Free Close Call by John McEvoy Page A

here item is for horses with real hard jaws. There’s a spoon-shaped prong that jabs the horse’s jaw when he lugs in or bears out. It works pretty good on Editorialist. He’s brought a check back every time I’ve run him this year. What did you say again about somebody’s boss?”
    Doyle sidestepped having to explain his reference to rock star Bruce Springsteen, instead using the next few minutes to present his reasons for wanting to interview Eckrosh and write about his sensational filly. “Rambling Rosie could provide a pretty good publicity boost for this track, which certainly needs it,” he said. Eckrosh listened intently. Finally, he said, “Okay.” He got up from behind his desk. “How long you been working here, son?” Doyle said “a little more than three weeks.” Eckrosh nodded. He said, “You want to see Rosie?”
    Eckrosh led the way to the second stall from the end of the barn. The groom had finished her raking and was sitting on an equipment trunk, cleaning a bridle. The trainer said to Jack, “This is Maria Martinez.” Doyle smiled at her, adding, “We’ve already met.” She nodded. Eckrosh said, “Maria, bring out Rosie.” Doyle thought he saw Eckrosh give her a wink. Does this old fart have something going with the senorita? He wondered. Maria, looking slightly embarrassed and struggling to hide a smile, got to her feet and entered the stall. Seconds later she led out a tall brown animal that whinnied with delight at being released from his twenty-two hour per day confinement. Doyle could feel the eyes of Eckrosh and Maria trained on him as he appraised this gawky creature.
    “Nice,” Doyle said, and Eckrosh nodded expectantly, trying to keep a straight face. “Nice try, that is.” Doyle kicked at the dirt. “Jesus, Eckrosh,” he said, “I may have been born at night, but it wasn’t last night. I’m not a racetrack lifer like you, but I’ve been around enough to tell a six or seven-year-old gelding from a three-year-old filly. Why are you trying to pass off this sickle hocked old item as Rambling Rosie?”
    The old man’s face flushed. Marie turned the horse around and led him back into his stall, her eyes averted. Eckrosh said, “Now, don’t get all huffy, son. I just wanted to see if you knew which end was which. I’ve had writers coming around here the last few years, bothering me, that couldn’t pick out Secretariat in a herd of buffalo. They’re annoying as hell. They read their damned statistics sheets, and past performances, and figure they know horses and horse racing. I just wanted to see if you were one of that crowd.” He paused before admitting, “You know more than I was about to give you credit for.”
    With another signal to Maria, out came Rambling Rosie, nickering and nudging the groom’s shoulder. Maria led her out of the barn a few feet onto the grassy patch that bordered the building. She turned the filly around for Doyle, who looked her over from head to toe. The first impression he had was how small she was. Eckrosh must have expected that reaction, for he said, “She can’t weigh more than eight hundred and fifty pounds, a couple hundred less than your average horse. And,” he went on, “usually your top horses are the tall, big-bodied ones. But there are exceptions to every rule. And you’re looking at one of them,” Eckrosh said proudly. Doyle was making notes as the trainer continued his assessment. “When you look at her, nothing really stands out except her head and eye. She’s got a very intelligent eye. But then you look again and you see, even though she’s on the small side, everything she’s got is in balance. She’s the quickest horse I’ve ever had. That, and her will to win, is what makes her stand out.”
    Doyle patted the friendly filly on her neck. He didn’t have to reach up to do it. “I don’t even think she’s fifteen hands tall, is she?” he said. “Probably not,” Eckrosh said. “But I’ve never measured