Daybreak in Texas - Part 7

Original article written by The Steward posted 13 years 3 weeks ago

The party raged on well past midnight, despite the early hour most of the horsemen were expected at work. At some point, a square dancing competition broke out, with Ali LaDuke and Alyse Schuver joining arms and leading the group in time to the music. They were passed through the arms of Bill Oelrich and Art Vandelay, who looked thoroughly out of his element on the dance floor.

By one in the morning, only a few people remained. Bill Outsilver leaned back in his chair, his eye unfocussed, his thoughts preoccupied with the races ahead. Brandon McClellan had fallen asleep, head on his arms, at his table, and a few people still slow danced, including Bob Probert with Karie McBrian and Tammy Stawicki with Jolene Danner, who were goofing around and singing, “A whole new world” over the peaceful popstar ballad playing through the speakers.

“Can someone tell me how to get to the hotel from here?” Amanda Kessler wandered in from outside, where she had been enjoying the pleasant Texas night air. “I am sooo tired.”

“You might as well just go straight to the track!” Art Damato told her. “I’m headed there and just going to sleep in my car. Want to come?”

--

The sky was still dark on Friday morning, a half hour before the track would open for the few morning joggers who raced better after stretching their legs in the morning. Carolyn Eaton stood along the outside rail where the turn met the stretch, and she could see the entire towering grandstand and the wire.

A smile played across her face as the sun broke over the horizon. “Welcome to Texas,” she whispered.

--

Scott Eiland uttered a roaring sound between clenched teeth as he stomped down the aisle, spooking several horses as he went.

“Hey, watch it!” Amanda O’Brien snapped, grabbing the halter of her filly, Defend the Stars, who half-reared in protest of Scott’s rampage.

“Sorry,” Scott muttered.

“What is it, Scott?” Andy Gol asked, concerned.

“It’s the witch, Mary Weather,” Scott growled. “She’s been following me around all morning!”

Andy stifled a grin behind his hand. “How dare she! Isn’t she your assistant?”

“Not for long,” Scott grumped. “She asked me why I hadn’t worked Sun and the Stars with blinkers a few days ago.”

Andy skipped a beat, as if he were trying to realize what he was missing. “Er… so why didn’t you?” he asked tentatively.

Scott spun around, incredulous. “You can DO that now?!” he gasped.

--

The track kitchen bustled with activity during the morning renovation break. Anna Leroux sat pouring over the day’s Feature Race while Brian Leavitt stood at the counter, complaining loudly that his pancakes were taking far too long to appear. Ashley Gibson was holding a Mountain Dew in one hand and a handful of cough drops in the other.

“Isn’t it a little early?” Jarrod Brush asked as he passed by, a Racing Form tucked under his arm.

“It’s never too early for Mountain Dew,” Ashley retorted, taking a swig. Jarrod raised his coffee her direction as a salute and went to find his own seat.

The tones of Bruce Springsteen started to drift through the radio behind the walk-up counter. The artist formerly known as Amy Schmidt leapt up, excited. “Guys!” she gasped to no one in particular. “I LOVE this song!”

She stood up from the table she was sharing with Janey Adams and started dancing on the spot. Janey started staring very hard at her cell phone, trying to ignore Amy’s outburst. Cathie Morris got up, however, and despite a shy smile, began to dance too.

The door opened and Janie Jackson walked in. At first she seemed very confused, but then her face broke into a grin. “Are we dancing?” she asked. “Excellent!” She joined in.

Soon, half the track kitchen was dancing along with “Dancing in the Dark.” They clumped together by the door; Cleo Patra and Louise Bayou, throwing their hands in the air and bopping their heads back and forth.

Several people who were attempting to enjoy their meals appeared very uncomfortable. Jamie Newton was shoveling his scrambled eggs into his mouth as fast as possible and James Jerowski’s fedora could be seen over the top of the Daily Newspaper.

--

John Slotman collected Silver Screen Star’s flowing forelock in one hand, tugged it gently, then let it settle back down in its usually bushy manner. It was a surprisingly affectionate gesture from John, whose connection with his horses was somewhere between Rick Dutrow’s and Doug O’Neill’s.

“Are you the fastest horse who ever lived?” John whispered softly, scratching the colt behind the ear. Silver Screen Star whuffed softly, contented.

Benny James came around the corner, headed to his horse’s stall, and John backed up from his horse quickly. He raised his voice and snapped, “Because if you DON’T win, I WILL geld you. I won’t even let them tranquilize you first!”

--

Belinda McCollum watched Gallows grazing in the early morning light. It was just before 8 am, and the compact black colt was just getting a treat before being put away in preparation of the 29th Steward’s Cup Sprint.

Belinda’s heart soared. She had never seen anything as beautiful as her nearly-perfect son of Baker, who had never been worse than second. His mane cascaded down his neck as he stretched to crop the grass.

“Last year they didn’t believe in you,” she whispered. “This year they don’t either. But we’ll show them.”

Gallows raised his head briefly, then lowered it again, more interested in the grass than in human ramblings.

--

Jon Xett leaned on the outside rail, watching his handsome dark bay colt taking one final stroll around the Single Star Park oval before heading to the post in the Steward’s Cup. Ricky Bobby stood next to him, excited and bubbly as always.

“Wow, look at Randy’s horse!” she gasped, pointing at Bow to No One and trainer Randy Booth.

Randy was leading the statuesque colt off the track after a one-mile jog. He smiled to ackowledge her.

Jon and Ricky stood quietly for a moment, watching horses prance by. Anzu Mccann’s mighty miler King of the People arched his fire-red neck as he went by, while Greentree Racing’s Elizabeth skittered sideways, her chin bowed to her chest by the rider.

“Top of the morning to ya,” John Cutshall joked, saluting them with his crop as he jogged by on board Keepmeinthedark. The lean but muscular trainer was balanced perfectly over the dark colt’s withers.

“Hey, Cutshall!” Jon Smythe called over from the trainer’s stand. “Isn’t that horse running in a few hours?”

“Very funny,” Cutshall called back. “He’s fitter than you!”

Smythe laughed. “That’s the truth – every horse here is fitter than every one of us!”

--

Luis Polar remembered well how it felt, one year ago, sitting in the office inside Barn 5 at Seattle Downs. He’d had several live shots in that day, but instead all of his attention was on a white-faced chestnut yearling.

Now, a year later, that same horse was a two-year-old and still not present at the Steward’s Cup. He knew he had a long six months ahead of him, and several superstars to get by, such as Susie Raisher’s beast Imperious and Doug Kidwell’s Juvenile winner Institutionalized, but he could already see the famous Twin Spires of Churchill Downs in his imagination.

“Next year,” he said outloud. “Next year we’ll be at the Steward’s Cup.”

--

The crowd grew with every passing undercard race, until it was just about post time for the first Steward’s Cup race of the day, the Turf Sprint. Even trainers who had no horses in the race were crowding the grandstand. Charles Bunbury shared a box with Keith Maidlow, but they were talking stallions and mares rather than focusing on the race. Gerry Hardie and Scott Pho were two boxes down, just before Jesper Kraepool and Max Winterson.

And all the way near the clubhouse turn, a full sixteenth of a mile past the wire, Landon Alexander and Happy Trails were sharing a box. They’d arrived bleary-eyed the night before, still reeling from a huge day at Ruidoso Downs.

The horses in the Turf Sprint burst from the gate, and Keith, Charles, Scott, Gerry, Jesper and Max roared as one with the massive crowd who had come to see the final day of racing for the year.

--

Some 700 miles away from the Steward’s Cup, Michelle Calderoni stood in her own house at her own farm, poised beside her bathroom mirror, staring at her own reflection. She was lithe, obviously pretty and subtly beautiful. Her long, dark red hair cascaded down her shoulders, and she noted that her smile was wide and bright.

Michelle Calderoni stared at her reflection, and liked what stared back.

---

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