Later Henry agreed with Alec about sending Black Minx back to the farm but he said it in a few thousand words. It was only in the cool of the night while they sat with Don Conover in his living room that Alec suggested an alternative before putting Black Minx in the van.
“Don,” he said, “the way Wintertime’s acting you’re in the same fix we are. You’ll never have him ready for the Belmont.”
“Not if I can’t work him,” Conover agreed. “And I don’t believe in working a horse when he leaves grain in his box. Something’s wrong but the vet can’t find out what it is. He needs to be turned out, I guess. Let him chew on some grass a month or so, then maybe—Say, how about boarding him at your place?”
“Why not?” Henry asked. “We got the room, and the way things seem to be goin’ we’ll need the money we get for it.”
Alec said, “Neither of you have let me finish.”
“Go ahead then,” Conover said jokingly, “Dr. Ramsay.”
“I’ve had an idea right along that your colt and our filly—”
“Oh, no, Alec,” Henry interrupted, rising from the couch. He went to the door but didn’t leave the room. He just stood there, waiting and shaking his head.
Alec’s gaze returned to Don Conover, who was closer to his age than Henry’s. “I’m not going to ask much,” he said, “—only that we stable the colt and filly next to each other. Also, I’d like to see them worked together again.”
“Y’mean like we did down at Pimlico?” Conover asked.
“Yes.”
“Aren’t you afraid she’ll quit on you like she did then?” the young trainer asked.
“She won’t if your colt keeps going,” Alec answered without looking at Henry.
Don Conover shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t get you, Alec, but I’m sure willing to try it. I’d try anything to get my colt back on his feed in time for the Belmont.”
There was a loud snort as the door opened and closed behind Henry.
Early the next morning Black Minx was moved to the other side of the barn and by nightfall Wintertime had cleaned up all the grain in his three feedings. The filly had always eaten well but now there was a marked change in her in other ways. She suddenly began taking an interest in the activity going on outside her stall instead of sulking in back as she’d done. She whinnied at the stablemen all day long and once grabbed Billy Watts’s arm. She nipped him, giving him a scare, but didn’t take hold.
That night Henry decided it had been too quiet for her on the other side of the barn. She liked having people around. Maybe Alec had something, at that. Moving her over where more fuss was going on might renew her interest in racing again. It might at that. At least it was worth a try.
Alec decided that the difference in Black Minx was not due just to a change in her surroundings. It was not as simple as that by any means. Actually they were practicing an amateurish form of psychological therapy on Black Minx. If being where she could see Wintertime was going to make her into a racehorse again, he was all for it. But what they were getting into he didn’t know. He was no doctor.
“Go ahead and laugh,” he told Henry, “but you’ve always maintained that a contented mind in a healthy body is just as applicable to horses as to humans. So it’s not very funny when we happen to own a horse with a mental quirk, even if you don’t want to label it ‘love.’ ”
Don Conover decided that he didn’t care what was responsible for his colt’s improvement. It was enough that he could get him onto the track again and have him ready for the Belmont.
But none of the three expected the sensational workouts of the following week when they put the two horses on the track together.
In the gray early light of dawn Black Minx gave Alec Ramsay rides such as few jockeys were privileged to take at that hour of the day. Billy Watts was one of the “privileged few,” for morning after morning Wintertime bobbed head to head, eye to eye with the black filly.
Trainer Don Conover, of Parkslope Stables, remarked to trainer Henry Dailey, of Hopeful Farm, while sitting high in the vast empty stands the morning before the running of the historic Belmont Stakes, “It’s hard to believe even when I see them go.” He glanced at his stopwatch. “And I can’t even believe this. If you tell anyone what they just worked that half-mile in, I’ll say it’s a lie.”
Trainer Henry Dailey answered, “One thing sure is that their two heads will be bobbin’ as one again tomorrow. Whatever we get out of this race, we’ll get together.”
Trainer Don Conover shrugged his big shoulders. He didn’t undestand that part of it. He just knew that he had Wintertime as sharp as he could get him and that was razor sharp. He figured, too, that over the Belmont distance of a mile and a half his colt had the stamina to pull ahead of the filly. Actually he wasn’t worried about beating her. There was only one horse to beat in the stretch run and that was Eclipse. Everybody knew that—everybody.
THE BELMONT
13
There were two television sets upstairs in the jockey’s room at Belmont Park, and they were usually on at the same time. One was a closed-circuit set showing only the races as they were run on the track below. The other was a standard set carrying, among other things, baseball.
For the jockeys who did not have mounts in the sixth race, Saturday afternoon, June 12, was no different from any other day. The larger group was watching the Mets play the Phillies at Shea Stadium. Then someone at the closed-circuit set said, “It’s on. Pick it up on yours and we’ll get the whole works, even the commercials.”
Michael Costello, who had ridden in the fifth race and was done for the day, switched channels and there were no dissenters among the baseball fans. Instead everyone moved closer to the set to make room for others and there was a colorful merging of rich silks.
The picture on the screen showed the track below and the infield. “Welcome, ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer said, “to Belmont Park where within a few minutes we’ll witness the running of the historic Belmont Stakes, the third leg of America’s Triple Crown for three-year-old colts and fillies.”
A valet watching said, “At least it ain’t so awful hot like it was Memorial Day. At least it ain’t that bad.” He was stripped to the waist and wore a canvas apron. Perspiration rolled from his naked chest while he polished a shining black boot.
“What’s the heat got to do with it, anyway?” another valet asked. “They run the same, hot or cold.”
“I wasn’t thinkin’ of them,” the first valet answered. “It was those poor guys I was thinkin’ about, that’s all.”
The picture showed the flat, uncovered roof of the long stands where people sat exposed to a glowing sun. Then the cameras swept down to the packed crowd standing between the track and grandstand.
“They knew what kind of a mob would be here today,” the second valet said unkindly. “I don’t feel sorry for them one bit. I’m just glad I don’t have to be out there.”
“Quit arguin’,” a jockey said, “or we’ll put you there.”
The picture shifted to Belmont’s soft green lawns behind the stands where some fans sat on benches under old and towering shade trees while others could be seen walking about.
“There,” a jockey said to the chastened valet. “Does that make you feel better? Plenty of room. Good ol’ Belmont, spacious Belmont. Plenty of room for everybody, on the track and off.”
“At least it ain’t a madhouse like Churchill Downs on Derby Day!” someone said defiantly.
“Heaven forbid!” another answered mockingly. “Our checkered waistcoat boys wouldn’t allow anything like that, not at dear old Belmont!”
“But we got a band to class up the big one today. They went that far anyway,” a jockey in the back remarked.
“But it’s not like Pimlico’s band,” another rider said. “Pimlico puts on the best show, all right. I mean it. You jus’ shoulda heard that band play on Preakness Day. It would have torn your heart out. I’m tellin’ you it would.”
“Stop cry
ing,” a jockey on the outside of the group said, “and turn up the sound so we can hear something. Think we just want to stand around looking at pictures? We can go outside if we just want to see. Let’s listen to what this guy has to say.”
They were suddenly quiet, not because of the jockey’s request but because the horses had come onto the track.
“… and so, ladies and gentlemen, this is the Belmont,” the announcer said, “called by many horsemen ‘the test of the champion’ and rightly so, for it is raced over the true English Derby distance of a mile and a half. Even more than the Kentucky Derby and the Preakness this historic race requires stamina as well as speed.”
The jockeys in the room listened in respectful silence, some with awe on their faces and others with sheer envy. Suddenly the quiet was broken as the screen showed a close-up of a horse wearing the number 1 saddle cloth.
“There’s Pops!” several riders yelled together.
Big and brown and burly with splashes of white on his face and legs, Eclipse broke from the post parade and cantered past the stands. His stable pony had trouble keeping up with him even at that slow gait for his strides were enormous.
An apprentice jockey, moving closer to the screen, said, “The strip’s dryin’ out after last night’s rain. It’ll be good if not fast. Look at it.”
“Naw,” another said, “see those light brown patches? Well, they’re just baked on top. It’s wet underneath and bad goin’. This track’s got too much top soil to dry out in anything less than days.”
“Hey! Don’t I hear the band playin’ ‘Sidewalks of New York’?” a valet asked. “Where they got them hid anyway?”
“Behind the stands,” and someone laughed, “so no one can see ’em! But let’s listen to what this guy’s sayin’, huh?”
They knew Eclipse far better than the announcer did but they listened attentively. He made it real easy for folks to know what kind of horse they were looking at. They could just see the millions of people at home, sitting in their armchairs and listening to this guy talk about Pops. They just could.
“Eclipse is the heavy favorite and must be considered the champion to be tested in this classic race. According to those who know him best he will not be found wanting today. In fact they have already placed the very positive adjective great on his broad, flat back.”
A jockey said, “Broad is right. I swear y’could set a table for six on it.”
“Quiet!”
“Okay, okay.”
“… and most horsemen,” the television announcer continued, “discount Eclipse’s loss to Black Minx in the Kentucky Derby since the big brown colt hadn’t yet found himself. This is not the same horse, they say, who was beaten in the Derby.”
“But she whipped him good,” a rider said. “Baby really did it, no matter what this guy says about Pops not being the same horse in the Derby. And that was a big one, too, a real big one. Maybe even the biggest no matter what this guy says about the Belmont bein’ a test of champions or somethin’.”
“He just meant that it separates the sprinters from the stayers, that’s all,” a valet explained patiently.
“Well, maybe so,” the jockey answered, “but the Derby ain’t no sprint. Baby can stay with the best of them, Baby can.”
“Keep quiet, will ya?”
“All right, all right …”
The cameras were still on Eclipse while he slowed to a walk.
“After the Kentucky Derby,” the announcer continued, “Eclipse set a new world record in the Withers Mile here at Belmont and then, of course, went down to Pimlico to defeat his Derby conqueror. Most impressive while winning the Preakness was his equaling the track record over a very muddy strip. The big colt can handle wet footing such as he has again today but his long strides aren’t best suited for it. Eclipse will, of course, be ridden by his regular rider, the young veteran Ted Robinson.”
The picture shifted to Wintertime, the second horse in the post parade. The blood bay colt went into a lope before the stands, his strides coming short but very confident.
“Now here’s a colt who seems to delight in this wet kind of going,” the announcer told his television audience. “Wintertime has run some of his best races here at Belmont Park, which is his home track. Some people figure that he just might be the horse Eclipse will have to catch in the stretch run. He finished second in the Kentucky Derby and tied for third with Black Minx in the Preakness. Perhaps this will be his day, the day he stops being best man and becomes the groom.…”
“What a silly way to talk about a horse,” a jockey commented. “What’s he mean anyway?”
“Just that Red’s due to win one, that’s all,” came the answer.
“Then what’s he been building up Pops for? He just got through telling everybody that Pops was the champ, didn’t he?”
“He’s got to make it sound like a tough race for Pops,” the other answered. “It’s his job, that’s what it is. He’s only got four other horses out there. He’s got to make people think Pops is really doin’ something in beatin’ ’em.”
“He hasn’t beaten them yet,” another rider said quietly.
The cameras were shifting to Golden Vanity, the third horse in the post parade, when Black Minx whipped out of line and came down the center of the track. The cameras remained on her as she swept by Golden Vanity while trying to break away from her stable pony and rider.
“There’s the Kentucky Derby winner,” the announcer said quickly. “Number five, Black Minx. She seems peppery today and full of run. There, now they have her stopped. But she’s not going to be led back to last position in the parade. She’s going to stay up there alongside Wintertime. They’re letting her, so everything seems to be under control now. Alec Ramsay is sitting back in his saddle. That’s Henry Dailey, Hopeful Farm’s trainer, acting as pony boy. He had his hands full for a few seconds there.
“Black Minx may surprise everyone by going out in front and staying there today,” the announcer confided to his audience. “Fillies aren’t supposed to win Belmonts any more than Kentucky Derbies but apparently no one’s told Black Minx. She may be the only filly since Ruthless in 1867 to win the Belmont Stakes. Remember, too, she’s carrying the same weight as she did in the Kentucky Derby. That’s one hundred and twenty-one pounds. The colts give five pounds to a filly in this long run of a mile and a half, carrying one hundred twenty-six.”
A jockey said, “There he goes again, makin’ it sound like a tough one for Pops.”
“Listen, Mac,” another rider said, “this guy knows that after today he’s not goin’ to have any three-year-olds to talk about except Pops. There aren’t goin’ to be any trainers willing to send their colts out against him, that’s what! It would be too humiliating, and trainers and owners don’t like to be humiliated before thousands of people. Pops will have the rest of the three-year-old races to himself. They’ll be ‘walkovers’ for him.”
A few minutes later the horses were entering the starting gate and the jockeys’ room, like the stands outside, became very quiet.
Eclipse walked quickly into his number 1 stall and stood there, waiting. Wintertime balked behind his stall and shook his hooded head angrily. A ground crewman took him by the bridle and led him inside. Golden Vanity went willingly enough into the number 3 stall but kept going and broke through the closed front flaps. An outrider was there to pick him up and he didn’t get away. He was taken around the gate and inside again. This time he stayed. Silver Jet stood quietly in the number 4 stall, making no more fuss than Eclipse. Black Minx refused to go into her box, rearing and throwing herself sideways. It took two assistant starters to get her into the number 5 stall. They stayed there holding her, while she let fly her hind legs at the padded door to her rear.
Now there were mumbled mutterings from the tense jockeys in the room. Any second and the door flaps would be opened. They knew it as well as if they’d been in the gate themselves.
“No chance. No chance,” one said. “Red’s
up in the air.” Wintertime had reared and Billy Watts was having trouble getting him down.
“Keep quiet. You ain’t out there.”
“Look at Pops, will you?” another rider said. “He looks bored. I mean it.”
“He looks lopsided to me,” someone answered.
“Lopsided nothin’. Wait’ll you see him come out. Straight as a die.”
“Quiet!” Michael Costello bellowed. “ ’Tis the announcer I’ll be a-listenin’ to and not to the likes of any of you!”
“Eclipse is usually a slow starter,” the announcer said quietly while waiting for Wintertime to stop rearing. “He takes a while to get in stride but the long race is all in his favor, especially the quarter-of-a-mile homestretch.”
“What’s he talking about?” a jockey asked. “Pops breaks fast, then falls back because he wants to race that way. He likes to bowl ’em over in the stretch run, that’s what Pops does.”
The stall doors suddenly burst open and the horses came plunging out of the gate. Now the watching jockeys were quiet but their hands and shoulders worked in rhythm with their favorites on the screen.
“Come on, Baby. Come on. Keep her goin’, Alec. Push her.”
Black Minx must have been in motion just as the starter touched the electric button opening for stall doors, for she came out a stride ahead of the others. Apparently out of control, she lunged in toward the rail but no horse was on her left so she wasn’t interfering with anyone. Alec straightened her out skillfully and then took her gently over to the inner rail.
“ ’Tis a pretty piece of ridin’,” Mike Costello muttered.
“Come on, Baby, keep goin’!” another jockey shouted.
Black Minx began shortening stride or perhaps Alec was taking up a wrap on her. The jockeys watching the screen couldn’t tell. But now the rest of the field had caught her. Wintertime had been the next fastest out of the gate and he was the first to reach Black Minx, with Eclipse hard on his heels.
They saw the filly swerve to the right, shaking her head and fighting Alec Ramsay once more. Wintertime slipped into the opening on the rail with Billy Watts hand-riding vigorously.