Man O'War (35 page)

“We should know in a few days' time,” Feustel said quietly.

For another week they remained at Havre de Grace while Man o' War was rested and Feustel worked on the injured leg. He rubbed the tendon gently and very patiently, well knowing the seriousness of such an injury if the tendon didn't heal. But it responded to treatment and Man o' War became more and more restless in his confinement. Feustel decided that it was time to ship the big colt back to Belmont Park and resume workouts. He advised the press that Man o' War would race Sir Barton as planned.

The first day back at the metropolitan track Feustel let Kummer gallop Man o' War and the leg held up without strain. In fact, the colt never looked better. The week's rest had done him a lot of good. He could be asked for more speed any time now, any time at all.

The next day Feustel had Kummer move him a mile in 1:45; then two days later he had him go a mile and a quarter in 2:09. The track was sloppy but Man o' War was fighting for his head all the way. Feustel knew then that Man o' War was in perfect condition and ready for any kind of test against Sir Barton.

In many ways, Feustel decided, he would be glad when it was all over. He was weary of reporters following his every move and of having to answer their persistent questions. They were calling the coming race “The Match of the Ages.” Well, the trainer mused, it was what the public had wanted for a long while, beginning back at Saratoga, when both Man o' War and Sir Barton had set their records. There had been no avoiding the insistent clamor for such a match, and the only question had been where and when. Churchill Downs had offered a
purse of $25,000 if the two horses met there. Then Laurel had bid for the attraction, increasing the purse to $30,000. Finally, Kenilworth Park in Canada had got it, with a fantastic bid of $75,000 to the winner! It was the largest single purse ever offered and if Man o' War won it, he would go to the head of the list of America's leading money winners.

Feustel would have preferred seeing the race take place in New York rather than away up in Canada. He couldn't understand why none of the metropolitan tracks had bid for the contest that would decide the kingship of the American turf. The demand for the race had been loudest here, and the crowd would have been larger than anywhere else. But Commander Ross, owner of Sir Barton, was a Canadian and that, together with the large purse offered, had won Kenilworth the match race. It was just across the river from Detroit, so Americans would have easy access to it. It wouldn't be too bad, but it wasn't perfect.

Two days before shipping Man o' War to Canada, Feustel sent him the race distance of a mile and a quarter with Kummer up and carrying full weight of 120 pounds. He watched the colt run easily, seemingly without extending himself, and clocked him in 2:02 flat. He wouldn't have believed his watch if others hadn't caught him in about the same time, with one “clocker” still faster. He turned away from the reporters who pursued him and Man o' War, seeking the quiet that could be found only behind the closed doors of the stall.

Soon it would be over, he thought with relief. No longer would his every movement be watched, his casual remark repeated and published for the world to read. No longer would he be the subject of intense criticism as well as envy. It was not easy to be the trainer of a wonder horse. It took more endurance, more stamina, than most people realized. The fans didn't
seem to know that even a great horse could be beaten by a misstep on the track, a stable accident, a bad slip, even a slight cold or an off day. A severe public would tolerate no excuse, even the thousand or more trivial ones that could defeat Man o' War.

Yes, I will be glad when he's retired
, Feustel thought wearily.
Maybe there'll never be another like him, as they say, but if there is I don't want him in my stable.

He didn't like match races, and he would have preferred unwinding Man o' War now, in preparation for his retirement, to the contest at Kenilworth Park. A match race was a
spectacle
more than a part of the great sport he loved. It was a big show, and big business, too, with a purse of $75,000 going to the winner. He didn't even think it was in the best interest of racing. But he was only a trainer and, it seemed, a lot of other people thought differently. It was his job to get the big colt ready to race and to keep him sound. He had accomplished both. Man o' War was ready to do something greater than ever before, if necessary. And he was sound. His injured leg had cleaned right up and was cool and hard. The track at Kenilworth was as loose as the one at Havre de Grace, but it wouldn't bother him. Man o' War was a real champion.

The Riddle stable arrived at Kenilworth Park on October 7, and Danny's most important job was to see that no one who was not directly connected with the stable touched Man o' War. Not that he didn't have plenty of help. With the race only a few days off, Mr. Riddle had ordered all his employees to take every precaution to assure the champion's safety. So night and day Man o' War was guarded, and the hundreds of strangers who visited the stable area were kept well away from him.

At first Danny thought Mr. Riddle was being overconcerned.
Then his apprehensions, too, became greater as the pressure mounted and crowds began pouring into Kenilworth from all over the United States, Canada, and even Europe. Newsmen and photographers were everywhere, never giving the Riddle stable any peace, and their stories and pictures appeared in all the newspapers and magazines.

Never in his wildest dreams had Danny anticipated such tremendous interest on the part of the public in the match race. People who had never seen a horse race or never before been interested in one were being made aware of the contest. For descending upon Kenilworth were the most eminent dignitaries of the world, and this in itself focused attention on the race to come. Everybody who was anybody was there.

Danny watched the temporary stands being constructed to accommodate the thousands upon thousands who demanded seats. The infield would be thrown open too on race day, and special trains were already running between American and Canadian cities.

He would be very glad when this last race was over, he decided. It was time to go home, to call an end to the growing legend that had begun at Nursery Stud. He wanted the peace and quiet of a farm,
any
farm, just so long as Man o' War was there, too. He had expected his colt to be a champion because he had loved him, but never one of such overwhelming magnitude as this! The only escape for them was
home.

The weather was perfect on race day, the sun hot but the air cool and bracing. In the stall, Man o' War jerked his head away from Danny's hands. He was ready to go. He seemed to know the time had come.

Samuel Riddle, glad too that this was the very last race for Man o' War, watched his colt come into the saddling paddock. He had taken just about all he could from the public, from
newsmen, even from other horsemen. Ordinarily he was not a nervous man, but the ordeal of racing such a horse as Man o' War had been almost too much of a strain for him. One went into the sport of racing horses for the enjoyment of it. This had developed into something far more than that. Oh, it was true that Man o' War had provided thrills for him never to be equaled again. But at the same time, never had life been more nerve-racking.

A motion picture company was filming the race, and its director asked him to go forward to greet Man o' War. He refused adamantly. He had too much at stake today to be agreeable. A great mob was surging into the paddock, and he wondered why the track police weren't more efficient about keeping the people back. Didn't they realize Man o' War could be injured seriously?

“Is it true you're going to exhibit him at the Chicago World's Fair?” a reporter asked, pulling on his coat sleeve.

“No!” he almost shouted in answer. His eyes remained on Man o' War, and a great sense of pride suddenly swept over him. Despite all his problems, no feeling in the world could compare with this moment.

“He'll run Sir Barton into the ground!” a friend said.

“I hope so,” another interjected. “Sir Barton hasn't been working well, but he never was a workhorse. He waits for the races. He's ready to go in this one, I hear. We've got to watch out.”

Mr. Riddle sighed wearily. He wasn't listening to his friends anymore in their predictions, whether in favor of or against Man o' War. He felt like an old hand at this game in which he was comparatively new. With a horse like Man o' War you learned fast.

He glanced at Sir Barton a short distance away, well aware
of the tremendous pride the Canadians had in their champion. He seemed to be fit and eager to go. They'd find out more about him in a few minutes' time.

Clarence Kummer came into the paddock, carrying his racing saddle. Feustel took it from him, examining the girth and stirrup leather carefully before placing the light saddle on Man o' War's back. Kummer smiled patiently at the trainer's close inspection of his tack. It was in perfect shape, but no one was taking any chances today.

In a way he was glad it was to be his last ride on the big colt. So far he'd been able to pilot him without making a mistake. He didn't want to make any wrong moves. If he ever lost with the eyes of the world on Man o' War, public criticism would be so severe he'd never be able to rise above it.

Feustel boosted him into the saddle. Picking up the reins, Kummer spoke softly to his mount. He noted the black and yellow ribbons Danny Ryan had braided in the mane. Pretty, very pretty. The kid cared about his job and his horse.

They started around the walking ring and Kummer's gaze shifted to Feustel. “Any instructions?” he asked.

“Don't let this race get you excited,” the trainer said. “Ride it as you would any race. Go to the front as soon as you can, and that will be it.”

The crowd pressed close, wanting to touch Man o' War. Kummer tried to move away, but it took the track police to clear a path for them. He glanced at Sir Barton just beyond.

The short, compact horse might give them trouble, he decided. Sir Barton looked eager to run, his strides even now showing restlessness. He wore blinkers and was up against the bit; he didn't seem to be bothered by the crowd.

Sir Barton looked more like a sprinter than the stayer he was. He had won many long races including the Kentucky
Derby, the Preakness, and the Belmont at a mile and one half. He had the speed with the inner courage to go on. Kummer knew that his rider, Frank Keogh, would try to go to the front with him, setting the pace, so the first quarter of a mile should be a horse race anyway.

Kummer's eyes remained on the rival jockey. Only a few hours ago, around noon, Earl Sande had been taken down from Sir Barton and this fellow had gone up in his place. That, too, was part of riding Thoroughbreds … make one wrong move and you found yourself on the ground without a mount.

The “backside” talk was that Sande had made his wrong move months ago, when he had ridden Man o' War for the first and only time in the Miller Stakes. After winning it, he had remarked to the press that Man o' War was the best horse he had ever ridden. Commander Ross hadn't liked having his contract jockey make such statements in favor of another horse. So Sande, after two years of riding Sir Barton, found himself on the ground today. If the story was true, Kummer decided, Commander Ross had chosen a spectacular time for switching riders.

Kummer dropped Man o' War behind Sir Barton as they left the walking ring for the track. He didn't blame Sande at all for turning in his contract with Ross and announcing publicly that he'd never ride another horse for that stable. It was humiliating to be taken down in such a way, and Kummer decided he would have done the same thing.

But right now he had his own problems. The trainers of both horses had said their entries were ready to race, and there would be no excuses in case of defeat. Kummer knew
he
wouldn't be allowed any excuses, either. He had to make this a good ride, his
last
ride on Man o' War.

There was a lot of applause when they rode onto the track,
and Kummer thought most of it was for Man o' War. He watched Sir Barton a few strides ahead of them; the older champion was still restive and straining to be turned loose. On the other hand, Man o' War was more quiet than ever before.

Kummer wondered if he should shake up his mount a bit. It wasn't like Man o' War to walk so placidly past the milling thousands who were applauding him. He decided to do nothing to stir up the colt and let matters stand as they were. Man o' War was smart enough to know what it was all about. Maybe he missed the band music, for there was none at Kenilworth today. It could be something as simple as that. At any rate, he wasn't going to worry about it.

From his saddle he seemed to tower above the jockey just ahead of him, for Man o' War was at least a hand taller than Sir Barton. The older champion was chunky and robust compared to his mount's great bulk. But he mustn't underestimate Sir Barton, Kummer decided; it would be fatal if he did. The older horse had the habit of smothering his competition in the early stages of a race and “winning all the way,” just as Man o' War did.

The barrier was waiting for them at the top of the homestretch. Since the Kenilworth track was a mile oval, they would come down the full stretch, passing the stands and going around the course to finish in front of the crowd again. It would make an easy race for the spectators to watch.

Kummer took Man o' War behind the barrier, aware that even now his mount was much quieter than usual. He hoped he wouldn't have to stir him up to get away, and yet he didn't want to be left behind either. Sir Barton was on the rail, and Kummer had no doubt that Keogh would try to make every pole a winning one. It would be a duel of speed, stamina, and heart from the very beginning. Neither horse could run all-out
over the full distance of the race, but
one
would carry his speed longer than the other. Kummer was convinced it would be his colt who would accomplish this feat.