James E. “Ted” Bassett III, who led Keeneland through historic expansion during his 38-year tenure serving as President, Chairman and Trustee, died Thursday at his home in Lexington. He was 103.
So he was not immortal, after all. But those of us privileged to have known James E. Bassett III will know how rare it is not only for human life to stretch to so wide a span but yet to conclude with the emphasis so unequivocally on quality, rather than mere quantity.
It began [and ended] in Lexington, aptly for one of the great modern Kentuckians. But while “Ted” Bassett was cherished by our own community as, first and foremost, the presiding spirit of Keeneland, there was no parochial limitation on a personality forged between his own, inborn resources and the furnace of his times. Among many other attributes that might be compressed into the first part of that equation, we could highlight his dynamism, charm and absolute integrity. Throw into the mix an unusual receptivity to both duty and opportunity, and you find a remarkable man summoned to his full potential by the historic energies that made “the American century”.
Bassett was always in the front line of his epoch. Literally so, of course, as the Marine who nearly gave his life at what turned out to be barely a quarter of its eventual scope. But he was also in the vanguard of an evolving culture: first as a young salesman, relishing New York City in the postwar boom; then with the Kentucky State Police, at a time when civic strife was bringing the entire country to a momentous crossroads; and finally, in helping our own industry adapt to the expansion of American leisure.
His own story, in other words, overlaps with that of the modern nation. And perhaps it will only be to the extent that the same might be said of his character–how far, that is, that we might see Bassett not only as a model citizen, but also as a typical one–that the nation can aspire to a similar longevity in terms of leadership and respect.
It is standard, even in obituaries, to refer to the subject only by his surname. But it does go against the grain not to persist with “Mr.” Bassett. Certainly, it was the only address that would ever occur to you, running into him at the Keeneland track kitchen; and its use suggested the very reverse of undue formality. To the end, he remained as upstanding, in his bearing, as he had always been in the values he exuded. And to see such resolute dignity, in so venerable a figure, always gave heart to those of us who bleakly anticipate ageing only as a decline in all the satisfactions of life. If we felt humbled by his example, inclined to stand straighter and enunciate more clearly than usual, then that was not so much to manifest mere deference as affection and gratitude.
Yet even he was Master Bassett once. He was born on Oct. 26, 1921, to parents whose respective grandfathers gave the pedigree local distinction: one had been president of the Fayette National Bank, the other a Civil War general who had retired to Lexington to breed horses 50 years previously. When the Fayette closed, during the Depression, Bassett's father found work as superintendent of Greentree Farm and indeed became a vice-president of Keeneland, but young Ted was sent away to school in Connecticut and the closest he ever came to Thoroughbreds in those years was riding a mower at Greentree, at 25 cents an hour, during his school vacations.
He was in his final year at Kent School when his only sibling, Brooker, was killed in an automobile accident. It was a savage bereavement, and his parents' marriage did not survive it long. Hard to know for sure, but very possibly Mr. Bassett discovered in this loss some of his trademark determination to live his life to the full.
James E. Bassett in Japan, 1944 | courtesy of Keeneland
Not that he appeared to set his life at any great premium on the night in April 1942 when, carousing with fellow Yale students at Mory's in New Haven, someone was suddenly inspired to exclaim that they should all join the Marine Corps. With no more ado, they piled into a classmate's Ford convertible and drove straight to New York City to enlist. Fortunately, he was permitted first to complete his degree in History; and he also made the varsity basketball team in his senior year.
Entering boot camp on Parris Island, South Carolina, Bassett was exposed to what he remembered as a regime of “uncompromising perdition”. At the same time, however, he felt his confidence and capacities expand and he was fast-tracked to second lieutenant. In January 1945, he shipped to Guadalcanal and was allocated to the Fourth Marines. He was 23, “green as a gourd”, and the coming weeks would either make a man of him–or a corpse. It proved a close-run thing.
On Apr. 15, Bassett was leading his platoon at the head of a patrol probing the stealthy and redoubtable Japanese defense of Mount Yaetake on Okinawa. Many times, through the ensuring decades, he would think back to the moment when he was shot through a hand. Had he been saved by the interference of the wind, or maybe by some fortuitous sudden movement? He had been picked out, as an officer, but somehow the sniper had missed head and chest and so failed to add Bassett to 500 losses sustained on that accursed island by the Fourth Marines. As it was, Bassett was wounded again minutes later: a mortar fragment in his knee. But he viewed himself as terribly fortunate. Both were minor wounds that left superficial scarring and did not interfere with the long life he would now embrace with a Purple Heart and Presidential Unit Citation.
Bassett recovered in time to join the initial landings on the Japanese mainland, after the armistice, by now promoted to first lieutenant. A striking photograph of this rugged, handsome young soldier, lighting up a cigarette with his helmet chinstrap loose, deservedly made the front page of Stars And Stripes (and the back cover of his autobiography).
There's no doubt that the culture of service Bassett absorbed as a Marines officer transformed the rest of his life. In his memoirs, he condensed the Corps ethic as a matter of pride, confidence, enterprise and fraternity: “In my case, at least, the Marine Corps took a nobody and tried its absolute best to make a somebody out of him.” In 1990 Bassett was presented with the Semper Fedelis Award, made to “a former Marine who has exemplified high principles and dedicated service to Country and Corps.” And in 2007 he further received the Department of the Navy Superior Public Service Award.
Ever after, Bassett viewed leadership and service as interchangeable concepts. The way to guarantee the loyalty of your men, out there in the front line, was to take care of their interests first. “They were fed first,” he explained, late in life. “They dug their holes first. Before you dug a hole, your men dug in, and you fed them. Because their welfare is absolutely essential to your survival. You take care of the men, they take care of you.”
Restored to civilian life, and profiting from his father's Greentree connection, Bassett got his start with a Whitney family business, the Great Northern Paper Company, whose forestry holdings comprised one-ninth of the state of Maine. Bassett traveled up and down the East Coast and into the South selling newsprint, but his base was in New York and his real priority was a courtship. He married Lucy Gay in 1950. How he enjoyed those first years of peace–and all 65 years of his marriage! Together they saw Edith Piaf at the Versailles on East 50th St; they took in each new Rodgers and Hammerstein musical on Broadway; and, though confined to an extremely small apartment on Park Avenue, it was not so small that they felt a butler would be impractical.
Nonetheless the newlyweds yearned for their home state and, at 32, Bassett quit the Great Northern. His father was not impressed when Bassett announced that he would be raising livestock and hand-harvesting 20 acres of tobacco. “You've got a Yale education,” he said. “And you're going to trade that in to become a dirt farmer?”
But that proved to be a brief experiment, and in 1956 Bassett was persuaded to sample a career in law enforcement, starting as director of driver licensing. His first week in that innocuous post coincided with the school integration crisis of Sturgis, which required the attentions of the National Guard and M-47 tanks. Bassett was perfectly aware that he had been raised to white privilege, and said later that watching that drama unfold changed his outlook. His whole upbringing and education, after all, had taught him that “whatever you got involved in, it wasn't acceptable to be merely a passive participant–you should strive to make a difference.”
Bassett was soon promoted and by 1964 was appointed director of the Kentucky State Police. Morale, pay and manpower were all low, and public relations deplorable. Bassett set to work to improve both the self-esteem of his troopers and the trust of the public. When he made a presentation to his men, and invited their questions or comments, there would be silence. But he knew why: the station sergeants and officers were all sitting there, too. He would point: “You. And you. And you.” And he would take them into another room, tell them to be candid. And they poured out their hearts.
He told them that they would get more respect: better pay, conditions, training. But they would have to start that process, by earning self-respect. No more slovenliness, no more slouching. “When you walk in, every eye is going to turn on you,” he said. “Now, look the part. Act the part.”
Bassett coined the concept of “the thin gray line”–a reference to the color of the troopers' uniform, and the cruisers they drove–that divided the state from lawlessness. He organized billboard posters of smiling troopers above the slogan, “It's My Job To Help You”. There was a lakeside kids' camp and eventually, overcoming much scepticism elsewhere, a law enforcement degree was introduced at what is now the College of Justice and Safety at Eastern Kentucky University.
Much of Bassett's impact was not about specific measures, but about ethos. If he saw a State Police vehicle parked on the roadside, he would pull over and walk up with a hand outstretched, introducing himself and congratulating his men on the job they were doing. One trooper told Bassett decades later that he “felt nine feet tall that day”–and, sure enough, had meanwhile been appointed director himself.
Bassett had made a vital difference but an impending shift in gubernatorial power was the cue for a new challenge in 1968. He was offered a huge contract by Kentucky Fried Chicken but, happily for our industry, accepted less than one-third of the salary to become assistant to Keeneland president Louis Lee Haggin II. Here was another institution ripe for modernisation, and more professional management.
Bassett was under no illusions. As an outsider to the sport, his advent was received by entrenched staff with “subdued resentment”. The sales and racing divisions were still discrete entities, with their own loyalties and fiefdoms. With the state police, Bassett had become accustomed to the clicking of heels; here, at first, even the sternest look would induce little more than a yawn. But restructuring prompted some helpful migration and a transformative period of recruitment.
Bassett and The Queen before the 1984 inaugural race in her name | Keeneland
The new, integrated Keeneland regime supervised a series of changes that together comprised a revolution: a new sales pavilion in 1969; a new grandstand in 1976; a turf course in 1984, with a royal visit to mark the inauguration of the Queen Elizabeth II Challenge Cup. In the sales ring, meanwhile, there were unprecedented fireworks as competition for yearlings between Coolmore and the Maktoums revolutionized the commercial possibilities of the Bluegrass: in 1981, a Northern Dancer colt set a new world record at $3.5 million; two years later Sheikh Mohammed paid nearly three times as much for another one, at $10.2 million. This was the famous occasion when the seven-digit bid display board reverted to zero, a first $10 million bid having taken the market to a place beyond anyone's wildest imaginings.
But those heady excitements were only the apex of a pyramid of services that were held together from the base up. Bassett always put himself in the shoes of the customers. On racedays, he would personally inspect every restroom. On sale days, he would walk through every barn, chatting with consignors and purchasers, checking that everyone had everything they needed. A lightbulb blown, a leaking tap, an error in the catalogue? “Okay, leave that with me–someone will be down right away.”
In 1986 Bassett stepped aside to become chairman of the board and was succeeded by Bill Greely, whom he had first hired as assistant back in 1971. If now taking a relative backseat, Bassett remained a seasoned counsellor as Keeneland continued to strive for the right balance between tradition and progress: simulcasting, Sunday racing, as late as 1997 a first track announcer, a magnificent new library.
In the meantime, however, others were able to tap into his experience and wisdom. In 1988, Bassett was approached by Will Farish about the possibility of taking the helm at the Breeders' Cup Ltd. As when he arrived at Keeneland, there were people to win over; there were many vested interests, entrenched against change. But he was able to identify with them. As an avowed Establishment figure, after all, this was a new kind of challenge for Bassett, too. At the time, remember, Keeneland still abjured corporate sponsorship. Here was a very different, fledgling enterprise that depended absolutely on a commercial agenda. Once again, then, Bassett's diplomatic skills proved invaluable. Someday, he urged, we will all benefit from short-term sacrifices to make this thing work together. Sure enough, the series had bedded down into the unrivalled climax of the international calendar by the time he stepped down in 1996.
Others to enlist Bassett's help during these years included Equibase and the World Series Racing Championship. It was in this latter cause that Bassett presented a trophy at Ascot every July. In 1983, he somehow managed to drop the silverware in transferring it from the hands of the Queen to the Aga Khan. It landed on his big toe and, as the bruising failed to clear up, he mentioned it to his doctor. A dangerous melanoma was diagnosed, the toe promptly amputated, and Bassett liked to credit a moment of excruciating embarrassment for averting far graver misfortune.
He was proud to have become familiar with the British monarch, to the extent of taking lunch at Windsor Castle before joining the royal procession to Royal Ascot. And his status, as a dignitary of the Turf, was underlined in 1986 when he was asked at short notice to present the Melbourne Cup, Australian Premier Bob Hawke having refused to wear the requisite top hat and cutaway.
But that was Ted Bassett–equally at home with royalty, or a state trooper, or the maintenance crew at Keeneland. An alphabet soup of decorations and awards did not alter him one jot.
He always owned to being of conservative stock and upbringing–but if he never needed to be interviewed for a job, nor did he ever want a contract. A word given in his favour would never be betrayed; and his own word was his bond. “I have never been a maverick or a rebel,” he confessed in his memoirs. “I am an establishment person…reflected in the way I talk, in my manner, in my dress, in just about every way I comport myself. But at the same time, I have never been fearful of buying into an environment of change.”
He found the perfect complement in his “jewel”, Lucy. She, too, represented the old school: her father was a founding vice-president of the Keeneland Association, a director for 48 years. Her natural elegance extended to a spell, in her youth, as a dancing instructor; and she was a successful breeder, too, from no more than a dozen mares–coming up, most notably, with GI Breeders' Cup Distaff winner Adoration.
What an apt name, to condense their partnership. And it's a word that will also serve, collectively, for how a whole community felt about the man who has been taken from them at last.
“I was not a miracle worker,” he said once, looking back at the nettles he had grasped in turn with the police, at Keeneland, at the Breeders' Cup. “It wasn't trying to jam some philosophy down anybody's throat. It was about what they believed they could do to make the organisation work better: the people who were actually doing the work, whose support we needed, whether it was a horse breeder or a trooper on the road. You could not do that by sending out memos and PRs. You had to reach out to them; make it feel like they had a voice. Really, I had no plan for any of these things I did. I wasn't smart enough to have a plan. But what I did have was the Marine Corps thing: 'How do you connect with you men?'”
Ted Bassett's Racing Hall Of Fame Indusction, 2019 | Horsephotos
Bassett always remembered peering over the crowd in New York to glimpse MacArthur in a passing motorcade. That afternoon he came back from the office to see the General make his famous speech, on the 12-inch black-and-white television back at the apartment. “Old soldiers never die, they just fade away,” MacArthur declared, before memorably describing himself simply as “an old soldier who tried to do his duty as God gave him the light to see that duty.”
If “Mr. Bassett” is going to fade away, it will not be before the youngest of his countless friends and admirers have themselves emulated his vitality at a great age. For so long as they, too, retain a strong memory and a sense of honor, then his example will endure for a new generation.
There simply isn't space here to record all the formal recognition Bassett received from those he served: his nation, his state, his community. But he needed no honorifics, medals or certificates to feel the devotion of all who knew him. He just needed to take breakfast as usual at the Keeneland track kitchen, and see how people lit up when he spoke with them: friends, strangers, staff. And that's why we can borrow the best epitaph of all from Bassett himself.
Every year Bassett's pastor would invite him to read some words of his own composition. This what he would recite: “One gets happiness from peace of mind. One gets peace from what one gives to others. This is where happiness resides: by being a giving person, a generous person, a kind person.”
Can't you just hear those rich, measured, husky tones? He would continue: “It is important to have honor, for it is honor that helps you stand by people when they are in trouble or need; it is honor that will help make you a loyal person; it is honor that makes you help people when you are really too busy, when you are really too tired and too distracted, and when no one else will even know or credit you with helping.
“Happiness comes not from your head, not from your intelligence, not from your ambitions; it comes from your heart. To emphasize service above self; by embracing the spirit of caring for others, and following the true instincts of your heart will be the pathway to genuine happiness.”
If that be so, we can comfort ourselves in our loss by reflecting that Mr. Ted Bassett did not just lead a remarkably long and rich life, but a remarkably happy one.
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