It made him angry to get up at the crack of dawn to ride works on horses, only to see jocks ahead of him in the standings get the mount in the afternoons. Jocks, who because of their win percentage, could afford to sleep comfortably while Kyle busted his ass. But being second on a trainer’s list was one of the only ways to get those mounts, so he was up at four to be available for training mounts and workouts.
Jockeys got hurt, spun to other horses, or were called out of town for rides at other meets. In those cases the guy second on the list got his shot. If he could win, he had a chance to keep the mount. If he couldn’t win, he would have a difficult time holding that ride.
Since top jockeys get the best mounts, they many times will have first call to ride two horses in the same race. Logic would dictate that the jock will “spin” or get off the horse with the lesser chance to win that day. Handicappers had poured plenty of cash down that rat hole of a theory.
The factors that went into who “spun” involved myriad calculations. The equation included which other horses were in each stable, which barn the jock agent had been working, and, most critically, how the trainer would react to being “spun.” Would he put the guy back up next race, or would he “spin” him from all mounts? It was a touchy and political exercise but one that occurred every racing day.
Jocks needed their agents to deliver the news to a trainer and work to stay in a relationship with the barn. This was where the jock agent really earned his money. “Spinning” in this world wasn’t unlike agents for movie actors making decisions about what scripts to read, what movies to perform in, and which production houses to support.
Jockeys advanced their careers by making the best decisions, just as actors and actresses who won the Academy Award were guided by an agent who consistently made the right choices.
Kyle’s stomach rumbled. It was a feeling to which he had become all too accustomed. He needed to keep his weight below 114 pounds; 112 was even better. If he went off his daily regimen, he would balloon up to 125 in a matter of days. It would take him a week in the hot box and near starvation to get back down to racing weight.
In all thoroughbred races, horses were assigned a given weight to carry. In most situations all horses carried the same amount, known as level weights. In situations where fillies ran against colts and geldings, the filly would get a reduced weight assignment, usually two or three pounds.
Apprentice jockeys received allowances between five and ten pounds off the assigned weight. It was known as the bug because of the mark printed in the racing program to designate the apprentice allowance. In reality, a trainer was balancing the effect on his horse’s performance under reduced weight against inexperience in riding. A capable apprentice jockey was favored by nearly all trainers, and the “bug boy” had a full racing card until the apprentice status expired either by time or wins.
In handicap events, the racing secretary assigned weights to each entrant, with the favorite carrying the high weight. The concept operated on the belief that adjusted weights would even the difference in perceived ability and “handicap” the chances for each horse to win. It was a system developed over decades and consistently applied by most racetracks.
For Kyle—and other riders—it meant he had to keep his weight under 114 pounds to ride most races. Being “overweight” was a disadvantage to the mount since the horse had to carry the extra weight. So if Kyle’s horse was assigned to carry 118 pounds, with tack, Kyle had to be below 115. If Kyle weighed in that day at 117, then with tack the horse would be two pounds over.
This change would be broadcast to all at the track, essentially saying Kyle couldn’t make weight for 118. That was damaging to his chances of getting other mounts, as trainers wouldn’t risk riding a guy who couldn’t consistently make weight. He could be the next Willie Shoemaker, but if consistently overweight, he risked interfering with a horse’s performance.
If an overweight rider lost a close photo, the trainer, along with the betting public, would blame the jockey. Carrying the extra two pounds cost the horse the difference between winning bets and losing bets, between a first place purse and a second place purse, between having the mount next time and being spun for another hustling jockey who could assure the trainer he’d make weight.
It damaged a trainer’s winning percentage, his income, and his ability to lure new owners. Being overweight was simply a risk Kyle couldn’t take.
His ration of calories each day was strictly monitored, and he took a battery of vitamins and supplements as the exertion of riding headstrong animals demanded physical strength and endurance, despite the restriction on carbs, proteins, and fats.
Unlike other riders, Kyle avoided pharmaceutical aids to keep weight off. Some jocks did Lasix. It essentially drained all excess fluids from the body quickly. Kyle also avoided what was known in the trade as “The CB” or Clenbuterol.
Though a proven treatment for asthma in humans, the equine version was a synthetic metabolism accelerator, and, of course, designed for a 1,200-pound animal. In a 120-pound human, the results were staggering. As a result of its miraculous weight-loss properties, it had quickly become the illegal substance of choice among the Hollywood set.
The saying was it burned fat from the inside out, but it burned up everything else in the human body. The CB allowed some to make weight, and that was all that mattered in the end. A few vets on the backside had been known to “lose” a vial or two of CB in exchange for a “found” C-note.
Kyle also wasn’t like many riders who “flipped their meals.” He avoided that activity except when necessary, like after a big dinner thrown by an exuberant owner at a local steakhouse. With those rare exceptions, Kyle stuck to his diet. It was a requirement for continued income. He took a big swig of his iced tea. That 32-ounce jumbo cup should help fill his empty stomach for a few hours. He tugged his ball cap down on his forehead and kept driving west.
Kyle galloped Aly Dancer on the outside of the track clockwise. Horses near the rail raced by, going the “right way.” It was customary in morning exercise to warm up against the grain and far away from the inside rail. Aly Dancer had her head forward and tugged on the bit. Kyle kept a tight grip on the short reins and steadied her pace to a light canter. They approached the starting gate.
Jake and Dan climbed the steps to the clocker’s perch on the backside of the track. Mickey Gains, the clocker, held court with several trainers as they entered the small room overlooking the track. Some nods were exchanged before Mickey picked up his binoculars and focused on the starting gate.
“Evaline working,” squawked over the walkie talkie on the counter. The gate crew called out the horse for Mickey to record the official work from the gate. Aly Dancer was behind the gate and moving away to avoid being too close to the gate when the other horse worked.
Evaline stood in the gate for nearly a minute when she was finally sent off. Ben Webber, her trainer, moved closer to Gains and clicked his stop watch. The horse spun through the turn and raced down the homestretch toward the finish line. The jockey urged the horse on, and the horse responded. She hit the finish line, and the jockey eased her up.
Mickey’s binoculars had a built-in stopwatch, which he controlled with buttons on the top of the device. “Forty-eight and four,” he called out.
Webber looked at his watch. “Yup.” He didn’t seem too happy about the result. He stepped away and moved toward the door. Jake slid closer to Mickey.
“Hey, Jake,” Mickey remarked. “One of your babies this morning?”
“Yeah. Filly. Aly Dancer. She’s a little green in the gate. We been working with her on her manners lately. Want to qualify her today.”
Young horses had to learn to be comfortable in a starting gate. Trainers would start by walking them through an open gate and eventually stop them and close the gate in front of them. As they became more comfortable with the process, they would willingly enter the gate and break when the gate flew open.
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If the training was successful, the horse would be “gate qualified,” which meant it could be eligible to start a race. No matter how fast or well-bred a horse was, if it wasn’t gate qualified, it couldn’t race.
“Aly Dancer, next,” the starter sent over the walkie talkie.
Kyle eased Aly Dancer toward the gate. One of the gate hands came forward and grabbed the bridle. Aly Dancer bristled. Kyle patted the filly on the neck, and she calmed somewhat. The hand led her toward the gate. Aly Dancer moved slowly toward the gate and reluctantly entered. She stood calmly as the hand jumped onto the ledge inside the stall. Kyle got ready for the break.
The starter made her stand, and after a prolonged delay, hit the button.
Aly Dancer bolted away from the gate. Dan was unable to draw a breath until she was out of the turn and moving down the homestretch. Dan had so much money and time in this young filly. He should have been nervous seeing her break from the gate for the first time. But in this moment, Dan was totally in awe of her strength and power. “God.”
Jake looked at Dan and nodded confidently.
Kyle held Aly Dancer with a firm grip. The reins slapped the filly’s neck as she tugged forward against him. Kyle didn’t release her head. She skimmed like a feather over glass, not like those old claimers he rode that rocked and shimmied like ancient washing machines. All her effort went in one direction, all generating speed.
She chugged in forceful breaths, all in sync with her motion. Damn, thought Kyle, she’s moving.
The wind whipped her mane, and they entered the turn. Kyle shifted his weight, and Aly Dancer perfectly changed leads, to power through the turn. Her ears were perked and flashed forward and back. She was enjoying this; she hadn’t pinned her ears in stress or anger as many horses did. She was having fun as they ate up ground.
The pair hit the finish line, and Kyle stood in the stirrups to slow her. She wanted to keep going. Kyle knew they went fast. He didn’t know her time, but he knew one thing. Nothing was going to get him off this ride. She was the one he’d dreamed of. This was the one that could vault his career. Whatever it took, no way was he giving up the chance to ride this filly.
Dan’s heart was pounding like a jackhammer as she hit the finish line, and Kyle eased her. She went fast—Dan knew that much. Jake clicked his stopwatch and looked at it.
Mickey glanced over at Jake in astonishment. “Forty-six and one?” The question said it all. A two-year-old being gate checked wasn’t supposed to go that fast. “Solid work, Jake,” Mickey said.
Another trainer who had entered the clocker’s shack asked who the horse was. “Just a baby,” Jake said. Then he motioned for Dan to leave.
At the bottom of the stairs Dan turned to him. “Forty-six and one? Good lord, that’s fast. For a two-year-old? Are you kiddin’ me?”
Jake motioned him closer. “More like forty-five and four,” he whispered. “That’s what I got her in.”
“But, Mickey said—”
“Forget Mickey.”
“What? Did he miss it?”
“Nope,” Jake said, walking away. “Mickey got it. Saw it same as you. That filly can flat fly.”
Chapter 23
“look at that tote,” Milton said. “Likatious is 8 to 5. Damn thing would run second in a one-horse race.”
Lennie studied his pace and speed printouts like a scientist pouring ingredients into a test tube. “Don’t be so sure. He’s been off for three months and worked well coming back. Throw him out at your peril.”
“Dan, you got any winners like Hollerin Hal? Y’know, just a flier that you can’t tell us about? You know, ’til it’s too late to get a bet down?” Milton dipped his finger in the cup of nacho cheese sauce, then stuck it in his mouth.
“Hey, I remember you cashing a bet on that last horse I gave you. Don’t be greedy. If I’ve got something, I always share. Just don’t blame me if the horse runs up the track.”
Lennie made some pencil marks around the numbers on his sheets. “Hey, you work your two-year-old?”
Dan beamed. “She was beautiful this morning. Just a thing of beauty.”
Lennie turned from his sheets and gave him a big smile. “I hope you got a real runner in that one. How’d she do?”
“Mickey got her in forty-six and one.”
“What? That’s quick,” said Lennie. “And for a two-year-old? Wow.”
“And she did it so easy,” Dan said. “Kyle Jonas didn’t move a muscle the whole way ’round. Strange thing, though. Jake said Gains clocked her in forty-five and four.” Lennie’s eyes nearly popped out of his head.
“Geez, Dan,” Milton piped up. “You going to let us get in the winner’s circle picture?”
“For you, Maj. Anything.”
Lennie had a big smile he was trying to keep to himself.
“What?” Dan asked finally.
“Danny, she went forty-five and four, maybe faster. Mickey is going to write her up at forty-six and one. May not be a big deal to many people, but I think Mickey’s going to try to cash a ticket when your filly runs.” Dan gave him a puzzled look. “Clockers have been known to miss a killer workout because, if they put it down as it happened, it would knock down the odds. It wasn’t a totally dark work, but I guarantee you, he’s got his eye on your filly.”
Milton edged his way around Lennie to get out of the box seats. “I’m going with the three and gonna play him with the four and seven in exactas,” Milton said. “Likatious is gonna be a bust today. I can’t play him as the chalk. You guys want anything?”
They weren’t sure whether he meant a bet or libation. Dan shook his head no. As Milt neared the top of the steps, Dan said, “Heck, if I ordered a sandwich, he’d eat it before he got back to the box anyway.”
“Tough card today, Danny boy,” Lennie muttered. “They’re going to make it hard on us.”
“Where’s TP?” he asked, looking down on the crowd milling around on the apron below them.
“Emilio’s got a ride here. He may be buttering up the trainer in the paddock.”
“Or practicing his excuses,” Dan said, which raised a chuckle. “Lennie, were you in the seminary once? Am I remembering that right?”
“Yeah, I was. Mom was so proud,” he said. “For the whole three months. Then I came to my senses and went back to Princeton to get my math degree. That was an odd time.” Lennie stared at the tote board and put his pages on his lap. He lifted his glasses and rubbed his nose. “I’m going to pass this one. Likatious may run out, but he might as easily draw off and win by five. Can’t play this race.”
“Does the name Ananias mean anything to you?”
“From the Bible?” Lennie asked. Dan shrugged and nodded. “Well, you’re talking about Ananias and Sapphira. It’s a biblical story that theologians have debated through the ages. Some think it has to do with tithing, and others think it’s about deception.”
Dan looked at him, waiting.
Lennie continued, “As the story goes, Ananias was married to a gal named Sapphira. Ananias sold some land and was preparing to short his contribution to the apostles. You see, early Christians gave everything they had to the apostles. Didn’t believe that they owned anything—just held it for the work of the church. Anyway, Ananias kept some of the money and only gave part to the apostles.” Lennie eased back in his chair and looked out over the track.
“And?” Dan asked.
“And God struck them both down. Killed both Ananias and his wife.”
“Killed them?”
“Well, in the scriptures it was known as ‘giving up the ghost.’ You just dropped dead. So ‘kill’ might be a harsh word, but they died spontaneously. So you tell me the cause of death. They were just taken out. Boom.”
“Why? I don’t get it,” said Dan.
“That’s why scholars have debated the story for centuries. One theory is that he didn’t give the right amount to the apostles. Ergo
, they were killed. Another theory is that it wasn’t about the money. It was about deception. If Ananias had been honest about how much money he got from the deal and only wanted to give the apostles so much, he wouldn’t have been struck down. I’m not sure either one is completely right. You know, there are some strange stories in the Bible, and I’ve always wondered what was lost in translation or about errors in transcription. To me, the story seems like it’s missing some pretty important pieces.”
Dan looked down and tried to imagine why someone would name a child Ananias.
“So, what sent you on this biblical trip down memory lane?” Lennie asked.
“Oh, I met a guy with the name Ananias, and he said it was from the Bible, and I wondered what the story was.”
“Quite a tag to hang on someone,” said Lennie. “What did they do, name his brother Pontius Pilate?”
Milton came back, carrying a tub of popcorn, and he had two hotdogs wrapped in foil in his jacket pocket.
Lennie scooted back as Milton slid past him. “Bet the favorite, didn’t you?”
Milton looked at him like he just ruined a birthday surprise. “Damn straight. Dellingham wouldn’t bring him back and put him in this spot if he didn’t think he’d fire. Plus, lot of barn money coming in on him late.”
The tote showed Likatious at six to five. Track announcer Dean Horn called them all in line.
Likatious ran middle of the pack and never fired. He finished last. A total non-factor.
Milton threw a half-dozen tickets in the air as the leaders were halfway down the stretch. “Damn it. I told you he couldn’t win a one-horse race. Didn’t I tell you that?” Milton said in total frustration.
“That you did, Milton,” Lennie said, licking a finger and turning to his pages for the next race. “That you did.”
Chapter 24
The morning sun hung low in the sky but presaged a blistering, humid day. The movable outside rail on the backside of the racetrack was shifted over, leaving a thirty-foot gap, which allowed horses and riders to get onto the track from the backside.
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