Whish't Daddy

The first two furlongs would be something Mick could never recall. He’d not been ready at the start, terribly distracted and preoccupied by the thoughts swirling in his mind. By the time he managed to focus on the race he was staring at War Lord's massive rear end and tasting bits of grass in his mouth as the other horse took the lead. Mick thought it incredible they were only a few lengths behind, once again crediting the brilliance of Whish’t Daddy, who had sprinted from the start with little encouragement from his rider. The sounds of the crowd began penetrating his consciousness and he was surprised by the loud noise a small audience could make. The two horses flew down the course into the first turn, War Lord setting a rapid pace and Mick thought Whishy pressing a bit to keep up. As they moved along the backstretch War Lord lengthened his lead, moving almost a full furlong in front. Mick knew he could not leave too great a distance to close or they’d never catch up. He asked his horse for more speed but for the first time in all of their races, it did not come. Whish’t Daddy felt sluggish, clumsy and winded. Mick begged the horse for more but they lumbered onward, falling further behind as the far turn approached. Mick felt the sting of wet tears dripping down his face, the thought of losing his beloved Whishy crushing his hope. He’d never thought they could lose. And it was entirely his fault. He’d not trained the horse properly over the past weeks and he’d let the horse lose too much weight and strength. As they moved through the far turn he thought any chance of victory was lost. Then out of the corner of his eye he spotted Da and saw the tension on his father's face and the heartbreak in his eyes. Everything Da had built over his lifetime would be lost if War Lord prevailed. Athy House had been burned to the ground, his family scattered in the wind, and now his champion horse would be stolen away and Da would have nothing. Mick saw his father wave him on and through the din of the crowd heard him cheering them loudly. “You can do it, Mick,” he yelled. “I know you can.” Mick Walsh laid out over his loving mount and put his lips on Whish’t Daddy’s ear. His wet tears were falling on the horse’s neck and his hands held firmly the reins and the warm, coarse hair on his head. “Go, Whishy, go. For the love of God, we got to get moving.” And there it was! That old familiar feeling of his horse exploding beneath him filled Mick with a sensation of hope, excitement and joy unlike anything in his experience. The people watching that day would say the horse literally flew past his rival. For Mick it counted six or seven massive strides and he knew they’d pulled even alongside War Lord. They were out of the far turn and thundering down the home stretch. Unlike at the Curragh, War Lord did not give an inch. Rather like the great racehorse he was, War Lord went full out, giving Moran all he had, striding length for length alongside Whish’t Daddy, the two horses mirror images, their legs swallowing huge amounts of grass with every stride, the muscles in their neck, shoulders, hind quarters, legs, every inch of each horse expanding and contracting, their breathing deep and rhythmic, the course flying up behind them in great clumps, the voices of the crowd hitting an incredible crescendo, the pounding sound of the hooves closing in on the finish line filling Mick’s ears and mixing with the sound of his own pounding heart. True champions are born with something unique, a special ingredient that gives them the final push of energy, the last burst of speed, the required amount of strength, something deep in the well of their being that allows them to take that final step, to reach that unreachable limit, to accept all adversary and all challenge and still manage to prevail against all odds. Mick closed his eyes as the finish line approached, sliding himself even further along Whish’t Daddy, lying so flat as to be the horse’s skin and with the firm knowledge of an intimate partner, felt his horse extend his nose, his neck and his shoulders out across the line, edging his admirable foe by the smallest of margins, but surely and certainly the winner. The crowd was delirious with excitement. Mick wondered what the place would sound like if they raced to a full crowd. As he galloped further along the track, allowing Whishy to cool down, Moran and War Lord moved alongside. The jockey held out his hand and the two men shook with mutual respect. “Well done, young man,” Moran said with an admirable smile. “You two are quite a team.” Then he looked around quickly and saw Lord Montgomery moving swiftly down the row of spectators, anger etched across his face and his voice barking towards the judge. “Now you need to get the hell out of here, son. And remember” he said softly, “don’t follow me through that gate.” With that War Lord pranced down the course, heading out through the middle gate. Mick followed him along the track, looking down the road to where the wagon should be. He hoped to see Da waiting. He was not, but the Black and Tans were. He galloped past the middle gate and moved Whish’t Daddy along the course towards the gate at the far turn. As he approached he saw Michael Cleary waving frantically for him to hurry. Mick hurried Whishy along and when they got to the gate, Cleary was holding it open.