The Black Stallion's Blood Bay Colt (27 page)

That's the way Tom thought of Roosevelt Raceway at the end of his first day there. A giant, mammoth spectacle geared for modern racing. He and the others were backstage now getting ready for the big night show. In a way it was exciting. But he missed the noises of the fair, the friendly people who had always come to
their stall knowing horses and wanting to talk about them. There were no spectators here now … just the performers.

What would the show be like tonight? What would his reactions be to it? Would he, like Jimmy, become embittered by this swift turn
his
sport had taken?

Night came and with it life poured into Roosevelt Raceway. Giant floodlights brightened the track and grounds as though it were daylight.

Tom and George closed the upper door of Bonfire's stall.

“Let him get his rest,” George said. “It'll be better for him.”

Uncle Wilmer refused to go to the track with them, so they left him behind with Bonfire, and made their way through the black mass of people streaming through the main entrance gate and overflowing the grandstand. They found they couldn't get near the rail without entering the grandstand gate, so grudgingly they went inside to stand in the packed area between the first tier of the stands and the rail.

As Tom looked at the track, he realized more than ever that this was
the stage
. He rose high on his tiptoes to see the racing strip over the heads of the jam-packed people between him and the rail.

The track lay smooth and untouched beneath the bright glare of the lights. The infield was green, seemingly too green to be real grass. The blackness of night was beyond the lighted backstretch; there were were no red trucks of a fair's midway, no spinning, gleaming Ferris wheels. And these, Tom found, he missed very much.

So modern, so brilliant—and yet, too, so artificial, this stage.

Turning to look behind him, he saw the thousands in the stands, afraid to move lest they lose their seats. Just to the right of the grandstand was the paddock, where the horses were taken fully an hour before the race. The gay, colorful awnings looked even more green and more white under the lights than they had during the day. Shaped like a horseshoe, the paddock was fenced off and forbidden territory to all spectators—to all except officials and the drivers of those horses which were to come out onto the track for the first race. Tom thought again of the friendly people at the fairs who would follow them from barn to track, always talking, always so close. They would resent very much a fence that kept them apart from the horses; and Tom found that he did, too.

George said, “More older drivers here than I thought there'd be, Tom. Listenin' to Jimmy, I thought they'd all be young squirts.”

“More young guys, though,” Tom said, “than the old boys.” And he said it in defense of Jimmy Creech.

“Yeah,” George admitted. “But that's good, Tom. We need young people like you and them.”

“You mean you like
this
, George?”

And the way in which Tom said
this
caused George to turn quickly to him.

“No,” he said thoughtfully, after a long silence. “It's not for me … not from what I've seen so far. But I don't want to condemn it ‘cause it isn't for me, the way Jimmy does. Like I said once before, every person
to his own likes. Our sport ain't always belonged to the fairs, you know. Before the fairs we used to block off roads in the center of town an' race every day. Guess you could call this a super blocked-off road.” He paused, laughing at his own comparison.

“And although it isn't for me or Jimmy or maybe for you,” George added sincerely, “it's good for our sport in a lot of ways. Raceways like this all 'round the country mean a lot more people are takin' to our sport, and in time they'll learn to love it the same as we do.” George paused again, this time to think for a while before going on.

“When I think about it,” he said, “what I'd like to see happen more than anything else is to get all these people out to the fairs to see what they're missing. If they enjoy the races here they'll like fair racing even more. They'll
feel
the difference themselves. And that, Tom, will be the best thing that ever happened to them and to our sport.”

Tom said, “Then I guess you and Jimmy have a lot in common, George. You both want to get the people to the fairs, to get it back the way it was.”

“Not quite,” George replied. “Jimmy hates raceways like this an' wants to see an end to 'em. I don't. I say let the raceways give city folk a taste of our sport and get them interested. Then some way get them out to the fairs in the daytime to see the real thing … to
feel
it as they can't here.”

Promptly at eight-forty, post time for the first race, there was a ringing of the paddock bell and the horses paraded onto the track. Roosevelt Raceway
officials prided themselves on an efficient, to-the-minute prompt race program—and the reasons were apparent to Tom beginning with the ringing of the paddock bell.

There was no delay in the post parade. A red-coated marshal led the field past the grandstand and drivers and horses were introduced. There was no lagging by any driver and they kept a close single file. The announcer gave only the name of the horse and its driver, leaving the spectators to consult their programs for information as to color, breeding and owner; this, Tom realized, was super-efficiency aimed at getting the horses away fast in the first race. And he missed the leisurely, friendly voices of the fair announcers, acquainting the crowd with all the information despite the fact that it appeared on the program.

The two warm-up scores were short and fast; then the parade filed behind the mobile starting gate awaiting them at the head of the stretch. Tom saw the flashy, long white four-door open limousine. This, too, was in keeping with spectacular Roosevelt Raceway!

The car moved, and behind its barrier the horses and drivers came down for the start. Gleaming coats of horses and the colorful silks of their drivers flashed beneath the lights. When they swept across the starting line, the lights in the grandstand dimmed. The brilliantly lighted track was now the center of attention. The show was on!

Tom watched closely as each driver fought hard to reach the turn first. He saw them move into it and come around, some tucked in close to the rail, others already making their bids for the lead. His eyes never
left the tightly packed group all through the race as he watched the strategy of the drivers. They passed the stands the first time around still close together, still fighting for positions … and they continued that way all around the track again, coming down the homestretch in a hard-driving finish that called for a photograph to decide the winner.

When it was over, Tom knew that the strategy used here was no different from that at the fairs. Maybe the raceway drivers cut their turns a little closer and took more of a risk getting through narrow openings, but otherwise there was no difference. Strategy that won races at fairs would win them here.

The lights went on throughout the grandstand, and George said, “One dash an' it's over for them. No more heats … nothin'. Just pick up their purse money and look forward to another race.”

“You can't make any mistakes in a dash,” Tom said.

“No,” George agreed. “You get no chance to get back at 'em in the next heat like you do at the fairs.” He paused to look at the horses still on the track, their drivers awaiting the results of the photo finish. “That old boy was right up with the young fellers,” he said.

The picture was developed and the results of the first race were announced to the crowd.

“The old fellow didn't win it,” Tom said afterward.

“No … they pushed him back,” George replied. “These young fellows make up for their lack of experience by takin' more chances. You'll have to watch 'em, Tom, on Saturday.”

Suddenly the announcer said to the packed throng, “Your attention, please.” A hush settled over the stands,
and he went on: “We would like to call your attention again to the feature race on Saturday night's program. It's the Two-Year-Old American Championship Race! Ten of the nation's top two-year-olds will meet in one dash for a ten-thousand-dollar purse. The field includes Silver Knight, Phillip Cox's outstanding gray colt, heralded by many who have seen him race this season here at Roosevelt as the wonder colt of the decade. Matching strides with Silver Knight will be Princess Guy, the black filly which Miss Elsie Topper drove to a new world's record of two o three at the Reading Fair this week. Rest assured, ladies and gentlemen, that the meeting of Silver Knight and Princess Guy Saturday night will result in still a lower world record mark for two-year-olds!

“You won't want to miss this race! So make your seat reservations before leaving the raceway tonight!”

When the announcer had finished, Tom turned to George. “No mention of the other colts in the race … or Bonfire,” he said a little bitterly.

“Bonfire's record of two nineteen at the Port Royal Fair don't mean much to 'em,” George returned. “Not when they're talkin' about two o three record colts.”

“But …”

“Sure, I know, Tom. We ain't let Bonfire out. But we will Saturday night.”

Nodding, Tom turned to look toward the paddock where the horses were coming promptly onto the track for the second race. He couldn't see much over the heads of the people in front of him, so finally he turned again to George. “The announcer said there'd be ten horses in the race Saturday night. That's a big field, George.”

“Too big,” his friend answered. “The track has room only for nine horses across it. It means whoever draws the number ten position will have to follow the others, racing behind the pole horse.”

“That won't be good,” Tom said thoughtfully.

“No, it won't. Not in a fast field like that one's going to be. You got to try to get out first with Bonfire, Tom. That way you can let him go … an' you won't have to worry about the drivin' of those guys behind you. Get Bonfire out front and keep him there. He'll stay there.”

“I know he will … 
if
I can get him out.”

“Number ten position will be the only one to stop you from gettin' him out, Tom … and the chances are only one in ten that you'll draw that spot.”

“I hope our luck holds, George—for all of us and for Jimmy.”

“The luck of the draw,” George muttered. “Tomorrow at noon we'll know.”

The next day, exactly at twelve o'clock, Bonfire was entered in the Two-Year-Old Championship Race. George turned over the five-hundred-dollar entrance fee to the race secretary, then stepped back in the office to make room for the other people who were entering their colts. He rejoined Tom and Uncle Wilmer in a far corner of the room, and waited with them for the entries to be finished and the draw for positions to begin.

Miss Elsie was there, but she only nodded to them and did not speak. Phillip Cox entered Silver Knight, then joined his driver, Ray O'Neil. Cox gazed several times at Tom and George, as though trying to remember
where he had seen them. Finally his glances ceased, and Tom knew that Coronet was too far removed from this Raceway and Cox's fight with Jimmy Creech too long ago for the wealthy sportsman to remember either. Not at this moment, anyway.

Neither did the slender, long-legged Ray O'Neil remember them from the Reading Fair two seasons before, when he had offered Jimmy Creech a new wheel for the one broken during the race. Frank Lunceford was in the room, too. It was Lunceford who had hooked sulky wheels with Jimmy at the Bedford Fair, the crash which had sent Jimmy to the hospital. George looked at the chubby, heavy-set man for a long while, expecting Lunceford to remember him because together they had gone to the hospital with Jimmy. But Lunceford didn't recognize him, either.

There were other young drivers in the room, and like Ray O'Neil and Frank Lunceford they were well known on every raceway track throughout the country. They had been through the drawings for position in championship races before, yet their faces and voices made it evident to Tom that they were as tense as he was. Like him, they knew that the luck of the draw would play an important part in the Two-Year-Old Championship.

The entries for the race closed, and, just as the announcer had told the crowd the night before, there were ten starters. Now would come the draw for positions.

The positions were to be assigned by lot. The race secretary put the name of each horse on a slip of paper, then deposited it in an upturned hat on his desk; his assistant stood beside him, shaking a box which was
closed except for a very small opening. Tom heard the rattling of the balls inside the box. He knew there were ten balls, numbered one to ten.

“Please,” he mumbled to himself, “any number but ten.”

Uncle Wilmer turned to him with keen, eager eyes. “You'll win with Bonfire even from ten, all right,” he said.

Tom managed a grim smile. No longer did they have to raise their voices for Uncle Wilmer to hear them; deafness was just a convenience, a way for him to escape Aunt Emma's wrath.

After shaking the hat with the slips of paper in it, the race secretary placed the hat on a shelf behind him. He couldn't see inside the hat now; no one could.

“Ready, Bill?” the secretary asked his assistant. “Let's go, then.”

No one in the room moved or talked when the race secretary drew one slip of paper from the hat and simultaneously his assistant shook out a numbered ball from the covered box.

“Victory Boy,” the secretary said, “number five position.”

Tom turned to Frank Lunceford, driver of Victory Boy, and saw the smile on the man's round, chubby face.

“That's okay,” Lunceford said, turning and leaving the room.

“Raider,” the secretary continued, drawing another slip of paper and reading it. He picked up the next ball that had been shaken from the box. “Number nine,” he added.