In 2006, the Kentucky Derby took on a whole new meaning for some of us horse folks. Michael Matz was one of my heroes long before he actually became a national hero in that 1989 airplane crash.

I met him when he rode show jumpers belonging to the late Eugene Dixon. Since I was a friend of his daughter, Ellin Dixon, it gave me the opportunity to sometimes watch Michael school his horses at home. And in the ’80s, we owned a jumper stallion named Bagatell and I was also involved with the wonderful Trakeh-ner stallion Abdullah, owned by Sue and Terry Williams. When Debbie Shaffner (now Stephens) injured her shoulder, Michael temporarily took over the ride on both horses.

In victory and defeat, Michael never changed his demeanor. He was as composed when Abdullah stopped dead and sent him flying into the water at one show as he was when he won class after class and rode on three Olympic teams.

One of my fondest memories of Michael is when he judged a hunter/jumper show at our farm, and we invited a dressage client for dinner. The rider’s mother joined us, and she tried to make conversation, most of it about her marvelous daughter. Finally, she turned to Michael and asked, “So, Michael, do you ride?” Michael didn’t blink. “Yes, sometimes,” he said and just let it go.

And now Michael Matz is the trainer of a Kentucky Derby winner. That means his horsemanship has spilled over to another sport, and his success demonstrates that being able to pick the best and make them perform at their peak transcends our artificial borders.

When a reporter asked Michael before the race if he gave Barbaro’s jockey any last-minute instructions, Michael replied, “No, he’s ridden him more than I have.” What a great comment from a great rider!

When luck turned against Michael in the Preakness, he reacted with his usual class in the face of disaster. None of us who live with high-performance requirements in any equestrian sport are strangers to sudden changes of luck and the possibility of losing the rewards and the horse along with it. It’s how we handle it that makes the difference.

Michael is obviously a very famous horseman, but many people who have “that certain something” work their entire lives with horses on a less glamorous level. At our Knoll Farm on Long Island, a captivating man named John Worrell worked for us for 15 years. To people and horses, he was equally mesmerizing, and, even though he never lectured to anybody, people flocked to him for advice and just liked to hang out wherever he worked.

Somebody would usually trot be-hind him for hours while he did his chores just to be in his presence. It was really fascinating to behold. John never offered his opinion, but he would always help you if you asked.

There never was a horse alive who, from “hello,” didn’t bow to John’s superiority. Horses known to rear and strike when being led would walk like lambs next to him. Difficult loaders would run on the van behind him.

Then there was Cricket, a school horse who never let anyone pull her mane. She arrived with a roached mane, and we soon found out why. She would literally slam you into the wall, step on your feet, and attempt to kill you if you touched her mane. Tranquilizers and twitches had absolutely no effect.

After watching our fruitless efforts and giving us plenty of room to fail, John stepped up to the little palomino mare, looked her briefly in the eye, dropped the lead line on the floor, and pulled her mane while she stood like a statue.

John Worrell “spoke horse,” but he never made a big deal of his ability. He certainly never beat his own drum or tried to commercialize his ability. He is a special talent you’ll have to discover yourself, without the help of the Internet, carrot sticks or promotional tricks. And he is, therefore, much more precious.

And then there was Herbert Rehbein–an absolute genius on a horse who was basically unaware of his own enormous ability to ride. People made pilgrimages to his stable outside Hamburg from all over the world to watch him perform his magic.

Many of them complained about one movement or another that their horse wouldn’t perform or would not display well enough. Mr. Rehbein would observe the situation in silence. When the rider was through demonstrating what could not happen, he would get on the horse. Cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, seat sort of sloppy and relaxed, he would ride a circle or two and then ask the horse the question. In almost every case, the impossible became, suddenly, easy.

Time and again, we saw him convince a horse that it could go beyond its own mental and physical limitations. Piaffe, passage and one-tempi changes would emerge from horses who, before Mr. Rehbein hit the saddle, were clueless and resentful.

A couple of times, I was the lucky one allowed to ride a horse he’d just worked, and it was like sailing around on a cloud. The horses were soft, supple and flowing forward on their own, until they realized that the masterly touch was gone and a regular jockey was aboard. Slowly the Rehbein magic dissipated, and the horse became just another normal dude. It was rather maddening, as I recall.

Sometimes Mr. Rehbein would gaze over the dozen or so FEI-level horses steaming up the windows in the indoor arena and his eyes would glaze over. I know what he was thinking: “Why do these people think this is so difficult?”

If you have a gift like Mr. Rehbein had, it must be very hard to identify with normal riders, especially if they think they have their acts together. Yet he was never ever con-descending or nasty to any riders. He did lose his patience on occasion, as when he hollered to me about using that “right wooden leg” of mine, and I’m sure his frustration was enormous at times because he was not a skilled communicator. He was just a brilliant rider who found it hard to explain what, to him, should need no explanation.

Losing Herbert Rehbein at barely 50 years old was a blow to the dressage world, and I consider myself lucky to have been in his presence.

In every sport, there are people to look up to, people who inspire us to greater efforts. When you’ve had the privilege to know them and found them to also be good people, they inspire you to try harder. And they cause you to look back at the memories with a lifted spirit.


Anne Gribbons