Continued from Part 1: Asa Bird—A Lesson In Responsibility

I walked into the kitchen that evening prepared to apologize, but I never got the chance. It wasn’t until a few days later that Asa and I got a chance to talk. It was not a good feeling that I was carrying in my stomach.

Asa and Liz had the TV on in the living room, which was connected to the kitchen by an open doorway. They had chosen a reality show, which took place in Mexico, and which was playing in Spanish. Neither Asa nor Liz speak any Spanish. Neither do I.

Asa didn’t look up as I came in. “Hey, what’s on?” I asked.

“Nothing man. Nothing. But check this out!”

He was slouched on the couch, with a dented beer can on the floor between his feet. His right sleeve was wrinkled upwards, and I could see the start of his tattoo, which I knew was a colorful jester, but he didn’t show it off much.

“Asa, man, the other day…” I started. I wondered what would make it all right again.

“Yeah. Don’t worry about it. Things have been pretty intense lately.”

I knew Anne and Hoffy thought things were going smoothly, which in a way was an injustice to all the hard work Asa did. But what it really meant was that the less stress they felt in their job, the better Asa was doing his. And he took pride in a job well done in the same unassuming way Boxer the horse was proud of his work at Animal Farm. I knew he was doing a good job. So I told him that.

“Thanks man.”

And that was it. I knew things were OK between us, no hard feelings. Just like that. “Thanks Asa Bird,” I thought. I looked at the TV. A girl with hooped earrings was crying. There will always be more drama.

It’s Hard Not To Want Here

The drama in Wellington Village can seep into a person, eroding all peace and common sense if one is not careful. Village life is based on a Jilly Cooper novel. Drugs, sex, money, high stakes, competition, rivalry, gossip that spreads faster than panic in a herd.     

In the face of massive consumption, expensive horses, long hours and parties that don’t end ‘til Tuesday, I am not surprised these things happen. Everyone is desperate to be somewhere, to know someone, to be someone. I looked at Asa already asleep with the TV still on, and Liz in a new black dress ready to meet a friend for dinner. Liz, who wishes every day she was riding instead of grooming. Liz knows, it’s hard not to want here; it’s hard to see these horses and these riders and be happy with what you have. Liz stood up.

“How’s my dress look?”

“It’s pretty short isn’t it?” I answered.

“Yeah.”

“I like it.”

“Really?” she said, smoothing the fabric against her thigh.

“Really.”

She wasn’t sure, I knew, so I told her again, “It’s great, it suits you. You look hot.”

Liz was not staying beyond the end of the Florida circuit. She had decided she was more needed at home. More to the point, she argued, she would get to ride more. “And I’ll come back,” she promised.

Employers claim it’s hard to keep their staff; that no one is willing to work hard anymore. Market Street has a sign that quotes Abe Lincoln: “Whatever you do, do it well.” It shouldn’t matter if you are a groom, or a grand prix show jumper, or a president, Anne has told me, do it well!

Grooms whine that there are no good jobs. There are no benefits, there are long hours, there is little reward in being behind the scenes. It takes a special kind of person to become a lifelong groom. And it is more rare still to see a groom work his or her way up to become a rider, trainer or all-around horseman.

I’ve heard people tell me on more than one occasion that the Horseman is a dying breed. And that is in a time when I look around and see more people and more horses and more money changing hands than I’ve ever seen in my life. Maybe Liz would be better off riding at home; it’s not an easy road in Wellington. It’s not easy anywhere, but maybe it’s easier at home.

I watched Liz pack up her purse, quickly apply lipstick, wink at me and head out the door. “…brush my teeth with a bottle of Jack. ‘Cause when I leave for the night, I ain’t comin’ back,” she sang.

The Horseman Is A Dying Breed

I looked at Asa. “You awake, man?”

“Yeah,” he said, without opening his eyes.

“Did I tell you I talked to the trainer so-and-so today?” And I named the trainer.

“You don’t need to listen to him.” Asa said, opening one eye.

“Yeah, by the Mogavero ring this morning. Before the first class. I asked him what he liked about his sport.”

Asa didn’t answer, so I kept quiet, remembering. It had been a quiet morning. And the trainer, who had the seed of a paunch appearing above his freshly-creased jeans, took me aside with a hand on my shoulder. “Tik,” he started. “Let me tell you how it is.”

This is a very famous trainer I knew, one who sells a lot of horses, and whose horses win a lot of classes.

“Tell me,” Asa said, interrupting my thoughts.

“You want me to tell you?” and I sat down next to Asa and tried my best to remember what that trainer had told me.

“He said: ‘I’ve been in this business for 33 years. I’ve seen a lot. But it’s only hunters for me now. And I’ll tell you why. First, you have to know something about jumpers, and this is something I learned the hard way. I can go and spend $300,000…’

“Asa, he said that like how I might say I’m going to spend $3 on a goldfish. He said it like it was a bit much, but then, why not splurge once-in-a-while if it’s important.”

“I told you Tik, there’s no use listening to that guy.” Asa said.

“Then he squeezed my arm like this,” and I squeezed Asa’s bicep quickly, just where the tattoo might be, “Then so-and-so said: ‘And then my rival might spend $50,000. And you know what? He’ll win! I don’t think my rival ever paid more than 150 for one of his grand prix horses. Not bad, I guess. Good for him, I guess. But where does that put me?’

“So, Asa, where does that put him?”

Asa looked at my hand on his arm, “I dunno, boss.”

I don’t know either, I thought. Maybe it puts him in the camp of those that want immediate value for their money, or in the generation-of-now, or with the rich, the lazy. I don’t know. I don’t know where this sport is going. I remembered something else I had seen at the horse show.

“You know what else I saw at the horse show?” I asked Asa.

Asa looked at me with raised eyebrows, and I told him about the horse in draw reins, his tongue lolling to the side, the whites of his eyes pleading, trotting in endless ovals, and the rider with the reins in one hand. Why? Because she was using the other hand to hold her cell phone to her ear.

“I’ll tell you what Asa,” I said. “I think we are lucky to work for what we get. Sure you won’t make as much in your whole life as one of so-and-so’s top horses are worth, but at least you’re a good worker. At least you are honest and dependable and care about the horses. We should all wish for so much.”

“I guess you’ve thought about this a bit.”

“A bit.”

“I like what Anne says,” Asa said after a pause, “The sign of a good rider is a happy horse.”

“A happy horse. Exactly. I just don’t get why they don’t get it,” I said. I had never said so much to Asa before, and I suddenly realized I’d been talking too much. “I’m going to get a drink,” I told him, and left him to watch TV.

And later, I sat with a beer of my own and wrote down a promise.

I pledge, now, on paper, that I want to help fend off the extinction of that rare species, the Horseman. I’m not going to take the easy way. I’m not going to do it for the money or the fame. I’m not going to trade my passion for prominence or popularity. Asa Bird, here is my promise: I’m gonna help you out dude, I’m gonna man-the-*&^%-up.

Read Part 1: Asa Bird—A Lesson In Responsibility

In the summer of 2008 Tik Maynard came up with a grand plan. He decided to spend a year working for some of the greatest horsemen he could find in different disciplines and writing about his experiences. So far, he has worked for Johann Hinnemann, Ingrid Klimke, David and Karen O’Connor, Bruce Logan and Anne Kursinski. He is currently Kursinski’s assistant trainer, and he wrote this a year ago during his first winter in Wellington, Fla. For more information on Tik, visit www.tik.ca/.