The Right Thing
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It was more of a tack room than an office. Exercise saddles and the smaller racing saddles hung on racks along one wall. Bridles dangled from hooks below the names of the horses they belonged to. The only thing that gave the room the legitimacy to be called an office was a folding chair and a tack trunk doubling as a desk. But for Greg Walker and Dr. Bruce Berg, the room was private and that was all they were looking for.
Greg stood with his hands shoved into the pockets of his slacks. He’d dressed in a suit at the insistence of his wife, Martha. It was a big race, she said. A big day for them, if they won.
Dr. Berg straightened from his position bent over the tack trunk as the first x-ray showed up on the laptop screen. “This is the best image I was able to get,” he said.
Greg took a step closer, studying the ghostly white on black images of The Mischievous Sultan’s front right leg. He could see the hoof, the short and long pastern bones and part of the cannon bone. “It doesn’t look like Sultan broke anything,” he said.
Dr. Berg nodded, his blue eyes showing his relief. “The bad news is, I can’t do any other kind of scan until the swelling goes down.”
Greg sighed. “We have an ice boot on him. What do you think his chances are of racing again?” Greg asked the question even though he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer.
The vet hesitated, his indecision showing on his face. Greg waited. Finally Dr. Berg said, “He might be able to safely race in a few months. But if it were me, I wouldn’t risk it. Not with his value.”
Greg nodded. He’d been afraid that would be the answer. Retirement to stud duty for The Mischievous Sultan, the first Triple Crown winner in thirty-three years. It would mean no Breeder’s Cup Classic, no Dubai World Cup, and possibly no Eclipse Horse of the Year.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Greg said. He shook Dr. Berg’s hand before leaving the tack room.
Greg paused in the aisle way, uncertain about where he wanted to go. To his right, at the end of the stable block, security guards held back the crowd of reporters, cameramen and curious onlookers. Greg knew he eventually had to give them some word on Sultan.
Hours earlier, the screaming crowd, the camera’s watching his movements and his wife clutching his hand barely registered to Greg. He was caught up in his own heart pounding excitement as he watched the pair of three-year-old Thoroughbreds flash under the wire. Photo finish. Whether there was a twelfth Triple Crown winner or not would come down to a head bob. Greg prayed fervently that Sultan was the winning horse.
He turned to go down to the track, Martha still holding his hand, the camera’s still following him, when a gasp rose from the crowd. Greg stopped, rotated, and saw what the crowd was reacting to.
Sultan’s jockey, Ashley was slowing the Thoroughbred as fast as she could. Greg recognized the choppy stride of an injured horse. The thrill from watching his colt race in the last jewel of the Triple Crown faded, replaced with a feeling of dread.
Martha’s hand, the one not gripping his in a death vice, crept up his arm.
“Greg, honey,” she said, “It might not be broken.”
Greg turned and walked away from the crowd of reporters. He could see the newly minted Triple Crown winner in his stall, head hanging over the nylon webbing stretched across the entrance. The solid brown Thoroughbred flickered his ears at Greg as he approached.
“How are you feeling, boy?” Greg asked. He halted before Sultan and let the horse sniff at his pockets, searching for his favorite treat, apples.
From his vantage point, Greg could see the top of the canvas boot filled with ice on Sultan’s leg. Martha was going to be heartbroken to hear that Greg was considering retirement for Sultan. She loved watching him race.
Greg tipped his head and considered the Thoroughbred before him. “What do you think? How does life off the track sound to you?” His fingers smoothed the flyaway strands of Sultan’s forelock.
Sultan snorted.
Greg grinned. “I’ll take that as a no. But it may not be up to you.” The ice pack, the image of Sultan limping, echoed in Greg’s mind. If they didn’t retire Sultan, a workout, a race, could mean a broken leg. And the odds of Sultan surviving that were not in his favor.
Sultan swung his head toward the sound of advancing footsteps. His ears pricked up and he nickered.
Greg followed the horse’s gaze to Martha. “The press are getting antsy. What did the vet say?” she asked, coming to a stop beside her husband.
Sultan began his sniffing routine on Martha in hopes of finding an apple, shifting to get closer, rustling the straw bedding. Martha smiled and reached out a hand to stroke down his broad forehead.
Greg answered, “There’s nothing broken. We won’t know anything more until the swelling goes down. But I think I know what we should decide to do with Sultan.” Sultan lost interest in the Walkers when he didn’t find any apples and began eating from the hay net hanging just outside his stall. Greg watched him tear a mouthful out, marveling at how Sultan was already eating again, hours after finishing the Belmont.
Martha glanced at him before looking back at Sultan. “Retirement, right?” she asked.
Greg stared at his wife, shocked. “How did you know I was going to say that?” he asked.
“You haven’t heard the comparisons to Barbaro? Charismatic? Eight Belles?”
Greg shifted, uncomfortable at being reminded of those famous break downs. “Yeah, but-“
“Two of those horses died. And the other was retired.” Martha sighed. “If we do retire him, think of all the races we’ll be missing out on. Greg, no other Triple Crown winner had a chance to take the Classic. We could be the first. It feels like we’re watching history slip through our fingers if we stop Sultan from racing again.”
“We’ve already made history. Our choice of putting Ash on Sultan alone means we’ll be remembered. Besides how will it look if Sultan breaks down again? This time with a real broken leg? And he has to be put down? We got lucky today. How far do you want to push that luck in this business?”
Martha was silent, her blue eyes fastened Sultan. “You’re right. It’s the best thing. For Sultan. For us.” Martha shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe one day we’ll be back here with one of his babies, another Triple Crown winner on our hands.”
“Gotta think big,” Greg agreed, slipping an arm around his wife, watching Sultan tear another bite of hay from the net.
The End |
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Emmurr
I really enjoyed reading that. Very well written, and it just shows how hard it can be in racing industry when your so close to that once in a lifetime horse and an injury stops it dead. Thanks for submitting!
I really enjoyed reading that. Very well written, and it just shows how hard it can be in racing industry when your so close to that once in a lifetime horse and an injury stops it dead. Thanks for submitting!
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Jul 3, 2012
• 2,581 views
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Jul 3, 2012
• 2,565 views
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Sapphire Flames
Great job. I really liked this! :D. You should write some more! :)
Great job. I really liked this! :D. You should write some more! :)
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Jul 3, 2012
• 2,554 views
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Anabel6931
I really liked this!!!!!
I really liked this!!!!!
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Jul 4, 2012
• 2,796 views
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Estella Noire
Lovely article, I enjoyed reading it a lot :3
Lovely article, I enjoyed reading it a lot :3
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Jul 4, 2012
• 2,630 views
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Jul 7, 2012
• 2,753 views
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Jul 8, 2012
• 2,566 views
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Ghost
Your setting description was awesome! Felt like I was in the office, this is my first reading of them story, love it!
Your setting description was awesome! Felt like I was in the office, this is my first reading of them story, love it!
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Jul 14, 2012
• 2,843 views
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