Daybreak in Hot Springs - Part 4

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

Clang! Clang! Clang!

The incessant sound greeted late-arriving horseman on Thursday morning. Alex Puderbaugh heard it as she drove towards her barn, windows rolled down to let the sweet air in. It was still raining, but only drizzling, and forecasters were promising sun by the end of the day.

Adela Nowak waved to her from behind a freshly-painted white fence surrounding a small grazing area. Alex assumed that her horse Centurion Effort was the one grazing, but his back was turned and all she could see were gleaming hindquarters.

Clang! Clang! Clang!

Alex heard it as she pulled up to her barn, and saw Eddie Trent leaning over to inspect the new shoes on Sly Eyed. “It’s race day!” he announced, standing up to greet Alex. “That means it’s shoe day!”

Horses had been pulled from stalls all over the backside and were accepting their new shoes with the help of lip chains and twitches. Fogell McLovin added to the clanging noise of the hammer by singing loudly in the aisle, and Eugene Ferguson could be heard snapping, “SHUT. UP!” as he ducked into the feed room.

On the other side of their barn, Katie Grenier leaned against the wall, rolling leg wraps on her thigh. Her brilliant filly Independent Storm reached her nose out hopefully. “I’m busy,” Katie told her without a lick of malice in her voice. Undeterred, the filly whuffed at Katie’s hip until she turned and scratched the soft muzzle.

Two handsome horses watched them from further down the aisle. Neither would be running that afternoon, both were entered for Friday. Wildfire, a red-coated chestnut, and Sky Ruler, a stocky bay, had been receiving a steady stream of photographer visits over the past few days. Keith Maidlow had recently taken over the conditioning of Sky Ruler, a former Steward’s Cup Sprint champion, who was attempting to become the first horse to win twice in three years with a gap in between.

Laura Cameron’s two entrants completed their mish-mosh of a shedrow. Her Juvenile Turf entrant, Thundering, was out getting his shoes done, but Look Heaven raised her pretty face and tried to catch a gust of wind from the tail-end of the storm.

Alex only had to worry about shoes for Speak of the Sun, but she had a text message from her farrier saying that he would be late. She wondered if she’d seen his truck outside of Belinda Mccollum’s barn, and thought perhaps her colt Some Time Later had acted up, preventing him from finishing quickly.

Alex didn’t mind. She sat down on a tack trunk and started to read a magazine.

--

“She. Is. Such. A. Moron.” Paul Sellers raged, anger flowing through his veins. “All this time…”

The source of his agitation was the Steward. Blast her. The past 2 years she’d been gushing to him about his three-year-old sprinter, Betterbetdabestbet. And that entire time, she hadn’t really known his name.

“Is it really that big of a deal?” Rachel Sadler asked, looking up from the condition book for Arcadia Park’s winter meet that she was studying intently.

“Look at this!” Paul held up the purple Steward’s Cup towel. It read BETTERBEDABEST. “All this time, she’s been saying his name wrong. It’s Betterbetdabestbet! She owes me a new saddle cloth.”

“Well at least now she knows,” Rachel said, returning to her study of the condition book. “He won’t go to the post with the wrong name.”

“This horse better win,” Paul snapped. “If not this year, next year. If not that year, the one after. This horse isn’t retiring until he wins a Steward’s Cup. With the proper name.”

--

The Hot Springs Park Turf Club was known for its understated elegance. Located in a strategic spot inside the grandstand, the Turf Club was known as the most popular place for the area’s elites to mingle, do business, socialize, and even meet the occasional celebrity. The Steward’s Cup, of course, drew some celebrities, but this was not exactly a moment where celebrity-watching was on trainers’ minds.

“Have you tried the Eggs Benedict here?” Rebecca Cass asked as she was seated by a stuffy-looking maitre d’. “Leo swears by it.”

“Can you believe this weather? ” Mike Prevost non-answered, his brain clearly elsewhere. He sat down across from her, trying to appear calm. “We’ve got two more on the way,” he said to the maitre d’. Mike was visibly nervous, as his collection of two year old stars was just hours away from racing. “Can we just order? I hate to put a rush on things but I’ve got to get downstairs.”

The maitre d’ looked as if he expected as much. “Of course, Mr. Prevost.”

As he was taking Mike’s order, Megan Grant appeared with Matthew McMahon. “Sorry I’m late,,” Megan said. “My morning routine was rudely interrupted, first by reporters, THEN an editor from the Louisville Courier-Journal. They want next year’s anticipated Derby breakdown NOW. I keep thinking...this is eight months away and they already want a feature? Give me a break. Hi, Rebecca! I hope you know I have the Smoke Monster down as my Classic sleeper. I think he can pull it off!”

“That’s...great,” Rebecca said, fidgeting a little. “I hope you’re right, Megan... Matthew, I thought I’d get to meet Beagle! And he’s not here!”

Matthew smiled. “Maybe next year. I didn’t want him to have to deal with the travel,” he said. “Megan’s doing a write up of Tamerlane and Remont. That’s what this year is all about for me.”

As everyone settled, Rebecca took a deep, steadying breath. The Smoke Monster was supposed to be way under the radar, she thought. So much for that!

--

Even the trainers who didn’t have horses in the Thursday Steward’s Cup races filed into their box seats to watch. The annual must-see event of the season regularly drew the largest crowd of the year, even larger than any of the Triple Crown races.

Anzu Mccann found herself in a box with Brenden Marcotte; those viewing alone had to share boxes. “Not a bad view, though,” Brenden said, as if he’d pulled the thought right out of Anzu’s head.

Further down the second level of boxes was a trio of men: Donnie Hidalgo, Fred Vieane and Gerry Hardie. They were old friends, and laughed and chatted and poked fun at the absent ladies in their lives. They noticed Lee Cara walking around, hunting for his seat, and waved him over.

Peihe Sun and Max Winterson had decided to share a lunch table in the little restaurant overlooking the first turn. The dining was fine, but the service slow. There was a great grumble from the table next to them, where Patrick O’Malley had slammed down his long-empty water glass in frustration and caused Oleg Van Buren to jump.

“They shouldn’t host these things at places this small,” Patrick growled.

“Where is it next year?” Oleg asked, acting as a pacifer while Peihe and Max still stared over, startled.

“Toronto,” Patrick said happily, a smile spreading his face. “And then California. It’s nice when the Steward’s Cup committee has it worked out so far in advance. At least they do something right!”

--

Cars, taxis and vans were flooding into Hot Springs Park. That one main road suddenly became a strip of insanity as fans parked haphazardly all around and walked towards the track, carrying coolers and beach chairs. It might be wet – although the rain had turned to gentle drizzle – but that wasn’t about to stop the devoted infield crowd.

“This cannot possibly take any longer!” Michael Edwards half snapped, half shrieked from the back of his limousine to the track. Nicky Morgan and Mike Bryant looked over at him in alarm. They had been stuck in the same spot a mile from the track for the last 20 minutes without moving.

“Settle down, we’ll get there,” Nicky said pleasingly.

Mike, however, looked at his watch and agreed with Michael. “We aren’t going to make it in time,” he said, then dropped his voice, as if Michael Edwards wasn’t there, and said, “His filly is in the first race!”

At once, all three of them jumped from the limo. They ran in suits down the long strip of road, past taxis and morning drunks, headed for the paddock.
--

Dusk had fallen after the first day’s races, and Kyasuriin Matsumoto was in a good mood. Her two fillies who had competed that afternoon were bedded down and relaxed; their feed tubs were clean and their coats clean and dry.

Tejano’s Quest wasn’t sticking his head out of his stall, however, which worried her. She peered around his webbing, and suddenly met his big red head as he moved up to greet her.

“Hey, big guy, did you get lost?” she joked. Tejano’s Quest dropped his head into her hands and made contented noises as she rubbed between his eyes. “One more time, big guy,” she promised. “Get around the track safe and come home to me and make me lots of pretty Quest babies, okay? And I’ll name them after you and your travels, and you’ll just get to hang out at my farm, and you’ll never get lost again.”

--

At 4 am on Friday morning, Chris Reed was already in his shedrow’s office, watching a fuzzy black and white TV. Within half an hour the grooms would be arriving to walk horses and start preparing for race day, but for now, the track was largely silent. Those who had won the day before had stayed out too late celebrating, but not Chris – he’d gone straight to bed after the races and had gotten up at midnight, unable to sleep.

Desert Soldier looked out at him from the first stall in the aisle. The colt didn’t know yet that it was race day – even horses weren’t that smart – but he would, soon, when his feed was pulled and he received his Lasix shot and the groom did up his legs tighter than usual.

Chris felt excited about his Steward’s Cup chances, but really just wanted to head back to the farm and get ready for the new year. So many mares to breed, so many babies to foal out, and a new year of racing to look forward to.

Who am I kidding? Chris thought. I want to win Steward’s Cup races as much as anyone!

From the aisle, Desert Soldier nickered, as if he agreed. Who didn’t want to win a Steward’s Cup race?

---

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