Chapter Two

The stables just before the start of a race were a kind of controlled chaos. Jockeys dunked themselves in ice baths, nursed their injuries, and stretched their muscles while the trainers barked last minute pep talks into their ears. The horses were being brushed down and saddled up. It was all rituals and rigmarole in precious little time, a well-oiled machine.

Roscoe Flynn looked sharp in his bright blue jockey silks. The color matched his eyes, which sparkled like sapphires amid the dark tan of his complexion and ubiquitous five o’clock shadow. He fixed a saddle on to Gilda Cage, the most beautiful palomino filly one could ever have the pleasure to lay eyes on.

“Aren’t you Roscoe Flynn?”

“Who’s asking?” Roscoe turned around, coming face-to-face with another jockey.

“LeRoy. I’m on the number nine horse.”

Roscoe pulled off his glove to shake the man’s hand.

“I saw you race that horse injured in Louisiana. How you pulled out that win, well it’s beyond me. What you do on a horse, it’s plain artistry, Mr. Flynn. I’m a big fan.”

“That’s awful nice of you, Mr. LeRoy. Good luck out there today,” Roscoe said. And he meant it.

“Pa! Hey Pa!” Fyfe pushed through the crowded stable and found her way to Roscoe. A grin crept across Roscoe’s face at the sound of her voice.

“Shouldn’t you be selling peanuts, little lady?”

“I sold out.” Roscoe raised a suspicious eyebrow. “I swear!” Fyfe had a natural love of horses and she stroked Gilda’s muzzle with a kind and steady hand. “Am I too late to give her a carrot?”

“’Fraid so, kiddo. She’s about to race.” The corners of Fyfe’s mouth drooped. “But there is one thing she does still need, if you’re up to the task.”

“What?”

“A great big hug around the neck.”

Fyfe lit up and Roscoe lifted his daughter high enough to wrap her arms around the horse. “Go get ‘em, girl,” Fyfe whispered in Gilda’s ear. “We’re all rootin’ for ya.” Gilda responded with a soft nicker and a warm nuzzle. She understood.

“Better go find yourself a spot in the stands,” Roscoe said as he lowered Fyfe to the ground. “And let her hear you cheer for her as she goes by.”

As Fyfe skittered off, Roscoe guided Gilda to her place in the procession. She fell in line next to a great big white horse named Cream of the Crop.

“Hey, Gilda,” he whispered.

(Of course, this sounded like nothing more than whinnies and neighs to Roscoe and the other jockeys. Animals have their own way of communicating that’s entirely indecipherable to the human ear.)

Cream of the Crop nodded toward Fyfe, “Gives you something to run for, don’t it?”

“That it does,” Gilda answered.

“Every little girl ought to have a horse.”

“Every horse ought to have a little girl.”

The race was about to start and the crowd was already packed ten people deep against the fence in the grandstands. Fyfe tried to nudge her way to the front but no one was giving up any ground. She tried jumping in the hope that she might be able to catch a glimpse of the race over the heads in front of her, but she was too small. Then it hit her. She dropped to the ground and crawled on her hands and knees through the crowd, under their noses and between their legs. She popped up right at the rail, snagging herself a spot front and center.

“You again?” said a gruff, familiar voice. She had ended up right next to the mustache from the stands.

“Don’t worry, I’m all out of peanuts.”

 “Here,” he handed her a small wad of cash.

“What’s this?”

“Turns out your thoughts are worth quite a few pennies after all. Rocky Road took the sixth by three lengths.”

She grinned and stashed the money in her pocket.

“Come on, Gilda!” she cheered.

“Let’s go, Gilda!” the mustache cheered too.

Twenty champion thoroughbreds, regal and dignified, were paraded onto the track with much pomp and circumstance, ceremoniously making their way to the starting gate while the Louisville marching band played “My Old Kentucky Home”.

Fyfe figured herself a pretty tough character but she couldn’t help but get a little misty eyed as Gilda and her pa took to the track, looking like the pride of Kentucky. As the horses readied at the starting gate the crowd went quiet. The tension began to mount. The whole world seemed to stand still for just a moment.

Gilda eagerly scratched at the dirt beneath her hooves. Roscoe posted up on his saddle and steadied her with his reins. Fyfe white-knuckled the railing, full of anticipation. This was it. This was everything.

The Churchill Downs bugler raised the horn to his lips and blew.

And they’re off!

The horses bobbed up and down with each long, graceful stride. They danced around the track in rhythm, like the wooden steeds of a carousel.

But Gilda raced like she was the only horse out there. Her powerful haunches propelled her out in front of the pack. Her jet black eyes squinted with determination. This race was hers for the taking.

The other horses surged and retreated, pulling ahead, then falling behind in a flurry of hooves and clouds of dirt. No one could catch Gilda. She quickly broke away from the pack and lit out on her own. As she galloped along the backstretch, streaking across the horizon like a shooting star, Fyfe shut her eyes and made a wish.…

***

Just two minutes later it was over, and Gilda and Roscoe had secured their place in history as champions.

The vision of them standing there in the winner’s circle burned itself into Fyfe’s brain. Gilda was blanketed in fifty-four perfect red roses, as her pa hoisted his trophy into the air, with Colonel Epsom right behind them, clutching his giant check. Fyfe pinched her thigh through the wool of her pant leg to avoid her emotions getting the best of her and leaking out her eyes. It felt like an eruption of good fortune and glad tidings, and all seemed right and well with the world.

The newsmen clamored for a shot, the rapid-fire flash of their cameras exploding in the noon sky like a lightning storm. But somehow the photographs could never do that moment justice. There was an aura the pictures couldn’t capture. You couldn’t see it, but you could feel it like a freight train. And it was the most special thing Fyfe had ever felt. It wasn’t glory or victory. It was none of the things that come along with winning, exactly. It was making good on a promise you made to yourself. It was seeing things through to the end. It was believing in something, and the pride of knowing you were right to believe all along.

Greatness visits a man when he needs it the most. And in that instant when greatness fills him up and bursts right out of him, that man becomes the moment. It’s one split second of euphoria when suddenly this crazy mixed up world makes a little bit of sense. And you just want to freeze time and live in that moment forever.

That moment belonged to her daddy, the great Roscoe Flynn. And as happy as she was just then, she couldn’t help also feeling a little forlorn, knowing that a lifetime is made up of an infinite amount of moments, and wondering how any of them could ever be as great as this.