Daybreak in New Orleans Part 1

Original article written by The Steward posted 5 years 0 weeks ago

Driving through the famous Cajun city, Ali Hedgestone had a hard time believing that she was really in New Orleans, home of New Orleans Park. She expected something more wild, or full of a kind of pizzazz, than the sleepy streets had so far provided. But it was only five past six, too early for shenanigans. Too early for most things, except for training racehorses.

The track popped into view around a corner, appearing seemingly out of nowhere after rows of housing. The old brick and red and white awnings were a welcome sight after hours of driving; Ali had taken her car straight from her home base in Portland and driven two straight days to reach the sprawling grounds. She threaded her way through increasing traffic, trying to find the backside gate, and finally squeezed her sedan up to the security window.

“Name?”

“Ali Hedgestone.”

“Credentials?”

“I believe they left everything here for me. I’m a trainer.”

“Sure,” the security guy said, unfazed and determined to go by the book. “But you were supposed to pick up your credentials at the hotel last night.”

“I was driving,” Ali explained.

“All horses had to be on the grounds by Monday afternoon.”

“Yes, my horse arrived yesterday, as expected,” Ali snapped, beginning to get annoyed. “But I was driving, so…”

“She’s with me!” called a welcome voice. Amy Atkins bounced up between the car and the security guard’s window, signed a piece of paper saying Ali was her guest, and then jumped into the passenger side door.

“He’s been awful all week,” she hissed to Ali as they drove away quickly. “The credentials are already by the barns, and you have to pick it up to get access to the barns…”

They both rolled their eyes, Ali slowing the car to let a burly, dappled gray colt past. The rider turned and lifted a hand; it was Polk Buffalo on George Vrij.

“Handsome horse,” Ali swooned.

“And handsome rider,” Amy added bravely.

“Don’t let Flizan hear you say that!” Ali warned. They dissolved into giggles.

Outside the ship-in barn, for trainers who only brought a few horses each, cars were parked in double lines and spilled precariously into the horse path. Another security guard was barking at everyone, and directed Ali to park on the other side of the barn. A row of steaming Thoroughbreds were being bathed there, their grooms tirelessly scrubbing and swiping at their charges’ gleaming coats.

Ali’s lean, lithe gray colt, Titan Redeemer, was walking the shedrow under a lavender cooler with green trim. His mane and tail were still wet; he must have already gone out without her. That was more than vaguely annoying, since she left specific instructions not to let him go so early, but Titan always went in the dark. It kept him quiet.

The Steward’s Cup Juvenile was a strange contest this year, one that Ali would normally love to discuss with other outsiders. It felt weird to be involved, facing down the arsenal of Danny Derby’s Thanos, Karl Smythe’s Story Unchanged, and Alysse Peverell’s two top colts Courage and Merlin. Ali was just grateful Alysse hadn’t also added Hello, an unbeaten $3 million purchase and multiple graded stakes winner. Then there was American, a million-dollar purchase, and the fancy, $6 million baby A Million Dreams, a freaky fast worker who had had a strange career to date. He would run under the colors of George Knatz and his partner.

“Later, Ali,” Amy called, waving her off and disappearing in the direction of her barn. Titan Redeemer finished his walk and was tied up at the back of his stall. Ali ducked in to check his legs, and heard a commotion on the other side of the wall.

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“Will you quit?!” Amy Bahama shouted, slapping her dark bay colt Nope across the neck. He pinned his ears but snaked his head away, teeth narrowly missing her shoulder. The unbeaten colt was bursting with energy; dapples burst through his coat along his back.

“You okay?” Emmie Kay called, straightening a bandage on her Marathon entrant, You Make Me Better. The chestnut horse stood quietly, shifting his weight carefully when she finished.

“Fine,” Amy growled back. “Just this darn horse.”

Nope raised a foreleg in warning, but Amy slapped him again, far more in annoyance than to hurt him, and ducked out of the stall. You wanted a colt to feel good, but not so good that he was a danger. Nope was right on that line, feeling so good he might burst out of his skin. Amy was thrilled with him.

Her stalls were sandwiched between Emmie on the left and Laura Smith on the right. Laura, lean and lively with a Canadian accent, was instructing her exercise rider after giving a leg up onto Miss Fresh Slate. She was one of two plain bay fillies standing in the aisle, waiting for their turn to head to the track.

Laura swung deftly onto her stable pony, settling comfortably into the saddle and automatically dropping her heels, then led the set out to the track. Familiar voices called and hands lifted from the ground below; on top of her oversized gelding, Laura felt invincible. Kenzie Larkin and Ladonna King were chatting animatedly over steaming cups of coffee, while Lino Duran slapped a Racing Form against his leg as he walked. The noise caused Miss Fresh Slate’s ears to swivel, but the elegant filly didn’t spook.

Walking off the gap towards the barns, however, was her complete equine opposite. A remarkably athletic bay colt was walking on his back legs, ears pinned, trying his darnedest to lose his exercise rider on the way back to the barn. His purple saddle towel read GREATEST SHOWMAN; nearby, trainer Louise Bayou watched with her arms crossed.

“Bless your heart, you big baby,” she said, her voice tinged with sarcasm. “You think a single filly is going to look at you today? Get your butt across the finish line first, then you can talk.”

“Entries are out!” Jolene Danner crowed, settled atop her own palomino Quarter Horse and waving a stack of papers with edges curled under her fingers. “Thursday and Friday is finally out!”

A small crowd gathered around, hands grasping upwards, trying to get a list of official fields and post positions. Stormy Peak surprised everyone by getting there first, tearing the papers from Jolene’s hand and pressing her nose into the fourth page. “I think I drew the three,” she said, nodding happily. “I’m fine with that.”

More hands clamored for the entry list, but something seemed off. Laura pulled up at the gap, letting her two fillies trot off, when she suddenly said aloud, “Has anyone seen the Steward?”

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