By Charles Bukowski
Warming up Blue Mongoose on the backstretch before the last race, Larry Peterson noticed that the horse was really rank, almost spooked. Larry had been riding for 15 years and he knew his horses. This one really had a bug up its ass.
Larry tried to let the horse ease out of it, but at post time things weren’t any better. He rode up to the gate ahead of the other horses and found McKelvey. He told McKelvey, “This fucking beast is unfit. I want him scratched.”
“He looks all right to me,” McKelvey answered. Larry knew that McKelvey was one of those stewards who worried that the money the track lost on a scratch was a serious matter. The money loss was negligible, though, because the fools got their money back and bet it on something else.
Larry dismounted and gave the reins to McKelvey: “Get a feel of this skitterish motherfucker! See if you can hold him on the ground!”
McKelvey was a big fat guy, he grabbed the reins. Blue Mongoose bucked, rolled his head. The horse was in a lather.
“You son of a bitch, calm down!” McKelvey yelled at the horse. He yanked at the reins and swung the horse in a circle, then in another and then another.
“McKelvey, you’re only making him worse!”
McKelvey pulled the horse straight and glared at Peterson: “Nothing wrong with him, Larry! Either you mount up or I’m recommending they ground you five racing days for refusing to ride a fit mount!”
“You’re taking the food out of my mouth, McKelvey!”
“Ride or starve, boy!”
“Shit!”
Larry mounted. The crowd, not knowing anything, applauded. Blue Mongoose was the 8 horse. They had the first seven in. Mongoose wouldn’t enter his stall. Several …
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Author: High Times / High Times
