The Eighty-Dollar Champion - Elizabeth Letts [131]
The jumps went up again. Every obstacle in the ring was over six feet. It was a challenging course for any horse—even a horse with fresh legs, even a young horse. Snowman would have to give it his all—and, at the same time, be fast enough to beat Windsor Castle.
Snowman went first, and Harry entered the ring for the salute. Each glance at the presidential box down at the end of the ring reminded him how far he and his horse had come. In the beginning, he had never really expected to become a champion; he’d had so much to prove—to himself, to his horse, and to the snooty horse show people who had never heard his name or believed that he could be anyone who mattered.
Now, in his adopted nation’s capital, he and his eighty-dollar horse had made a name for themselves, but they were still the underdogs, the outsiders, the pair with something to prove. Harry urged his horse into a gallop and the world fell away. If this contest was going to be decided on time, then Harry would give his horse the best chance to win. He could not pick up Snowman’s feet to clear the fences—that was the horse’s job—but he could calculate exactly what the shortest safe path around the course was. A single stride could and would make all of the difference: if he cut it too close, the horse couldn’t jump; if he cut it too long, he would lose on time.
At a gallop, the pair headed toward the first fence. And in a flash of flying turns and jumps, they were already through.
No faults. A clean round. Followed by a thunderous roar from the crowd. Harry heard it but as if in time delay. It took a moment before his time flashed up on the clock. Even if Windsor Castle went clear, Snowman had established a very competitive time to beat.
The flashy bay made a valiant effort—but it was no use. Perhaps he was tired, or rattled, or the sharp-cut corners were just too much. Perhaps all the fighting at the in-gate had taken its toll.
At the end of the third jump-off, Snowman held on to first place. Windsor Castle had knocked down a pole with his hind legs. Harry and Snowman had won the open jumper championship.
On the last night of the show, just one class remained: the President’s Cup, a new trophy to be awarded for the first time this year. Harry was worried that Snowman was tired and hoped that there would be no jump-off. But again, all of the horses were eliminated except for the gray and the bay. It had been a long week, full of competitive jump-offs, and Snowman had given his all. Competing against a younger horse had taken its toll on the big gray. But Windsor Castle was unpredictable. Even tired, Snowman stood a chance to win the cup—but it would be tough. It was late and the fences were high. Harry had half a mind to bow out now, but he knew how much that would disappoint the crowds who had turned out chiefly to see Snowman compete.
In the schooling area outside the Armory arena, Green was off the horse. His grooms were working over Windsor Castle, rubbing his haunches down with liniment, obviously worried that the horse might stiffen up. Green stood in a huddle with the horse’s owner, engaged in a whispered conversation. It looked as though they were plotting something, although it was not clear what kind of strategy would help. Nothing was going to change the horse’s fatigue or how high the fences were.
Snowman was up first, and as Harry entered the ring, he fought off a feeling of dismay as he urged his big horse into a canter, leaning forward to give the gelding a pat on the neck. They galloped toward the big fence and Harry focused in on his horse, feeling his slight reluctance, but transmitting silently that the horse was going to manage fine. The pair rounded the course, Harry closely attuned to the familiar rhythm of approach, takeoff, landing, a few strides, and then a gathering for another takeoff. But Snowman could not quite do it—over one of the big post-and-rails his takeoff was just not strong enough, and as he landed, a pole fell into the dirt with a dull thud. Finishing his round,