Daybreak at Louisville Downs Parts 1 - 5

Original article written by The Steward posted 14 years 3 weeks ago

The twin spires overlooking Louisville Downs glittered in the black sky, their orange lights blazing between the elegantly crafted windows in the towers. Emily Shields rubbed sleep from her eyes and huddled deeper into her sweatshirt and windbreaker, gazing up at the spires from the dark barn area. She stood, unsure, for several minutes, as the cool late-fall air bit right through her clothing.

She tugged her cell phone out of her pocket with frozen fingers and stared dully at it, the bright light illuminating dark circles under her eyes. She flipped through her contacts, trying to decide which of her friends – or any of the local trainers – would be least bothered by a 3:45 am request for hot chocolate. She had finally settled on one blast-text to everyone in Kentucky that read, “SUGAR – STAT!” when she felt a tap on the shoulder, and an equally bundled up Doug Kidwell stood there with a coffee in one hand and a hot chocolate in the other.

“I saw your car in the parking lot,” he said by way of greeting, handing Emily the hot chocolate.

“You are a lifesaver,” Emily gasped, gripping the Styrofoam cup for warmth. “What are you doing here so early?”

“I can’t sleep. And what about you?” he asked, turning and leading Emily back to Barn 18, a smaller shedrow overlooking the five-eighths pole on the backstretch.

“I took a red eye from Argentina,” Emily explained. “So basically, ten hours on a plane and now I’m here and it’s not even four yet.”

“Almost,” Doug said, checking his watch, which was nestled between his jacket and gloves.

The barn was at least twenty degrees warmer, lit by glowing orange lights in the pre-dawn darkness. A white-faced chestnut filly was curled up in the far corner of the first stall, a heavy white blanket providing warmth. Emily lingered at the webbing, watching the filly’s gentle breathing, while Doug ducked into the tack room, which doubled as an office. “Leave her alone,” he called from behind the door when Emily still hadn’t moved from the filly’s stall. “She goes in the 9 o clock set, so I just let her sleep.”

Emily settled down on Doug’s overstuffed black leather couch, and he sat down at his desk, immediately pouring over a daily training chart. “That’s an awful lot of notes for just four horses,” Emily commented, eyeing the scribbles, arrows, and color-coded dates and times.

“Two. Three. Two. I don’t know. Maybe not four, maybe four,” Doug rambled, not looking up. Emily could tell she’d already lost him to his work, so she leaned her head back and tried to concentrate on warming up. “Have you heard from Amy?” Doug asked finally.

“Amy… Atkins? Alyssa? Eiland? Schmidt?” Emily responded, slowly cataloguing all of the Amys in her brain.

“Schmidt,” Doug clarified. “I wasn’t sure if she was showing up to this thing or not.”

Emily fished around in another pocket for a moment and pulled out a folded wad of white papers covered in names, phone numbers, and barn and stall listings. “She has four stalls in Barn 34, but I don’t know when she gets in. It’s Tuesday though, just about everyone should be here now.”

Emily stuffed the papers away, and then leaned against the couch again. She must have dozed off, because when she opened her eyes the sky was no longer black, but a navy blue giving way to daylight. “Oh, geez,” she muttered, sitting up and glancing over at the cup of hot chocolate – now cold, and unfinished. The tiny analog clock on Doug’s desk read 6:02 am. “Gah!” Emily barked, jumping up and rushing out of the tack room.

She took a brief moment to gather her bearings. The track already bustled with activity, as horses stepped on and off the hallowed dirt surface, their riders chattering and whistling against the cold, grooms walking bundled up alongside. Trainers shivered along the rails and laughed a little too loudly, shaking off nerves with morning banter.

“My latest article!” Danny Daniels crowed, running towards the clocker’s stand with a cardboard box and a stack of white papers.

“The pre-entries?” Peter Gleason asked hopefully, raising his head, which had been bowed against the cutting wind.

“No, it’s my latest installment in the series on who should win the SIMMYs this year,” Danny explained, waving one enticingly in front of Peter’s face.

“Have you even picked who you think will win?” Ronnie Dee asked from above, climbing down the stairs outside the clocker’s booth. A stopwatch dangled from one hand, and he wore nothing but a dark polo shirt and jeans.

“Not yet,” Danny admitted sheepishly. “And aren’t you freezing?”

“It’ll warm up,” Ronnie proclaimed, brushing past Danny and Peter. “At least, it’s not going to rain,” he added hopefully, looking up at the sky.

“It might snow,” Peter grumped bitterly. “It’s that cold!”

Emily took all of this in without moving, rooted to the ground in a sleepy stupor. She didn’t even see it when Leonard Beagle rode up astride his burly bay Quarter Horse, leading her elderly Thoroughbred gelding.

“Oh!” Emily gasped in surprise. “He’s tacked up and everything!”

“All you gotta do is hop on!” Leo agreed, flashing his cat-ate-the-canary grin. “Doug told me you were running late.”

“That’s not even true,” Emily started to protest, but instead she gathered her reins and heaved onto Atlantis Pride’s sagging back. “Thanks, man, you’re a lifesaver. Doug, too. I owe both of you dinner.”

Together they clucked and urged their horses through the gap onto the smooth, deep brown track surface. Emily turned to smile at Leo, but he’d already turned right, heading off his black turf miler, Star Signs, who was bounding past the gap and seemed to want to do another lap. Emily urged her gelding to the right and clicked to him again. He responded by picking up a docile jog, which he maintained all the way to the wire.

Oh my, Emily thought. They’re all here!

The grandstand was packed with trainers huddled under heaters, stopwatches in hand. A frowning Larry Burndorf stood off past the wire, silent and seemingly oblivious to the chatter of Brianna McKenzie, whose handsome, burly dark bay Inhuman thundered past the wire, mouth gaping on the bit. Larry only had eyes for Prestige, an expensive, leggy black colt who carried his head high in a light jog the right way towards the clubhouse turn.

Kira Ravenwood’s old campaigner One Listens stood quietly up by the 1/16th pole, the bit resting lightly in his mouth as he eyed some of the other 213 Steward’s Cup entrants jogged or galloped by, training for the biggest race of their careers. Kira herself stood in a crowded box between the perpetually friendly Louise Bayou and the animated Kimberly Jean, who took turns rattling off Steward’s Cup statistics in an attempt to pacify Kira out of scratching.

The quiet Chuck Whittingham stood on the second floor of the grandstand, binoculars trained on Caroline Kennedy on the backstretch. Luis Polar was all the way at the 1/8th pole, shouting instructions down to Henry Valencia on the fractious dark bay filly Dreamlittledarling.

It was Skippy Bowen that caught Emily’s eye most; leaning against the rail, goofing around with jockey Alex Black, who was perched aboard the unruly bay colt Spock. Named in part for his tiny, Arab-looking ears, Spock would be the undefeated favorite in the Juvenile Sprint.

“You’re not nervous at all, are you?” Emily shouted over to Skippy, who looked up in surprise.

“Oh! Em! I didn’t know you were in yet,” he answered. “Me, nervous? Never!”

“Oh yeah, I’m here,” Emily muttered quietly, turning her attention to Stormy Peak’s chestnut filly Fortuitous, who streamed gaily under the wire in a controlled gallop. “The whole gang’s here, aren’t they?”

**

A crowd of photographers and news reporters gathered outside Barn 22, fidgeting in the cold. Every few minutes they caught a glimpse of Laura Ferguson’s second set making the left turn in the shedrow by the doorway, but still they did not appear.

“Come on, it’s almost 6:30!” Feature Race reporter Dan Gordon whined out loud, glancing over at coworker Marzy Dotes, who was resetting the ISO on her camera.

“They’re almost ready,” the level-headed Marzy responded without looking up.

As if on cue, Laura Ferguson emerged, long and lean, her dark hair falling in blurry wisps over wind-kissed cheeks. Her gloved fingers held an oiled leather lead shank which fell from the bit of a burly dark bay colt who strode powerfully from the shedrow, neck bowed, his flyaway mane cascading down his white-striped face. The crowd could vaguely read the white letters “PACIFIC CLASSIC” on the purple towel as it whipped in the wind.

“He doesn’t make any sense,” blogger Megan Grant muttered from Laura’s left. “His dad is unmarked, and Santa Anita is a plain bay. How is he so flashy?”

Pacific Classic strutted forward, ignorant of the talk, his diagonal white stockings striking against his dark coat. Although only 15.2 hands, he gave the impression of being a tall, regal horse, his powerful neck reminiscent of his grandsire, Chinese Bandit.

Behind Pacific Classic came the two other horses in Laura’s set, a leggy chestnut filly whose towel read Girls Rule, and a hulking dark bay colt, so dark he seemed nearly black. His rider ducked forward against the colt’s neck to clear the door frame, and the colt stood, tall, dark and regal, behind his two stablemates.

Marzy whistled. “Who is that, Laura?”

Laura turned around, one hand still on Pacific Classic’s shank as the convoy moved onto the horse path towards the track. “Oh, that’s Thriller, he’s in on the undercard.”

Marzy stared hard at the hulking colt, then remembered she was supposed to be shooting Steward’s Cup entrants.
“You know these are only two of Laura’s five or so colts she’s pointing to the Derby next year,” Dan was saying to Megan. “She has a bunch already on their way back to the farm for the winter, too.”

“I may not win the Derby next year, but I’m going to try!” Laura called, laughing, over her shoulder, before stepping onto the track, Pacific Classic in tow. He lined up royally just in front of the clocker’s stand, his forelock spilling over his eyes, and Thriller lined up next to him, mouthing the bit anxiously. Girls Rule jogged off the wrong way, her copper tail swishing behind her.

“You guys want to see something funny?” Laura asked the reporters, who crowded against each other on the low platform outside the tower. “Sure,” Marzy answered, raising her camera in case.

With one hand still on Pacific Classic’s shank, Laura ducked around that colt towards Thriller, standing directly in front of his dark chest. She said, “Thriller!” once, and the colt’s ears pricked.

“Thriller!” Laura repeated, this time in a sing-song, touching the colt’s chest above his right leg. He ducked his head down, extending the right leg out in front of him, then replacing it. “Thriller night!” she touched above his left leg, and the colt repeated the movement, alternating legs.

Most people were confused, but Megan gasped. “He’s DANCING!”

Laura grinned up. “Yes, I taught him how to thriller dance.” She patted Thriller on the neck, then unclipped Pacific Classic, and stood back to give them room. They jogged off together, two valuable colts with unlimited futures.

**

Roberto Prieto let out a sharp bark once, jerking sharply on the chain, and The Odyssey’s End stopped dancing, ears still pinned. The two stared at each other, sizing up their opponent, standing rigid several yards away from the gap at the chute. The fractious black colt shifted as if contemplating swinging his hindquarters around, and Roberto closed in, grasping above the bit and dragging the seventeen-hand stallion forward onto the gap.

“He’s feeling a little too good today, boss,” Simon Delaney chirped from his perch on the stallion’s back.

“It’s the cold,” Roberto answered through gritted teeth. “They all want it to be the big day.” Roberto released the shank and dodged out of the way of The Odyssey’s End’s flying hind legs as the stallion bucked his way forward into a canter towards the clubhouse turn.

“Watch out,” Luis Polar warned from behind the rail, where he waited with a groom in a purple Steward’s Cup jacket. Roberto joined them and then turned to eye the track, catching Luis’ plain bay filly Receptive, who rushed up the backstretch with her trademark short strides.

Donnie Hidalgo leaned on the rail a few yards away, alone and silent, as usual. He had eyes for his dappled bay three-year-old Big Gamble, whose pedigree said 1 1/8 miles but his race record said routes. Neither he nor The Odyssey’s End had ever gone two miles before, the distance of the Marathon, but Donnie remained unperturbed, quietly analyzing the colt’s gallop.

Luis followed his groom and Receptive back to the barn, and Roberto watched Donnie leave with Big Gamble without seeing The Odyssey’s End once. After fifteen minutes, Roberto started to worry, but finally saw the black beast hurtling out of the clubhouse turn, Simon’s feet up in front of him as he hauled back on the reins. “Whoa, whoa!” Simon hollered, and Roberto mimicked him under his breath. “Easy, big horse…”

No other Marathon contenders went by, but Martin Pennington’s chunky black colt Look Eagles jogged past, his head and ears up, snorting in the cold air. The $300,000 purchase had turned into a $1 million goldmine for Martin, who was having a hard time imagining the colt’s retirement.

“Alright, Roberto?” Martin called, scooting down the rail to watch his colt’s progress.

“Yes,” Roberto responded, watching The Odyssey’s End plunge around a second time. He shook his head and rolled his eyes.

**

“Whoa,” Eric Nalbone said in a low, firm voice, tightening up the reins in one hand and stepping back down onto the mounting block. The leggy gray Thoroughbred beside him stopped fidgeting for a moment, ears flickering back and forth. “Whoa,” Eric repeated, lifting one foot into the stirrup. Dagger stepped backwards once more.

“Gah!” Eric barked, frustrated. “Hold still!”

Inside, Eric knew that it was his own fault for trying to train a recently retired racehorse during Steward’s Cup week. Nine-year-old Dagger, who had earned over half a million on the racetrack, was now officially useless as a runner and Eric couldn’t bear to part with him. The handsome gray, whose coat was becoming lighter with age but had been a dark steel gray as a youngster, would have been one of the most valuable horses on the grounds, if it weren’t for the fact that he was gelded.

The idea of a multiple stakes placed son of Derby winner Saga and Grade 1 winner Cloak that would never reproduce seemed preposterous, but to earn his $500,000, Dagger needed to be gelded. In forty-two starts he never won a stakes race, and didn’t string together multiple allowance and high priced claimer victories until he was gelded. Dagger proved that just because your pedigree was royal, it didn’t mean that you would automatically become a superhorse yourself. Eric had his fair share of these disappointments, including Apostle, a $400,000 earning half brother to Spark, Image, and Pristine, as well as Watch, a $675,000 earning son of Saga and Steward’s Cup heroine Everything Right. Both of them had done their best running while gelded.

Dagger, who was used to simply receiving an exercise rider legged up while on the walk, refused to stand still at the mounting block. A few paces away, Eric’s tiny golden chestnut filly Momentary waited outside Barn 31. As soon as Eric convinced Dagger to hold still for one moment, he jumped aboard, gathered the reins, and turned to take Momentary from her groom.

Like his idol Bobby Frankel, Eric sometimes developed irrationally strong attachments to his animals, usually fillies. Much like Frankel fell head over heels for a pleasant bay mare named Flute, Eric adored the undefeated Momentary. A shining copper filly with a wisp of white between her eyes, Momentary had taken on all comers this year, winning three graded stakes races. Rather than throw her to the wolves Nicholas and Hand Me Down in the Sprint Championships, Eric opted for the Steward’s Cup.

Momentary was one of eleven Steward’s Cup runners Eric flew in to Louisville Downs for the fall. He also had five undercard horses in the barn, including the Year 24 Juvenile Fillies winner Eternally. That the multiple Grade 1 winning filly would be relegated to the undercard spoke volumes about Eric’s chances on the big day; a day where he believed he could win as many as six races.

“Alright, Eric?” John Slotman asked from the rail, shading his eyes from the suddenly too-bright sun which burst through the clouds to the East and bathed the track in white light.

“I’m good,” Eric responded nonchalantly, loosening his grip on Momentary’s lead while tightening his grip on Dagger’s reins. The old campaigner bowed his head and snorted eagerly, dancing a little bit under his veteran trainer. Eric turned back towards John on the rail.

“Classic or Marathon?” he asked, quietly wondering how John’s late-running son of his own stallion Savvy would affect either race.

“Classic, I think,” John replied. Then he frowned. “Maybe the Marathon. Probably the Classic. Maybe I’ll scratch!”

Eric smiled half-heartedly then steered Momentary and Dagger to a halt near the backstretch chute. The topic of conversation, Landing on Dust, thundered around the clubhouse turn, tugging at the bit and not looking at all tired from his powerful effort in the Long Island Gold Cup only two weeks before.

Momentary turned and rested her nose on Eric’s thigh, whuffing out an impatient sigh. David Faulkner, the jockey on the filly’s short back, tugged her head back around. “Focus, little girl,” he muttered.

Indeed, focus, Eric agreed in his head. He had won a Steward’s Cup race – and sometimes two – every year for as long as he could remember. In fact, it had been exactly ten years since he last came away empty handed at the Steward’s Cup. He wasn’t about to start any kind of losing streak now.

**

At 7:30, Jolene Danner stood just behind the washrack outside of Barn 41 and watched her two favorite horses being bathed side by side.

On the right was a tall black colt with a crooked star, his short head raised and his neck craned to see her despite the groom’s protests. To the left was an even heavier, dark red bay with a much smaller triangle star. While the black colt’s head was short, the dark bay’s head was long and rounded, giving him a wise, ancient look. Two years apart in age, the black colt was filled out, muscular, and speed-oriented. The dark bay was undeveloped, long, and powerful looking.

Without knowledge of Jolene’s racing string and Steward’s Cup entries, no one could have guessed the two runners were brothers. However, the similarities were there in the form of the sharp-tipped, oversized ears and the prominent eye. On the right, Fable, earner of $2 million and winner of three Grade 1 races. On the left stood Literature, Fable’s maiden-breaking younger brother.

Jolene didn’t expect much out of Literature in the Steward’s Cup Juvenile. Not only would he have to outrun Pacific Classic, but also Emily Mitchell’s Cause to Burn, Eric Nalbone’s Sahara Sport, and Amanda Kessler’s pure runner Talented As I Am. For Jolene, the goal was the Year 26 Louisville Derby, something she’d dreamed about since Literature’s conception. Because Fable was full of wild speed, Jolene had planned for a slower, more distance-oriented cross when breeding her blue hen mare Lore to Throne. Unfortunately, given Literature’s slow development that fall, it looked as if he may miss the Derby in terms of maturity.

After both colts were washed and walking the shedrow, Jolene wandered around the other side of the barn which was occupied by her good friends Lisa Strummer and Sarah Chase. Lisa’s only Steward’s Cup entrant, an aggressive black colt named Original Gangster, pawed underneath his webbing, ears back as Jolene passed. She couldn’t find Lisa in her tack room, so she continued down the white aisle towards Sarah Chase’s side of the barn.

Sarah had six stalls, five of which contained Steward’s Cup hopefuls. Two of the stalls, which contained the well-matched full sisters Snowplay and Snowdance, stood empty, and Jolene couldn’t find Sarah, either. She stopped to give the white-striped face of Liveinthemoment a pat. The colt, a mirror image of his sire, was a huge threat in the Classic, the kind of horse that could step up from under the radar to win.

“Get away from that horse!” a voice snapped, and Jolene jerked back, confused. “Just kidding,” Sarah added, laughing down the aisle, trailing the two gray fillies. Their riders hovered close to their necks, avoiding the short shedrow ceiling, and urged them into their stalls where Sarah’s grooms were waiting with halters and coolers.

“I’m done for the morning,” Sarah crowed. The typically late riser didn’t mess around when it came to Steward’s Cup preparations.

“I still have three to go,” Jolene lamented, “but two are on the turf, so I have to wait until 9:30 for the course to open.”

Literature and Fable ambled past, led by hotwalkers wrapped in hoodies. They kept a distance of several yards in between the two colts. “After a few more rounds take them out to graze!” Jolene shouted after them. Neither responded, but Jolene knew they’d heard her. She turned back to Sarah.

“I can’t wait for this year to be over,” Sarah said, grabbing a white polo wrap and swiftly starting to re-wrap it against her knee. She repeated this four times as she talked outside of Snowdance’s stall, and Jolene took her cue and began to coil up Snowplay’s polos.

“Why?” Jolene asked. “I don’t want it to end, I’m retiring so many of my good horses.”

“I just want to see my new babies next year!” Sarah chirped. “Starfishing is going to have a filly, and I’m thinking of Sandplay for the name, but that might be too coltish.”

Jolene considered it. “It fits with the theme anyway!”

They heard a crashing noise at the end of the aisle and their heads whipped around. Jolene fully expected to see Literature skittering about on the end of his shank, but instead it was Fable who stood wide-eyed, balking at stepping outside.

“You don’t want to go get warm?” the hotwalker chided the black colt, spinning him once and then urging him through the doorframe. Fable hesitated, then followed, and the white light hit his coat, causing it to glitter violently.

**

The caravan of green tractors circled the track, harrowing and churning at the dirt, leaving it a deep brown, smooth and even. Alysse Jacobs stood outside the gap, looking up at the Twin Spires and felt a strange and unwelcome knot of emotion rise in her throat.

“Stop,” she commanded herself out loud, and her lanky sixteen-hand gray Thoroughbred colt cocked one ear in confusion. “Oh, sorry, not you,” Alysse murmured, resting one hand on the colt’s gray neck. Once a solid steel color, Buckingham now sported light dapples all over his coat. In a few years, the handsome colt would be nearly white.

Here on this very track eighteen months before, Buckingham had cruised to victory by 2 3/4 lengths in the Louisville Derby, then walked home through this very gap still wearing the wreath of roses on his steaming back. As the leading contender for Champion Older Male, Buckingham was riding a five-race win streak, including three Grade 1 races in Year 25. Now he was only four days from retirement; four days until he would be asked to prove his mettle in the breeding shed rather than on the racetrack.

Alysse preferred the latter. On the racetrack, the goal was known: run as fast as you can, faster than all the others. As a stallion, everything was subjective. Did he need to have a high number of winners, or a high percentage of stakes winners? High total progeny earnings, or simply have high average earnings? After the first year, when the yearlings were being broken, would he still be popular? Or would he fade away, as other Derby winners had done in the past?

Buckingham ducked his head once, shifting his weight. Like his trainer, he was oblivious to the ring of photographers surrounding him from behind, snapping the classic Champion-Overlooking-the-Spires shot. The tractors rumbled by again; only a few minutes until the track opened now.

“Hey, Jacobs, I see you get to stay this year!” Matt Wilson called, approaching with the massive black colt Heed the Warning. The defending Classic winner stood up almost beside Buckingham, awaiting his turn to step on the track. The photographers went wild with the photo-op, climbing up on the track rail to get a good angle.

“I do! They aren’t kicking me out,” Alysse answered, grinning. Buckingham didn’t get the chance to run in the Year 24 Classic because he wasn’t nominated. Alysse knew Matt was mostly teasing – if Buckingham had run in the Classic, Heed the Warning’s chances would have been seriously impared.

“It’s too bad you remembered to nominate this year,” Matt sighed dramatically. “Although I’m looking forward to your presence this year, since you can help soften up Fable and that other front runner, Liveinthemoment.”

Alysse wrinkled her nose and turned back towards the gap as the first tractor pulled off towards the tent where it lived through the morning until the races. In a Classic riddled with speed horses, late runners such as Heed the Warning and Landing on Dust, and even mid pack horses like Flames and Something Better had increased chances of winning.

As if on cue via Alysse’s thoughts, the crowd began to oooh and ahhh as Flames approached the gap. The colt was slightly smaller than Buckingham, and decidedly smaller than Heed the Warning, but he had a regal air about him. His trainer, Gerry Hardie, waited several paces behind, chatting with reporters who had walked up with the colt.

The photographers went wild at the sight of the three big favorites for the Classic, including a rare photo opportunity with two Louisville Derby winners. All three colts stood stock still, eyes on the racetrack, as the final tractor was put away and the gate at the gap swung forward to reveal a mile of harrowed earth.

Heed the Warning cut ahead of Buckingham, bursting onto the track first. Buckingham pinned his ears and leapt sideways, his dark mane billowing out behind him with the movement. Flames remained stately, marching on with purpose.

Slipping unobtrusively onto the gap by the clocker’s stand was West, a tall but thin black colt with a narrow white stripe. He jogged off the right way, galloped down past the wire, and walked off the track before anyone saw him out there. His trainer, Karie McBrian, followed him back to the barn, quietly scrutinizing every footfall. West danced sideways with his head up, snorting eagerly.

**

No press surrounded Hall of Fame trainer Robin Tan’s side of Barn 42. She followed Ad Infinitum to the track without fanfare, although she was sure the Steward’s Inquiry crews would pick up the colt’s gallop once he stepped onto the dirt.

At one time, Robin was the leading owner, trainer, and breeder in the whole industry. She still held the record for most stakes wins in a year. She was still in the top ten of all time winners. Yet, she had only this one hope at the Steward’s Cup, her first real hope in a long while.

Ad Infinitum, a compact dark bay, would contest the six-furlong Sprint. If not for a half-length, the son of Tycoon would be undefeated in ten starts. He ran a 98 in his biggest defeat, a miss to Rodriguez in the Sprint Championships a year ago. He even flashed 98 speed in his second career race, a simple Grade 3 against Look See, a colt who would also race in the Sprint. If Ad Infinitum ran to his early speed, he would be tough to pass in the lane.

Eric Hamme stood, arms crossed, blocking the path to the gap. Robin looked at him, slightly confused. “Er, excuse me,” she said, trying to lead Ad Infinitum around.

“Hold on,” Eric said, glowering. “I’m trying to find something I can make fun of about this colt in my next article.”

Robin stared at him, incredulous, wishing he would move so that he didn’t get run over by a horse exiting the oval. The track seemed alive with activity as horses galloped past, the last set before the main track closed for turf gallops. The veteran campaigner Artillery, defending champion of the Marathon, tugged his way up the backstretch, defying his docile gelded nature. Susie Raisher’s flashy chestnut filly Boann jogged merrily along the outside fence, her head up and tail swishing behind her with every step. Jonathan Bolt’s headstrong sophomore Lokite Officer leapt sideways off the track, spooking and bolting upwards, legs straight. Robin took all of this in out of the corner of her eye, while keeping the other trained on Eric Hamme.

“Alright, I can’t think of anything. You can go,” he said, stepping away and vanishing into the clocker’s stand.

Robin remained rooted to the ground outside the gap, confused, then stepped forward to lead her horse on. Ad Infinitum squealed in delight when released, and bounced forward, his white leg wraps flashing as he jogged the wrong way.

**

A somewhat plain bay colt still stood in the middle of the clubhouse turn when the main track closed for the morning. When all other horses had cleared off, Jury Conviction turned and started his gallop up the backstretch. Miryam Cornwall watched her nearly undefeated miler, so bland when still but such poetry in motion, as he passed her and headed for the far turn. Once his long legs unraveled and he found his rhythm, Jury Conviction burned up the track, streaking around the turn and towards the wire. A little blowout would do him good.

Miryam held her breath until the son of Edict came off the track walking soundly. After nine years of training, she finally had THE horse, the horse everyone dreamt of, hoped for, the reason people went to the barn in the morning. Jury Conviction had the chance to make her career in four days. Her heart skipped a beat at the thought.

**

A slew of horses stepped through the open rails on the backstretch. Two horses in Ladonna King’s final set of the day walked on in single file, following Emily Klein’s arch-necked bay Anemone and Stormy Peak’s blazing chestnut Won’t Back Down. Only eight horses were allowed on the turf at one time during the morning hours. Ashley Gibson’s bouncing dark bay Offshore Excursion led the charge, having turned the right way immediately and already into a gallop at the 3/8ths pole. Jolene Danner’s black three-year-old Tattered followed close behind, too aggressive to walk, stand, wait, and then gallop.

Ladonna’s two horses turned the wrong way and maintained a brisk jog around the first turn. Night Or Day led the group, his dark neck raised high as he surveyed the outer turf rails. A second black colt, the small and burly Switzerland-bred Feat, jogged behind. He’d inherited his bulky shoulders from his sire, Fumetsu, and his lithe dark frame from his dam, the immortal Kismet.

The pair of horses stopped at the wire, watching Anemone and Won’t Back Down gallop past, then turned and started jogging the right way. Up in the grandstand, Ladonna watched, shading her eyes from the rapidly warming sun. Night Or Day, a candidate for the Turf Sprint, broke off first, galloping sedately ahead of Feat, who hesitated in the middle of the turf course before jumping out into an eager gallop.

Feat had a lot to live up to. His siblings including Turf winner Feature Attraction, who took the race by an astonishing 13 3/4 lengths, as well as Arc winner Atlantis and super sire Frayed. Kismet was the dam of seven $1 million earners, with total progeny earnings of just under $18 million as of Steward’s Cup week. With two more foals yet to hit the track, and both the four-year-old Hurry Up and Wait and three-year-old Feat sure to hit $1 million in their careers, Kismet’s legend as a broodmare and future Hall of Famer was secure.

Feat headed towards the far turn, passing Offshore Excursion jogging back towards the gap. The second turf set was circling outside the gap, comprised of Ramey Furney’s The Shadow Knows, a black turf sprinter; Franky Dam’s well-bred bay All I Want to Tell; and two horses from Peter Gleason’s barn, the fillies Pellerani and Sell Me Your Soul. After Ladonna confirmed that none of the horses waiting for their turn were Turf contenders, she went back to watching Feat, who thundered down the stretch with short, quick strides. She brushed back her hair and started to walk down the steps towards the first level of the grandstand, but stopped short.

Just stepping on to the track from the backside chute gap was a bay horse. He had no markings, and wasn’t tall, merely a solid bright bay with a flowing black mane and tail. Despite being so nondescript, Ladonna knew the horse instantly. “When on earth did he get here?”

July strutted onto the track, thrusting his narrow head into the air and sending his black mane cascading. Ladonna scrambled to look through her pre-entry list. “I swear I never saw his name,” she muttered. Having to deal with star older runners such as Bold, Inhuman, and Jabaar was bad enough, let alone tackling a superhorse such as Trafalgar. Now that July had arrived, Ladonna felt panicked and considered scratching Feat.

Down on the track, the black colt refused to pull up. He tugged on the rains, throwing rider Ava Fox up onto his neck. His dark coat sparkled with dapples, and Ladonna knew he’d never been better. All thoughts of scratching drained from her mind. Instead, she contemplated whether or not the 1 1/2 mile world record would fall during the race.

**

Just after one in the afternoon, Ara Davies sat outside of Coloratura’s stall, reading fanfic on her iPhone and enjoying the gentle woofing of the filly against her neck. After three full seasons of hard competition, the bright chestnut Coloratura had become one of her favorites. Plus, it would be difficult to park outside of a different runner’s stall.

Out of Ara’s ten Steward’s Cup contenders, five of them were slightly unruly. Trafalgar, the favorite for the Turf, fussed if bothered and remained aloof and distant in his stall. Warlike carried an aggressive, mean streak, while Look See and Look Quick were full of nervous energy. The stately gray Caldron was one of Ara’s least favorite horses, and two-year-old Casus Belli was known to bite. That left Diffraction, Carpenter, and Bold.

Coloratura reached her burnt copper nose over the webbing and attempted to dislodge the iPhone from Ara’s hands. Ara giggled and rubbed the velvet muzzle, then stood up and stepped away to finish her story. Coloratura stuck her neck out curiously, then turned to dig in her hay bale instead.

Quiet had descended on the backside, as there was no racing on Tuesdays, and no paddock schooling until Wednesday. Most trainers, owners, hotwalkers and grooms had all gone home for a midday rest before afternoon feeding and walking around three. The sun had come out in full force just after training, warming the earth, but the wind never quit, and now it blew clouds of dust across the barren stabling area.

Ara’s shedrow, at the furthest end of the backside by the parking lot, was a quiet, sheltered barn. Although the horses could hear the clang of the gate in the sprint races, they weren’t affected too badly by traffic noises or general commotion in the morning. She liked that barn this year, the year she actually had several major shots in the Steward’s Cup. Instead of just partying, like usual, Ara was focused, intense, and ready.

As soon as the thought left her mind, the iPhone lit up in her hands. Ara saw a picture of Michelle Calderoni in a Disney pirate outfit flashing on the screen. She stared at it, confused, then answered. “Hello?”

“Araaaa!” Michelle called, and Ara could hear music pumping in the background of what she assumed was Michelle’s hotel room. “Are you coming to the trainer’s dinner tonight?”

“Free food? What do you think?” Ara answered, as if this was clearly a stupid question. “What time does it start?”

“Seven, but Jolene and I are going to pre-game at six,” Michelle answered, slightly out of breath, as if she were dancing.

“Oooh! What hotel are you at?” Ara asked. “I’ll be over after feeding!”

---

Back to Steward's Cup articles