Turf Paradise chaplain guides flock Toward winner's circle
Angela Cara Pancrazio The Arizona Republic Nov. 26, 2006 12:00 AM A saddlebag slung over one shoulder, a leather-bound book in one arm, wearing a cowboy hat, Carl Crisswell walks from one horse barn to the next. Around the back side at Phoenix's Turf Paradise, Crisswell is easily mistaken for a feed salesman. Often, he is asked, "What kind of feed are you selling?"
"I tell them," Crisswell says, " 'I'm not selling feed. I'm telling people about Jesus.' "He's the main bread." Crisswell is a racetrack chaplain. Those who know him call him "Chaplain Carl." The back side or backstretch of a racetrack is like a tiny town. The 900 or so people here share the ups and downs of any community. There's drug and alcohol counseling, Gamblers Anonymous and help for lean times between paychecks, especially around the holiday season. Often there is no one to talk to - there's the need for a quiet place to think and pray - and that's where Crisswell and his Home Stretch church come into play. Since 2001, the number of chaplains like Crisswell at racetracks has nearly doubled, says the Rev. Ed Donnally, director of development for Race Track Chaplaincy of America, which provides oversight for chaplains who serve at tracks and training centers. It might seem like an oxymoron that chaplains build their ministry in one of gambling's vessels. "We're there for people. Front side or backstretch, our mission is to be there for them," Donnally said. "Jesus met people where they were, that's where we want to be - wherever there are people and needs."
The Turf's backstretch, a place where grooms, trainers, farriers and jockeys finetune their horses for race day, is Crisswell's mission field. The ordained minister is on call 24/7. He walks the back side every morning on race days, handing out candy, sometimes a Bible or two and guidance. He delivers two daily prayers and readings. One to the back side over the publicaddress system. Another standing in the "jocks" room 30 minutes before post time. Crisswell, a boyish-looking 58-year-old, is a stout man with ruddy cheeks and a quiet presence. He doesn't push. He could ride a horse. He could ride a golf cart. Crisswell walks. "I don't want to be their authority," he said, "I want to be their friend, and I want to be their chaplain." Trust doesn't come easily. One pouch of his saddlebag is filled with gum and candy. He has stuffed Bibles into the other pouch. Candy breaks the ice. Two or three years can pass before a person opens up to the chaplain. He's not some fly-by-night, he says. He's here for the long haul. For the past six years, he has divided his chaplaincy between Arizona and Colorado. "I can give them a piece of gum one day and possibly the next day I can give them a Bible. So that's most important in my life - to get the word of God out and in their hands where they can find help on their own."
Below the grandstand, next to the jockey's locker room, inside a closet-size room, sits a small, bespectacled man, Bob Yeager, handing the day's racing silks to the jockeys. Dwarfed by shades of red, blue, green and hot pink, Yeager, 81, a former jockey, didn't go so far as to say he was a religious person, but he does say that faith has saddled up right alongside jockeys old and young. "I've asked for help," Yeager tells the chaplain.
"I think if you talk to most of the jockeys, they'll tell you somebody has to help look after them." Jockeys don't weigh much more than 112 pounds. The horses weigh 900 to 1,200 pounds. They're racing at sustained speeds of 40 mph. Just inches away from the front hooves of one horse are the back hooves of another. Go beyond that inch or two and jockeys are very likely clip their heels and fall. All jockeys suffer injuries, says Donnally, also a former jockey. "It's not a matter of if, it's a matter of when." A seasoned jockey, Scott Stevens, 46, has been there. "There's been spills - many spills - that I should have been hurt worse than I was," Stevens said.
"Horse breaks down, and it's out of our hands at that point. "God's there. I mean he's there taking care of you." All the while, "Chaplain Carl" reflects on his own life as he tries to help others. The son of a roughneck from the oil patches of Kansas and Oklahoma never seemed destined to become a minister. "My daddy was kind of an ornery guy," the chaplain said. "I always say mama was married to a devil, and mama was an angel." He grew up just like his daddy. He turned to fightin', thievin' and drinkin'. Until one day one of his brothers in Vietnam was saved - "born again." "That's when I got saved and started changing my life," Crisswell said. "Daddy always taught us to get all we can. Can all we get. And sit on the can.
"And so that's kind of the way we lived our life is just we didn't care who we hurt . . . we just thought it was the way of life." Half an hour before post time, before Ivan Ortiz rides Pb Shoeshine Boy, Chris Landeros rides Way Up There and Hilario Estrella rides American Mystic, they gather in the "jocks" room. Crisswell removes his cowboy hat. They bow their heads. The chaplain raises his voice: "There's a prize set for us at the end just like in a race. You got your eyes on the finish line. In the short race, especially, and that finish line, when you cross that you go to the winner's circle. "That's the way it is in life. "We all run the same race . . . and the winner's circle is the winner's circle in heaven ... we need to keep our eyes on the finish line and have no regret when we get there."