“If it’ll make you any happier,” he said not without irony, “the new steam room isn’t hot enough. The jocks are still doing road work just like back in 1919.” Now whatever made him think of that? he wondered.
The youth laughed. “You oughta know, Pops. But I ain’t surprised that they ain’t got the steam hot enough for the jocks. Imagine that, over $30,000,000 for the plushiest racing plant in the country an’ they can’t get up enough steam!” He dug an elbow into the ribs of the fellow sitting beside him. “Hear that, Bill? The jocks ain’t got any steam at Big ‘A.’ ”
“Get lost,” his companion said. “So my jock still dropped his stick leaving the gate yesterday in the last race. Racing is racing, here or anywhere else, steam or no steam.”
The big man smiled. “That’s exactly what I meant,” he said hurriedly to prove his point. “Old tracks vanish and new ones rise in their stead. Yet in many respects it’s the same now as it was in the beginning.”
The youth shrugged his thin shoulders. “Well, it’s round and it’s a racetrack if that’s what you mean.”
“No, it’s oval-shaped, not round,” the big man corrected. “And it has a three-inch cushion of dirt and sand on top of clay, the same clay base pounded upon by Domino, Exterminator, and the greatest of all, Man o’ War. It’s the best there is, but good for nothing except racing horses.”
The youth was watching him with those mocking eyes again. “You’re just a bunch of blueprints, aren’t you, Pops?”
The train started forward with a lurch, giving the big man the opportunity of turning away without admitting defeat. He watched the tunnel lights stream by, thinking that he could have told the youth lots more if he’d wanted to. Oh, the jockeys were well taken care of at New Aqueduct, despite the fact that the steam boxes weren’t yet what they should be. In the huge room that was the jockeys’ quarters, the washbasins were three inches lower than normal. No washing tippy-toe for the little men at Aqueduct, no sir! And the fellow across the way would have fitted in nicely there. He was the size of a good jock.
The big man’s eyes returned to the youth. Was that it? he wondered. Was he actually resentful of the fellow’s size? Was he envious of his short, less-than-average height? He studied him again, so small and slight and brown from the sun. He wondered if the youth had ever had a desire to ride a fast horse. Probably not or he would have been doing so long ago.
It hadn’t been that way with himself. He would have given anything to have been born small, light-boned, easy on a racehorse’s back and mouth. But why think of that now? Imagine going back so many years! Come off it! he told himself bitterly. You’re an old man, like the kid says. It’s all over.
The train pulled up the steep grade, passed a local, and the lights of Borough Hall station flashed by. On and on it thundered under the teeming streets of Brooklyn, passing the Hoyt, Lafayette, and Franklin Avenue stations. Blue flashes from switches splattered the darkness and more platforms came and went, a stream of lights and benches, posters and people. All was blurred and meant nothing to the passengers aboard the Racetrack Special.
At exactly 12:25 the train came up from below, bursting into the daylight. It continued to climb, riding high on elevated tracks above an ugly neighborhood of crowded houses. The fog had lifted but it was still raining, making the houses below look more gloomy than ever. A yellow taxi went by, the only colorful thing around.
The big man turned toward the east. Soon they’d be at New Aqueduct. Soon there’d be all the color anyone could want. The sky was lighter over that way too. Despite the fact that the rain was now falling in sheets, he suspected that it would be clear by the time they reached the track.
The young voice boomed at him from across the aisle again. “There’s something else I don’t like about New Aqueduct, Pops. I don’t like the band playing all the time. It makes it hard for a guy to think, that’s what it does. I’m for no music at all at a racetrack. Silence. Silence except for runnin’ horses.”
“George Seuffert wouldn’t like to hear you say that.”
“What’s he do?”
“He’s the bandleader.”
The youth laughed. “That’s great, just great,” he said. “I guess he figures they built him a $33,000,000 band shell, heh, Pops? Ain’t that what New Aqueduct cost the state?”
“I suppose so,” the big man said, “about that.” He got to his feet along with the others, for the track station was the next stop. Purposely he stood beside the youth, his great height and breadth making him look gargantuan alongside the slight young man.
“Have a good day, Pops.”
“Same to you. The Man o’ War Handicap should be a great race. I’m looking forward to it.”
“Anything with a $100,000 added purse should be great, Pops, anything at all.”
“But this race is very important. It’s the first race named in Man o’ War’s honor. It’s been long overdue.”
“Tell me, Pops,” the youth asked, the one-sided smile on his face again, “was this Man o’ War really any good? You know what I mean … like Hillsdale?”
The big man’s face flushed and there was sheer pity in his eyes when he said, “You never saw Man o’ War. You never did or you wouldn’t mention him and Hillsdale in the same breath.”
“Of course I never saw him, Pops. He was before my time, way before it.”
“Only 1920. That’s really not so long ago.”
“1920,” the youth repeated, puzzled. “Not so long ago? Is that what you said, Pops? Maybe to you it isn’t. But I wasn’t even born until twenty years after 1920.”
“I guess not,” the big man said, shaking his head. “I guess you weren’t at that.” The doors were opening and he moved toward them, his legs suddenly old again. “It’s too bad you never saw him. He was the greatest horse that ever lived.”
“Sure, Pops. Sure. Have yourself a time, now, a ball.”
He walked down the ramp from the subway station. How could you explain to someone so young that there hadn’t been a horse like Man o’ War since the golden chestnut had roared to a stop at Kenilworth Park back in 1920? He was truly the mightiest Thoroughbred the turf world had ever known!
The wind had driven off the rain, and now it was blowing in such gusts that the big man had to bend over as he moved along. Some men were already chasing their hats, and women were holding down their skirts with both hands. The huge ramp shook a little beneath the blasts and signs swung crazily, threatening to rip loose. The big man pushed his head forward, plowing through the wind and keeping his eyes fastened on the towering glass-fronted stands a short distance away.
Yes, how could he explain to anyone born after 1920 how brilliant Man o’ War had been? He broke all the records and he broke down all the horses. He was everything said of him and more, lots more. For it wasn’t only what he did on the racetrack. When you stood outside his stall, just looking at him, you’d get a feeling of awe and humility. Man o’ War had known he was the king and he had left no successor. His like would never be seen again.
The big man shoved his way past men hawking their papers and programs in gravelly voices. “Morning Telegraph and scratch sheets. Telly and scratch. Telly-scratch. Here y’are, every one a winner.” The big man smiled and shook his head, at the same time shifting his feet to avoid colliding with the little men. The quickening pace helped get rid of his train legs, working up the circulation and carrying him along with the steady stream of people.
The wind felt colder but he didn’t mind it, for the sky was clearing fast. There was a good chance it would clear and the sun would come out brilliant and warm, maybe even drying the track. Weather clear, track fast … that was the way it should be on Man o’ War’s day, with every hole filled in, and every clod of dirt flattened, curried, and manicured. A perfect day for the first Man o’ War Handicap! Suddenly the cold air felt good and the big man’s legs felt young and strong again. He held his head up against the wind.
Maybe the old days were g
one, as people said, and most of the old champions forgotten. But today they would be remembering the big one again, Man o’ War. No longer would he be just a legend swirling across a distant sky. No, starting today a great race would honor him at the track where he had run his toughest race against John P. Grier. Today the track world would pay homage to the memory of the king of the American turf, the most famous, the swiftest, the greatest of them all … Man o’ War!
He began to feel like a schoolboy in love for the first time. He straightened his tie and pushed back his hat, not too jauntily the way the kid on the subway had worn his but not conservatively either. There was no other place in the world he’d rather be on this day. Here he belonged with others like himself, paying respect to Man o’ War.
But how many of all the thousands in the stands had known the king? Few, at best. To most of them, Man o’ War was just another name to remember along with Equipoise and Twenty Grand, Zev and Gallant Fox, War Admiral and Whirlaway.
“Was he really any good, Pops?” the kid had asked. “You know what I mean … like Hillsdale?” Or he might have said, “like Native Dancer, like Citation, like Nashua?” Horses that could not have nibbled Man o’ War’s saddlecloth!
Careful now, he cautioned himself. You’re treading on dangerous ground. There are some who think that maybe Citation … But no! None like Man o’ War had ever paraded to the post again in all the years that had gone by. Like so many others he had watched and waited and hoped, his eyes growing dim, waiting for his return.
After reaching the end of the ramp the big man walked briskly to a side gate, showed his pass, and squeezed through the turnstile. Once inside he put his head down again, jostling those who walked beside him. He mumbled his apologies without bothering to look up and heard only return grunts in answer. For a reason he could not explain he felt suddenly alone again, unattached and anonymous.
He was making for an official door beneath the grandstand when suddenly he stopped. For a moment he stood still as though undecided. Then he moved again, changing direction and taking the clubhouse escalator. He was one of a steady stream of people riding skyward, but he did not feel the electric air of the racetrack that flowed from one person to another. Instead he felt subdued and humble, almost as he had the last time he’d seen Man o’ War standing in his stall, his head held high but his eyes liquid-soft and gentle.
What he wanted to do would not take long and he had plenty of time before going to work. He got off the escalator at the third floor and entered the clubhouse restaurant. He did not join the crowd standing at the velvet ropes waiting to be seated, but turned to the large portrait of Man o’ War that hung over the center doors.
This was the Man o’ War Room … a room named in the great horse’s honor. The heavyset man stood before the portrait, the expression on his face becoming soft, almost shy. No longer did he feel alone. He sat down on a couch where he could gaze at the picture without being in anyone’s way. He wanted to look at him again, to remember the way it was.
He’d been the luckiest of all. He’d been there that first night, the night a chestnut colt with a star on his forehead had been foaled. In a way it had been his own beginning as well as Man o’ War’s. He had no trouble at all remembering everything that had happened. It was near midnight and very quiet when he had walked down the dirt road in Kentucky.…
March 29, 1917
2
Miles of board fence ran along both sides of the road, white against the darkness of the fields beyond. But the boy’s gaze never left the road in front of him and his long, thin face was heavy with concern. He walked fast, his arms swinging loosely against his big-boned but gaunt frame. He had made an important decision. He had come to a turning point in his life. He was going to quit school and go to work at Nursery Stud.
Like a gangling Great Dane he moved through the night mist, his nostrils sniffing the scent of new grass in the meadows. Soon he’d smell the warm bodies of horses, but he’d have to wait until he got closer to the barns.
It Wouldn’t be many days before the familiar scent, stronger than anything else, would pervade the night air all around. But now, at just the beginning of spring, the nights were still too chilly for the horses to be turned out. In another few minutes it would be midnight and the beginning of the 29th day of March, 1917. He’d better get moving faster. He might be late as it was!
Turning off the road, he went over and climbed the fence and set out across the fields at a run. It was nothing new to him, this getting excited about being around when a racer was born … a horse who wouldn’t set foot on a track for two years. It was part of his life not to miss the foaling of a Thoroughbred, a part of living in Kentucky. If he’d been living anywhere else it would have been different. But here in Lexington, horses were everything and there was nothing strange in thinking that the most wonderful sight in the world was the earliest hours in the life of a racehorse!
With knowing eyes he looked over the big breeding farm, loving the cleanliness of its fences and fields and barns. There were hundreds of acres, all for the use of horses alone, with dozens of fenced paddocks, each serving a specific purpose in the raising of Thoroughbreds. It was a costly business, far more expensive than he could ever guess. It was a good thing Mr. Belmont was rich for otherwise there would have been no Nursery Stud. To a man like Mr. Belmont the sport lay not so much in the winning of races as it did in breeding the best horses. That’s what made foaling time so interesting around here … one never knew when one might be looking at the baby horse who would turn out to be the greatest of them all!
Mahubah was the broodmare closest to foaling time, he knew. They’d been expecting her to foal for three days now but she’d kept putting them off. What was she waiting for anyway? Didn’t she know her time had come? Or maybe she just liked being treated like a queen, being bathed and brushed and pampered all the time. Maybe she knew what she was doing, at that.
He liked Mahubah, even her name, which in Arabic meant “good greetings, good fortune.” She was well bred, rangy, and young. She should foal a good one. He hoped it would turn out to be a colt. A colt could beat a filly any day.
The boy ran faster, his long legs moving with surprising grace. A big grin suddenly drove the seriousness from his face, a face already brown from the sun and clean and seasoned as if it were washed regularly with saddle soap. He grinned because he had just remembered that more foals were due in April than any other month that year. During the next few weeks there would be a parade of baby horses for him to watch entering the world!
He sure wouldn’t want to live anywhere else. Where but here could one find such an interest in horses? No other business could compete with the breeding and raising of Thoroughbreds. And where else was the grass so blue, so rich in calcium and vitamins? Of course you had to have special Kentucky eyes to see its bluish tinge, otherwise it was green like any other grass, except in the fall and winter months when it turned real brown. What would people from anywhere else think if they saw him get down and start nibbling away at it, as he did once in a while just for kicks? They’d think he was crazy, that’s what! And where else could people talk to horses the way they could here? No, there was no other place he wanted to live but in the heart of the Bluegrass Region—Lexington, Kentucky.
He looked ahead at the foaling barn. There were no bright lights burning, so nothing had happened yet. If the foal had come, the place would have been lit up like a Christmas tree. Who knew but the barn might stay dark all night, like last night and the one before? Then he’d be up all night again for nothing. And he knew only too well what would happen to him at school for being so sleepy. Well, all that would end pretty soon. Pretty soon he’d be working here and spending every minute of his time with the horses. So even if he was tired tomorrow, it would be worth it. Mahubah was a fine mate. Her colt could be the one. He just might be.
Since he knew he had time, he went first to the stallions, as he did every night. Opening the barn door quietly, he
peered into the dimly lit interior. He could just make out Fair Play’s lofty head outlined against the stall window.
“Hello, big horse,” he called softly.
Fair Play moved to the door of his stall, his golden coat picking up what light there was in the barn. He stood before the iron bars, his eyes searching and eager for attention.
The boy touched him gently, rubbing the white, diamond-shaped star in the center of his forehead. “Your wife’s going to have your son tonight,” he said. “She’s not going to put us off any longer. I’m sure of it. He’ll be a good one. You’ll be proud.”
Suddenly the stallion moved away, going to his water bucket. The great crest on his neck was arched like a drawn bow as he bent down to the water. He didn’t drink but played, blowing into the water and splattering the spray about the stall. He shook himself and remained where he was, ignoring his visitor’s pleas to move forward.
“Moody, that’s what you are,” the boy said finally. “One moment you want attention and the next you want to be left alone. That was your trouble on the track, too. Maybe you didn’t have your daddy’s bad temper but you had a mind of your own all the same. You could run away with a race when you were in the mood, but when you weren’t you just wouldn’t run for anyone. Worse still, you wouldn’t even train. You just didn’t think it worth your while. Now what kind of colts are you going to sire with that kind of temperament?”
The boy shrugged his shoulders and turned away. Maybe Fair Play would get great colts, who knew? Mr. Belmont believed so, that was for sure. He believed Fair Play would turn out to be the best sire he had ever owned.
The golden stallion had won ten of his thirty-two starts as a racehorse. Not the best record in the world but certainly not the worst. And Fair Play had proved he could carry weight and go a distance. He wasn’t a big, strong horse, either. He wasn’t quite sixteen hands but he was beautifully proportioned. You couldn’t fault him anywhere. Even if you picked him apart he’d come out perfectly made. Well, maybe Fair Play would turn out to be a top sire and maybe he wouldn’t … only one out of ten thousand stallions ever did.
Man O'War Page 2
