Daybreak in Toronto - Part 5

Original article written by The Steward posted 3 years 0 weeks ago

The plane dipped and circled, with towering downtown buildings darting in and out of view between the clouds. Sten Rino Haakonsen stared out the window, watching the Toronto skyline pass by, while simultaneously trying to appease his chattering seatmate, Tamara Estes.

“I’m sorry,” Tamara said, when she realized Sten was not replying, “I’m just a really nervous flyer.”

“S’ok,” Sten said with a half-smile. “It’s just been years since I flew into Toronto. I like the landing.”

Tamara turned away from Sten on the window to talk to Thomas Fleming, who was seated across the aisle. Nicholas Johnson was just ahead of her, studying a broodmare’s catalogue page.

When the plane taxied into the gate and the seatbelt sign pinged off, the dozen or so trainers who hitched a quick flight from New York stood. They had gathered there on layover from various places, such as Ruidoso Raceway and Artificial Arena. Brian Chunn nearly knocked Bob Probert flat by swinging his carryon out of the overhead compartment a little too exuberantly. Gary Prat was on the phone with a jockey agent, cursing up a storm.

“What do you mean he took another call? Unacceptable!”

Andrew James was waiting just outside baggage claim, where international arrivals were streaming out, looking for rides. He grinned boyishly and held a homemade sign that said “Free ride to Toronto Racetrack!” The other trainers were all too happy to pile in to Andrew’s van.

Susie Rydell, on the other hand, preferred to get her own rental. She typically traveled alone, headphones on, and did her own thing away from the others. Although her big horse Rogers had been at the track for two weeks already, the fillies Fen, Danvers, and Sookie were en route and Susie wanted to beat them to the track. She couldn’t trust that Andrew wouldn’t stop at Tim Hortons with his entourage.

Outside in the light snow that fell from the gray sky, Dan Gordon was trying to hail a cab. He had just finished a 16-hour journey from Argentina to Toronto, and he was exhausted. He knew he should check on his two mares at the track, but all he could think about was going to bed in the hotel and dealing with his jet lag.

As trainers and horses arrived, the snow continued to gently fall.

--

Ronnie Dee had to chuckle at the turn of events.

He was standing in the glorious, sprawling paddock, with his roan filly Day of Saturn schooling around a tree behind him. Not a single photographer was clamoring in his presence.

Less than a decade before, he had brought See You Monday to four consecutive Steward’s Cups, and had always been the star in the spotlight. A superhorse with 21 wins in 25 tries, See You Monday had earned $4 million long before the Pegasus or Chimborazo made that a realistic goal. Now Ronnie was quiet, out of the spotlight, waiting for an upset or his next big horse.

Across the paddock, a crowd had gathered around Nena Olson. Her four fillies were schooling together, and Nena was systematically throwing saddle towels over their backs, applying the schooling saddle, tightening the girth, and then removing it. One by one the fillies tolerated it, with only Elixir putting up a mild protest at the girth.

It was a big change from the day before, when Manic had schooled and had made a fool of himself, rearing and causing a scene while the other horses looked on warily. He’d even bolted sideways, dragging his groom several feet.

Rebecca Cass’s gorgeous black colt Millions and Keith Maidlow’s lone Steward’s Cup runner To Hell With Love were also schooling, and Ronnie spotted Anthony L Carder walking in with a black filly behind him. The filly whinnied, and Nena’s horses answered in chorus.

On the way back the barn, Ronnie passed the other horses walking towards the paddock. The wind had picked up, fluttering through their manes and making Jennifer Blake duck for cover as Ryker skittered sideways, mouth playing on his lip chain. “Watch out!” Ronnie called.

“Sorry!” Jennifer rushed by. “I guess he feels good!”

That was the problem with Steward’s Cup. Every horse was primed, every horse was ready to roll.

--

Music blared through the walls of the hotel, thumping so loudly that people in the parking lot could hear the commotion. Cleo Patra stepped out of her rental and ran her hands over her simple black dress, feeling extraordinarily uncomfortable away from her regular riding clothes and trainer’s jacket.

The hotel porter nodded graciously at her and opened the door, while Cleo tried to remain on her high-heeled feet and make it through the door. She needed no directions on how to get to the ballroom hosting the party; the music grew insufferably louder with every step.

If she’d thought the music loud before, when she opened the heavy door into the room she was dazzled. Colorful lights rotated across the room, and a few brave souls were rocking out on the dance floor. A dozen tables formed a border to the floor, with the head table hosting some familiar faces: Emily Shields, for one.

Cleo’s face broke into a grin. Emily spotted her and nodded in quiet greeting, but her eyes shifted back to the man talking animatedly beside her: Stephen Saratoga, looking quite dapper in a dark suit. Leaning back in the chair on Emily’s left was Vincent Barratt, his arm draped loosely around her.

Cleo left them be and headed over to the bar, where Nikki Everdeen was clutching a small drink and looking lovely in a golden dress. She looked somewhat miserable, and Cleo laughed. “You look like I feel,” she said, trying not to break her ankle walking over an audio cord running across the carpet.

“I just want to get back to the barn,” Nikki admitted. “I’m thinking of sleeping in the tack room tonight.”

Cleo laughed, although she wasn’t positive that Nikki was actually joking.

On the dance floor, Dylan Christensen was break dancing. Erin Erskine and Randell Johnson watched, fascinated, while Dylan spun and kicked. Eric Hamme eventually pushed Dylan off the floor, taking his turn.

“If you think his dancing is bad, you should hear him sing!” Dylan shouted over the music. Eric punched him in the shoulder.

Heads turned when Stormy Peak entered the room, wearing a form fitting tiger-striped gown. It looked both surprising and perfect, especially as it was topped by a pin-on button featuring Roughian’s likeness.

Abe Froman entered next, perpetually texting on his cell phone. He nearly knocked over Trastevere Peru, who was trying to do a deal for a sprinter with Sherry Crow. Abe apologized and bought them both drinks just before appetizers were served.

Long after the dinner was over, after Emily Shields had given a heartfelt speech about the 55th Steward’s Cup and how “she remembered when!”, when most of the dancers had gone home and the music had been silenced, Brandon McNulty sat at a table covered in bread crumbs, deep in conversation with Michael Looker. They finally got up to head back to their respective hotels, passing Willie Carson chatting with Willowcreek Farms outside the lobby. They were both more than slightly intoxicated.

“Night!” Michael called to Brandon, waving him off. Brandon waved back, walked to his car, and pulled out his phone to jot down the trade in his notes area.

That was a perk of the coming breeding season. Everyone was in the mood to make a deal.

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