The two stallions staggered as they approached the tunnel beneath the stands, and rocked on the springs of their legs, one tired foot following another. The interplay of muscle was there for all to see but so was the immense fatigue. Every movement appeared torturous. The cool morning breeze played with their manes and tails and this, perhaps to some extent, soothed them.
“They’ll be all right,” one man said.
“Maybe,” another answered. “I hope so. I sure do. A few hours from now and we’ll know.”
It was noon when Alec left the Black and walked to the most distant of the barns where Flame was stabled. The area was quiet except for an occasional message to a trainer through the loudspeaker system. Alec found he jumped every time it crackled. There was no doubt his nerves were on edge. A few late-working horses were being cooled out and walked monotonously around the plots of grass in front of their barns. He found that he was studying each of their steps to see if they walked soundly, a consequence of the past few hours he’d spent with the Black and Henry.
The Black had stopped blowing soon after being washed down; his wind had presented them with no problem. It was only after a full hour of walking that Henry had said, “Well, we might as well get him ready to go home.”
“You’re kidding!” Alec had exclaimed.
“No, not at all. His foot is bothering him again, and I’m not going to take any chances racing him.”
“Get Doc Palmer. You can’t be sure otherwise.”
“I’ve already sent for him,” Henry had answered. He was not angry with Alec for what had happened, nor at himself or Flame or Steve Duncan. He was just very tired.
The veterinarian had arrived and the X-ray pictures had been taken. They showed no broken bones, but the slight swelling indicated the old injury had been aggravated. It was probably nothing serious, Dr. Palmer had said. He’d know more within three days’ time. Meanwhile, the Black should be kept as quiet as possible.
The press and photographers had been there, and Henry had told them that the Black would not run in the Hialeah Turf Cup. “We can’t take a chance,” he had said. “There’s too much ahead of us to risk a race that soon. We’ll see what the Doc says next week before making any further plans.”
Alec knew that the evening newspaper headlines would read something like BAD FOOT PUTS CHAMPION ON SHELF, and that thousands of racing fans would be disappointed.
Now that he was through work for the morning, Alec wanted to see Steve Duncan. He continued through the barn area, stopping occasionally to talk to grooms and trainers. He tried to conceal his anxiety but failed miserably.
“I hear you had some tough luck, Alec,” a trainer said.
“Not too bad. He’ll be all right.” But Alec never had been any good at whistling in the dark. His track friends could read him like a book.
“Sure, he’s fine, just fine. He’ll be back soon,” Alec said repeatedly. “A little trouble, that’s all.”
He stopped at one barn to talk to a red-haired groom who visited the Black most every day. “Don,” he said, “you look awful. What’s the matter?”
“Nothin’ but a bad night to get over,” the man said lightly. But his voice, like his eyes, were sympathetic and understanding.
“It’s just a slight hoof injury,” Alec said. “There’s really nothing to worry about. A few days and he’ll be as good as ever. Doc Palmer said so.”
“Sure, Doc would know, if anybody would. But it’s the same foot, isn’t it? It could be lots longer.”
“Yeah.” The unbearable tension hung over them. “Well, I got to go now,” Alec said.
“I heard that other horse cooled out okay,” Don said.
“That’s good. I was hoping he would.”
“That’s racing,” the other returned dismally.
Alec took another path around the barns, knowing he’d meet fewer friends along that route. It wasn’t easy trying to put up a front when everybody knew the Black’s injury could be serious enough to put him out of racing altogether. As the veterinarian had said they’d know for sure in three days’ time. Until then all he could do was hope for the best and try to look less concerned than he actually was. He had a tough horse. If they had to go home, he would try to be as tough as the Black and go without bitterness toward Steve Duncan.
The stable area on the far side was deserted. It was as Alec had wanted it, and he sat down to think.
Should he help Steve Duncan or not? If so, he would have to get over his anger toward Steve for prompting the kind of a workout that never should have taken place. It was intentional on Steve’s part, of course. He had wanted to impress those who were watching, and he had done that only too well. He would have gotten his permit to race at half the speed Flame had worked.
But, Alec told himself, Steve had not been able to control Flame any more than he himself had been able to manage the Black. Once the pace had increased to its fevered pitch, they had been riders, nothing more. They had witnessed, more than participated in, the workout. It had not been racing but an uncontrolled, dangerous battle. If others had not been aware of it, he was.
Also, Alec reminded himself, he had agreed to letting the two horses work together, even urging Henry to allow it. He had wanted to help Steve Duncan. Did he still want to, now that the Black was sidelined? Could he possibly forget his bitterness and give Steve some advice that might help him when he raced? Flame had all the speed in the world, but he would not have a clear track on race day as he’d had this morning. There were things Steve had to learn.
There was a small group of men, including a photographer, standing outside Flame’s stall when Alec arrived.
“Hey, Alec,” a sports columnist called, “the rumor’s going around that the Black really broke down. That’s tragic, real tragic.”
“Just a rumor,” Alec said. “It’s nothing serious.” He studied the man, who didn’t seem to be too unhappy over another fellow’s misfortune. Some reporters were like that. They thought that bad news made good copy. It sold more newspapers.
“That’s a terrible thing to happen so late in the day,” the columnist went on, “… after his being trained and aimed for the Turf Cup race, that is.”
“He’s not the first horse to be scratched from a race,” Alec said, a little annoyed. “We’ll point him for another race now.”
“Is he lame?”
“No. Henry just doesn’t want to risk any chance of further injury by racing on Saturday.”
The columnist prodded. “It wouldn’t be that he doesn’t want to risk being beaten by an outsider, would it?”
Alec didn’t answer. He brushed by the man and went over to Steve. “Can I see you alone for a few minutes?” he asked.
“Sure, Alec. But I don’t want to leave Flame just yet.”
There was a screen over the top half of the stall door and Alec could make out Flame’s small head behind it. Steve’s friend Phil Pitcher was standing guard, still wearing his sun helmet and knee-length shorts and still looking very worried.
“This horse is a ham, Alec,” the photographer said. “You should have seen him. He posed every time I held up the camera.”
“If he was a little less tired, he would’ve kicked it out of your hand,” the sports columnist commented. Then, turning to Steve Duncan, he said, “I got a few more questions. I’m not so good I can interview horses, and you haven’t given me much copy yet.”
“I’ve told you just about everything that happened,” Steve said uncomfortably. It was obvious that he was unused to handling newsmen. He didn’t like being the official host.
“Do you think your horse can beat the Black in a race?” the columnist asked.
“It’s a matter of luck,” Steve answered, looking at Alec.
“Come on, now. You can do better than that.”
“We won’t be racing the Black anyway.”
“Not in the Turf Cup race,” the columnist admitted. “But if you do any good in that race you’ll go in the Widener
Handicap the following week, won’t you? The Black should be in it, too, if he’s not broken down altogether.”
“One race was all we figured on,” Steve said uneasily.
“You mean you’d pass up the hundred-thousand dollar Widener if you had a chance to get some of the money?”
“I hadn’t given it any thought,” Steve said.
The columnist smiled. “That’s better. One race at a time. Is that the way you want me to put it in my column?”
“Something like that,” Steve replied defensively.
“Good. I’ll make it that upon interviewing Steve Duncan after his electrifying workout on Flame this morning, I found him to be a real veteran despite his riding apprenticeship. He was calm, collected, and convinced that Flame deserved a chance in both the Hialeah Turf Cup and the Widener Handicap.”
Steve said nothing.
“Your horse cooled out completely sound, didn’t he?” the columnist asked Steve.
“Yes, he did.”
“Can you account for his standing up so well after such a workout?”
“He had the foundation under him. He’s run hundreds of miles. He’s dead fit.”
“Hundreds of miles,” the columnist repeated puzzledly. “But where? Where’s he done all this running?”
Only then, Alec noted, did Steve Duncan exert any of the self-confidence that had been apparent in his first visit to Hialeah.
“That’s all I’ve got to say,” he said, ending the interview.
A little later when they were alone Alec told Steve, “You handled your press ‘conference’ pretty well for the first time.”
Steve said, “I’m still too fuzzy-chinned for the likes of that columnist.”
“He’d make it tough even if you had a beard down to your belt. You did okay.”
“I’ll do better next time.”
Alec studied Steve’s serious face. There was no doubt he was confident there would be a next time, as winner of the Turf Cup race. “Yes,” Alec said finally. “I guess you will at that.”
Their eyes met and Steve said, “You’re sore, aren’t you?”
“Wouldn’t you be with a lame horse?” asked Alec. “We ran our horses into the ground.”
“Flame got away from me.”
“You said you could control him. He took my horse with him, so I had no control either.”
“The Black did something to him that I never felt before. It was the next thing to fear, I think.”
“It was rough on both of them,” Alec conceded. “Whatever accounted for it isn’t important now. It’s done.”
“I’m sorry. If there was anything I could do …”
“There isn’t.”
For a moment they were silent, then Steve spoke. “Like I said, I’m sorry about the Black, but with him out of the race next week we’ll win, Alec. I’m not afraid of any other horse.”
“Then you’d better start,” Alec said quietly. “A horse like yours can get into plenty of trouble. Every horse in the race next week will be as formidable as Flame and his superior in experience and rating. That goes for their riders, too. You won’t be dealing with a bunch of inexperienced kids.”
“Like me?” Steve asked.
“Like you,” Alec said evenly.
“Flame can make his own holes in any field,” Steve said.
“I doubt it. You’ll go down fast if he tries it. He’ll need guidance, and that will be up to you.”
“And you don’t think I can do it?”
“Not on the basis of what I saw this morning. You’ve got a chance only if you can put Flame where you want him on the track. You won’t know what tactics to use until you see how the race is going. Only then can you decide on strategy.”
“I can stay in front and keep clear of any trouble,” Steve suggested, his face a mirror of sincerity.
“Not if horses break from the gate in front of you … and they will. There are a couple with lots of early speed, front-runners both of them.”
“Then I’ll lay in the pack, and come on when I find racing room.”
“There may not be any.”
“Then, like I said before, Flame will make his own holes.”
“And as I said before, he’ll go down, taking you with him,” Alec answered. “You don’t win these races on speed and guts alone, no matter how much your horse may have.”
“You mean I’ve got to be lucky, too,” Steve said, smiling. “You once told me that luck has more to do with success on the track than anything else.”
“I don’t remember going that far, but luck is a big factor in any race.”
“Okay, Alec,” Steve said, serious again. “I know you’re trying to help me. How do I win the race doing it your way?”
“It’s not my way,” Alec said, “and there’s no sure thing in racing. But it’s important that you know not only what to expect from Flame but from every horse in the race … all of them and their riders. There are certain things we know from past performance, and that’s what I’m here to tell you. First, let’s take Gustavo Carballido who will be up on Bolero …”
The stable area was quiet except for Alec’s voice as he went on, calmly and steadily, acquainting Steve Duncan with the horses and riders he’d be racing in the Hialeah Turf Cup. It was fully an hour later before they parted and went their separate ways, each going back to his own horse and dreaming his own dreams.
TURF SPLENDOR
13
It was a sunny, hot and humid afternoon for the running of the Hialeah Turf Cup. The red-coated bugler, wearing shiny black boots and a black hunting cap, stood in the middle of the track. He placed a long coach horn to his lips, the sun glistening on the golden instrument. The music came forth, sounding the call to the post.
On the roof of the grandstand, television cameras were ready to pick up the horses as they emerged from the paddock tunnel onto the track. The television announcer told the nation’s viewers, “We’re at Hialeah Park in Florida where some of the world’s top race horses are about to come on the track for the running of the Hialeah Turf Cup. It is the nation’s oldest grass stakes race and is contested at a distance of a mile and a half for a gross value of about $100,000. A unique feature of the Hialeah Turf Cup is its international aspect, for a preponderance of foreign-bred horses have competed in the race during the past decade, and, we might add, have won it. All in all the Turf Cup has been quite a profitable affair for horses from across the seas, and this year may prove no exception. Horses from Argentina, Chile, Ireland and the United Kingdom will be competing against American-bred campaigners over the grass course.
“The field of fifteen turf specialists is a surprisingly large one—or, at least, larger than was expected—due to the withdrawal of the Black from the race, following a recurrence of a hoof injury suffered during a workout a few days ago. The U.S. champion would have been the ‘strong’ horse in this race and many of the horses going to the post today would not have started if he had run as scheduled.
“And now,” the announcer continued, “the horses are coming onto the track.”
The sleek horses, some accompanied by stable ponies, emerged from the paddock tunnel, their jockeys standing in stirrup irons. They skittered through the crush of people lining the corridor, their coats and riders’ silks glittering in the bright sun. The first horse danced onto the track to begin the post parade.
“That’s Bolero on your screen now,” the television announcer said. “He hasn’t fared too well at Hialeah but should fancy today’s long route of a mile and a half, especially with the flashy Gustavo Carballido guiding him. They’re both from the Argentine, Bolero being owned by Mario Garcia-Pena of Buenos Aires.
“The number 2 horse is another Latin invader, El Mono from Chile, being ridden by one of the United States’ most successful riders, Jay Pratt. The public has made this pair the favorite. El Mono has great capability on the grass and is in top form. It is not surprising that his Chilean owner, Louis Citron, gave this riding a
ssignment to Jay Pratt, for Pratt is no stranger to foreign horses. He has raced all over the world and probably has more mileage to his credit than an astronaut.
“Number 3 is Windswept, the United States’ main threat to beat the foreign invaders over the long distance of the Turf Cup. He has the reliable Pete Edge aboard. The public has made Windswept second choice, knowing he is more partial to grass than dirt and is razor-sharp at this time.
“Number 4 is Erin Sea from Ireland, making his first start in the United States. He is being ridden by the veteran jockey Nick Marchione.
“Number 5 is another U.S. threat, Tartan, and he will be guided by young Willy Walsh. Tartan won an impressive race over the dirt track last week in his Hialeah debut and last fall performed brilliantly on the grass in New York. This will be his first grass invasion of the year.”
Flame was the next horse to be introduced in the post parade. For a few seconds the announcer was silent, watching, along with his viewers and those at the track, the antics of the horse as he refused to stay in line. Breaking from his rider’s hands, he swept past the stands and a spontaneous wave of applause from the crowd followed him as he went along; the television cameras stayed on him.
“The Number 6 horse,” the announcer said finally, “is the surprise entry, Flame, winner of the Nassau Cup in record-breaking time a few weeks ago. He is being ridden by the apprentice Steve Duncan, who seems to be having a difficult time controlling him as you can see. Flame is receiving quite an ovation from the crowd, a remarkable thing for a horse making his debut. His coat is a glistening chestnut color and he stands well over sixteen hands. His presence has brought back to the race some of the glamour it lost when the Black had to be withdrawn. The two horses competed in an explosive workout a few mornings ago, which no doubt accounts for the applause now being given Flame. While he will have to prove his mettle in the race, he is adding additional luster to a most colorful post parade.”