quit horse-training, and she would quite like it if he did, he would know a lot about hostile takeovers from claiming horses and having them claimed. Once you put your horse in a claiming race, it wasvery much like taking your small family-owned company public and having it bought out from under you. Sometimes, of course, your small family-owned company was a dud, and seeing it go was a pleasure. But other times the hostile takeover was painful. All trainers and many owners played this game, and Oliver expected to, also, but lately it hadn’t been fun at all.
The owner of a nice filly Buddy had claimed the day before was sitting in Farley’s office with Farley, asking, Oliver figured, about when they could claim the filly back. Through the window, Oliver could see Farley kind of shaking his head—not emphatically, not “no,” but sadly, just “I don’t think its a good idea.” The owner had bred the horse and was attached to her. The owner had been reluctant to put the horse in a claiming race. The owner was calling Farley’s judgment into question. That was something Oliver hated to see, because he knew that that was just the sort of thing that could build up around the track, especially up in the Turf Club, where the owners sat together and lamented their fates and told each other that, given how much money they were spending on the game, more of them, a majority of them, deserved to win. One of the distinctions between owners as a class and, say, grooms as a class was that, whereas grooms sometimes knew what they wanted and took it, owners always knew what they deserved. Assistant trainers, in Oliver’s experience, were generally unsure on both counts.
Farley, as you could tell by “The Tibetan Book of Thoroughbred Training,” didn’t know a thing about deserving, and so he and the owner were probably not even talking the same language. Oliver tried not to appear to be spying, but he watched as the owner stood up and turned toward the door. He was a good-looking guy, but he didn’t look happy. As he pulled the door open, he said, “I’m losing confidence in you, Farley, I’ve got to say—” But then he saw Oliver and fell silent, only adding, “Well, I’ll call you.”
“It’s up to you, John,” said Farley, congenially. But after the owner turned away, Oliver saw Farley’s face fall, just for a moment.
“You gonna claim her back?”
“I don’t think so. Let’s say the quickest I can get her back is a month from now. She’ll undoubtedly have run a time or two by then, and worked hard in between. No telling what kind of shape she’ll be in. No one I know who’s ever claimed a horse back from Buddy has been able to run it in the same class as when it got claimed away. Stress fractures, tendon inflammation, wind problems. Better to let her go.”
“What are you going to do?”
Farley looked at him. They both knew that Oliver was referring to the larger issue. Farley held his gaze, then smoothed down his mustache and beardin a habitual reflective gesture, running his thumb and forefinger along the line of his jaw. He said, “Every trainer goes through cycles, Oliver. The horses are earning their feed.”
“But what if the owners start stampeding?”
“I don’t know. You know, owners always think of themselves as predators. But they’ve always seemed kind of spooky to me. I don’t know.”
“But—”
Farley rocked back on his heels and his eyes began to twinkle. He was getting fatherly. He said, “Oliver, it’s okay not to know for now. Eventually we
will
know.”
“Farther along,” said Oliver.
“Farther along,” said Farley. “Did you get any of that soup? That was great soup. I loved that soup.”
Oliver nodded, and Farley walked away with his university-professor walk, a little stiff, a little remote, a little awkward. Everyone who had ever worked for Farley said the same thing—he was a great guy, but deep as a well and twice as dark.
9 / A MIRE
I N THE WEEK
The owner of a nice filly Buddy had claimed the day before was sitting in Farley’s office with Farley, asking, Oliver figured, about when they could claim the filly back. Through the window, Oliver could see Farley kind of shaking his head—not emphatically, not “no,” but sadly, just “I don’t think its a good idea.” The owner had bred the horse and was attached to her. The owner had been reluctant to put the horse in a claiming race. The owner was calling Farley’s judgment into question. That was something Oliver hated to see, because he knew that that was just the sort of thing that could build up around the track, especially up in the Turf Club, where the owners sat together and lamented their fates and told each other that, given how much money they were spending on the game, more of them, a majority of them, deserved to win. One of the distinctions between owners as a class and, say, grooms as a class was that, whereas grooms sometimes knew what they wanted and took it, owners always knew what they deserved. Assistant trainers, in Oliver’s experience, were generally unsure on both counts.
Farley, as you could tell by “The Tibetan Book of Thoroughbred Training,” didn’t know a thing about deserving, and so he and the owner were probably not even talking the same language. Oliver tried not to appear to be spying, but he watched as the owner stood up and turned toward the door. He was a good-looking guy, but he didn’t look happy. As he pulled the door open, he said, “I’m losing confidence in you, Farley, I’ve got to say—” But then he saw Oliver and fell silent, only adding, “Well, I’ll call you.”
“It’s up to you, John,” said Farley, congenially. But after the owner turned away, Oliver saw Farley’s face fall, just for a moment.
“You gonna claim her back?”
“I don’t think so. Let’s say the quickest I can get her back is a month from now. She’ll undoubtedly have run a time or two by then, and worked hard in between. No telling what kind of shape she’ll be in. No one I know who’s ever claimed a horse back from Buddy has been able to run it in the same class as when it got claimed away. Stress fractures, tendon inflammation, wind problems. Better to let her go.”
“What are you going to do?”
Farley looked at him. They both knew that Oliver was referring to the larger issue. Farley held his gaze, then smoothed down his mustache and beardin a habitual reflective gesture, running his thumb and forefinger along the line of his jaw. He said, “Every trainer goes through cycles, Oliver. The horses are earning their feed.”
“But what if the owners start stampeding?”
“I don’t know. You know, owners always think of themselves as predators. But they’ve always seemed kind of spooky to me. I don’t know.”
“But—”
Farley rocked back on his heels and his eyes began to twinkle. He was getting fatherly. He said, “Oliver, it’s okay not to know for now. Eventually we
will
know.”
“Farther along,” said Oliver.
“Farther along,” said Farley. “Did you get any of that soup? That was great soup. I loved that soup.”
Oliver nodded, and Farley walked away with his university-professor walk, a little stiff, a little remote, a little awkward. Everyone who had ever worked for Farley said the same thing—he was a great guy, but deep as a well and twice as dark.
9 / A MIRE
I N THE WEEK
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