Oh Storyteller!
They say she talks to horses
Ann McGinny was standing along the rail, between the quarter pole and finish line, when they fell in front of her. It was a terrible tumble of animal and rider crashing to the track. Sound of snapping bones was felt as much as heard and the impact shook the soggy ground beneath her feet. Around them, the orderly, thundering herd of thoroughbreds driving to the finish line disintegrated into a slipping jumble of 1000 pound racehorses dancing to stay on their feet. Jockeys in mud spattered silks cursed and yelled as they frantically steered their swerving horses around the falling pair in front of them. Those jockeys never looked back. Their grim, mud-spattered faces focused only on the finish line ahead as they whipped their tiring steeds to move even faster on the sloppy track. Driving to the win was all that matter.
At this time of day, Ann would not have been down on the track. She usually watched the late races from the press box, but she had come down to see an old friend run. And, to look for a story, any story, that she could fold into her next column for the Form. It was one of those days when she could find nothing to say, a terrible place to be as a writer with a deadline.
The weather matched Ann’s pessimistic mood. Low, dark clouds framed a track that had gone from muddy to sloppy in a steady chilly rain…
