Daybreak in Seattle Part 6

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

The second Steward’s Cup morning dawned dark and wet.

The threatening rain had finally arrived, slowing the track down and causing several trainers to wander around muttering in disgust while Brittney Ellison did a little rain dance outside of her barn, palms lifted to the sky, cheering. Inside, her tough runner Kerberos listened to the pitter-patter, ears pricked, as if he knew what the added moisture meant for his chances.

Amanda O’Brien ducked under a shockingly red raincoat and rushed from her barn to the racing office to pick up paddock passes. Even in the darkness, she stood out, but no one saw her go as they were too huddled into their barn offices, waiting out the storm. Training was closed for the day to save the track for the racing, which would start at 1 pm.

Inside Barn 2, Jon Xett straightened, parted, and re-straightened Persevere’s forelock. The bay colt’s intelligent eye watched calmly, seeming to accept and dispense of his trainer’s nerves. “It’s no big deal, really,” Jon told the colt, pseudo confidence wavering in his voice. “So what if Horse of the Year is on the line? You’ve done more for me this year than any horse in a long time.”

Persevere bobbed his head, then retracted it, as if to say “Stop messing with me and just let me be a racehorse.”

Inside of Barn 5, Luis Polar and Bill Deitch were sitting on opposite tack trunks. Bill cleaned tack while Luis stared blankly at the wall, quiet and unperturbed by the weight of the day.

“What do you think of your chances?” Bill asked, clearly anxious and hoping to be distracted.

“Today?” Luis responded in his clipped English. “Not so good.”

“How can you go into today thinking your chances aren’t good?” Bill practically yelped. “Anyone who is here has to believe they have a shot!”

“Yes,” Luis agreed, “but next year will be my year.”

That’s when Bill noticed that Luis wasn’t just gazing at the wall, he was staring at a photo of a chestnut colt with a white blaze.

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Up in the grandstand, Emily Shields checked and double-checked the TV monitors, the telephone line, and the microphone. She shuffled a stack of programs around, straightening them when they weren’t lopsided in the first place.

She stared out at the dark, muddy track and wondered if the storm would go away by post time. “No matter what,” she whispered out loud, contemplating, “it’s been a great year.”

The End

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