By G.S. Thompson
The barn area fell silent on Christmas Eve, save for the scratchy backstretch speakers playing the local country music station. John Smith sat on a five-gallon pail outside stall forty-seven, nursing a lukewarm coffee while light snow drifted through an opening in the barn and collected on his jacket. Anne Murray’s voice floated through the cold December air.
We sure could use a little good news today…
He unwrapped a Twinkie, his second of three, and figured this was as close to Christmas dinner as he’d get this year. Earlier, he’d walked across the street to Murphy’s Tavern and shared a few drinks with the old-timers, guys who’d been working horses since the Fitzsimmons days. They’d toasted absent friends and better times, then John had slipped back to the barn before the sentiment got too heavy.
The divorce papers had come through in October. His daughter hadn’t returned his calls since Thanksgiving. And here he sat, fifty-three years old, on Christmas Eve, rubbing $1,500 claimers, while the world seemed to be moving on without him.
Inside the stall, his favourite horse and longtime companion Valor shifted his weight and let out a long sigh. The big bay gelding had seen better days. They both had. Nine years old, forty-three starts, carrying all the aches and pains that come with a lengthy career on the track, just like his groom. But when he was right, when the stars aligned and the track came up just sloppy enough, Valor could still find another gear that defied everything the condition book said about him.
John stood up and slipped into the stall, brushing the snow from his shoulders. He ran his hand along Valor’s neck, scratching softly behind his ears. The smell of hay and horse mixed with the cold bite of winter air. Valor turned his head and nuzzled his groom. “Merry Christmas, old man,” John whispered. “Sorry I didn’t get you anything fancy.”
He’d spent the last of his Christmas money on a jar of his special warm-up liniment, the one that cost forty bucks and smelled like heaven and eucalyptus mixed together. Valor was in the day-after-tomorrow’s Boxing Day feature, a mid-level allowance race that he had no business winning. But snow was in the forecast, and after that, freezing rain. The result would be a track surface where class didn’t matter as much as heart.
Anne Murray gave way to Toby Keith’s “I ain’t as good as I once was, but I’m as good once as I ever was…” and it seemed only fitting. John finished his makeshift dinner while Valor worked his hay net with the methodical patience of an old campaigner who’d learned to savour the little things. He cherished the companionship of his groom. The snow fell steadier now, quiet and peaceful, the kind of Christmas Eve you see on greeting cards.
Around eight o’clock, John heard boots crunching through the fresh snow. Danny O’Brien, the trainer, appeared carrying a paper bag and two coffees, his hat and shoulders dusted white.
“Figured I’d find you here,” O’Brien said, handing over the coffee. “Wife sent turkey sandwiches. Said nobody should eat Twinkies on Christmas Eve.”
John felt something catch in his throat. “Thanks, Danny.”
They stood in comfortable silence, watching Valor pick through his hay. O’Brien finally spoke.
“The Hendersons are flying in the day after tomorrow. Haven’t seen this horse run in two years, but their daughter convinced them to come up from Phoenix for the Boxing Day card.”
He paused. “They’re talking about retiring him after this race. Win or lose. Sending him to their farm in Kentucky.”
John felt his chest tighten. “He’s still got plenty left, Danny.”
“I know he does. And you know he does. But John…” O’Brien’s voice softened. “Maybe it’s time we both let him go out while he’s still sound enough to enjoy it.”
After O’Brien left, John stood in the stall with Valor for a long time. He thought about all he and Valor had been through, the tight winning photo finishes and the heartbreaking losses, the way this horse had never quit on him. Not once in six years together.
“We sure could use a little good news,” John said quietly, looking up at the falling snow. “What do you say, Valor? One more time?” From inside the stall, the gelding lifted his head and nickered softly, the same answer he’d given a hundred times before.
Christmas Day came and went in the quiet way of racetracks on holidays, skeleton crews, almost all horses just walking for the day, the fans holding their breath before the Boxing Day card.
Boxing Day dawned grey and bitter, the track a freezing sheet of slop that sent half the card’s entries to the scratch list. But Valor was ready. That morning, he stood in the turbulator for his usual hour, the warm water and Epsom salts working wonders for his knees. John rubbed his back and upper leg muscles with the special liniment, working it deep into the tissue. The old gelding stood quietly, eyes half-closed, understanding this ritual meant something important was coming.
The race unfolded exactly as John had dreamed it. The speed horses splashed through the slop and came back to Valor like he was calling them. Young Ramirez, the bug boy who’d caught the mount, sat quiet and confident in the irons. At the top of the stretch, with freezing rain mixing with snow, Valor’s stride lengthened. He began to accelerate. John watched from the apron, his hands balled into fists, as the big bay gelding found that gear, the one nobody thought existed anymore.
He won by a length and a half, galloping out strong, ears pricked, like he’d just discovered racing for the first time. In the winner’s circle, Valor stood quietly while John held on to him for the win photo, his warm breath flowing across his groom’s face. And John felt the tears come.
Mrs. Henderson touched his shoulder. “Our daughter wants to know if you’d consider coming to Kentucky. To work at our farm and take care of Valor. Salary, benefits, a cottage on the property.”
John looked at the old gelding, at those kind eyes that had carried him through some of the worst years of his life. “Ma’am,” he said, “I’d walk there barefoot to look after this horse.”
Three weeks later, John stood in Murphy’s one last time. The old-timers raised their glasses.
“To Valor,” one said. “To the good ones,” said another.
To welcome good news, thought John, as he walked out into the January cold. Across the street, Valor was waiting for him, and the trailer ride south. Ready for greener pastures and whatever came next.
Together.