C. Morgan - The Sport of Kings

Scipio began to cry, and the sound snuffed Laney’s tears in an instant. Her anger and self-pity evaporated as quickly as her clothes were drying in the July sun. She stared in open-mouthed astonishment as her great, gruff father, usually so still and stoic, a man in residence many miles behind his eyes, began to cry like a child in the arms of the elders as they prayed over him, their voices a gentle stream like the burbling of the river.

“Daddy,” Laney said, struggling against some old woman who was holding her. “Daddy!”

Scipio didn’t look at her, didn’t seem to hear her; his weeping eyes were trained on the far distance. Abruptly, confusedly, Laney turned to see what he was staring at. What she saw then she would never forget: It was not just the expanse of Kentucky with its fine gradations of summer green, the sloping rise of gorgeous hills that led to a graceful interior. This time she saw something inside of the prettiness, something that had captured her father’s gaze, or perhaps captured him. She saw the shadows between the trees, the grave-black spaces that could harbor secrets. Or people. They were natural hiding places. Your father is still hiding there, a voice inside her said — not her own voice but many voices, like the elders were speaking in the round of her heart. Your father never escaped, he couldn’t. White folks won’t give you nothing you don’t demand, and you got to demand your soul long after the body reaches freedom. Then, like a good soldier, you got to fight for the souls of others, and if necessary you offer up your most precious thing — your life — to do so.

Laney whipped back around, facing the church crowd, full of new and sudden understanding. Then she took off running, stumbling briefly on the uneven ground of the riverbank, and slapping away the elderly hands that would hold her. She ran with arms outstretched, asking for what was not in her nature to need, something she would never again request, not even as a ploy when she was once captured guiding slaves out of Kentucky to the promised land. She asked forgiveness of her beloved father for the sin of ignorance, for wasting all the fight in her heart on foolishness, for not taking up arms in God’s great war. She would never make that mistake again.

Moderator: Ladies and Gentlemen, I want to welcome you to the 2006 Kentucky Derby press conference featuring the connections to this year’s winning horse, the 2005 Eclipse American Champion Two-Year-Old Filly, Hellsmouth of Forge Run Farm. We’d like to introduce trainer Mack Snyder, owner Henry Forge, and jockey Reuben Bedford Walker III, a trio of horse racing’s finest. We’ll start with a few questions for Mack, a four-time Derby winner, two-time winner of the Breeder’s Cup, and all-around master of the three-year-old classics. Mack, can you say with confidence that Hellsmouth is the best horse you’ve ever brought to the Derby?

Mack: I sure as hell can.

Mod: She’s shown a lot of personality and quickly become a crowd favorite. Has she also become a Mack Snyder favorite?

Mack: Well, the love of my life is always the one in my bed.

Mod: Now, it’s a win but not a Derby record. Were you hoping for better speed today?

Mack: Records are nice, but time only matters in jail.

Mod: But can she take the Triple Crown? We’ve never seen a filly go all the way — Genuine Risk came closest — but then I think we can all agree we’ve never seen a filly quite like this one.

Mack: I’m standing here today to tell you this filly can and will go all the way. You can take that to the bank.

Mod: Now turning to the owner of Hellsmouth, a very familiar face in the racing world and one who’s been chasing a Derby win for more than two decades, Mr. Henry Forge. Henry, do you feel that despite last year’s injury, your filly can be ready for the Preakness in two weeks, then the grueling mile-and-a-half Belmont Stakes?

There was no immediate reply. All eyes turned to Henry, sitting stiffly in his shirtsleeves before the black YumBrands!YumBrands!YumBrands! banner that rippled faintly in the breeze from a fan. That same breeze prickled the sweat on Henry’s forehead as he looked from one camera lens to the next, a sea of dark apertures narrowing on his face: age-freckled, quiet, haggard. He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. Then he said, “As of today I am pulling Hellsmouth from racing.”

He wasn’t sure at first whether he had said the words aloud, because no one moved. The room pitched into a Quaker quiet. It was as though they were waiting for the joke to crack, but Henry didn’t even crack a smile. Beside him, Mack suddenly turned toward him, blooming pink, which turned to blustery red as his lips thinned. Then a single camera clicked, and the room came suddenly alive with the mad, syncopated clattering of a hundred cameras.

Mod: I … are you … I’m sorry, I’m not sure I understood you properly. Are you intending to pull Hellsmouth from Thoroughbred racing altogether, or…?

Mack: What? No, he’s— Hell no — he’s—

“Yes.”

The word was uttered and then another Yes followed on the first, but louder this time and more resolute. Yes and Yes. The flashes were blinding; Henry grimaced, unable to open his eyes against the onslaught. Yes, he was certain. When he earnestly tried to recall the force of the old passions and antipathies, he could not; he could barely remember them at all.

He opened his eyes and sought out Lou in the crowd; she had lifted Samuel out of his arms just before they’d taken their seats. He detected her on the fringe of the news conference, watching the event as it unfolded, alarm visible in her eyes. She shifted Samuel higher on her hip and — Samuel, yes, that child was the length and breadth of it now, the new world, his future, the whole future. His choice wasn’t shame now, it wasn’t even regret, though he had too many regrets to count; it was life.

It was rising in him — It — It could buoy him now, because it was no longer a chain. Henry came to his feet, knocking back his metal chair and pushing away the banquet table with a rough squawk, so that Mack and Reuben both scrambled backward, astonishment written in their every movement. Henry said, “I will contribute no more horses to this sport.”

Belatedly, Mack’s sense knocked back into place on his tongue. “Henry! Have you lost your goddamn mind?” But he was just biting air. Henry didn’t acknowledge him — was either unwilling or unable to hear him — amidst the sudden pandemonium that erupted in the room. Mack grabbed out wildly for his arm, but Henry slipped from the table, a gray figure flashing briefly before the YumBrands!YumBrands!YumBrands! banner before stepping directly into the press that swarmed around him.

Behind them all, abandoned, Reuben remained exactly where he sat, eyes unblinking with his fingers knotted at his anorectic chest as though the banquet table still remained beneath them. He blinked rapidly, trading the mask of victory for one of a different kind. “Don’t do it,” he said on the barest whisper of breath. “Don’t do it, old Paddy, or you’ll be sorry.”

Henry pressed into the frenzied crowd.

“Mr. Forge, what’s brought about this abrupt change of direction?”

“Have your personal losses this year had any bearing on this turnabout?”

“Mr. Forge, are you one hundred percent sure?”

The feet were thunderous, the flashes a lightning storm. There were many voices in the storm calling out his name, but they didn’t matter at all now, because there was no chaos in him any longer. He simply shouldered his way through them with a steadfast impassivity, his face a cipher. He walked straight to Lou and touched her elbow, and together they moved toward the door. Though her eyes were full of unasked questions, she didn’t say a word, only switched Samuel to the opposite hip and kept pace as Henry began to hurry now with the sudden lightness of his release. His denial was an assent, and it was total. He was sure he was doing the right thing, though it was the hardest thing. The sensation was deliciously unfamiliar. Was this finally joy?