along Jack’s neck. Jack walked forward about three steps, but didn’t make a fuss, and Wayne slid off again.
The reins were loose. Roscoe stayed near them.
Now they walked around again, and Roscoe and Wayne both stayed close to Jack, petting him sometimes and otherwisechatting and walking like there was nothing happening. Finally, they stopped, and Wayne petted Jack on the shoulder and the haunches, then launched himself again. He was a small guy, but he had a lot of spring. Now he lay forward for a few moments, and as Jack walked, he sat up and picked up the reins, and let Jack keep walking. Jack’s ears were flicking back and forth, but he was walking easily—I was sure there were some horses who would stop or balk in surprise, but not Jack—his idea would always be to go go go. And now Wayne was going with him. That, I could see, was the perplexing part for Jack. Roscoe walked alongside for a few steps, then Jack and Wayne went around on their own. Just before Jack had the thought of “I don’t like this,” Wayne slid off, and they kept walking.
A few minutes later, they stopped, and Wayne jumped on again, but that didn’t mean Wayne landed with a thump—he landed easy as you please, sat up, found his stirrups, walked along. There was nothing difficult about it. It was boring. It was supposed to be boring. It was only exciting if you thought about one of two things—the day you found that foal in the lower pasture, standing by his mom in the half darkness, or what it meant to be a racehorse, to have a name like Jaipur or Nasrullah, who was Jaipur’s sire, or Bold Ruler, who was Jaipur’s brother, or Yardstick, who was Mr. Matthew’s horse. Danny and I had never seen a race, but Mr. Matthews had sent us some pictures after visiting us, and they were all of Jack’s relatives getting to the finish line, their heads down and their noses out, galloping as hard as they could and beating some other horse. They didn’t have to be moving in order tobe exciting—a plain old black-and-white picture was enough. We’d looked at them then and forgotten about them, but now, between Jack and Gee Whiz, the whole thing seemed much more real and much more present.
“You brought him along nice,” said Wayne as he passed us. “Don’t nothin’ excite him but his own self.”
Roscoe laughed and they all kept walking. I didn’t ask a single question, only watched them. After Wayne got off, he walked around on the other side from Roscoe, also giving some pats, and then they led Jack out of the pen to his stall, where they took off his saddle and bridle.
I followed them over there and gave him some carrot pieces. He took them and went back to his hay. He may as well have been talking—“No big deal. No big deal. What’s the big deal?”
As we were leaving, Roscoe fell into step with us, and said, “Well, I hope Whiz is a good boy for you. When he started out, I thought he might be one of the big guys, but he bowed a tendon early in his three-year-old season. Not bad enough to end his career, but bad enough to end his Derby hunt. He came back as a four-year-old, and he’s definitely been both useful and sound. Since he’s a gelding, I let him go on as long as he seemed to like it, and that’s been a long time. Can’t count the occasions when Billy, that’s our trainer down south, sent him out with one of our younger horses. His job was to set the pace and fade so the younger horse could come on and win. There were a couple of times he didn’t fade!” Ross laughed. “But his last two races, Billy said, old Whiz seemed to be getting bored with the whole thing. We’ll seewhat’s next.” He shook my hand again, and headed for the upper barn, where, I think, the mares were.
On the way to the stables for Ellen’s lesson, I thought I would have her mount a few more times, and tell her all about Wayne. Ellen liked to know what was possible.
We were there by eight-thirty, and for once, Ellen wasn’t there
The reins were loose. Roscoe stayed near them.
Now they walked around again, and Roscoe and Wayne both stayed close to Jack, petting him sometimes and otherwisechatting and walking like there was nothing happening. Finally, they stopped, and Wayne petted Jack on the shoulder and the haunches, then launched himself again. He was a small guy, but he had a lot of spring. Now he lay forward for a few moments, and as Jack walked, he sat up and picked up the reins, and let Jack keep walking. Jack’s ears were flicking back and forth, but he was walking easily—I was sure there were some horses who would stop or balk in surprise, but not Jack—his idea would always be to go go go. And now Wayne was going with him. That, I could see, was the perplexing part for Jack. Roscoe walked alongside for a few steps, then Jack and Wayne went around on their own. Just before Jack had the thought of “I don’t like this,” Wayne slid off, and they kept walking.
A few minutes later, they stopped, and Wayne jumped on again, but that didn’t mean Wayne landed with a thump—he landed easy as you please, sat up, found his stirrups, walked along. There was nothing difficult about it. It was boring. It was supposed to be boring. It was only exciting if you thought about one of two things—the day you found that foal in the lower pasture, standing by his mom in the half darkness, or what it meant to be a racehorse, to have a name like Jaipur or Nasrullah, who was Jaipur’s sire, or Bold Ruler, who was Jaipur’s brother, or Yardstick, who was Mr. Matthew’s horse. Danny and I had never seen a race, but Mr. Matthews had sent us some pictures after visiting us, and they were all of Jack’s relatives getting to the finish line, their heads down and their noses out, galloping as hard as they could and beating some other horse. They didn’t have to be moving in order tobe exciting—a plain old black-and-white picture was enough. We’d looked at them then and forgotten about them, but now, between Jack and Gee Whiz, the whole thing seemed much more real and much more present.
“You brought him along nice,” said Wayne as he passed us. “Don’t nothin’ excite him but his own self.”
Roscoe laughed and they all kept walking. I didn’t ask a single question, only watched them. After Wayne got off, he walked around on the other side from Roscoe, also giving some pats, and then they led Jack out of the pen to his stall, where they took off his saddle and bridle.
I followed them over there and gave him some carrot pieces. He took them and went back to his hay. He may as well have been talking—“No big deal. No big deal. What’s the big deal?”
As we were leaving, Roscoe fell into step with us, and said, “Well, I hope Whiz is a good boy for you. When he started out, I thought he might be one of the big guys, but he bowed a tendon early in his three-year-old season. Not bad enough to end his career, but bad enough to end his Derby hunt. He came back as a four-year-old, and he’s definitely been both useful and sound. Since he’s a gelding, I let him go on as long as he seemed to like it, and that’s been a long time. Can’t count the occasions when Billy, that’s our trainer down south, sent him out with one of our younger horses. His job was to set the pace and fade so the younger horse could come on and win. There were a couple of times he didn’t fade!” Ross laughed. “But his last two races, Billy said, old Whiz seemed to be getting bored with the whole thing. We’ll seewhat’s next.” He shook my hand again, and headed for the upper barn, where, I think, the mares were.
On the way to the stables for Ellen’s lesson, I thought I would have her mount a few more times, and tell her all about Wayne. Ellen liked to know what was possible.
We were there by eight-thirty, and for once, Ellen wasn’t there
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