A fall (or was it a UR?), a bumper I can't even remember and a late-night trip to the hospital

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In this extract, top amateur jockey Patrick Mullins recounts being stood down at the Punchestown festival after a mishap when riding Billaway.

I’d walked out to the parade ring for the bumper, so I’m told, and talked to the owners. I haven’t a clue what I said but it must have sounded about right. Clipping the chin strap of my helmet up, I’d turned on my heel and walked to the edge of the ring, nodding at my mother to follow.

Away from the owners, and my father, I ask for a lend of her racecard. I flicked through it until I came to my race, then traced my finger down the card until I found my name where I then pulled my finger across to the horse’s number. Smiling, I handed her back her race card, put my gumshield in and headed off to find the horse with number 12. I don’t remember any of this.

Down at the start, Jody Townend told me I found her and started asking questions.

“What day is it, Jody?”

“Friday.”

“What am I riding?”

“Lecky Watson.”

“Did I get a fall?”

“Yes, Paddy.”

“Off what?”

“Billaway, Paddy.”

“Was I going to win?!”

“It was early on.”

The starter’s flag is raised and all 18 of us approach the starter, jostling for position.

“Jody…what day is it?”

“It’s f***ing Friday, Paddy!”

The flag drops and we’re off. I finish fifth. It’s still Friday. But I still don’t know it.

Walking back in, I lean down to Aimee Morrissey, who’s leading me up, and ask: “Where did we finish?” She replies that we were fifth with a funny look. “Were we unlucky?” Aimee shakes her head, still looking at me funny. “Good, good.” I only ask her twice on the way in.

Patrick Mullins on BillawayCredit: Patrick McCann (racingpost.com/photos)

Back in the weigh-room, I’ve been noticed. I ask Brian Hayes whether he won on Impervious, which he had three hours previously. Brian tells me he did and that he’s driving me home. “Okay,” I happily agree, like a child.

Danny Mullins tells me to have a shower quickly, that I’m holding up Brian. I head into have a shower, not noticing that I’m already wet from having had a shower. He giggles. Brian groans.

John Gleeson says he came back in the ambulance with me from the fall and I seemed okay, answered all the usual questions and did the balance test perfect for the doctor. I don’t recall doing either. I’m smilingly led out to the car, like a good puppy.

“Was it a fall or a UR?”

“He unseated you but he made a bad mistake.”

“Were we going to win?”

“It was early, lad.”

“Did you win on Impervious?”

“I did.”

“Well done!”

Silence. I fiddle with my phone.

“Ah f***, I URed… Was it bad?”

“He put down and made a mistake.”

“Were we going to win?”

“Too early to say.”

I look out of the window. Silence bar the radio.

“Was it a fall or a UR?”

Silence bar the radio.

“A fall, he cartwheeled, you’d no chance.”

“Would we have won?”

And so on.

Back at home, we’re sitting around the kitchen table eating dinner, and Sara Rose has joined us. I’ve watched the replay of Billaway five or six times. Fast forward, play. Rewind. Play. Rewind. Pause. Rewind. Play. I’ve whacked my head off his neck, been sparked and then hit the ground like a sack of spuds, double sparked. “Feck, it was a UR.”

The fall was at 6.45pm, the bumper at 7.45pm and it’s now just nearly 9.15pm. “What day is it again?” I eat a little and drink some Mi Wadi. “No, I think I’m coming around now,” I announce with great certainty. “State Man won? I was too wide around the home bend on Sharjah.”

Murmurs of approval around the table, like when a child recites the alphabet. Rachael Blackmore says to me across the table: “P, you know Brian won on Impervious today?” I smile again and congratulate him. For the 12th time since we sat down. “He shouldn’t still be like this,” she says, shaking her head. It’s nearly 10.30pm now.

I do remember Blackmore getting up and leaving the room, and making a phone call in her serious voice. I remember it like having been in the room but with my eyes closed. But I do remember it. What do we do when we need a doctor’s advice? Better call Saul Ruby. I’ve a favourite in the bumper and Brandy Love in a Grade 1 tomorrow after all.

His advice is simple and clear. Call Jennifer Pugh, our racing doctor. (Easy now he’s retired.) “You don’t mess with a head injury,” he says over the phone. I’ve now taken to asking whether my helmet was okay. Your helmet was fine. Your head on the other hand…

“P, you’re going to the hospital for a scan.” I smile, nod and get up from the table. I’m very agreeable when I’m concussed. I reckon there’s a few people who may prefer me that way. “Does this mean I’m not riding tomorrow?” It does. “Hmmm. And I’d a plan for Brandy Love too.”

I get into Sara’s car and she drives us into A&E at St Luke’s. We check in.

“What happened to you?”

“Fell off a horse… or it was a UR, wasn’t it?”

When we come back out Brian is there, having driven in himself. I do remember this.

“What are you doing here?”

“Just making sure you’re okay.”

“I’ve come around now, you’re fine.”

“Ah, sure, I’ve only one ride tomorrow, I’ll hang around a bit.”

It’s well past 12 now.

“Impervious won, you know.”

“Did she? Well done! I’ve a plan on how to ride Brandy Love, let me tell you.”

We sit on the cold, hard wooden benches in front of the vending machine and wait. I ask. They answer. I ask again. Squeaky trolleys. Doors opening and closing. Names being called sporadically. It’s Saturday now, but I don’t think anyone told me.

Someone decides I need to be strapped to a spinal board after a doctor sees the video of my fall (they don’t know the difference between a UR and a fall) and I get rolled into a CT scanner. I remember that all right. And I didn’t like it. Not much smiling done, but the lads rolling me around the hospital were sound guys. Don’t remember what we talked about but who remembers chit-chat anyways.

The scan is clear. I’m released from the bloody spinal board. I’ve come around now and heading home we laugh at the recordings Brian made driving home from the races of me. Ask, answer, repeat. We get home after 2am.

Brian rides Brandy Love. He doesn’t use my plan. His was better anyway but she runs bad either way.

Jody rides the bumper horse, Sorrentino. I’d been waiting all winter to ride him. We don’t have many by New Bay for bumpers. He clips a heel and Jody gets a fall (a UR actually). Maybe it wouldn’t have happened to me, but it has before (Taipan’s Way, Roscommon, odds-on - I’ll never forget that) and I’m sure it will again.

And what if it had? As jockeys, we cover up injuries. It’s what we do and we do it because those before us did it. And with a bone, away from your neck, it’s fine. A fibula is a non-weight bearing bone, you don’t need it to ride; I’ve seen someone ride away with it. A crack in a shoulder blade won’t stop you winning a Gold Cup; I’ve seen it done. I know a crack in a collarbone might mean you can’t lift a cup of tea but you can still win (and lose) a race with it. Broken bones heal, they can be operated on. The head though?

Nothing happened and I’m fine. Plenty of people have had the same and have ridden and been fine. I didn’t ride Sorrentino and get a fall off him. But what if I had? It might not have mattered whether it was a fall or a UR.

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