Two weeks had passed since the Shuka Sho.
I needed no reminder on my phone. The moment I opened my eyes that morning, I remembered that today was the day Sawin would run in the Autumn Emperor's Prize. The draw for the starting gates had already taken place a few days earlier.
While Light's Wedge's camp had gotten their wish with gate seven, a popular draw in recent years, Sawin had drawn the outside gate thirteen.
I did not actually believe that the draw alone had already decided which horse had the advantage.
Still, a certain deputy farm manager and several other farm employees seemed to have been rather unsettled ever since watching the live broadcast of the draw.
McQueen had been disqualified from gate thirteen, too—thoughts like that had certainly crossed my mind at the draw ceremony. But racing was, after all, a contest of both ability and luck.
"With Sawin's ability, any gate is fine as long as it isn't gate one or the far outside gate fifteen."
Of course, if he really had to start from gate one or the far outside, I would rather not. "A Grade 1? No, I'd be happy just to enter a graded stakes race."
That was how all owners thought at first.
But when race day arrived, whether it was the atmosphere at the track stirring their hearts or their pride as owners, everyone would find themselves thinking, "I want to win," however slim their chances might be.
Owners were a bunch who would never be satisfied.
That morning, I read the Nikkan Sports from cover to cover, refusing to put the newspaper down even over breakfast.
The television in my hotel room had also been showing racing news the whole time, though I had not paid particular attention to what