The Black Stallion Challenged (20 page)

The newsmen turned to Alec. “And you, Alec? You got any stomach butterflies?”

“Sure,” Alec said. “I got ’em, always just before a big race. As Henry says, he leaves the stomach jumpups to us younger fellows.”

They turned back to Henry, and one said, “You’re used to saddling horses for big folding money. Isn’t that right, Henry? That’s why you get no butterflies.”

“Guess so,” Henry said, still watering his petunias.

“You’ll have no excuses if Flame beats you, then,” the reporter persisted. “The Black is all set to go.”

“No excuses at all,” Henry admitted. “He’s pretty tight, and a race last week would have helped him a lot. But he’s ready to go tomorrow; that’s all I can ask of him.”

“The race looks like a toss-up to a lot of people.”

“That’s what horse racing is all about,” Henry said. He looked up from his petunias. “What kind of lastminute comment did you get from Steve Duncan? Did he tell you his horse was going to whip us tomorrow?”

“No, he didn’t.”

“What did he say then?”

“He said, ‘No comment.’ ”

“That’s the smartest talk I’ve heard all day,” Henry said, smiling. “He’s learning fast.”

“No, we think he was just pretty sick to his stomach,” a reporter answered. “He was green in the face.”

“Oh,” Henry said, turning back to his petunias.

It was early evening when Alec and Henry walked around the empty track, their feet sinking deep in the
sandy loam. It was part of their regular pre-race routine. Alec stayed near the rail, his eyes on the track furrows. He knew the surface would be all cut up again the next morning by working horses; then it would be harrowed and manicured before the races in the afternoon. However, there was no way in the world he could have gotten out of this walk, needless though it might be. Psychologically, it did something for Henry—and perhaps for himself, too.

“There’s a hole, Alec,” the old man said. “Stomp on it good.”

Alec pushed dirt into the hole with his foot, stomping the ground flat until Henry was satisfied.

“I don’t want you to get caught on the rail tomorrow,” the trainer said. “Stay a good length off it. It’s too soft.”

“Yes, Henry.”

“There’s another hole. I’ll get it.”

“Okay.”

“This is very important,” the trainer said. “It can mean the difference between your winning and losing.”

“I know, Henry.” Alec watched the trainer fill in the hole. He knew that after walking around the track, they’d return to the barn and Henry would draw a picture.
The oval is one and one-eighth miles
, he’d put down on paper.
Distance from judges’ stand to first turn, 325 feet. Distance from last turn to finish, 1,075 feet. Width of track, 80 feet
. And so on, until it was all there to be gone over and over again. That was the way Henry did things the night before a race, and somehow it helped relieve their tension. It was better than sitting around doing nothing, Alec conceded.

“How are you feelin’?” Henry asked.

“Fine,” Alec said.

“You’ve got good judgment of pace,” Henry said. “Make sure you use it tomorrow. Don’t let any of those lightweights steal the race from you, Apache especially. With all his speed he just might go the full distance, carrying 110 pounds.”

“I’ll remember,” Alec said.

“Anyone can be guilty of making a mistake in judgment,” Henry went on.

“I’ll try not to,” Alec promised.

“If you do make any mistakes, try to make the right ones.”

“I won’t mess it up,” Alec said.

“Watch your friend Steve every second,” Henry cautioned. “He’s got a natural talent for riding and he’s good with that horse of his. One would never believe he didn’t know what the inside of the winner’s circle looked like a week ago.”

“He’s come a long way,” Alec admitted.

Henry filled another hole in the track and said, “He’s had a good teacher since he got here.”

Alec shrugged his shoulders. “I only did for him what I’ve done for others starting out.”

Henry looked at Alec. “I know, but this time it might backfire on you. Steve’s got a good idea what to do in a race now. Make sure he don’t beat you by a nose.”

“I’ll do my best,” Alec said.

“I want you to do more than your best,” Henry said solemnly. “You might have to … 
to win
.”

Later that night Henry got an early morning edition
of a Saturday newspaper in the hope of reading himself to sleep. Instead, it kept him awake most of the night.

Henry feared Flame more than he had let Alec or anyone else know. The greatest horse and rider could be guilty of making mistakes during the running of a grueling race, and tomorrow it would take just one false move by the Black or Alec for the Widener to be lost to them. He wished he could quiet the butterflies in his stomach.

An hour before the running of the Widener Handicap, Alec warmed up the Black under the tall Australian pines which lined the sandy road through the stable area. When he had finished, he knew his horse was supple and alert for the job ahead of him.

Henry held the Black’s bridle while Alec slid down from the stallion’s back. “I want you to gallop him in front of the stands, too,” the old trainer said. “Break him out of the post parade the first chance you get. Gallop him all the way into the backstretch before turning him and going back to the gate. I want him warmed up and in his best stride when the gate opens, not after racing two or three furlongs like maybe some of the others.”

“I know, Henry,” Alec answered. The trainer’s instructions were nothing new to him. He’d heard them every race day. But if it helped Henry to repeat them each time, he would listen.

“Get into your working clothes now,” Henry added. “We’ll see you in the paddock.”

The jockeys’ room was noisy and crowded. Alec went to his locker and sat down on the bench. Those who were riding in the big race appeared calm, but Alec knew that inwardly they felt as he did, pretty uneasy if not filled with anxiety. It couldn’t be otherwise with so much money hanging on the finish wire; the winning rider would get 10% of the purse, about $9,000 for just two minutes of racing time. It was enough to put anyone’s nerves on edge.

Willy Walsh munched a grilled cheese sandwich and talked casually to a reporter about the chances of Mad Wizard winning the race. “He’s out of his class,” the young jockey said frankly, “but we might be up there somewhere, light-weighted like he is. He’s an honest horse. He tries all the way.”

Nearby, Jay Pratt had shucked off his custom-tailored street suit and was pulling on his skin-tight white nylon pants. He looked out the window, watching the big crowd in the paddock. The bigger the crowd, the better he liked it and, usually, the better he rode.

Turning back to his locker, Pratt caught Alec watching him. “It’s a juicy bundle of boodle we’ll be racing for today,” he said quietly.

“It’s that, all right,” Alec returned, pulling on his pants.

Pete Edge was already dressed in his silks and playing ping-pong with a rider who didn’t have a mount in the Widener. He smashed the ball hard, as if trying to get rid of a lot of excess steam.

The veteran Nick Marchione was in his silks, too, and playing cards at the far end of the room.

Reaching into his locker, Alec took out his black-and-white checkered blouse and pulled it over his T-shirt. Tucking it in his pants, he moved closer to where Steve Duncan, fully dressed in red silks, was sitting on a trunk. Steve had a couple of sports writers around him, but he didn’t seem to be annoyed. He chatted with them as he might have done with any other visitors.

Alec decided that Steve had come a long way in his give-and-take with the press. There was no fear or timidity in his face. Instead, it showed a kind of exaltation. He had straddled all the horsepower a rider could put under himself, and at this point in his short career he was a hero, a jockey to be interviewed and a rider with whom to reckon.

The roar of the crowd watching the finish of the race preceding the Widener Handicap filled the room. Alec turned away from Steve Duncan.

An old friend, the sports editor of a New York daily newspaper, came up to him. “Hi, Leo,” Alec said. “I was wondering why I hadn’t seen you around this winter.”

“I left New York only this morning,” the man said. “It was five below.”

“Then be glad you’re here,” Alec said, buttoning his blouse.

“I am, but I’d like to be able to stay the rest of the winter.”

“Why don’t you? You’ve been at it long enough to pick your spots.”

“They need me in the office.”

The man turned, nodding his head toward Steve Duncan. “What about that kid and his horse? Are they everything I’ve read?”

“For publication?” Alec sat down on the bench, pulling on his boots.

“No, just for me.”

“One robin doesn’t make a spring,” Alec said quietly.

“But it gives a man hope of seeing another robin,” the newspaper man returned. “That was a pretty big race he went to last week.”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t.”

“I know what you said. One big race doesn’t make a horse or rider. Still …”

Alec finished pulling on his boots and reached into his locker for his goggles. “You asked me what I thought, and I told you. I’m not saying I’m right. I only believe it was too big a race for Steve Duncan. He needs as much guidance as his horse does. Last week’s race came too soon for him and too fast. He has a lot more to learn about racing before …”

Turning around, Alec stopped suddenly, for Steve Duncan was standing there, his face a fiery red. Alec said nothing, and it was Steve who broke the strained silence. “You keep out of my way, Alec,” he said angrily. “Just keep out of my way.”

When he had gone, the newspaper man said, “I see what you mean. He’s hot.”

“He’s no iceman, that’s for sure,” Alec said. “I guess he thinks now that I’m jealous of his success.”

“Or, worse still, that you’re contemptuous of his
riding,” the man added. “It’s the way a lot of young riders feel at the beginning. He’ll learn fast.”

“But not fast enough for this race,” Alec said, picking up his helmet and goggles. “It’s time to weigh-out. I’ll be seein’ you, Leo.”

“Lots of luck, Alec.”

“Thanks, Leo.”

The Clerk of the Scales had an easy job ahead of him, weighing out the jockeys for the Widener Handicap. There had been many entries for most of the other races on the afternoon program; it had been something of a task to get all the riders on the scales and out of the room in time for their races. He glanced at the six riders who now stood in line, waiting patiently to be checked out. Beside them were their valets, supplied by the track, to assist with the tack.

Willy Walsh, bareheaded and wearing blue-and-yellow silks, stepped on the official scale first. The needle swung to 100 pounds and steadied. His valet handed him a three-pound saddle and a pad containing five pounds of lead. The scale needle went up to 108 pounds. Willy was the lightest-weighted of the field.

“Okay,” the clerk said. “Walsh. Number One. At one hundred and eight pounds. Check.” Watching the little rider hand back his tack to the valet, he added, “You’re getting skinnier every day, Willy. You’d better watch yourself or you’ll just waste away.”

Willy Walsh picked up the Number 1 armband from the rack and slipped it over his right arm. “How else am I goin’ to ride these lightweights?” he asked, grinning and shrugging his narrow shoulders.

The clerk liked Willy Walsh, as he did most of the riders in the room. They were men of integrity, men who worked hard at their trade, men with whom he was proud to be associated. Only occasionally did he watch any of them race. He was always too busy in the big room. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t interested in racing so much as he was in the men themselves. He knew them and their ways well. He had only to watch them play ping-pong or cards or just sit around, day after day, to know how they rode a race.

Willy might be skinny but he was game right down to the last ounce. He always strutted around the room like a fighting cock, not actually looking for a fight but not avoiding one either. He kept himself in top physical condition.

Jay Pratt was the next rider to step on the scale. He was as slick and polished as always and looked very handsome in his orange-and-green silks. The valet handed him his tack and the needle settled at 110 pounds. Riding Apache at that light weight made Pratt one to watch, the clerk decided. It might even be the combination he’d back himself, if he were out there in the stands.

“Pratt. Number Two. At one hundred and ten pounds. Check,” he said, watching the unsmiling rider step off the scale.

Always deadly serious, that was Jay Pratt, the clerk decided. Nothing ever showed in his face. He was a man who could sit by himself in a corner of the room and stay apart from almost anything that went on. He never disclosed impatience, never got ruffled or annoyed at
anything that went wrong. That was the way he rode, too, sitting back and waiting until the other riders thought he had done his best. Then he’d come on with a rush, still calm and cool but slamming home.

“Okay. Next,” the clerk said, and baldheaded Nick Marchione stepped on the scale. “You’ll never make it, Nick,” he said, grinning broadly.