Chasing a Dream: A Horseman's Memoir Read online

  Though we tried to place them in good homes, we often didn’t have that luxury. Sometimes polo players get caught up in winning and don’t think about the consequences for their horses. This happened to a little mare I sold to Bob, a man from Los Angeles new to the game who made his money in the clothing business.

  SHOO FLY

  I had purchased Shoo Fly, a chunky little bay mare, for $500. Someone had given her a good start; she was broke and gentle. Shoo Fly had lots of “try”. After just a few months of polo she became a great mount, the kind we called a “babysitter” because even an inexperienced rider could play on her. When Bob drove from Los Angeles to get her, he handed Locke and me a shoebox filled with twenty-dollar bills totaling five thousand dollars.

  A few days later while riding Shoo Fly in his first tournament, Bob took a full swing at a ball under her neck. He missed the ball but hit Shoo Fly in the ankle. In spite of her protective wraps, the blow caused her to pull up lame, forcing Bob to change mounts. Shoo Fly, who had a lot of heart, limped off the field.

  Later, x-rays showed Shoo Fly’s ankle had been shattered. What a shame, we thought. Her injury had been an accident, but it had been so avoidable if her rider had been more experienced.

  That afternoon the veterinarian euthanized Shoo Fly, and just like that, our little friend lay motionless on the ground, dead.

  Locke and I held each other while she wept. “She was such a good little mare,” Locke said. “She didn’t deserve this. Why did this have to happen? She was just doing her job. Sometimes I hate this sport.” Though incidents like this were a normal part of the horse business, we each felt like a little something in us had died.

  This wasn’t the first time that we had felt responsible for an unhappy ending. We had paid $700 to a woman in Jackson Hole for a beautiful liver chestnut Thoroughbred mare with four white socks and a big blaze face and floppy ears. Locke named her after her sister, Ann.

  Ann was a real find. From the beginning she was extremely sensitive and tried to do everything I asked, but she tried so hard to please that she would worry if I asked her to do something she didn’t understand. This wasn’t a problem for Locke and me, because we were soft and easy with her and kept her confidence high, but a less sensitive rider would have real problems with Ann.

  A polo player friend noticed her on the training field and offered us seven thousand dollars. We explained her temperament, and he assured us he would proceed slowly and give Ann time to feel confident about playing in the game. We needed the money, so we sold Ann with hopes things would work out. Unfortunately, this player rode with too much contact on the reins. He was constantly pulling hard on Ann, and before long she was taking hold of the bit and running off with the man. The harder he pulled, the harder she ran. This was a simple matter of miscommunication, but Ann, through pure self-preservation, had become worried and frantic. In only a few games her new owner had ruined her.

  When you have destroyed the brakes on a horse, they are nearly impossible to repair. Ann became worthless for polo, and the man had to unload her cheap to a horse trader. The player lost a horse and money. We lost a client and friend. And Ann lost her chance at a good life with an owner who understood her.

  These sorts of situations hurt a trainer’s reputation. For those who care about their horses’ well-being, selling horses is a constant worry. We need to make a living and sell our animals but do not want to sell them too green and see them ruined by someone who doesn’t know what he is doing. But to keep every horse until it’s perfect takes years. No one can afford to keep them that long; it isn’t economically feasible. Horses must be sold.

  A good polo horse will give you everything, including his life. It’s easy to overuse this kind of horse because they have so much “try”. If the rider keeps taking, soon the horse has no more to give, and his spirit breaks. We call this “going to the bottom of them and breaking their hearts.” Even some seasoned horsemen are not aware of this phenomenon. They think a particular horse is fine, until one day it’s too late. Continually driven to the limit, the horse slows or, to protect itself, quits altogether. In the horse’s mind, he is only trying to survive. But many owners don’t understand this response.

  People are this way, too. Some will give you everything, but you can only overuse them for so long until they give up. Then we feel surprise, perhaps even think they have let us down. When a horse is giving me that much try, I look for a place to get off, quit on a good note, reward it with a rest. Maintaining a horse’s mind and spirit is as important as maintaining his body.

  Memorial Park, Houston Polo Club, Grant riding Pagan on left.

  Beetle was a horse that gave everything. From early on he had the heart and spirit of a champion.

  BEETLE

  Beetle, one of my best polo mounts, a brown Thoroughbred gelding with a deep chest, was one of those horses who had no quit. A real warrior during battle, he proved it at the end of a semifinal match of the sixteen-goal league when all the horses were getting tired. I was chasing down a goal with an opposing rider on my hip. My teammate Rich, who was galloping full speed from the other direction on a tired horse, had his head down as he rode hard to meet the ball, not seeing the opposing player and me coming at ninety degrees. I was focused on the ball and about to take the back shot when our horses collided. Beetle hit Rich’s horse right behind the saddle and did a somersault, landing on his side and smashing my leg. A sharp pain rushed up from my knee. In agony I rolled around on the grass cursing my teammate for being so stupid. The pain in my knee became more intense, I was sure something must have been broken. Then the thought came to me that instead of cursing Rich I should be praying for help. To my amazement, the pain subsided. Then my thoughts turned to Beetle, who probably was seriously injured.

  Beetle stood next to me with his head hung, a small stream of blood trickling from his nose. People rushed from the sidelines to help. The umpire said, “That was the worst wreck I’ve ever seen.”

  I eased myself up and tested my leg, which seemed okay. Beetle seemed fine, too. No sign of lameness or evidence of injury except for the blood coming from his nose. “We better get him to a vet,” I said.

  Locke came galloping up on a fresh horse. “That was terrible. Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Yeah, I think so. Thank God,” I replied. “I don’t feel any pain. I think I can finish the game.” We played the final chukker, won the game by one point, and advanced to the finals.

  The vet reported that Beetle would be fine, only a few broken blood vessels--and he cleared him to play in the finals scheduled two days later. Beetle played his heart out and helped us win the championship.

  After that season I sold him to a polo player from Kansas City who loved and appreciated Beetle and provided him with great care. Beetle played for many years and then was retired to the man’s farm.

  In spite of my success at the President’s Cup, I believed I had reached my peak as a polo player and was not progressing as a horseman. Something in my gut told me there was much I hadn’t discovered. The dilemma of having to sell our horses before they were ready was beginning to wear on me. I felt as if I was betraying my students by sending them off into a world they were not prepared for, much like a young soldier being sent into combat before being fully trained and mentally prepared. Even horses like Beetle should have been better than they were, softer and more responsive. They should have enjoyed their work more, and what about others like Sly World who hadn’t conformed to my program no matter what I had tried?

  Something was wrong. Using force had only caused the horses and me more frustration. I did things that were abusive such as riding them too hard, wearing them down, forcing them against their will, and using harsh bits that inflicted pain. Sometimes I would leave an unruly horse tied up all night without food or water only to ride him again first thing in the morning, hoping the treatment would force the horse to conform. These methods worked to some degree but didn’t seem to last. I never felt goo
d about this but I was acting out of ignorance. I felt like I was working against my horses rather than with them, and wondered, Should I remain in the horse business? If I couldn’t find answers and better methods, I needed to quit and do something else. But what?

  I had to take a good look at myself and face my demons. Desperate, I asked for God’s help. The answer came in an unexpected way. My employer, Bill Devane, took me to a horse clinic in Los Angeles put on by horseman Ray Hunt, whom our neighbor at Buckskin Crossing had raved about years earlier. Having read his book, I was excited to observe him work.

  Ray Hunt was like no horseman I’d ever seen. His very presence commanded your respect. Ray, a toothpick protruding from the corner of his mouth, sat tall in the saddle with wide, strong shoulders. Removing his horse’s bridle, he told us that if we could direct the horse’s mind, its feet would follow. His horse responded quietly, with willingness and trust as if horse and man were one. I wanted to do that with a horse. I wanted to know what Ray Hunt knew.

  The techniques of horsemen, Ray Hunt and his mentor Tom Dorrance transformed Grant’s horsemanhip. Grant and Locke attended several of their clinics and are pictured above with Tom.

  All the way home Bill and I talked about Ray’s work. Bill said he might try to have Ray come to the ranch in Indio to work with us. This felt like a lifeline, a possible answer to prayer.

  Bill wanted a difficult horse to test Ray’s techniques, so he scheduled Ray for a private winter clinic and then sent me to a horse trader friend who raised rodeo roughstock. I returned with a dark brown mare, Night Latch, whose mother had been a great bucking horse.

  Ray arrived to conduct a weeklong private clinic for five of us. He was to help us start several colts, including Night Latch. He had us do things I had never done with young horses. He helped us saddle colts for the first time without using any restraint. We put halters on them and after some ground work, mounted up.

  Ray instructed us not to pull on the horse in any way; just be a passenger. This lack of control felt uncomfortable, and Night Latch, no doubt feeling my insecurity, started bucking. By clutching the saddle with both hands I managed to stay on. She finally stopped and settled. With only a halter rope Ray helped me get her moving quietly. I had never trained a horse this way before, but the process felt natural. By the end of the five days, I knew with certainty that I had discovered something that would change my life. If I had only known how much.

  DOVE

  I decided to try out my new Ray Hunt techniques on Dove, a racetrack reject who had been on her way to the slaughterhouse. Dove was one of the most beautiful horses I had ever encountered, a Thoroughbred mare black as night with a silky coat, a long, elegant neck, and large brown eyes like a doe. Hers was the right build and size for polo, powerful but not too tall. I thought, If I can get this mare trained, she’ll be worth a fortune.

  But Dove had a habit of bolting. I did not know her history, but a tattoo on the inside of her lip indicated she had been raced. Her papers, however, listed no winnings.

  Lack of speed isn’t always the reason for a lack of winnings. Uncontrollable horses are not allowed to run. Dove’s bolting was caused by a high level of fear. From where it had originated, I didn’t know, but her solution to the fear had been to run.

  When a bit was slipped into her mouth her jaw turned hard as iron. No matter how hard I pulled the reins she would not respond. Riding her was like driving a car with no brakes or steering wheel, an accelerator stuck at full throttle, and a mind of its own.

  Ray’s techniques were new to me, but I put Dove into Bill’s sixty-foot round pen with high enclosed walls and good, safe footing. She could run all she wanted without hurting herself. I drove her around the pen to show her she was free to run but that I was willing to work with her. In no time she was lowering her head, a sign of submission, and licking her lips, a signal she was processing what I was teaching. She turned and walked toward me.

  I couldn’t believe it. Wow, this really works. These horses simply need the freedom to flee when they are afraid. Running is hard work. Resting in my presence is relaxing, reassuring.

  Absent a halter or bridle and without being tied, Dove stood in the middle of the round pen and let me saddle her without complaint. Ignorant of the next steps to prepare her for a ride, I tightened the cinch and stepped on. I reminded myself of what Ray had said: “There is no such thing as a runaway because I can ride as fast as they can run away.” Well here goes, I thought, and eased her into a walk.

  As if I were a lion on her back she took off wide-eyed and full speed racing around the pen trying to run out from under me. Dust filled the pen as she galloped herself into a lather. This out-of-control feeling was terrifying but I tried to relax and go along for the ride without passing her my fear. What else could I do? I thought, Surely she will get tired and slow down, but she continued to gallop wide-open.

  I could feel her laboring to breathe. At the point of exhaustion she slowed to a trot for a few laps, regained her air, and then galloped around again. She is going to run herself to death, I thought. She might trip and fall on me. I looked for an escape, a way to save myself. The next time she slowed to a trot, I would jump off. But the slightest shift of my weight caused her to bolt again. We’re both going to die in this round pen. Lathered white with sweat and gasping for air, she finally found her way down to a walk. I sprang off keeping my arms around her neck. Both of us were soaked with sweat, covered with dust, and shaking. I felt lucky to have survived and hoped that I hadn’t damaged my beautiful mare. As I walked her around to cool her down, I thought, I’ll never do that again.

  The next day Dove seemed fine, so I repeated the process with the addition of a halter and lead rope, which I thought might give me some semblance of control. Everything went well until the trot, when she took off. Pulling on the lead rope only made her more rigid. So I let her run. This time, however, she found her way back to a trot much sooner, and then a walk. She let me bend her around with the halter and bring her to a stop. It had taken only a fraction of the time as the day before, and she did not seem traumatized or exhausted. I was getting to her mind.

  Within a few days Dove no longer bolted in the round corral. She would gallop only when asked. She willingly slowed to a trot and then walked, her resistance to the lead rope disappeared. Despite my inexperience, Ray’s philosophy and techniques were working. For me, this changed everything.

  Dove graduated from the round pen to an arena and then to the polo field. She would occasionally relapse and need to run, but I didn’t fight with her. I allowed her freedom, directing her into open spaces. Somehow I sensed she was still working through her issues and just needed more time to relax. The fear in her eyes soon disappeared. Her ears, once stiff with fear, softened.

  I think someone, ignorant about how to work with such a sensitive horse, must have made some major mistakes when starting her. I thought, Imagine how good she would have been if she had gotten the right start.

  I went on to play Dove in several major tournaments. With her endurance, speed, and iron legs, she became my go-to horse when the games got tough. I eventually sold her to the top French female player, who was a great rider and as a woman had a soft, intuitive feel for Dove. The two of them looked beautiful flying down the polo field; seeing them together filled me with great satisfaction. I felt grateful to have been part of Dove’s journey and thankful for the lessons she had taught me. But, more hard lessons were just over the horizon.

  18

  INDIO, CALIFORNIA, 1988

  Dove had helped me turn the corner, but she also showed me I had not yet grasped Ray’s entire philosophy. I had learned just enough to be dangerous, but I was determined to stay the course. Luckily my mistakes hadn’t gotten me killed, but I sorely needed a teacher.

  After some searching, I found two in Tink and Jana Elordi, good friends of Tom Dorrance, the father of natural horsemanship and Ray Hunt’s mentor. Tink and Jana were known to be very good with young hor
ses, so I hired them to help me start several colts.

  Tink and Tom put on a colt-starting and horsemanship clinic at our place in Indio. Tom, a small, low-key man with a quiet sense of humor, had a rare knack for working with both horses and humans. He treated people with respect regardless of their skill level. Both his students and horses followed him around like puppies. I have often heard the saying, “People don’t care how much you know until they know how much you care.” Tom cared, and this attitude drew people to him.

  Tom especially affected Locke. Good horsemen had often made her feel threatened, but Tom, as he did with horses, put her at ease. His honoring her intelligence and skill drew her in, diffused any distrust, and built her self-esteem.

  One of my fondest memories of the clinic involves us all sitting around in our front yard at the end of the day listening to Tom recite poetry. He recited the poem “Down Memory Lane with You,” which many years later would be recited at his memorial service.

  I’d like to ride down memory’s lane

  Together you and I—

  And sing the songs we used to sing

  In pleasant days gone by.

  Our thoughts will bloom like flowers

  And we’ll gather every one.

  We’ll laugh at things we used to do

  The joyous things we’ve done.

  And then someday if God is good

  Perhaps beneath the sky—

  Hand in hand we’ll ride once more

  Together—you and I.

  Though our time with Tom Dorrance was short, his philosophy rubbed off on Locke and me, and as a result we began treating each other and our horses better. Tom didn’t know it, but he had caused us to think about making changes in our own relationship.