Chasing a Dream: A Horseman's Memoir Read online

  Because she and I had ridden to work together, I had to bum a ride home that evening. Locke met me at the door, her face aflame with anger. “How could you leave me stranded like that? Why didn’t you stand up to that old bastard? Why didn’t you stick up for me?”

  “Because you were wrong, that’s why. And besides, I’m the one who was stranded. What do you expect me to do, quit because you got fired?”

  Her eyes glazed over with rage, Locke sprang at me, both fists swinging. This was the other side of Locke, not the one I had fallen in love with. I grabbed her wrists to restrain her and protect myself.

  “Let go of me, you son of a bitch!” she screamed. “I swear, I’ll call the cops and have you arrested.”

  “Stop hitting me then and I’ll let you go.”

  “Just let me go!” But as soon as I turned her loose, she came at me again, swinging and clawing at my face. With no other way out of the situation, I turned and ran, Locke right behind. “Don’t you dare run out on me!”

  I jumped in my truck and drove off for the night. This hadn’t been the first time Locke had gone into such a rage, but it had been the worst. I was in a dilemma. What am I going to do? I felt the familiar urge to run, but by then our hopes and dreams were too intertwined.

  The next day she acted as if nothing had happened, but I was still licking my wounds. To appease her I reluctantly gave up my dream job and went to work in the oil fields to support our horse habit. Locke trained our horses at the polo club, and I played on the weekends.

  Our friends joked, “Now that you’re an oil man, you can afford to play polo.” We laughed, but after saving a little money I quit and went to work for Harold Barry for $400 a month. Doing what I loved was more important than money. As long as I was riding horses every day, I was happy. And my polo skills were improving.

  Argentina’s best team, forty-goal Colonel Schwartz, came to Texas to play against the best American team in a tournament called the Cup of the Americas. Polo is the national sport in Argentina, a country that boasts the best players and horses in the world. For many years Colonel Schwartz had gone undefeated in the Argentine Open.

  The Cup of the America’s tournament would determine the world champion. Tommy Wayman and Harold’s son Joe Barry were two of the best on the American team, but they were no match for the seasoned Argentines. The tournament raised my respect for high-goal polo and its incredible athletes—both horse and man.

  14

  BUCKSKIN CROSSING, WYOMING, 1981

  Having started several mules for Dad, and having broken several colts in Texas, I thought I knew horse and mule breaking. I took in a little bay john mule to start for a man in Pinedale. For its first ride I would have used the small round corral, a confined and relatively safe area with soft footing, but Locke was using it to work a horse, so I led the mule into the pasture thinking, Dad always said that mules never do anything to hurt themselves. He’ll probably just buck a little and then run off. When he does I’ll head him for the bog in the meadow. That will slow him down until I can get him lined out.

  The first part I had right. As soon as he realized he couldn’t throw me, he galloped across the meadow toward the bog. Without any warning he turned about-face and ran back toward the barn toward his horse friends on the other side of a barbed-wire fence. He stiffened like a starched shirt, and the more I pulled the faster he ran.

  I decided to give this mule his head and trust my Dad. The reins fell slack and I took a good hold on the saddle horn. I thought, He’ll either come to a hard stop or turn at the last moment. He did neither. Without breaking stride, he hit the five strands of barbed wire, slicing himself in three lines and breaking the top three strands. I stuck out my arm to catch hold of a post as we went by. The post broke off at the ground and I came off and hit hard, feet first and spinning like a top. The terrified mule ran on without me, dragging the remaining two strands with his chest.

  When I caught him he was bleeding heavily from multiple cuts several inches long and two inches deep. I thought, Boy that was a close one. That wire could have made Swiss cheese out of me.

  A horse with this kind of injury would have taken several weeks or months to heal. It would have been left with ugly scars. But the little john mule healed in a couple weeks, and I was soon riding him again—this time in the round corral.

  The horse and mule lessons were coming quickly, but as usual, they came the hard way. My friend Cowboy Earls, a hand at a neighboring ranch, had attended a clinic in Jackson Hole put on by master horseman Ray Hunt. Cowboy Earls, an excellent horseman who had long since earned my respect, told Locke and me about the amazing things Hunt could do with horses. Cowboy offered to lend me Hunt’s book, Think Harmony With Horses. I gladly accepted. Locke and I studied it thoroughly but did not fully grasp the concepts because we had not seen them demonstrated. Hunt was speaking a language we could not understand. Perhaps someday we would have the chance to learn more.

  That summer I took to competing in the rodeo in Pinedale. One night I drew a horse called Red Sails, a big rawboned sorrel gelding with a long head that was known as the best bucking horse in the area. Trembling with excitement, my heart pounding, I eased my bronc saddle onto his back in the bucking chute. My friend Stub, one of the few cowboys that had ever managed to ride Red Sails, said, “Grant, if you can ride this one you’ll damn sure be in the money.”

  I nodded to the gate men. Never had I felt such power in a horse. According to witnesses, after four licks he launched me cartwheeling through the air. Before I hit the ground he kicked me square in the head and knocked me unconscious. I slowly came to in the arena and staggered toward the grandstands. Cowboys came running out from the bucking chutes to turn me around and escort me back toward the chutes.

  A few months later I entered the bareback riding at the rodeo in Big Piney. The previous night I had been out carousing at the Cowboy Bar with an old friend from high school who had stopped in to visit. He had to pull over several times on the way to the rodeo to let me get out and puke. The stopping made us late, so the rodeo contractor gave my horse to another rider, who climbed into the chute and onto a little red-and-white paint.

  When the gate opened the bronc took one big jump and threw the cowboy. Then it jumped straight up in the air and came down flat on its back with a thud. Cold chills went down my spine as I watched the little horse struggle to regain his footing. If I had ridden him I most likely would have stayed on for the second jump, and he would have fallen right on top of me. Just as after the rock slide, I had the eerie and clear feeling that I had escaped serious injury or death. How many chances does a guy get? I wondered. That was my last rodeo.

  15

  INDIO, CALIFORNIA, 1981

  A new polo club was starting near Palm Springs, so that winter we decided to try California. Having no idea we’d never return, we loaded our trailer with our young Thoroughbreds and bid good-bye to our beloved Buckskin Crossing.

  We drove eight hundred miles to Eldorado Polo Club in Indio, California, where the weather was warm and the people friendly. Soon we fell in love with the desert, and made lots of new friends. I began my life as a professional polo player, playing for hire. I couldn’t believe that someone would pay me for doing something so enjoyable.

  Success was coming in other ways, too. Our horses were selling well. Dad still thought I was crazy. Often he would ask, “When are you going to get a real job, Grant? You can’t make any money in the horse business.”

  The man who had slaved away in a coal-powered steam plant might’ve understood my desire for work that I enjoyed. I’d reply, “Well at least I’m doing what I love.” Watching Dad had motivated me to avoid spending my life working a job that I hated and waiting for retirement to enjoy life. Polo gave me that opportunity, and I planned to make a career of it.

  The next few years I began to win some major tournaments and play well in the winter leagues. We fell in with the crowd that spent every evening after work at the cantina. We pros
were often invited to dinner with the sponsors. Weekend polo parties included champagne and caviar. I enjoyed the attention and the high life, but Locke and I didn’t realize we had stepped into a trap.

  Soon we were living beyond our means. Although a professional athlete, my income could not pay for our lifestyle. Our financial irresponsibility increased the pressure at home.

  Drugs and alcohol were affecting many of my peers. I knew these substances were a dead-end street and didn’t want to go there. During one tournament a pro nicknamed Pinocchio, high on cocaine, began hitting me with his whip, which left long welts across my back. When I confronted him, he galloped his horse toward me like a madman swinging his mallet. The umpire ejected him from the game and later he was suspended for a year.

  Cocaine was the drug of choice, and drug testing was not used in polo. Drugs were not my style, but I was concerned I might end up like some of the older pros who had become serious alcoholics. In spite of the glitz and glamour, emptiness gnawed at me. On many levels it was becoming clear that I needed to change, but I wasn’t sure how.

  16

  KETCHUM, IDAHO, 1986

  Shortly after I had been hired as the local polo pro in Ketchum, Idaho for the summer season, Locke went into labor a few minutes before midnight on August 11, the same day my mother Jeanne had been born.

  After two months of Lamaze classes and breathing exercises and so-called “husband coaching wife,” we had thought ourselves well prepared, but after only five minutes in the delivery room, imploring Locke to “Breathe, breathe, breathe,” she looked at me with fire in her eyes and screamed, “Get out of my face!”

  The doctor had to pull out our baby daughter by grabbing her head with forceps, which caused her to come out with a bit of a cone-shaped head. Because her date of birth was the same as my mom’s, we named her Tara Jeanne.

  Tara soon grew into a beautiful blue-eyed baby. It’s amazing how the birth of a child changes a person. In my case it made me grow up and change my focus from myself to my family. As a younger man I had put aside my spirituality in lieu of more important things. My relationship with Locke was rocky to say the least. Things needed to change, and we knew it.

  Like my mother, I began searching for answers at church. Locke soon followed and we had Tara dedicated that year. Life was improving.

  Together with a few other polo people who were on similar paths, we formed Polo Christian Fellowship, a group that became a sort of family. Others joined us, and Locke, who had not picked up her guitar in years, began to play and sing for our services. Her doing so inspired us both. New songs began to pour out of her.

  That November we went to work for actor Willian Devane, managing his polo program, training his horses, and working with his son Jake, a teenager who aspired to play polo. I spent a lot of time helping him with his horsemanship and polo skills. With our sights on the President’s Cup, a prestigious national tournament for low-goal polo, we formed a team.

  Jake played forward. I was rated at three goals, and took the number two spot, a middle position. Kenny Franson, a five-goal player from Spokane, was our team captain at the number three spot. Phil McClellan, who also worked for Bill, took up the defensive position at number four. Jake and Phil were both ringers, playing at least a level above their handicap rating.

  After our first few games together it looked as if our Deer Creek team was balanced and firing on all four cylinders. After winning our first two games, we began to dream of a championship. But a polo team is only as good as its horses.

  During the summer season in Spokane, Washington, we won every game in the Pacific Northwest circuit, though we squeaked by the Oregon team by one point in the last period. The toughest battle for the championship came from a skilled team from Sheridan, Wyoming. During a very intense and physical game the score went back and forth. At the end of six periods the score was tied. Jake scored the winning goal in overtime. Our sponsor Bill Devane was thrilled about our victory and Jake’s performance, and we were excited to play in the finals in conjunction with the U.S. Open in California.

  National President’s Cup Championship team from left to right: Jake Devane, Grant Golliher, Mrs. Hetherington, Kenny Fransen, Phil McLellan.

  We began beefing up our horse herd of over thirty head by buying a few new prospects and polishing our young ones. Our extended team, including Locke, focused like a laser and worked hard to get ready to compete with talented teams from around the country. We headed back to California with high hopes and thirty-six head of fresh mounts.

  That fall in Indio, California, at the President’s Cup, we beat several teams and advanced to the finals against the favorite, a great team from Texas. We were very much the underdogs, and most people bet against us, even giving odds to the other team.

  Game day—our Super Bowl—arrived. We were a team of David’s riding out to face Goliaths. We needed extra help, so I gathered the team to pray. News reached us that the opposing team would be riding the horses that had played in the U.S. Open. These were some of the best polo horses in the world. We, on the other hand, were riding young, inexperienced animals. The other team even had Joe Barry as their coach, a nine-goal player and the son of the great Harold Barry who had employed Locke and me in Texas years before.

  I had envisioned this day for a year. The smell of fresh cut ryegrass filled the air. Polo fans lined the fields beneath the snowcapped mountains surrounding Palm Springs. The Texas team, wearing blue-and-white jerseys, galloped out on magnificent Thoroughbreds. They rode around like dancers moving in unison on a Broadway stage. The announcer’s booming voice announced the team as if it had already won.

  Clad in our green-and-white jerseys, we held our heads high and loped onto the field. We were proud to have made it this far, we hadn’t worked this hard to concede. Our faith was strong.

  Both teams lined up in the middle of the field waiting for the umpire to throw in the ball. Immediately the number two Texas player picked up the ball with his mallet and broke toward the goal at a full gallop. Our defensive back Phil gave chase, but his horse was no match for the seasoned Thoroughbred. The quick score for Texas set the tone for the first half, and before we knew it, we were behind five goals to none, a huge margin in polo.

  Downcast, we gathered around our horse trailers at halftime and wiped the sweat from our brows to regroup and devise a new strategy. Let’s not give up, we said. The new plan required me to sacrifice myself by riding their talented captain out of the plays. I would have to forget the ball and concentrate on him. The question was, were my horses up to it? Could they keep up with the well-bred Texas mounts?

  Chukker number four, the last seven-minute round, began and I made my move to tie up the captain. Kenny grabbed the ball and maneuvered his way through to score. Five to one.

  During the fifth period we scored two more goals. Five to three going into the last chukker. Our confidence was building. Fans began chanting, “Deer Creek, Deer Creek!” Even our friends who had bet against us were cheering. Having their captain tied up had thrown the Texans into disarray. Quickly, Jake broke away and galloped the distance of the field to score a magnificent goal. The fans went wild—it was five to four.

  Time was about to run out, but with only a few seconds remaining, a center field penalty was called against Texas. Riding my favorite mare, Sweet Pea, a little chestnut with a huge heart, I raced down the sideline to keep up with the captain and prevent him from backing the ball. Sweet Pea gave me everything she had and managed to push him to the sidelines giving Kenny an open shot. He drilled the tying goal just before the horn sounded. Sudden death.

  We rode to the sideline for a short break and swapped for our best horses. They had already been used hard, but the high altitudes of the Rocky Mountains had conditioned them well.

  Polo is often called the “Sport of Kings.” I felt like a king riding into battle. Having adjusted their strategy, Texas hit us hard time and again, nearly scoring with each drive. Phil, drawing on his hockey
experience, saved goal after goal. The period was about to end when the captain broke free and launched a neck shot from the side lines that landed right in front of the goal. Another Texan galloped unchallenged toward the ball. A helpless feeling came over me, and my heart sank as he neared the ball. This was it.

  He reached up for a full swing and smacked the ball, shanking the easy shot just inches outside the goalpost. I couldn’t believe our luck. Kenny launched his own neck shot and Jake and I raced to the ball. I took out the first defenseman as Jake stroked the ball through the goal. The game was over. Goliath had fallen. We leapt off our horses, whooped and hollered, and hugged each other.

  Later we walked to the podium as a team. Bill Devane and our grooms and wives, including Locke, gathered around as the president of the United States Polo Association handed us the silver President’s Cup. Together we held the trophy aloft.

  17

  INDIO, CALIFORNIA, 1987

  That winter I sold my best horses and started over training young ones. Because of the big win, the handicap committee raised me to a four-goal rating. Riding young green horses made it difficult to maintain my handicap. I had a choice to make: focus on winning or on training young horses. I knew I couldn’t have it both ways; young horses can’t take the constant pressure of competitive polo. I hated to sell my good ones, but I wasn’t making enough money to justify keeping them. They had brought me success and I considered them my teammates. It was hard to let them go, but I was in the business of selling horses, and bills needed to be paid.

  Selling horses could be heartbreaking because some buyers did not know how to maintain and develop a good horse. They would treat them like machines, using them up like a spoiled child would a toy, then discarding them for new ones. This was not always the case, though. Many sponsors loved their horses and went to great lengths to maintain them. The quality of the care usually came down to the groom.