Gordon Robinson | Memories by the score

In the wee hours of March 24, 2021, two days before her birthday, the Old Ball and Chain received a phone call that broke our hearts.

Initially it was Liz on the phone. But she wasn’t able to continue so daughter, Steffi, the strong one, took over and delivered the news. Daddy died. “Daddy” was my best friend, Wayne DaCosta, a horseracing legend and the greatest trainer Jamaica has known. But our memories of Wayne include those professional achievements only peripherally.

When we met he was just Lizzie’s boyfriend. Lizzie’s sister, Diane, was Michael McLean’s girlfriend. Michael McLean was my girlfriend’s brother. So we met as family. The three couples soon married. All three marriages have endured for over 40 years. Only one has ended, as marriages should, with Wayne’s passing.

I’ve too many memories. Some aren’t fit for airplay; some too painful. I remember watching drive-in movies. Wayne would set up the sound and promptly fall asleep. I remember Hardware Gap where we grilled together. I remember restaurants where two couples would share beautiful company. Wayne would call the wives as we were leaving stables and tell them where to join us. I remember Christmas Days at the DaCostas. Wayne wore his ever present shorts (frequently needed pulling up) while commandeering the grill.

Memories, like the corners of my mind;

misty water colour memories

of the way we were.

Gladys Knight sang it best. I remember Thornbird; War Zone; and She’s a Maneater. I remember lesser lights that were important to us. But many of my memories appear in this edited reproduction of my Remembrance for his Memorial. Few were present because Covid raged.

“All of my memories of Wayne DaCosta are happy ones. Every. Single. One!

I can’t think of a greater tribute than that simple truth.

My admiration for him reached a frightening level in that even some of Wayne’s famous colloquialisms crept into my own lexicon. I found myself saying things like “all by his lonesome self” or “happy goes the lucky”. And, of course, everybody now has the same name “Pahdi!”

Many of my brightest memories of Wayne happened in motor cars. As a long time control freak, I rarely allowed anyone to drive me. Wayne was one of a handful of drivers who made the cut. But Wayne knew only one driving speed: Very. Fast!

Every time Wayne drove me home from the track I grew a new grey hair. He’d pick up next raceday’s “overnight” on the way out. On the Boulevard, driving at approximately 100mph, he’d balance the overnight on the steering wheel; read it intently; and then complain about the weight each of his entries was allotted. Don’t ask me how I survived.

One more story to “drive” home the point: This time I drove to visit the stables. We left after nightfall and agreed to meet at my home. We drove separately. He arrived so long before I did that I endured 30 minutes of cross-examination from Karen as to where I’d been. Wayne, who had also been grilled, never forgot it. He christened Karen Lieutenant Colombo!

We were always being stopped at “speed-traps”. A policeman would approach with body language that said “I have to teach this madman a lesson”. But as Wayne wound the window down that all changed. “Trainer is you?” was the standard reaction “Gimme a winner nuh.”

Whenever I hear Up on the Roof (Drifters) I remember over 40 years ago when Liz, Wayne, Karen and I would spend evenings together on Karen’s roof. Just chillin’. Many years later, we were as comfortable at YS Farm enjoying the company and hospitality of another great racing family Tony, Judy, Simon and Dawn Browne. And now little Lukie is a lawyer. Sigh.

Wayne’s essence can be summed up in one word - “faithful”. He was ever-faithful to family and friends. But he expected the same in return. As an eye-witness I can tell you he started with nothing and reached the pinnacle of his profession by hard work, a superb horseracing intellect, loyalty to his owners and the wits of an Artful Dodger.

He NEVER knew privilege.

But first and foremost Wayne was my best friend who was always there when I needed him. He attended my secret wedding (only the two witnesses required by law were present) at five minutes’ notice. When he came in from morning stables I was waiting in the Glenhope Avenue driveway. “Shower and get dressed” I told him “You’re going to a wedding”.

“Whose wedding?” he asked.

So now I have the great Wayne DaCosta’s autograph on my marriage certificate. Karen was Liz’s bridesmaid. Wayne helped carry Douglas’s crib up impossible stairs before baby came home. He housed Nick and I (and Marjorie AND Don) as hurricane refugees when Hurricane Ivan arrived while Karen, Douglas and Andrew were abroad. He treated my family as his.

He was my Inspiration.

Wayne Anthony DaCosta October 13, 1955 to March 24, 2021, R.I.P.”

Peace and Love.

Gordon Robinson is an attorney-at-law. Send feedback to columns@gleanerjm.com