Daybreak in Hot Springs - Part 2

Original article written by The Steward posted 12 years 2 weeks ago

Daybreak on Tuesday morning blazed red through the Arkansas mist. Forecasters were promising heavy rains by Thursday, but so far the city of Hot Springs was entirely unaffected by such dire warnings.

Chani Ruzzo had risen early and driven herself to the track before the sun peeked out behind the horizon. Her lone Friday Steward’s Cup entrant, Kittens, was on the track at 6 am, his long lean neck arched and his black mane flopping back as he jogged. His long blazed face stuck out at a high angle as he fussed with the bit.

Chani felt her heart swelling with joy at the sight of him, while it simultaneously felt heavy with worry. Just one year ago, Kittens had stormed up to win the Steward’s Cup Juvenile Turf, securing his future as a stallion and adding $500,000 to his earnings. But after winning three Grade 1 races this year, Kittens had finally suffered his first defeat last out. Was his falling out of form? If he couldn’t beat a fellow three-year-old, could he beat older horses in the biggest turf mile event of the year?

As if she needed anything else to go wrong… she just wanted something good to happen! Between her eventing horses, her race horses, the steeplechasers, and her broodmare band, she was exhausted. Between hosting parties and organizing events, she was drained.

“All right, Chani?” Happy Trails asked, walking past along the track’s outside rail, a stopwatch in hand. Jogging the wrong way towards the wire came The Longshot, her Dirt Mile colt.

Chani had to think about the question. “Yeah,” she said slowly. “I guess I’m okay.” And she smiled.

Happy smiled encouragingly and continued off around the rail towards the wire. Her hello had brightened Chani’s morning.

--

By seven, the track seemed alive with activity. Jarrod Brush stood on a bench just before the wire called workout splits into a radio that the exercise rider aboard Sixty Four Impala, who was getting in a last blowout before the big dance.

Jennifer Francis led The Derby Cry onto the track at the far gap down by the first turn. The long-legged, sleek coated colt had the look of a star, with his look-of-eagles gaze and his hard, dappled bay coat. Jennifer patted him hard on the neck before releasing his shank.

A trio of horses galloped past in tandem. They wore both the purple saddlecloths and the maroon and yellow colors of Phil Hoeflich. All three babies were sprinters; Seven Gold Stars ran along the rail, while Matrimony Acrimony and Dancing to Dance fanned two- and three-wide.

Sean Furney stood up in the temporary grandstand seating, twirling a stopwatch around his fingers and chatting cheerfully with Scott Pho, who sat hunched over in one of the bench seats reading the condition book for a different racetrack. “What do you think?” he asked, breaking through Sean’s thoughts. “An N W two? Or head to an open allowance?”

Ron Fleming appeared cheerful, whistling as he walked, while Tom Mudgett leaned back on the outside rail, his hands folded underneath his arms as he surveyed his brilliant colt Little Gift, who stood patiently just past the wire, watching.

Irish Vine Racing was hosting numerous friends around a picnic table, his Indigo Eyes long since back in his stall. Greentree Racing’s Spinning of Stars was indeed spinning; up and down she careened, full of wild energy and nearly blowing the clubhouse turn on her gallop out.

253 horses in the Steward’s Cup races, and all of them had to be on the track or turf course before 10:30 am.

--

The photographers were getting aggressive, but Look Close didn’t care.

The sleek black colt grazed absent mindedly, giving his adoring public the cold shoulder. He cropped the grass delicately, chewed thoughtfully, and then moved on a step or two ahead to reach his long neck down again. Brandon McClellan, the owner, breeder, and trainer, stood nearby, watching the colt’s every twitch.

Look Close was a nearly impossible physical specimen. He was built with the powerful muscles of a sprinter but with the lean-bodied grace of a more European type Thoroughbred. He boasted a lovely female family; his stakes-placed third dam was a sister to the best sprinting filly ever, The Look. His slightly obscure sire, who had managed to sire 177 winners, made him even more of an outcross asset. And he had a perfect record, undefeated in 11 starts, the earner of over $1.2 million.

And yet, Brandon was risking that record in the Steward’s Cup Sprint. In all of history, only two colts had won both the Two Year Old Sprint Championship and the Steward’s Cup Sprint, and of those two, only Satelite had done it in back to back years. Satelite was considered the greatest sprinter of all time, and for some reason, Look Close wasn’t garnering the same respect.

Brandon couldn’t understand why. Dirt sprinters has been going through a bit of an off-form time recently; no superstar had emerged for several years. “But YOU are one,” Brandon muttered under his breath, his eyes on the rippling muscles under Look Close’s hard black coat.

Even the Steward herself had warned him, based on history, that he should skip the Steward’s Cup if he wanted to preserve the record. But what was the point? Was Look Close going to be getting many more mares if he were 12 for 12 or 11 for 12? What if he had a narrow loss in the Steward’s Cup versus another typical 78-speed figure win in a three-year-old only Grade 1? And it was worth it, he told himself, for the chance to be elevated from “fast sprinter” to all-time great with a 12 for 12 record including the two hardest Sprint races to win.

“Forget all of them,” Brandon said to himself, motioning for the groom to bring the big horse back into the barn. “He’ll show them.”

--

Amanda Kessler started at the shoulder, then ran her hand down the front of Killer’s leg. At the knee she switched to the back, checking tendons as she went.

“Good,” she said, not feeling any heat. She straightened and stretched her sore back. “Next?”

The groom led Killer off, and the bay colt was replaced by a shining chestnut, Liquid Copper. Amanda repeated the exercise with both of the colt’s front legs, and nodded to show her approval of him, also.

The main track was closing for the day, with turf training starting soon. Amanda didn’t have any turf horses this year, but she had in the past and knew about the circling and waiting outside of the grass course before the cavalry charge onto the track. She heard the P.A. system crackle to life with an, “Attention Horseman! At this time, please don’t bring any more horses to the racetrack… The main track is now closed! The main track… is now… closed! If you have a green slip, please bring your horses to the turf course…”

She tuned the rest out. Her work for the day was done; all five of her horses had gone out between 6:30 and 8:30, and she now had an important brunch date with Amy Springsteen to discuss the leasing of some dirt sprint broodmares, since they had that desire in common.

--

While Amanda drove away, merrily blasting music, imaginary drama was playing out on the racetrack.

Kareem Abdul and Rodolphus were both standing, awaiting their turn to move onto the grass course. The two titans of the turf appeared to be standing nobly, their eyes fixed on the wire hundreds of yards away, the breeze ruffling their silken manes. Photographers pressed in to get close-up shots of the two trainer’s faces – Kevin Hern, with a slight sneer, and Scott Eiland, with a grimace.

The drama was purely imaginary. The two horses were quiet, peaceful even, after their long campaigns they knew exactly what the morning would entail. They took no notice of each other, but instead waited quite patiently for their turn. Kevin vehemently loathed the press, and wished they would stop clicking away at his morning-face. Scott was screwing up his brain in careful calculation of just how far he should let the exercise rider take Rodolphus that morning.

Several photographers stepped boldly in front of the two horses and two men, trying to get a neat shot with all four of them. They were promptly yelled at by Steward’s Cup officials, and nearly run over by Roberto Prieto’s Waves Wash Over Me, who came off the turf with lather on her rich brown neck.

Rebecca Rose Hepburn’s trio of stars also exited the course through the gap at the 5/8ths pole. While her stately older runners Wise Heart and Eohippus walked willingly, almost quietly, she had to dash in and attach a shank to the bit of a rearing and plunging dark bay, whose towel read SOMETHING WILD.

“Imagine what he’d be like if I hadn’t gelded him!” Rebecca called to Scott, who grinned and clucked Rodolphus forward.

Kevin made Kareem Abdul wait another moment before following. It wouldn’t do to give the media the pleasure of comparing the two gallops on top of each other.

--

At 5 pm, the shedrow was quiet.

The track was dark, and most of the horsemen were up inside the grandstand, watching the simulcast of the Harness Steward’s Cup. The afternoon feeding happened at 3, so most horses were bedded down for the night.

Janena Olson liked the track this way, a peaceful reminder that the horses themselves were the reason for the whole thing. She shared her assigned shedrow with three other trainers: Janey Adams, Jonathan Bolt, and Karie McBrian, and although she knew that the expensive horses they had entered were important, for once, she had the most valuable horse in the barn.

Under Red Skies stared quietly out of her stall, gazing at the sky outside. It was growing darker by the minute, and the sunset was cold and gray. The forecasters were promising two days of heavy rain, but the week had been so pleasant that Janena was truly hoping the rain would never come.

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