Felix Francis - Triple Crown

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.

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

racecourses in New York, since 1867

The Triple Crown jamboree moved on from Baltimore to New York but, with three whole weeks between the Preakness and the Belmont Stakes, there was a slight pause for everyone to draw breath.

Fire Point arrived back at Belmont Park on the day after his great success at Pimlico, returning to his stall like some victorious Roman general through a guard of honour provided by the racetrack grooms, not only those from George Raworth’s barn but seemingly from every other barn on the backside as well.

The signwriter had already added and the Preakness Stakes to the ‘Home of Fire Point. Winner of the Kentucky Derby’ board screwed to the outside wall.

The local TV news channels were there in force to cover the homecoming, something that would do no harm at all for the marketing of the final leg. A Triple Crown contender was guaranteed to add tens of thou- sands of extra spectators to the gate come race day.

For my part, I did not look forward to settling back into regular Belmont Park life after the excitement of the week at Pimlico. True, it was a huge improvement to be sleeping again in a room with only the regularly drunk and flatulent Rafael, rather than with both Diego and Keith trying to out-snore one another, but, somehow, the fun had gone out of this particular assignment.

I was beginning to find the daily drudgery of a groom rather monotonous. Perhaps my enthusiasm would return as the Belmont approached, but that still seemed like a long way off.

I suppose happiness in any job has a lot to do with one’s expectation.

For Rafael, working as a groom in a top horseracing barn in New York City, where he was occasionally given overall responsibility, was the pinnacle of his ambition. He had escaped from the dismal poverty, appalling criminality and deadly danger of a Mexican slum to share a room with what he thought was only one Irishman instead of his whole extended family. He was quite obviously a happy individual, even when he was inebriated, smiling and singing his way through each day without a care in the world or an ounce of desire to do any better.

Diego, in contrast, was an angry young man.

No doubt he had originally travelled to the United States from Puerto Rico to seek his fortune, arriving in New York with an expectation that the streets would be paved with gold, only to have his hopes dashed by the reality. In his eyes, ending up as a mere groom at Belmont Park was living his life as a failure. Consequently, there was not an ounce of happiness to be found anywhere in his body.

And, sadly, after a few quieter days at Pimlico on his own, he was again supported by his Puerto Rican compatriots and thus somewhat bolder. Ever since the truck had arrived through the gates, he had been mouthing at me what I presumed were Spanish obscenities, or threats. On the plus side, however, we had also returned to the jurisdiction of the New York courts, which meant that his trip to Rikers Island was very much back on the cards.

I spoke to Tony Andretti on my second night back, after consuming yet another dose of Bert Squab’s extra-hot chilli con carne from the track kitchen.

‘Crackshot has got equine viral arteritis,’ Tony said. ‘It was confirmed today.’

I was not in the least bit surprised. Indeed, I would have been astounded if it had been anything else.

‘Bryson, Crackshot’s trainer, is creating merry hell and the Maryland Jockey Club are running round in ever-decreasing circles trying to determine where the infection came from. Norman Gibson has even initiated a FACSA investigation. What do you want me to tell him?’

‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Not yet.’

I could tell from a snort down the line that Tony didn’t like keeping information from his section chief.

‘And there’s more,’ Tony said at length. ‘The professor has also established that there was EVA virus in the semen sample, loads of it. I really think it’s time to arrest George Raworth.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘And for the same reason as before. Nothing concerning the semen sample would be admissible as evidence in court because it was removed from a locked place without a search warrant.’

‘Let’s get a warrant now, then,’ Tony said. ‘If we can find that cryo-flask, there will surely be some trace left in it we could analyse.’

‘I doubt that,’ I said. ‘And I don’t think the flask is even here. It’s probably still in Raworth’s Jeep. I haven’t seen that since the day after the Preakness and the flask definitely wasn’t in the truck with the other stuff when we returned from Pimlico.’

‘But we surely have enough to get the New York Racing Association to ban him.’ Tony was getting quite angry.

‘You think so, do you?’ I said rather sarcastically. ‘Do you remember that NFL quarterback who was banned for allegedly deflating footballs?’

‘Of course. Deflategate,’ Tony said. ‘Big news. Tom Brady of the New England Patriots. FACSA was peripherally involved with the investigation.’