For decades, we've been sharing the stories of how racing's greats fell in love with the sport. Now, it's our turn to unveil the tales behind the bylines we see daily in the TDN. I grew up in Salem, New Hampshire, a town once home to Rockingham Park. My parents were schoolteachers, and my dad, Paul, was the high school baseball and basketball coach. Everyone in town seemed to have a connection to the track, and in 1968, the year I was born, he started training a few Thoroughbreds.

Early Memories and the Allure of Rockingham

My earliest memories are of the small farm where my dad boarded his horses, just down the road from Rock's back stable gate. We'd start our day with breakfast at the track kitchen and then head back to the barn. Before I was old enough to do chores, my father would keep me occupied and out of trouble by corralling me in a stall with a lively goat. The spectacle of "old Rock" on summer afternoons was truly enchanting. I remember being mesmerized by the flashing lights and the rhythmic clicking of the tote board. The chaotic yet noble rhythm of race days felt like a swirling carnival, and the crescendo of the crowd during a stampeding stretch drive always left me craving for more. I recall being five or six and watching my dad, who was usually no-nonsense and focused like when he coached sports, saddling racehorses on the other side of the fence in the paddock. As children weren't allowed in the enclosure, I couldn't follow him there. But I knew I wanted to be on that side, where the horses, jockeys, and my dad were – the heart of the action.

The Fire at Rockingham Park

When I was 12, Rockingham Park burned down. The charred grandstand symbolized the end of an era for many, including my dad. He decided to give up his modest stable rather than make the long daily 70-mile round-trip to Boston to train and race at Suffolk Downs.

The "New Rock" and My College Years

In 1984, a scaled-down version of "new Rock" opened, coinciding with the year I got my driver's license. On weekdays, high school would end at 2:30 p.m., and I'd rush over in time for the seventh race when the admission gates were open and we could catch the last few races for free. On Fridays and Saturdays, the Thoroughbreds raced at night. I went nearly every weekend, immersed in the challenge of handicapping. In 1986, I went off to college. I loved reading and writing and dreamed of one day convincing an employer to pay me to write about racehorses. The University of New Hampshire was only 45 miles north of the Rock, so I was constantly borrowing cars or begging fraternity brothers to cut classes and drive down to the track with me.

Breaking into Journalism and a Special Assignment

After writing for the school paper, I landed a series of journalism internships and soon found myself reporting from the New Hampshire bureau of the Boston Globe. In the spring of 1990, I managed to convince an editor to let me do a feature about the struggling, low-level trainers at Rockingham. On the very same day that Unbridled won the GI Kentucky Derby in front of 128,257 fans, I stood under a leaky shedrow on the rainy Rock backstretch, interviewing a down-on-his-luck horseman about a $3,500 claimer named More Fog. It felt like being in heaven.

The Journey Continues

That first turf writing assignment led to a series of fortunate events that have kept me deeply involved in the sport for the past 35 years. And the final twist in this tale is that not only did my dad introduce me to racing, but I was able to bring him back. After being away from horses for 15 years, with a son who had gone on to work in the racing industry, my dad returned to training in 1995 and campaigned a competitive stable on the New England/Tampa circuit until he retired in 2007.