Secretariat Reborn (6 page)

In the late afternoon, Christian pulled into the backside of Calder Race Course, west of North Miami Beach near the Sun Life Stadium. He strolled into the office, believing it wouldn’t take long to check in. After handing over the colt’s health certificate and Coggins test, he faced what seemed like never-ending paperwork. He was photographed and given an ID for himself and his SUV so he could enter the stable area.

A guard checked him at the gate, and he slowly drove the fifteen-mile-an-hour speed limit down the narrow, winding roads dotted
with shade trees and rows of barns with countless stalls. Between each barn and shed row was a grassy courtyard where a few horses were being led around and washed after a race. The mostly Hispanic grooms chatted in Spanish as the horses whinnied to one another. Chickens, cats, and an occasional goat or dog roamed freely among the Thoroughbreds and workers. The smell of hay and pine shavings filled the humid Miami air.

Christian followed the road until he ended up in the parking lot near the smaller back training track that included an employee cafeteria, tack shop, and gift shop. The place had the makings of a small city that catered to horses.

With the correct barn number in hand, he pulled into several parking spaces. He left his SUV and trailer to question an old man leaning against a large banyan tree.

“Is this Ed Price’s barn?” Christian asked.

“
Sí, señor
, Ed Price,” the man answered.

“Is he here? I’m dropping off a horse.”

“
No comprendo
.” He called in Spanish to a man in the shed row.

The younger Hispanic man jogged to him. “Can I help you, sir?”

“I’m dropping off a colt for Ed Price’s stable.”

“You must be Mr. Roberts. I’ve been waiting for you. My name is Jorge. I will be seeing to your colt.”

“Where’s Price? I want to speak to him.”

“Mr. Price has a horse in the seventh race and is at the track, but I doubt he will return to his barn today,” Jorge said. “He should be here in the morning.” He opened the back of the trailer and declared about Hunter, “He is nice.” He untied the colt and backed him out of the trailer.

Christian followed them under the shed row and into an empty stall. He held Hunter’s lead and stroked his neck while Jorge squatted and removed the shipping wraps from the colt’s legs. When the groom had finished, Hunter took a sip of water and then got down to chomping on hay. He seemed perfectly at ease in his new home.
Christian detached the lead from the colt’s halter, but continued to massage his lean flank and deep chest.

Jorge must have guessed his thoughts and said, “Do not worry, Mr. Roberts. I will take good care of him.”

Christian handed Jorge a twenty dollar bill. “You do that. And tell Price I’ll be back in the morning.”

“Thank you, sir, thank you. I will tell him.”

Christian started toward his vehicle and turned. “Say, where do I park my horse trailer?”

Jorge explained that Christian would have to go back to the main road, turn left, and go past the guard and entrance. Then he would see the mountain of new pine shavings and garbage bins. Beyond the maintenance building, the horse trailers would be parked against the fence that was the backstretch of the race track.

Christian drove by the yellow pile of wood shavings stacked twenty feet high and then the trash bins that overflowed with stall waste. Unlike other animal feces, horse manure had a pleasant country odor. In the distance, he saw the horse trailers parked in a row along a mesh fence. Some trailers were big and new, their aluminum siding glistening in the sun, but others were small, rusted, and paint-peeled like his. As he passed the maintenance building, he noticed a large tarp. The wind had lifted the tarp corner back and exposed a mound of brown fur. With the same curiosity that draws a crowd to a car wreck, he stopped, got out, and walked to the tarp. Ten feet away, he gasped at the sight of a dead filly with a mangled front ankle. Earlier in the day, she had probably dashed around the track to the roar of a cheering crowd, but she now lay on the asphalt like discarded trash.

Covering his mouth, Christian flashed back to Juan’s words. “They will break their legs to win for you,” he had said about Thoroughbreds.

Christian inhaled deeply, the reality of the words hitting him hard. He wondered if he had the stomach for this business. With
horses running in a tight pack at top speed, injuries and death were bound to happen. How would he feel if this happened to Hunter?

Oddly, he had no problem beating the daylights out of a jerk like Larry, but he became emotionally unglued when an animal suffered. Possibly he had inherited this trait from his father, who cared more about horses than people.

He unhooked the trailer and drove to the hotel overlooking Calder Race Course. In the hotel lobby, the desk clerk asked him if he wanted a room with a track view.

“Sure, why not?” Christian said. “Oh, I almost forgot. I have a horse at Calder.” His father had told him that owners received a discount at the hotel.

“Can I see your track ID?”

Christian dug into his back pocket, found his new card, and plunked it down with his Visa card. In his room on the eighth floor, he pushed the heavy curtains and sliding glass door aside and stepped onto the balcony. A row of tall Australian pines and a small street separated the racecourse from the hotel. With the view, he saw the grandstands and eight horses trotting to the starting gate for the last race of the day. To the left, he caught a glimpse of the trailers parked along the fence. Although out of sight, the ghastly image of the lifeless filly still tormented him. Rather than watch the race, he shut the curtains.

In the dark room, he turned up the air conditioner, called room service, and took a shower. When his Reuben sandwich and fries arrived, he ordered a new-release movie for the TV, hoping for a distraction to get his mind off death—the filly’s and soon his father’s.

Even with the noisy air conditioner, Christian woke to a faint rhythm of pounding hooves. He climbed out of bed and pushed the curtains aside. Between the silhouette of tall buildings, dawn was breaking. Below, two Thoroughbreds and their riders hugged the rail and thundered around the turn. On the outside of the track, forty or
more horses slowly galloped, trotted, and walked as they performed their morning exercise.

Christian made coffee and stepped out onto the balcony. Even at that early hour, Miami was steamy—well into the eighties.
This is great
, he thought as hundreds of horses paraded past. After coffee and a half hour of watching the show, he dressed and went downstairs, eager to get to the stables.

He drove past the guard and, unlike the quiet of the afternoon before, the morning bustled with activity. Each courtyard contained twenty to thirty horses. The grooms rushed around cleaning stalls, feeding, leading, and washing the animals while trainers and their assistants supervised. The hot-walkers that resembled carousels with live horses were full, the horses walking in a circle to cool down after a workout. Exercise riders twirled their whips, waiting for their next mount as others walked their mounts, warming up in the courtyard. Vehicles filled the parking spaces in front of the barns, and veterinarian and farrier trucks parked along the road. Groups of mounted horses walked down the road, going and coming from the track. At the crosswalks, Christian stopped, allowing several to pass.

Christian felt privileged to witness this behind-the-scenes circus that occurred daily beyond the grandstands. The betting public was prohibited access, never seeing the effort it took to maintain racehorses, probably the most pampered animals on the planet. As Hunter’s owner, Christian had just been initiated into a private club, its members thinking, breathing, and dreaming Thoroughbreds.

He parked in front of Ed Price’s barn and strolled to his colt’s stall. “Hey, Hunter,” he said and patted the colt’s neck. Hunter paid him little attention, also entranced with all the doings.

A tall, middle-aged white man with brown wavy hair and a mustache strolled down the shed row toward Christian. Dressed in a spiffy white sport shirt and trousers, Ed Price looked more like a golfer than a horse trainer and stood out among his employees, who wore jeans and dirty t-shirts. In Spanish, he spoke to several men
taking tack off a horse and called to a rider in the courtyard. His accent was good, but his high-pitched voice was similar to a horse’s whinny.

Price walked up to Christian. “You must be Mr. Roberts,” he said and offered his hand. “I’m Ed Price, your colt’s trainer.”

Christian reciprocated and noticed Price’s unsoiled hand and manicured nails. Unlike his father, the guy was obviously not a hands-on trainer.

“Your colt is a nice animal,” Price said, glancing at Hunter, “but I pulled up his pedigree and the racing stats on his sire. The stallion didn’t earn much and is only stake placed—never won a big race, plus he hasn’t had many starters. You don’t see too many studs by Hold Your Peace.”

Christian crossed his arms and lifted his chin, taking a slight dislike to this pompous trainer who was critical of his father’s horses. “Meadow Lake is by Hold Your Peace, and he’s produced some great stake horses,” he said. “Chris didn’t breed many mares, but he has an eighty-seven percent win rate from starters. I believe that’s above average.” Christian had absorbed every word when his father discussed Hunter and his old horse, Chris.

“Yes, that’s a better percentage than most studs. Watch out, Mr. Roberts.” Price motioned Christian to step near the stall so several horses with their grooms could walk past.

Christian resumed the conversation. “Hunter also breezed a thirty-five and change on a slow dirt track a few days ago. I believe that’s also above average, Mr. Price.”

“It’s a good time.” Price produced a dry smile and began to backpedal. “Look, Mr. Roberts, I’m not putting down the stud or prejudging your colt. If your colt has talent, he’ll prove it on the track. I pull the pedigree and stats so your horse is entered in the right race. The stud and his other colts ran on dirt and most of his races were six furlongs. But your colt’s mare has some great milers and European grass horses in her pedigree. She also won two grass
stakes and produced several winning grass horses. That leads me to believe your colt could possibly fit into any kind of race.”

“My father says Hunter should run on dirt.”

“That’s good. There are more dirt races. Sometimes it takes a month or two to find a maiden grass race with the right distance and purse to fit a horse.”

Price abruptly said something in Spanish to Jorge, who nodded, put the lead rope on Hunter, and walked him out of the stall.

“Is he going to the track today?” Christian asked.

“No, he’ll be walked for a day or two. By the end of the week, I’ll pair him with another horse, and he’ll start on the training track. Once he has some workout times and his gate card, I’ll find a race that suits him.”

“That sounds like a plan,” Christian said and unfolded his arms. He watched Jorge lead Hunter around the shed row with other horses and their handlers.

“Do you have his Jockey Club papers and Florida-Bred registration?” Price asked.

“They’re in my SUV.”

“I’ll need to put them on file in the track office,” said Price. “While you’re here, you might as well drive over to the grandstand and apply for a racing license in the state office and get finger-printed. They usually open at noon.”

“Fingerprinted?” Christian frowned.

“They check your record. Can’t be a felon and race a Thoroughbred.”

“There’s sure a lot involved in racing.”

“Everything has to be on the up-and-up. These aren’t hobbyhorses.”

Christian returned to his cool hotel room, showered, shaved, and packed his bag. From the balcony, he saw the show was over. The track was empty except for a lone tracker grading dirt in preparation
for the afternoon races. If not for needing the license, he would have started the two-hundred-mile drive back to Sarasota.

Instead of checking out, he rode the elevator up to the top floor restaurant and enjoyed a leisurely breakfast of bacon and sunny-side-up eggs. While eating, he glanced through the
Miami Herald
Sunday classifieds. Since he restored and sold sailboats in his spare time, he was searching for a cheap fixer-upper.

A twenty-two-foot McGregor with a trailer and ten-H.P. motor caught his attention, and it was only a thousand bucks. On his cell phone, he spoke to the owner and made an afternoon appointment to see the sloop.

Might as well make this trip profitable
, he thought and made another call.

Kate answered, “Chris, why are you calling me so early?”

Christian glanced at his watch. “It’s almost eleven.”

“I didn’t get home until three.”

“Guess you had fun at the party. Well, I’ll be back tonight if you want to hook up.”

“Call later,” she said and hung up.

He sighed, slightly annoyed.
She never says good-bye, as if good manners might kill her
.

Through the window, he saw cars filling the grandstand parking lot. He paid the restaurant bill and headed for the racecourse. At the gate, a woman scanned his track card for free admission. He wandered past the covered saddling paddock, the grassy riders-up arena, the jockey room, and entered the quiet grandstand. With the race time still an hour away, spectators were few. He took the elevator to the various levels and checked out the poker rooms, clubhouse restaurant, more snack bars, a gift shop, gaming machines, and the box seats reserved for trainers and their clients.

He found the state licensing office, but it was still closed. He saw three security guards leaning against a raised table, talking and drinking coffee, so he walked over. “Think the licensing office will open soon?” he asked and glanced at its door.

The largest of the men set his cup down and said, “You own a horse?”

“Yeah, first one. My trainer is Ed Price.”

The oldest guard held his chin. “Price’s horses win a lot, but didn’t he lose a filly yesterday? Second race, I believe.”

“Sure did,” said the big guard. “Broke her leg in the homestretch, but kept running. Still managed to win before the jockey could pull her up. Damn shame.”