Daybreak at Lexington Race Course – One Shot

Original article written by The Steward posted 4 years 0 weeks ago

From her vantage point just below the dark-tiled roof of the Lexington Race Course grandstand, Emily Shields – The Steward - stared out at the first hints of sunrise burning on the horizon. Five stories below her, lean and leggy Thoroughbreds were moving like sleek apparitions in the dark, some jogging with necks bowed and others sailing smoothly by at a gallop. Beyond the racetrack itself was a training track, then a series of barns for the horses shipping in from out of state.

Although she couldn’t see it in the dark, Emily knew that even further past that was the rolling acres of her Trial By Summer Farm. The mares would be outside, lounging in the early morning mist. The weanlings would be put up in the barn, ready for the day’s sales prep lessons. At another part of the farm, a little-used stallion barn now housed two horses, and construction was ongoing to update the old facility. She couldn’t see it, but she knew everything was working like clockwork.

“Are you hiding?” asked a familiar Southern voice.

Emily flinched at the noise, then turned slightly to see Louise Bayou edging out onto the overhang outside the press box where she was, indeed, hiding.

“Maybe a little,” she admitted.

“Well, stop feeling sorry for yourself and get down there,” Louise commanded in her drawling way. “We need you. Kris Bobby had a loose horse this morning. Eric Hamme can’t find his hoof pick. All the usual stuff.”

Emily laughed, picturing the chaotic scene. “I’ve been watching the horses go by,” she said. “Carole Hanson has quite the fleet this year, don’t you think?”

“I haven’t seen Jon Xett out here yet,” Louise said. “He owes me a mare or six.”

“I thought he was sleeping outside Dave Matthews Band’s stall?” Emily quipped. They both giggled. “I did go see him the other day. He is certainly special.”

“Jon? Or Dave Matthews Band?”

“Yes.” They laughed again.

A silence followed, broken by the light drumming of hooves on soil and the snort of a colt from the Rochelle Zahacy barn. Mike Bryant walked along the black-topped apron below, pausing against the rail to confer with a rider on his black filly standing statue-like by the wire.

“Why are you really hiding?” Louise finally said, piercing Emily with a glare.

“I’m not, really,” Emily promised. “I’m just straight up tired.”

“Bless your heart.”

“No, I’m serious!” she laughed again. “I don’t mean cry me a river, but it’s just flat out too much stuff. The kids. The mares. The new stallion operation. Being the Steward. Doing bloodstock deals. Going to those meetings. Did I mention the kids?”

“So what are you going to do, quit?” Louise asked, without malice.

“Certainly not,” Emily shook her head. “That doesn’t enter my mind. But there’s so very much I want to be doing. What about that new race series I proposed for lower level horses? What about that foal program we talked about? And that new steeplechase festival where I’m going to go call the races. And the new show circuit! Something has to give.”

Louise was quiet for a moment, then thoughtfully added, “But this is why you’re scaling your breeding operation way back.”

“I know that,” Emily agreed. “But I will miss it so very, very much. More than you know. And just because it’s the right thing to do, doesn’t make it an easy thing to do. Who is going to figure out the best hidden nicks? Who is going to sell the top yearlings? This is going to be the dawn of a whole new era.”

“Change is hard,” Louise quipped, pointing at Mike Eaton’s Distaff contender Always in My Heart, who was snorting and plunging across the track in a furor of untapped excitement. “But you’ve been doing this for over 50 years. You adapt. The horsemen adapt. And let’s be real, if you miss breeding you can always throw $100 million at some other owners and bam! Just like that you have a whole new broodmare band.”

Emily stretched, rolled her head on her shoulders to crack it, and then stood up. “Alright. I suppose I should go do my job. I promised Ali Hedgestone I would look at a two-year-old for her. And I owe Polk Buffalo a visit.”

“Attagirl,” Louise grinned. “Now I’m going to go see a man about a horse…. Literally. George Knatz said he would breed to Pepper Jack Boudin and it hasn’t happened yet.”

Their laughter trailed down to the track, where the best horses in the whole world were training for the biggest day of the year.

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