The race was about to start. It was the fourth race of the day, and the number four horse was my pick. We, my Uncle Joe, and I were at Monmouth Racetrack where some of the finest thoro-breads could be found. Some even went on to win the Kentucky Derby.
The horses were at the gate, the crowd was on its feet, and I hung over the rail looking at Sam. He was a tall stud, chocolate brown with big eyes. He must have stood seventeen hands tall. The jockey settled into place and Sam was Rammy and ready to go.
The bell went off and Sam lunged forward the second the gate opened. As they reached the first turn Sam drafted the number one horse. They moved swiftly to turn two. Sam stuck his head to the horse's right rear in front and the jockey pulled him back in line. It wasn't time to make a move.
The speed increased leaving turn two and the first three horses started to break away from the pack. The three of them were so close, that it was a blur to see who was who. Nearer and near they moved to turn three. My pick, my horse Sam was about to make his move. The jockey moves him to the outside and by instinct, Sam moves up along with the other two.
The next four to five seconds will be lost from my memory. All I can remember is Sam hitting the ground. Both other horses move away from him fast. The field of horses behind starts dodging right and left. The jockey got to his feet and just stood there shaking his head.
The race is over, and Sam is still down. I look at my Uncle Joe and ask him what will happen to Sam. He'll be put down. Is there anything I could do?
We go to the stables to see. Sam has a Vet and the owner hovering over him. He tells the owner he has a broken leg and that it is bad. He tells the Vet what he needs to do. I spoke up and asked if there was something we could do. Yea, give me a thousand dollars. I told him sold.
Sam's leg took a long time to heal. He now lives on a small but ample farm where most of his days he runs the paddocks like he is always going to come in first.
