Daybreak in New Orleans - Part 1

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

Tap – tap – tap – tap.

Emily Shields blinked once, but otherwise did not move from her position curled up between the driver’s seat and the steering while of her rented Honda. Mercifully, the sky was still black, but lights blazed on inside the little red grandstand growing up proudly against the dark backdrop.

Tap – tap – tap – tap.

“Wha ger ah?? Emily moaned, finally shifting and uncoiling her knees and arms gingerly. She tried turning her head, but her neck caught and sent sparks of pain down her shoulders. She blinked again, then turned her full body around, knees hooking under the steering wheel, and saw a bright face peering down at her through the window.

Blinking a third time and removing the sleep from her eyes, Emily turned the key in the ignition halfway and rolled down the driver’s side window. She stared hazily up at Melissa Mae, who wore simply jeans and a T-shirt, impervious to the frigid morning air.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Melissa chirped. “Are you ready for the big week?”

Emily looked back at the dashboard, hoping it would tell her the time or date. When that information wasn’t revealed, she picked up her cell phone and checked the time: 4:48 am.

“Oh, geez, I gotta get the pony,” she said, rolling up the window and scrambling out of the car. As she did so, Emily glanced longingly at the Venti Starbucks hot chocolate clutched in Melissa’s right hand.

“Already on it,” Melissa grinned, holding up her own cell phone. “I called Scott when I saw you and told him to bring one for you.”

“Scott? Eiland?” Emily asked, as if there was some other Scott. “Isn’t he asleep and not coming in until the last set or something?” They turned and were headed into the grandstand when they heard a muted beep! and saw the pale headlights of a golf cart speeding towards them.

“Speak of the devil,” Melissa giggled. The golf cart slowed and turned, and without the headlights glaring their vision, Emily could see Scott in the driver’s seat.

“Good morning!” he bellowed, equally as cheery as Melissa. “How is our fine Steward today?”

“I don’t know,” Emily said, taking the grande hot chocolate from Scott’s hand and sliding into the front seat beside him while Melissa ducked into the back. “I landed about midnight, and drove straight here instead of to the hotel. I fell asleep out here in front of the grandstand…” She trailed off as Scott hit the gas, and the golf cart sped towards the backside of New Orleans Park.

The cold air blasted their faces; even Emily snapped awake instantly. Scott wheeled the cart into a sharp arc, hugging the outer rail of the clubhouse turn. The white rail whipped by, blurring a bit as the headed for the backside.

New Orleans Park was dark, the track not yet open for training. The lights blazing inside the diminutive grandstand cast only a moderate glow from the 1/8th pole to the wire on the track, and the barns in the distance were dimly lit. The parking lot stretched out to the East with only the occasional streetlight dotting the premises. At five am on a Sunday morning, traffic on Gentilly Boulevard was moot.

“Good morning,” the portly guard at the stable gate said, waving their golf cart to a halt. He hitched his belt up around his waist and stepped towards them. “You guys got your licenses?”

“Oh, shoot,” Melissa muttered quietly, clutching her pockets. “I totally left mine at the hotel.” She tried to make herself as small as possible while Scott handed over his trainer’s license, a card-sized document depicting an unfortunate mug shot.

“Alright, what about you, miss?” the guard said to Emily, handing Scott back his license and reaching for the Steward’s. He glanced at it, read the name, and looked up with a worried expression. “Mrs. Shields! I’m very sorry. Please, go on in, guys.”

“No problem,” Emily said, feeling mildly smug and turning to grin at Melissa as Scott hit the gas again. “There, now we are even,” she said to her friend.

Four long barns were set up in a rectangle in front of them, but Scott turned left and continued along the outer track rail midway up the backstretch. Two more barns – the receiving barn and the pony barn – stood up ahead. At the top of the far turn was the real stabling, where over twenty barns resided in two rows.

Alex Puderbaugh stood outside the pony barn wearing jeans, leather boots, and a blue and white striped collared shirt. She pushed her blonde hair behind her ears and clucked to the bay Thoroughbred whose reins she held. “He’s all tacked up,” she announced to Emily as Scott slowed the golf cart a few feet away.

Emily frowned and looked back at Melissa questioningly. “I told you I was on it,” Melissa laughed, and then she and Scott sped away towards the barns to ready their own horses.

“Thanks, Alex, that was super nice of you,” Emily said, taking the reins from the young trainer and slipping them over the gelding’s head. She cocked her left leg back and Alex helped lift her into the saddle.

“It wasn’t a problem at all,” Alex promised. “I got here about an hour ago and my first set isn’t even going out until 6:30. Melissa mass texted everyone, I think!”

“Melissa needs to let me scramble when I don’t wake up on time,” Emily said ruefully, adjusting the stirrups. “I’d better go open the gate!”

The only gap to the track was right before the half-mile pole. A single white bar hung across the entrance, blocking anyone from training during the off hours. Emily guided her gelding to the fence, then leaned over the right side of the saddle to release the latch on the gate.

“You have to be able to hire someone to do that for you,” joked a male voice. Emily finished tucking the gate away before looking up to see Oleg Van Buren perched on top of a leggy bay with a round barrel. Oleg carried a black crop in his back pocket, so Emily knew he was going to work the colt, whose saddle towel read KING OF PRUSSIA.

“Those Steward’s Cup jerks just come in and take over everything,” Emily grinned over her shoulder. “It’s part of the contract, you know. And why hire someone for something I can do myself?”

“We all know it’s because you want to scope out the competition,” Oleg said, turning the right way and jogging off immediately, rising and falling in time with his horse’s hooves.

Emily didn’t want to admit how close Oleg’s theory was to being correct. She spent the winter and early spring in Kentucky at her Trial By Summer Stales, a five thousand acre horse haven that the best broodmares in the world called home. After the Louisville Derby, she traveled to California to spend the summer and fall. The Steward’s Cup was her only chance to see the best horses from all over the world, and to scout new breeding stock.

The track was extremely quiet, the sky to the East just beginning to turn purple around the horizon. Emily pointed the pony in the direction of the clubhouse turn and upon arrival, took up her position as the outrider just past the wire. Two New Orleans Park outriders had been hired out by Steward’s Cup to preside on the backstretch and on the far turn near the gap.

King of Prussia hustled by, striding out under the wire and galloping out around the turn. Oleg stood tall in the stirrups, calling “Whoaaaaa, Whoa….” After they had disappeared into the darkness up the backstretch, Emily sleepily studied the hoofprints in the soft dirt. Within an hour, the whole track would be churned over, but for now, King of Prussia’s footsteps made a neat image alone in the dark.

**

“Quit,” Chani Ruzzo murmured without taking action.

Her white mare, Our Dreamer, fidgeted with the bit but stopped scooting sideways. Her ears pricked as she heard someone enter the quiet shedrow. Chani heard it too, but continued to tighten the mare’s girth while Our Dreamer was distracted.

“Good morning,” Shayla Randazzo said sleepily from outside the stall webbing.

Chani smiled in response, then stepped back and set a hand on Our Dreamer’s shoulder while the mare accepted a pat from the new arrival. “Your colt was pitching a fit this morning when I got here,” Chani said.

“He shipped in around midnight,” Shayla explained. “He is probably still keyed up. He’s going out at six though, so he’ll be okay after that.”

As if eavesdropping, American Soldier kicked out at the stall wall two doors down. He then popped his lovely black head over the webbing, trying to look innocent.

Chani bid Shayla farewell and led Our Dreamer out into the aisle, then straight out towards the track. It was barely 5:30, and the level of horse activity remained low for the moment.

The barn area was situated in a crooked T. The T laid on its side, with the backstretch of the racetrack parallel to the long part of the T, and the short part hooked over the top of the far turn. Two rows of 11 barns made up the top of the T, and while eight extra long barns made the staff. Chani’s barn was in the top left corner of the T, so the walk to the gap was about an eighth of a mile away. Our Dreamer tucked her head in, strutting excitedly for the track. In the dark, she looked like a ghost.

“Freaky!” Paul Heinrich called, standing in the doorway of his shedrow and watching Chani and her haunted mare walk past.

Chani grinned and waved but didn’t respond. At the gap she found Aaron Fox, the mare’s regular rider, and boosted him into the saddle. “Just an easy mile and a half gallop,” she said, and Aaron nodded, collecting his reins and moving off the wrong way down the backstretch.

Paul walked up beside her, leading a massive bay colt whose rider sat perched like a bird in the saddle. The colt wore his purple Steward’s Cup saddle towel, and Chani read SHELBY MUSTANG out the corner of her eye. The colt was quiet, tall and handsome, the snaffle bit rested comfortably in his mouth.

“You ready to go, big boy?” Paul asked, setting one hand on the colt’s neck. Shelby Mustang did nothing but prick his ears, watching Robert Mertz’s Rich and Famous, the only other horse on the track, gallop past at the half-mile pole.

Paul turned the colt loose, and Shelby Mustang walked calmly onto the track.

“That’s a big baby,” Chani commented.

“He’s massive,” Paul agreed. “I hope he runs hugely next week!”

Chani didn’t answer, her eyes on Our Dreamer as the white mare streaked, ghost like, past the gap and towards the far turn. She became a blur entering the stretch and disappearing from view.

**

At precisely six in the morning, Paul Sellers pointed out the shedrow door and watched his set of five fillies march out in single file. They didn’t have far to go; Paul’s barn was located only two from the gap.

The sweet-faced gray filly Penny Slots led the brigade, stepping lightly towards the track. Midnight Comet, a much larger gray, followed along in second, with stablemates Zoomstress and Interurban next. Paul fell into step beside Fire Split the Sky, a white striped chestnut filly, and walked with her on the short path to the gap.

All five fillies lined up along the outside rail, parked in front of a slightly raised platform for owners and trainers to observe the workouts. The sun had just broken over the horizon, but a layering of clouds threatened the temperature. Paul wasn’t worried; five-day forecasts called for sun on Friday.

Fire Split the Sky stared, resolute, out at the track, her ears pricked and her eyes widening each time a horse galloped past. Interurban dropped her head, disinterested, and nudged Paul in the shoulder as he stood between the two sprinters. After another few minutes, he gave them both a pat on the shoulder, then ducked under the outside rail. The team, now led by Fire Split the Sky, turned the wrong way and headed down the backstretch towards the first turn in single file.

Paul stepped up onto the platform and pulled a crumpled sheet of paper from his back pocket. On it were the entries for both the Filly and Mare Sprint and the Juvenile Filly Sprint. He scanned the sheet, then eyed the racetrack for any possible rival contenders.

Now that it was daylight, the track bustled with activity, which would continue until the first break at 7:30. The first two horses to gallop past – Sensual and Sign of Life – Paul didn’t recognize, but the third horse was a leggy chestnut filly with a broad hind end. Her saddle towel read ONE MIRACLE and she sported a black and brown pad over the towel.

Paul watched the rider standing, bent over at the waist at a 90 degree angle, allowing the filly to bound beneath him. He made a mental list of pros and cons, but not for One Miracle to win, but to lose.

Cons: Fantastic dam, filly looks good, Ronnie Dee is a capable trainer

Pros: Hasn’t won in half a year, sire no one has heard of, hasn’t won a Grade 1 in two years

Ten minutes later, Paul’s set of fillies galloped by one after the other, strutting their stuff over the thick, dark dirt. Paul could only find Pros.

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