JUST AS WELL

Pictured above is Just as Well breezing on April 6 in preparation for the Grade 1
Maker's Mark Mile at Keeneland on April 10, 2009.


Pictured above is Just as Well a few days after his admirable performance in the Gulfstream Park Turf Handicap, Grade I.

JUST AS WELL
Sasscer Hill

Let me tell you a story about a horse named Just as Well, his Hall of Fame trainer Jonathan E. Shepherd, and assistant trainer Barry Goodwin Wiseman.
The kitchen phone rings one day, and it’s Barry calling to say Jonathan is running Just as Well in the Grade I Gulfstream Park Turf Handicap on Sunday, February 1.
"You should come down and see this race," he says.
I scrape together some cash and fly to Florida.
I’m a smalltime Maryland breeder who, like many, has suffered through the unspooling of a once tight and resilient horse industry. Barry used to train my home-bred claimers, but when Maryland purse money dwindled and racing and breeding in the surrounding states were lavished with slots money, like many horsemen, Barry was forced to leave. He went to work for Jonathan Shepherd.
Jonathan, an astute and clever horseman, liked a colt bred by George Strawbridge named Just as Well. The horse ran as a youngster but had some problems. After running unplaced on June 17, 2006, he was turned out for a couple of years and allowed to mature. Jonathan gained ownership of Just as Well, and the horse went back into training as a five-year-old in 2008. He broke his maiden going five furlongs at Delaware Park on May 8. When he ran back, Just as Well won an allowance at Delaware Park, was unplaced in two starts at Saratoga, then shipped to Keeneland. There, under the care of Barry, the horse ran second in a turf allowance, then won an allowance going a mile on the turf, garnering an Equibase speed figure of 106.
In two more starts, the colt finished fifth only two and 3/4 lengths off the pace in the River City Handicap at Churchill Downs, then eighth at Gulfstream Park on January 9, going a mile on the turf.
In the meantime, I’m slugging it out in Maryland, giving horses away at the Timonium Sales and watching the stock market crash. Being dull-witted with myopic foresight, I bred both my mares in the spring of 2008. With an astonishing stroke of bad luck they both got pregnant, and in January are blooming hugely in the winter field behind my farmhouse.
While my yearling filly by Domestic Dispute grows prettier every day, and the Jockey Club has accepted her name (Bet the Dream), my brokerage account is floundering mightily. (I have renamed it "Tiny Tim")
When I arrive at Jonathan’s barn at Gulfstream Park, I take a look at Just as Well. I’d met the horse before and thought him attractive, if small, but he’s never looked like this. A muscular little beast with the look of eagles building in his eyes.
Jonathan is there, and I am honored to meet his pretty wife, Cathy, and their friend Pat. Cathy has a sense of humor. I like her straight off.
Barry hauls the "Blood Horse Stallion Register" from the stable office and turns to the picture of A.P. Indy. He smiles at Cathy and Pat, "You have to look at this picture, Just As Well is the spitting image of his sire."
He’s walking away from us toward Just as Well’s stall when Cathy looks at me and says, "Barry’s such a dreamer."
I’ve heard this before. Some think Barry’s optimism and belief in a horse based purely on instinct defies logic. He might be a dreamer, but he also has an intuitive gift, an almost magical connection to horses.
"Yes," I say. "Barry is a dreamer. That’s one of the things I like about him."
Pat says, "Let’s humor Barry, lets go look."
We all look at the colt. He does look like his sire. Just as Well is by A.P. Indy, out of the Nureyev mare, No Matter What. The colt’s younger half sister by Dynaformer just turned three and is called Rainbow View. You may have heard of her, the champion European two-year-old turf filly? She likes to wear diamonds by Cartier and is another Strawbridge home bred.
#
On Sunday I arrive at Gulfstream Park’s grandstand, where Jonathan has very kindly allowed me to sit at his table in the Ten Palms restaurant. It’s a big table for eight. I’m the only one there, but I like the way Larry, the waiter, treats me – like I’m somebody, maybe even famous or rich. He doesn’t know I’m broke, and it’s a nice change.
Just As Well has drawn the one hole in this Grade I race and as I leave the dining room, dart through the double glass doors, and trot down the stone stairs to the horseman’s entrance off the track, his odds are 24-to-1.
I duck under the rail when Barry and Just as Well stride by and follow behind them into the tunnel-like saddling area. The horses in there leave me star struck. I’m within kicking distance of a pack of Grade I achievers and two Breeders Cups winners, each one stalking around like he owns the place. And then there’s the little longshot I’ve come to watch get annihilated. But Just as Well doesn’t know his odds and looks just as confident as the rest of them.
Jonathan stands with Cathy and Pat. Cathy is wearing a gorgeous suit, maybe Escada, and carrying a designer handbag. I’m wearing my Marshall’s clearance-rack special, but I look okay, or at least after the Ten Palms’ vodka I’m pretty sure I do.
The air hums with tension as the horses are paraded before a mob of spectators. Cameras whir, and the paddock judge calls for riders up. Julien Leparoux sits easily on Just as Well’s back and leans over as Barry leads them onto the track.
"Barry, what do you think?" Leparoux asks.
"The horse will run well if you . . . "
I strain to listen, but Barry lowers his voice and I can’t hear his advice to the rider.
Nervous as a cat, I follow everyone up to the grandstand, where we sit outside in the horseman’s area. Michael Matz and his family are right behind us. J. Paul Reddam, owner of Red Rocks, is seated in the row ahead. Around me are faces I’ve only seen on television.
The field warms up on the track, and Just as Well powers by with neck bowed and hindquarters bunched. They’re stepping onto the turf course now, and in a flash they’re in the gate.
The bell rings, the horses rocket out, and Just as Well bobbles but recovers quickly. Kip Deville, under Cornelio Velasquez, surges forward on the outside and takes the lead. Leparoux eases Just as Well back, and at the first call, the colt only has one horse beat.
Kip Deville is running like a freight train with Pick Six crowding his flank. The field strings out on the backstretch, and as they head into the turn, Just as Well is buried on the rail and last. But he’s starting to run.
Kip Deville holds his lead with apparent ease.
The announcer cries, "Into the turn now and down on the inside is Just as Well."
He’ll never get out! But I shouldn’t have underestimated the talent of Julien Leparoux.
The favorite, Court Vision, is running one slot ahead of Just as Well, and as Court Vision swings to the outside for his finishing drive, Leparoux sails up the rail, suddenly in the five slot. Leparoux eases Just as Well off the rail and Court Vision, on a parallel course, leaves him enough room to find daylight.
I’m holding my breath as the pack of nine tears down the stretch, Just as Well closing ground at an astonishing rate. Kip Deville is still on the lead, running almost everyone into the ground as they try to catch him. Court Vision makes a brilliant effort to close ground, but Just as Well is a breath ahead of him. The wire’s coming fast, and Kip Deville’s holding his lead. The competition for the place is grueling.
The announcer cries, "And here comes Court Vision trying to come and get him in the last strides!"
Kip Deville powers under the wire in first place, and Just as Well sails after him, only three quarters of a length behind. Jonathan’s colt has grabbed the silver ring in a Grade I stake.
Jonathan and Cathy appear stunned. Tears glisten in Cathy’s eyes, Barry looks ready to do somersaults, and I hope I don’t I need a defillabrator. Jonathan, who’s in the Racing Hall of Fame and trains 2008 Eclipse Award winner Forever Together, seems humbled by Just as Well’s stupendous effort.
We rush down the steps, across the apron and into the deep sand on the track to be there when Leparoux brings in Just as Well. We all watch the horse’s legs as he slows down and comes to a halt before us. He’s in splendid form, and I feel giddy.
Being a mature, sophisticated woman, I turn to Cathy and Pat, hop up and down and say, "Barry’s a dreamer, Barry’s a dreamer."
Barry’s eyes gleam as he looks at them. "And thank you for humoring me."
Here’s the thing. Jonathan can be a rascal, and I should’ve known my hopping routine might draw some payback.
#
Back at Jonathan’s barn after the race, it’s time to bring each horse out so the groom Dinelo can catch the stalls. Outside the shedrow there’s a grassy area with a ring of white sand in the middle just big enough for a horse to get down and roll.
Jonathan and Barry have a quick discussion and a groom hands me a horse to walk on the grass. I look at the halter. I’ve got Swift Strike a son of 2008 leading sire in North America, Smart Strike. Oh boy.
Barry says, "He’s quiet. He won’t give you any trouble."
I lead the horse around and let him graze without incident. The groom, Sandra, brings Just as Well back from the detention barn and everyone’s quiet a moment. I can hear the silent applause.
Swift Strike goes back to the barn, and Dinelo hands me a big chestnut three-year-old filly named Oh So Nice, also by Smart Strike. Wow.
Barry says to Jonathan, "I’m not sure she should roll that horse."
Jonathan says, "I’m the boss, and I think she can."
So I do, and the filly paws, folds her front legs, and drops into the sand. I stand to the side, watching to see which way she’ll go, and she rolls toward me, groaning in ecstacy as the grit scratches her sides and back. A huge cloud of dust and silt floats over me, coating me from head to toe. I could’ve stayed home for this. Jonathan is grinning and Barry is shaking his head.
Oh So Nice decides to get up in an explosion, rearing and striking the air a bit. Living with horses, it’s not a big deal, and I keep the shank loose until she’s finished. I am filthy, and when I look away from the horse, I see Pat with her camera aimed at me.
"Pat," I say, "I hope you got a picture of me covered with sand. And don’t think I don’t know that scoundrel Jonathan did it on purpose!"
Sandra leads Jonathan’s colt past me. Darned if he isn’t on top of a possible Grade I win in 2009. I am, I realize, as happy as any six-year-old who ever played in a sand box.
Suddenly, I’m filled with hope. Maryland has secured slots at last, and my mares are about to produce Maryland-breds by Outflanker. Maybe it’s all just as well.

GAME, A Nicky Latrelle Story

Damn, we’d be late. From the passenger seat, I willed the road to spin faster beneath us. My peripheral vision caught the tension in Joan’s jaw, her hard grip on the steering wheel as she pushed the aging Toyota. August heat seared my face through the open windows, and undulated off the hot asphalt unwinding before us. The dash clock said fifteen minutes to check into the jockey’s room. I’d lose a ride on a horse that had a shot to win and someone else would snag the $40 jock’s fee.
"I’m trying, Nicky," said Joan, the fingers of one hand tap dancing on the wheel. "This car . . . " She rammed the accelerator, the car shuddered and she eased up. "Piece of junk."
"At least you have a car," I said. And plenty of time for her rides later in the program. But she risked a speeding violation to make my deadline, and Joan, not anybody else, had taken a homeless seventeen-year-old under her wing. She’d found out I was a runaway and helped me get work at Maryland’s Laurel Race Track with trainer Jim Lavinsky, coaxing him into putting me on a horse in the mornings, letting me gallop a few, until he saw my gift, my connection with horses.
The Toyota sped over the Potomac river bridge, and far below, white water surged over gray, protruding rocks. Someone down there in a kayak struggled against the surface torrent and deep, hidden undertows. We crossed a second bridge and climbed the steep hill past Harper’s Ferry, West Virginia. I needed this race, didn’t care if it came by default, the regular Maryland jockey being too self-impressed to follow the horse, Laser Beam, to a second-rate track like Shepherds Town. No such illusions here. Not so long ago, my best job had been walking the pumped-up thoroughbreds around the shed row until they cooled out. I still pushed away memories of stealing packaged snacks from Seven-Eleven and sleeping in stalls, my only comfort the warmth of the horses. I'd worked hard to boost myself up the ladder, and refused to slide back. Ever.
"Three minutes left. You’ll make it," Joan said, relief easing the tension around her eyes. "Your helmet is in my carryall. You’d better get it out, grab your stuff. I’ll drop you at the door."
I leaned into the back, trying not to fall over as we careened around a turn, and grabbed the helmet. An envelope stuffed with cash came out with it.
"What’s all this cash?"
Joan stared at the road. "I’m betting you kid. You’ve got a good shot in this race."
"But Laser’s favored, he won’t pay much if he comes in." Curious.
"I’m betting an Exacta, you know, you and two others to come in anyplace in the first three. Don’t let me down." Joan gave me a little shoulder punch with her fist.
"Do my best." But it didn’t seem like Joan. Looked like a lot of money, all twenties, and Joan didn’t bet much, she was tight and careful with her money, like me. But she’d been too good to me, always a mentor and buddy, not someone I questioned.
Rubber burned as Joan came to an abrupt stop at the entrance near the Jockey’s room. I stuffed the bills into Joan’s bag and ran from the car. The ticket seller nodded as I flashed my badge, then I flew up the steep steps to the jockey's room.
A round-faced man with a wad of chewing tobacco tucked in one cheek sat behind a desk. "You Latrell?"
"That's me, Nicky Latrell. Did I make it?"
"Just. Sign here."
I did, and entered the area beyond. A TV monitor sat high on one beige wall, a race rerun playing in black and white. Orange plastic chairs littered the floor beneath and two guys in riding breeches and undershirts played pool in one corner.
A short, ferret-faced man crumpled the racing charts he'd been reading.
"I see the little piece from Maryland's here." He wore tight, white breeches and dirty socks. "Don't plan on stealing the feature race, might be unhealthy."
I worked to keep my lip from curling. Dennis O'Brien. I’d run into him before and was careful to ignore him now. He fancied himself a tough guy, but the way his small eyes nestled up against the bridge of his nose, I’d filed him under weeny-brain. I walked past him, but he grabbed my arm, his fingers hard.
"We don't like when outsiders come here to take our money."
His breath reeked of onions and I tried to take a step back. "Dennis, I wanna makes a living, like everybody else. Leggo of my arm."
My voice sounded a little shrill. I thought about stomping his foot with my boot, but another rider pushed between us. Unlike Dennis, Billy Marshall's green eyes reflected some intelligence. He kept his thick hair cropped short. Actually, he looked . . . good. Whoa.
"Dennis," said Billy, "I don't like it when they come from out-of-town on the favorite, but leave her alone for Christ's sake, before you get yourself in more trouble."
I jerked away from them, rubbing my arm, then stole a look at Billy. He’d moved away from me, looking trim and fit, not anorexic and drawn like Dennis and some other riders.
I found a seat in a far corner, lay down my canvas tote, picked up an abandoned program and turned to my race, the Sunday feature race with a purse of $10,000–impressive for Shepherds Town. The winning jockey's share paid $600. Reading on, my breath sucked in. A jockey change--Dennis O'Brien named on Vengeance, post position number one, in my race. He hadn't been listed in yesterday's Daily Racing Form. Damn, he spelled nothing but trouble.
Joan came in, clutching her carryall like the cash might get loose. Not yet thirty, her face held lines from sun damage and the cigarettes she struggled to give up. Her mouth worked on a mint, the movement of her jaw jerky and rapid. She disappeared into a changing cubicle and came out with something wrapped in a kerchief. Probably the money. I hoped she’d bet it and hide the tickets before someone like Dennis made a fast move. Her eyes darted around the room like nervous pinballs, skipping right over me. About then, the tinny loudspeaker rattled the first call for my race. I got the racing silks from the colors-man and stepped into a changing cubicle.
I shrugged into the shiny fabric, my fingers hurrying to fasten the velcro down the front. The colors were hot-yellow and electric-orange, not exactly flattering to my pale skin and freckles. With the orange against my dark hair, I looked like a psychedelic Halloween cat. I pulled the helmet on, made sure the gaudy cover stayed snug, kept an ear out for my final call, and thought I heard Joan talking to Dennis O’Brien. Unlikely. Joan had never had anything to say to him.
Joan had disappeared by the time I headed for the paddock. Nerves tightened my stomach, so I did my mental mantra. Just another race, like dozens before, no big deal. Jim waited for me in Laser Beam’s saddling stall and I hoped the smile I flashed him held the confidence I didn’t feel. Iron rails encircled the Shepherds Town dugout paddock. Above, bettors crowded against the barrier, examining the horses parading below, hoping to pick a winner.
Laser Beam had drawn post position six in the field of nine, and with yellow and orange blinkers blaring from his face, I picked him right out. The colors didn’t do much for him either.
A small bay gelding, he habitually displayed speed early in the race. My job was to see something remained for the finish. Though slight, Laser Beam generally exhibited a tough, scrappiness, and had won over a hundred grand at the Maryland tracks. But five years of racing developed sore hindquarters that Lavinsky couldn't cure. Jim, an experienced trainer, and a good horseman, could only do so much when a horse had that many miles on his legs. I watched the bay move around the paddock. I galloped him every morning, knew him well. Today his movement appeared fluid and I felt a spark of hope.
I stepped into Laser’s stall, where his owner, Bob Davis, stood with Jim. A hefty, middle-aged car salesman, Davis pumped my hand and wished me luck. Sweat trickled down his wide cheeks and left his hand slick.
"I appreciate the ride, Mr. Davis. He'll probably toy with those other horses." Well, maybe. Davis turned to admire Laser and I swiped my hand on my breeches to remove his sweat. The paddock judge called for riders to mount, and Jim gave me a quick leg-up onto Laser Beam. He touched my ankle. "You know what to do, Nick."
Joan appeared and stood watching me from the rail. Tall for a jockey, her face reflected constant dieting and the diuretics she swallowed to maintain racing weight. She often appeared gaunt, her face sharp, but today she seemed saddled with an unease I couldn’t read. "Knock em dead," she called, so I gave her a thumbs-up.
Some sort of a mix up with the horses occurred ahead and the groom leading Laser circled around the paddock again before heading out. I thought I saw Joan talking to one of the gate crew guys, but the groom moved us into the tunnel leading to the track and I wasn’t sure what I saw.
Outside the sun flamed hot and Kathy, a heavyset pony-girl, rode alongside on her dun horse and waited while the groom pulled a strap through Laser’s bridle. This West Virginia girl was something. Even squished under a helmet, Kathy’s teased, blond hair attained the obligatory "big hair" look, and her bright orange lipstick complemented the Davis’ silks. She leaned over, grabbed the strap and broke the two horses into a jog, beginning our warm-up. Early on I’d wondered why the big, heavier animals that led the race horses to post were called "ponies." Now it remained an unquestioned part of my language.
The late-day heat cooked my helmet, while a stiff breeze from the backstretch blew the track flags and scuttled discarded paper cups and plastic wrappers along the concrete. We’d just eased into a gallop when Dennis sped by on Vengeance. He steered his horse in close, causing Laser to pin his ears and fight Kathy's hold.
"Idiot," I said. What a jerk.
"Yeah, Dennis the jockey menace," said Kathy.
We snickered, Laser Beam calmed down, and I got a chance to study the rest of the field. Not much talent appeared in the race and a little thrill sped through me. I could win this thing.
I lined up with the others near the starting gate. O'Brien, with the number one post, went in first. The next four horses loaded right up and a gate crew member led Laser into number six, then climbed onto the side platform and steadied the bay’s head. Someone shut the door behind us and Laser thrust his nose against the metal bars, staring straight ahead, waiting.
"You game, an old thing," I whispered, patting his dark neck.
Billy Marshall came into the number seven slot and glanced over. "Good luck, Nicky." He sounded like he meant it, but I was too focused to answer.
The last horse loaded and the announcer cried, "They're all in line." I leaned forward on Laser's neck, anticipating the shock of his rocket start. The bell rang, the doors crashed open, but the gate assistant held onto Laser’s bridle for maybe two-fifths of a second.
Stunned, I started to yell, but he released Laser, who burst into action, a good two lengths behind the rest of the field. No choice but to use his early speed and pick up stragglers down the backstretch. Laser’s acceleration carried us to mid-pack, past Dennis, definitely startled to see us roll by. Now we lay third. I saw room and angled my horse toward the rail, and then hating to use him up, I "sat chilly," reins long, my body and hands quiet, almost motionless. I let him run at his own pace as we raced toward the first turn. Nearing the tight curve I sensed Dennis asking his horse for more speed and Vengeance responded, bulleting from behind until his nose drew even with Laser’s. They lay outside us now and Dennis pulled Vengeance onto Laser, forcing the smaller horse dangerously close to the rail, where he took a bad step in the softer dirt, before steadying himself.
"Stop it, you son of a bitch!" I screamed. Dennis grinned at me idiotically, until I shook my whip at his face.
He yelled, "Bitch," and cut me across my right cheek with his crop.
Tears flooded the inside of my goggles, blurring my vision. Rocketing into the turn, the centrifugal force peeled Vengeance away, and Laser moved off the rail and found good footing again.
Screw this. I flicked my whip forward so Laser could see it. I didn’t need to hit him, just show him, he was that game. His stride extended and the eighth pole flashed by in a blur of green and white stripes. Laser drew clear and flew under the wire two and ½ lengths ahead of the pack. I felt the high only winning can give. For a moment Dennis and his crop didn’t matter. I knew I grinned like a fool, a fool with $600.00 in her pocket.
I galloped Laser out, slowly pulling him up, bringing him down to a jog, a walk, then turning for the winner’s circle. Bob Davis’s smile stretched wide across his face. He reached up and grabbed my hand, saying, "You sure did toy with them, you sure did." Lavinsky gave me a wink. Then Davis said, "What happened to your face?" My fingers went to my cheek and touched a welt and dried blood. "There was some rough stuff on the backstretch," I said, turning my head so the track photographer would get the good side. The camera flashed, I dismounted, and weighed-in. The scales said I was legit, but my knotted stomach said something was wrong. Something . . . I glanced at the tote board and my odds were too long. We’d looked good in that race, but they hadn’t bet us. A lot of money went somewhere else and I searched the numbers. There, number one . . . Vengeance? He’d taken the heavy hitters and feeling sick, I pictured the cash-stuffed envelope. No, Joan wouldn’t. But I remembered hearing her voice with someone who sounded like Dennis. And the guy in the gate, was his move deliberate? A flash of anger ignited, burning away the joy of winning.
I headed for the jock’s room to look for Joan, but she wasn’t there. I changed into street clothes and went to find her. I asked around near the paddock and someone said they thought Joan had gone to the parking lot. I pushed through the door and into the furnace radiating from the blacktop. I scanned the lot. There, almost out of sight, at the far end of the grandstand, stood Joan, talking to Dennis O’Brien. The word betrayed flashed through my head and that sick feeling grew. I headed straight for them.
Joan saw me first, her expression tight and wary. She backed away from Dennis. "I had to say something . . . the way he hit you."
I sucked some air. "I wasn’t supposed to win, was I?"
Joan’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. She looked like a cornered cat. "I don’t know what you mean, I . . . "
"You gonna rat to the stewards?" Dennis’s voice carried more whine than threat.
"Shut up," said Joan, her body rigid.
The door from the paddock opened and Billy Marshall emerged, lugging a tote. "Hey Latrell, nice ride." A curious look replaced the greeting. Tension surrounded us, thick and palpable.
Adrenalin pumped through me, my hands shook. "Don’t know me very well, do you Joan? Think I’d fold that easily?"
Her eyes avoided me and her voice seemed to shrink. "What are you gonna do?"
"She’ll turn us in, cry to the stewards."
Billy stepped next to me. "Jesus, Dennis, won’t you ever learn?" His gaze came back to me. "They put a fix on you?"
I nodded, staring at Joan. I’d never had much of a poker face and hated that she could read my pain. "Why would you do that to me?"
Joan’s eyes snapped, and anger amplified her voice. "I needed the God damn money, OK? And the opportunity presented itself."
"I’m an opportunity?" My voice almost broke. "I looked up to you." Damn, little stinging tears. I fought them. Joan’s deceit felt immense.
Billy Marshall moved close, touched my arm. "You came with her? I’m driving to Laurel. Need a ride home?"
Dennis made unattractive kissing noises which Billy ignored.
I turned from Joan. "Why not?"
"Nicky, wait," her voice suddenly pleading.
I shook my head. "I won’t take any more chances on you. Enjoy Dennis"
Billy’s fingers touched my arm, urging me to go, but movement caught my eye. Beyond the grandstand, through hazy, shimmering air, ponies led runners to post for the next race. Always another contest, always a new game. I grabbed a breath and turned my back on Joan.

THE TONGUELESS WONDER, A True Story

The call came just after 7:00 a.m. as I was surfacing through the layers of a good night’s sleep. The stress in my trainer’s voice jolted me awake. He said my three-year-old Norquestor filly had just sliced her longue in half. Somehow her tongue tie had caught on a nail head. I knew many racehorses wear a tongue tie to keep their soft palate from inadvertently closing their airway during stressful exercise and shutting off the precious flow of oxygen. A nervous swallowing reflex involving the tongue usually causes the problem. A soft strip of cotton binding the tongue to the jaw can keep the airway open.
But I’d never heard of a tongue tie doing damage like this! Please, not to Honors Quest, the filly who blossomed into the best horse I’d ever owned. Not to my Questy. I’d bred this filly, been on my knees in the foaling stall as she was born. I’d grasped her tiny front ankles, pulling her out as her mother pushed.
By now, I clutched the phone so tight I’m surprised my fingers didn’t snap.
Barry Wiseman, my trainer, said, "The vet thinks you’d better call your insurance company. She might die. She’s in shock, lying down. She won’t get up."
Seeing Honors Quest later that morning was one of the toughest things I’ve ever done. There was still blood on the wall near the nail head. It didn’t make sense! The nail head was perfectly flush in the wall. I could barely slide my fingernail beneath it, let alone the cotton fabric of a tongue tie. What are the chances . . . ?
Honors Quest didn’t know what had happened, why there was so much pain. She was quiet when I first saw her, but her look was almost expectant, as if maybe I could help her. Barry had trouble speaking, the pain in his eyes hard for me to look at. The only light that day was Laurel track vet, Dr. James Stewart’s belief that if she made it through the initial shock she could probably learn how to eat again and might make it, might even be okay. We hung to his words like they were a lifeline.
I arrived early the second day. I’d been awake most of the night anyway. Barry brought a bucket of soft wet hay and a bran mash into the stall for Honors Quest. She was so hungry and excited to be given food, but she couldn’t eat it. She threw the hay around, pushed the mash about with her nose, then gave up and turned away from us. I remember thinking, "This is too painful. She’s going to starve."
When I drove back to Laurel on the third day, it was Wednesday, and the horses were coming into the receiving barn for the day’s racing at laurel. Honors Quest was stabled in this barn and always seemed to enjoy the commotion of the ship-ins. The first thing I noticed when I arrived was that Barry’s expression had eased. Then I saw the filly had a big hay net and I thought, "Why is that there?"
I fretted about the impossibly dry, scratchy hay. Honors Quest snatched a wisp and worked it in her mouth. Then I heard it – the unmistakable, sweet sound of her molars grinding. She swallowed. I started blubbering, "She’s eating hay, she’s eating hay!"
The grooms handling the ship-ins must have thought I was nuts. That’s what horses do, isn’t it? Eat hay?
A few days later, Barry borrowed a hackamore, and carefully fit the bitless bridle onto Questy’s head. He saddled her, mounted and jogged her around the aisle way. The familiar routine brought a calmness back to Questy’s eyes. In a few days she was out on the track jogging the mile oval. A week later the back half of her tongue had healed to where Dr. Stewart said her mouth could handle a bit. Barry began galloping her and she gained back the weight she’d lost, appearing sharp, like she was ready to run. Stewart said to go on with her and on March 12 Barry arranged to work her for five-eighths of a mile with two older horses, both winners. Having never won a race, Honors Quest was still a "maiden." When Barry gave jockey Lenny Ferazitta a leg up on Questy that morning, he told Lenny to go easy. Let her do what she wanted, don’t break her heart by asking her to go with the others if it was too much for her.
I watched the horses hit the five-eights pole together, through my binoculars. Questy dragged Lenny forward and opened up by ten or 12. She stayed that far ahead until Lenny stood in his stirrups to slow her past the wire. Barry and I were speechless.
When Lenny jogged Questy back to us, he was shaking his head. All he could say was, "Wow."
Back in the receiving barn, state veterinarian Dr. Forrest Peacock hurried around the corner and said, "Okay, Barry, the clocker wants to know who that speedball was."
I could tell Barry was hoping to kind of ease out of answering but Dr. Peacock was adamant. Without thinking, I said, "That was the Tongueless Wonder." Dr. Peacock knew exactly who I meant.
On March 20, three weeks after her freak accident, Honors Quest ran for a $25,000 claiming tag at Laurel. I didn’t like putting her in a race where she could be bought, but an "allowance" or non claiming race would have much tougher competition. I didn’t want to do that to her either, and who would claim a horse missing half its tongue?
Before the race, Dr. Stewart told Barry that if she just went into the gate and came out of the gate it would be a success story. She went off at about 40-1 and finished third. My first win back in the ‘90s wasn’t as sweet as seeing this filly come in third.
On my birthday, March 31, Honors Quest ran on Pimlico’s opening day, again for $25,000, and finished a close second. Barry put her in for a $50,000 claiming tag on April 17 and she finished fifth, but only four lengths off the pace. Later that week Barry heard the racing secretary had "put on an extra" or a race not originally scheduled, for the following Saturday. It would only be a week since she’d run and because of all we’d been through I had to second-guess Barry and fret about running her back that soon. Barry was patient and even had Dr. Robert Vallance look at Questy while I was there. Vallance told me the filly was fine and so sharp she needed to run. It occurred to me this might be a trainer/veterinarian conspiracy, but Questy’s coat glowed and she almost vibrated with energy, so I said to put her in.
On Saturday, April 24, I stood out in front of the Pimlico paddock looking through my binoculars across the infield to where Barry was walking Honors Quest over from the receiving barn. The track handicappers, Jeannine Edwards and Clem Florio, were booming through the loudspeakers with their picks for the first race. Jeannine chose Honors Quest. She said that the filly had been trying so hard, and then she told the tongue story. My eyes stung and I had to dig in my purse for tissues. Who wouldn’t cry?
Jeannine was saying how she had talked to Barry Wiseman and how it had been touch and go with the filly for a while and how incredible it was to have turned out so well. About this time I heard some commotion and looking up, I saw several jockeys standing on the balcony outside their changing room. They were hooting and clapping for Barry and Honors Quest.
By now she was close enough that I didn’t need my binoculars. You could see her bay coat all dappled out. Jeannine was finishing up, saying, "I have to put my money on Honors Quest. She is one gutsy filly."
A short time later, Honors Quest broke sharp and drew clear to win by five and a half. What are the chances . . . ?