The Eighty-Dollar Champion - Elizabeth Letts [134]
Up in the stands, you could hear a pin drop. The crowd sat in sickening, horrified silence. Someone in management dimmed the lights to the ring. The minutes ticked on, the dark quiet punctuated by the sounds of muffled movement.
Dr. O’Dea, who would later be the chief Olympic equestrian vet, worked over the horse. But there was no hope. The valiant old horse had broken his neck. He would not stand up or walk out of that ring.
In the darkness, as the riders of the equestrian team shed silent tears, Dr. O’Dea put down the old horse. Trail Guide, who had carried the flag of his country, who had campaigned on three continents, the last horse of the American cavalry, did not leave the ring at Madison Square Garden that night with a cooler pulled up over his ears or a blanket of roses over his shoulders. He left in the back of a cart, heaved there by a posse of fifteen strong men, motionless and silent.
Eventually, the lights came back up and the show went on. But the buoyant spirit of festivities had leaked away.
Down in the stables that night, Harry took extra good care of Snowman. He vowed to himself that he would never push his old horse too hard, this animal who had already brought his family untold blessings. Harry gave the horse a scratch on the withers and the old teddy bear rewarded him with a smile. They were survivors. Both of them.
On the long ride back to Long Island, the front seat, as always, was littered with the prizes Snowman had won. There was the blue from the first fault-and-out class, and a few more reds and yellows. In his third year out, Snowman had not brought home the grand prize, but Harry cheered up the children by promising hamburgers for everyone.
Our horse is already a champion, he said, and nobody can take that away from him. And best yet, he’s in the trailer and he’s on the way home.
24
Branglebrink Farms
St. James, Long Island, 1960–1969
Driving down Moriches Road on the way to the Knox School every day, Harry passed the old Butler place. It was a rambling dairy farm, more than forty acres, with a big cattle barn and plenty of pasture all around. Up on the hill, overlooking the green fields, stood a rambling white farmhouse with green shutters and lots of bedrooms that looked perfect for raising a large family.
Countless times, driving down that road, Harry had pointed to the property and said to Johanna, “Someday, that farm is going to belong to me.” The dairy farm had belonged to Charles Butler, a descendant of the original Smith family, after whom Smithtown was named. The farm made its own cream and butter, and its rich ice cream was a popular local favorite in the summer. But Charles Butler had died a couple of years earlier and the farm was no longer a moneymaking business.
It was perfect for the de Leyer family—just a mile up the road from Knox, with plenty of room for a large stable and even a place to build the big indoor ring Harry had always wanted. Snowman’s fame had brought business to Harry in abundance and his riding establishment was thriving. Sure, the Butler farm was run-down and its cattle barns would need to be converted, but Harry had never been afraid of hard work. Harry and Johanna schemed and plotted, trying to figure out how to make it happen. Then, just when they seemed to be on the brink of a deal, there was bad news: they could have the land, but there was another bidder for the rambling farmhouse. Knox wanted to buy the house for their president to live in. Johanna was firm but diplomatic. No farm without the house, she insisted, and in the end, the Butlers relented. All up and down Moriches Road, more and more developments filled with little cookie-cutter houses were springing up, part of the postwar building boom. The