I’m in the paddock with my friend Niall
at Tampa Bay Downs.
The horses are getting saddled
while the jockeys pace in their silks,
and we’re listening to Brenda, the trainer,
as she explains one way a horse can get into trouble.
How, alone in its stall, a racehorse
will sometimes roll onto its back
to stretch or scratch an itch
then flip all the way over and get its legs
stuck under one of the wooden slats.
Trapped by its own weight
and too heavy to be pulled back up,
the horse can panic and injure itself,
so what you do first is quiet it down,
Brenda told us in her Boston accent,
then slip on a bridle,
and ease the horse by the head
away from the wall and back up on its feet.
Now the jockeys were up
and guiding their mounts onto the soft track,
and I was thinking how fortunate
to have people in the world like Brenda,
who know exactly what to do and do it—
nurses and firemen, eye surgeons and harbor pilots.
Soon, the three of us were at the rail
as the field charged past in a colorful blur,
and the earth released a little tremble,
the crowd crescendoed, and the race was over.
Niall’s horse faded and finished 4th,
and a filly I backed because of her name,
Cough Drop, came in second to last,
but luck was with the horses in that race
if only because all eight of them
were safe and whole at the finish—
not one down, trapped, or broken—
no need for Brenda or anyone
like her to come running with help.