The Eighty-Dollar Champion - Elizabeth Letts [107]
On the morning of November 2, 1958, Harry awoke at three a.m. after having barely slept. He had been out at the barn late getting the horses ready, and now he had to prepare for the trip to Manhattan. Long before dawn, he tossed fresh hay into Snowman’s feeder, straightened his blanket, and gathered up the thick cotton batting and rolls of wool flannel that he used to bandage the horse’s legs to protect them from injury in the horse trailer. The ride into the city, with its jarring potholes, tight turns, and starts and stops, would be harder on a horse than the usual journeys over country roads.
Snowy stood still while Harry crouched beside him, the stall illuminated only by the single bulb that hung under the eaves. It was cold, and Harry’s fingers were stiff but deft, having done these preparations hundreds of times before.
The horse must have known the routine by now, must have sensed that something was going on by the bustle of preparation in the predawn light, but he stood patiently as always, munching on hay, while Harry bandaged him. The barn was quiet except for the rustling of the horses in the other stalls and the sound of Harry’s dogs sniffing around outside.
As he contemplated his handiwork on the bandages, straightening them up and inserting a finger under the batting to make sure they were just the right tightness—not snug enough to cut off circulation, not loose enough to fall off—Harry knew that some competitions were lost in the trailer on the way to the show, from a lack of care in preparation. He probably had a little edge on his competitors: other owners were snug in their beds now—maybe sleeping off hangovers from the last round of parties—and they would never know if a slipshod groom didn’t get the bandages quite right. Their horse could come up lame and the owner would have no idea why.
Harry looked at his hands: deeply callused and already gnarled like an old man’s from a couple of broken fingers. These same hands had grabbed hold of Snowy’s mane when it was long and tangled and ratted. These hands had doctored the gray’s wounds, and carried hay for him and measured grain. These hands had groomed the horse and saddled him, rubbed liniment into his legs and iced him through the night when he got hurt. Jumping a horse was more than stepping into expensive riding clothes. For Harry, competing at the Garden was more than sitting in a fancy tackroom fitted out like a gentleman’s club and waiting for the groom to bring the horse around.
Each time he set out to ride in a show, he reminded himself that he knew this horse as well as he knew his own children. He had tended to him in sickness and in health like he did his own family. He had ridden the horse in shows but also down to the beach and over the hunting fields, and he had watched him carry girls and the children. Other owners did not do that. Other riders had helpers do the dirty work for them. But Harry did not wish that life for himself. That deep-down understanding—that bond between him and his horse—was about much more than winning ribbons. Harry believed that it was his secret weapon.
Harry looked Snowy over once more, satisfied that the horse was ready. He scratched the horse’s withers, and was rewarded with Snowy’s trademark smile. The horse looked him in the eye, and Harry felt that current pass between them—his Teddy Bear, his friend. Come what may, they would give it their best shot. They were a team. Harry grasped the lead rope with his callused hands and the horse followed willingly. Nobody could predict what challenges lay in store, but one thing Harry knew for sure: this horse had bottom.
It was still dark as Harry pulled onto Moriches Road, and the surrounding farms were quiet. The children were still asleep. They would come later with Johanna to watch. The trip to the city took several hours. The country roads in Suffolk County turned into highways in Nassau County, and then