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Daybreak in Toronto, Wednesday Night

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

Wednesday Night

Tammy Stawicki found herself bopping her head in time with the music, and she wasn’t even inside yet.

She wasn’t even inside the Hilton Toronto/Markham Suites Conference Centre but she could hear the music not so much wafting through the open doors as blasting through. If this is how it sounded out here, she suspected it would be uncomfortably loud inside.

Maybe they don’t want us to talk to each other, she giggled to herself. Maybe we’re meant to dance and enjoy, but not talk.

No one stopped her at the doorway to check her racetrack ID, so she just walked on in, past the glorious purple sign declaring this the Annual Trainers’ Dinner. A sprawling ballroom stretched before her, with a small stage at the far end, a dance floor in the middle, yellow draped tables on both sides, and a buffet just to her left, by the door. Two oversized photographers were piling dinner on their plates, while all the rest of the trainers and media were mingling with cocktails and avoiding the dance floor at all costs.

“Good evening, Tammy,” said Keith Maidlow in his deep voice. “How are you this evening?”

“I’m well,” Tammy answered politely. But she was distracted, scanning the room, looking for… “KKKAAATTTTYYYYY!!!”

She spotted Katy Turner on the other side of the room, talking to Doug Kidwell. She hadn’t seen Katy in almost two years. Katy heard her screech, and leapt away from Doug, who frowned. Keith also watched with annoyance as Tammy darted from his side. The two women fled between tables, tackling each other at the edge of the dance floor.

“Get a room,” Chris Everett drawled from the nearest table. She was pouring over a Lease Auction catalogue with Mike Bryant, who was trying to convince her to pick up some of his mares.

“I’m so happy to see you,” Katy said, ignoring Chris, who joined Doug and Keith in glaring at the excited pair and turned her attention back to the catalogue.

“Can I interest you in a few turf sprinter mares for Adamantium Plate?” Mike suggested.

Carolyn Eaton returned from the buffet to sit at table 2, nearest to the stage on the right side. She carried a photo of Olive Branch’s weanling in her wallet, and popped it out as soon as an unsuspecting Fabio Socarraz joined her, asking after her best mare. “He’s a Court of Miracles colt,” Carolyn gushed. “Do you see those perfect legs?”

As the trainers filtered in and the room got increasingly crowded, Stormy Peak ducked between the seats, leaving thin, postcard sized flyers sporting a picture of her new stallion Betrayer winning the Grade 2 Japanese Grand Prix and listing his $12,000 stud fee.

Tyler Anthony was the first person to brave the dance floor, eschewing his dinner and sweeping Nora Jean off her feet. Under the eyes of everyone else, they cackled like nervous middle schoolers, then Tyler traded her off for Mary Whalen, all while whispering to Nora, “I’ll take a free lease out of Vaudevillian while you’re at it!”

Mary immediately threw up her hands. “Just so you know, I’m not giving you Celtic Twilight when she retires.” Tyler pulled a face and traded her again for Magic Star, who had the gall to remind Tyler, “My best horse is a colt.”

At a table away from the antics and much closer to the food, Phil Hoeflich, Lee Cara, and Norman Architecture were talking animatedly about stallion value, while Ricky Stamm sat silently beside them.

“I think I have to retire him,” Phil was explaining, showing off the past performances of his exceptional sprinter, Taste My Blade. “He was so good at two. It’s unlikely he will carry that on at five.”

“It does happen,” Norman argued. “I’ve had several horses excel at five.”

“You should sell him,” Lee countered. “Run in the Steward’s Cup, hope you win, and sell him as quick as you can.”

“Would you buy him?” Phil asked testily.

“A turf sprinter? No way. I just think selling stallions is the way to go. I sold Amaroq for three. No regrets.”

“There’s sentimental value, too,” Norman continued, as if they hadn’t spoken.

Ricky stood up from the table without saying anything and moved towards the buffet, just as Kaine Saracen approached. Kaine settled on the other side of the table, gingerly placing his buffet plate down. “I for one would not sell my incoming stallion,” he said carefully. “I need him to save a bloodline and I intend to do that. But it’s possible I should not have run him at five. We will find out on Friday.”

More and more people flooded the room until every seat was taken. The night’s motivational speaker was Kris Bobby, who took to the podium on the stage and raised her head proudly. She took a deep breath and started, “It only takes one horse…”

--

The plates had been cleared and the tables pushed back, the lights lowered and the music turned even louder. Kelley Wachter let loose a little, dancing to the resonating beat of Robyn’s “Dancing On My Own.” The song was impossibly both sad and hypnotic all at once.

She didn’t know most of the people dancing around her. She recognized them of course, Regina Hagert and her date, Bob Oliva and his stunning wife Val. The flash of the lights made them blink in and out of focus as they moved.

Tamara Estes joined her, offering a sly smile and busting a move that would have made Kelley’s hip hurt for three days. Karie McBrian was even more intense; she had a cocktail in one hand and was dancing harder than anyone. Her dark hair swished about her face as she shimmied, bending and snapping with style.
Dawn Palka and Kath Sylvia were in the center, grooving as the music changed to Pharrell Williams’ more upbeat tune “Happy.”

“Where are all the guys?” Kelley asked Tamara. “It’s mostly us gals.”

“They’re sitting along the walls like in school,” Tamara shouted back. She nodded at a line of sullen looking men, whose attention was far from the dance floor and instead on their cell phones. Even Chris Fielder was refusing to budge off the wall. “What are they looking at? Game scores? Live streams of their horses sleeping?”

“Probably,” Kelley agreed, laughing.

--

After the lights came on and the music ended, Patrick O’Malley walked side by side with Geir Larsen towards the parking lot. The night air felt cool and refreshing after the humid, sweaty air from the party.

“I’m in the second race,” Geir said, in a language that Patrick understood well. He and Geir were from the same area, and it was comforting to hear something familiar, rather than the rolling tones of the Canadians or the ever-changing drawls of the Americans.

“Better go to bed then,” Patrick urged. He checked his watch. “It’s after midnight, so it’s Thursday now. Steward’s Cup day.”

Geir waved farewell, and Patrick was climbing into his own car when he saw Emily Shields sitting on the trunk of her rental, looking cross. An almost turban-looking white bandage was wrapped around her head.

“Why so sour?”

She shifted against the paint. “I look stupid, and I couldn’t go to the party.”

Patrick shrugged. “There are worse things than missing a party.”

“Yeah,” she pouted, “like having to be your best while you can’t even remember what day it is, let alone what horses are in the race. And what am I going to do about all those mares I have to book still?”

Patrick patted her shoulder awkwardly. “Stop by any time. We will help you, all of us. Maybe on Monday, after the dust has settled, okay?”


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