Saving Baby (16 page)

I think it only started showing then because Pam had begun giving Scarlett Lasix to enhance her performance during timed works. One of the possible triggers of tying-up syndrome is an electrolyte imbalance, and Lasix affects electrolyte balance, too. Scarlett probably was always susceptible, but the drug pushed her over the edge.

Racing rules specify that a horse is supposed to have Lasix only if she bleeds through the nose while running. But almost all the horses are given the drug. No one ever put a scope down Scarlett's throat to verify that she bled. I certainly never saw any blood come out of her nose.

We were able to keep her out of pain with muscle relaxants and analgesics, but clearing the tying-up syndrome was another story. We tried lots of treatments, none of which helped, and I was calling all over the country to see if anyone knew of a possible solution. Finally, a veterinarian at Cornell University, a Dr. Beth Valentine, said I had to take Scarlett off all forms of her usual carbohydrates and put her on alfalfa pellets with three cups of vegetable oil a day. She also advised me that a horse like Scarlett should never have a day off. She was always going to need to go out and do something so her muscle enzymes would metabolize properly.

To my amazement, not to mention the amazement of other vets on the case who had been more than skeptical, Dr. Valentine's instructions worked. Scarlett even ran three races in October and November. But she was still not completely herself—you could see she was a little stiff—and the best she did was to come in second in a race in November. That race, as opposed to the other two, was a full mile, so it was clear that she truly was a classic distance runner. But she was going to need more time to adjust to the new diet and come back to herself. The track would be closing for the season in a couple of weeks, and there were no more races for fillies, anyway. We decided to bring her home to regain her strength.

My time with Scarlett alone at the track had been somewhat different from my time there with just Baby. I visited her every single day, just as I did him. But she didn't whinny at the sound of my footsteps the way Baby did, although she did always pop her head out of her stall when I called out to her from the entrance to the shedrow. She never became aggressive as Baby did, either, although of course, Baby had been put on steroids.

Unlike Baby, Scarlett liked to snooze standing up rather than lying down all stretched out. And whereas Baby always wanted me to put my hands straight out in front of me, palms stretched and thumbs touching, so he could rub his head against them, Scarlett enjoyed pushing her face all the way down the side of my body, from my shoulder to my thigh, then pushing all the way back up, rubbing her entire forehead, down to her nostrils, as she went. She waited for me to brace myself by holding onto the bars of the stall door before she started moving because she knew that if I didn't hold on, she'd knock me over. Up and down, up and down she'd go, even rubbing her eyes against me in the process.

A lot of people don't let their horses do that. They say never to let a horse invade your space. But I didn't mind the closeness. I liked it, actually. Scarlett never tried to bite or step on me. I was happy to be her rubbing post.

Along with letting her rub, I would brush her, or perhaps take a comb through her mane. Sometimes Pam, who always kept Scarlett's coat gleaming, would have the hair on her mane braided up with maize-colored yarn. Other times she'd braid her hair tightly overnight and then take out the braids the next morning, letting the curls adorn Scarlett's neck. She looked so pretty because she had a gorgeous neck, not too long or short. Everything about Scarlett, in fact, was conformationally perfect. If anyone ever commented, “This is what a Thoroughbred horse should look like,” they'd be pointing at Scarlett.

The same couldn't be said of Baby. Stout, compact, and sturdy, with a shorter neck and a broader chest, he looked more ready for the football field than the track. But he felt bonded to me in a way Scarlett didn't. She, too, was born into my arms, and I was so thrilled to have in her my Secretariat souvenir. I loved to hug and kiss her. But for Baby, when I was there, the whole world went away. He'd rather be with me than another horse. Nothing could distract his attention. Scarlett was more independent, aloof. It wasn't that she didn't love me. She knew I'd swat a fly off her, do anything for her. But she didn't need me in the same way. If another horse walked by, she'd turn her attention away. I guess you could say Baby was a mama's boy, tough as he was, and that endeared him to me on a different level.

Shortly before we packed up Scarlett's belongings for the trip home, Stan Wyle came over to talk to me. I knew him in two ways: as the president of the HBPA board, representing Michigan's 1,200 owners and trainers, and as the owner of Reel on Reel, the sire of Baby and the foal with whom Pat was pregnant.

“Are you getting that respiratory drug from Canada?” he asked.

“No,” I said. I didn't know what he was talking about.

He came very close and said conspiratorially, “Well, you need to get it. It helps them breathe better during the race, and the State Racing Commission lab doesn't know how to test for it. This guy comes around and takes your order, and then he makes the drug run to Canada.”

I knew this was illegal, but Wyle wasn't somebody you argued with. I just said, “Okay, thank you. We don't really need it.”

“Yes, you do,” he said. “You should be using it.” It was all for him, I realized. If his Reel on Reel progeny did well, it made his stallion look good. He could charge a higher stud fee. It gave me a sinking feeling that the president of the HBPA, whose job it was to make sure that things went as they were supposed to, was advising me to give my horses an illegal drug.

Still, I felt the year ended on a good note. Scarlett had shown the promise Jerry and Pam thought she would and was going to have all winter to become acclimated to her new diet. Baby was going to come back healed from his tendinitis and ready to tear up the track.

Our farm vet suggested that to build up Baby's muscles, which would protect his tendons, he start a regimen of swimming. There was an indoor pool for horses just two miles from our house, and Pam thought sending Baby there was a good idea because he'd return to the track with his muscles already built up some.

So starting on January 18th, 1996, Baby went into the pool every day. There was a ramp with a gradual slope that he'd walk down and then, holding his head just above the water, he'd start swimming. It comes naturally to horses, just like it does to dogs. Each time he came around, his eyes would widen as he looked at me, as if to say, “What am I
doing
?” He looked so adorable, like a great big dog paddling.

By that point, his tendinitis was essentially healed. I had been told he could start race training after four months at home, but this was now seven months later, and he wouldn't be starting with Pam again until March—fully nine months after his injury. I didn't send him or Scarlett to Florida that winter because I wanted to make extra sure about the tendon, and I wanted Scarlett to heal from a deep-cut biopsy that Dr. Valentine had ordered to make sure she really was on the right diet to treat her condition. Pam was okay with that because the first race wasn't going to occur until the middle of April, unlike last year, when the meet began in March.

In the meantime, both Baby and Scarlett did their usual winter frolicking—rolling in the snow and coming to the back door covered in white, waiting for treats. I'd go to the fridge and take out a bag of carrots, cracking them and handing them out. Finally, I'd tell them, “No more,” but they'd stand there, beseeching me with their eyes like two dogs begging. So I'd go get some more and say, “This is the last time, now go out and play.” Then I'd sneak off to the side of the kitchen where they couldn't see me through the glass and wait until they gave up and walked away. I couldn't bear to say no to them, but I could have gone through pounds and pounds of carrots before they felt they had had their fill.

I loved having this respite with them. At the same time, I knew this was going to be our year. Baby was doing wonderfully, and Scarlett was now going to get to race fully treated. Once training started, in fact, she went through her timed works beautifully, with no tying up, no stiffness, and on lab tests, all of her enzymes within normal range. I was glad in no small part for the money we stood to make. I had worked hard in my role on the HBPA board the previous year to get the state to pass legislation allowing simulcast racing, which meant people could now bet on Michigan races from other states, watching on screens at their local tracks. The purses, and our take, stood to increase dramatically. With the extra money to be earned coupled with Baby and Scarlett's fantastic condition, our stars were all aligned.

On April 19th, Terry Houghton rode Baby for a timed work, a good sign that he wanted to race him, so we were thrilled. Everything was in place.

A few days later, the HBPA had its monthly board meeting. The chair of the backstretch track committee, a trainer named James Jackson, said that the track was in really bad shape. Two horses had broken down on opening weekend and had to be euthanized. They might have run into a groove or dip, Jackson said. It wasn't clear.

It didn't really give me pause. I suspected those horses broke down because they weren't properly conditioned and were running with preexisting injuries. I already knew that official lameness exams didn't rule out injuries and that other owners and trainers didn't take the care I did, that people were running injured horses all the time. But
my
horses were fine and wouldn't get into trouble unless they were near the back of the pack, which was not going to happen because they were both so ready to win.

Soon after that meeting, Terry also rode Scarlett for one of her timed works. We were really in position. The best jockey at the track wanted to race both of our Thoroughbreds.

Pam had a race picked out for Baby on May 10th but had to scratch it at the last minute. It had been confirmed that Terry would ride him, but his schedule didn't allow him to take Baby on his last timed work before the race. Baby ran off with the jockey who did take him—the guy couldn't control him; few could––so there was not enough horse left in him to run at his highest speed just a few days later in the actual event. We were disappointed but not devastated. Everything still looked great, and to add to our high, Pat gave birth on May 15th to a beautiful filly we called Sissy, who looked very much like Baby except for a star between her eyes that resembled an upside-down Nike logo. Her official name was Surprisingly Reel. We were particularly thrilled because Reel On Reel fillies were doing even better in races than the males.

When I reached the track later that day, Bob Miller, a horse owner and trainer who had played for the Detroit Lions football team in the 1950s, said to me in his booming voice, “Looks like you have a runner.” He had been watching Scarlett do a timed work.

Hearing that felt great. Bob had been in racing for more than twenty years. His opinions were very well respected. I felt swept up, as if in a joyous wave of hope. Both Scarlett and Baby were in for big wins.

A couple of days later, Pam found another race for Baby to take place on the twenty-fifth. The only kink was that Terry wouldn't be able to ride him; he was already committed. That was unfortunate because we would not have Terry's ability to control him, to keep him from ramming into another horse. But Pam secured Joey Judice, who also had a very good reputation, and in a timed work before the race, Baby and Joey matched extremely well. Joey handled Baby's bullish style as if he had ridden him many times. Pam, Jerry, John, and I were giving each other high fives.

Three days before the race, on the evening of the twenty-second, the HBPA board held another meeting and, again, James Jackson said the track was in bad shape, that there were uneven spots, gouges even, that needed to be resurfaced.

I reminded myself that James liked to talk, that he enjoyed the limelight. He would stand for emphasis, whereas all the other committee chairs gave their reports from their seats. Then, too, Baby had just had another timed work that very morning, and his jockey didn't say anything was wrong. Pam wasn't getting any feedback from Jerry about something being wrong, either, and he rode Baby and Scarlett on the track every day.

But at the same time, two other trainers at the board meeting piped up and agreed with James that there were problems with the track. One of them said that half his horses were back at the farm, sore. That nagged at me.

The next day, by pure coincidence, I saw the track's general manager, Jay Fortney, in his suit and tie, talking to people at the maintenance building. He was finishing up and walking back to the track, and I hurried to catch up with him. We had a good relationship, even though he was “track” and I was “owners and trainers” by virtue of being on the HBPA. We had worked together on the simulcasting legislation.

“Jay, wait up,” I called out. I told him there had been an HBPA meeting the previous evening and that for the second time, James Jackson adamantly expressed that the track was not in good repair and needed maintenance. “I have to tell you,” I said, “we have a horse racing in two days and another horse slated to run the week after.” Pam had picked out a race for Scarlett by that point. “I will not send out my horses if there's a problem with the track.”

Jay was a big man, both tall and heavy. He breathed in, puffing himself up. “James Jackson ought to stick to training,” he said. “That's what he knows. I used to be the superintendent for Belmont Park in New York. If I can take care of Belmont Park, I can certainly take care of the Detroit Race Course.”

I took him at his word. Belmont Park is where the Belmont Stakes takes place, the third “jewel” in the “Triple Crown” of racing, after the Kentucky Derby and the Preakness, in Maryland. It has to be maintained in the same condition as the Derby's Churchill Downs track in Kentucky. Also, Jay sounded adamant bordering on angry. And because I had a good relationship with him and the rest of the track management, coupled with the fact that it was easy to dismiss what James said as exaggeration, I had every reason to believe him.