and I've seen it go," he said finally, a note of wonderment softening the usual gruff tone. "But I've never been a part of it before."

Jim Litke is a sports columnist for The Associated Press. Write to him at jlitke@ap.org;