Jaydee leaned down and held out his hand. “I’m glad to meet you, ma’am,” he said with his best manners.
“And this-here young lady on my left,” Webb went on, “is Marjorie Heffering. Her and her family come clear from Canady for the Derby. Her Pa owns twenty-five head. Him and Al Hoots was real good friends in the old days.”
Now turning to the girl, he said, “Marjorie, meet Jaydee Mooney. Up to now he’s allus liked horses better’n girls.” He guffawed. “Up to now, mind ye! Ha, ha!”
“Pleased to meet you.” Jaydee gave a stiff nod. Self-consciously he bent down and tightened his girth strap another notch.
Marjorie smiled. “Mrs. Hoots has asked me to stand in the centerfield with her during your race. She says she’d feel all boxed-in in the grandstand.”
“Fine,” said Jaydee. “Near the flagpole’d be the best place to see. That’s right by the finish line. ’Fraid I have to go now, Mrs. Hoots; and would you excuse me, miss? I got my road work to do and I got to walk the track before the harrows come and churn things up so I can’t see the holes and wet spots.”
Up in the jockey quarters he changed quickly into his thick road-work clothes. On his way out of the building, Ben Jones, now a famous trainer, hailed him, took a newspaper clipping out of his billfold. “Thought you’d be interested to see this, Mooney,” he said. “Quite a piece about Black Gold. ’Way back in Chickasha, Oklahoma, I saw his mother run her maiden race.” The friendly eyes twinkled at the memory. “She gave my Belle Thompson a real run.”
“Thanks for the clipping, sir.”
“Don’t thank me, son; it’s going to make you fighting mad just like it did me. Sometimes that’s a good thing.”
Jaydee tucked the clipping into the pocket of his jacket. Plenty of time to read it later. Now he wanted to run, could hardly wait to run; his energy was at the explosion point.
As he ran, there was a great glowing hope inside him. Today was the day for which all of Black Gold’s life had been planned. Slowing his swift pace to a dogtrot, he thought of the man Al Hoots, and wished he had known him, wished he could talk with him now. Maybe Mr. Hoots would have something special to say to him, a bit of last-minute advice. Or maybe he’d give him some little good-luck piece—a rabbit’s foot, or a shamrock, even.
So strong were his thoughts that he was running again, running unaware of the people in his way—men jumping aside to make room for him, girls turning to stare as he flew past. To him they were no more animate than trees.
He looked at his watch. It was almost eleven. Only a few hours left. At top speed he turned in at the track. The harrows would be at work soon.
He threaded his way through the crowd and down to the starting line. Earnestly he lined himself up in the Number One position, then ran the whole distance of the track, finding the best footing, mapping out in his mind the holes where Black Gold might be thrown off stride, the wet spots where he might slip. Breathless, but with the map fixed sharp and clear, he crossed the finish line. And there, lying in the dirt at his feet, glinting through the dirt, was a thin, race-shined horseshoe.
“My lucky piece!” he shouted. Eagerly he picked it up, and with a joyous swipe dusted it on the seat of his pants. He raised it skyward, almost in salute. “Thank you! Thank you, Al Hoots!” he laughed. “Now we’ll do it.”
Chief Johnson was looking for him in the jockey rooms. “Sweat too long not good,” he warned. “I give you time until sun makes smallest shadow.”
“Look what I found, Chief!” Jaydee held up the horseshoe. “I’m going to have it chromed for keeps.”
“Is good sign.” The Chief chuckled sheepishly. “Indians make secret signs for luck, too. Many Osages here last night.” With a grin the little man was off, heading for the stables.
Jaydee sat down on a bench in front of his locker. The room was warm, and he could feel the sweat pouring out of him. As he slipped the horseshoe into his pocket, his fingers found the news clipping about Black Gold. Leaning against the locker, he began to read, slowly:
. . . The fiftieth running of the Kentucky Derby has lost some of the glamour it was expected to have. The most colorful eastern candidates—St. James, Sarazen, Wise Counselor—have all been eliminated through mishaps or failures to train properly. Thus the bulk of attention is centered on the dwarf-like western entry from Oklahoma, Black Gold.
Jaydee slapped his towel against the side of the bench. “For Pete’s sake, is this a race between horses, or is it East against West!” He read on, now skimming the lines:
. . . this son of Black Toney and U-see-it, the mare once outlawed from the recognized tracks, constitutes the one-horse stable of Mrs. R. Hoots of Oklahoma. He was considered one of the “joke candidates” earlier in the year because of his small size. Furthermore, winter horses never win Derbies, say the experts.
Anger burned in Jaydee. “One-horse stable! What’s wrong with that—if the one horse is Black Gold!” Furious at the whole tone of the article, Jaydee went on to the final insult:
. . . But whatever the result, Kentucky’s Golden Derby will be something of an experience. And a victory by the wrong horse is not enough to rob the spectator of the thrill that such a race can give.
Jaydee took that piece of newspaper in his fist, and slowly, fiercely, crumpled it. And slowly, in perfect control, he walked to the waste basket at the end of the room. With a savage toss, he threw the wadded paper into the basket. “So the wrong horse might win, might he!”
22. Golden Jubilee
CHURCHILL DOWNS, Saturday, May 17, 1924.
Sunlight and blue shadow! And something in the air that’s alive. Not touchable, Jaydee thought, but there all the same. Maybe the air itself alive, breathing at you, whispering hotly in your ear: “This is the day! The day of the Kentucky Derby!”
Look sharp, Jaydee. Fix the picture in your mind. Take quick, separate looks. See the people pouring into the stands for the early races. See them flowing out from the underpass, filling the terraces in the centerfield. Skim the crowd, Jaydee. Can you see Mrs. Hoots? Maybe she’ll watch just your race. Make binoculars of your hands. Oh, there she is, and the girl, too. They found the spot by the flagpole all right. Who are all those black-hatted men with them? I know! They’re the Osage tribesmen.
Pull the sunlit scene together, Jaydee. The brown track, the sprinkling carts flinging quick rainbows in their spray, harrows chewing up the dirt with gleaming teeth of steel.
Listen, too, Jaydee! Looking is not enough. Hear the bugles for those other races. Try to live through them, Jaydee. Your time is coming. Hear the excited hum like the swarming of a thousand bees, hear the caller announcing race after race, hear the rataplan of hoofs, and the shouts.
Now stop listening, stop looking. It’s time to be doing, Jaydee. Hurry to the jockeys’ room. Joke with Pony McAtee, Ivan Parke, Earl Sande, and the others—if you can. You can’t? Then put on the rose-colored silks. Remember the Old Stump town Track, Jaydee? And you perched there on the fence, cheering the colors in? Now go down to the paddock behind the grandstand.
Fifteen minutes left. Fifteen minutes before your bugle.
“Ready, boy?” Old Man Webb speaking.
“Ready.”
Weigh in, Jaydee. One hundred fourteen pounds? And the three-and-a-half-pound saddle? And the two-and-a-half-pound lead pad? Now add the lead weights, three pounds on each side—the two-pound slabs in the pockets nearest the withers, next the one-pounders. Watch the hands on the scale, Jaydee. One hundred twenty-six pounds?
One hundred twenty-six.
Ready?
Ready.
And Old Man Webb saddling, and Black Gold ready, with green ribbons braided into his mane and tail for the luck of the Irish. Now let the old man give you a leg up, Jaydee.
Listen to the quiet in the paddock, the hushed, whispery quiet. Trainers curving hands around their mouths, giving last-minute orders. Jockeys’ heads bent, nodding. Only Hanley Webb giving no advice. Just a half smile: “It??
?s all up to you, Jaydee.”
• • •
It is four thirty-five by the clock on the scoreboard. There! The bugle! The sweet brassy notes splitting the wind.
Ta—ta—ta; ta,ta,ta,ta; ta,ta,ta,ta; ta,ta,ta,ta-a-a-a!
“Come out on the track!” it calls. “Come out, all you Thoroughbreds! Come out for the Kentucky Derby! The Golden Jubilee!”
The horses quiver with excitement. Down the paddock lane they dance, out between the grandstand and the clubhouse, out toward the track. All nineteen entries eager, yet stepping gingerly, saving their thunder for the big moment. Black Gold, the Number One horse, going upheaded, follows the lead pony.
Now the band strikes up the familiar, haunting melody, “My Old Kentucky Home.” And suddenly, as if this were a signal of release for all the pent-up feeling for this moment and this place, eighty thousand voices burst forth:
“The sun shines bright in the old Kentucky home,
’Tis summer, the darkies are gay;
The corn-top’s ripe and the meadow’s in the bloom,
While the birds make music all the day . . . .
Weep no more, my lady; oh, weep no more—”
Sing, Jaydee! Glory in your heart. Sing to Black Gold’s capering. Sing to the springy rhythm of his legs.
Out of the tail of your eye see the colors, Jaydee, the gay racing jackets bobbing along behind you—Colonel Bradley’s green and white, the light blue of Whitney, the purple and yellow for Wheatley Stables; green caps, brown caps, cherry-red caps with gold tassels—on and on in single file behind you.
This is it! This, the moment for which nineteen horses have been bred, trained, keyed. The crowd knows it. Wave on wave the people rise up out of their seats, saluting the horses.
Past the stands, galloping in their warm-up, whetting the eagerness of the fans, the horses parade toward the barrier. The starter is ready, hand on lever, his eye sweeping the entries.
Now the caller’s voice blaring out post positions: “Black Gold number one, Transmute two, Klondyke three, King Gorin four, Revenue Agent five, Thorndale six, Altawood seven, Cannon Shot eight, Mad Play nine, Beau Butler ten, Wild Aster eleven, Bracadale twelve, Chilhowee thirteen, Bob Tail fourteen, Diogenes fifteen, Modest sixteen, Mr. Mutt seventeen, Baffling eighteen, and Nautical nineteen.”
Ready, ready, ready?
But wait! Diogenes breaks out of line, snaps the webbing, charges down the track. Wait for him to be led back.
Once more the starter is ready, but now Black Gold is jostled out of position. Jaydee feels a jolting body kick to his mount. Wheel around, Jaydee. Save Black Gold from more jarring. Come up to the line again.
At last!
The starter pulls the lever. The web flips into the air. With one voice the crowd roars, “They’re off!”
Nineteen bullets of horseflesh burst across the line. Black Gold is third, sixteen jockeys gunning for him, knowing he’s the horse to beat. Bracadale, from far on the outside, cuts short across the oncoming field, bumps Black Gold into the rail at the sixteenth pole. Wild Aster, Baffling, Chilhowee join in the interference, blocking him front, back, and on the outside.
Sit tight, Jaydee! Sit tight! Don’t let them jump on Black Gold’s heels. Save his heels. Hold him! You’ve got the best horse and they know it. Hold him until the first turn. Then weave your way out of the pack.
From third place Black Gold is squeezed back to fourth, to fifth. He’s helpless—buried alive by horses on all sides of him, pocketing him, pinching him off.
Jaydee’s lungs seem pinched, too, but his quick brain telegraphs, “Hold tight, still! Wait it out!” Pellets of dirt ping through the air, sting his face. Jaydee narrows his eyes to slits, sees through the dirt, sees Black Gold flatten his ears, feels him galvanize for action. The little stallion is ready to drill his way out. “Give me room!” he all but trumpets. “Do something, Jaydee! There’s a horse on the inside, a horse on my heels, a horse crowding me on the outside. What are jockeys for? Give me room!”
In answer, Jaydee lays the flat of his hand on the hip of the outside horse, firmly pushes that horse away. He has to! He’s allowed to! The jockey will not make room for him. But still the pack is too tight. Take him back, Jaydee! Back to seventh place. Ride him wide around the offender, wide on the outside.
Black Gold is finally free, on his own! He hurtles forward . . . gaining, gaining . . . sixth place, fifth place, fourth.
But is he too late? Chilhowee kites out in front of him, crowds him, forces him back to sixth place again.
The half-mile coming up! And once more the whole bunch is closing in tight, tighter, locking him in. Sixth at the half!
Jaydee’s mind shouts: “Start the whole thing over? Yes, start over. Take him back again. There’s time yet. Swing him wide. Give him his head!”
The track is fast, and now Black Gold makes it lightning fast. Low to the ground, stretching all out, he plunges forward, looks Wild Aster in the eye, passes him, inches up on Transmute, passes him.
Now at the head of the stretch Sande on Bracadale and Johnson on Chilhowee are fighting it out for the lead. Black Gold aims toward them, coming up from behind, pounds his way up on the outside, closing the gap, coming alongside the leaders.
Nothing can stop him!
Nothing?
Suddenly out of nowhere a man appears dead ahead. A man with camera, tripod, and flapping black cloth.
Black Gold props, freezes! He loses stride, falls behind the leaders, a half length, a length, two lengths!
He will lose the race . . . unless . . . unless?
Cluck to him, boy! Do something! Desperate now, Jaydee clucks like some mother hen willing her frightened chick forward, clucks with all his heart.
It works! The will to win beats down the fear. Black Gold regains his stride, reaches on for the leaders. In one glorious burst of speed he catches them, races alongside them a split second, then in a slashing drive crosses the line to win! By half a length he wins!
The crowd is pulled to its feet, screaming, roaring. Men are tumbling down from their seats, vaulting the rails, running down the track, bent on touching the winner, touching the jockey. Who but a champion could win such a race? Everything against him from the start. Booted, bumped, boxed in; then near the wire the black cloth scarecrow. Yet he wins!
What a race! What a champion! What a Jubilee!
Two minutes, five and one-fifth seconds—that is all it took. Now it’s all over. Lifetimes of effort . . . thousands of miles traveled . . . millions of dollars spent. Work, sweat, grief, joy. Dreams dreamed.
And now it is done.
Horse and jockey can breathe again. They both suck in great lungfuls of air as they come slowly back. Black Gold knows there is no need to hurry any more. His pace has a majestic slowness; he senses the greatness of the moment and is savoring it to the full.
Old Man Webb is limping out on the track to meet them, his ancient topcoat billowing out behind. Jaydee stares, pulls up in midstride. The old man has put on his “respectable” leather collar, but it is dark with sweat, as if he had run the race himself. Jaydee looks down at the exuberant face.
“Well, by gum, the two of ye did it!” the old man grins—a wide, pearly grin.
Even in this moment of triumph, Jaydee cannot help blinking. “Holy mackerel,” he gasps, “you’re wearing your teeth, too!”
With a nod, half proud, half embarrassed, Webb turns and in great dignity leads Black Gold to the winner’s circle out in the centerfield. As Black Gold plants his feet in the turf, the crowd eddies around him, watching with eyes and heart both. Together the old man and Jaydee accept the magnificent horseshoe of roses, the award of the fiftieth anniversary of the Run for the Roses. Gently, they settle the great floral piece about Black Gold’s neck.
And now more roses, a great sheaf of them, are held up to Jaydee. One-handed, he takes and holds them awkwardly. “Roses are right for Black Gold,” he laughs, “not for me!” His eyes sweep the crowd, sear
ching for Mrs. Hoots. Quickly he dismounts, hands the reins to Webb, and pushes his way to her through the noisy, affectionate mob.
“For you,” his words breathless, his eyes shining.
Rosa holds them close one brief moment. With a look to Jaydee that asks for understanding, she turns to the girl at her side. “For you, Marjorie. They are more right for young girls.”
Afterward, Jaydee could never remember how he found his way through the surge of people and climbed the steps to the judges’ stand. He did remember the famous Matt Winn standing beside the Governor. But he could never recall more than one sentence in all of the Governor’s speech:
“We congratulate a little stallion who raced big.”
Words flowed over him, around him, through him. Then Colonel Winn stepped forward, smiling, and placed the grand gleaming golden cup in the calm hands of Rosa Hoots. He turned next to Old Man Webb and gave a gold stop watch into his calloused hands. Then it was Jaydee’s turn. With shy pride his hot sweaty hands grasped the Golden Jubilee spurs. His own! His, to put with the lucky horseshoe.
The people went wild. The air crackled with their applause and cheering. Over and over Colonel Winn and the Governor pleaded for silence. At last, into the trough between waves of clamor, came the slow, deep voice of Rosa Hoots over the loudspeaker. “My husband,” she said, “he dreamed that U-see-it’s colt would win this race and make right the evil that came to her. Black Gold and Mooney, they both did their best. I owe it to them,” she finished.
The microphone went next to Hanley Webb. He cleared his throat nervously, but no sound came. Desperately he thrust the mouthpiece at Jaydee.
The boy wanted the chance. “Black Gold ran his own race!” he nearly shouted. “Any other horse would’ve lost. The right horse won.”
23. The Magic Shoe
LIKE A brush fire in the wind Black Gold’s popularity spread. The very newspapers that had made little of him now headlined: NATION’S FAVORITE WINS. WEST TRIUMPHS OVER EAST.