The Tale of the Dancing Slaughter Horse

by Shade, Victoria;

  “Oh, Mom!” I whined.

  “Enough!” she interrupted. “He is your father, and he loves you.”

  “But he’s such an asshole!”

  “You are the only person in the world he actually likes; you’ll be fine.”

  I sat back and remained quiet. Who cares who I’m going to be there with? I’m going to see the Olympics! And meet George Theodorescu! I thought.

  I couldn’t wait to tell Carol.

  The next day, when I saw her in the barn, I rushed to her and gushed, “Carol, guess what? I’m going to see the Olympics in Atlanta!”

  “That’s great, Victoria! It will be good for you to see the superstars live. I want a full report when you get back.”

  “You got it!” I said through my wide smile.

  31

  The Olympic dressage events were to be held over the course of a week. There were to be four events: preliminaries on Monday and Wednesday, then the top twenty from those two days would be invited to compete on Saturday and Sunday.

  On the flight, my mother told both my father and me what the itinerary was—Mr. Theodorescu would be busy with the competition on Monday and Wednesday, but he invited us to have tea with him on Tuesday. My mother would be at the meeting on Tuesday, but would fly home that evening. I couldn’t believe it. Here was this dressage legend, who had trained half of the world’s best riders, taking time out of the Olympics, where he was coaching his own daughter as well as the French team, to meet me and my parents!

  As soon we landed, we were immersed in an alternate universe. The Olympics took over every inch of the city. The proud Olympic rings greeted us at the airport, hotel, and every restaurant. It was like stepping into a world I desperately wanted to be a part of, it was like stepping into a fairy tale.

  __________

  The following morning, I jumped out of bed at 6:00 a.m., hoping to catch the first shuttle bus to the Olympic dressage venue.

  “Mom!” I shouted, flipping on the lights. “Get up, get up, time to go!”

  She immediately flipped off the bed covers and flung her legs off the bed. Years of dressage shows had trained her well.

  I called my father’s room. No answer. He was just a few doors down, so I went over and started banging on his door. After a few minutes, he pulled the door open.

  “What? What’s wrong with you?” he said, annoyed.

  “Time to go, time to go!” I chirped.

  “Goddamn crazy kid . . .” he muttered, walking away.

  “Mom, he’s not ready! We’ll be late!” I announced, bursting back into the room we shared.

  “No, we won’t. Stay here,” she said, walking out the door.After a few minutes, she brought him to our room and we were all finally ready to go.

  We had to take a shuttle bus from the hotel to the venue, and I didn’t know how bad traffic would be. We hustled to the bus stop, a five-minute walk from the hotel. A sizable crowd was already there. The shuttle bus arrived a few minutes later and we were on our way.

  We arrived an hour before the first scheduled ride. I hurried through the long line of vendors, weaving through people, and leaving my parents behind. I didn’t care about anything, or anyone, I just had to get there. There was a gravitational pull drawing me into the Olympic stadium, just as strong as the force that pulled me to Moony’s stall every time I arrived at the barn. I had to see it.

  I scurried up a long, concrete ramp, and then, there it was—the Olympic arena. The early morning sun illuminated the damp sand so that it glistened like gold dust. It had been perfectly combed, with careful, straight lines drawn up and down the whole arena. Colorful, fresh flowers peppered the perimeter of the ring. The bright white rails of the arena shone in the sun. A huge monitor stood stoically behind the show ring. Everything looked just as I had envisioned, only more magnificent.

  A few people passed me to make their way to their seats, which snapped me back to reality.

  Oh, right, the seats, I remembered.

  Our row was perfect, although quite high up.

  No problem, I thought, Victor brought his crazy binoculars.

  My father wore his tourist outfit today: baseball cap to protect his bald head from getting sunburned, binoculars, video camera, and photo camera. White socks were pulled all the way up his hairy shins. Khaki shorts pulled up over his big belly, and a light polo shirt tucked in. The ensemble was complete with a fanny pack and shoulder bag. He looked like Humpty Dumpty as a tourist.

  My mother simply wore a pale yellow button down shirt with a long denim skirt.

  They finally arrived, five minutes before the first ride.

  “Victoria, we’re here!” my father announced, when he spotted me sitting in the stands.

  “Shhh!” I hissed, waving my hand to keep him quiet.

  My mother slapped him on his back.

  “What did I do?” he asked, feigning innocence.

  “Just shut it and behave!” my mother hissed at him in Romanian. Astonishingly, he obeyed. I was again amazed. How could he be so vicious in court all those years and now he was a lamb? I had little time to analyze it, as the first rider then entered the arena.

  __________

  The world around me stopped; I was drawn into that rider’s world. I was seeing what he was seeing, feeling how his horse felt underneath him. I heard nothing else, saw nothing else. It was as if I were there in that arena, riding that majestic, white Lipizzaner horse.

  The Spanish rider put in a respectable effort; unfortunately, his horse spooked at several cameramen around the ring. I couldn’t believe that even in the Olympics, I saw mistakes. He had some minor errors in some movements, something I saw in local competitions at home, but was not expecting to see from Olympians. I was expecting these Olympians, these superstars, to be perfect. I was amazed that they made mistakes, too.

  “I can’t believe he made mistakes in the tempi changes,” I whispered to my mother while the audience applauded after the rider had saluted.

  “Just because you read about these riders in all of your dressage magazines doesn’t make them perfect, flawless gods,” she whispered back.

  “But they’re in the Olympics!” I whispered back.

  “So what? They are still riders, just like you. They are only human, and they still make mistakes.”

  After a few more low profile riders, Michelle Gibson finally took the stage. She was the first American to compete. I knew everything ever published about her. She was born and raised right here, in Georgia. She had left home six years ago and moved to Germany, to train and compete with the best. And now, she was one of the best in the world. After years of hard work and sacrifice, she had come home to compete in her first Olympic Games. She was living out her Olympic dream.

  Her horse, Peron, was a notoriously difficult horse. I had read that he had been abandoned by his owner, and Michelle started riding him because he was just sitting in a field somewhere. Nobody wanted him. But she saw something in him, and with help from her trainer, she had turned him into an Olympic mount. This horse that no one else could ride simply blossomed under his young rider (she was still only in her twenties, which is considered young for dressage riders). The horse did not look spectacular and gifted in the pictures I had seen, so I knew there must be something extra, something a camera could not capture, for them to have had such remarkable success. I couldn’t wait to see this extra element to the pair that was making America competitive with Germany, for the first time in the history of the sport.

  This twenty-seven-year-old girl could change the sport today, I thought as I watched her enter the arena.

  She moved together with her horse as if they were one. He was an unimpressive mover, but he seemed to read her mind as if they shared one consciousness. It even looked like they breathed at the same time. I had never seen a rider so united with her horse. Peron was so focus
ed on his rider that he paid no attention to the distractions that rattled the other horses—the loudspeaker, the flags, the cameras, the crowd. His ears were pointed back at her, listening to her, for the whole ride.

  Everyone waited anxiously for the score; it seemed that the whole audience knew that Michelle might be the first American since 1932 to win an individual Olympic dressage medal. Other than the previous Olympics in 1992, the last Olympic medal brought home to the US was a team bronze, secured by Hilda Gurney and a Thoroughbred that she owned and trained herself, Keen. Even though her monumental win happened before I was born, I knew her story well, and was inspired by it—she and her racehorse dared to compete in dressage at the Olympic level, and came home with a bronze medal. I was confident that this US team in Atlanta could also win a team medal, but I really hoped Michelle would win an individual medal.

  The score was posted—75.853%, a solid, high score. The crowd—Michelle’s home crowd—went wild. I joined in the jubilation.

  “Do you think she can do it—get an individual medal?” I asked my mother.

  “I think so,” she said, as she applauded.

  If Michelle could win an individual medal, I would have a renewed sense of hope for my own dressage career. If an American girl with a horse from a field could compete with the Germans, Dutch, and Swedes, the long-time dominators of dressage, my world would change. I would no longer assume that judges wanted to see fancy horses with impressive pedigrees and famous riders. I would believe that judges were scoring the rides they saw, not the history they knew. I would hope that they rewarded good training rather than impressive bloodlines. After all, “dressage” was a French word that translated to “training;” it seemed only fair, therefore, for the judging system to evaluate the horses’ and riders’ training, rather than their backgrounds.

  I also saw the reigning Olympic champion compete on her brilliant horse, as well as the reigning World Cup champion. Neither had the magic or the power in their performances that I saw in Michelle’s. I was astounded to see some minor mistakes in each of their rides.

  “I can’t believe it,” I whispered to my mother.

  “I told you, they are just human—all of them,” she whispered back.

  __________

  At the lunch break, an older gentleman appeared in the walkway between bleachers and started up, toward our row. He was small, fragile looking, with white hair sprouting out of his dark, tan head. He was wearing an Olympic team jacket for Germany, and a VIP pass draped around his neck. I gasped when I recognized his face—Mr. Theodorescu! He was coming over to us!

  Oh my God, Mr. Theodorescu is here and my hair is a mess! I panicked.

  My mother waved at him and bounded down the aisle stairs like a teenager. I followed behind her.

  “Hello, Mr. Theodorescu, it’s so nice to see you after all this time. Thank you so much for taking time out of your busy schedule to meet with us,” she began in Romanian, as she shook his hand. “This is my daughter, Victoria.”

  “Hello, young lady,” he said in Romanian as I shook his hand.

  “Hello,” I replied automatically.

  “Hey everyone, say cheese!” My father suddenly yelled from the stands.

  Oh my God I am mortified! Please let that be it, please shut up, Victor! I pleaded in my head.

  “Yes, well,” he continued, “I wanted to come over to meet you today. I will actually be tied up tomorrow, so we can’t do tea. Can you come to the Olympic village tonight, after 6:00 p.m.? Meet me at my hotel,” he said, as he handed my mother a piece of paper with the address.

  “Of course, thank you,” she replied in Romanian.

  He turned to walk away.

  “I can’t believe he’s taking time out of the Olympics to talk to us,” I gushed to my mother as we turned to go back to our seats.

  “Yes, me too. He is a good person,” she said.

  __________

  The afternoon of competition came to a close. Michelle’s first ride was good, but she needed a second good score to land her in the finals, where she could compete for an individual medal. It was so exciting; I thought, I might witness an American win an individual Olympic medal! And I would soon sit down with one of the icons of dressage. My stomach was in knots.

  “Victoria, can you please calm down,” my mother sighed on the shuttle bus to the Olympic village, while I bit my nails and furiously shook my legs in my seat.

  “How am I supposed to calm down? I’m about to talk to George Theodorescu!” I reminded her.

  “Yes, I know. But remember, he is just another human being, like you and me,” she reiterated.

  “Oh darling, he’s just another little horse trainer. He’s not a lawyer,” my father chimed in, priding himself again on being an attorney.

  “Actually, he is a lawyer. He just spends all his time training horses. And he speaks five languages, just like you,” I corrected him.

  “He’s a lawyer?” my father was dumbstruck. At least now I knew he would be respectful to a fellow attorney.

  “By the way I speak eight languages!” he corrected me.

  I rolled my eyes. I let him have the last word because I needed to rehearse what I would say to the dressage legend I was about to meet.

  We finally arrived at the Olympic village. Mr. Theodorescu met us at the entrance of the hotel and led us to his room. My mother began the conversation, starting with memories of their time at the army stable in Romania.

  “Well, I thought horses were out of my life when I gave up jumping to practice dentistry and moved to America. But then this one has been obsessed with horses since she was little,” she nodded at me accusingly, in a teasing way.

  “Is that so?” the legend interjected.

  “Yes,” my mother continued. “When she discovered dressage, she was hooked. When she got her first dressage saddle, a used little one from a local tack store, she would oil it in her room for hours, and then she sat in it, and did her homework on it. Her room was filled with the smell of saddle soap, but she was so happy,” she told him.

  He was visibly amused. I felt my cheeks flush with embarrassment.

  “So forget it when she got her first horse. I would have to pull her out of the stall to go home,” and just when she was about to delve into another embarrassing story, he interrupted.

  “What kind of horse?” he asked

  “Appendix,” she replied.

  “Not a warmblood?” he asked, amazed.

  “No,” she now flushed slightly with embarrassment.

  “She cannot ride dressage without a warmblood,” he said conclusively.

  Then my father jumped in.

  “Look, Mr. Theodorescu, before we throw millions of dollars out the window, how do we even know she is worth it?” he asked.

  The legend, who was impossible to read due to his total lack of facial expressions, lifted one eyebrow.

  “Excuse me?” he asked, bewildered that my father so blatantly questioned investing in my passion.

  “Well, horses are expensive, but how do we even know she’s good enough to go really far?” my father continued.

  “I would have to see her ride,” Mr. Theodorescu said, “we can arrange to go to a local barn in the area.”

  This busy dressage trainer, here to coach not only his own daughter, but also the French team during the Olympics, was going to take time out during this monumental week to see me ride?

  “Come back here tomorrow, we will go to a local barn together, and then talk,” Mr. Theodorescu concluded.

  “Excellent,” my father was pleased with the verdict.

  “I have to go back to New York, so I will not be able to be here,” my mother interjected.

  “I don’t have to see you ride, do I?” Mr. Theodorescu replied, in the Romanian sarcasm I knew all too well.

  He’s funny! I th
ought.

  “Well, we are extremely grateful, thank you so much,” my mother said as we all rose to leave.

  “You are welcome,” he said.

  Then he turned to me, and said, “I look forward to seeing you ride, young lady.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Theodorescu,” was all I could muster.

  __________

  The next day, I met Mr. Theodorescu at his hotel. I wore my jeans and sneakers, instead of my breeches and boots, not having anticipated that I would ride this week. We drove to a local barn where only western saddles were available.

  This is ridiculous, I thought. I’m riding in front of a dressage legend, and I’m not even in an English saddle. He’s going to laugh at me.

  I nonetheless hopped on a horse, and gave it the cue to trot. I sat deep in the western saddle, to demonstrate my fluid seat, which may not have come across on the short strided horse I was riding.

  “Change direction, please,” he said in English.

  “Canter, please,” he then said.

  I did as he ordered.

  “Stop, enough,” he said.

  That’s it? I thought.

  I slowed the horse to a walk.

  Mr. Theodorescu said to my father. “Your daughter has talent. But a good rider can go nowhere without a good horse.”

  Then he turned to me and said, “You can ride. If you want to train with me, you are welcome to come to join my training program in Germany.”

  I couldn’t control the smile that broke across my face.

  My father flustered and stammered, “She is in school!”

  Mr. Theodorescu replied calmly, “Will she be in school forever?” then he looked at me and smiled.

  “You are welcome to come to Germany and train with me when you are done with school,” he told me. “I have to get back,” he said, and the conversation was concluded.