I thought they were in danger of transmitting their nervousness to the horses, and it was a great relief when a track official arrived to announce that it was time for the walkover.
The Preakness Barn was behind the grandstand, so the horses were walked right round the public enclosures and then back along the track in order to be paraded in front of the crowd.
For this race, there was a special mounting yard in the centre of the course opposite the finish line and beyond the turf track, and half the field were saddled in there, while the rest, including Raworth’s three, went down the ramp into the indoor paddock.
‘It’s quieter inside,’ George said. ‘Helps keep them calm.’
It wasn’t the horses that needed to be kept calm, I thought.
Crackshot was also being saddled inside and I looked over to where Tyler was placidly holding the horse’s head while the trainer made him ready. There appeared to be no concern whatsoever over his health.
Eventually all was ready.
I led Heartbeat up the ramp to the track with Maria on the other side of his head.
She ignored me completely and I didn’t speak to her. It was for the best, I thought, and safer for the both of us. It didn’t, however, stop Diego glaring at me with his cold black eyes as he and Charlie Hern followed us up the ramp with Classic Comic. Fire Point, flanked by Keith and George, brought up the rear of the three.
Out in the mounting yard, Victor Gomez was waiting for Heartbeat, having been promoted from stable exercise rider to big-race jockey for the day.
‘Just like old times,’ he said as I gave him a leg-up. ‘It is eight years since I had a ride in the Preakness.’ He gave me a gappy-toothed grin like a kid with stolen candy.
I watched as George Raworth tossed Jerry Fernando up onto Fire Point’s back and Charlie did likewise with the jockey riding Classic Comic. Then we led the horses back onto the dirt track and handed them over to the outriders on their lead ponies, to take them to the start.
There was nothing more we could do. It was up to them now.
I realised that, despite my firm intention not to become emotionally involved, I was actually getting quite excited as the race time approached.
A trio of top-hatted and scarlet-coated trumpeters walked out onto the track and played the traditional ‘Call to Post’, and then everyone joined as one in singing, ‘Maryland, My Maryland’, the official song of the state.
American sporting venues certainly knew how to wind the crowd up into a frenzy. By the time the starting gates swung open, the noise was so loud that I had absolutely no chance of hearing the race commentary from where I stood on the grooms’ stand.
But I could see one of the big TV screens set up in the infield.
The horses broke in an even line with Crackshot on the inside rail and Heartbeat outside him. Victor Gomez immediately took Heartbeat ahead and to his left, squeezing the Florida Derby winner for space and forcing his jockey to take a strong pull on the reins to prevent a collision. The poor horse would have been confused with a ‘go’ message as the gates opened being followed by a ‘stop’ one only a few paces later. Not surprisingly, he dropped back sharply.
Fire Point, meanwhile, had a clear run from Gate 8 allowing him to establish a lead of some six or seven lengths over his main rival as they passed the finish line for the first time.
Crackshot’s troubles continued round the clubhouse bend as he was boxed in by both Heartbeat and Classic Comic, who seemed to have nothing else in their game plan but to thwart the progress of the big bay colt.
By the time the lead horses were at the half-mile pole, and Crackshot had finally worked himself away from the rail and past his distractors, he was all but out of contention, having been forced to make up ground while the others were taking a back-stretch breather.
Not that it really mattered.
Crackshot would not have won the race anyway.
The horse was clearly labouring as they straightened up for the run to the line and, when his jockey asked him for a supreme effort, there was nothing left in the tank.
Fire Point, in contrast, was having a dream race. Always well placed on the outside shoulder of the lead horse, Jerry Fernando kicked for home off the final turn and sprinted away impressively from the pack to win by four lengths, much to the delight of George and Charlie who I could see laughing and embracing in the stands.
Crackshot trailed in a disappointing seventh, behind Classic Comic and Heartbeat, both of whom had repassed him in the final hundred yards.
The crowd were relatively subdued by the result, as no one enjoyed watching a horse finish a race in the sort of distress that Crackshot was clearly exhibiting. There was even a smattering of boos, as some rightly disapproved of the apparent Raworth tactics, but even the least discerning of them could not seriously argue that Crackshot would have won with an uninterrupted passage.
And George Raworth certainly didn’t care.
He was smiling from ear to ear as he led Fire Point into the winner’s circle alongside the horse’s owner, who was equally delighted. Even an announcement over the public address system that the stewards would hold an inquiry didn’t seem to bother him.
Maybe it was because he knew that, even if the stewards found Heartbeat or Classic Comic guilty of interference, they couldn’t take the race away from Fire Point just because all three horses happened to be trained by the same man.
In the event, the stewards took no action at all, other than to give Victor Gomez a ten-day suspension for careless riding after he had admitted to accidently taking Crackshot’s ground after the break from the starting gate. The fact that everyone knew it had not been accidental was irrelevant, there was insufficient evidence on the video footage to prove it, and the incident had clearly not cost Crackshot the race.
I didn’t know how I felt about things. It was difficult not to be drawn into the celebrations among the staff in the Raworth camp over wins in the first two Triple Crown legs, but there was a huge part of me that despised the man himself for cheating his way to such a position, as I was sure he had done.
I led Heartbeat back to the Preakness Barn to find that there was much veterinary activity in and around Crackshot’s stall.
‘Take that damn horse outside,’ someone shouted at me as I tried to hot-walk Heartbeat round the shedrow.
I took him back out into the hot sunshine, which wasn’t ideal, and tied him to a fence in the shade of a large tree. Then I hurried back inside to see what was going on.
Tyler was standing in the shedrow, watching three other men busy in Crackshot’s stall. There was deep worry etched on his face.
‘What’s up?’ I asked him.
‘Crackshot is sick,’ he said in his deep bass tone. ‘The veterinarians are worried that the race has affected his heart.’
I looked into the stall. The poor horse was dripping with sweat and clearly very unwell.
‘It is very hot here today,’ I said.
‘Not as hot as he’s used to in Florida,’ Tyler replied.
That was true.
‘Have they taken a blood sample?’ I asked.
Tyler nodded. ‘First thing they did.’
I wanted to tell them it wasn’t his heart that was the problem.
They should test his blood for equine viral arteritis.
Leg 3:
The Belmont Stakes
‘The Test of the Champion’
A mile and a half
Belmont Park, New York
Three weeks after the Preakness
Five weeks after the Kentucky Derby
First run at Belmont Park 1905,
previously run at Jerome Park and Morris Park