Raja, Story of a Racehorse Read Free Page B

the sun tickled grass waved in the breeze and puffy clouds floated across the sky.
    â€œDon’t worry, about a thing, ’cause every little thing is gonna be alright,”she sang.
    Bob walked up to us and leaned against the fence as the pink and orange sky began to darken, watching quietly and smiling.
    Ayesha jumped up, a little flustered. “Bob, I didn’t see you; you startled me.”
    â€œCute aren’t they? I love watching them.”
    She reached out gently to touch my forehead. Then she gasped, “Bob, look! Raja has the ‘Mark of the Chieftain.’ See the way his hair grows? The three whorls? I can’t believe I didn’t notice it earlier.”
    â€œThe Mark of the Chieftain, eh? Sounds like some Arabian hooey to me,” Bob teased. “In my 30 years with horses, I’ve never heard of it.”
    She traced my forehead again, more slowly this time. “It’s very, very rare. According to Bedouin legend, horses with the mark change history. They attain great glory or meet great despair. You never know which it’s going to be. At least that’s what my grandfather told me.”
    â€œYou should have seen his daddy win the Kentucky Derby, Princess. What an incredible horse. This little fella’s got the genes for greatness, there’s no doubt about that. He’d better be destined for glory. By the time he gets to the races, a lot of money will have been spent to get him there. If he doesn’t show something, he’ll be sold.”
    â€œMy father would never sell him.”
    â€œDon’t be so sure, Princess. Racing is a business, plain and simple. It’s a beautiful sport, but you can’t be sentimental if you want to win at the highest levels. Your father knows that more than anyone.”

2
Youngbloods
    September, Ocala, Florida
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    â€œThat one. The big black colt over there.” Bob pointed toward me. “Of all of the weanlings, he’s something special. Watch him trot. He floats — like a ballet dancer crossed with an F16 fighter jet.”
    I showed off, arching my neck and flashing my feet as I trotted. Bob leaned against the fence watching us, his faded jeans and scuffed cowboy boots dusty from the day and his well-used bandana hanging out of his back pocket. His friend, Michelle, stood next to him, with Piewacket and Muttley, her Jack Russell terriers, at her feet, devotedly following her every move with quick, alert ears.
    â€œHe’s going to win the Kentucky Derby. It’s destiny. Princess Ayesha even told me he has ‘special whorls’ that say so, see?” He pointed at my forehead, smiling.
    â€œBob, don’t poo-poo that — some people swear by reading horse’s whorls. Maybe there’s something to it. I don’t know much about them, but I agree. He’s a nice colt.” Michelle’s blond ponytail bobbed as she jumped up in a single athletic motion to sit on the fence and watch me. I felt her focus, first uncomfortable at such intimacy, then settling into her admiring gaze. Her intensity surprised me as we connected more like two horses, direct and honest and wordless, straight to the heart.
    â€œSeriously, Bob, he’s got charisma. The good ones always do. My horse, Holzmann, has it, and your colt reminds me of him.”
    â€œThe one who won the silver at the Olympics?”
    Michelle nodded. “Raja has the same look of intelligence. They call it the ‘look of eagles.’ I think Raja wants to be a jumper and take me back to the Olympics,” she laughed.
    â€œWay-ell, now,” Bob drawled, a sly smile creeping across his face as he scratched his ear and pushed his cap forward over his forehead, “and how would you pay for the millions he would cost without sending him to stud?”

    December, a year later, Ocala, Florida
    â€œEl peligroso,” the dangerous one. That’s what the stable hands called Max after two of them