“Now I know everybody’s crazy,” Henry said.
A few of the reporters laughed but most of them remained solemnly quiet. One of the latter said, “He’s stepping out of his age division again, Henry, and over a route this time, not a sprint like before. I guess he’s serious about meeting the Black and Casey.”
“He won’t get to meet the Black ever,” Henry said emphatically. “Not carryin’ such a ridiculous weight assignment.”
A young reporter said, almost too courteously to be friendly, “Mr. Dailey, I’m rather new in racing but as I understand it there’s a traditional weight-for-age scale, made by the Jockey Club, which most track handicappers use in arriving at their weight assignments for a race. Is that correct?”
“You’d have to ask a handicapper,” Henry replied curtly. “But I imagine he’d start off from the scale anyway.”
“Well then,” the reporter went on, “you claim that Eclipse’s one-hundred-and-sixteen-pound assignment is ridiculous. Yet according to the official scale that’s exactly what a three-year-old should carry at a mile and a quarter during the month of July when racing older horses.”
Henry grimaced. “It’s still ridiculous,” he said patiently. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Eclipse is no ordinary three-year-old and should not be weighted as such. You don’t have to listen to me. Look at the record, three new track marks in his last three times out! Assigning Eclipse weight according to the traditional scale is unfair to those racin’ against ’im! I won’t have any part of it!”
The young reporter smiled. He had Henry Dailey going, and it would make good copy. He didn’t stop to wonder why all the others in the group were very still and solemn.
“Unfair, you say?” he prodded Henry. “Don’t you think it more unfair to ask a young horse to race an older one at equal weights?”
“I didn’t say equal weights,” Henry retorted, losing his patience with the man. “I said fair weights. Eclipse is going much too light and the Black much too heavy.”
“Oh, then the Black is going in the Brooklyn?” the reporter asked naively.
“No, he isn’t!” Henry exploded.
“Tell me,” the young man went on hurriedly, not wanting to lose his newly won advantage over the trainer, “don’t you think, too, that it’s unfair to ask a young horse to knock himself out, probably even break his heart, racing against two older stars like the Black and Casey?”
Henry could feel the blood rushing to his face and he shook his head angrily. He caught his lower lip between his teeth and waited a moment before answering. When he spoke his voice was trembling but coherent.
“You mean like Eclipse broke the heart of those two horses his own age in the Dwyer a couple of Saturdays ago? Is that what you mean? Do you think they’ll ever race again? Do you?”
The young reporter didn’t answer and those about him began moving for the barn door.
“Well, sir,” Henry went on, visibly trying to control himself, “I’ve always believed that no horse will be hurt in any way, regardless of what you ask of him, providin’ he’s in the proper physical shape to do it. Eclipse is that kind of a horse. He’s big and at his peak. He could meet older horses every day of the week and never feel it. The only heart-breaking to consider is that which he’s done himself.”
The newsmen wrote their stories. Most of them agreed with Henry, and it turned out that their readers did likewise. Horsemen, too, nodded their heads in agreement with Henry’s view of the weight assignments for the Brooklyn Handicap. It was definitely stated that very few trainers would send their handicap horses against the lightly weighted Eclipse. It was rumored that the great Casey’s name too would be missing from the entry box Friday morning. Michael Costello was especially bitter, for he felt that at level weights no horse in the world was so fast as his Casey, but that giving twenty pounds to Eclipse was too much. “The very divil himself has a-taken over the Old One in the office,” he protested vigorously. “ ’Tis honest weights we want.”
The track handicapper remained silent and adamant despite all criticism. He issued just one brief public statement to the effect that it was his job to give every horse in a race a fair chance at first money. He had enjoyed his work for some forty years now and would continue to perform his duties to the best of his ability until replaced. There would be no changes in his weight assignments for the Brooklyn Handicap.
After reading the handicapper’s statement Henry told Alec, “Well, that’s that. We’re not racin’ Saturday.”
But Henry didn’t reckon with the track president. Thursday morning the value of the Brooklyn Handicap was raised to $100,000 plus the nomination and entrance money. It meant, according to the front office’s release to the newspapers, that for the first time in the history of the Brooklyn Handicap the winner would be assured of $100,000.
The final portion of the statement read, “It is the management’s hope that in making this year’s Brooklyn Handicap one of the richest races in the country we will bring about the greatest race of modern times. We sincerely hope that those trainers who have disappointed racing enthusiasts the world over by their public announcements not to race in the Brooklyn Handicap will now reconsider in light of the larger purse.”
That very day Casey’s trainer announced to the press that his chestnut champion would surely start on Saturday. “I don’t like the twenty-pound difference between my horse and Eclipse any more now than I did before,” he said. “But for a hundred thousand dollars we’d take a crack at Pegasus himself.”
Later that evening Henry Dailey said, “The track management has touched us where it hurts. Everybody knows we could use a hundred thousand dollars for a new barn. We aim to try and get it in one fell swoop on Saturday. Furthermore, I’d like to say this. I’m glad the front office statement didn’t cite ‘sportsmanship and the best interests of racing’ in order to get these three big horses together. I honestly don’t feel it’s fair or good sportsmanship to send us off at such great difference in weights. I’m afraid Saturday will bear me out but I’m hopin’ for some kind of a break in a large field that will offset the weight differences.”
THREE IN A ROW
18
“The Old One in the office,” as Michael Costello had referred to the track handicapper, was truly old. His hair, what there was of it, was snow white and his hands shook involuntarily when he carefully figured out his weight assignments. But he wore no glasses and believed his eyes to be as keen as ever. They’d helped make his weighted ratings of horses one of the best guides of true champions or those on their way to the top. Usually when he packed a high impost upon a horse his judgment proved to be sound. Usually but not always.
The Old One hadn’t liked the way Casey had won the Carter Handicap the preceding Monday. At 135 pounds the chestnut horse had cut down the others in the stretch as if they’d been just play for him. It must never happen again. Not that he sympathized with the underdog. No, it was simply that there never should be a badly beaten underdog. He had failed utterly to give every horse a chance at first money.
Was he perhaps getting too old, as a few of the newspapers had intimated? Were his eyes as keen as he believed them to be?
That week he watched the final workouts of the three big stars very closely, paying more attention to them than he’d ever done to any horses in his life. He must be certain he was right this time. He’d taken too much criticism and abuse from friends and press alike. Of course he could not change the weights he had assigned for the Brooklyn Handicap but it would do no harm to verify his judgment.
As he watched Casey come onto the Aqueduct track his eyes were very sharp and unwavering but he trembled as if with chill. Usually he didn’t reach the track quite so early in the morning. He found it a little more difficult getting up these days and it took him a little longer to get going. Also, he drove to the track a little slower, a little more carefully. But he never missed much once he got there.
A good handicapper mus
t take into consideration the physical condition of his horses.
He studied the glowing son of Bold Irishman. Yes, Casey was in the full bloom of health despite all his hot-weather racing. He was eager too. He fairly jumped into his workout.
The Old One’s thumb pressed the stem of his big and ancient stopwatch.
A good handicapper must keep an accurate work sheet of his horses.
“Twenty-four and three … fifty seconds even … one thirteen and four … finishing off the mile in one forty flat. Slow enough for him.”
Casey had seemed to relish his work. He’d wanted to go more that last quarter but Costello had snugged him close. He came back prancing and not breathing hard at all. An early-morning crowd followed him to the barn.
The Old One nodded his uncovered white head. Yes, he was right about Casey. At least he was pretty sure he was right. Oh, he could have put a little more weight on him than he had. But if he’d done so, he would have had to raise the Black even higher. That would’ve been too much to ask of any horse. The wisest solution was what he’d done, drop Eclipse to 116 pounds. That would bring Eclipse and Casey down to the wire together—at least, the way he figured it.
His gaze shifted to the thick-bodied colt coming through the track gate. Eclipse was ready to go at anything, at any time. He’d put on flesh, hot-weather racing or not. He’d developed such a chest they’d had to get a longer girth to go around him before he could be saddled for the Dwyer. A good handicapper needed to know such things.
Eclipse was being turned around in the middle of the track. He stood still a moment, looking a little lazy and lopsided. Then Robinson, his jockey, touched him lightly with his whip and he was off.
It was said that Eclipse needed company to work and race his best but the Old One knew it to be idle talk. Alone the big colt just looked sluggish because there was no horse with which to compare his way of going and the length of his strides. Now if one had a stopwatch and kept track of the quarters while Eclipse reeled them off—
“Twenty-two and one … forty-five even …”
The Old One’s eyes left his watch and widened incredulously as they followed the colt. This was a very sharp work. This was an exhibition of speed one expected to see only in the afternoon, the very best afternoon on the very best track. His eyes narrowed as he glanced again at his watch.
“One o nine and two for three-quarters—” That was a second faster than the track mark and Robinson had a hold on him!
Another quarter slipped by with Eclipse being eased off but still flying. The crowd of trainers and boys near the rail were cheering him on but neither the colt nor Robinson seemed to be listening.
“One thirty-three and three,” the Old One said aloud, snapping his watch at the end of a mile. “They didn’t go faster than that, not until he came along.”
The Old One followed Eclipse to the barn. He stood there with many others, watching the sweated colt being rubbed and scrubbed. His keen eyes never left the horse, not even when the three-year-old champion was being walked in a bright red cooler and only his head and hoofs were on display.
Finally, the Old One turned away. For all Eclipse’s brilliance, he decided, the colt was not Casey’s equal. He must believe in himself and especially his figures of the week before when he’d worked everything out for the Brooklyn Handicap. At a mile and a quarter, carrying equal weights, Casey was ten lengths the better horse. So Casey must carry twenty pounds more than Eclipse to bring them to the wire together.
The Old One held his lower lip still by biting on it. Fantastic? That’s what everybody seemed to think of his weight assignment for Eclipse, and there were moments, moments like this when he—No, he mustn’t even think it! If he had no faith in himself, what had he left?
Eagerly he returned to the track and his eyes found the Black. Now, there was a horse. There was one to remember and never, never forget. He rushed to the rail and stood still, his watch in his hand, his eyes on the tall black stallion who was being galloped the wrong way of the track.
Henry Dailey, riding Napoleon, was restraining him but he seemed most anxious to perform his chores. They came to a stop at the eighth pole and the Black was turned to face the infield.
“Ah,” the Old One sighed to himself. It came out as it might if one were looking upon the work of a master.
There was no doubt that Henry Dailey had this horse ready to race, and when the Black was ready—well, remember Chicago? Or had everybody forgotten? Not that it was so long ago, but many other fast horses had come and gone since then. In this business one was inclined to see only what was directly before him. That is, if he was not a track handicapper whose business it was to remember as well as to record.
The Black spun quickly, his long strides coming so fast that he was in full run when he passed under the finish wire for the once-around-the-track trip. Alec Ramsay was riding very low and close so it was difficult for anyone to see how much he was asking of his mount. Afterward many people claimed he’d sat perfectly still all the way around. Others said he’d waved his hand alongside the Black’s head, urging him on—and had gotten no response.
The Old One said nothing. He returned to his office and placed the watch on his huge desk. He looked at the face of it for a long, long time.
The Black had worked a very slow mile although he’d seemed to be going all-out. But Alec Ramsay could do more with the flick of his fingers and the pressure of his legs than any other jockey in the business. For all anyone knew the Black could have been under a very tight hold even though there was no indication of it. It was seldom, if ever, that one saw more coordination between horse and rider than was the case with Alec and the Black.
The Old One continued to look at his watch. The figures were :24.3, :51, 1:14.3, and the mile in 1:42, two seconds slower than even Casey’s time. And unlike Casey the Black had been scheduled for a fast work, according to Henry Dailey’s statement to the newspapers the night before.
The Old One got to his feet and nervously paced the room. Was he so completely wrong in his estimate of the Black’s speed? Was the great horse actually five lengths faster than Casey, fifteen lengths faster than Eclipse at even weights, as he believed? Or was he instead being carried away by the memory of a race in Chicago years ago? Was he a sentimental old fool in believing the Black was fit and ready to equal that performance? Saturday would tell.
* * *
Three in a row they stepped onto the track following the call to the post for the Brooklyn Handicap. Number 1, Eclipse … number 2, Casey … number 3, the Black. There were no other entries.
Never before in the long history of the famous handicap had so many other eligibles for the race been so lightly weighted, but their trainers decided to leave this “Race of the Century” strictly alone. They didn’t even send a horse out to walk around the track, if nothing else, to collect fourth-place money. Instead they sent a little note to the track management: “—two thousand five hundred dollars, courtesy of the trainers who will sit this one out and watch.”
Henry on Napoleon said, “Not even a couple more horses to maybe cause Eclipse and Casey a stumble or two. No breaks today. Nothin’ but trouble.”
Alec didn’t answer. He talked only to the Black, not in words or sounds but merely by soft and gentle touches. He told him that the blaring band and the great crowd that hailed the post parade were nothing to get excited about. He reminded him of other races, other crowds.
Henry said, “One thing’s sure. At a mile and a quarter the ground won’t run out on him.”
The Black rose high in the air and came down hard against Napoleon. Alec kept his seat and held him close.
Remember when we didn’t have Napoleon? he asked his horse. You’d get excited and reach for the sky. I’d go up and be lucky to find you on the way down.
Henry said, “Still, if it was a shorter race I wouldn’t be so worried about his handlin’ the weight.”
The Black sought to get closer to Casey but Alec k
ept him back, bowing the stallion’s neck with shortened rein.
Remember Sagr? Casey is the same golden color, isn’t he? Some day we’ll go back to Arabia, you and I. Maybe we’ll even race Sagr again!
The band burst forth in a loud and brassy march. The Black jumped and Alec slid with him.
Remember the high booming pitch of the Bedouin drums just before the desert race? They really made noise! Lots more noise than this but for the same reason.
Behind the fence rail spectators jumped up and down, trying to see over the heads of those in front. They shouted at the top of their lungs and the Black’s ears turned toward them.
Remember how the tribesmen began to dance while all the women and children clapped their hands and chanted? They shouted and whistled and hissed through their teeth while the men stamped their feet upon the ground and the dust rose about their bodies so we could hardly see them.
Henry said, “I put as much of the lead as possible up in the front pockets of the pad. I wanted it up near the withers where he can carry it best.”
A quarter of a mile up the homestretch the starting gate awaited them. The stall doors were open and the ground crew was ready to take the three horses inside. High on his platform the official starter waited, patient and smiling. Between the Black’s pricked ears Alec watched him.
Remember that old chieftain who started us off, Sheikh somebody or other? Boy, was he old! I’ll bet he was over a hundred, he was so wrinkled. He didn’t wear a white robe like most of the others. He had a red headdress and a red flowing gown.
Henry said, “If it was any horse but the Black I’d take you off and put a heavier rider up. I don’t like to carry so much ‘dead’ weight. We’ve got almost forty pounds of it.”
Still smiling, the official starter called through his amplifier, “No, hurry, boys. We’ve all the time in the world.” Everybody knew he was joking, and that he was worried stiff about getting this big race off to a bad start.