The Eighty-Dollar Champion - Elizabeth Letts [65]
He admired Bill Steinkraus, the captain of the United States Equestrian team, a graceful rider who was as capable as he was elegant. He gritted his teeth through the German performances. He watched the pluck and determination of Colonel Humberto Mariles of the Mexican team, a perennial favorite who tore around the courses clad in military garb festooned with gold braid—he had an exuberant style that made him one of a kind.
On the last day, Mr. Dineen came to find Harry, telling him that he had good news. Harry was immediately excited. Being at the Garden, seeing the pinnacle of competition, he had begun imagining a glorious future with Sinjon. He was already envisioning their return next fall—how the horse would perform with another year of seasoning under his belt.
In the course of one short conversation, those hopes were dashed. George Morris, a young rider who had competed with the United States Equestrian Team in the 1956 Rome Olympics, had noticed the bay and believed that the horse could make it in international competition. Mr. Dineen had been asked to loan the horse to the United States Equestrian Team. With Morris aboard, Sinjon would be trained under the tutelage of Bertalan de Némethy, the brilliant Hungarian ex–cavalry officer who had recently been appointed as coach of the U.S. Equestrian Team. Sinjon would be given every opportunity to develop his talent, receiving the best coaching available in the United States.
Harry knew George Morris. He had watched him come up through the juniors—where his precise riding style had helped him win both the NHS Good Hands and the AHSA Medal finals. Each was considered the pinnacle of achievement for a junior rider. To win both was a rare and stellar achievement.
But Harry also remembered the time at a show a few years back when George had led his horse into the arena to accept a prize. Spooking at the fluttering rosette and dancing sideways, the horse somehow got his leg caught in a standard, the vertical support for a post-and-rail fence. If the animal panicked with his leg caught in this position, he could easily break it.
Harry and Joe “the Pollack” Keswyzk, his groom, had jumped into the arena to come to the young rider’s aid. Harry steadied the panicking horse’s head, while Joe braved flashing hooves to untangle the trapped leg.
Luckily, George’s horse was not hurt. Harry took the ribbon and grasped the horse’s bridle to lead him out of the ring. Young George was standing on the sidelines, looking sheepish, when Harry handed over the reins and the prize. From Harry’s point of view, George was a kid. Talented—but a kid.
For a moment, Harry saw a flash of gray skies over Amsterdam. He remembered circling the hippodrome on his mare Petra, himself a brash, cocky, can-do-anything kid, ready to take on the world.
George Morris had talent, and he had opportunity. Harry de Leyer was not in a position to stand in his way. He reminded himself that this was precisely what he liked about Americans. The war had knocked the wind out of his compatriots. Not the Americans. They were still fresh and determined to take on the world.
In the gloom of the emptying basement, workmen were already starting to break down the temporary stables. They would collect the dirt and clean the floors, and soon the arena would be ready for a Rangers game or a prizefighting bout.
But one year from today, the army band would strike up and the drama and high-stakes pageantry would start all over again. Harry promised himself that he would return.
The closing ceremony of the seventy-fourth National Horse Show was broadcast on the fledgling medium of television, officiated by horse show president Joshua Barney and Major General Robert H. Booth of the U.S. Army. The First Army Band from Governors Island led the procession, followed