Daybreak in Toronto, Monday

Original article written by The Steward posted 8 years 0 weeks ago

Monday

The digital clock blazed in the darkness: 3:23. Despite the hour, the lights still burned from the back of the Toronto Racecourse grandstand.

From the vantage point of his car, Bradley Davis stared at the grandstand with its plain black lettering and decorative, white posters. “Toronto Racecourse. 41st Steward’s Cup.” The image of an unmarked black horse with a white shadow roll ran through the tapestries, his nostrils flared in determination.

A single security guard milled off to the left, her head bowed into her jacket against the early morning cold. Bradley watched her for a minute, then looked back at the grandstand. He never thought he would be sitting outside the racetrack at such an hour, even well before the track opened for training, but in some ways it felt like coming home.

Six years ago he’d won his first and only Steward’s Cup race. Like any trainer, he wouldn’t mind capturing that feeling again, but his lone entrant, due to arrive in the van in less than an hour, would be a long shot. This was, most likely, not his year.

But it could be his year, and that’s what made the Steward’s Cup so special.

Something about this particular hour, at this particular racetrack, made Bradley feel both melancholy and happy, timeless and old. But something else was in the air, an electric feeling that he could almost taste. The next five days would hold mystery, excitement, and bitter disappointment for some, but for others it would contain some of the very best moments of their lives.

Steward’s Cup week: the pinnacle of each racing season. Despite his exhaustion, and despite the long odds, Bradley felt a flicker of hope.

--

“What do you mean?!” Emily Shields snapped so loudly that Nick Gilmore and Karl Smythe both flinched.

Brianna McKenzie, on the other hand, barely blinked. “I mean,” she plowed on calmly, “that she said ‘No. No, thank you. Go take your money elsewhere. I am not selling you this horse. No.’”

Emily cast her eyes wildly about the restaurant for a moment, her face turning an uncomfortable shade of red. “But that was six million dollars. Not even a counter offer?” Without waiting for a reply, she looked back at Karl. “They never counter offer!”

“Not everyone is as agreeable as I am,” Karl said soothingly, with only a trace of mocking in his tone.

“Or as stupid,” Nick scoffed. “You’d sell her your whole barn if you could.”

“I don’t want the whole barn,” Emily said automatically, resting her head on her hands. “I just want some of the barn.”

Emily was quiet for long enough that Brianna felt safe dropping into the seat beside her. “There will be other horses,” she said.

“But there aren’t!” Emily stared around the table, desperation etched on her face. “My broodmare band… they’re SO old! I lose a good fifteen of them every year. I’m not replacing them at nearly the rate I’m losing them. And I’ve been turned down on my last eight offers, all for more than five million. I got turned down for $12 million on a horse with no pedigree because she was good on the track, and $5 million on a two-year-old with no female family after only one start. They don’t even counter offer.”

“It’s because they think that if you want it, they should keep it,” Brianna explained patiently, for what felt like the fiftieth time.

“But don’t they see? The odds of the foals earning that much are crazy long. I just know I can get it in the sales. It’s a win win!” Emily took a shuddering breath. “Okay. I’m just disappointed. I really wanted that one. Drinks on me.”

“It’s six in the morning!” Nick gasped, pretending to be offended. “Isn’t that too early?”

“I obviously mean morning drinks,” Emily growled sulkily. “Like coffee or whatever you people drink.”

“Like these?” Chani Ruzzo asked, setting down a tray of coffees at the center of the table. “And what do you mean, ‘you people?’ You know we’re in Canada, not on the moon. And I’ll take that in cash, please.”

They were quiet, with Emily staring moodily out the window and the others blinking sleep from their eyes. “Where’s Turner?” Brianna finally said. “I thought he was meeting us here?”

“I think he takes the big horse out right about now,” Karl said. “He hates the photographers.”

“Wait, what time is it!?” Emily barked, looking around with that same, half-mad look. “Did you just say it’s SIX?”

“Yes…” Nick started, but stopped when Emily leapt up, slamming her head against the edge of the fireplace behind their table.

“Oh.” She swayed, steadied herself on the back of her chair, and reached shakily for her phone. “How can that be?” she asked, checking the time herself. “Didn’t we get here before five? I’m supposed to be working by five!”

“We were chatting!” Karl said. He leaned forward. “In fact, you were just thinking about offering me money for…”

Emily shot him a look, smiled at the others, and dashed out, wobbling slightly as she went.

--

“Quit.”

Nena Olson said it quietly, but her voice was laced with impatience. Sleep Well tossed her head once, then stood still as Nena adjusted the girth for the final time.

“You tell her, Nena.” Brandon McNulty’s familiar face popped above Sleep Well’s blue and black webbing. “I’m sure she’s listening.”

“She’s a biter,” Nena complained, running her hand down the filly’s silken dark coat. “If I turn my back for just one second…”

As if to demonstrate the point, Sleep Well darted her muzzle in Brandon’s direction and just barely missed her mark. Brandon called her something that made Nena frown.

“Sorry. She’s just ready to run.”

Brandon undid the webbing and stepped back, allowing Nena to lead the sleek filly through the doorway. “Where’s Rodrigo?”

“He didn’t show,” Nena grumbled. “I think he was out partying late, and I told him I wanted to go with the first set, and now it’s second set and he’s still not here.”

“Partying? It’s only Monday. Keep it together, Rodrigo!” Brandon joked. “Good help is hard to find.” He nodded towards the end of the shedrow they were sharing with three other ship-in trainers. “Your rider is here, though. Have a good one!” He ducked under another webbing into the stall of his Steward’s Cup Classic contender Doomsday.

Nena gave her rider a leg up and took one turn around the shedrow while horse and rider got adjusted. Then she led the filly out of the barn and into the early morning sky.

The sun wouldn’t rise for another 90 minutes, and only a small trickle of horses were making their way to the course under the cover of darkness. A few photographers were mingling about, bemoaning the lack of light. To her left, Nena could see Chris Everett walking beside her leggy black colt Adamantium Plate. The colt sported the purple and green saddle towel of the Turf Sprint, but the rest of his coat nearly blended into the dark sky.

“Aaaarrrgh!” someone shouted off to the right. Nena paused, allowed Sleep Well to pass, so that she could watch Bob Probert wrestling with Arresting Valor, whose flashy dark gray body was coiled in the air, twisting as he bounded sideways athletically. Bob shanked him twice, then spun him in a tight circle, moving him forwards again towards the track. The colt was already a Steward’s Cup winner, and would be seeking to avenge a second-place finish from the year before.

Compared to the frisky colt, Sleep Well looked, well… asleep. Nena watched the filly’s hindquarters sway as she walked ahead, stopping at the edge of the horse path leading up onto the racetrack. The rider shook the reins and gave her a hearty kick. Sleep Well pinned her ears briefly, but took the encouragement and jogged onto the course.

--

Standing on the trainer stand, practically hidden in the darkness thanks to his black Princeton jacket, Eric Nalbone eyed the filly he had sold for only $5,000. Sleep Well wasn’t the perfect looking filly, and had a history of being slow in the morning. That is why he’d agreed to let her go at such a low price.

He wondered if he was disappointed that she was in another’s hands. I don’t think so, he mused silently. I want people to buy my horses in the future.

His tore his eyes from Sleep Well when he heard a pony and racehorse pair trotting with the telltale grunting noise male horses sometimes made. The pony rider, his fiancée Lauren Haggerty, posted easily in time with the horse’s strides, one arm holding her own mount’s mouth and the other steering the white face of Dobra.

Keeping Dobra in training was a calculated risk. Eric had several horses retiring last year, and several more still to come this year. The Desert World Cup winner with the intensely good pedigree would have drawn a lot of outside support, but something about him made Eric prefer to leave him on the track. He didn’t get too attached anymore, but Dobra was different.

The handsome dark bay tucked his head and broke away from the pony, setting off for a quick blowout. Eric could hear the swooshing noise he made in the breeze as he ran, coiled and then stretched out.

“He could win,” Lauren said with practiced optimism. Like Eric, she would never have imagined herself a morning person… but then horses happened.

Eric ignored her, watching Dobra disappear around the far bend. He wouldn’t be able to see him again until the gallop out.

A $4 million earner coming off two huge wins and he won’t be better than fifth choice, Eric mused again. Can I really sneak attack the Classic with a horse this good?

Less than two minutes later, Dobra came thundering past the trainer’s stand again, with only a patch of white lather on his nick indicative of the intensity of his exercise. Lauren whooped once, kicking her chubby gray into action, and cantered off to meet Dobra. They didn’t catch up for another quarter mile.

--

“It’s your turn to get the coffee.”

“No way. It’s your turn.”

Kent and Cindy Saunders stared at each other, more exhausted than angry. They hadn’t left the tack room for a good nine hours, and now it was sometime just after sunrise.

In the stall directly outside the office, Fair Ransom was staring peacefully into the aisle, her delicate head raised. Only a trace of sweat remained on her neck; there was no other tell that she has been walking the shedrow much of the night with a minor case of colic. Now she was fine and cleared by the vet, but they hadn’t slept at all. Kent went to the filly and rubbed between her eyes.

In the stall next door, a flashy chestnut colt was throwing his head and whinnying for second breakfast.

“You haven’t even been to the track yet,” Cindy told him tiredly. “Hush for now.”

The colt, Chromed Twin Moon, continued to bob his head, then stretched his neck out sideways, reaching for his trainer.

“I love this animal,” Cindy told Kent, scratching behind the colt’s ears. “Even if he runs last.”

Kent was staring out the doorway towards the racetrack, clearly distracted. “Is that Emily?”

Cindy checked, and nodded. “Looks like her. What’s wrong with her?”

As they watched, Emily appeared to be walking towards the track, but kept veering off to the left. She stopped twice, shaking her head, then started walking again.

“I guess she had one too many last night?” Kent joked.

“Looks like it!” Cindy agreed. She turned back to Chromed Twin Moon. “Now let’s get that saddle on you.”

--

Erin Sanderson tried not to be aware of the cameras, which clicked incessantly as her pony jogged past the wire, going the wrong way. They weren’t really after her, anyway, they just wanted a shot Through the Ghost, who strutted handsomely at her knee.

Erin glanced down at the colt – between the Western saddle and the fact that Wind in the Sage was a good four inches taller than Through the Ghost, she really did have to look down to see him – and was pleased with his action. Then she lifted her head, adjusted her frame slightly, and sat deep in the saddle, just in case they used a frame of both pony horse and racehorse. After all, Wind in the Sage had earned $1.3 million on the track, and his distinctive blaze would be recognized by the leering photographers, perched high above the track in the owners’ boxes with their excessively long lenses.

“Here she comes!” one of them shouted. As one, the little mob turned to shoot a horse rushing along the rail towards the wire.

It’s probably stupid Skyfall, Erin thought bitterly, but when she squinted she saw Laura Smith’s mighty grass mare Whiteflagfinish. After winning the Filly and Mare Turf Sprint at three and running second at four, the daughter of Pit Road had faced the boys at five, finishing sixth. Her saddle towel proclaimed that she would be back in against the girls this year as a six-year-old, but she seemed to be doing as well as ever before, having won five straight races.

“Okay, she’s pretty good,” Erin said aloud. “But you’re just as good, so let’s stop here and pose a bit.”

She halted Sage and let Through the Ghost stand up beside her, watching the horses rush by them in the lane. With such an easy target, the photographers went back to shooting Ghost.

A few minutes later, Anzu McCann rode up on her pony horse, leading blaze-faced bay who was even smaller than Through the Ghost. Erin craned her neck around, trying to read the horse’s towel, but saw with a shock that Anzu only had the horse tacked up in a red and black stable towel.

“Don’t we have to wear our Steward’s Cup cloths?” Erin asked, alarmed. “Won’t you get fined?”

“Fine me, then,” Anzu said, shrugging. “I don’t want those loonies-“ she gestured at the photographers, “bothering my horses. They don’t need to know who is who.”

The two riders and four horses stood quietly until Through the Ghost started fussing, sidestepping and tossing his head. “Alright, we’ll go,” Erin said, leaning over to scruff up the colt’s dark mane. “Let me know how much that fine is!”

--

During the break, the paths between the barns were suddenly empty, devoid of both horses and people as the tractors harrowed and watered the dirt. Only one horse was left between barns 15 and 16, and Xander Zone stood just outside his barn, watching the horse in amusement.

The lean, ragged-looking black colt was standing on his hind legs, whinnying bloody murder for all to hear. His handler dove back, evading flying hooves, and tried to circle the horse as soon as steel plates touched the dirt again.

Xander glanced back at the doorway of Barn 16 and saw Danny Derby, standing in a position that mirrored Xander’s own, arms crossed and expression grim.

“Control your horse, Derby!” Xander yelled.

“That thing won the Arc eight days ago!” Danny called back.

Itoko reared again, and Danny nodded at a terrified looking hotwalker who resolutely darted forward to put a second shank on the off side of Itoko’s halter. The horse quit acting up, but dragged both handlers forward towards a patch of grass, tearing at the greenery.

“What are you feeding him?” Xander asked loudly. “The good stuff?”

“Nothing different than what you’ve got in your barn,” Danny quipped dryly. “You alright?”

“Fine. Still got eight to go to the track.”

“I’ve got two left. See you up there.” Satisfied that Itoko wasn’t going to run off, dragging hotwalkers with him, Danny ducked back into his own barn.

Xander watched Itoko for a moment more, then shook his head. “No pedigreed goat,” he muttered, turning into his own shedrow. The finely shaped heads of nine different royally bred sprint fillies stared back at him. Satisfied that he had the superior barn, Xander grinned and headed for the tack room.

--

The van rolled across the dusty path, sending light colored sand clouds into the air. Mike Springer stepped back as a shower of tiny rocks sprayed towards him, but almost immediately he stepped forward again, overly eager and a little bit nervous.

As soon as the van shuddered to a halt in front of the horse, ramp, two men climbed down, hollering and waving instructions to each other. Travel weary grooms peered their heads out of the trailer windows, looking particularly relieved to have reached their destination.

The first horse off the van was a flashy chestnut with white stockings. Mike recognized him, and his suspicions were confirmed when Mike Larson met the groom at the bottom of the ramp. The colt, Allweneedis Chrome, was competition. Mike didn’t talk to them.

The second horse off the van was bay, with a white star and snip. Mike didn’t recognize her at all, or the man that greeted her. Energy rippled the massive filly’s muscles; she must be someone important. Mike angled around to try and read her halter plate: BLACK LIGHTING BUG. He dimly recalled that she was freakish and undefeated, and the man with her must be trainer Jeffrey Clauser.

Because of his distraction, Mike nearly missed his horse arrive at the top of the ramp, but Just An Act’s wickedly shrill scream grabbed his attention. The tiny chestnut, just barely scrapping to 15 hands, was standing in the van’s doorway, announcing his arrival to the entire stabling area.

“Jesus,” his groom growled, shanking the colt once. Just An Act lunged down the ramp, kicking up his heels and spinning in a tight circle at the bottom. Mike had to dodge out of the way to avoid being hit by shining hindquarters.

“Guess he traveled okay?” he called to the groom, Manuel.

“If he no run soon, he’sa kill me,” Manuel complained.

“Race isn’t til Friday, man,” Mike said, but inside, he thrilled at the news. Just An Act had recently suffered his first defeat in his ninth start, missing by a head to an older horse and running the second 99 speed figure of his career. He’d been terrified the race would take too much out of the best horse he’d ever trained – maybe the best horse he would train, ever.

It took both Mike and Manuel to get Just An Act across the road and into the barn Mike was sharing with several other shippers. A minute later, Sten Rino Haakonsen entered the shed, walking another unmarked chestnut that could only be Old Dan.

“He on our flight,” Manuel said, nodding at Old Dan.

“Hope he wins. Would be such a bummer for Sten if he doesn’t.” Old Dan had been second by a neck and a nose in his two previous Steward’s Cup attempts. “Who else was on the van?”

“Uno mas. Bay filly, Peihe Sun. Miler?”

“Holy Communion?” Mike asked hopefully. Manuel shrugged. “Better known as Act’s future girlfriend, I hope.”

--

The track had been closed for only thirty minutes, and the entire backside felt deserted. With no Monday racing at the Toronto course, most of the trainers, owners, and exercise riders were on their way to breakfast, while the grooms hid in their assigned rooms for morning naps.

“It’s like a ghost town,” Emily Mitchell noted, swirling the amber liquid of her post-work beverage around.

“But in two days, it will be crazy,” Jolene Danner promised, sipping at her own Bloody Mary. She settled back against the straw. “Until then, let’s just sit here and maybe watch some Netflix.”

“Is there WiFi out here?” Emily gasped, grabbing for her phone. “I have three more episodes of Orange is the New Black to watch!”

“Password is scy41,” Jolene murmured, closing her eyes. “Tell me when you get to the good part.”

--

Something tickled his hand, causing Glenn Larson to stir. He sat up from where he’d been passed out asleep on his desk, and swept a strand of drool from his face. In a frantic blur, he checked the charts he had fallen asleep on, but they were dry.

He stood up, stretching groggily, and stepped into the aisle. Horses stood leaning on their webbing and munched from their hay nets, but there were no people to be found. Glenn checked his cell phone – 3:30p, and there were four texts and two missed calls from his brother, Mike Larson. How long had he been asleep!?

In the stall closest to the office, a little roan mare watched him quietly. She had no distinctive markings other than the red hairs in her coat and was generally nondescript, but over the years she had become one of the most recognized horses in the world. With $2.3 million earned and eight grade 1 victories in Ireland, England, South Africa and America, Glenn was hoping that Borrowed Omen would cement her legacy with another Steward’s Cup win, this time in Canada.

Next door, her younger stablemate Hooves of Andraste tossed her head, throwing her silky forelock over her eyes. After a loss to older males early in her sophomore season, Hooves of Andraste was coming around again with three straight wins.

Glenn liked the filly, but she didn’t have the personality – or history – of Borrowed Omen. He scratched his famous mare’s head and she blew softly into his other hand. Then Glenn’s phone rang again – Mike for the third time. Reluctantly tearing himself from the stall, Glenn answered.

---

Back to Steward's Cup articles