The Hand to the Queen

Ah… John Shirreffs.

You see, in a game intoxicated by velocity — by bullet works, by stopwatch hysteria, by the vulgar need to be seen doing something — a true horseman practices something far rarer.

Restraint.

John Shirreffs first emerged from the California morning haze in the late 1990s, training for Marshall Naify and 505 Farms, sending out horses like Swept Overboard, Manistique, David Copperfield, Hook and Ladder. They arrived fueled by Bertrando, polished in Kentucky by capable hands, and when they debuted… they were not merely prepared.

They were inevitable.

John never trained fast. Not in the way the uninitiated understand speed. He cultivated readiness. There’s A difference. When one of his first-time starters stepped onto the track in that era, it was less a workout and more a seminar. Class was in session.

And then there was Manistique.

She debuted on May 10, 1998 at 6–1 and won by eleven lengths. But the debut was merely confirmation. The revelation came in the morning. I remember her rolling up behind a tandem, from the late Jack Van Berg’s shed row — close enough to read the brand on their hindquarters. She tipped out, inhaled them without breaking rhythm, never checked, never hesitated. Effortless superiority. Great horses, you see, do great things — and they do them easily.

She would go on to win nine graded stakes in a Southern California circuit so deep it bordered on decadent. Two Grade 1s. And in hindsight? A prelude.

A whisper of what was coming.

Because Shirreffs had begun establishing a reputation — not merely as a trainer of fillies — but as a steward of imposing, strapping, high-class mares. He kept them sound. He allowed them to thrive.

And then… the queen arrived.

Zenyatta was not trained.

She was understood.

Push her too hard in the morning and she would have broken — not physically perhaps, but spiritually. John knew this. Patience was not a tactic. It was doctrine.

In 2008, preparing for her first Clement Hirsch at Del Mar, she worked with a stablemate — one of those dutiful assistants whose sole purpose is to escort royalty toward fitness. She dismissed the poor creature before the eighth pole, planted her toes, and quite literally pulled herself up.

She was bored.

Do you know how rare that is? To possess such dominance that your greatest adversary is null and void?

John adjusted. Two workmates. One early. One late. She would leave them both scattered at her feet, often without so much as pinning an ear. She did not thrash opponents. She compelled surrender. A glance. A flick of the ear. Bend the knee.

Her first Clement Hirsch? A one-length victory. Unimpressive — unless you understood she had given precisely what was required. Nothing more. Speed-figure devotees were perpetually baffled. “Faster horses,” they insisted.

And yet… they bent the knee.

In 2009, she returned to Del Mar for the same race. I brought my family. We sat behind the winner’s circle. Fifty yards from the wire she appeared beaten — three lengths adrift of Anaaba’s Creation and Lethal Heat. Then in three strides she lowered her head with the cold certainty of a monarch signing a decree.

Even Tyler Baze believed he had won.

He had not.

John had not pressed her that summer. He was playing a longer game. November 7, 2009. Santa Anita. The Breeders’ Cup Classic.

On that far turn she looked hopelessly beaten. Again. And then she split horses with surgical audacity, tipped out, and history rearranged itself. The grandstand shook as though California’s tectonic plates had joined the ovation. Shirreffs — the most restrained man on the backside — threw his hat into the crowd.

A rare display.

A kingmaker acknowledging his queen.

In the spring of 2010, she would emerge late in the morning — near ten o’clock. Curious, isn’t it? Until you realized John knew her preferences. Her sovereignty. She backtracked in front of the casino, pawing the surface. The track nearly empty — save for one horse jogging along the far turn. She waited. Five minutes passed. The moment that lone interloper exited, she stepped forward.

The track was hers.

It reminded me of Tiznow in 2001, who refused to work until every other horse had vacated, as if to proclaim, “It is my kingdom.” Champions possess eccentricities. Horsemen of lesser talent suppress them.

Great ones accommodate them.

I have long believed she misjudged the wire at Churchill Downs in the 2010 Breeders’ Cup Classic — falling a nose short to Blame. Queens are not accustomed to losing. It may have been the only time she erred.

Shirreffs was a quiet man. Stabled beside us at Hollywood Park while we had horses with Bobby Troeger. He observed. He absorbed. The hand to the queen never upstages her, never competes for applause.

He understood something the modern game often forgets: brilliance does not require amplification.

Just as there will only ever be one Zenyatta… there will only ever be one John Shirreffs.

An extraordinary talent.

Seen.

Never heard.

RIP John.....we will miss you.