Chasing a Dream: A Horseman's Memoir Page 11

  The bushes rustled behind me.

  “I know it’s you, Carl. You might as well come out. The police are coming.” No response. I was getting nervous and wanting the police to arrive. I wondered if Carl would try to ambush me. Does he have a gun? I wondered. Would I be willing to shoot him?

  I had never felt so glad to see flashing lights. An officer walked toward me, a man in his underwear holding a driver at gunpoint. “This guy is helping someone steal my stuff,” I said.

  The officer quickly discovered the driver was drunk and carried no identification. Carl was long gone. He cuffed the man, put him in the back seat of his cruiser, and followed me down the driveway to investigate.

  All four of our polo saddles and a dozen bridles, items worth thousands of dollars, tools of our profession for which we had worked very hard, were gone. The officer’s flashlight soon illuminated a trail where the reins had been dragged through the sand. Three saddles and all of our bridles had been piled in the brush. The only missing item was Locke’s favorite polo saddle, an irreplaceable collector’s item.

  A few days later I spotted Carl rummaging through a dumpster behind the grocery store. I called the police and identified Carl as the thief. I felt sick inside as the officer cuffed him and drove him to jail.

  The police called and asked if I wanted to press charges.

  “Can I talk to him?” I asked.

  Carl came on the line.

  “Carl, why did you do this after I tried to help you?”

  “I was angry at you for firing me.”

  “What did you do with Locke’s saddle?”

  “I took it to town. I realized it was so easy that I went back to take more.” He sighed. “If you don’t press charges I’ll tell you where it is.”

  We recovered our saddle and Carl went back to his panhandling ruse at the grocery store. One day when I went to get groceries, Carl saw me and his face lit up as if he had seen his best friend. He was drunk. “Hey Grant, how about a loan?”

  I just shook my head and walked inside. I guess we can’t help everyone, I thought.

  21

  INDIO, CALIFORNIA, 1991

  Soon after the episode with Carl, the engine blew up in my truck. We had no money. My friend Ira, a successful horse trader from Scottsdale, Arizona, called. Ira had an eye for a good horse and could tell at a glance if a horse was unsound. He was known for buying cheap race track rejects and shipping them back east to be sold for a nice profit. Sometimes he took me with him on his buying trips to help me evaluate and buy young prospects. This worked well because he wanted the bigger ones for show jumping or fox hunting, and I wanted the smaller ones for polo. Ira’s voice, thick with his New York accent, came over the phone line. “Hey, I got some nice polo prospects off the track. You want first shot at them?”

  “I don’t really have the money. I need to sell some horses first, and buyers are a little scarce these days, Ira.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll let you have them on the cuff.”

  “On the cuff? How’s that work?”

  “Just pay me when you sell them.”

  That sounded like a no-lose proposition except that I needed to sell a horse to pay for truck repairs. But a good deal is a good deal, so I borrowed a truck and trailer, set my wallet on the dash in front of the steering wheel, and headed to Arizona.

  At the bottom of the interstate entrance ramp a young man stood with his thumb out. He was clean-cut and slender with brown hair and a ruddy complexion. Leery, I drove past, but then I wondered if he might be in trouble. Probably a runaway, I thought. Maybe I can help him.

  I pulled over at the top of the ramp.

  The young man ran up beside the passenger window and looked at me through bloodshot eyes. He asked, “Are you going to Tucson?”

  “Phoenix. But I can give you a ride that far.”

  He climbed in.

  “How old are you,” I asked. “What are you doing out here?”

  He seemed withdrawn. “Nineteen. Headed to see a friend.” He didn’t volunteer more information, so I didn’t pry. He laid his head against the door and in minutes was snoring.

  Five hours later I veered up an off-ramp near an exit for Tucson. At the stop light I woke him. “You better get out here. This is as far as I’m going.”

  He opened the door, then suddenly lunged back, punched me in the temple, and grabbed for my wallet on the dash. His blow clouded my thinking, but I wasn’t going to let him take my wallet. The truck and trailer began rolling backward down the ramp. I grabbed his hand and freed the wallet, and then he punched me in the face, scratched me, and pulled my shirt over my head to snatch back the wallet. But I threw it on the floorboard and fought with everything I had trying to get him out of the truck. The whole time I could feel the rig rolling backwards and while fighting I stomped around trying to find the brake. Finally I grabbed the guy’s hair, pushed his head toward the floor, and then managed to shove him out. I locked the doors and he pounded on the window while I hit the brakes, shoved the truck into gear, and sped off. Through the mirror I watched him cursing and waving my ripped shirt.

  Trembling, I drove five miles to the next exit, where I pulled into a convenience store that displayed a sign that read, “No shirt, no shoes, no service.” I went in anyway, straight to the bathroom where the mirror revealed my injuries: a large knot on the side of my head and long scratch marks on my neck and chest. Blood seeped from the scratches.

  At Ira’s place in Scottsdale, I told him what happened. “May I borrow a shirt?”

  He looked hard at me. “Well, that’s what you get for picking up hitchhikers. That was really stupid. I never pick up hitchhikers. When are you going to learn that you can’t trust people?”

  He was right.

  Ira smiled. “Come on out here and look at these horses. You can’t go wrong with these beauties.”

  The pens held three sleek, beautiful Thoroughbred geldings of excellent conformation. Normally I preferred mares, and Ira’s prices were high—$2,500 each. This isn’t a wise move, I thought.

  But I respected Ira and felt grateful for all the help he had given me, so I let him talk me into the deal, which probably would have worked out fine had these horses gone on to play polo. But not every horse is cut out for polo. These three just didn’t have the brains. They had been raced too much on the track, and had only one thing on their minds: running.

  I was determined, however, to make the deal work out by turning these geldings into polo horses. My new training techniques would work on even the toughest cases. Dove was proof of that.

  I was wrong. After more than a year of hard work I ended up selling the geldings for barely enough to pay Ira. This hard lesson worsened our troubled finances.

  The previous three years had felt like a famine. Things that normally worked for us did not. We would get a horse ready to sell and it would go lame or get injured. Life seemed to be conspiring against us.

  Just when we were about to go under, something would happen and we would earn enough money to squeak by. One time we were so broke we had run out of feed for our horses. A fellow pro and his wife bought us a load of hay. They said, “Don’t worry about paying us back.” Their gesture moved and humbled us.

  The lowest moment came on Thanksgiving when we didn’t have enough money to buy a turkey. Out of the blue, a former landlord we hadn’t heard from in years called and asked if she and her family could join us for Thanksgiving dinner.

  What will we do for a turkey? I thought.

  About the time the thought entered my head, she said. “Oh, and don’t worry about cooking. We’re bringing all the food.” What a wonderful meal we shared with our old friends.

  Grant and Locke struggled to find a balance between making a living training horses and providing a financially stable life for their young daughter, Tara.

  But our finances continued to worsen. We owed fifty thousand dollars in credit card debt. We eventually held a sale in the yard of our rented
mobile home and sold everything we could do without, including our furniture. Bankruptcy seemed inevitable.

  The financial pressure weighed us down and made our other problems seem worse. We tried to believe that things would turn around, but the summer off-season was just around the corner. How are we going to make it? Our faith was wavering. I told our club manager my situation and asked him to please get the word out that I was looking for work. A few days later, Benny, a polo player from Kansas City, called to say he was looking for a pro for the summer. He offered me a good wage, plus he offered to buy my string of polo horses for fifty thousand dollars, the exact amount we needed to get out of debt. I felt the weight lifting from my shoulders. I couldn’t wait to share the good news with Locke.

  Locke’s response was immediate and unwavering. “Kansas City? I don’t want to go there. This is our home. I don’t want to leave.”

  I was stunned. I said, “Can’t you see? This is the breakthrough we’ve been waiting for.”

  Her brow furrowed. “Yeah, but we’ll be working for someone else again and we won’t have our own horses any longer. Back to being a slave.”

  I didn’t see it that way. I felt it was an opportunity we couldn’t turn down, considering our situation.

  Her tone became defiant. “You can go to Kansas City and take the polo job, but I’m staying right here. I’ll keep working on my music.”

  I stomped out the door to the barn, where I saddled a horse and rode into the desert as I often did at times like this. The desert always helped me get my bearings. We had been given this incredible reprieve, and Locke was dead set against it. Out loud, I asked, “God, where are you? I thought this was your idea. I don’t like leaving my family. Why does she have to make everything a fight?”

  The only sound was the rhythm of my horse’s hooves hitting the sand. Worn to the nub with our marriage, I just wanted to let it go. Then I thought of Tara, now five years old—we had taken to calling her “Bear” because of her love for teddy bears—and pictured her big blue eyes, her soft brown hair blowing in the breeze. The thought of losing her plus the disgrace of a divorce brought me back to reality. I have to make this work, I thought. At least we’ll be out of debt and I’ll have a job. After sunset I rode home. The house was dark. Emotionally spent, I slipped into bed hoping Locke would not awaken.

  She rolled over, still seething. “Grant, we have to talk about this.”

  “Locke, just settle down, we’ll talk about it tomorrow.” But as usual when those moments came, she would have none of it. She badgered me for hours. “This is my home. I have a lot going on here.”

  “Locke! Look around. Our furniture is gone. Our house is empty. We are deep in debt. What happens when we can’t pay the rent? Now can we just go to sleep? We can talk about it tomorrow.”

  Locke’s voice rose. “Don’t you care about what’s important to me? And what about church? I’m on the worship team. I’m writing my own music now and I want to get it published. Besides, if I go out there, I’ll probably just end up being your groom.”

  “It’s only for three months. We’ll be back home in the fall. Let’s talk about it later.” I rolled over, covering my head with my pillow, and tried in vain to sleep.

  Strain filled the next few days, but we finally came to an agreement: Locke and Tara would accompany me to Kansas City and return to Indio after two weeks. I would return at the end of the summer polo season.

  Our spirits did not improve during the fifteen-hundred-mile drive to Kansas City. Locke criticized me endlessly, and I sulked like an old mule. Little Tara, normally bubbly and chatty, sat in the back seat subdued and withdrawn. All I could do was focus on a good summer of work and the likelihood that Benny would be a good boss. The prospect of being free from debt was a huge relief, as was the assurance of a salary. Even the thought of letting my good horses go did not dampen my hopes. Benny would be a great owner and I’d get to look after them. At summer’s end my family would be in much better condition.

  22

  KANSAS CITY, MISSOURI, 1992

  Locke and Tara returned home as planned, and I was alone. I’ll sure miss my little girl, I thought. But I’ll be fine. It’ll be nice to have a little peace and quiet.

  I soon formed new friendships in Kansas City. The independence felt good. Then, I went to play a tournament in Tulsa. There I met a woman who had been the groom to one of our former horses, Sleepy. We had sold him to her boss and he had become the seven-goal player’s favorite horse and had played two chukkers in the U.S. Open. The woman prattled on and on about how Sleepy was such a great horse. We talked about various horses we’d known.

  This woman was an excellent rider, and she began helping me train. Nothing untoward, just a friendship. How great it felt to have a female friend that appreciated my skills and didn’t berate me all the time. We were soon spending more time together, and one evening after dinner and drinks we slept together.

  Afterward I was racked with guilt, but the affair continued. I tried to break it off several times, but being around her filled a void in me that had existed for many years. I very much enjoyed her companionship and kept the affair alive the rest of the summer until she moved on to Florida for the winter season, and I headed west to Indio.

  The drive home seemed to take weeks. My actions weighed heavily on me. Guilt rose up and washed over me until I felt like I was drowning. Should I tell Locke or just pretend it never happened? Locke shouldn’t have been so stubborn and mean. If she had come, this wouldn’t have happened. After all, I had forgiven her after both of her affairs.

  But the justifications didn’t stick. The excuses didn’t hold up. The fault was mine. Will she ever forgive me? What if she wants a divorce? How would that affect Tara? Tormented by the thought of losing my only child, I wished I could wind back the clock and go back to the way things were. But no clock can be unwound. The closer I got to California, the heavier my actions weighed on me.

  At home the palm branches lining our driveway danced in the breeze. I pulled up to our trailer house. Colorful balloons lined the walkway to the front door. Blue, our Australian shepherd, raced out barking and wagging his stumpy tail. Tara bounded out the door shouting, “Daddy! Daddy! You’re home. I missed you so much!”

  I scooped her into my arms and twirled her around. “Honey, I missed you too. And look how much you’ve grown in only two months.” Tara laughed and laughed.

  Locke ran out and gave me a huge hug and kiss. “Welcome home, baby. We’re having a party for you. I invited some friends over to celebrate.”

  All afternoon we barbequed with friends and caught up on summer events. Laughter all around as the sun slipped behind the mountains and the night air rose up from the desert. It was so good to be home. But my secret gnawed at me.

  A couple of weeks later Locke and I were out riding and I was recounting some of my summer. When I mentioned Sleepy and how much the woman groom liked him, Locke stopped her horse and looked over at me. “Did you have an affair?”

  How does she know? I wondered. I couldn’t lie. Looking her straight in the eye, I said, “Yes.”

  A look of shock came over Locke’s face. Apparently her question had been a stab in the dark. She hadn’t expected me to say yes.

  She let out a primal scream. “No…No, no, no! You couldn’t have. You wouldn’t do that to me. You wouldn’t do that to us. How could you?” She sat there stunned for a moment and then kicked her horse into a gallop and raced up the lane toward the house, wailing.

  The reality of what I had done hit home. There was no turning back now.

  When Locke settled down a little, I tearfully asked her to forgive me. “I was wrong. I didn’t intend for it to happen. I am sorry.”

  I had failed as a husband and as a Christian. Would Locke ever forgive me? Would God forgive me? I doubted things would ever be the same.

  As the fall progressed we settled into quiet pain, each in our own world wondering if our marriage would survive. Valentine’s Day
, normally an important occasion for us, brought me to an all-time low. Trapped with no way to escape, I sought God but could not find Him. Tortured by my own thoughts, I became numb just to survive. Just when I thought I couldn’t keep going, a special horse came into my life.

  MILAGRO

  The bay filly stood in ankle-deep mud and manure, head hanging, ears drooping. Her long mane and tail were matted and tangled, her coat rough and dull. Her muscles were atrophied and every rib showed. She had long hooves cracked and broken from lack of trimming. She was one of several in a corral full of horses that would soon head to the slaughterhouse if someone didn’t buy them.

  My friend Leonard, the biggest horse buyer in Southern California at the time, acquired hundreds of horses of all ages from local sales or from individuals needing to unload unwanted horses. He would buy them for the canner price. Leonard liked horses and did his best to place them in good homes and keep them from having to be killed. He was a businessman, however, and had to make a living.

  Over the years I had bought several horses from Leonard at fifty dollars above canner price. If they didn’t work out, I could trade them for another. Ours was a good working relationship. When I asked about the thin bay filly in the corral, Leonard said, “I picked her up at the sale just yesterday. I think she’s a three-year-old, no papers, a divorce deal. She’s not even broke to lead.”

  Her dull coat and thin condition indicated she was infested with parasites. Leonard said, “She won’t bring much for meat. You can have her for $350.”

  A fair price, I thought, but is she worth it?

  This filly needed a lot of attention. With hooves that long, she could easily strain tendons or ligaments. How long would it take me to get my hands on her and trim her feet? And how would I catch and worm her?

  I waded into the pen to get a better look at her conformation. She had a nice sloping shoulder that blended smoothly into a long neck with a thin throatlatch. Her deep heart girth and long hip indicated speed and stamina, qualities I looked for in a polo prospect, but I had to imagine her three hundred pounds heavier in good condition.