A Thoroughbred's Dream, page 6
“What happened? I just heard.”
“He’ll be fine,” Julie said. “He just needs a little rest so he can heal.”
Shanower paced back and forth. “Who’ll saddle him?”
“Bandaro?” They had two other horses in that afternoon. “Me. Who else?”
Shanower looked at her. Julie had actually gotten her trainer’s license two years prior to John, but Shanower kept forgetting that.
“Well, he’s a lot of horse. Are you sure you can handle him?”
The last couple of weeks leading up to the derby had been tense, not to mention John’s accident yesterday. She was in no mood for any of Shanower’s guff. “Excuse me,” she said, turning the horse in his direction and nudging him out of the way. Meanwhile, John lay at home flat on his back, more depressed by the minute. He tried sitting up again and had to lie back down. He anxiously awaited Julie’s return and was brought up to date on the horses. Shanower’s concerns about Julie’s saddling Bandaro irritated him.
“I didn’t graze him. I wasn’t sure, especially with Shanower everywhere.”
“Get Ron to do it. He doesn’t have to graze him long; just enough to let him know it’s still there waiting for him.”
Julie made lunch for both of them and headed back to the track. Ron hesitated leading Bandaro out of his stall. “Maybe I should lip shank him?”
“How will he graze then?” Julie asked, with Ann wondering the same thing.
“Right.” Ron took a deep breath and off they went, with Julie, Ann, and Clayton not far behind. Bandaro behaved himself rather well, but even so, Ron had to wipe sweat off his brow when he’d returned Bandaro safely to his stall.
When Julie returned home that evening, the other two horses in the barn having run a second and a third, she found John sitting on the couch in the living room. Improvement. He was obviously still in a lot of pain, but was hungry and had gotten up for something to eat. Julie smiled and gave him a kiss.
“I think I need a shave,” he said. They drove back to the track that night so John could check on the horses. He sat and talked with Clayton for a while, until the pain got to him, but was back again with Julie the following morning. Bandaro was scheduled to walk, as were most of the horses in the barn. John couldn’t do any chores, but his presence had a calming effect on everyone. Ron heaved a sigh of relief and so did Eddie. He told him he was afraid Shanower was going to name another jock if John didn’t come back. And D.J. couldn’t have been happier to see him.
“I’m so sorry,” he said.
John waved it off. “Did you ever get him loaded?”
“No, I was waiting till you came back,” D.J. teased. “Yeah, I vanned him.”
When it came time to graze Bandaro, John walked alongside Ron, so very grateful for this very dear friend of his. “Are you kidding me,” Ron said, when he thanked him. “John, this has been a dream of a lifetime for me, having something to do with a horse like this.”
John nodded. Him too.
Shanower insisted on taking John and Julie out to dinner that night, and over dessert voiced “his concerns.” He said he had apprehensions about John’s condition, and…. If John couldn’t saddle Bandaro, he wanted a “strong man” to do it. Julie sipped her coffee. This wasn’t about her. This was this old man’s way, and it was about John. This was his day. When John said if he wasn’t feeling up to it he’d get Ron to saddle him, Julie nodded.
The morning of the derby was foggy and damp. The barns and shedrow had an eerie feel to them. Clayton sat on his cot, covered in a wool blanket, and before John could even wonder, announced that Bandaro was anxious for breakfast and could John hurry.
John laughed. He was moving as fast as he possibly could. The Derby was the eighth race and scheduled to go off about 4:00 p.m. Still too sore to raise his right arm, John asked Ron if he’d saddle Bandaro for him, and they were all set. Eddie had a horse in the sixth race and would be warmed up and ready to go. Shanower and company were in attendance. Clayton did his best to keep everyone safe and directed traffic. Ron walked Bandaro early before anyone arrived. After that, Clayton would not allow anyone near his stall. The clock was ticking.
Julie did Bandaro up in Vet-wrap, all four legs, brushed him off and rubbed him down as John watched. She cleaned out his nose, rinsed out his mouth, and when the call for the eighth race came over the loud speaker, she put his bridle on and led him out of his stall. Ann was astride Ron’s pony and as she led Bandaro to the paddock, John, Ron, Julie, and Clayton followed behind.
“Good luck,” D.J. said, standing at the end of his barn.
John nodded.
“Good luck!” another fellow trainer said, as they passed. “He looks great!”
“Good luck!” wished another.
“Good luck!”
Bandaro stood perfectly to be saddled. Ron was all smiles, John too. Ron walked him around the paddock. Bandaro was as calm as could be. When they passed Sundancer, who was acting up, he never even blinked an eye.
The jockeys came out and Eddie was glad to see John standing there. They both knew the strategy but went over it again. Bandaro would go to the lead on his own and Eddie would have to settle him down the backside and save what he could for the stretch run. When it came time for the jockeys to mount their horses, John stepped close to Bandaro and, using his left hand, he gave his all-time favorite jockey a leg up. Smiling then to hide the pain in his ribs, he watched Ron lead Bandaro out onto the racetrack.
Ten minutes to post. Ron traded places with Ann on the pony, and with much pomp and circumstance, the eight-horse field paraded in front of the grandstand, down and then back before they jogged off. John, Julie, and Ann made their way to the clubhouse where Shanower and his entourage awaited.
“No hand shaking or back slapping,” Clayton instructed, when everyone crowded around. No longer in control of Bandaro’s safety, John was his new charge.
“Do you think he’ll win?”
“Is he ready?”
“Tell me the truth, I want to go bet.”
Not one to tout his own horses as a rule, John assured them he felt Bandaro would run a big race, and when questioned more, said, “Yes. I think he’ll win.” Just as he said this, a newspaper reporter snapped his picture.
“I’m going to go down now,” John said. This was all too much. His ribs were killing him and he was seeing spots in front of his eyes. “I’ll see you in the winner’s circle,” he told Shanower, and everyone cheered.
The betting favorites were side by side in the six and seven holes. Sundancer’s last start, an impressive win at a mile had swayed the handicappers in attendance. He was a slight favorite in the win pool. It would appear they were not even giving the rest of the field a second glance. As they approached the gate and the horses started loading, John’s pulse quickened. For Bandaro’s best chance to win this race, he needed a clean start and an uneventful first turn. The last horse loaded. A momentary pause. And the latch was sprung.
“They’re off!”
Bandaro broke cleanly, Sundancer right alongside as Eddie reached up and settled him into the first turn. Laying third, three wide, Bandaro was running easily as they started up the backside. As they passed the ½ mile pole in .45 flat, Bandaro went to the front, dispatching the early leader and opening up a four-length lead on Sundancer, who was two lengths in front of the rest of the field. Eddie sat quietly while Bandaro ran effortlessly, ¾’s in 1:10 2/5ths. He was flying! As they headed into the stretch, Sundancer mounted his charge and shortened the distance between them to three lengths.
John and Julie stared, Ann stared, the crowd stared, amidst the noise, shouting, screaming - noise so loud, nothing could be heard but silence inside, thunderous hooves pounded the ground.
“Come on, Bandaro,” John whispered. “Come on.” The horse had been through so much. Was it impossible to think he’d have enough air, enough strength, enough stamina, enough heart…?
Sundancer was within two lengths now – then one and a half.
Julie held her breath, her heart pounding in her ears. In her mind’s eye, she saw John grazing Bandaro, covering his bony body with a blanket so no one would see, she saw him brushing him, feeding him bran mash out of his hand, she saw him on his knees, gasping for breath, she saw him at her side….
“Come on, Bandaro. Come on.”
“Sundancer is challenging the leader!” the announcer called.
Eddie glanced over his shoulder. He’d glimpsed Sundancer making a move around the turn and was saving all the horse he could. He could feel Bandaro reach for more ground as Sundancer drew even with them at the eighth pole, the mile in 1:37 4/5ths. It was time to start riding and earn his ten percent.
“Let’s go, Bandaro,” he said, head and head with Sundancer.
From the vantage point of where John and Julie stood, it looked as if Sundancer was going to pass Bandaro easily. But Bandaro wasn’t going down without a fight. He switched leads and matched Sundancer stride for stride. The crowd roared in appreciation, witnessing a classic struggle between two horses and two riders refusing to lose.
“Come on, Bandaro. Come on.” John’s breath caught in his throat. Bandaro was running his heart out. “Come on.”
“And it’s Bandaro and Sundancer, head and head….”
“You’re winning!” Eddie shouted. “You’re winning!
“Come on, big guy! Come on!”
Forty yards to the wire, Bandaro regained the lead, by a nose, a head, a neck…. The crowd’s voices grew louder and louder, building to a roar!
“And the winner! Bandarrrro!”
“Yes!!” John shouted. “Yes!!!”
“Yes!” John looked at Julie and cried. “Yes!”
Julie wrapped her arms around him and hugged him gingerly. There were handshakes, pats on the back. “What ribs?” John said, when asked by a reporter who appeared immediately at his side. Everyone laughed.
“I knew he’d win,” Shanower kept saying. “I knew it.”
John smiled, watching as Ron led Bandaro into the winner’s circle. The horse looked tired, but otherwise fine. He was a winner! A derby winner! John patted him on the neck, a job well done, and smiled up at Eddie. He had tears in his eyes and they both looked at Ron…a moment frozen in time.
“You did it,” Ron said, with Eddie nodding in agreement.
“No.” John shook his head. “We did it.”
They all turned and faced the camera as the official sign was posted. A win ticket returned only $2.40. Yet to look at the crowd, still cheering for the Ohio Bred derby winner, it was the victory of all victories. When the last of the pictures were taken and Eddie dismounted and removed his saddle, John reached for the reins.
“You want me to take him?” Ron asked.
“No, I’m okay,” John said, all smiles as he led Bandaro back to the barn himself. “We’re both okay.”
Favored to Win
Bestselling Winning Odds Series
Chapter One
"Hold it, where's your pass?"
Dawn turned, barely awake, and faced an armed guard. She hesitated. It was too early in the morning for this. It was too early in the morning for anything. "My name is Dawn Fioritto, and I write for The Herald. I'm here to do a story about the racetrack."
"That's nice." The guard glanced down to her legs then back up at all five feet ten inches of her. She had eyes the color of her olive-green shirt, and thick auburn hair braided neatly in a single braid down her back, waist length. Classy looking. "You still need a pass."
She had a press pass.
"That won't do."
"No?"
"No. You need to go to the secretary's office."
Dawn sighed, hoping to be spared the bother, and made several attempts to dissuade the man. "Timing," she pointed out, "is so very crucial." She even tried that old line about holding up the presses. But in the end, it all proved a waste of time. "The secretary's office…?”
The guard eased a pipe out of his pocket and pointed over her shoulder. "If you follow that path, it'll take you to it," he said. And sure enough she found it, but unfortunately right at scratch time. Everyone there was huddled around a middle-aged cowboy, who was shaking a jar and calling out numbers.
She walked up behind them and observed for a few minutes. "What are they doing?" she asked a man next to her.
"Drawing the also-eligibles," he said, leaning back then and looking her over.
"What for?"
The man probably would have ignored her at this point, since he was waiting anxiously to see if his horse drew in, but she was too pretty to ignore. "Today's racing lineup."
Dawn nodded as if that explained everything, and watched as this process gave way to another, "Picking up mounts." As horses' names were called out, so then were the names of "available jocks."
"They don't look like jockeys," Dawn said. Most were of average height or taller, and had what looked like hefty beer bellies.
"They're not. They're agents."
"I see."
"My boy'll ride him for you," one shouted, followed by another, "Billy's open that race. We'll ride him. We know the horse." Then another, "Give Jimmy a try, you get the weight." And another, "Hey, John, what about Visquel?"
Dawn lost interest as this went on and on, and looked around the room. Spotting a woman at a desk in the corner, she thanked the man for his time, and approached her. From there, she was directed down the hall, where she obtained her pass. An hour later, she was back at the stable gate, complaining to the guard.
"They made me wait forever, and then they interrogated me. I'm surprised they didn't fingerprint me!"
The guard laughed. "Well, they would have for a permanent pass. Yes, they would."
"Wonderful," Dawn said to herself, "rule number one." Waving over her shoulder, she headed down through the barn area to the racetrack amid a flurry of activity, and learned rather quickly to not only watch where she was going, but precisely where she was stepping along the way.
The horses going onto the track went through one gate, those coming off, another...a steady stream back and forth and an array of color, all decked out in leg bandages of green, yellow, red, and blue. Equally colorful, so to speak, were the comments and commands of some of the exercise riders.
For a while, she was content to just watch them come and go. Some put on quite a show, dancing, bucking, and kicking out. In time though, her mind wandered to something her Uncle Matt said yesterday. "Your signature is only a formality at this point. Don't give it another thought."
"Right." She'd hardly been able to think of anything else since. She drew a deep breath, then promptly sneezed, and figuring no one would want to read a story consisting entirely of polluted air, rainbow colors and profanity, she decided to ask some questions.
She approached a young man, who responded with an apparently ever-popular racetrack term, adding how he was new and didn't know much. She watched a few more groups of horses gallop by, then one or two by themselves, and after that, noticed an elderly man wearing a baseball cap, leaning on the rail and looking at her curiously.
She walked up to him. "Hi. Nice day."
"Not really," he said. He'd wanted rain.
Dawn studied his face as he looked out at the racetrack.. "Why's that?"
"I got a horse that likes the mud."
Dawn poised her pen in her hand. "Really? Why would a horse like the mud?"
"Some horses just do." The old man looked at her. "Who are you anyway? You look like you might be lost."
"I'm a writer."
"Oh..." He cocked an eyebrow and nodded. "What are you writing about? Blackwell Stable? They're big news lately, leading stable by what...nine, ten wins."
"No. I'm doing a story about the racetrack in general, and about race people."
The old man lifted his hat and wiped his brow on his sleeve as he watched a horse gallop down on the rail. He mumbled something then, seemingly ignoring her now, and started to walk away, but stopped and looked back over his shoulder. "First thing," he said, "we're called horsemen. Not race people."
Dawn smiled, thanked him, and found herself watching him from a distance as he walked over to a horse coming off the racetrack. She squinted. When the jockey jumped down, both he and the old man appeared to be focusing on the horse's right front leg, quite a bit in fact. And the horse was nodding its head up and down, as if it totally agreed with what they were saying as it walked along.
Dawn spent the next few hours gathering comments from some of the other trainers and grooms, who she got really good at telling apart from the way they dressed and the condition of their boots, and noted their attitudes as well as their pointed observations. When the training activity slacked off around ten, she went into the track kitchen, drew herself a cup of coffee, paid, and sat down to go over her notes. As she looked around the room, not one friendly face gazed back. Instead, she was being eyed suspiciously, an obvious intruder.
A little while later, she sat in on a meeting called by the HBPA, the Horseman's Benevolent Protection Association, and observed what seemed to be an affair for venting grievances. The track condition was brought up repeatedly, along with a concern about a drop in purse monies, too many extras being written as favors...whatever that meant, and a need for tighter security. The meeting ended on a light note with a reminder about the annual picnic scheduled the following Monday. Rain or shine.
Dawn went back to the track kitchen then and took advantage of the daily breakfast special, served all day. A big platter of eggs, bacon, hash browns, and toast for $1.98 including coffee. By the time she was ready to head back to the paper, the stable area resembled a ghost town. Every few barns or so she would see a marauding cat or hear the sound of distant voices or a radio, but that was it. And she was almost to the stable gate when she saw a familiar face.
It was the elderly man she'd talked to earlier. She ventured toward him. "Hi, remember me?" When he smiled, she extended her hand and introduced herself. "My name is Dawn Fioritto."
He shook her hand warmly. "Ben Miller."
