Secretariat Reborn (5 page)

The colt stopped eating and playfully nudged Christian. He rubbed Hunter’s head. “He likes being messed with.”

“I was watching you lead him,” Hank said. “You got the gift. Very few can look into a horse’s mind and sense how they’re thinking. And horses instinctively trust such a person. As a little kid, you were always in here and crawling around the horses. You never got kicked, bit, or stomped. Even the rankest mare dropped her head and let you pet her. I knew you had the makings of a great trainer.”

Hank lowered his gaze. “I’ve been such a fool, so damn occupied with horses that I turned my back on my own son. It takes dying to learn what’s really important in life.” He ran his hand over his thinning hair. “I’m sorry, Christian, sorry I wasn’t there for you.”

Christian chewed his lip. “It’s okay, Dad. I’m happy with my life. But I’m glad you gave me the colt.”

The rest of the morning Christian and his father sorted papers: horse records, the farm mortgage, car titles, insurance policies—depressing work, getting one’s life in order before death. Hank grumbled and cursed; Christian longed to be elsewhere.

The afternoon was even worse. Christian drove his father into Ocala and waited while he and an attorney updated the will. Next, they traveled to Johnson’s Mortuary, where the director and his father discussed contracts and prices. In the end, his father chose a cheap pine box, small headstone, and a burial plot in an out-of-the way cemetery.

When they finished, his father slowly rose. Now, unlike this morning in the barn, Hank was slow and halting. “Sorry about all this, Christian, should have taken care of it earlier.” He patted Christian’s back. “I think we’ve earned a drink. Let’s hit my little watering hole, so I can buy us some beers.”

Christian drove the SUV into the shell-paved lot and stopped before a shabby brick building. Surrounding it were weeds, trash, empty beer cans, and bottles. Three dented and rusted pickups languished out front. “This place is pretty fancy,” he joked. In the dark window a neon sign flashed, “Shirley’s.” It could just as well have read “Strangers Not Welcome.”

Hank cringed when he slid slowly out of the passenger seat. “Yeah, it’s a redneck bar, but close to home and cheap.”

“Are you sure you’re up to this?”

“Whether I’m here or home, I’ll still be hurting. Let’s go in.”

When the door of the bar closed behind them, blocking out sunlight, the room grew as dark as a tomb. The place reeked of cigarettes and stale beer. Christian pushed up his sunglasses and moved toward the tattered vinyl booths, thinking they offered the most comfort for his father. A pool table rested in the center of the room, with the bar on the other side. Four men sat at the end of the bar, absorbed in a baseball game on an overhead TV.

The bartender, a robust woman with short curls called out, “Hank, is that you? Haven’t seen ya in a dog’s age.”

“Hey, Shirley,” Hank said. “I want you to meet my boy, visiting from Sarasota.” By the time they were seated, she stood beside their table. “Shirley, this is Christian.”

“Hank, you never told me you had a son, and, my Lord, he’s handsome. Could pass for a movie star.” She raised her eyebrows. “Christian, I’ll have to make you feel right at home.”

Hank grinned. “He’s too young for you, Shirley girl. Why don’t you get us some Buds on tap.”

Christian spoke up. “I’d rather have a Cuba libre.”

“A what?” Shirley questioned.

“Rum and Coke with a lime,” Christian explained, “preferably Bacardi.”

“Call brands are fifty cents extra.”

“That’s fine,” said Christian.

The bartender reached over and patted Hank’s shoulder. “Your son’s not only cute, but he’s got some class. Must get it from his mother.” She broke into a yuk-yuk chuckle.

“Very funny,” Hank said.

She soon returned with the drinks. “Hank, I heard about your troubles,” she said, her tone somber. “If there’s any way I can help, just call. And the first round is on me. You’ve always been a good friend.” She sauntered back to the bar.

Hank took a sip from the cold mug. “Ya know I brought your mother here on our first date.”

“Mom? Here?” Christian laughed. “That’s hard to believe. Only the Ritz-Carlton is good enough for her now.”

“I suppose that lawyer changed Angie, but she used to be a hell of a cowgirl, real spitfire. I met her at a rodeo, running barrels on a flea-bitten gray. Ugly swayback horse, but boy, was she gorgeous. Long blonde hair flying in the wind—” He sighed and lit up a Marlboro. “I sure messed up.”

“Mom still looks good,” said Christian. “And sometimes, I think, she misses you, too. But Frank’s a nice guy and treats her like a queen.”

“I’m glad. Angie deserves to be happy.”

Christian looked past his father at a big man who had been seated at the bar and was now walking toward them. “You know him?”

Hank glanced over his shoulder. “Oh, Christ, the guy used to work for me.” He turned back around, and the man stopped at their table. “What do you want, Larry?”

“I hear you’re eaten up with cancer.” Larry smirked. “That’s too bad. I was wondering if that fucking wetback is still working for you.”

“Just move on,” Hank said.

“Look, old man, I don’t work for you anymore, and you’re in no condition to give me orders.”

Christian slid out of the booth and glared into the man’s moronic
eyes. “You were told to move on. But if you got a beef with my father, you can take it up with me.” Although he and Larry were close to the same age and height, the guy was built like a bulldozer. Christian topped the scale at 175 pounds, but the bum outweighed him by nearly a hundred.

“Christian, sit down,” Hank said. “He’s not worth the effort.”

“Yeah.” Larry laughed. “Sit your ass down, pretty boy, before you get hurt.” He gave Christian’s shoulder a slight shove.

Instantly, Christian’s temper rose like a flash flood. He lunged at Larry, caught him with a right hook to the jaw and sent him crashing backward against the pool table. Larry rubbed his jaw and slowly straightened. “You skinny fucker, I’m gonna kick your ass.” He stomped forward.

Christian’s fists were up and ready. Larry swung. Christian ducked and punched his opponent’s beer gut. Larry doubled over and coughed. The three men at the bar moved in. Christian grabbed a cue off the pool table. He wielded the makeshift weapon and shouted, “You want a piece of me? Come on!”

“Leave him alone!” Shirley screamed from the bar.

One of the men rushed Christian, who swung the stick, breaking it against the man’s temple and sending him to his knees.

“Get ’im, boys,” Larry yelled. His other two buddies leaped at Christian, who managed to cuff one’s nose before they wrestled his arms down.

Larry clopped in front of Christian. “Hold him! Hold him still,” he said to the men. “I’m gonna teach this fucker a lesson.” Larry pulled back to swing, but he was struck from behind with a bar stool. He collapsed on the floor, unconscious.

Standing over Larry, Hank dropped the broken stool and muttered, “Son of a bitch.”

With the men’s attention diverted, Christian elbowed the ribs of one of his captors. His arm free, he turned and flew into the second man, hammering at his face. Christian and the two men exchanged
blows when Christian heard the sharp ratcheting sound of metal against metal, the unmistakable and nerve-shattering noise of someone pumping a shotgun.

Everyone froze.

Shirley stepped toward them, holding the deadly weapon. “Get out of my place,” she growled, aiming the gun at Larry’s friends. “Or else you’ll be digging birdshot out of your hide.” The man who had been whacked with the cue stick stumbled to his feet, and the threesome dragged Larry, now semiconscious and moaning, out the door.

Christian breathed hard, so charged up that it took a few moments to lower his fists and calm down a little. He tasted blood from a split lip and glanced at his bruised knuckles.

“You all right?” his father asked.

Christian felt his aching cheek and jaw. “Yeah, thanks for the help. Not bad for a sick guy.” He walked to the window and watched the men leave, making sure they didn’t take out their hostility on his vehicle.

Shirley was picking up the broken pieces of wood and glass. “I’m so sorry, honey,” she said to Christian. “That bunch is nothin’ but trouble. Always lookin’ for a fight.”

Hank eased back into his seat. “Shirley, I’ll pay for damages.”

“Don’t be silly. The stool and pool stick aren’t worth beans.” She put her hands on her wide hips and gazed approvingly at Christian. “Hank, your boy is one hell of a scrapper. He’s definitely a chip off the old block.”

Hank’s eyes twinkled as he beamed at Christian.

Saturday morning, Christian woke early, stiff and sore from the bar brawl and groggy from one too many drinks in Shirley’s bar after the fight. He touched his bruised cheek and ran his tongue over his busted lip. “Shit,” he said and awkwardly rose. He wandered through the house and, out a window, saw Juan’s truck parked near the barn. He found his father still in bed, using the oxygen tank.

“Dad?” he asked softly.

Hank opened his eyes and his lips curled. “Little too much excitement yesterday, but it was worth it. Can’t remember having so much fun.”

“Yeah, it was fun, despite being a little sore,” Christian replied. “Look, Juan is waiting to help me hook up the trailer and load the colt. I’d better get going.”

“Give me a call when you’re back in Sarasota and let me know how things went in Miami. You can leave the trailer at the track.”

“I’ll be back up in a few weeks.”

Hank shook his head. “Don’t bother with me. Go to Miami instead and make sure your colt is being treated right, that he’s not losing weight, and he’s coming out of the gate okay. The trainer will see you’re involved, not an owner who just sits in the clubhouse, drinking and paying the bills. Be sure to slip the groom and exercise boys a few bucks. They’ll take better care of your animal. You got his papers, health certificate, and Coggins test? The track won’t let you in the backside without them.” The energy required for Hank’s lecture took several breaths of oxygen.

“I know, Dad, we’ve gone over all this.”

His father nodded. “You’ll do all right, son. Just use good common sense.”

“I will. I really … I really had a good time with you, Dad.” Christian tried to swallow the lump stuck beneath his Adam’s apple. “I’m glad I came up.”

“Me, too.”

“We’ll stay in touch.” Christian hustled outside into the dark and felt moisture form in his eyes. After a moment, he sniffled and cleared his throat. He drove to the barn, and Juan helped him hitch up the horse trailer to his SUV. They loaded the colt with little trouble. He thanked Juan for all his help.

“Your father and I will watch Hunter race on the big TV at OBS,” Juan said. “I plan to bet my whole paycheck. He will make us all some money.”

Christian recalled the excitement he felt as a kid at the Ocala Breeders’ Sales when buyers, sellers, and hundreds of horses gathered for the yearling, two-year-old, or mix auctions. He climbed into his SUV. “Let’s hope he wins. Dad says he should run in about a month.”

Christian was soon traveling south in the slow lane on I-75. Although he had hauled plenty of boats, he was anxious with a horse. He could feel the thumps from a stomping hoof and the slight tug on the wheel when the colt shifted his weight or moved from side to side in the old trailer. At the Orlando exit, he turned onto the Florida turnpike that would lead to I-95. He wasn’t looking forward to the congested traffic ahead or old people that barely moved.

Halfway through the trip, he pulled off at a rest stop to check on the colt and grab a drink, feeling dehydrated from the slight hangover. On the way back from the vending machines, he saw several people standing by his trailer, including a preteen girl.

“He’s real pretty, mister,” she said. “What kind of a horse is he?”

“Thoroughbred, a racehorse.”

“Ohhhhh.” She turned to a woman. “Mom, he’s like Barbaro.”

Christian started his engine. “Hope he doesn’t end up like poor
Barbaro,” he mumbled to himself, reflecting on the Kentucky Derby winner that had won with ease. Barbaro remained undefeated until he broke his hind leg in the Preakness, the second race in the quest for the Triple Crown of horse racing.

Christian had felt sick when the horse ambulance carried Barbaro to a clinic. Wanting an expert’s opinion on the horse’s injury, he had made the rare call to his father.

“He’s done,” Hank had said. “They should’ve put the colt down on the track.”

His father’s matter-of-fact tone left Christian aggravated. “Dad, you don’t know for sure. They’re saying they might fix the leg with surgery.”

“The break ain’t his biggest problem,” Hank said. “It’s his other three legs that will have to support his weight for months. The flesh inside the feet will give out and detach from the hoof wall. There’s no fix, and he’ll founder with laminitis. That’s what killed Secretariat.”

“You could be wrong.” Christian hung up, more disturbed after the call than before it.

Christian, along with a captivated nation, followed Barbaro’s medical roller coaster of hopes and setbacks in the media as the champion fought to survive. After nine months, the
New York Times, Washington Post
, and thousands of other publications ran the front page headline that Barbaro had lost his battle and was put down, his other three feet giving out from laminitis. His father had been right.