The Eighty-Dollar Champion - Elizabeth Letts [73]
Braided and groomed to a spit shine for his first class, Snowman looked more like a city slicker than an old plow horse. He’d been carefully clipped and trimmed, and his bridle had been taken apart piece by piece, carefully soaped and buffed to a sheen, then reassembled. Harry cinched up the girth, then slipped the soft rubber snaffle into the horse’s mouth. He tucked the horse’s ears under the crownpiece one by one, then tightened the throat latch.
The horse was ready to go. Johanna settled into the bleachers, but the children perched along the fence that led to the in-gate. They wanted to be close to the action, to see the horses prancing along, chomping at the bit, and to size up the competition.
Harry sits astride his flea-bitten gray with the calm of a prince. (illustration credits 14.1)
Harry could not help but notice the way the spectators chuckled at the sight of him, laughing into their hands. He could guess what they were thinking: that he was a local yokel with an old farm horse, somebody who’d stumbled into an A-rated show by accident and didn’t stand a chance. That day in the schooling ring, most people saw the parts—the chunky blue saddle blanket, the horse’s coarse head, the young horseman’s simple, homespun riding clothes, unlike the bespoke habits of the New York set. The amusement—perhaps even disdain—in the air was palpable.
Yet Harry sat astride his flea-bitten gray with the calm of a prince, surveying the ring with his penetrating blue eyes. The way a man sits on a horse cannot be faked. Historians surmise that the mythical centaur—half horse, half human—was actually based on an ancient race of men on horseback who were so much in harmony with their mounts that nonriders mistook them for a single beast. An old English proverb says, “Show me your horse and I will tell you who you are.” Glancing at Harry and Snowman, a casual observer might have seen a horse and rider out of their rank, but an astute observer would have seen more. Even a cursory glance would have told a true horseman not to dismiss this unusual pair.
The judge was ready with his clipboard, the jumps having been raised and widened to new heights; it was time for the first jumper class to start. Part of the draw for spectators of open jumper classes is the chance of thrills and spills—in a similar way, NASCAR fans perch on the edge of their seats, not exactly hoping that something bad will happen but knowing that it might. Horses who jump tricky, complicated courses over five feet in height inspire breathless awe, even from those long familiar with the sport. The crowd at Sands Point that day was made up of many people who had never seen horses jump such high fences before. Families watched with an air of excited fascination.
All eyes were on Dave Kelley as the ring’s in-gate swung open. Andante, a touchy mare, often cantered around a course with both ears pinned back, a sign of resistance or stress. But Dave’s style with the bay was tactful and unobtrusive, and though the horse sometimes balked going through the in-gate, once headed toward a fence, she knew how to get down to business. Horse and rider were both veteran campaigners, rounding courses with an air of self-assuredness that came from frequent trips to the winner’s circle. Harry watched from the sidelines, well aware that Andante had been winning national championships long before Snowman had stumbled over his first pole. The pair set off toward the first fence with an air of assumed victory. And the performance was flawless—almost. Andante rubbed one fence with a hind foot. Any horse with a clean round could beat her, but so far, nobody had.
After a few more rounds, the announcer called out Snowman’s name. Harry heard a light smattering of applause from the stands. Most of the other horses had barreled along, held in check with tight reins, prancing in place and sometimes chomping at their bits until flecks of foam speckled their cheeks and spotted their chests. Many of the horses wore complicated leather straps—from standing martingales that tethered the horse