Winning Odds Trilogy

by MaryAnn Myers

  There was a race on Sunday, going 6 ½ for two-year old maidens, even further than he wanted to go, but the pace would be different, slower, probably a better choice for a first-time starter.

  Bang!

  Bo-T kicked one of the shedrow railings. It sounded like a gunshot and caused an avalanche of horses bucking and kicking in their stalls. Ben shook his head. It doesn’t take much to spread racing plates. His shoes were just reset yesterday.

  Training a horse to run at its best, its peak, giving it the best possible opportunity to run well and finish strong is an art in itself, he’d explained to Dawn when she first came to the track. Today was Wednesday. Ideally, he’d run him on Friday. But there was no two-year old race for Friday.

  Ben sat scratching the back of his neck. Bo-T was not one to be rated, even when working in company, let alone a race. He always wanted to charge to the lead and stay on the lead. Here came Bo-T again, still bucking and kicking. “Enough of this.” Ben stuck his head out of the tack room. “Tack him up. Let’s gallop him before he hurts someone or himself.”

  Since this wasn’t scheduled as a training day for Bo-T, Tom put him away and headed up to the kitchen to grab Johnny. Back at the barn, Ben glanced at Dawn down at Bo-T’s stall, bridle and exercise saddle in hand, and…. “What? You need a butterfly net to catch him?”

  Dawn shook her head. Bo-T was still showing off. Every attempt to get a hold of his halter set him off all over again. He was having fun! Discretion being the better part of valor, Dawn walked back to the tack room. “I think we’ll wait for Tom,” she said rather matter-of-factly. Ben nodded in agreement. His days of wrangling two-year olds were long past.

  “Everyone’s loving the Ginny stand,” Tom said, upon his return. “It’s a full house!”

  “Did you see Johnny?” Ben asked.

  “Yep, he’ll be down in a few minutes. Is he tacked?”

  “Nope.” Dawn handed him Bo-T’s bridle and exercise saddle. “He’s all yours.” The horse was standing at the front of his stall, bobbing his head up and down as if was about to take flight, and kicked and kicked and kicked.

  Ben walked up to the racetrack, climbed the steps to the Ginny stand and took a seat on the bottom bleacher. He was one of at least twenty owners and trainers sitting there, and if asked, that’s all he considered himself sitting there, an owner, trainer.

  “This is nice, Ben.” Lucy Davis said.

  He nodded, and then debated whether or not he should say, ‘Thank you.’

  “It’s about time,” he said, instead, as one of them.

  They all agreed.

  Mim drove up in her golf cart and got out and climbed the steps, using the railing and her cane for support. She sat down next to Ben.

  “Mim,” he said.

  “Ben.”

  Ben leaned forward and looked past her to see Tom on Red, leading Bo-T and Johnny. He sat back and crossed his arms, watched as they walked out onto the racetrack, watched as they jogged down past the grandstand.

  “Is that Beau Together?” Mim asked.

  Ben nodded.

  When Tom turned them around, Red and Bo-T broke into a nice canter, but by the time they got down in front of Ben, Bo-T was fighting to run off. Johnny had a strangle hold on him, as did Tom, and still….

  “Hold him, hold him,” Ben mumbled under his breath. “Hold him….” The last thing he wanted was for him to run off, and there’s only so much a pony can do to keep a horse in check if it’s hell bent on running off. As they started down the backside, Bo-T settled down a little, no longer climbing, and started galloping in a strong, even stride. “All right, all right,” Ben said, in his mind. “All right, you can let him go.”

  As if he could hear him, with the very next stride, Tom let Bo-T and Johnny go and the colt galloped on strong. No playing, no looking around, no fighting, just a good racehorse gallop. Ben nodded. He galloped strong around the turn. Oh no, Ben thought, looking down the stretch. There were two horses working on the rail.

  Bo-T came up on them with ears pinned and tenacious. When they crossed the wire he was better than two lengths in front of them. Ben took off his hat and stared down at the floor.

  “I take it that wasn’t the plan,” Mim said softly.

  Ben shook his head and raised his eyes just as Johnny and the large colt galloped into the turn. Tom was waiting for them out in the middle of the track. When Ben drew a breath and sighed, Mim patted him on the back. “He’s grand looking, Ben. I’ll give you that.”

  Ben nodded. Small consolation at the moment.

  As they paraded in front of the Ginny stand, Johnny looked in at Ben and drew a breath and sighed. It was as if time stood still for Ben then, as if everything and everyone was moving in slow motion. Bo-T walked off the track next to Tom and Red, Johnny turned and smiled. Bo-T looked so much like Beau Born, for a second….

  Mim touched his arm. “I had a dream the other night,” she said, “where you turned this all around. And it was almost as good as it used to be, and in some ways even better.”

  Ben smiled.

  “I don’t believe in dreams as a rule, but I’m sure hoping this one comes true.”

  Dusty, Dawn, and Wendy walked down Rickety’s shedrow, halter, lead shank, pen, pad, and video camera in hand. Rickety looked up as they approached. Dusty saw the horse’s stall empty. His heart dropped.

  “He’s on the walking machine,” Rickety said. “I’ve done already cleaned that stall once today.”

  When they all three turned, Renegade Man looked at them and nickered imploringly.

  “How long have you been walking him?” Dusty asked.

  Dawn shook her head. “I don’t want to know,” she said, motioning. “Let’s just get on with this.”

  Dusty produced the money. He had Rickety sign a Bill of Sale. Wendy had the horse’s Registration Papers. Dawn filmed Rickey signing them over. She filmed Dusty congratulating him for being the first owner-trainer at Nottingham Down to provide a horse to the Thoroughbred Rehoming Project. She filmed Dusty shaking the man’s hand.

  The horse was so tired of walking around in circles on the walking machine; they unhooked him and were able to switch halters right then and there. Rickety smiled a big grin for the video camera.

  “He used to be a good horse,” he said.

  Used to be? As they started down the road between the barns Dawn took the horse from Dusty and walked on ahead. “That man won’t be getting any stalls here next year,” she said.

  Dusty and Wendy nodded, following along. From the look in Dawn’s eyes as they’d left Rickety’s barn, that didn’t come as a surprise to either of them.

  Dawn patted the horse gently on his shoulder. “Nottingham Downs is going to be the standard that horsemen will have to live up to and other racetracks aspire to. Put that on the video.”

  Dusty nodded, camera rolling. “I already have it.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  The jockeys sat waiting. Ben had called for a short meeting, scheduled for just before the first race, and they all had a feeling it was about the soft whips. They were right. When Ben, Tom, Dusty, and Spears entered the room, Ben got right to the point. “You all know me,” he said. “You know where I’ve been, which is right here at Nottingham Downs my entire racing life, and you know what we’re up against. We’re trying to save Nottingham Downs and maybe even more importantly, we’re trying to save Thoroughbred racing.”

  He glanced at Spears. His turn. “I just read a startling statistic today. A racetrack an hour up the road had only seven hundred and fifty spectators yesterday. Seven hundred and fifty. Can you imagine a rock star singing for seven hundred and fifty people?” He paused, glancing around the room. “The first thing I thought was, does it matter to a jockey if no one sees him ride in a race? If no one sees him win? If no one sees how he puts his life on the line every time he gets on the back of a Thoroughbred?”

  Silence….

  “Well, I hate to say it but that seems to b
e where it’s headed, for the majority of the tracks at least, for the majority of you, and me.” He paused, just long enough. “But the good news is, this past month at Nottingham Downs has people sitting up and taking notice. We’re making a change. We’re a racetrack that cares and people like that. My phone’s ringing off the wall. People are happy with what’s going on here, and not just in the industry.”

  He looked at Dusty. His turn. “The horses matter here, you all matter here. There is no way any of us on this end would be here today, without you jocks.”

  They all hooped and hollered. It wasn’t often they heard such a statement.

  “We’re concerned about your well-being; we’re concerned about the horses’ well-being.”

  Tom spoke next. “We’re wanting more input from all of you. We want to try and make things happen. One, and I’m sure you know where this is headed, we want to be the first race track where a soft whip is the norm. No more fucking beating a horse up. It’s over. The public doesn’t like it, we don’t like it. I’ll bet even you all don’t like it.”

  Another wave of silence flooded the room.

  “We want to do it. We want to make it happen. We want to do it for your safety, and we want to do it for the horses’ safety.”

  Silence still….

  Tom smiled. “But we don’t know how to make it happen. We’re clueless.”

  The jocks all laughed.

  “That, and…” Tom said. “We don’t want to make decisions that you all have to live with, if you’re not onboard.” He shrugged. “So, how do we go about making this happen?”

  “You’re asking us?” Juan said.

  “Who else? You’re the ones out there every day. It’s going to affect you the most.”

  The jocks looked around the room at one another.

  “We have an open-door policy here at Nottingham Downs,” Spears said. “What concerns you, concerns us.”

  “Thank you for your time,” Ben said. “Be careful, be safe.” With that, the four of them turned and walked out of the room.

  They met with the Stewards next. “We just want to keep you informed,” Ben said. “We want us all to work together.” Spears passed out a copy of an article published in a national magazine about “The Downside of Thoroughbred Racing.”

  “It ain’t pretty,” Tom said.

  Ben had already read it, Tom had read it, Spears had read it, Dusty had read it. They all read it again along with the Stewards who were seeing it for the first time. “So again,” Ben said, “in wanting to keep you informed and all of us working together, we want you to know we’re going to be addressing these issues. It doesn’t appear to be getting better, it’s getting worse.”

  “All this has been said before,” one of the Stewards commented, shrugging. “It’ll pass.”

  “Not at this racetrack,” Tom said. “You’re not listening. We’re going to change racing as we know it. This era here,” he said, as he waved the article, “this is over.”

  The man sat back, slightly miffed, and found himself being scrutinized by Ben. “Since I’m new to this someone will have to tell me. Do you have a contract? When is it up?”

  Spears wished Wendy was here. She’d know.

  “The end of the year,” the Steward said.

  “I see.”

  Spears scanned the article for the umpteenth time, read parts of it out loud. “Mandatory necropsies of all euthanized horses. Stiffer penalties for drug violations for horses tested. More random testing of the field after a race.”

  Ben nodded. “We’re not waiting until next year on this. So you,” he said to the Steward in question. “You need to either get on board or there’s the door.”

  “I am on board, Ben. You know that. I was just saying….”

  “I know, I know,” Ben said. “Racing has been under fire before. But nothing like this. This is not going away. And you know what, racing needs to be held accountable. Every horse that leaves Nottingham Downs, we’re going to know where he’s going. No more killers. No more performance-enhancing drugs. No more. One violation and they lose their stalls. One! If that’s tougher than what’s mandated by the state, then so be it.”

  When Ben turned and walked out, Dusty and Spears followed. Tom looked at the three Stewards and the one in particular. “It’s not good to piss him off,” Tom said. “God bless you all.”

  “We’re all on the same team, Tom,” the man called after him.

  “Precisely,” Tom said, giving them a thumbs-up over his shoulder.

  The three men looked at one another and sighed collectively. “Mark this date,” the Steward sitting in the middle said. “History is being made.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Wendy looked up from her desk when they entered the office and smiled. “How’d it go?” When Tom filled her in, she looked at Ben. “Oh my.”

  He sighed. “I rarely lose my temper.”

  “It sounds like it was warranted.”

  Ben nodded. “Even so….”

  The four men sat down at Ben’s desk table and all glanced out the window when they heard the sound of the bugle announcing the post parade for the first race. Something as simple as that seemed to lighten the mood. There were about fifty people outside watching the horses walk onto the racetrack.

  The bugler was fast becoming a hit. Not only did he blow the bugle announcing the race, he usually followed that up with another tune. The fans were loving it. He was like a racetrack pied piper. On Sunday when he played “Run for the Roses” people had tears in their eyes.

  Ben, Spears, Tom, and Dusty went over their list of concerns. Ben was impressed with how many were brought up and how many had solutions already underway. Dusty was proving to be the voice of the horsemen and women. He shared some of their questions, their hopes and their fears. “The biggest worry is that we won’t be here next year, and that many of them will have nowhere to go.”

  “Well, they’re not alone in that,” Ben said. “How are you doing with the HBPA?”

  “Good,” Dusty said. “We’re working on making them a formidable voice. They feel, particularly the last three or four years, that their presence had been diminished.”

  Ben nodded. “I’m glad you’re on top of that.”

  Tom smiled. “Damn, old man, listen to you. You’re getting good at this.”

  Ben laughed. “I guess I did kinda sound like an exec-u-tive.”

  “Speaking of which,” Spears said, smiling as he exaggerated straightening his tie. “I have a meeting with the Andrew Lang Beiber Cultural Society. The founder was big into racing years ago and with his passing, they want to do a tribute in the form of a stake race next year.”

  Wendy held up her hand without looking their way. “I’ve got the stats. They’re on your desk upstairs.”

  “What about the possibility of offering horsemen’s insurance?” Tom asked. It was a topic brought up when Billy Martin passed away.

  “I’m getting quotes and close to narrowing the choice of underwriters,” Spears said. “When I get it all together, I’ll present it.” Another item checked off the list.“Which brings me to one of my main concerns. I don’t have all the figures complete, but on the subject of racing days, shortening the meet….”

  “I’m all for it,” Ben said. They all were.

  “There won’t be an issue with less days,” Spears said. “I have the ball rolling on that, but night racing one night a week, that’s going to be a different thing.” He surveyed the disappointment on their faces. “I’m hopeful though, and I’m working on it.”

  “What about doing away with the cost of parking and admission?” Tom asked.

  “Well.” Spears sat back. “From all indications, eliminating a parking fee and the cost of admission works in some aspects and others it does not.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning….” He walked to his desk and came back with a list of figures. “At the end of the day, the take is just about even.”

  “You mean
if they don’t pay admission and parking, that money goes to betting?” Tom asked.

  “Yes. That’s the plus side. The downside is how it plays out at the end of the day.”

  “You mean, the handle as opposed to generated revenue?” Tom said.

  Spears looked at him.

  “I’m getting it,” Tom said, laughing. “And anytime you want to ride a horse it’s okay with me.”

  They all laughed, Wendy included.

  “Next?” Ben said.

  “A chapel,” Dusty said, glancing at his list. “Pastor Mitchell’s thinking maybe he could set up one where Rupert used to be.”

  “What’s wrong with where they’re at?” Ben asked.

  “Come on, Ben, it’s a shared space. They meet in the HBPA office,” Tom said. “He would like a sacred space.”

  “A sacred space?” Ben sat back. Spears sat back. “Do you really think that’s necessary on a racetrack?” Ben asked. “There are churches everywhere. There’s two right across the street.”

  Dusty and Tom just looked at him.

  “All right,” Ben said. “Nothing fancy though, right?”

  Both men shook their heads. They had no idea what Pastor Mitchell had in mind. They’d just promised to help.

  Wendy looked up when someone entered the office. It was a jockey, one that had obviously just ridden in a race judging from the dirt on his silks and boots. “Hello,” she said.

  Juan nodded and glanced over her shoulder. “Ben…?”

  “Yes.” He waved him in.

  “The jocks would like to meet with you all after racing today. All right?”

  “All right,” Ben said. “Good.” When Juan turned around and walked out, Ben shook his head. “I can’t believe I didn’t watch the race. We’re sitting right here, and….” He pointed outside. “We’re right here.”

  “Welcome to my world,” Spears said.

  Ben nodded and lowered his eyes to the table.

  “I know you don’t like monitors, Ben,” Wendy said. “But I can have the announcer piped in.”