Rockingham was like any other race track on a warm drowsy afternoon, but to Mickey it was all gold and magic. In front of the gates there were the cries of hawkers and tipsters selling their tips—“The Kentucky Clocker” or “Lucky Morgan’s Green Card”—and there was the flutter and furl of flags atop the grandstand and in the pavilions, the smell of hotdogs and beer in the warm air, hot sunlight on the gravel, and that feeling of lazy excitement which a racetrack evokes when people are entering at the gates and the vast unseen presence of the great track itself awaits them beyond the grandstand with its sudden far-spreading acreage of green infield, its sweeping turns, toteboards, distant barns, and bright striped furlong poles along the rail a mile around.
It was the immense, stirring, drowsy scene of a day’s fate and fortune for all the prancing beautiful horses, and the jockeys, owners, trainers, and bettors gathered in the warm sun there, an epic of men and horses and money that thrilled the little boy’s imagination, filling him with wonder that all of it at sundown would be irrevocably recorded in the closely packed files of “the Turf”—and in the gray past-performance charts of the Morning Telegraph, to be examined years later with recollection and wonder: “8 Rkp May 4 ’41—Choctaw 106, Mandy Lou 109, Fading Sun 111.” And the remembrance of forgotten horses, old jockeys, the dust at the far turn, and the sun waning behind the hills.
It was always glory before the first race, before the day’s events would begin to pass into turf records and the old legend of the files, and Mickey missed none of it. While his father pored over his papers and went betting at the windows, Mickey leaned on the paddock rail and examined the horses with fascination and joy, he consulted his program to check on the lineage of the noble horses, he loafed around listening to the talk, and for all the world he was an aristocrat and sportsman of the turf, never betting, never growing bitter because some horse or some rider seemed to lag on him, always idling there with an eye for a beautiful bay’s sheen and flank, for the nimble legset of a famous jockey, for the brilliant silks of the stables, and all the harness, the shiny boots, the saddles and gear of the sport which he gloatingly accepted as the sport of kings. When the bugle blew and the horses paraded from the paddock to the post, Mickey followed them along the rail and never took his eyes off them, it was all gold and magic for him.
His father had bet fifteen dollars across the board on a two-year-old filly in the first race. She was frisky, arrogant, bright chestnut in the sun, her jockey leaned over and cooed in her ear, she champed and minced: her name was Flight. And Mickey watched her every movement as she paraded along the track with the other horses towards the far chute, he noted her dances and her quick canters out of line, he watched her jockey’s silks until he had them burning in his mind’s eye, so that when the horses were standing solemnly in the starting gate a half mile across the field he could still see Flight and still notice the peculiar seat of her jockey as he leaned to pat her on the neck.
“What’s she doing now?” the old man demanded.
“She’s stubborn, she keeps backing out of the gate.”
“What are they doing?”
“The men are pushing her in from behind. Now she’s jumping up!” cried Mickey excitedly.
And the crowd breathed “Ooooh!” as they saw a commotion far across the track.
“She’s gonna ball up the whole works,” muttered Martin gloomily. “I shouldn’t bet on these two-year-olds. They’re all nervous wrecks!”
“She’s on edge, Pa!” said Mickey eagerly.
“What’s she doing now?” the father demanded anxiously.
“She’s shaking her head from side to side. Yow, is she stubborn! She’s holding up the whole start!” Mickey cried with delight. “Wait now. It’s gonna come now.”
And suddenly across the drowsy afternoon fields they saw the horses lunge in a body, they heard the faint d-r-ring of the gate bell, the clocker’s flag fell, and the horses were rushing forward along the chute with surprising speed in a cloud of dust.
“Come on, Flight baby!” howled the old man, jumping up.
And the crowd yelled as one of the horses suddenly shot out front and twinkled swiftly along the rail with its tail streaming back and the jockey hunched over motionlessly.
“Who’s that?” shouted the father.
“Flight! Flight! Look at her go!” yelled Mickey.
With gloating disbelief they watched the russet-colored horse streak down the backstretch a full seven lengths in front of the pack and going away all the time, going away to ten lengths, running alone far ahead of the pack as though it were running for fear and faster all the time.
“Yaa-hooo!” howled the old man. “Look at her go!”
Flight was at the far turn almost instantly, turning in and seeming to run slower now as she came running around towards the grandstand, seeming almost to crawl now as she negotiated the turn, and suddenly wheeling into view at the head of the stretch all spindly-legged and flailing and wild in a frantic knock-kneed sprint, turning down the stretch crazily, racing down along the rail wide-eyed and straining—and behind her the pack came turning into the stretch in a cloud of afternoon dust.
“She’s all alone!” shouted someone with angry amazement.
“Whoooeee!” howled Martin.
And Flight came galloping past the grandstand with her jockey turning in the saddle and looking back in a stiff posture, and almost standing in the stirrups as he cantered her across the wire, grinning.
On that first race Martin won thirty-six dollars clear. He was beside himself with jubilation, plunging back into his figures and papers with renewed anticipation, looking up for only a moment to stare delightedly at Flight as she was being unsaddled in front of the judges’ stand.
“Good girl, good girl!” he called out. “See, sonny, did you ever see such a beautiful creature as a thoroughbred racehorse!! Isn’t she a beautiful sight! And such noble animals, so patient, so loyal. They will do anything their masters ask them to do—the poor noble beasts!” he cried.
Mickey stood along the rail watching Flight in the winner’s circle, watching her old trainer come loping up and caressing her on the brow with a tender stroke of his hand, watching the jockey jump down, croon something in the horse’s ear, and go stepping nimbly into the weighing room with his saddle over his arm, a dusty tired little man with a brown, seamed, goodly face and great powerful hands and wrists. Then the stable boy threw a blanket over Flight, gently took her halter, and walked her off back towards the barns—and both of them trudged silently along the rail, Mickey following—and he listened to the stable boy cooing and sing-songing to the solemn silent horse, then he watched the horse toss her nose over the boy’s head neighing faintly, and then nuzzle her nose in his neck and show her teeth in a playful grinning gesture, and snort softly and wearily. He watched them loping off to the barns until they were out of sight, and he wondered what it would be like in the evening when the races were over and the boy would sit on a bale of hay in front of Flight’s stall and talk to her while he whittled on a stick, in the soft springtime night of the hills. He wished he could be a stable boy too, and a jockey, to have the mighty friendship and silence of a horse, the faint neighing, the clopping on the stable floor, the soft snort and grin, and all of it in some warm summer-night under the stars and trees of the American racetracks.
He went back to the paddock to look at the horses for the second race, and it was all wonder and beauty.
After the third race the sun had disappeared behind gray clouds, a few minutes later it started to drizzle, and then it was raining softly—and the odors of hay and damp manure from the barns and the paddock was strong and fragrant in the air, the earth of the track smelled rich and loamy, the lights of the toteboards blinked in the dimness, and far beyond were the low gray hills of New Hampshire almost invisible in the gray mist. The whole tone and tenor of the day’s racing, and the track itself, had changed into something less festive and bright and flag-rippling: now it was rai
ning, it was gray, the horses were wet and melancholy looking, the jockeys were grim at their work, and everything seemed more businesslike and thrilling somehow: the trainers and owners huddled in the paddock wearing raincoats and talking in low tones, the bettors converged under the grandstand and smoked and talked and consulted their selections, and every now and then Mickey saw some stablehand or groom hurrying through the crowd to make a bet at the windows as though some exciting, important developments were transpiring in the misty rain.
He stood beside his father under the grandstand among all the men, and they ate hotdogs and drank root beer, and watched the toteboards blinking in the grayness.
“Now the track’s muddy,” said the old man gloomily. He had won no money since the first race and he was now some twenty dollars in the hole, looking very discouraged and glum. “I dunno how to figure this next race. If this keeps up we won’t have any money left for a feed and a show in Boston.” He looked down at Mickey sheepishly.
“No!” cried Mickey.
“Well, what can I do? I haven’t hit anything since Flight. I got too cocky—I bet too much on the last two races.”
And they watched the rain gloomily and stood there side by side with their hands in their pockets, and then finally the old man laughed hoarsely. “Cheer up, sonny! We’ll see what happens.”
But after the seventh race the old man had only ten dollars left and he was disgusted. He had thrown away his papers and figures, he was growing angrier by the minute, and finally he wanted to go home.
“Let’s get out of here, for God’s sake!” he growled angrily. “Everything’s gone wrong today, I never saw them run so crazy. Something must be fishy somewhere—these birds around here are always up to something!”
“Let’s watch the last race!” Mickey begged him anxiously. “I wanta see Green Swords. I don’t want to go home, Pa,” he cried.
“Pretty sad, hey?” the old man snorted. “Here we were going to have a big feed in Boston and then go see a good show and enjoy ourselves, now look what your silly old man has done—lost all his money like a damn fool.” He tore up and threw away the tickets for the seventh race, and kicked the bits away with a vicious, rueful swipe of his foot. “Who’s this Green Swords you’re always talking about?” he asked curiously.
“He’s been running in Louisiana all winter, Pa!”
“Louisiana? How do you know that?”
“I follow them at Fair Grounds. See? Green Swords runs in handicaps down there”—Mickey picked up an old discarded Morning Telegraph from the ground—“now they’ve got him up here.”
“You figure they sneaked him up for a killing? Let me see that damn paper!” And they pored excitedly over the horse’s record as the bugle blew for the last race and a flurry of excitement ran through the crowds.
“Well, by God, I never heard of the plug, but like you say he’s running way below his class.”
“Sure!” cried Mickey excitedly. “You never heard of him because he’s all the time running down in Louisiana. Look at his odds, thirty-to-one! Nobody around here ever heard of him either. Huh?”
The old man peered at the toteboards and rubbed his chin musingly.
“By gosh, he’s got a beautiful price on him all right. Might almost be worth a try.”
“They sneaked him up!” stated Mickey triumphantly. “You wait! Now he’s gonna win and the owners are figuring to win a lot of money. You watch!”
“You may be right,” said the old man dreamily. He took his last ten dollars out of his pocket and looked at it. “I got this last ten bucks left—I guess we’re all washed up as far as going to Boston is concerned—so we might as well bet, and get it over with, and go home, huh? If we’re going to lose we might as well do a job of it. Huh?”
And they looked at each other judiciously, and then at the ten dollar bill.
“He went down to eighteen-to-one!” observed Mickey, peering at the toteboards.
“What? Somebody must be wise to something at that! Come on!!”
So they hurried to the betting windows, and the father bought the tickets win and show. “Now,” he said, pulling out his empty pocket, “look at us bums! And you told your mother this morning we were going to win a hundred dollars. What a laugh!”
The race was at a mile and a sixteenth. Just as the horses were being led in the stalls, the sun suddenly reappeared through a gap in the clouds and everything was hushed and ruddy with fading light, a coolness and freshness spread in the air, the rainwater dripped from the grandstand roof and twinkled in the puddles. To Mickey it was like the last day of the world, the late afternoon of time and destiny, the sad glowing reddish light that he always remembered from his childhood as the companion of hushed and muted wonder. And now he was afraid.
“Is that your plug there, Green Swords?” the old man asked dubiously. “In stall eight? By golly, he looks like he’s half asleep. Look at him standing there with his head hanging between his legs.”
And suddenly there was the sharp d-r-ring of the starter’s bell, the crowd rose, the horses lunged forward chopping and galloping in the mud.
“Well,” said the father, throwing a little kiss with the tip of his fingers, “good-bye ten bucks!”
Green Swords was running in the rear of the pack, heaving and straining and plodding in pursuit. But in the backstretch they watched him nose slowly into the pack at the rear of the close file, and hang there with his tail streaming.
“See!” cried Mickey proudly. “He’s a slow starter. Wait till they come in the stretch.”
“Yep, just wait,” said the old man gloomily with his face averted from the track, yet occasionally looking again with a rueful curiosity.
The horses bobbed along the backstretch in a dense pack for a while, then they reached the far turn and seemed to come to a standstill as they milled around towards the grandstand again, and in the red light there they seemed to merge into one moving dragging mass. Mickey had lost sight of Green Swords in the melee, but the announcer had him running in eighth position.
“Hear that?” cried the old man angrily. “Eighth, next to last! And that’s the way they’ve been running for me all day, all day long!”
Mickey looked at his father with terror in his heart, he saw the light of the red fading sun glowing in his face and in his eyes, etching every sign of disappointment and rue in his expression, and suddenly he felt like crying.
But the roar of the crowd as the horses neared drew them to their feet. They watched avidly as the horses came wheeling into the stretch all spindly-legged and swerving and splashing. The puddles in the track were red in the sun, the faces of the jockeys seemed dark and intent as they whipped and leaned in and booted, the horses bobbed in a body. They all came down plunging by the seventh pole in the thrilling approach to the finish that drummed dully below the roar of the crowd.
Mickey was searching frantically for Green Swords in the midst of all the horses, and suddenly he found him all mud-besplattered running in the middle and swerving to the outside behind six front horses in a grim lonely struggle to get out of the pocket and run free.
“There he is! He’s trying to get on the outside!”
“I don’t see him! Where’s he running?”
“Seventh!”
“Oh, my God!” cried Martin and he stood up and smote his brow with disgust. “Let’s get out of here!”
“He’s still running!” cried Mickey. He watched the horses toiling down the last eighth of a mile, they all seemed weary and plodding in the mud and Green Swords seemed to be running with his head down, running low and steady, and slowly creeping up along the pack from the outside. Mickey jumped up on the seat, leaned back squinting to judge the distance remaining and the slow momentum of Green Swords’ advance, and suddenly he was horrified to realize that Green Swords would certainly make it in another eighth of a mile but there wasn’t time, they were almost at the wire. Green Swords seemed to sink lower in the mud and drive harder, he crept up, they all sw
ept to the sixteenth pole, and passed it, and just before the wire the leading horse faltered bobbing his head, slipping a hoof in the mud, the other horses surged up in a phalanx of straining necks, and Green Swords suddenly flashed low past all of them and was forerunning across the wire a half a length ahead of the dense moiling pack and the jockey sat up jubilantly.
His father was already on his way out of the aisle, looking towards Mickey perplexedly.
“He won! He won!” screeched Mickey.
“Who won?” the old man grumbled. He saw Mickey running towards him with a delirious look of joy.
“He won! Green Swords won!”
“He did not.”
“He did! There! They’re putting up the numbers. Number eight! Green Swords!”
The old man looked at the toteboard, frowning; he could not see that far. “I don’t think—” said the old man doubtfully, and just then above the hubbub of the crowd he heard the announcer say casually:
“The winner, number eight, Green Swords, by a half a length.”
He took his boy and embraced him wildly, yelling “Waa-hooo!” and shaking him deliriously. He was out of his senses with joy. He cried: “Poor little kid, poor little Mick, I didn’t believe you! To think that I didn’t believe you!—”
And Mickey laughed with savage delight, and in the next moment they were scuffling down the stairs three at a time, the big man leaping clumsily and whooping, the little boy darting and weaving among the crowds towards the five-dollar window, where they rushed up breathlessly and waited in line punching each other playfully and beaming at everybody around and laughing.
Martin had bet five dollars to win and five to show, and he collected one hundred and seventeen dollars in all.
“Now we’ll go to Boston and have a big feed, hey, sonny-boy Mickey!” yelled the old man jubilantly as they counted the money and pawed at it in his hand and scuffled back and forth looking at it and grinning at everybody and sort of dreamily, absent-mindedly looking for the exit gate. “Whattayou say we both eat a couple of steaks apiece, hey?”