Daybreak in Seattle Part 2

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

A gust of frigid air blasted across the tarmac, causing A.R. Roberts to huddle deeper into his gray windbreaker. His stripe-faced dark bay colt, Symboli Fortune, was balking on the ramp into the Tex Simton plane at John F. Kennedy Airport. The patient, professional horse handlers were gently coaxing the colt to step forward, trying to unbalance him by turning his head and force him to take a step. Symboli Fortune was having none of it, and instead looked around the small strip of visible airport with interest.

Of the five Steward’s Cup entrants shipping from New York to Seattle Downs, two – Keith Maidlow’s World Class Legacy and Julie Kluesener’s When I Wake Up – were already on the plane. Both of them were two-year-olds, like Symboli Future, but they had caused no problems and walked on without fanfare. “Get up there!” A.R. snapped in frustration.

Symboli Future turned to look at him, as if frowning, and then stepped forward willingly, walking up the ramp onto the plane.

“He just wanted to bid the winter air farewell,” Clinton Jacinto joked from A.R.’s left side.

“He’ll have plenty of time to play in the sunshine this winter when he moves down to the farm,” A.R. grumbled. “I don’t like holding up traffic.”

“We’re already almost an hour delayed,” Clinton pointed out, “I don’t think he will make it that much worse.”

They quieted when a little, burly dark bay with a white blaze stepped onto the ramp. His purple blanket read PROPHET in white letters. Amy Schmidt’s handsome stallion crab stepped towards the plane, his dark mane lifting lightly off his arched neck.

The last horse off the van, Air Breather, appeared in the doorway, being led by one of the red-jacketed Tex Simton handlers. Her delicate nostrils flared in the brisk air, and she let out one shrill whinny.

“It’s okay, baby girl, I’m right here!” Clinton called, cupping his hands over his mouth so the wind wouldn’t carry them away.

A.R. opened his mouth, then appeared to stifle a comment, and instead turned to walk back to the small parking lot where his car waited.

“See you in Seattle, girl!” Clinton hollered as Air Breather disappeared into the hold. He waited for a moment, then realized she was gone and the only way to see her would be to drive to the other side of the airport and get on his own Washington-bound flight. When he arrived at the barn that night, Air Breather would be bedded down and waiting for him, and in 17 hours she would be going out to the track for the first time…

The mere thought made Clinton skip one step, clicking his heels together in excitement.

--

“What do you mean, you can’t find my reservation?” Larry Burndorf snapped, glaring hard at the red-haired hotel receptionist. She squinted right back at him over dark-rimmed glasses, and repeated her statement.

“We have no record of your reservation, sir.”

“Great. Can you just get me a room now, then?” he said, his patience clearly on a breaking point. He started flipping through emails on his Droid, hunting for the confirmation number he’d received on hotels.com.

“Sorry, sir, but we are all booked up for this week. The Steward’s Cup is here this year!”

“Gee, thanks, I wasn’t aware,” Larry barked sarcastically.

“Larry, do you just want to crash in my room tonight?” Mike Prevost asked. He had been picking up his bag of fresh, complimentary cookies offered in the lobby from seven to ten p.m.

“I want them to make this right,” Larry growled, still hunting through his phone.

“It’s already 9, man, just come up. Room 216,” Mike urged. “Your barn is just one over from mine. We can carpool.”

Larry finally found the email he was looking for, a confirmation receipt of his most recent hotel purchase. He examined it briefly and to his shock discovered that it was for a hotel of the same name in Kentucky during the upcoming Two Year Old in Training Sale. “You know what, Mike, I appreciate that. Thanks.” He gathered his bag and turned back to the receptionist. “I’m going to be speaking to your manager tomorrow.”

--

One desk lamp and a roaring fire lit up Eric Nalbone’s ostentatious office, casting his hunched shadow on the back wall. The lavish wooden desk held a stack of condition books, a Stud Book, a laptop running Excel, and a massive chart. On top of all of that, Eric had placed four index cards, labeled Classic, Distaff, Ladies Route and SoAm. His had post it notes adorned with the names Last Leaf to Fall, Sinner, Whitney and Just Victory. The Last Leaf to Fall post-it was placed in the Ladies Route category, Sinner in the Distaff, and Just Victory in South America. The Whitney post it was stuck to his thumb.

A stunning painting of a black mare hung over the fireplace, and the mantle housed two smaller paintings, one of a black stallion and one of a chestnut. Both wore roses. Propped against the doorframe was a newly delivered painting hidden by a wrapping of brown paper. He knew it would be the commissioned piece of Whitney, but he had made a promise to himself not to look at it until he’d decided where Whitney would run.

He checked the clock – nearly midnight. His jet was due to leave for Seattle at 7 am, and he had long since given up the dream of sleeping before hand. He pushed the chair back and stood up, opting for a bout of fresh air rather than to continue to struggle over the Whitney decision.

Outside of Eric’s office door, a hallway lined with win photos. To the left, the hall entered the massive lobby, which held several more paintings, an elaborate trophy case, and the desks of several receptionists. To the right, the hall led into the main stallion barn and breeding shed. Eric followed it towards the horses, stepping out into the 12-stall main stallion barn. The main barn held such stars as Bragging Rights, Same Old Plot, Father’s Day, Jabaar, and Hammer, the best of the best and the youngest and brightest. Past a viewing area and the breeding shed, Eric slipped out the side door and entered a grassy outdoor courtyard where the stallions’ conformation shots were taken every year.

Two smaller, 8-stall barns stood undisturbed, silent save for the occasional shuffle of horse hooves in straw. The one on the left held such valuable stars as Red White and Blue and Epic, while the one on the right held cheaper specialists Eastern Dynasty and New Yorker. Eric continued past all of them out to the paddocks.

In the closest one, he could barely make out the shape of a lone stallion enjoying the night air. Braveheart turned his head slightly to see his owner approaching, then went back to breathing the sky, drinking in the chill. “Hello, big guy,” Eric said quietly, ducking in between the fence slats and taking the stallion’s head in his hands.

Braveheart whickered, as if murmuring acknowledgement, but he didn’t make a move to go inside when Eric gently pushed on his head. “Isn’t it cold out here for you? Don’t you want to be in the barn?”

Braveheart tossed his head around, as if to point out his heavy orange-trimmed black blanket, and then kicked up his heels, cantering in the direction away from the gate. “A lot of help you are!” Eric called after him. But he had his answer, he knew what Braveheart, who had finished his career breaking down after the Louisville Derby, would say. Go for the gold. Take all the chances. Run Whitney in the Steward’s Cup Classic.

--

The clock read 4:02.

Rebecca Cass leaned back against the cheap headboard, watching a muted television and wondering how early was too early to head to the track. She had only one horse stabled at Seattle Downs, a grass horse named Snoogle who was expected to compete in the Turf Sprint. Training on the turf course opened at 9 am. That left five hours to kill.

By 4:15, Rebecca was dressed and walking to her car. The sky seemed surprisingly dry, the air cool and clear without a hint of rain. The short drive to the backside gate put her at the track by 4:24.

Martin Pennington sat on the low wall just inside the stable gate. His head rested in his hands, and he appeared deep in thought. Rebecca kept driving, turned left, and parked outside of the barn.

She was surprised by the flurry of activity. Hotwalkers circled the shedrow with 1,200 pound charges in tow. Lauren Haggerty’s white-faced chestnut Jaser moved along willingly, gumming at the lip chain in his mouth. Lauren herself sat in the tack room, bundled in a sleek white jacket clutching Starbucks in one hand. Rebecca waited for Jaser to pass, then headed to Snoogle’s stall.

The dark bay colt popped his head over the webbing, looking pleased. With only the one horse in for the week, Rebecca had opted to operate alone, as the colt’s groom, hotwalker and trainer. Miguel, her exercise rider, was expected to arrive at 8:50 to be mounted and heading to the track by 9.

The unmistakable quick thudding sound of a spooking horse’s hooves caused her to jump back into the webbing. Chris Reed’s bay colt Lesson Learned skittered sideways down the aisle, his neck bulging as he bent his head back. The groom shanked the colt hard and Lesson Learned settled, prancing lightly after Jaser.

“Morning, Rebecca,” Danny Daniels said, smiling as he walked down the aisle. “Couldn’t sleep?”

Rebecca grinned and shook her head. “Not at all. Too nervous.”

“Same,” Danny agreed. “Have a good safe morning!” He headed off down the shedrow in the direction of his horse The Hierarchy.

Within an hour, the sun started to peak from behind the buildings, and horses were streaming along the racetrack, getting their daily exercise. They all sported the purple and white saddle towels of the Steward’s Cup. Media began to gather outside of the press center and along the clubhouse turn. By 6 am, Steward’s Cup week was in full swing.

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