Daybreak in New Orleans Part 5

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

Nikki Everdeen shifted the box of beignets under her arm so that she could reach for her wallet. The person behind the register at Café Du Monde counted her change and handed it back, smiling briefly before turning to the next person. A long line stretched out the door at the popular local joint.

Nikki set the box carefully on the floor of the passenger seat and switched the car on, jaunting down the road towards the backside gate at New Orleans Park.

The Thursday morning sun beamed brightly down upon the track, leaving some mist clinging to the rails. It promised to be a stellar race day, both in weather and in competition, with fans already lining up at the gate to get in.

“Those for me?” Regina Moore asked, eyeing Nikki’s box of treats when she parked and got out of her car.

“For the barn help,” Nikki explained apologetically, but Regina waved her off.

“I wasn’t being serious.”

They had stalls on opposite sides of Barn 16, but walked down the aisle together anyway. Regina had a frustrating three-year-old, Hurricane Storm, slated for the Marathon, while Nikki was bringing her usual brigade of turf sprinters over three different races.

“Beignets!” Ricky Stamm crowed with delight when Nikki set down the box. “For me?”

“No!” Nikki said frantically, snatching them back up. “They’re for my grooms.”

“Just teasing. I stopped by there an hour ago!” He gestured towards the trash can, where an already empty white box sat discarded.

The track closed early at 8am, so nearly all the horses were already back in their stalls. A lot of them had simply walked the shed that morning in preparation for their races. Now the intricate work began: braiding manes and tails, shining coats, and cleaning tack. People scurried about, tongue ties and coolers and baby oil in hand, fluffing manes and rolling bandages.

Mike Larson stood in front of a white board, pondering his set list for the morning. Gary Prat raised an eyebrow at him when he stepped into the little office. “You have ONE horse here that needs to go out tomorrow,” Gary said, confused. “If that, since it’s raceday.”

“I’m working on the setlist for the California string,” Mike explained without looking up.

“Don’t you have an assistant for that?” Gary asked. “You’re a multi-millionaire.”

At this Mike looked up and smiled. “One day, you will be, too. And when you are, you’ll be like me, doing your own work, because you trust no one else!”

--

Susie Rydell stood next to the state vet, watching a long-backed bay mare jog away from her, and then towards her. The mare had a flashy white blaze and an elegant, bowed look.

“Good,” the vet said, checking something off on his clipboard and moving away.

At five years old, Into You was one of the best but most lightly raced horses on the grounds. She could have had nearly 30 starts by her age, but she had only 12. The Steward’s Cup would be lucky 13.

Three years in a row, Into You had missed the Steward’s Cup. Now she looked to make amends in what was likely the final start of her career.

“I hope she does it for you,” Emily Mitchell commented on her way by. No one could miss Into You’s unique blaze.

“Thanks,” Susie smiled. “I hope you get one too.”

“They’re all longshots,” Emily shrugged. “But it’s the Steward’s Cup. Stranger things have happened. It’s just good to be back.”

Susie wasn’t one to say something like “young whippersnappers,” but between the two of them they had 86 years of training experience. The look she gave Emily Mitchell conveyed, “Let’s beat these young whippersnappers.”

--

Loree Ethell could hear the thrum of music well before she found the ballroom entrance in the underground portion of the Marriot. The ornate wooden doors gave way to a darkened room lit with eerie purple lighting. A pulsating series of white beams cut across the dance floor, illuminating figures like Tiyoun Long, Te Akau Downs, and Sherry Crow in a circle, shimmying to an Ariana Grande hit.

Izzy Rafferty stood at the punch bowl, eyeing it, and then the open bar three feet away. She finally opted for the punch, but couldn’t bypass a chocolate cookie with purple and yellow icing on the dessert table.

“Did you even have dinner yet?” Loree asked her, laughing.

“This is dinner, round one,” Izzy explained brightly. “Round two will be the pasta station.”

“There’s a pasta station!?”

Izzy pointed in the general direction of the pasta station, where a line had formed. Anzu McCann was at the forefront, watching different types of noodles as they were piled on her plate. Behind her stood Art Kage and Dan Kauffman, who were locked in a light-hearted conversation that Loree couldn’t hear over the music. Enpea Racing had joined the others on the dance floor.

“Guys!” Carole Hanson gasped, rushing up to them breathlessly. “Did you see who was sitting up near the stage? Is that THE Bernard Kwok!?”

All three of them craned their necks around and dissolved into excited whispers.

Two tables away, Matt Feldman and Lucas Davenport were leaning over an auction catalog, browsing it together in the dim light. Lee Cara helpfully turned on his cell phone flashlight, allowing them to read the pages, and made even more helpful comments about pedigree lines and running styles. Kenneth Prater had his plate loaded up with various cuts of meat, from prime rib to a sirloin, as well as a slice of pizza. “Oh man, there’s a pasta station!?” he sighed, joining the line and carefully chewing on the pizza.

D’s Racing Stable entered with a small entourage of his own, including Geir Larsen and John Nicholson.

“I wish she’d gotten a taco stand,” Darcy McBride said to Ashley Hunt and Glenn Escobar. “I love tacos.”

“I love tacos too!” Glenn exclaimed. “Where I live, there are tons of places…”

He was about to rattle them off when Ashley stopped him. “Speaking of, where is the host of our party? Where is the Steward?”

Glenn’s eyes scanned the room once, and then a second time, more slowly. He finally spotted a familiar white-blond head in the corner: Vincent Barratt. And that meant…

Mike Eaton had already spotted the Steward, who was hiding in a corner by the stage behind a speaker. She had a plate of pasta that she hadn’t touched, and ducked a bit behind Vincent when she saw Mike coming.

“Where’ve you been hiding all week?” Mike asked, trying to keep his tone non-accusing.

“Anywhere I can,” The Steward admitted. “I’ve been around. I’ve watched every morning of training. I’ve been jetting up to the other races.”

“But none of us could find you,” Mike prompted.

“You don’t understand,” Emily said, somewhat frantically, speaking loudly to be heard over the music. “There’s two of them, and they’re five. They follow me everywhere. They. Are. EVERYWHERE. Bathroom? There they are. Shower? They’ll climb in with me. Then I come to work and you all want stuff, too. The barrage is constant! I just needed a few days off.”

“But it’s Steward’s Cup,” Mike said slowly, stressing the last two words. “You can’t hide during Steward’s Cup.”

Emily hung her head. “I know. I’m just so tired. They tell you in all the books that they sleep, but they DON’T SLEEP.”

“I’ll go get you some pizza and a cookie,” Vincent said wisely, ducking away and leaving Mike behind.

“You can’t hide anymore,” Mike said firmly, “but we’ll make you a deal.”

“What is it?” Emily asked warily.

“Just leave the kids on the backside. Take them to a barn and ditch them. We will ALL watch them, I promise, there are enough of us to go around. And that will keep us busy, too.”

Emily smiled at Mike, and lifted her plate of pasta. “To the Steward’s Cup?”

“To the Steward’s Cup!”

--

Well before dawn on Friday morning, Stephen Saratoga stood on the gravel outside his barn. Only one car drove past; Brandon McNulty rolled down his window and lifted a hand in greeting.

In his right hand, Stephen held a shank loosely. On the end of it was a small, narrow roan filly, with a slim white stripe and a heart as big as the state. She gently nuzzled his neck, then looked about sharply, ears pricked. She didn’t move a muscle, just stood quietly, the breeze lifting her forelock and putting it back in place.

Owl Let You Know. Maybe the greatest of all time.

There were others, of course. Skyfall, for one. Forever Risk. Bishoujo Sneshi. Three Day Event. Valentine and Awesome Dancer and Manistique and Serena’s Song, Fading Star, Sparkle Factor, the list went on and on. But none of them had done, or even attempte, what Owl Let You Know had done: winning the Triple Crown.

After winning the Steward’s Cup Distaff at three, Owl Let You Know had embarked on an even more ambitious campaign against older males. Some would say she failed, considering she lost three of her five starts, but she’d beaten older males in consecutive grade 1 races by a combined eight and a half lengths. She’d gotten leg weary in the final strides of a 2 mile race, beyond what she had ever done before, and she had run to near track record time in the Long Island Gold Cup, which she lost by a nose.

Just hours away was her swan song. Hours until Stephen Saratoga would put her on a van and ship her home for a date with some fancy stallion. He would have other stakes winners, sure, but none of them would be her: a first ballot Hall of Famer, earner of at least $7 million, maybe more. The most talented and versatile filly to grace the planet, maybe ever.

Owl Let You Know. The greatest of all time?

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