Alec pushed dirt into the hole with his foot, stomping the ground flat until Henry was satisfied.
“I don’t want you to get caught on the rail tomorrow,” the trainer said. “Stay a good length off it. It’s too soft.”
“Yes, Henry.”
“There’s another hole. I’ll get it.”
“Okay.”
“This is very important,” the trainer said. “It can mean the difference between your winning and losing.”
“I know, Henry.” Alec watched the trainer fill in the hole. He knew that after walking around the track, they’d return to the barn and Henry would draw a picture. The oval is one and one-eighth miles, he’d put down on paper. Distance from judges’ stand to first turn, 325 feet. Distance from last turn to finish, 1,075 feet. Width of track, 80 feet. And so on, until it was all there to be gone over and over again. That was the way Henry did things the night before a race, and somehow it helped relieve their tension. It was better than sitting around doing nothing, Alec conceded.
“How are you feelin’?” Henry asked.
“Fine,” Alec said.
“You’ve got good judgment of pace,” Henry said. “Make sure you use it tomorrow. Don’t let any of those lightweights steal the race from you, Apache especially. With all his speed he just might go the full distance, carrying 110 pounds.”
“I’ll remember,” Alec said.
“Anyone can be guilty of making a mistake in judgment,” Henry went on.
“I’ll try not to,” Alec promised.
“If you do make any mistakes, try to make the right ones.”
“I won’t mess it up,” Alec said.
“Watch your friend Steve every second,” Henry cautioned. “He’s got a natural talent for riding and he’s good with that horse of his. One would never believe he didn’t know what the inside of the winner’s circle looked like a week ago.”
“He’s come a long way,” Alec admitted.
Henry filled another hole in the track and said, “He’s had a good teacher since he got here.”
Alec shrugged his shoulders. “I only did for him what I’ve done for others starting out.”
Henry looked at Alec. “I know, but this time it might backfire on you. Steve’s got a good idea what to do in a race now. Make sure he don’t beat you by a nose.”
“I’ll do my best,” Alec said.
“I want you to do more than your best,” Henry said solemnly. “You might have to … to win.”
Later that night Henry got an early morning edition of a Saturday newspaper in the hope of reading himself to sleep. Instead, it kept him awake most of the night.
“BIG TWO” CLASH IN WIDENER TODAY
Unbeaten Flame Challenges Champion
HIALEAH, Fla. Feb. 21—Undefeated Flame will attempt to reduce the “Big Two” to the “Big One” this afternoon when he opposes the Black, handicap champion, and four others in the Widener Handicap at one mile and a quarter.
This running of the winter classic shapes up as the finest in its long history. The Black, in defense of his championship laurels, will carry 136 pounds, while Flame will get in with 130. It is this difference of six pounds which many experts feel will give the challenger an edge in the run to the finish wire. The possibility of the Black being beaten has attracted nation-wide, even world-wide interest to this year’s $100,000 Widener. Never in the Black’s long career in attaining turfdom’s highest laurels will he be so hard-pressed to retain his supremacy over the handicap ranks …
Henry feared Flame more than he had let Alec or anyone else know. The greatest horse and rider could be guilty of making mistakes during the running of a grueling race, and tomorrow it would take just one false move by the Black or Alec for the Widener to be lost to them. He wished he could quiet the butterflies in his stomach.
SCALE UP, SCALE DOWN
16
An hour before the running of the Widener Handicap, Alec warmed up the Black under the tall Australian pines which lined the sandy road through the stable area. When he had finished, he knew his horse was supple and alert for the job ahead of him.
Henry held the Black’s bridle while Alec slid down from the stallion’s back. “I want you to gallop him in front of the stands, too,” the old trainer said. “Break him out of the post parade the first chance you get. Gallop him all the way into the backstretch before turning him and going back to the gate. I want him warmed up and in his best stride when the gate opens, not after racing two or three furlongs like maybe some of the others.”
“I know, Henry,” Alec answered. The trainer’s instructions were nothing new to him. He’d heard them every race day. But if it helped Henry to repeat them each time, he would listen.
“Get into your working clothes now,” Henry added. “We’ll see you in the paddock.”
The jockeys’ room was noisy and crowded. Alec went to his locker and sat down on the bench. Those who were riding in the big race appeared calm, but Alec knew that inwardly they felt as he did, pretty uneasy if not filled with anxiety. It couldn’t be otherwise with so much money hanging on the finish wire; the winning rider would get 10% of the purse, about $9,000 for just two minutes of racing time. It was enough to put anyone’s nerves on edge.
Willy Walsh munched a grilled cheese sandwich and talked casually to a reporter about the chances of Mad Wizard winning the race. “He’s out of his class,” the young jockey said frankly, “but we might be up there somewhere, light-weighted like he is. He’s an honest horse. He tries all the way.”
Nearby, Jay Pratt had shucked off his custom-tailored street suit and was pulling on his skin-tight white nylon pants. He looked out the window, watching the big crowd in the paddock. The bigger the crowd, the better he liked it and, usually, the better he rode.
Turning back to his locker, Pratt caught Alec watching him. “It’s a juicy bundle of boodle we’ll be racing for today,” he said quietly.
“It’s that, all right,” Alec returned, pulling on his pants.
Pete Edge was already dressed in his silks and playing ping-pong with a rider who didn’t have a mount in the Widener. He smashed the ball hard, as if trying to get rid of a lot of excess steam.
The veteran Nick Marchione was in his silks, too, and playing cards at the far end of the room.
Reaching into his locker, Alec took out his black-and-white checkered blouse and pulled it over his T-shirt. Tucking it in his pants, he moved closer to where Steve Duncan, fully dressed in red silks, was sitting on a trunk. Steve had a couple of sports writers around him, but he didn’t seem to be annoyed. He chatted with them as he might have done with any other visitors.
Alec decided that Steve had come a long way in his give-and-take with the press. There was no fear or timidity in his face. Instead, it showed a kind of exaltation. He had straddled all the horsepower a rider could put under himself, and at this point in his short career he was a hero, a jockey to be interviewed and a rider with whom to reckon.
The roar of the crowd watching the finish of the race preceding the Widener Handicap filled the room. Alec turned away from Steve Duncan.
An old friend, the sports editor of a New York daily newspaper, came up to him. “Hi, Leo,” Alec said. “I was wondering why I hadn’t seen you around this winter.”
“I left New York only this morning,” the man said. “It was five below.”
“Then be glad you’re here,” Alec said, buttoning his blouse.
“I am, but I’d like to be able to stay the rest of the winter.”
“Why don’t you? You’ve been at it long enough to pick your spots.”
“They need me in the office.”
The man turned, nodding his head toward Steve Duncan. “What about that kid and his horse? Are they everything I’ve read?”
“For publication?” Alec sat down on the bench, pulling on his boots.
“No, just for me.”
“One robin doesn’t make a spring,” Alec said quietly.
“But
it gives a man hope of seeing another robin,” the newspaper man returned. “That was a pretty big race he went to last week.”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t.”
“I know what you said. One big race doesn’t make a horse or rider. Still …”
Alec finished pulling on his boots and reached into his locker for his goggles. “You asked me what I thought, and I told you. I’m not saying I’m right. I only believe it was too big a race for Steve Duncan. He needs as much guidance as his horse does. Last week’s race came too soon for him and too fast. He has a lot more to learn about racing before …”
Turning around, Alec stopped suddenly, for Steve Duncan was standing there, his face a fiery red. Alec said nothing, and it was Steve who broke the strained silence. “You keep out of my way, Alec,” he said angrily. “Just keep out of my way.”
When he had gone, the newspaper man said, “I see what you mean. He’s hot.”
“He’s no iceman, that’s for sure,” Alec said. “I guess he thinks now that I’m jealous of his success.”
“Or, worse still, that you’re contemptuous of his riding,” the man added. “It’s the way a lot of young riders feel at the beginning. He’ll learn fast.”
“But not fast enough for this race,” Alec said, picking up his helmet and goggles. “It’s time to weigh-out. I’ll be seein’ you, Leo.”
“Lots of luck, Alec.”
“Thanks, Leo.”
The Clerk of the Scales had an easy job ahead of him, weighing out the jockeys for the Widener Handicap. There had been many entries for most of the other races on the afternoon program; it had been something of a task to get all the riders on the scales and out of the room in time for their races. He glanced at the six riders who now stood in line, waiting patiently to be checked out. Beside them were their valets, supplied by the track, to assist with the tack.
Willy Walsh, bareheaded and wearing blue-and-yellow silks, stepped on the official scale first. The needle swung to 100 pounds and steadied. His valet handed him a three-pound saddle and a pad containing five pounds of lead. The scale needle went up to 108 pounds. Willy was the lightest-weighted of the field.
“Okay,” the clerk said. “Walsh. Number One. At one hundred and eight pounds. Check.” Watching the little rider hand back his tack to the valet, he added, “You’re getting skinnier every day, Willy. You’d better watch yourself or you’ll just waste away.”
Willy Walsh picked up the Number 1 armband from the rack and slipped it over his right arm. “How else am I goin’ to ride these lightweights?” he asked, grinning and shrugging his narrow shoulders.
The clerk liked Willy Walsh, as he did most of the riders in the room. They were men of integrity, men who worked hard at their trade, men with whom he was proud to be associated. Only occasionally did he watch any of them race. He was always too busy in the big room. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t interested in racing so much as he was in the men themselves. He knew them and their ways well. He had only to watch them play ping-pong or cards or just sit around, day after day, to know how they rode a race.
Willy might be skinny but he was game right down to the last ounce. He always strutted around the room like a fighting cock, not actually looking for a fight but not avoiding one either. He kept himself in top physical condition.
Jay Pratt was the next rider to step on the scale. He was as slick and polished as always and looked very handsome in his orange-and-green silks. The valet handed him his tack and the needle settled at 110 pounds. Riding Apache at that light weight made Pratt one to watch, the clerk decided. It might even be the combination he’d back himself, if he were out there in the stands.
“Pratt. Number Two. At one hundred and ten pounds. Check,” he said, watching the unsmiling rider step off the scale.
Always deadly serious, that was Jay Pratt, the clerk decided. Nothing ever showed in his face. He was a man who could sit by himself in a corner of the room and stay apart from almost anything that went on. He never disclosed impatience, never got ruffled or annoyed at anything that went wrong. That was the way he rode, too, sitting back and waiting until the other riders thought he had done his best. Then he’d come on with a rush, still calm and cool but slamming home.
“Okay. Next,” the clerk said, and baldheaded Nick Marchione stepped on the scale. “You’ll never make it, Nick,” he said, grinning broadly.
The valet handed Nick Marchione his saddle and pad of lead; the needle stopped at 110 pounds. The veteran jockey smiled toothlessly. “When I can’t make one hundred and ten, I’ll quit,” he said.
“That’ll be the day,” the clerk answered, watching the rider clad in silks of baby pink step down from the scale. The colors made him look ridiculous, but Nick didn’t seem to mind. Only the horse they represented mattered, and if Nick didn’t think Sail Away had a chance in the big race, he wouldn’t be riding.
“Marchione, Number Three,” the clerk said. “At one hundred and ten pounds. Check.”
He watched the veteran jockey slip the Number 3 band on his arm, and wished Nick would quit riding. They were the same age, 51, and had known each other for many years. More often than not, he felt twice Nick’s age. What did it was seeing his friend go to the post day after day when he himself found it hard to do anything more strenuous than walking. Nick raced as hard as ever and had won more races than any other rider in the country. He still got up bright and early in the morning and worked horses. He had all the money he’d ever need but financial security didn’t seem as important to him as winning races.
Still watching the veteran jockey, the clerk shrugged his shoulders. There wasn’t any reason for Nick to quit, he admitted to himself. Nick was proud of his profession and he showed it the best way he knew how—by riding. He had good hands, strength and an uncanny sense of pace. He wouldn’t quit until he was carried off the track. The clerk hoped it wouldn’t be today.
Pete Edge hopped on the scale in full regalia, complete with saddle and the belt containing strips of lead which he had taken from his valet. The needle went to 112 pounds.
“I’m always surprised when you make this weight,” the clerk said, studying Pete’s blocklike figure which seemed better suited to boxing than to riding.
“I spent the night in the steam box,” Edge said. “I got a good horse. I had to make it.”
The clerk nodded. Yes, Pete Edge on Bronze Prince at only 112 pounds was another combination to watch. Maybe the “Big Two” wouldn’t have the race to themselves as most people thought. He watched the rider step down in his silver-gray silks and said, “Edge. Number Four. At one hundred and twelve pounds. Check.”
As Pete Edge moved away, the clerk watched him. Pete might get beaten but he too would never quit. He had more drive, energy and determination than any other rider in the room. He was from the old school whose motto was, “Fight and survive or be knocked down and remain behind.” Win or lose, he’d make every other rider know they’d been in a horse race. His hands seemed to be made of steel, and some of the boys said that Pete could keep a tiring horse going by brute strength alone.
Pete’s only trouble in the jockeys’ room, if one could call it trouble, was that he was honest and candid to a fault. He always said what he thought and would stand up to anyone twice his size, if necessary. So a big horse like the Black wouldn’t faze him a bit.
Alec Ramsay stepped on the scale in his black-and-white silks. The valet handed him a worn old saddle which the clerk knew had been used by Henry Dailey during his riding days. Across the saddle was placed a pad, the pockets of which were filled with heavy strips of lead.
As the needle climbed to 136 pounds Alec said, “I’ll never get used to carrying this much lead, Bob.”
“Don’t you mind,” the clerk said, “just as long as your horse doesn’t object to it.”
“He’d better not,” Alec said, smiling.
“Not today,” the clerk agreed. “Okay, Alec, hop off. Ramsay,” he called. “Number Five. At one hundred an
d thirty-six pounds. Check.”
He watched Alec go to the number rack. Here was another rider who made racing worthwhile for him. Alec was potentially one of the great riders of all time, but the clerk doubted he’d be around the jockeys’ room very long. Instead, Alec would become a successful trainer. He wasn’t interested just in his own horse but in all horses. He seemed to have studied every horse at Hialeah and knew more about them than any other rider at the track. Most of the other jocks were too busy concentrating on their own mounts to bother about anyone else’s. And yet this knowledge of horseflesh must have helped Alec become the successful rider he was. When the other riders wanted to know anything about a field, they asked Alec. He always told them, too, never keeping anything to himself. That was another reason he was so well liked—that, and his having saved the hides of a good many jocks as he’d done for Willy Walsh a few weeks ago.
The boys said Alec rode a race with the precision and balance of a well-oiled machine. The clerk thought there was more to it than that. Alec was no machine; instead, he seemed to be part of his horse when he was riding.
Steve Duncan, wearing crimson silks, was the last to step on the scale. When the valet handed him his saddle and pad of lead, the needle went up to 130 pounds.
The clerk smiled at the apprentice rider. “I’m sure you’re not used to picking up so much lead, young fellow,” he said.
Duncan didn’t return the clerk’s smile. He seemed angry and very intent, but the clerk attributed it to pre-race anxiety. That would disappear the moment Duncan mounted his horse.
“Duncan. Number Six. At one hundred and thirty pounds. Check,” the clerk concluded. He hoped this kid would be all right in the big one. He’d have his hands full riding against the others. It took more than a sensational mount to win the Widener. If Duncan wasn’t careful he might lose not only the race but a limb as well. It was that kind of a race. It couldn’t be otherwise with a purse of $90,000 hanging on the wire.
The official weighing-out for the Widener Handicap had been completed. The riders put on their protective helmets and left the room.