Secretariat Reborn by Susan Klaus Page B

wiped the perspiration off his brow. “So—your first big race,” he said, finally. “You should be excited.”
    “I am.” Christian said somberly. He took a breath and decided to let the beating comment slide. He hated violence against women. More than once, he had stepped in and pulverized a sorry excuse of a man. He began to realize that the backside of a track might be as rough as a redneck bar.
    “The fourth race should go off around two,” said Price.
    “What’s the distance and purse?”
    “The racing daily is in my office,” said Price. “With so many horses, I can’t remember them all.”
    They walked to his office in the middle of the barn, and Price opened the door to a small air-conditioned room with a cluttered desk, worn-out couch, and a few chairs.
    Price sat down at the desk, picked up a paper, and studied it. “He’s running a mile on dirt and is the number three horse in the fourth race. The purse is twenty thousand, the winner taking sixty percent plus a few thousand in the Florida-Bred awards.” Price leaned back in the chair. “But don’t hold your breath. Horses get rattled first time out, but if he doesn’t run into any trouble, he should finish in the money.”
    “Twenty thousand? What kind of race is this?”
    Price glanced back at the sheet and mumbled, “Twenty-five thousand maiden claiming.”
    “Claiming?” Christian scowled, knowing Hunter could be purchased for twenty-five grand after the race. “My father wants him in a special weight.”
    “He’s not fast enough.” Price handed Christian the paper. “Here, look at his morning workouts below his name and compare them with the other horses in this race. They’re close to the same time.He’s running in the right company, the right race. The majority of horses start as claimers, even some Derby winners. Without claiming races, a fast horse would keep cleaning up the cheap purses. This way, the owner risks losing his horse. Keeps the business honest.”
    Christian scanned the race sheet. Some horses had even better times than Hunter. He gnawed his thumbnail, a nervous habit he couldn’t stop. “I don’t understand. How could Hunter have gotten slower? My father isn’t going to be happy.”
    “Like I said, your dad must’ve had a fast watch. If your father is any kind of a trainer, he knows you never outclass a horse, don’t want him to run his heart out, only to finish dead last. A Thoroughbred runs because he wants to lead the herd. It’s ego. No training or jockey can instill that desire and make him go faster. But pit him against better horses enough times, and he’ll lose his confidence and stop trying.”
    Price stroked his mustache. “That’s what happened to Seabiscuit back in the thirties. As a two-year-old, he was worked against other horses and not allowed to beat them, then he was over-raced and tired. He lost his motivation. A good trainer and a lot of patience fixed that little horse, and he went on to beat War Admiral, a Triple Crown winner.”
    Two employees came into the office and said something in Spanish to Price.
    “Excuse me, Christian,” said Price. He glanced at a schedule and relayed orders to them, also in Spanish. They left, and he turned back to Christian.
    “Where were we? Oh, yes, your colt,” he said. “If he runs today and manages to blow away the field, you’ll end up with roughly thirteen thousand, including the breeder’s awards, and that’s minus the jockey’s and my ten percent of the purse. If he wins, we’ll move him into an allowance race next time out, and he’ll be more ready. Or I can scratch him, but it might be several weeks before I find another race that fits him. It’s up to you. Has your father seen his workout times?”
    “No, he’s sick with cancer. I don’t want to upset him.”
    “Well, if he knew the times, he’d surely agree with me.” Price grabbed an envelope off his desk. “By the way, here’s my bill. Might as well hand it to you