Washed Away

1st Strike: Riding High

I fought my way through the crowd of reporters and cameramen, shoving and elbowing my way through my own stable, which was now packed like the 5:00 Tubes in London. I finally reached the stall of the center of all the media's attention.

"Everybody go home! I'm not answering any questions today!" I barked, making a few of the younger reporters jump.

"But Roy, just one question we all want you to answer-where is Live A Little headed next?"

"First of all, you and I," I jabbed my finger at the cheeky reporter, then at myself, "are not on a first name basis. Second of all, where Live A Little races next is up to him." I had to give the newspeople something to work with, though. "If he shows me he's ready to run in two weeks, we're Pacific Classic-bound. If not, maybe the Travers or something. Now, go away."

Showing impeccable timing, my big old Bernese Mountain Dog, Baron, barreled around the corner and down the shedrow toward Live A Little's stall, effectively scattering everyone in the barn except me. Other horses stuck their heads out of their stalls, craning their necks to see what Baron was barking at. It was just another morning in Barn 11 at Keeneland Racecourse in the heart of Kentucky Bluegrass country. I was trying my best to hide my Kentucky Derby and Preakness champion, Live A Little, from the press, but it's hard to hide a half-ton animal with a mind of its own in a barn made of rectangular wooden stalls that had no secret panels or out-of-view nooks and crannies.

Allowing myself to relax a little, I walked back outside the barn. I looked at the plaque on the outside. Painted in neat green letters, it read as follows:

Barn 11
Roy Niykson
(Trainer)

My poor plaque. Someone (me) had scratched out my last name and written the pronunciation above it. Nye-k-sin. No one ever said it right, and one day, in a fit of anger, I scratched it out. Now, it looked like crap.

I turned my back on the sign and stable and walked over to Barn 9, the barn of William Tasmora, an up-and-coming trainer who had the support of my brother. My brother, Terrence, was a billionaire, having helped to start multiple successful companies before selling all of them. Now, he owned racehorses, but he had decided to send them to William and not his own brother. I was good friends with William, so I didn't care that much, but it still stung inside.

"Hey Bill, how're the horses?" I asked as I walked up to my good friend, who was, as usual, pacing down his shedrow and pondering the future of his horses.
"Fine. I got no three-year-olds half as good as yours, though. Unless I get a great shipment from Terrence, I won't be seeing you in races for a while. Well, except for Live A Little's races. Everyone will come to see those. Congrats, by the way. The New York Times has an article coming out about how you're a good trainer and nice and all, but are an arsehole to the media."

"It's hard to like them when you were one and know all the tricks they're trying to play. It's hard to like them when you know half of them were set on your trail by your brother."

Just then, a groom led in a dark bay colt with one white stocking and a huge blaze down his nose.
"Who's that?" I asked Bill, pointing to the colt.
"Uhh...he's a two-year-old. Disappointing, really. He works real slow."
"I asked who."
"Cometogetya. His dam is Embellish the Lace and his sire is Archarcharch."
"Interesting cross."
"That's what I thought. I'll probably sell him in November, though."
"No. No, you can't do that, Bill." I had a suspicion that this horse was going to be good. He had a nice, fluid stride, and as he passed me, I saw him look at me intelligently. Smart and well-built. If you don't start with a good horse, those are the two qualities you need to make a good horse. "I think this one's a late bloomer. Keep him. Just maybe put blinkers on him."

Bill pondered that for a few seconds, then nodded. We exchanged some more small talk before parting ways, both having our own horses to look after.

As I walked toward Live A Little's stall, I stopped. I was 10 feet away from the door, and I couldn't get any closer due to all the flowers and other gifts clumped in front of the Derby and Preakness winner's stall. After finishing 4th in the Belmont, I thought the Live A Little fandom would lose a lot of members, but Live A Little was following in California Chrome's footsteps and still had a gigantic fanbase.

Buried among the gifts was a box of chocolates for "the wonderful trainer of such an amazing three-year-old." I didn't consider myself wonderful, but when given free chocolate, you eat said chocolate.

As I sat on a bale of hay across from Live A Little's stall, I hoped that this would continue. Even though I hated the press, I would take them over the nearly empty stable I had had two years ago. Once I got Live A Little and trained him to win, my training career took off. Now, my biggest concern was where to take Live A Little next: the Travers or the Pacific Classic.

In the end, it didn't matter much. Deciding that my colt was ready to race again, I took him to Del Mar and the Pacific Classic. The crowd on Pacific Classic day was the highest Del Mar had had since Shared Belief's win 15 years ago. They all came to see Live A Little win, and he did just that. He romped, wiring the highly-talented field by 8 lengths. When reporters asked me where I was taking "my champion" next, I gave them all the information I knew at that point: Live A Little was going to the Breeders' Cup Classic at his home track Keeneland.