The BigMan....

Sport, at the farm in Bluemont...

 

In 1993, Sambora was at a small barn south of Leesburg, Virginia, across a small dirt road from Miran Farm, a team roping barn (imagine "cowboys" in the middle of Hunt and Eventing Country, Northern Virginia). After working Sammy, I went over to join the gang. There, the guys were quick to show me a group of horses on consignment from Marriott Ranch in Hume. However, when I looked, all I saw was a huge flea-bitten grey gelding with black leg shadings and a defiant eye. Admittedly, I am not generally a fan of greys, but something in that defiant eye, his defensive stance, the slight flair to his nostrils - something about him reached me across the arena and clutched my heart. I learned he was called "Sport". It was the most appropriate name imaginable...

 

In his cave in the top barn at Cerene Acres...

 

Of course, I wanted to ride him. Of course, John, the barn manager, gave me some tripe about getting on first and getting Sport "ready for me". He climbed up on Sport's back in his Western tack and commenced to spurring, whipping, and swearing the big grey into a blind, furious frenzy. The horse exploded - and so did my head.

Barking for John to get off my horse, I also demanded English tack and a simple snaffle. I strode into the arena (much taller than my 5'2") and caught Sport, calming him enough to switch tack. Once he was ready,I climbed aboard, and began simply walking him. I talked to him, touched him, sat deep and gently applied my leg. Twenty minutes or so, and he was moving off quietly, politely - even though a little unsure. This huge horse was genuinely afraid. As I came to understand, his size was typically used against him. They made him be a rope horse without really explaining it to him. He would get frustrated with what his rider was asking for (more like yelling at him to do) and act out, then said rider would beat him and leave Sport tacked and tied in the arena for hours, even overnight.

Sport, as a head horse...

Sport, as an Eventer...

I understand some of the thought behind that, but beating a horse doesn't teach it to modify the bad behaviour. Remember. There are no bad horses. Just bad riders. 

Several days passed before I could get back out to the barn (work - pffffffft...). On that Friday night, my (then) boyfriend and I went over to Miran's after being with Sambora. I wanted to ride Sport, and when I announced that to the gathering of ropers and riders, there was not-so-muffled laughter. John told me Sport was "turned out" and I would play hell catching him. I took one of the old ropes lying about, and went down to the small paddock where Sport and the other horses from Marriott were quietly munching on the spring grass. 

I climbed the fence, called to Sport. He stopped and lifted his head, looking at me. I quietly but confidently approached him, stretching out a hand. He took steps toward me, letting me touch his muzzle. Talking and touching, I stepped to the side and slipped the rope over his head. He didn't fight me, nor did he balk as I led him out the gate and up to where everyone was standing around. 

 

At The Hideout in Virginia...

John looked up and saw me standing there with Sport. His expression clearly registered his surprise, and he said, "Well, I'll be damned."

Lifting a hand to Sport's face, reassuring him I was right there, I replied pointedly to John, "Yes you will."

 

I didn't ride him that night because it was late. But, I spent valuable time with him, getting him used to me, to being handled by someone whose first instinct wasn't to beat him senseless for not doing what they wanted when he simply didn't understand what they wanted. When I finally walked him back to the small paddock and slipped the rope over his head, releasing him back to the night. He stood there for several seconds, looking at me. I touched him once more, then he ambled off into the soft Virginia darkness.

I wanted Sport. I had Sambora and she was my heart, but something about Sport caused a tremor deep in whatever it was that made me me. And I needed him. Perhaps he needed me too - but I think I needed him more. Much more.

We'll get to that...

For a fictionalised version of the Sport Saga (which, admittedly, does need finished), go to:  https://verbosityoftamara.blogspot.com/2018/02/sport-my-bigman.html

His eye - so soft, once the defiance faded...