Horses are not the only creatures able to sleep standing up. Elephants can also nap on their feet, and flamingos famously do it on only one leg.
In horses, it is due to what is called the ‘stay apparatus’, a natural locking of the limbs that keeps the animal upright while also allowing the muscles to relax. It is thought the ability evolved because early equines were prey, as zebras still are, and the time taken to get up from a lying position before running could mean the difference between life and death.
Not that horses always sleep standing up. They occasionally lie down for deep body sleep, so comfy bedding and enough space are essential.
I waited. I didn’t want to wake Debenture. He was going to have a tiring enough day as it was.
I knew that horses do not normally sleep for very long at a time. In all, they need only about three hours’ sleep in any twenty-four, mostly taken in short naps. And, sure enough, the horse soon woke on its own, snorting twice and shaking his head from side to side.
I gave him his regular breakfast of horse nuts plus feed supplements, and then refilled his bucket with fresh water.
Next I brushed Debenture’s coat, starting with a stiff dandy brush and then finishing with the softer body brush, working backwards and downwards from his head to his feet on each side until his hide was polished to perfection.
Over the past ten days, I had discovered that there was something quite therapeutic about grooming a horse. All of one’s troubles faded away with the strong rhythmic motion of the brushes over the animal’s skin. Even the horses seemed to love it.
I began to understand how a mother could spend so long brushing her daughter’s hair. It probably wasn’t so much for the shine it created but for the relaxing sensation the movement generated in herself.
For a while in the quiet I was even able to forget my ongoing troubles with Diego.
True, we hadn’t had a face-to-face confrontation since I’d spoken to him on Tuesday afternoon, but that hadn’t stopped him trying to disrupt my life at every available opportunity, sometimes in the most childish of ways. I had no proof, but I was quite certain that it had been he who had squeezed my toothpaste out of its tube and smeared it all over my bed.
Sadly, there was no lockable space in our cramped bedroom, so my phone and wallet never left my side, residing inside my boxers even when I was asleep.
The rest of the barn came to life about four-thirty as other grooms came to start work.
The Preakness Barn itself was already a hive of activity when I went over to collect some bedding. I took the chance to walk up the shedrow.
‘Morning, Tyler,’ I said. ‘How’s Crackshot today?’
‘Never better,’ he said, showing me the gold molars.
The big bay colt certainly looked fine, sticking his head out towards me with a sparkle in his eyes.
‘He’s eaten up really well,’ Tyler said. ‘I reckon he’ll win easy.’
Was I wrong about the EVA?
I thought back to Churchill Downs.
Three horses had become sick early on the morning of the Derby, with another showing signs of illness some five days later, most likely as a secondary infection.
If five days was the incubation period, and if Raworth had indeed squirted large quantities of the EVA virus up Crackshot’s nose only fifty or so hours ago, then it would be quite likely that the horse would still look healthy. Whether he would be able to run full pelt for a mile and three-sixteenths in fourteen hours’ time was quite a different matter.
I took the new bedding back to the other barn.
Debenture had also eaten up well, so I prepared him for his light exercise.
Jerry Fernando was due to ride the horse in the race that afternoon and he arrived to give Debenture a warm-up jog, once round the track with a lead pony in attendance. It was more to accustom the horse to his rider, and vice versa, than any serious training.
Ladybird, meanwhile, was having a day off after her efforts of the previous day. So I walked across and stood next to the track to watch the others at exercise.
Eight of the Preakness horses had opted to go out in what was an abbreviated training session. All of Raworth’s three were there, with Jerry Fernando having swapped his saddle from Debenture to Fire Point for a steady half-mile trot followed by a brisk but conservative gallop over three furlongs to open the pipes and expand the lungs.
Crackshot was noticeable by his absence, but there was nothing sinister in that. Some trainers chose not to give their horses track exercise on the morning of a race, wishing to keep them fresh for when it mattered later in the day, while others might be walked for an hour or so to loosen any stiffness in the legs.
Keith had told us that, for the walkover to the track before the big race, Diego and Charlie Hern would take Classic Comic, while I would be looking after Heartbeat, assisted by Maria. Keith himself would be with Fire Point, along with George Raworth.
Diego had scowled when Keith had allocated Heartbeat to me and Maria.
‘I don’t mind swapping,’ I’d said to him, but he had refused to answer. Diego clearly didn’t want me doing him any favours.
That suited me fine.
Debenture tried his best in the Maryland Sprint Handicap but, as George Raworth had predicted, he was outclassed by the opposition, finishing seventh of the eight runners, some nine lengths behind the winner – a huge gap in a six-furlong sprint.
The owner didn’t seem to mind one iota.
‘At least we weren’t last,’ he said to me with a broad grin.
I was standing on the track after the race, holding the horse’s head while the jockey’s saddle was removed.
‘OK, Paddy,’ George said, ‘take him back to the barn.’
I turned away but was stopped by a racetrack official.
‘Take him to the testing barn,’ he said to me. ‘This horse has been selected for a random drug test.’
I happened to be facing George Raworth as the man said it, and I couldn’t help but see the look of concern that swept across his face.
Perhaps it was only a natural reaction to being tested, like that insuppressible feeling of anxiety one has when being breathalysed by the police, even when you are certain you are not over the limit.
Or maybe, just maybe, those ‘vitamin’ injections Charlie had given to Debenture had not been quite as innocent as I’d been led to believe.
It would be ironic, I thought, if my investigation into what appeared to be a colossal Triple Crown scandal was derailed due to a positive dope test from a journeyman horse that had finished seventh out of eight in a relatively minor race on the supporting card.
George recovered his composure and told me to take Debenture to the testing barn as requested, and then to start preparing Heartbeat for the big race.
As Preakness race time approached, the excitement swelled towards fever pitch.
An enormous party had been going on for hours, especially in the infield where multicoloured tents of all sizes and shapes abounded, some acting as shade against the blazing sun, while others were beer outlets providing a continuous flow of the amber nectar to quench the heat-induced thirsts of the vast crowd.
And it wasn’t only among the spectators that the anticipation was growing. Back at the Preakness Barn, there was a highly charged atmosphere of hope and expectation, with nerves beginning to fray at the edges.
‘Are we all ready?’ George asked for at least the third time.
‘As ready as we’ll ever be,’ Charlie replied, shifting his weight from foot to foot.
I thought they were in danger of transmitting their nervousness to the horses, and it was a great relief when a track official arrived to announce that it was time for the walkover.
The Preakness Barn was behind the grandstand, so the horses were walked right round the public enclosures and then back along the track in order to be paraded in front of the crowd.
For this race, there was a special mounting yard in the centre of the course
opposite the finish line and beyond the turf track, and half the field were saddled in there, while the rest, including Raworth’s three, went down the ramp into the indoor paddock.
‘It’s quieter inside,’ George said. ‘Helps keep them calm.’
It wasn’t the horses that needed to be kept calm, I thought.
Crackshot was also being saddled inside and I looked over to where Tyler was placidly holding the horse’s head while the trainer made him ready. There appeared to be no concern whatsoever over his health.
Eventually all was ready.
I led Heartbeat up the ramp to the track with Maria on the other side of his head.
She ignored me completely and I didn’t speak to her. It was for the best, I thought, and safer for the both of us. It didn’t, however, stop Diego glaring at me with his cold black eyes as he and Charlie Hern followed us up the ramp with Classic Comic. Fire Point, flanked by Keith and George, brought up the rear of the three.
Out in the mounting yard, Victor Gomez was waiting for Heartbeat, having been promoted from stable exercise rider to big-race jockey for the day.
‘Just like old times,’ he said as I gave him a leg-up. ‘It is eight years since I had a ride in the Preakness.’ He gave me a gappy-toothed grin like a kid with stolen candy.
I watched as George Raworth tossed Jerry Fernando up onto Fire Point’s back and Charlie did likewise with the jockey riding Classic Comic. Then we led the horses back onto the dirt track and handed them over to the outriders on their lead ponies, to take them to the start.
There was nothing more we could do. It was up to them now.
I realised that, despite my firm intention not to become emotionally involved, I was actually getting quite excited as the race time approached.
A trio of top-hatted and scarlet-coated trumpeters walked out onto the track and played the traditional ‘Call to Post’, and then everyone joined as one in singing, ‘Maryland, My Maryland’, the official song of the state.
American sporting venues certainly knew how to wind the crowd up into a frenzy. By the time the starting gates swung open, the noise was so loud that I had absolutely no chance of hearing the race commentary from where I stood on the grooms’ stand.
But I could see one of the big TV screens set up in the infield.
The horses broke in an even line with Crackshot on the inside rail and Heartbeat outside him. Victor Gomez immediately took Heartbeat ahead and to his left, squeezing the Florida Derby winner for space and forcing his jockey to take a strong pull on the reins to prevent a collision. The poor horse would have been confused with a ‘go’ message as the gates opened being followed by a ‘stop’ one only a few paces later. Not surprisingly, he dropped back sharply.
Fire Point, meanwhile, had a clear run from Gate 8 allowing him to establish a lead of some six or seven lengths over his main rival as they passed the finish line for the first time.
Crackshot’s troubles continued round the clubhouse bend as he was boxed in by both Heartbeat and Classic Comic, who seemed to have nothing else in their game plan but to thwart the progress of the big bay colt.
By the time the lead horses were at the half-mile pole, and Crackshot had finally worked himself away from the rail and past his distractors, he was all but out of contention, having been forced to make up ground while the others were taking a back-stretch breather.
Not that it really mattered.
Crackshot would not have won the race anyway.
The horse was clearly labouring as they straightened up for the run to the line and, when his jockey asked him for a supreme effort, there was nothing left in the tank.
Fire Point, in contrast, was having a dream race. Always well placed on the outside shoulder of the lead horse, Jerry Fernando kicked for home off the final turn and sprinted away impressively from the pack to win by four lengths, much to the delight of George and Charlie who I could see laughing and embracing in the stands.
Crackshot trailed in a disappointing seventh, behind Classic Comic and Heartbeat, both of whom had repassed him in the final hundred yards.
The crowd were relatively subdued by the result, as no one enjoyed watching a horse finish a race in the sort of distress that Crackshot was clearly exhibiting. There was even a smattering of boos, as some rightly disapproved of the apparent Raworth tactics, but even the least discerning of them could not seriously argue that Crackshot would have won with an uninterrupted passage.
And George Raworth certainly didn’t care.
He was smiling from ear to ear as he led Fire Point into the winner’s circle alongside the horse’s owner, who was equally delighted. Even an announcement over the public address system that the stewards would hold an inquiry didn’t seem to bother him.
Maybe it was because he knew that, even if the stewards found Heartbeat or Classic Comic guilty of interference, they couldn’t take the race away from Fire Point just because all three horses happened to be trained by the same man.
In the event, the stewards took no action at all, other than to give Victor Gomez a ten-day suspension for careless riding after he had admitted to accidently taking Crackshot’s ground after the break from the starting gate. The fact that everyone knew it had not been accidental was irrelevant, there was insufficient evidence on the video footage to prove it, and the incident had clearly not cost Crackshot the race.
I didn’t know how I felt about things. It was difficult not to be drawn into the celebrations among the staff in the Raworth camp over wins in the first two Triple Crown legs, but there was a huge part of me that despised the man himself for cheating his way to such a position, as I was sure he had done.
I led Heartbeat back to the Preakness Barn to find that there was much veterinary activity in and around Crackshot’s stall.
‘Take that damn horse outside,’ someone shouted at me as I tried to hot-walk Heartbeat round the shedrow.
I took him back out into the hot sunshine, which wasn’t ideal, and tied him to a fence in the shade of a large tree. Then I hurried back inside to see what was going on.
Tyler was standing in the shedrow, watching three other men busy in Crackshot’s stall. There was deep worry etched on his face.
‘What’s up?’ I asked him.
‘Crackshot is sick,’ he said in his deep bass tone. ‘The veterinarians are worried that the race has affected his heart.’
I looked into the stall. The poor horse was dripping with sweat and clearly very unwell.
‘It is very hot here today,’ I said.
‘Not as hot as he’s used to in Florida,’ Tyler replied.
That was true.
‘Have they taken a blood sample?’ I asked.
Tyler nodded. ‘First thing they did.’
I wanted to tell them it wasn’t his heart that was the problem.
They should test his blood for equine viral arteritis.
LEG 3:
THE BELMONT STAKES
‘The Test of the Champion’
A mile and a half
Belmont Park, New York
Three weeks after the Preakness
Five weeks after the Kentucky Derby
First run at Belmont Park 1905,
previously run at Jerome Park and Morris Park
racecourses in New York, since 1867
26
The Triple Crown jamboree moved on from Baltimore to New York but, with three whole weeks between the Preakness and the Belmont Stakes, there was a slight pause for everyone to draw breath.
Fire Point arrived back at Belmont Park on the day after his great success at Pimlico, returning to his stall like some victorious Roman general through a guard of honour provided by the racetrack grooms, not only those from George Raworth’s barn but seemingly from every other barn on the backside as well.
The signwriter had already added and the Preakness Stakes to the ‘Home of Fire Point. Winner of the Kentucky Derby’ board screwed to the outside wall.
The local TV news channels were
there in force to cover the homecoming, something that would do no harm at all for the marketing of the final leg. A Triple Crown contender was guaranteed to add tens of thou- sands of extra spectators to the gate come race day.
For my part, I did not look forward to settling back into regular Belmont Park life after the excitement of the week at Pimlico. True, it was a huge improvement to be sleeping again in a room with only the regularly drunk and flatulent Rafael, rather than with both Diego and Keith trying to out-snore one another, but, somehow, the fun had gone out of this particular assignment.
I was beginning to find the daily drudgery of a groom rather monotonous. Perhaps my enthusiasm would return as the Belmont approached, but that still seemed like a long way off.
I suppose happiness in any job has a lot to do with one’s expectation.
For Rafael, working as a groom in a top horseracing barn in New York City, where he was occasionally given overall responsibility, was the pinnacle of his ambition. He had escaped from the dismal poverty, appalling criminality and deadly danger of a Mexican slum to share a room with what he thought was only one Irishman instead of his whole extended family. He was quite obviously a happy individual, even when he was inebriated, smiling and singing his way through each day without a care in the world or an ounce of desire to do any better.
Diego, in contrast, was an angry young man.
No doubt he had originally travelled to the United States from Puerto Rico to seek his fortune, arriving in New York with an expectation that the streets would be paved with gold, only to have his hopes dashed by the reality. In his eyes, ending up as a mere groom at Belmont Park was living his life as a failure. Consequently, there was not an ounce of happiness to be found anywhere in his body.
And, sadly, after a few quieter days at Pimlico on his own, he was again supported by his Puerto Rican compatriots and thus somewhat bolder. Ever since the truck had arrived through the gates, he had been mouthing at me what I presumed were Spanish obscenities, or threats. On the plus side, however, we had also returned to the jurisdiction of the New York courts, which meant that his trip to Rikers Island was very much back on the cards.
Triple Crown Page 21
