When Capp arrived at the depot in Louisville, there was no delegation from Churchill Downs to greet him. He hadn’t expected it, even though his dad had made a few calls. Who was he to expect there would be someone to greet him? Grabbing his suitcase off the porter’s cart, he walked out to the street. He knew it wouldn’t be difficult to find a ride to the track. Surely, many people were going that way.
He flagged down a 1930 vermillion-red Ford pickup truck with a stainless-steel radiator, whitewalls, and a chrome spare-tire cover. It was the kind of truck not seen often during these times. Capp flattered its driver by claiming it was the best-looking ride he‘d ever seen. “This truck belongs in a parade, not running ruts on a farm,” said Capp.
The young driver laughed. “My daddy gave it to me. He runs a horse ranch. Said I’d earned it. Girls sure like it.” The driver, dressed like Capp with a Stetson, polished boots, and a western-style shirt, happily agreed to drop Capp at the entrance to Churchill Downs, Louisville’s source of pride.
When the pickup finally stopped at the destination, the young man pointed to the entrance. “Hope you find what you’re looking for,” the driver said. “If you meet up with someone named Tilly, tell her Martin said hi. Now there’s a pretty filly, if ever there was one. Willing too. Tilly the filly, we call her.” He laughed out loud as he drove away.
Capp walked to the entrance and could feel his heart pumping. He took a deep breath in an effort to calm himself. His legs had stiffened while on the train. Putting down his suitcase, he stretched each leg and rubbed his thighs deeply. Reaching for the brim of his hat, he made a slight adjustment and proceeded to the buildings that made up Churchill Downs.
When he arrived at the track, he took a moment to make a 360-degree observation of all that was before him. The viewing stands, the twin spires, the track, the fencing and the workers. The place was humming with activity. There was a rhythm to the operation. Workers were abundant and busy. Horses were being led and exercised on the grounds. Beautiful thoroughbreds of every imaginable color combination: bay, dark bay, chestnut, black, gray, and white.
Twenty horses were being worked on the track. Capp counted them. Most riders were up in the saddle and holding the reins taut, keeping the horses at an even breeze. Gentle and easy, Capp thought. Let the horses have fun. Make them want to race. He went to the fence on the clubhouse side of the track and just watched for a while.
The barns and stables made up a backside of immense size. He realized that Glidewell, although smaller, was just as state of the art. For a horse ranch in Missouri, Glidewell was a jewel of a place; however, Churchill Downs was a diamond. Capp realized that its history—the horses and riders that ran here: Black Gold, Behave Yourself, Exterminator, and Regret—made Churchill Downs special. Wil had told Capp that they had been to Churchill Downs when he was a little tyke, but Capp had no memory of it. This was indeed where Capp needed to be. He turned from the fence and went looking for someone who could tell him where to check in.
He went into one of the barns and approached a young groomsman cooling down a thoroughbred. When the boy looked up, Capp smiled and extended his hand. After turning off the water hose, the groom returned the smile and shook Capp’s hand. “My name is Capp Wembley. I’m a manager at Glidewell Ranch in Missouri.”
“My name is Skip. Never heard of a Glidewell Ranch. What you doin’ here at Churchill Downs?”
“Here to secure an apprenticeship or maybe a job. Want to learn all I can about thoroughbred racing. Do you know someone I can talk to?”
“Lots of work here,” laughed Skip. “But not sure about jobs.”
“Not a job then, an apprenticeship that is what the letter said.”
“Letter?”
“A letter inviting me.”
“Well, times are tough. We have over five hundred thoroughbreds here being trained right now. The trainers are the ones you need to talk to. Check with Bob Hench over there, the man with the baseball hat. That’s his barn.”
“Thanks.” Capp walked over to the barn and introduced himself to Bob. Bob was a friendly sort and, as luck would have it, he was in need of help. When Capp explained all of his horse experience, Bob offered him an apprenticeship immediately.
“Go see the backside manager. Office is down at the end of this walkway. Check in with the secretary. She can assign you a bunk. Just tell her you are working on Bob Hench’s team. She knows I’m needing a good rider. I’ll cover your room and board.”
“Thanks, that’s it?” questioned Capp in disbelief.
“That’s it. No money, just room and board. If you can do what you say, we need you. When you are done, come back here. You and I will go to lunch and talk thoroughbred horses.” He reached to shake Capp’s hand. “You got yourself a warm coat? It’ll be gettin’ cold.”
“Sheepskin, right here in my suitcase.”
“Good thing, we start around here at five or six a.m.,” warned Bob.
“Same as Glidewell. Watching the sunrise on horseback is a wonderful thing.” He turned to go check in.
Capp went looking for the backside office. He felt a lightness, a happiness. The fact that he was now a man working and learning at Churchill Downs was sinking in. The backside office, situated under the grandstand, was well marked. Opening the door caused bells to ring—a cheerful welcoming. They rang again as he closed the door. Seated at a large desk was an attractive blonde woman. “You must be the secretary?”
As Capp approached the counter, it hit him. “Matilda?”
Matilda put down her pen and stared. “I’ll be, if it isn’t the wrangler from Missouri, Cowboy Capp. You made
