Daybreak in New York, Parts 1 - 5

Original article written by The Steward posted 16 years 2 weeks ago

The plane shuddered and groaned, causing Emily Shields to clutch the arm rests tightly, turning her knuckles white. From her iPod, “Takeoffs and Landings” by The Ataris hummed in her ears, a fitting song for the occasion. She sat in a dreaded middle seat, with two men on either side. One appeared even more jittery than she was, flipping through a newspaper with trembling hands, but the other was reserved, quietly reading a novel and hogging the window. A stewardess sat across from them, reading a self help book and using a tattered $20 bill as a bookmark.

The plane was leaving Los Angeles and bound for New York, due in just past midnight Eastern time. Emily desperately wished she could sleep, but the trembling from the plane’s body caused her to remain alert, her heart racing. It didn’t matter how many times she flew or even that her father was a pilot, she still harbored fear every time a plane carrying her or one of her loved ones left the ground.
Once the plane leveled off at 35,000 feet, Emily fumbled around in her briefcase for a stack of white paper littered with black characters. The packet included the past performances for the 20th Steward’s Cup to be run on January 25th at Long Island Park. Despite her consuming terror of flight, Emily had to be present at the event – she was the Steward in question.

16 races run over all distances and for all ages and genders comprised the Steward’s Cup, a $29 million contest. Over 130 horses were expected to participate, a number actually below targeted projections. It was hard to complain about the lack of depth in the Juvenile races, the Sprint, the Distaff, and especially the Classic, however, when the Turf Mile promised to be the race of the decade, if not the century. The field boasted 94 wins in 156 starts, and if you took out the two long shots, you were left with 86 wins in 126 starts, a staggering number. The starters included the unbeaten Benjamin Franklin, the once beaten half siblings Test Your Strength and Test My Heart, and the freakishly fast fillies, Pop Idol and Can’t Live In Fear. Add in Crystal Magic, undefeated at a mile, Fleet Admiral, the race’s defending champion, and a host of other hopefuls, and the stage was set for an epic battle.

After reviewing and examining the past performances of all the horses entered in the Steward’s Cup races, Emily realized four hours had passed and her flight would be landing soon. She had to be up in a few hours to make it to the track by 4:30, but it was hard to mind when the nervous and excited vibe of the event pulsated through the very heart of Long Island.

As the plane dropped gently from the sky, Emily’s body finally allowed her to doze, contemplating the morning’s work.

*************

“I’m coooolld,” Chris Briggs whined, his voice rising an octave and his teeth chattering.

“Will you stop?” Amy Schmidt demanded, wishing that Chris had taken a ride with his best friend, Scott Eiland, rather than convincing her to drive him. “You don’t even have a horse on the grounds,” Amy continued, frustrated, “why are you here?”

“For the parties,” Chris admitted sheepishly, rubbing his cold hands over his equally cold arms. Once inside Amy’s car he turned up the heat immediately and attempted to defrost.

“Man, Emily beat us here,” Amy commented, noticing Emily moving swiftly towards one of the barns as she turned into the stable gate at Long Island Park, waving politely at the guard who checked her car’s sticker. The clock blinked 4:26 am.

Chris fidgeted in the seat, trying to be on his best behavior for at least five minutes. However, once he saw the dimly lit barns and the sleepy horse heads appearing over the stall doors, his body shivered again – this time out of excitement – and he couldn’t help himself.

“Amy! This is only my second Steward’s Cup!” he exclaimed with an enthusiasm she simply couldn’t muster that early.

Amy turned right once she passed Susie Raisher’s barn. Her three horses were stabled along the wide horse path towards the outer reaches of the most heavily used stable area. She shut off the red Jetta and jumped out of the car before she could hear Chris shriek in agony over the sudden cold.

Stepping inside the shedrow seemed akin to entering heaven. The low yellow lights blazed while a few dedicated but tired grooms shuffled about their morning routine. The uniformed security guard sitting in the doorway gave her a curt nod. All of this blurred into the background when a delighted gray face poked its way over the webbing of the first stall and Snake nickered excitedly.

“Hello, handsome,” Amy murmured soothingly to the anxious colt, placing her hands firmly on his head and neck and making her presence known. Snake was not the kind of horse that you could play games with, his antics had cost at least one finger and several fractured bones. The colt, an entrant in the Steward’s Cup Sprint, weaved back and forth until Amy clipped a line on the wall to his halter.

In the next stall, Cancelled, a younger carbon copy of Snake, was still dozing. Notoriously lazy, Cancelled was Amy’s longest shot for the weekend’s races and would be running in the Juvenile Sprint. Girl of the Nation was the last of Amy’s horses, the pretty dark bay filly nuzzled her trainer in a friendly manner before returning to the business of examining the straw for dropped grain.

Four other trainers had been assigned this shed row for the Steward’s Cup. All the way at the other end of the long aisle Amy could see Leonard Beagle with his bay colt Lionize, a turf juvenile who had quite a good chance to win on Friday. Leonard smiled and held up a hand, the other occupied in feeding Lionize a peppermint.

Alex Puderbaugh’s two entrants, Amaranthine and Head High, both two year old colts, were closest to Amy, while Lynn Dvorak’s A Map to Heaven, the defending champion of the Filly and Mare Sprint, was closer to Leonard. A Map to Heaven’s small, lovely head peered out into the aisle, the white diamond between her eyes giving her away.

Chris had finally found his way into the barn from the car, Amy noticed, and was now wandering up and down the aisle, petting other peoples’ horses. Leonard gave Chris a mint and Lionize took it gingerly, unlike Snake, who twisted his head in a vain attempt to catch Chris’s arm when he returned.
Amy checked her watch: 4:45. The track opened in 15 minutes, so she went to retrieve Cancelled’s saddle.

*********************

“Quit,” Amanda Kessler said half heartedly, already frustrated with her pony and the track hadn’t even opened yet. By contrast, her supposedly nervous two-year-old filly Where Are You Now stood silently and still, eyes gazing on the gate still blocking the entrance to the track. On Amanda’s other side Rose Hepburn chortled. She, too, was mounted on a stable pony, who appeared to be behaving. Unlike Where Are You Now, however, Rose’s charge, the burly Fleet Feet, was tugging at the bit, throwing his head, and trying to twist his body. Fleet Feet’s exercise rider sat absolutely still, trusting Rose to hold on to the colt’s head.

Horses were lining up at the gap, waiting for the green light that would allow them onto the track. Jarrett Wells was mounted aboard Iron City – Amanda wouldn’t have known the horse, but she could see the purple Steward’s Cup saddle towel that bore the colt’s name – and he was having quite a difficult time steadying the eager horse.

“It must be time to go by now?” Rose fussed, checking her watch for the tenth time. Not a morning person by any stretch of the imagination, Rose preferred to stay up all night and go to sleep around 6:30 am, after her two Cup candidates had been exercised.

Recently, Amanda had been joining her, the frustration of insomnia making itself welcome in her life the past few months. Today they had agreed to put their restless sleeping habits to good use by galloping their horses together.

“Let the colt go out ahead,” Amanda informed the exercise rider as an outrider swung back the gate and opened the track. “Don’t let him get too far away though, or she’ll never catch him. Just make sure she’s relaxed…” her voice trailed off as they jogged into the distance.

Rose turned her full attention on getting Fleet Feet to walk forward. He pinned his ears and practically glared at her, as ornery as ever, but relented to a firm tap from his rider’s crop. They jogged the wrong way up the stretch past the grandstand, dark and cavernous in the early morning sky. Emily Shields sat on her pony at the wire and nodded as they passed.

Rose met Amanda at the six furlong marker on the opposite side of the track and slowed Fleet Feet to a bounce rather than a jog. Where Are You Now was no longer on a lead line and continued to stand quietly. Rose steered her pony next to Mandy’s and released Fleet Feet. He managed to stand still for about five seconds, then he and Where Are You Now turned the right way and began jogging in tandem towards the half mile pole.

The two women rose out of their saddles and watched with interest as the horses began their stiff gallop, the final component in their Steward’s Cup preparation. They broke off together, then Fleet Feet, on the rail, edged ahead around the turn. Down the stretch – they could only catch glimpses and flashed of the two horses motoring through the lane – Where Are You Now caught him and they hit the wire together as planned. Fleet Feet charged ahead in the gallop out, but the real work was completed. As the Tuesday morning sun first appeared on the horizon, both women had to feel awfully good about their chances on Friday.

***********************

Iron City barreled down the stretch, mouth open and ears back, sweeping under the wire and refusing to be pulled up. He was sitting on a big run, his muscles bunching and releasing as he tore across the track under Emily’s watchful eye. “Okay?” she hollered at Jarrett on the colt’s back, who shouted back, “Good, we’re good!”

Emily leaned back again, and then saw a powerful chestnut horse come up off his forelegs down by the gap. She didn’t know the horse, but she knew the rider, Mike Eaton, and kicked her pony into gear.
“Thanks,” Mike mumbled, allowing Emily to jog alongside of them back towards the wire. “He’s feeling really good, you see.”

“I do,” Emily agreed, now knowing the horse as Democracy, a Marathon entrant. A horse like Democracy could make your career, and she was hoping Mike would have a good run with him.

Releasing them at the 1/8th pole, Emily returned to her position and waited patiently for the next minor drama.

*******************

Ryen Hanna was embarrassed to admit that it was almost 5:30 in the morning. She had hoped to be one of the first people on the track, but one of the Steward’s Cup parties – in particular a Karaoke contest at a local bar, kept her attention for longer than she wanted.

Ryen hurried towards the rail and leaned against it, ignoring the cold iron chill that swept from her arms through her body. She watched her tall dark bay filly with bated breath and was only vaguely aware of the small form of a young girl hovering nearby. The figure moved hesitantly closer to the point that it became distracting, and Ryen could no longer see her filly in the dark anyway.

“Can I help you?”

The girl blushed a deep crimson, which startled Ryen as it was so dark she could barely see across the track, let alone such a profound color on someone’s face. “Excuse me,” the girl timidly spoke, twisting her fingers together over a small – and relatively useless, at this point – Nikon point-and-shoot camera. “Is that Is Wanting Enough out there?”

Ryen had to admit, she was impressed. Not only had she not placed the purple saddle towel on the filly’s back, but she usually sent Is Wanting Enough out in the daylight on the turf course. Looking into the girl’s eager eyes, and then spotting a cold, tired, but dedicated parent hiding behind the glass doors to the grandstand several yards away, Ryen let her naturally friendly side show.

“Yes, yes it is Izzy, she’ll come galloping by soon.”

The girl’s face brightened. “I knew it! My Mom and I drove all the way from Georgia just to see her! I didn’t know what time she would be on the track, so I tried to make sure we were here by five, but my Mom is so slow,” the girl rolled her eyes, “that we didn’t make it until ten minutes ago. I’m SO glad I didn’t miss her!”

Ryen smiled a genuine, pleased smile, then nodded up the track. “Here she comes now!”

The girl quickly fumbled with the camera, turning off the flash, then aimed it at Is Wanting Enough, loping smoothly past the wire and towards where they stood just before the turn. Ryen squinted over the girl’s shoulder – sure enough, the only picture was a dark blur against an equally dark background – but the girl didn’t seem to mind.

“Here, follow me,” Ryen said, waving over at the girl’s mother and heading over towards the gap. The sun was making slow but steady progress, brightening the sky to a dull maroon glow. When Is Wanting Enough flowed off the track, her long mane and tail sweeping behind her, Ryen caught the filly and ordered her exercise rider to keep her still. She took the girl’s camera and nodded over at the horse. “Go stand by her shoulder.”

The girl, breathless, hurried over and posed nervously about a foot away from Izzy’s steaming sides. Ryen turned the camera’s flash back on and snapped the picture. The bright light simply caused Izzy’s head to rise a few inches, otherwise she didn’t move. The girl’s mother beamed and she rested a hand on her chest. “Bless you, Ms. Hanna. Bless your heart.”

Bless Izzy’s heart, Ryen thought as the emotional mother and the chattering girl walked away. If it weren’t for Izzy’s massive heart, I wouldn’t be here.

In the faint morning light, Inspired Fox hardly looked real. Brianna McKenzie, standing on the end of the colt’s leadshank, closed her eyes, then opened them again. Inspired Fox was still there, staring back at her, perhaps looking slightly concerned.

Brianna was content to wait with him there on the track all day, standing in the middle of the first turn and watching the horse and rider traffic as it passed. Banks Mcfadden galloped by, and Bri could see trainer A.R. Roberts in the grandstand, a speck against a towering backdrop, making his way down to the track. Norman Architecture led Haunted Life onto the track, talking amicably with trainer Tasha Langley. Gary Cooper leaned heavily on the rail not too far from where Bri stood, his soulful eyes scanning the track for his burly chestnut colt, Dominion. Business as usual, a typical morning at the track, except for the fact that every horse on the grounds was either a stable pony or a Steward’s Cup participant worth millions of dollars.

“Are we going to stand here forever?” Fox’s exercise rider demanded, running her hand through the colt’s short dark mane.

“Right,” Bri admitted, unsnapping the lead shank and standing back. Fox continued to stand, which amused Brianna terribly. For being the fastest horse in the world, he sure could be lazy.
Inspired Fox finally turned the right way towards the backstretch and picked up a jog, moving fluidly away from his trainer.

Inspired Light, a dainty and dazzling two year old filly that McKenzie also trained, galloped by, her white forelegs churning up the smooth dark dirt. A few minutes later the filly and her rider joined Brianna in the turn. “Sorry girl,” Bri rubbed the pretty filly’s white face. “Your stablemate is awfully slow. In the morning, I mean!”

Other than his morning sluggishness, there was nothing slow about Inspired Fox. A record of eleven wins in twelve starts could do that!

Once Inspired Fox has completed his training, Bri followed the two horses off the track. They looked nothing alike. Fox, a small and racy looking son of Lost in the Fog, was dark and his eyes beheld the look of eagles. Inspired Light, a kind and generous Inspired Myth filly, was long and lean like her dam Lightninasnowstorm. The two horses walked side by side towards the barn, and Bri followed them inside.

The shedrow was bustling with activity. Grooms hefted manure on pitchforks, hauled water buckets and lifted hay nets. Hotwalkers and their horses turned left in a neverending stream of steam off flanks and colored blankets. Bri’s Turf Mile contender Bound For Heaven skittered up and down, frothing around the lip chain in his mouth. Behind him the chestnut filly Canticle imitated him, balking at a tack box and then at a bucket.

Bri paused to scratch the oversized ears of Live Worth Living, a handsome dark bay colt close to her heart. He whuffed quietly into her hands, steam misting from his nostrils.

***********

A golden glow settled over Dare to Dream Stud, just as it did almost every morning in the spring, summer, and fall. Lithe and lanky Eric Nalbone normally would have ignored the natural beauty of his sprawling New York Thoroughbred farm, but today he indulged in his rarely seen sentimental side and allowed himself to head towards the stallion paddocks before stepping into his office. Closer to the front entrance of the farm and removed from the training track and yearling barns, the stallion barn was set lower on the property and nestled amongst gentle green and gold hills.

Beautiful and rugged Oak Park grazed peacefully in the first paddock along the drive, his gleaming red body and white blaze a welcoming sight to visitors. The rest of the stallions enjoyed the morning dew on the grass in separate paddocks behind him; fleet and dark Edict; long bodied, heavy crested Strongerable, the burly black Saga, and of course the farm’s most valuable horse, Ghostzapper. Even further away, and closest to the rise in ground level where the training track sat, was a bay colt with a white blaze who stared longingly into the distance towards the training barns.

Eric whistled, catching the colt’s attention. Unlike the other stallions, whose legs were clean and free to brush against the grass, this colt’s legs were firmly encased in white polo wraps, hiding his one white and three black legs.

“Hello, Braveheart,” Eric murmured to the colt who had ambled with delicate steps over to him.

Braveheart’s paddock was maybe a quarter of the size of the rest of the stallions, but he still had access to the same lush grass. Braveheart dropped his head into Eric’s hands trustingly.

Some of the best horses to grace the planet had been born and raised right here at Dare to Dream. From Loki Reflection to Hammer, their names read like a whose-who of the last decade in the industry. Braveheart signified the very culmination of all this hard work – he had earned Eric his second Louisville Derby victory, following in the footsteps of his half brother Saga. Sadly, the race had come with quite a price, Braveheart’s career and nearly his life.

The colt was now confined to a small turn out pen and the worries about the slippery winter ground loomed heavily over Eric’s head. Braveheart had lost plenty of weight upon his premature retirement from racing, and only seemed to recover once put in sight of the training barns and a small section of the track. Eric had ordered the paddock built specifically for Braveheart.

“Today is the day I head south to Long Island,” Eric told the colt, who appeared to be listening aptly with pricked, pointed ears. “Hammer and Relish and Saint and Pristine and Moed will all be there, but not you.” Eric found himself suddenly unable to continue speaking.

A win by Hammer in the Classic would do a lot of good for the farm, Eric thought. A victory by any of his horses would help ease some of the frustration. However, Eric knew that only the spindly legged foals currently residing inside top stakes winning mares out past the training barns in the foaling area would fully erase the bitterness of the Derby. Braveheart’s first crop would be arriving soon, and with them came a whole new generation of hope.

***************

It took Dave Shields about ten minutes to realize the annoying noise was his cell phone buzzing incessantly. He groped for it on the bedside table and checked the screen – 12 missed calls. Uh oh.

Dave found his glasses and put them on, blinking blearily at the clock on the bedside table: 7:01.

Er….. Dave wondered very briefly, as he hit play on his voice mail, that perhaps it was seven in the evening, rather than the morning, which would make it either one minute since he fell asleep – and that didn’t make sense – or it was seven in the morning, which would be very bad…

“Dave! It’s Michelle! Can I borrow some VetWrap? Okay, actually I’m in your barn and I took some, hope you don’t mind, uh, talk to you later!”

“Dave, it’s Bob Oliva. We’re still sending our two horses out after the break, right? Call me.”

“Dave, it’s Bill Dietch. Give me a call so I can look at that filly again this afternoon, okay? Thanks.”

“Dave, it’s Em. Wake up, you’re late!”

“Hey Dave, it’s Eric, I’m getting in the car now to drive down, I’m bringing that saddle I borrowed for the filly, uh, reach you when I get down there?”

“Dave, it’s Bob O. CALL ME.”

The messages went on as Dave scrambled to get out to his car. He was a good horse trainer and a great guy, but he was a champion sleeper. Ten minutes later he turned into Long Island Racetrack and parked alongside his barn, which made an L shape with Susie Raisher’s shedrow. He scrambled into the barn to find two annoyed looking grooms, two annoyed exercise riders, and Bob Oliva breathing fire by the office door.

“Thanks for answering,” Bob snapped in his thick accent that Dave could never place as more New York or New Jersey.

“Sorry!” Dave mumbled, pushing his glasses up on his nose. “I forgot to wake up this morning!”

The horses came alive upon seeing their trainer. Jester of Kings whinnied hard, pawing anxiously under his webbing. More nervously weaved back and forth in the door frame, adding her voice to her stablemate’s. Original Tough Guy’s sleek racing body shimmered in the gray light, and the handsome Hemi Cuda banged his nose against his green bucket.

The lithe and tall Run stood quietly, his silver coat rippling as Dave stroked his neck. Luckily for him, the grooms had paid attention to his set list, and Jester of Kings and Run were both tacked up and ready to go.

“Is your horse ready?” Dave asked Bob, who leaned nonchalantly against the window with a coffee in hand.

“Yeah, we’ll be out in 15, sound good?”

“Meet you at the gap,” Dave nodded.

He went into his office and sat down at the blank desk, so far away from his home base in California. Here in New York, Bob Oliva was at ease, but Dave felt tired, confused, and travel weary. Sometimes he felt overwhelmed in the world of training horses.

Gratefully, the horses were doing very well. All of them were animated, eager, and sleek, and as Dave followed Jester of Kings and Run to the racetrack, he felt pride blooming in his chest. Run, a silvery gray, and Jester of Kings, a red roan gray like his full brother King of Jesters, made an attractive pair, strutting powerfully towards the track. Waiting for them up ahead was Bob Oliva at the head of another gray, the compact gray Classic contender Don’t Mess.

The three gray horses jogged off the wrong way together, Don’t Mess along the inside, Run on the outside rail, and Jester of Kings in between them. Of Bob Oliva’s four Steward’s Cup entrants, two were sprinters, one was a turf horse, and the other was Don’t Mess, so it made sense to train him with someone else’s horse.

Dave and Bob stood on the platform at the head of the clubhouse turn and were able to survey quite a bit of the track. They smiled and nodded to Bill Oelrich, leading the lean New York bred Ghost Gunner onto the track, and watched as Matt Wilson argued animatedly with a jockey’s agent, throwing his arms and shaking his head angrily. Dave saw his wife Emily down by the wire on her pony, and realized he hadn’t spoken to her in several days. When the big races were upon them, they rarely spoke or saw each other. Again, Dave felt a pang of confusion bite his chest.

Three silver flashes soon galloped towards them, Don’t Mess on the rail, Run on the outside, and Jester of Kings looking rather wide-eyed between them. In his two big wins, including a maiden victory over the future star Sun Raider, Jester of Kings had hit the lead early and hardly looked back, again mirroring the style of his star brother.

A reporter suddenly breathed down Dave’s neck. He looked up, startled, into the weathered face of Mark Rhodes, one of racing’s most well-known journalists. Mark smiled distractedly, pad and pen in his hands, and asked, “So why Jester of Kings? Did you want to confuse the fans?”

It took a moment for Dave to realize Mark was asking about the colt’s name. “It’s from the movie The Court Jester. In the movie, Giacomo is the ‘King of Jesters, Jester of Kings.’ That’s where it comes from.”
Mark nodded and scribbled and disappeared. Don’t Mess, and the Jester brothers were all by Giacomo, Kentucky Derby winner and one of the most beloved, and disliked, horses in racing history.

The red lights at the gap blinked on and outriders hurried horses off the track for maintenance. Dave and Bob deemed the gallop a success and parted ways. Tractors rolled across the track surface, preparing for the second half of the morning.

John Slotman glared down the shedrow aisle, tugging absently on a set of reins hanging with a bridle on a tack hook outside the barn office. Jolly Good’s lovely golden head gazed back at him, looking unconcerned despite the fact that Martin Pennington’s Love was in the very next stall.

The very next stall! John mused, angrily furrowing his brow. How could they do that? Jolly Good and Love were two of the favorites in what would be a hotly contested Turf Sprint. What if horses really did talk? What if they taunted each other, or worse, became friends?

John groaned at himself and rubbed a hand over his face. Of course horses didn’t talk…

“’Ello!” Martin called merrily, taking the bridle off the hook and thus prying the reins from John’s hands. “Your girl looks smashing!”

Indeed, Jolly Good did look exceptional for her age. At six years old, most mares had long been retired, resting on a farm and producing a baby every year. However, it was hard to ignore that she didn’t look nearly as “smashing” as Love, a sprightly and bright eyed three-year-old whose gentle natured and sweet name said nothing about her racetrack prowess: Love had earned a win in every one of her seven starts.

They weren’t the only two Turf Sprint contenders in the barn, which housed an array of trainers shipping in simply for the weekend rather than for the entire meet. Playwright, Tammy Fox’s exceptionally speedy three-year-old colt, was stabled somewhere in the middle of the aisle, and on the other side was Spirited, a high strung, anxious dark bay trained by Janey Adams.

Janey herself was circling the shedrow aboard the handsome bay colt Desert Force, a lightly raced two-year-old who was short on experience but long on talent. The son of Mighty Big was being written off due to his only two starts, but Janey had to feel confident while riding him out to the track, enjoying his long muscles stretching and unraveling underneath her.

As soon as the track opened, Janey urged Desert Force through the gap, and fell in step alongside Faith Powers jogging Be the Best the wrong way towards the wire. Faith’s tiny body rose out of the saddle and rested comfortably over her filly’s withers. She chatted with Janey and rubbed her filly’s neck as Be the Best trotted powerfully, her legs extending and her hindquarters lifting and falling in rhythm.
Chris Fielder nodded at them from the rail and squinted through the sun, watching his horse Born Romantic gallop smoothly down the newly harrowed track towards the wire. Ladonna King’s Poison was the next horse to thunder so effortlessly towards the finish line, his neck pumping up and down as he swept into the clubhouse turn again.

From where Emily Thompson stood on the rail waiting for Giant Risk to arrive, she saw photographers clamoring for position and ducking under rails, snapping like crazy. A few seconds later, a hulking black colt with a narrow white stripe stepped onto the track, head raised, ears up, oblivious to the attention surrounding him. His keen eyesight spotted some of the other horses on the track, notably Eric Nalbone’s Hammer spiraling out of control down the stretch and into the turn, sweeping past the crowd, and the black colt simply stood, watching and waiting. The colt was obviously Susie Raisher’s Monet, a Louisville Derby winner who would possibly attempt to retire with a win in the Classic. A far smaller bay colt stepped up beside him, and Emily Thompson didn’t recognize him until she saw his purple saddle towel – Fearless.

The pair jogged off past the grandstand and Emily saw Raisher herself mounted on her stable pony, stop watch in hand, waiting in the clubhouse turn.

Giant Risk finally stepped onto the track, her jagged white blaze standing out against her golden coat. Affectionately known as Giacomo’s only “good” filly, Giant Risk had won six of twelve starts so far since Emily Thompson had figured out she wanted to run a distance of ground. Giant Risk would be attempting to cap and undefeated year in the Distaff.

The horses flowed over the track smoothly, their bodies silken and lovely, their energy tangible, until the track closed for the turf workouts at 9 am.

************

Benjamin Franklin, first in everything in his life, was the first to step onto the turf course at 9:01.
Practically the entire Turf Mile field would enter behind him, fitting for the occasion, as many handicappers were torn between deciding if this stellar Mile field would be Benjamin Franklin’s undoing or greatest achievement.

Mac Silver felt sick with nerves as he watched his prized colt pick up a jog towards the backstretch. A host of his worst nightmares played out before him.

Fleet Admiral was the second horse on the track, slim Michelle Calderoni perched easily in the saddle, chirping to the alert bay who would attempt to defend his crown in the Mile this year. For some reason, Fleet Admiral was the forgotten horse in the race. It was easy to lose him in the flash and glitter of horses like Pop Idol, Test My Heart, and Can’t Live in Fear, three fillies who were running times equal if not better than those of the boys. Pop Idol and Test My Heart had also entered the turf course, their copper bodies catching the sunlight. Can’t Live In Fear finished training before 7 am that morning.

The older horses really scared Mac as well. Bound for Heaven had the experience edge on all of them, and Test Your Strength was an almost unheard of nearly-undefeated four-year-old. The lone loss of his career had come from Fleet Admiral.

Yet, it was Crystal Magic who concerned Mac the most. The five-year-old Bob Oliva trainee was undefeated at a mile all over the world. He, too, was being overlooked.

Just when the nightmare was becoming too harsh to handle, Benjamin Franklin floated quietly down the stretch, his long tail flowing behind him and his strides smooth, sure, steady, and dreamlike. Mac felt the knot in his stomach loosen and his smile return. Benjamin Franklin left the track first, first in everything, just like always.

On Tuesday afternoon around 3:00 pm, Doug Kidwell felt sick.

Dr. Richardson, his prized bay horse, grazed comfortably in front of the shedrow, a light breeze ruffling his mane and causing the blades of grass to bend gently. Dr. Richardson was showing absolutely no signs of nerves or anxiety, he seemed peaceful and serene, a powerful body built against a backdrop of fall leaves and pale sky.

Despite the Classic contender’s relaxed stance, Doug could barely hold the shank due to nausea. About 10 yards away stood Laura Ferguson, her dark hair pulled back behind her shoulders and her hands on her slim hips. She seemed to be barking orders at a groom who was having trouble getting a muscular bay horse to stand up straight for his conformation photo. The photographer appeared frustrated, and the horse was feeling ornery.

Normally this scene wouldn’t bother Doug in the slightest, but he knew that the horse being photographed was Del Mar, the Louisville Derby winner from three years ago. The five-year-old horse had fantastic hindquarters that glittered in the sun, and his shoulders were clean and strong.

Tremendous Machine was led out next and he stood up in the correct position right away, his head up, ears forward, his legs placed perfectly. Laura nodded proudly as the photographer clicked away.

Doug returned his attention to Dr. Richardson, who had moved slightly to the left to find better grass. If Dr. Richardson wasn’t worried, Doug thought, maybe he shouldn’t be worried.

***************

The sun’s lights faded quietly, casting long dark streaks through the shedrow where Ara Davies stood outside of Colorado’s stall, blinking in the dying sun. She held a peppermint in her hands, absent mindedly twisting the ends of the wrapper back and forth in her fingers. At the sound of the crunching paper, three-year-old Ease appeared over the webbing of the next stall, nickering and throwing his head anxiously. Ara ignored him.

Colorado’s heavy head rested on her shoulder, his warm breath blew on her arms. With one hand she distractedly straightened his long forelock to rest exactly in between his eyes. Colorado had spotted the peppermint and nuzzled Ara’s arm for it, so she unwrapped it and let him gingerly lip it up with his teeth.

Ara couldn’t bear the thought of retiring him. He was remarkably special to her, a traveling companion that ran at the highest levels all over the world. Unlike Ease, who was now squealing in distress from the next stall, and banging his hoof in frustration against the door, rattling his bucket with his chest, Colorado was patient, intelligent, and full of heart, rather than pure speed.
Ease was still hollering, even after Ara had left for her car.

****************

At Arcadia Park, Hall of Fame trainer Jon Xett leaned back in his chair, reviewed the latest edition of the Feature Race, and smiled to himself.

****************

“Someone tie him up!” Paul Heinrich shouted, his fingers clenched in frustration around a lead shank. Giacomo Rocks let out a piercing whinny and kicked out at the stall wall again, his shod hoof landing shrilly on the wooden plank.

Good Sir, Paul’s 17 hand high two-year-old, would be the first horse out of the barn that Wednesday morning, and Giacomo Rocks, a mid-range shot in the Classic, did not approve. He weaved in his stall and charged his webbing, teeth clicking angrily. Giacomo Rocks, one of the calmest and quietest horses in the shedrow, became a monster when not allowed on the track.

Paul glanced over his shoulder at the desk in the office where Scott Eiland was asleep – and possibly drooling – on the wood. Paul frowned and rapped on the door with his knuckles. “Yo! Eiland! Hello! Wake up!”

Scott opened one eye and blinked blearily at Paul. “Five more minutes, Mom?”

Paul rolled his eyes and left the barn, following Good Sir to the track.

On the way he fell in step with Steve Martinelli, who was following his phenomenal black colt Legend to the gap. It was still dark out, just a little after 5 am, so Legend blended in to the depth of the night and was barely visible save for his narrow white blaze.

“Cold, eh?” Steve said in a friendly tone.

“It’s not bad,” Paul shrugged, and they both zipped up their jackets.

***************

Anna Leroux held Sixagonal’s shank just past the entrance to the track underneath the clocker’s stand. The colt pretended to stand calmly, but after a moment he snaked his head over to grab a chunk of Anna’s coat. As a reward he received a quick jerk on the reins, a blow to the side of the mouth, and no flesh. Sixagonal returned to standing quietly.

In God We Trust jogged by, then Haunted Life. Ramses II strutted over to stand next to Sixagonal, his trainer, Emma Lochran, retreating into the grandstand to watch him. Phantom Escapade for Laura Ferguson jogged immediately the right way towards the turn. Ali La Duke gave instructions to her exercise rider aboard Without Fail. Patten Fuqua collected Dynaslew as he exited the track, muttering reassuringly. EC Emz sang quietly to Double U, her voice carrying over the turn in a sweet melody. Horses left the track, their flanks steaming. Horses walked on, heads up and eyes alert. The sun began to peak over the top of the horizon.

Jolene Danner ran her fingers lovingly through Acappella’s silky black mane, enjoying the filly’s warm neck and soft coat.

“Get a room!” Scott Eiland snapped playfully as he passed, walking from one saddling stall where he had been rubbing his hands all over his horse Worth the Effort to Lucrezia Borgia, who was schooling on Acappella’s other side.

Acappella was as laid back and gentle as they came, but Jolene was paranoid about horses getting a little batty in the walking ring, so she had opted to school the filly. The ring was crowded with horses preparing for the big day. Emily Mitchell was shanking the chestnut filly Our Passion, who balked and fussed near the Secretariat statue in the middle of the walking ring. Donnie Hidalgo leaned near the ancient white pine tree, watching the lovely silken chestnut Shadowsinabottle circle quietly. Photographers crowded near the spots of sun, anxious to snap shots of the contenders.

Jolene joined Scott and Donnie in the middle of the ring and watched Acappella march, her mane streaming off her neck. AR Roberts and Doug Kidwell joined them in the middle, waiting for the next group of schoolers, which undoubtedly contained Dr. Richardson and Banks Mcfadden, to arrive.

The Star Man, Emily Mitchell’s other schooler in the ring, dug in his heels and reared up, his mouth open and ears swept back. Emily handed Our Passion back to her groom and went to take The Star Man, now sweeping in tight circles around his nervous handler. The colt could be mean and impossible to handle. The blood of Shentaan, one of the meanest and wildest mares to grace the track, ran in his veins.

Once Emily got a hold of the colt’s shank, The Star Man charged ahead, his black tail whipping past her face and causing her to exclaim angrily. Foam dripped from his flanks and between his thighs, and he left the paddock still leaping away from his trainer.

“Looks like someone will have to school again tomorrow,” Jolene smirked to Doug and AR.

Acappella and Scott’s horses left the paddock, along with Donnie’s, but Jolene hung back to watch the next set of schoolers. Eric Nalbone led a stream of his stars, a shank folded neatly in one hand, followed by a prancing and lathered Hammer, then Pristine and Saint following calmly. The noble looking Zinfandel’s Story for Bill Oelrich, then I Said Don’t Do It for Sean Feld. Both horse and trainer were veteran campaigners looking for redemption.

The last horse to enter the paddock was Ara Davies’ Everest. With a handler on either side, he appeared the epitome of power and grace. Not overly tall, but hulking up front and streamlined in the body, Everest was heavily favored to win the Turf.

Eric Nalbone stayed apart from the others, dressed in business slacks and a white collared shirt, but with a Princeton baseball cap on his head. Dr. Richardson looked visually impressive, just as he had grazing the other day, and Zinfandel’s Story made an impression on the small crowd as well.

“These races are stacked,” AR commented, and the others nodded.

**********************

On Thursday afternoon, about 20 minutes before the first race, Emily Shields rushed through the grandstand on her way to the steward’s box high above the track. She couldn’t stop to talk to anyone, but she smiled and nodded as she passed.

In one box, Scott Eiland threw his head back and laughed loudly at a joke that Matt Wilson told, Chris Briggs leaning dangerously close to the edge of the railing. Paul Heinrich leaned in from his box where Stephen Skaggs was touting a few longshots and Bob Oliva was writing them down. Gerry Hardie smiled warmly as Emily passed, on his way to sit with Eric and discuss breeding strategy. Jolene, Isabella, Michelle, Rose, Susie, and Ali crowded in a box around Dave, who was shyly cutting stud fee deals. Mandy bobbed her head while talking animatedly to Tasha, Anna, Chris Fielder, and Amy Schmidt. Brianna was walking down the aisle with Chris Johnson and lifted a hand to Emily as she passed.

Mac Silver guided EC Emz to a box where they met up with Ryen Hanna, who handed out programs with a flourish. Lisa Strummer sported an “I Already Rule!” pin over her blouse. Mike Prevost returned to his box with hotdogs for himself, Doug, AR, Sean, and Bill Oelrich. Leonard Beagle had a wad of bet slips in his hand, half of which he handed to Donnie Hidalgo and Norman Architecture. Jarrett Wells, Alex Puderbaugh, and Lauren Gallop seemed deep in conversation, and Gary Cooper straightened his “Dominion” hat before sitting down next to Chuck Whittingham and Lauren Haggerty. Laura, Ara, and Ladonna King were just inside the door near the elevator, undoubtedly on their way to the press box to get the overnight sheet or maybe the latest press release.

Emily saw all of this in just a glance and had to smile, a knot loosening in her own stomach, a knot that had nothing to do with horses and racing. Just another Thursday afternoon at the track, everyone there to cheer each other on, and to hope the horses arrived back at the barn safely. Every racing day was just another afternoon, a chance for friends to bond over a common interest.

Emily reached her box, picked up her binoculars, and waited.

The End

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