Daybreak in Toronto, Tuesday

Original article written by The Steward posted 8 years 4 weeks ago

Tuesday

“Gooooooood morrrrnniiingg!”

Izzy Rafferty opened her bleary eyes, and nearly jumped out of her skin. The freckled face of Louise Bayou was just inches away.

“Bleargh!” Izzy whined, throwing a pillow between her face and Louise’s. “Not okay!”

“She did it to me, too,” Rebecca Rose Hepburn said groggily from somewhere below the bed. Izzy peered over the side; she was sleeping on the floor.

“That’s what you guys get for wanting to room with me,” Louise said cheerily, standing in front of the vanity mirror and slathering sunscreen on her arms. “You know I like to get up early for the horses.”

“We all like to get up early for the horses,” Izzy groaned into her pillow. “But our definition of early and yours is different.”

“My definition of early is ten,” Rose said.

“Bless your heart,” said Louise solemnly. They all burst out laughing.

“Let me just run a brush through my hair,” Izzy said, sitting up and searching for her jeans.

Rose refused to move until the other two were practically out the door. Then she stood, stretched, and ambled after them, blinking sleepily.

“You slept in your clothes!?” Louise asked incredulously.

“It saves time in the morning,” Rose answered. “I was supposed to get fifteen extra minutes to sleep in.” She glared at Louise, who completely missed it as she was cruising down the hotel hallway towards the parking lot.

Ten minutes later, with their hands tucked around Tim Horton’s coffees, Izzy, Rose and Louise ducked into the warmth of their shedrow, one of the many being used for shippers during Steward’s Cup week. The horse in the first stall, a well-built bay with a mop of black forelock over his white star, lunged against the webbing, his teeth bared.

“Oh helllllll no!” Louise threw her fist up, causing the bay to twist his head and snap only air.

“I hate that horse,” Rose growled, trudging past the stall.

“Who was that?” Izzy asked, looking back at the webbing. “TM? Who is TM?”

“It’s me,” said Tim Matthews, sauntering up to the stall and grabbing the bay’s halter. “Sorry. He’s always mean before he goes out.”

“Hey, Tim,” Rose said sullenly. “How’s he doing?”

“He’s great. What’s wrong with you?”

“You KNOW what’s wrong with me.” Rose nodded back to the bay, whose halter said RALEIGH. “He was supposed to be MINE!”

They stared at each other, then Raleigh swept his head out and grabbed onto the side of Tim’s shirt, ripping a small hole. Tim laughed, and even Rose cracked a smile.

--

The outdoor walking ring at Toronto Racecourse was particularly foreboding in the dark.

During the day, it would look bright and welcoming, but before dawn the lack of lights made it eerie and surreal. With one hand, Laura Ferguson led the brilliantly fast filly Lightning. With her other, she flashed her cell phone at the ground, hoping not to trip.

They reached the center aisle, and Lightning stopped, eyeing the path. Laura let her look and listen, and savored the time with her filly. Once the fastest horse in training, she had lost twice this year. One of those, however, was to males in a head bob, and Laura didn’t count that effort. But Lightning’s most recent performance, a third place finish by a length in the mud at The Spa, made her a little nervous.

Still, there was no other place to be. Lightning had only three losses in her career, and here she stood, richer and more famous than any other recent sprint filly. The lightning shaped stripe down her face stood out in the dark, but Laura resisted the urge to touch it. Like her name, the filly was super quick, and a biter under some circumstances.

The cell phone suddenly buzzed in Laura’s hand, startling her. She glanced down to see a picture text message from her farm manager back at her Nursery Stud in Kentucky. Afraid to see a gruesome injury to one of her prized horses, Laura opened it nervously, but the sight that greeted her made her heart soar.

A black colt with a white stripe and four white socks was laying on his side in his stall, nestled in the hay. He looked utterly relaxed and happy, dozing away, while his stablemates prepared for the biggest races of their lives.

Crusader had already won the biggest race he would ever be in. Crusader had won the Louisville Derby.

After three straight losses, however, Laura had opted for a confidence boosting prep for his four-year-old campaign, and Crusader responded with a flashy five length victory. Now he was miles away from the Steward’s Cup, resting for a campaign that would include Dubai, amongst other destinations.

When Lightning retired, Laura would miss her desperately. But having a horse like Crusader coming back to the barn eased the sting to a dull throb.

--

“What brings you to Canada?”

The customs agent, an exotic looking woman with wide brown eyes, was leaning on the counter in her booth, eyeing Brian Leavitt’s passport carefully.

“The Steward’s Cup,” Brian said proudly, adjusting his backpack over his shoulder.

“What’s that?” the agent asked, now watching him.

“It’s a uh, horse race event,” Brian faltered. “It’s kind of a big deal.”

“Never heard of it.” The agent smacked gum, glanced at his customs form, then stamped his passport and handed it back. “Where is it?”

“The racetrack that is like 2 miles from here?” Brian pointed in what he hoped was the direction of Toronto Racecourse.

“Hmm, never seen a racetrack,” she muttered, waving him off.

Panic surged through Brian’s spine. He wondered frantically, did I book to the wrong airport or something?

He picked up his bag, which arrived in fine order, and just outside the baggage claim stood Charles Bunbury.

“You’re here!” Brian gasped, relieved. “I thought I flew to the wrong airport! The customs chick had never heard of the track.”

Charles shouldered his own bag and led the way to their waiting rental car. “Don’t worry about her,” he said, in his lilting accent. “You’re here, and in plenty of time for training.”

“When is your big horse going out?” Brian asked, slipping into the passenger seat.

“He was out first set.” Charles flashed a grin. “After I drop you off, I’m going back to the hotel for a nap.”

--

Just after seven, heavy clouds still covered the sun, but Abe Froman wasn’t worried. The forecast called for sunshine and more sunshine through the rest of the week. The filly that he led through the barns towards the track, Masterpiece, had broken her maiden on a dry track. He would take all the help he could get, even if it came from the weather.

To his left, someone started cursing loudly. He spun around, causing Masterpiece to throw her head, but his alarm faded when he saw Ashley Gibson, standing with a good sized bay filly.

“What happened?” Abe asked, circling Masterpiece once.

“She pulled off a shoe. WALKING. She was just WALKING and pulled a shoe.”

“Can horses even do that?” Abe frowned.

“Apparently this one can.” Ashley made a disgusted noise, already tapping out a frantic message on her cell phone. “Now we’ll have to wait until after the break, and she hates when the track is crowded.”

Abe took in the filly’s long, lean body and her crooked star. This must be Kaede, Ashley’s grass filly, but he had never seen her in person.

“Sorry I can’t chat, gotta get my filly to the track.”

“Yeah, go.”

He continued to walk, but was interrupted almost immediately by flashy gray hindquarters, which backed into Masterpiece so fast they barely had time to react. “Je suis desole,” said Christophe Desjardin, holding the colt’s head. “Jamais Une Seconde.”

Abe circled Masterpiece again, watching her jog, but the filly seemed fine. He kept jogging, all the way to the track, with his rider, Rafael, posting easily to the gait.

“She okay, boss,” he said.

Abe unclipped the shank, the filly trotted briskly onto the gap, but he almost immediately had to dodge back as a coal black colt with fiery eyes came bounding off the track, heading the wrong way into traffic.

“Whoa, watch it!” Abe snapped.

“You watch it,” warned Anthony Name, clipping a shank to the colt’s bridle. “He’s explosive at the moment.”

Abe shot him a glare, then settled into a safe spot in the trainer’s stand, watching horses galloping by. Bob Green’s speedy Cash Out Winnings, an extremely sprinty-type with burly hindquarters, went rushing past, followed closely by Anna Leroux’s Wizardly Wise. Abe lost himself in the drumming hoof beat noise, until he heard what sounded eerily like a child humming.

“Where’s that noise coming from?” he asked Chris Reed, who was standing a few paces away, watching his own horses.

Instead of answering, Chris gave him a You’re crazy, bro, kind of look, and then went back to staring at the track.

Abe glanced around the stand, then leaned over the rail, and saw Emily Shields sitting in the dewy grass, staring at the black screen of her cell phone. She was humming off key.

“What are you doing?” Abe asked.

Emily started, looking up. “Hi. I’m watch the horse races.”

“……The workouts you mean?”

“Of course.”

“Okay, then.” Abe shook his head. What a crazy morning, he thought. I just want to get my filly back to the barn in one piece.

--

Stars of Force liked bath time, and Andrea Bouwkamp liked watching him get his bath.

The roan colt looked particularly red through the soapy suds, and stood with his ears relaxed almost sideways while the groom scrubbed and rinsed. On the next bathmat over, Amy Atkins’s Sepia Tint – one of Stars’s chief rivals – was receiving his bath. Across the way, Tom Mudgett’s Snow Storm Shiver was having her legs hosed.

Their barn was a “shipper” barn, meaning almost everyone stabled inside didn’t regularly race at the Toronto meet. They each had only a few horses in the Steward’s Cup, so the barn was loud with many displaced grooms and hotwalkers, and sometimes overly crowded.

Sara Kendall ducked out of the barn, carrying clean water buckets for her two “Courageous” fillies, Courageous Woman and Courageous Gift. Laura Cameron’s filly Anne was having poultice sprayed off her forelegs. Photographers flocked around the handsome chestnut Quietly Admired, who was grazing on a small patch of grass outside the shedrow door. Jackie Gottsche, his trainer, watched while talking quietly on her cell phone nearby.

Suddenly Stars of Force started, throwing his head and sweeping his ears back. The sound of hooves against pavement rang out, as Melissa Mae on her stable pony and one of her runners, a bay colt named Coach, came jogging around the side of the barn.

“Watch it!” Andrea yelled.

“Sorry,” Melissa smiled sympathetically. “This colt won’t even walk, he always wants to jog.”

Coach entered the shedrow with long, exact strides, his rider ducking under the doorway. Melissa jumped off her pony and straightened her jeans. “How’s your boy?”

“Good. Sorry I snapped at you. I’m just nervous.”

“We all are. And you know what’s worse? Just about all of us are going to end up being disappointed.”

“Why is that?” Andrea asked, frustration edging her tone. “Why do we even bother?”

“Because,” Melissa shrugged, “there are going to be 128 different trainers trying to win Steward’s Cup races. Of them, at the very most only 26 will win, but probably more like 23 or 24. That’s a lot of disappointed people. But imagine if you were one of the 26?”

“What is it like?” Andrea asked, watching her groom dry Stars of Force with a yellow rag, and comb out his forelock a moment later.

“It was amazing,” Melissa said wistfully, recalling the way Anne Marie stormed to victory just one year ago. “But also weird, because I had three horses in the race, including a favorite, and she ran no where.”

“I want to experience that.”

“Oh you will. One day, you will.”

--

“No. No. Do not like.”

Scott Eiland shut his eyes and pressed away from the glass walls of the elevator, which hustled him, Pete Vella, Gigi Gofaster and Mike Eaton to the top of the CN Tower.

“Don’t be a baby,” Gigi huffed, tossing back her hair. “It’s perfectly safe.”

“It is a little freaky,” Pete admitted, but he kept his eyes open as they swept higher and higher.

Between Pete and Scott, Mike Eaton said little as he watched the city of Toronto descend away from them. He adjusted his glasses with one hand, then addressed Gigi, “Shouldn’t we be at the track? Training hasn’t even closed yet.”

“Not you, too,” Gigi groaned. “This is why we have assistants, people.”

“Not of all us are rich enough to have assistants!” Pete countered. “I had to finish all three horses before eight so we could do this.”

“You need assistance more than anyone,” Scott joked, looking slightly less green as the elevator halted its ascent.

“All I’m saying,” Gigi pressed on, “is that I don’t see the point in traveling to all these exotic places if we don’t even take the time to go see things. I’m in this game for the lifestyle perks.”

“Did you just call Toronto exotic?” Scott scoffed, but he followed the others willingly out of the elevator.

Gigi led them through the early morning crowds and into the outside walkway, where cold wind blasted their faces. All three guys hung back while Gigi leaned over the rail, trying to see through the slats to the streets directly below. After hesitating, Pete joined her.

“This is pretty cool,” he admitted. “You can see everything. It looks nothing like where I’m based in California. But the sunshine is similar.”

“We got lucky with the weather,” Gigi noted. “It’s going to be sunny all week. This time of year it can get nasty up here.”

Scott opened his mouth with an inappropriate retort, but closed it when he noticed Mike Eaton had slipped back inside. Scott scrambled after him.

“You okay?”

“I’m just a little nervous this week,” Mike explained, “and being up here is not helping my stomach settle.”

“What are you nervous about? You are coming in with the best group of horses you’ve ever had.”

“That’s the problem! If one of the doesn’t win, I’m going to be crushed.”

“Have they all been eating good? Working well?”

“Yes.”

“Then there’s nothing else you can do. You got them here, so just enjoy it now. There are hundreds of good horses entered this week. Some of them will lose, and only 20 will win. Or is it 40? I lose track of how many races there are now.”

“Are you counting Mixers?” Mike smiled.

“Definitely not. Anyway, let’s go back and let Gigi push us around some more.”

--

The saddling paddock always made Steph Lonhro slightly claustrophobic, but with the crowd of horses and people pressing in for a morning schooling session, she felt even more unnerved. The outdoor walking ring was spread out, peaceful and serene, but the narrow stalls and foreboding rails of the saddling area pressed in around her. She narrowly missed being kicked by Robert Forston’s elegant, near millionaire Forward Mover, but in dodging she backed into the popular gray Drag Queen Bingo. A pair of wide eyed girls holding iPhones and a hand-made, glittery sign with the gray gelding’s name on it squealed in protest.

“Who let them in?” Steph asked Rocki Ryoliza, who was standing in the saddling stall next to her.

“They follow us everywhere,” Rocki groaned quietly. “They out-fan even me!”

Steph felt a gentle touch in the center of her back, and didn’t even turn around. She trusted her groom to keep the horse’s teeth from her back, but she also trusted Black Shoes to not nip. He was the kindest stallion she had ever met.

Absently, she reached behind to rub his velvet muzzle. Although she couldn’t feel his snip, she could imagine it under her fingers. Black Shoes blew quietly.

A compact bay filly came into the saddling area from the overhang outside, led on both sides by weary handlers. She was coiled, barely touching the ground, and snorting up a storm. She looked more Arabian than Thoroughbred, bowed and springy.

Steph was just opening her mouth to ask who it was when she saw the bespectacled Paul Heinrich chasing after the filly, urging others to get out of the way.

“Is that Paha Sapa?” Steph breathed. “Wow.”

“I like any horse that tries to beat Skyfall,” Rocki said wistfully.

A horse directly behind them in the adjoining stall kicked the back wall hard, rattling the structure. Both Steph and Rocki jumped, then Steph ducked behind Black Shoes to check to see who it was.

“Just us,” said Ronnie Dee, smiling in a tired way while holding the right-side shank of his mare Rust Never Sleeps. “Sorry, she can be tough.”

“Just wanted to make sure she didn’t hurt herself,” Steph smiled back. She stepped back to the front of her stall, trailing her hand along Black Shoes’s flank.

“Everyone out!” yelled a voice Steph didn’t recognize. “Next group coming in!”

Grooms turned their animals towards the exit, and suddenly the ring became even more crowded. Sarah Chase’s chestnut filly, The Winter Garden, came up too close to Black Shoes’s hip, but the old campaigner hardly noticed.

“Have a good one, Steph,” Rocki said pleasantly, following her horse down the long, winding path to the barns.

Steph waved her off, then motioned for the groom to take Black Shoes into the walking ring. She immediately felt better; her breathing eased and even the old stallion perked up. A breeze whistled through the trees, which still sported the last golden leaves before winter. The sun blazed above, but the temperature was still comfortable. The Steward’s Cup was only two days away.

---

Back to Steward's Cup articles