Daybreak in New Orleans Part 2

Original article written by The Steward posted 5 years 3 weeks ago

Rachel Sadler couldn’t stop yawning, but pinned the back of her hand to her mouth in an effort to try. Her eyes felt heavy, but she shook off sleep. A long day stretched ahead.

The plane dipped gently and circled one last time before arching backwards as the wheels touch down. It was only a two-and-some hour jaunt from Maryland to Louisiana, but the flight had left at seven and most of its occupants had stayed up well past midnight partying.

Doug Cuomo was on the flight, and Epiphany Acres, too. Christophe Desjardin had somehow talked the agent at the counter into letting him leave on the noon flight, and had promptly gone back to bed. Rachel wondered how he’d gotten away with it… probably the accent.

The only person not nursing a wicked hangover or at least migraine from lack of sleep was Gigi Gofaster. She had headphones on and was bobbing her head, mouthing the lyrics while flipping through past performances on her iPad. They were all a little late; by the time they arrived at the track, their charges would be cooled out and waiting for breakfast. But Gigi seemed completely unconcerned.

“Can you turn it down?” Jennifer Klebsch, Gigi’s seat partner, asked. The duo were in the seat across from Rachel, who had the aisle, and Leonard Beagle on the window.

“Sorry, can’t hear you! Music is too loud!” Gigi said with a dazzling smile. Jennifer locked eyes with Rachel and shook her head.

The plane taxied to the gate, stopping smoothly. The trainers and owners on the uncrowded flight gave a half-hearted murmur when the seatbelt sign flashed off. They stood mechanically to retrieve their bags, with Joseph Depaulo the first to burst off the plane and into the airport.

Randell Johnson was waiting for him by the rental car counter, bag and keys in hand. “Morning,” he said, with slightly more cheer than Joseph felt. “Not many cars left. Hope those guys have reservations!” He nodded in the direction of the other trainers coming down the escalator, their eyes darting between the rental car lines and the baggage claim carousels.

“I’m just going to call an Uber,” Rebecca Rose Hepburn said, hefting a carryon bag towards the doorway. It slid open revealing brisk November morning air.

“I want in!” shouted Pete Vella, bolting after her. “Bay’s got my hotel key but she said she couldn’t come get me. Something about having to exercise the horses of some lazy trainer.”

“She means you,” Rose shouted over her shoulder. “Hurry up!”

--

A caravan of rental cars started to parade through the stable gate, flabbergasting the security guard. All the sudden, a good 25 arriving trainers were on the grounds, with several more expected that night after the harness races in New Jersey finished. On Wednesday, the last set of Steward’s Cup races taking place off the grounds – the Mixer races in California and New Mexico – would be finished, and Thursday night after the juvenile races all trainers were expected to be present for the annual Steward’s Cup dinner and dance, which first took place around Year 20.

Once parked, the women rushed to their charges, cooing happily and drawing carrots from pockets. The men walked more sedately, but tended to be even more nervous, worried that a hoof bruise or temperature could have happened while they were on the plane. Vets scurried about, checking iPads and making notes. The ship in barn was abuzz with activity, especially as the track closed for the final break of the morning.

Horses were circling the shed with tack on, waiting for the track to reopen. Horses with coolers on were circling, soon to return to their stalls. A line was getting bathed, scrubbed, and combed, and riders milled about, waiting for their cue.

Mike Bryant circled the shed, passing the colored webbing of Michael McGuire, Rocki Ryoliza, and Michelle Calderoni. On the end of the shank was the two-year-old filly Occultation. The filly was quiet and well behaved, and rounding the corner Mike tucked in close to her shoulder. As he predicted, a flash of black and white missed him by inches. Mike flung the end of his shank in the general direction of the horse’s teeth, but Follow Your Fate dodged.

“Jerk,” Mike mumbled. The five-year-old stallion was feeling so good that Mike felt genuinely confident in his chances, despite the fact that he would have to face some of the best horses to ever set foot on a racetrack.

“He get you?” Ryan Whitehead asked, sticking his head out of Her Dominion’s stall two doors down.

“Nope, missed. He will for sure get me this week though.”

“I wish my race was tomorrow, too,” Ryan agreed. “My girl is so ready.”

All down the aisle, trainers waved and chatted. Cleo Patra studied an auction catalog next to Jess Dowson, who was asking a million questions and pointing all over the page. Erin Sanderson led a striking bay from his stall, cooler draped from his ears all the way to his tail. They stepped outside the barn to a small patch of real grass, which the fine faced colt delicately lipped. Erin draped one arm over his back, just behind the withers. Castles Crumble was quiet, easy to handle, and happy to eat.

“LOOSE HORSE!” someone screamed.

Another bay, lighter boned and wild eyed, came bolting past, his shank dangling haphazardly from his halter. “Whoa, whoa!” trainers called, jumping in front of the colt and then jumping away again. Glenn Larson stepped forward firmly, raising his arms and glaring at the colt dead in the eye. “Whoa, son,” he said commandingly in a firm voice. The colt threw up his head in protest, but dropped to a jog, then stopped. Glenn snatched the shank effortlessly.

He held the colt for several minutes before Brian Leavitt jogged up, panting. “This is so embarrassing,” Brian said, taking the colt’s shank back. “It might be the most embarrassing thing to ever happen to me.”

“More embarrassing than the time the Steward ordered birthday cake to be shoved in your face in front of thirty of us?” Glenn asked, loudly.

“Wait, what?!” Tim Matthews said from where he was about to get back in his black rental car. “What happened?”

“Thanks a lot, Glenn,” Brian grouched, leading the colt away.

On his way back to a smaller barn on the outskirts of the backside, Brian Leavitt ran into Brian Chunn, whose lone Steward’s Cup hope was Fixed Bayonet in the Marathon. They exchanged pleasantries, having been bonded over their shared name.

Brian had to wait outside his barn because a long-backed bay colt was blocking the entrance. He recognized the trainer standing nearby: Emily Mitchell. She was back after a few years on the sidelines, and would be starting Leave You Laughing on Friday.

“Sorry, Brian,” she said, waving at the groom to urge her colt forward. “Is that Tabby Cat?”

“He’s Naughty Cat today,” Brian sighed. “Hope that run through the barns didn’t hurt his chances!”

--

A gray colt was standing over by the grass, more staring into space than grazing, but no questioned it. They didn’t question his brightly patterned body suit, specially delivered from Australia, or the air wraps on his legs which flew in defiance of every regular track bandage anyone had ever seen. That’s because Jon Xett stood at the shank, happy as could be.

Jon held court with three reporters, while two trade photographers clicked away madly. Gray, the subject of their fervor, bent down to sniff at the grass, then went back to looking around – but straight at the fence, rather than the commotion beyond him.

“That horse is as weird as you,” one of the reporters said to Jon, who didn’t seem the slightest bit fazed.

“By design,” he said calmly. “When he wins the Turf, you’ll realize I knew what I was doing all along.”

All at once, the photographers bailed, rushing across the grass towards a leggy chestnut with an unusual star and snip marking. Jon didn’t recognize the colt, but he did wave at the man following doggedly behind: Keith Maidlow.

The photographers jostled for position, hoping to get Fancy Shoes with his ears pricked and the early morning sun streaming through his copper coat. Per usual, Fancy Shoes was quiet, almost oblivious, and instead of striking a pose reached down to investigate a wheelbarrow abandoned by a hedge. Keith barked an order and the offending object was immediately removed, much to Fancy Shoes’s dismay. He let out one blaring whinny in protest, then settled down to graze.

Jack Meyer joined him quietly, leaning over a sawhorse and standing just behind Keith’s shoulder. “You scoping out the competition?” Keith joked, only half in jest.

“If I was, I would be over in the Bobby barn,” Jack retored good naturedly. “We’re all running for second.”

“Can’t tell you how glad I am that the filly isn’t going to run.”

“Me, too.”

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