“But we can’t take a chance tomorrow,” Alec argued. “You’ve got to think of more than our colt. Think of Jimmy and George and Tom. They’ll be here. We can’t let them down.”
There was no wavering in Henry’s steady gaze. He could have said, “I’m thinking of them and you too.” But he didn’t. He didn’t say a word because he didn’t want Alec to know he was more concerned about him than he was about anyone else. He didn’t like what he saw in Alec’s eyes. He felt more confident about the colt than he did about Alec. Had Alec reached the point where he was depending upon the hood even more than Bonfire?
After a long while Henry turned away, saying, “Okay, Alec, if you feel that way about it. Forget what I said. I just wanted to talk to you about it.”
A parade of boys and girls went by, chanting, “Here’s to Goshen.… Go! Go! GO!”
Henry watched their snakelike parade weaving down the center of the street, while they waved signs and banners bearing the names of the Hambletonian colts. He’d already made up his mind what he was going to do.
He had wanted Alec’s cooperation. He’d wanted him to agree to the removal of Bonfire’s hood. But it hadn’t worked out that way. Now he had to go it alone. He didn’t know if it was fear or concern for the colt that was in Alec’s eyes. It was important to find out. He wasn’t going to take a frightened Alec back home with him. If it was fear, the place to lick it was here, and the time was tomorrow. After the Hambletonian it would be too late. Bonfire would be going home, and so would Alec.
Henry wouldn’t let himself think of Jimmy Creech or Tom or George—or even Bonfire. Or the high stakes for which they’d be racing. His love and concern for Alec drove everything else from his mind. “I’m playing for high stakes too,” he mumbled to himself. “Don’t let me lose, please. Keep his hands light on those lines when he finds out that cord is of no use to him.”
“Did you say something, Henry?” Alec asked.
“No, nothin’. Just grumblin’ to myself, I guess.” Henry got to his feet. “Let’s get back to Bonfire, Alec. The party’s over.”
HAMBLETONIAN DAY
13
Bonfire was in the paddock by noon on Hambletonian Day. The other colts were there, too, all seventeen of them, as well as their drivers and owners and grooms. The day was cloudless and terribly humid but only Bonfire stood naked in his stall. The others wore cotton coolers, for they had just completed the first of their mile warm-ups in preparation for the race at three o’clock.
Henry looked around the crowded paddock. “Everybody’s gettin’ in the act today,” he said with attempted lightness. “Owners an’ their friends an’ friends of friends.”
Alec removed Bonfire’s leg bandages and then rose and stood beside Henry. “I wonder where Jimmy went?” he asked.
“Probably to the box with Tom and George.”
They had arrived early that morning aboard the special train from Pittsburgh. Tom had had no trouble getting around the stable area on his crutches, but George had insisted later that he go to their grandstand box rather than to the crowded paddock, where he might be knocked down and hurt. “It’s enough that we got here at all,” the old groom said. “Let’s not push our luck too far.”
Alec turned to Bonfire, who was pulling at his tie ropes and working up a lather. He knew he was going to race that day and he was getting impatient.
Henry said, “Put the cooler on him now, Alec.”
In the next stall, number 7, was Bear Cat, and in front of him Si Bauder stood talking to a group of friends. A photographer took their picture.
Alec said, “I’d just as soon not have that colt where he is.”
Henry nodded. “You’ll really have to move Bonfire on the break to get out ahead of him.” He turned and looked at the small black filly in the number 5 stall. “It won’t be much better on the other side of you,” he added. “Princess Guy won’t be lagging behind, either. She’s a fast little filly.”
Shrugging his shoulders, Alec said, “At least we’re in first tier with a chance of getting out in front.”
“At least,” Henry repeated, smiling. “We got nothin’ to worry about, Alec. Relax.”
“I’m relaxed. It’s just this waiting that’s hard to take.” And Alec went into the stall to keep himself busy.
An hour passed and the Hambletonian colts left the paddock for their second warm-up. This time Bear Cat stayed behind with Bonfire. Henry glanced at the leggy brown colt standing in his stall, and then at Si Bauder, who was walking down the paddock row with his friends.
“I guess Si’s skipping this one,” he told Alec. “It’s nice to have a little company.”
“I’d rather have had him work Bear Cat,” Alec answered.
“There you go worrying again,” Henry teased.
Their side of the paddock was empty and quiet. But coming up the row were Jimmy and George and Tom.
“Like I said before, everybody’s gettin’ in the act,” Henry muttered.
“Who has a better right than they?” Alec asked, a note of irritation creeping into his voice. He was touchy today but he supposed he had every reason to be. He didn’t like all the responsibility he’d been given. To do his best with the colt was hard enough without having to think of what this race meant to the three now stopping in front of Bonfire’s stall.
Jimmy said, “Tom wanted to take another look at him before the race and I figured it wouldn’t be so crowded now.”
Henry said, “Fine.” He watched Tom, moving easily on his crutches, go toward Alec. Tom’s eyes were saying everything that needed to be said. Earlier he and Alec had talked a great deal, but not now. It was no time for words.
Henry found that he couldn’t take his eyes off them. Here was the youth upon which the sport of horse racing depended. He and the Jimmy Creeches and the Si Bauders were ready to be turned out to pasture, like aged racehorses. But they were leaving their sport in good hands—young and capable hands.
Tom had the determination and the courage to reach the greatest heights in harness racing. These were the essentials. It was true that he needed a little time—time to fill out his large-boned frame, time to rid himself of his impetuousness and the heavy sense of responsibility that had played havoc with his driving.
Standing beside Tom, Alec presented a striking contrast—a sleek greyhound compared to a gangling Great Dane. Oh, it was true that Alec’s face disclosed all the responsibility that Tom’s did. But the difference was that Alec wouldn’t take it with him into the race. Once Bonfire stepped onto the track Alec would get down to the business of racing and think of nothing else. Instinctively he’d do everything right without thinking of anyone or anything but his colt. The many famous classics in which he had raced had made Alec a man long before his time.
Finally Henry turned away.
Beyond the paddock fence thousands upon thousands of people roamed Good Time Park while awaiting the first race on the Hambletonian Day Program. Some sat in the shade of towering trees, eating lunches from picnic baskets. Some ate in the big tents. And still others were already seated in the stands or standing at the track rail.
Over the public-address system the announcer said, “Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention? Warming up on track now are the Hambletonian colts. Passing the stands is Lively Man, being driven by Fred Ringo, who is Roosevelt Raceway’s leading reinsman. This is Mr. Ringo’s first Hambletonian.
“Behind and coming down close to the rail is Princess Guy, driven by Frank Lutz. Mr. Lutz is a veteran of twelve Hambletonians and the winner of one.
“Now turning and ready to come down the stretch are Silver Knight on the inside and Mismatch next to him, with Cricket and Tangiers trailing. I might explain to those of you who may be unfamiliar with harness racing that the purpose of these ‘trips’—as we call them—is to limber up and steady the colts before they race. This will be a slow mile, perhaps no better than two minutes twelve seconds for most of the colts. The next mile, about an hour
from now, will be faster.
“Silver Knight, passing the stands, is being driven by Paco DeBlois. Mismatch is being driven by …”
Jimmy had been listening to the announcer, but now he turned to Henry. “You think it’s wise to send him out at all before the race?”
“No,” Henry said. “We’ll have Alec jog him going to the post … that’s enough.”
“How many heats do you figure he’ll be able to go?”
“Two at the speed they’ll be raced,” Henry answered. “I’m hoping that’s all we’ll need to win. If we have to go a third heat it’ll be rough on him.”
“On all of us,” Jimmy said.
They left just before the Hambletonian colts returned to the paddock. Alec pulled the cooler high on Bonfire’s neck. He didn’t especially care about watching the time-honored ritual about to take place, but there was nothing else for him to do. He turned to watch the colts, hoping it would make his waiting easier.
Harnesses were taken off their glistening bodies. Sponges washed away the sweat. Mild liniments were slapped on loose, sliding muscles. Manes and tails were brushed thoroughly. And then they were blanketed and put in their paddock stalls, to stand still and wait.
The races began, and while the time went faster for Alec his nervousness mounted. He knew it was no different for Henry or for any of the others in the paddock. It was impossible to be calm with the roar of the mobile starting gate in one’s ears, the pounding hoofs, the race calls of the announcer, and always the shrill cries from the stands.
The Hambletonian colts completed their last warm-up directly after the first race. One hour to go now.
Henry glanced at Bear Cat often during that time, realizing Si Bauder had his colt ready to go the race of his life. Like Bonfire, Bear Cat was a light-boned, sensitive colt. And Si Bauder was one of the old leaders who long ago had understood the kind of colt he had and changed his training methods accordingly. Bear Cat hadn’t gone out for that last warm-up, either.
Henry glanced at his watch and then went to Bonfire. He lifted the cooler, rubbing one hand over the wet coat.
Alec said, “He should go soon now. He’s getting too worked up.”
“Yeah, I know,” Henry returned. There was a fine line between nervous energy and nervous exhaustion— in horses as well as in people. “When you get out there, jog him a slow mile,” he told Alec. “But don’t turn him, not until you’re ready to go behind the gate.”
Alec nodded, and a few minutes later the paddock judge called, “First heat of the Hambletonian. Get your colts ready!”
Alec whipped off Bonfire’s cooler and the colt shook in his eagerness to go. He knew the time had come.
Henry slipped on the red hood, fingering the spring catch. It would be so easy to do now, so easy. All he had to do was to untie the cord from the catch. He looked at Alec.
A voice from behind said, “I couldn’t just sit there in that box. Let me help.” It was Jimmy, and he had the harness in his hands. He went into the stall with Alec.
Henry watched them. Jimmy was all thumbs with the harness. Alec did most of the work, trying to calm the colt at the same time.
“Get the bridle on him, Henry,” Alec called anxiously. “What are you waiting for?”
Henry put on the colt’s bridle while Alec and Jimmy lowered the shafts of the sulky in the rear of the stall. He saw Jimmy’s deep-pitted eyes upon him. He saw all the hope and torment that was in them. And then he took the lines and the cord back to Alec.
I’ll do it the next heat, he decided. I’ll let our colt get one winning heat behind him and then things won’t be so tight around here.
Alec drove Bonfire from the paddock with Jimmy walking beside him and Henry at the colt’s head. He was glad they were moving, and thankful too for the shouting and bedlam on either side of the roped aisle to the track gate.
The marshal suddenly stopped the long line of Hambletonian colts. With the other drivers, Alec waited impatiently for the gate to be opened. Television cameras were trained on them, and the crowd pushed close, calling to the drivers.
A high voice shouted, “Who’s going to win, Si? Who’s it going to be this year? You?”
But the old veteran behind Alec did not answer or turn his head in the direction of the crowd. Instead he casually removed his false teeth and carefully wrapped them in a large handkerchief; then he placed them in the pocket of his green-and-yellow racing jacket.
“Better get those teeth back in before they take your picture in the winner’s circle, Si!” a woman called. Everybody laughed except Silas Bauder.
Alec found that the laughter had helped. It eased the tension.
And then someone recognized Jimmy Creech. “What are you looking so nervous about, Jimmy? This is no different from the Butler Fair!”
Jimmy turned and faced the crowd. “I’m not nervous. I’m too old to be nervous.” He tried to smile, and everybody laughed again.
This time the laughter didn’t help Alec at all.
The track band was playing and Alec listened to the music. It might help more than anything else. The songs were associated with various states in the country and were being played in honor of the colts who represented those states. Alec heard the strains of the “Pennsylvania Polka.” That was for Bonfire and Princess Guy.
Swiftly the tune changed to that of “California Here I Come.” That was for Bear Cat and Mismatch.
Then the crowd was singing along with the next piece played, “Oh I come from Alabama with a banjo on my knee.…” That was for High Noon and Cricket.
“East Side, West Side, All Around the Town.” That was for New York’s Victory Boy and Chief Express and Lively Man.
“Back Home in Indiana.” That was for Lord Bobbie.
“The Eyes of Texas Are Upon You!” That was for King Midas and The Saint.
“Carolina Moon.” That was for Big Venture.
“Down by the Ohio.” That was for Star Queen.
“My Old Kentucky Home.” That was for Ghost Raider and Fibber and Tangiers.
And last of all the band played “Moon Over Miami” for Florida’s gray colt, Silver Knight. Then the track gate opened and the announcer told a hushed audience, “Ladies and gentlemen, the colts are now coming onto the track for the first heat of the Hambletonian. This race is sponsored by the Hambletonian Society and today’s purse is the largest in its long history, with a gross value of over one hundred and five thousand dollars.”
Alec felt Jimmy’s thin hand on his shoulder but the old man didn’t say a word before leaving them. Henry stepped away from Bonfire as the colt went through the gate. “It’s a cinch, Alec,” he said easily.
Alec tried to smile back at Henry but found he couldn’t. Nor could he say anything. His throat was too dry and tight. He drove Bonfire onto the track. They were alone.
THE HAMBLETONIAN
14
Alec would have felt less alone on any other kind of track. His eyes left the harnessed colts for the two marshals who rode their palominos at the head of the post parade. They were his only touch with what he’d always known. For a second he wished that he were astride Bonfire rather than sitting behind him.
“Number one is Silver Knight,” the announcer said, “a gray colt by Volomite out of Gray Dream. He is owned by Mr. Peter Conover of Venice, Florida, and is being driven by Paco DeBlois.”
A favored colt starting from a favored position, thought Alec. The luck of the draw was with him.
“Number two,” the announcer continued, “is King Midas, a chestnut colt by Hoot Mon out of Royal Maid. Owned by Mr. John Neville of Fort Worth, Texas, and being driven …”
Alec looked at the number 6 attached to Bonfire’s bridle. He talked to his colt through the lines, telling him that they’d be jogging after the post introductions. It was a big field, as big as any in which Alec had ever raced. But this was different; there were eighteen sulkies behind the eighteen colts.
“Number five,” the announcer was s
aying, “is Princess Guy, a black filly by Mr. Guy out of Little Mary. Owned by Miss Elsie Topper of Coronet, Pennsylvania, and being driven by Frank Lutz.”
The large, heavy-set man in the sulky just ahead of Bonfire tipped his hat to the applause of the crowd.
And a different field, too, Alec thought, watching him, in that many of these men are as old or older than Henry and still actively taking a part in the racing of their horses. Men who are young in heart and able to make good use of everything they’ve learned in the years behind them. It’s not that way with jockeys. We take orders from such men, and try to fulfill them to the best of our ability. Just as I’m about to do.
“Number six is Bonfire, a blood bay colt by the Black out of Volo Queen. He is owned by Mr. Jimmy Creech of Coronet, Pennsylvania, and is being driven by Alec Ramsay.”
Alec touched his cap after the introduction, but his eyes didn’t leave Bonfire. He knew he had three friends in those packed stands. It didn’t matter if no one else knew him. This crowd was different, in a strange and inexplicable way, from the kind he had always known.
He clucked to Bonfire, letting him walk a little faster now that they had passed the judges’ stand. “But I’m at home as long as I’m with you,” he told this son of the Black.
Behind him he heard the announcer say, “Number seven is Bear Cat, a brown colt by Phonograph out of Meow. Owned by Mr. Allan Ullman of Los Angeles, California, and being driven by Silas Bauder.”
The ovation that followed was unlike any of the previous ones. It lasted all of a minute, and the announcer had to wait before going on with his introductions. Perhaps the long applause was for the tall brown son of Phonograph. But more likely it was for the little old man who was driving him.
Alec didn’t turn back to look at Si Bauder. But if he had he was sure he’d have found an unsmiling face. Si wouldn’t open his mouth, not with his false teeth wrapped safely in the pocket of his jacket.
The long line of Hambletonian colts continued to file past the stands, and only when they were far up the track did the marshals turn them loose. Then the announcer told the crowd, “The colts will take their usual two warm-up scores and then go behind the mobile starting gate for the first heat of the Hambletonian.”