Daybreak on Long Island - Part 2

Original article written by The Steward posted 13 years 0 weeks ago

Dawn was just breaking over the track, casting a golden glow on the grandstand. Alex Puderbaugh sat back in her stable pony’s saddle, watching her pair of trainees thundering to the wire together in a quick quarter-mile blowout. The 17-hand high chestnut Wobble, on the outside, was inching away and hit the wire in front, but the stout juvenile filly Eucalyptus, on the rail, held gamely, trying to keep pace. The pair swept past Puderbaugh into the clubhouse turn, their riders standing tall over their necks.

Alex clucked, swinging the pony around and urging him into a lope. She chased after the pair, ready to lead Wobble off the track and back to the barn. Eucalyptus was of a much sounder mind and didn’t need any special attention.

Although both fillies were wearing their purple Steward’s Cup towels, Eucalyptus went mostly unnoticed stepping off the gap as photographers focused on Wobble. The massive, sun-red filly continuously leapt off her forelegs, rocking back onto her hindquarters, lather forming along her neck. She was one of the favorites for the incredibly stacked Filly and Mare Turf Sprint, a five-furlong dash for older females on the grass.

“Watch out!” Alex called to one of the braver photographers, who dared to dart out and snap a photo of Wobble in mid-air with the early morning light blazing off her coat. Alex snatched at the filly’s head, drawing Wobble’s hindquarters around sideways and nearly running the paparazzi over. She giggled silently to herself.

As they headed back to the barn, they passed a host of other trainers and horses headed in the opposite direction. Brian Leavitt was singing a somewhat-on-key rendition of “New York, New York” at the top of his lungs, his hand resting on the bit of his gray filly Cloudy Skye.

“Who sings that song, Leavitt?” Jamie Newton called, leaning over the fence and waiting for his two-year-old son of Right Hand Man, Tough and Scary, to walk down the horse path.

“Uh…” Brian considered, “Alicia Keys? No, wait…Sinatra?”

“So, not you,” Jamie barbed.

“Oooh, ouch,” Brian laughed good-naturedly. He then attempted to sing Katy Perry’s California Gurls.

“Someone turn that off!” Ashley Gibson moaned, her hands over her ears. She’d just stepped out of her car outside Barn 29 dressed in casual, comfortable jeans and a yellow tank top.

“Isn’t it a little cold for that?” Jamie asked, wearing a hooded sweatshirt in the early morning chill.

“Did you see the weather report this morning?” Ashley called back, her hand raised over her eyes to block the streaming sun. “It’s going to be 80 later! And sunshine only on Steward’s Cup Day!”

Her words brought a chorus of cheers from everyone in the area, especially from Rebecca Cass, who slapped the neck of her colt Snoogle excitedly. “You hear that, boy? You’ll get your chance after all!” she crowed in delight. Snoogle nodded his head in time to his strides, champing at the bit and swiveling his ears. Steam rose from his nostrils.

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Peter Gleason fumbled with the stirrup leather, keeping one hand on the reins as the other tried to move the buckle one notch higher. Jaw Dropper, a 16-hand high band of muscle, wasn’t making it easy – despite Peter’s halfhearted protests, the colt kept walking, heading the wrong way up the stretch along the outside rail.

“Did you hear the news?” Ali LaDuke asked, posting up to Peter on a small bay colt with a white diamond between his eyes.

“What news?” Peter asked, before adding a frustrated, “WHOA!” at Jaw Dropper.

“I just heard from Royal Alexander that someone broke into Emma Lochran’s tack trunk and stole her hoof pick!” Ali said with an air of importance.

“So, shouldn’t she just go get a new hoof pick?” Peter asked, confused.

“Of course she will,” Ali said, rolling her eyes, “but don’t you think it’s odd that someone would break in steal her hoof pick, when the rumor is that Sofie had a hoof bruise this week?”

“Hmmm,” Peter mused, dropping the leather and gathering his reins. “So that would make the main suspects someone in her horse’s race, right?”

“Right,” Ali confirmed.

Jaw Dropper suddenly sprang forward, his ears flat back and his eyes wild. Ali jerked her colt’s head away and gave him a crack on the shoulder with the whip. “Sorry,” she apologized. “This is Archangel, and he’s kind of dumb.”

“Well if you see Emma, tell her I hope they catch the thief,” Peter said, then urged Jaw Breaker into a jog and left Archangel and Ali behind.

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By the 8:00 break, the sun had risen fully, the cloudless sky sparkled blue, and the backside was bustling. A farrier’s truck was parked out of Lauren Haggerty’s barn, and inside the aisle he was bent over Jaser’s white-stocking leg, hammering the aluminum plate into the colt’s hoof. Lauren stood at the colt’s head, barking orders to the groom readying Red White and Gold for her morning exercise.

Nikki Sherman stood outside her barn on the far side of the training track, hands on her hips as she surveyed her six horses circling outside the shed in the sunshine. Three of them - Scarlet Filly, Call the Shots, and Shattered Ice were untacked, their freshly bathed bodies drying naturally. Rescue, Burst Your Bubble, and Born to Fight were tacked up, their purple towels fluttering in the breeze.

Nearby, Laura Smith stood in the center of a fenced-in grassy area, grazing a magnificent chestnut with a white face. Photographers had gathered around and were snapping away as the gleaming colt picked at the greenery. His muscles rippled over his hard coat, and Laura’s face beamed with pride.

A large horse van idled at the gate, carrying equine superstars unknown. “Who is supposed to be arriving now?” one reporter asked, staring at the van as if it would yield answers.

On cue, the director of media hurried over from the gate. “It’s Stay Awake guys! He’ll be going to Barn 27, so hurry over!”

The media flurried, dashing away from Sockie and crowding the unloading ramp at Barn 27. Alysse Jacobs, Stay Awake’s trainer, stood beside the approaching van, wringing her hands nervously. The expensive colt – racing’s most famous bridesmaid – would be one of the favorites for the Steward’s Cup Classic. He rustled about inside, his hooves ringing clearly on the floor, as the van pulled even with the ramp and its engine shut off.

Photographers jockeyed for position, desperate to get that money shot of Stay Awake leaving the van and heading into the barn. Alysse frowned at the commotion, then stepped through the side door of the van and spoke to the groom inside. The horse door was opened with a vibrating thud, and the wood plank extended to the ramp.

A dark bay head poked out, and the crowd began shooting like mad. The groom unclipped the shank and carefully eased the horse down the ramp. The dark bay sported no markings, and as he neared, the journalists in the group frowned.

“He looks awful,” one man hissed, loud enough for others to hear. Sure enough, the colt had already grown his winter coat, his neck was ill defined, and his head hung listlessly.

“Do not bet on him,” another man agreed, then turned to find Alysse. The trainer had vanished, presumably into the barn. Photographers rushed to the other end of the shedrow, hoping to get an unobstructed picture of the mighty colt walking.

Ten minutes later, with everyone away from the trailer, Alysse emerged. At her right was a powerfully built dark bay with solid muscles and rings of light dapples. The colt’s glorious forelock draped over his eyes, giving him a mysterious look. His coat gleamed coming off the van, and he strode with purpose into the shedrow. His neck arched. His fine mouth gaped on the stud chain.

Alysse knew that her ruse would only last a few more minutes, but for now, Zipless II was doing a perfect job of distracting the paparazzi. The miserable claiming-level runner stood in the doorway at the end of the shedrow, his head raised high as if unaware that he was merely a stand in.

“Wait!” one woman cried, looking up from her digital camera’s screen. “His halter says Zipless II!”

“The jig is up, big guy,” Alysse whispered into her colt’s ear. Stay Awake marched forward, ready to take his place in the spotlight.

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