Daybreak in New Orleans - Part 6

Original article written by The Steward posted 14 years 1 week ago

Dan Gordon viewed the world between the ears of a Thoroughbred. Underneath him, Mighty Bold shifted her muscles back and forth, stretching and releasing in an easy jog the wrong way down the backstretch. Her brown ears pricked forward, her pulled black mane bouncing in his face with every step.

Along the rail, Santino Di Paola’s gelding Sign of Life chugged towards the far turn in a gallop, followed shortly by another bay, Hope and Change. Jeff Baldridge’s two-year-old son of Pacific was the only maiden entered on the Friday card.

Dan kissed to his filly and felt her extend forward into an even bouncier trot. Not quite sixteen hands, Mighty Bold was a small, sweet filly with an uncomfortable gait. She loved a mile, but would be stretching out to 1 1/16 for the first time on Friday in the Juvenile Fillies.

Bob Oliva’s strapping dark bay Big Tendency stood at the bottom of the clubhouse turn, her rider perched tall in the saddle. Dan eyed the filly’s impressive physique and wondered if Mighty Bold would ever look so good. The fillies shared a common sire, Mighty Big, but Big Tendency was an eight-time stakes winner already.

After Joseph Griffitt’s longshot contender Banquo’s Ghost passed along the rail, Dan turned Mighty Bold to the right and clucked again, urging her into a gallop. The happy filly responded immediately, bouncing forward with her eyes ahead. They passed a stream of horses jogging down the backside as they had been moments ago, the names on their towel blurring from SONG and ONE IN THE SAME to one streak of white as Mighty Bold picked up speed.

Turning into the stretch and coming down past the grandstand, Dan glanced to his right to see trainers such as Kira Ravenwood and Stephen Skaggs clocking runners on the apron. He glanced towards the left, then, and saw the beautiful purple and yellow flowers dotting the infield. After finishing an entire mile at a gallop, he rose in the stirrups and called to the filly in a low voice. Obediently, Mighty Bold dropped to a walk.

“Good morning!” Nora Jean called from the back of Somewhere in Space, a lean and dark steel gray filly who tugged wildly at the bit and demanded to go on.

“Great morning!” Dan called back, feeling exuberant. Mighty Bold leapt slightly into the sky coming off the track, all four feet airborne, but Dan didn’t mind. The filly was simply ready to go.

**

“Can you give me a hand with this?” John Hannibal Smith called down the aisle. He was crouched in Clever and Cunning’s stall, the coal black stallion’s hoof cocked beside him. For a moment, John heard no reply, which was disheartening, but he wasn’t entirely positive anyone else was in the shedrow. He knew Jack Johns and her colt Passer were already at the track, and Donnie Hidalgo had sent his two contenders out early. The only other person sharing the shedrow was Amanda O’Brien, and her one Steward’s Cup shot was a filly who would school on the grass in a few hours.

“What do you need?” asked a male voice, and John glanced under his arm to see Rob Kilbourn outside the crossbar.

“Rob! Hey, I forgot you were on our shedrow,” John admitted, feeling embarrassed.

“I’m not,” Rob laughed, “but I was walking past and heard you.”

“Oh, good, I thought I was going crazy,” John grinned.

“What can I do for you?” Rob asked, eyeing the situation.

“His right hind is loose,” John explained, wiggling the silver horseshoe. “I called the farrier, but he’s over at Skippy Bowen’s barn working on that sprinter they have, and you know that horse can be a handful, so I know it’s going to take forever and frankly, I can put the shoe back on myself, but this horse is a nut and I need someone to hold him.”

“Great!” Rob said with fake enthusiasm. “I get to hold the crazy horse!” He entered the stall anyway, ducking under the crossbar and running a chain shank through Clever and Cunning’s halter and over his gums. “I thought this horse used to be nice?” he asked John.

“He was nice!” John agreed. “Then he turned four and now he’s, well….”

Suddenly, Clever and Cunning leapt forward and tried to spin his hindquarters to crush both men against the side of the wall. With their combined weight, Rob and John countered the colt and held him flush against the opposite wall while John continued to work. Within a few minutes, the shoe was back in place.

“Thanks!” John exclaimed. “Are you done for the day?”

“I was actually just heading over to the kitchen,” Rob explained. He pointed at his belly. “You have to fuel up before turf works! Want to come?”

The two men headed for the kitchen.

**

Nikki Sherman ducked out of the way, letting go of Camcorder, who burst through the gap in the rail and motored off up the turf course. The target of her fear, Sword Bearer, was plunging outside the gap, his blood-bay coat shining with sweat.

“Sorry, Nikki!” Aidan called, spinning his colt in a tight circle and leading him onto the course.

“Oh, it’s okay,” Nikki said, not quite convincingly, as she backed away from the scene.

A line of horses were held up outside the gap; the flashy bay Stroke of Genius pawed restlessly while Sean Furney’s ridiculously tall two-year-old colt stood quietly, his head bowed.

It was Thursday, the day before the 26th Steward’s Cup races. This was the very last chance for all the grass runners to get used to the course, and it was more crowded than normal. Jolene Danner’s duo of Moya and Tattered had made it onto the course, as had Brianna McKenzie’s Inhuman, before Sword Bearer had held up the process. Nikki was glad to see Camcorder had settled and jogged smoothly along the outside fence.

A hush fell over the crowd of trainers, media, and onlookers when a dark bay with a white star stepped onto the dirt track, headed towards the turf course. Even Sword Bearer stopped fighting, his eyes alight with the new arrival in his vision.

A young, lean man with close-cropped hair led the horse that caught everyone’s eyes. Like the parting of the sea, everyone moved out of their way, watching the rippling muscles under the colt’s hard, dark coat. The name on his purple cloth read GREATEST, the young man leading him was Nathan Sellers.

Greatest entered the course with no fuss and turned to start his warm up jog. Sword Bearer tugged to go after him, now desperate to catch his rival. Aidan let go of the shank, and Sword Bearer charged off, as if to say, “Anything you can do, I can do better.”

Moya and Tattered exited the track as Stroke of Genius and Imposing went on. Behind them came Stephen Skaggs’ Tracks in the Sand, followed by the white-faced Dream in the Dark from the Nalbone stable.

“The gang’s all here,” Brianna muttered from the trainer’s platform before going to collect Inhuman.

**

After training ended on Thursday, Emily Shields poked her head into Jarrod Brush’s shedrow. She didn’t see the trainer anywhere, so she tiptoed quietly down the aisle to the second stall. “Nick?” she whispered tentatively.

With a delighted whicker, the black colt appeared and stuck his soft nose into her hands. Emily grinned and hugged him close. “Hi, buddy,” she murmured, stroking his white face.

“Busted!” Jarrod called, stepping out of The Secret Wedding’s stall.

Emily spun around and threw up her hands in confession, startling Nicholas.

“Have you been feeding him carrots?” Jarrod asked, half seriously. “I feel like he’s gaining weight.”

“Definitely not,” Emily promised. “I have been feeding him love, though.”

Jarrod rolled his eyes. “You’d better say goodbye to him, I don’t know when you’ll make it out to the farm to see him.”

“Oh, probably as soon as I ship the first mare out to visit him,” Emily grinned. “I think I’ll go with her!” She gave Nicholas a hug goodbye and then backed away from the stall. “Good luck tomorrow, Jarrod.”

“Thanks,” Jarrod said, his voice tight.

**

The sun was fading behind the trees, and New Orleans Park was quiet. After Ali LaDuke had led Redwood back to the barn, Gerry Hardie was left alone with his prized colt, Flames, on a strip of grass behind the main barns.

The red bay’s coat blazed in the dying sun, and his black mane lifted gently off his neck and resettled as he ducked his head to graze. Gerry set a hand on the colt’s broad shoulder and admired his Derby winner. Flames ripped and chewed grass contentedly until his trainer pulled his head up. Flames obeyed, reluctantly.

“Sorry, big guy, but you can’t get fat before tomorrow,” Gerry explained quietly.

Tomorrow. Steward’s Cup Day. The final race of Flames’ storied career. Another chapter in racing history, about to be written. As Flames walked back to the barn, his long muscles uncoiling, Gerry felt no nerves; he only felt peaceful.

The End

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