“Get your camera ready, Marc. She’s in the group coming around the turn.”
“I can’t tell which one is Jamie.”
“You’ll get used to it.”
Things have come full circle. In the midst of balancing a career, graduate school, a new husband and two dogs, my daughter Jamie is beginning to show. But not with child; it couldn’t be that simple. Jamie is showing her horse again.
The show bug had been dormant for six years. After an adolescence dominated by 4-H shows and equestrian team meets, Jamie hung up her jodhpurs and began living like a normal human being. She leased out her Morgan, Eddie, to a hand-picked successor, but retained the papers, unable to sell her baby and make the final break. Jamie sold or gave away all of her tack and equipment until the universe she created - and I paid for - was reduced to a single box of sentimental equine miscellaneous. I labeled it “Jamie’s Horse Stuff” and packed it away in the attic, just behind the Funk and Wagnells.
When Marc and Jamie moved into their new house, the box went with them. I warned Marc to keep it out of sight for a few years. But in the confusion of moving day, the box was left unattended. Jamie found it.
It was like opening a time capsule. On top lay a lock of hair from the mane of every horse she ever had, neatly tucked in tiny, labeled ziplock bags. Under these she found a copy of her season high-point records from a local show and a group picture of Loose Reins, her last 4-H club. Then she rediscovered the plate and cup along with her favorite dressage crop. Taking up most of the room was a smaller box which held a well preserved “bubblehead” helmet. It still fit. Finally, she pulled out a set of four unused leg wraps. It was the leg wraps that did it. It would have been a shame to let such a nice set of leg wraps go unused.
Now the little universe has gone into a counter spin and a second big bang is just around the corner.
“Marc, she’s on the rail coming toward us. See if you can get her from the front.”
“She’s not looking.”
“That’s normal.”
“She’s not smiling.”
“That’s normal, too.”
“Does she even like doing this?”
“Marc, try to get both her and Eddie in one frame. Pan back a bit, if you have to. And remember, there’s audio on that thing.”
There is no doubt what will happen here. The show bug will elbow its way into their marriage and completely distort the nice life the two were about to have. Marc will find himself on the sidelines in a role played by husbands, boyfriends, fathers and assorted peripheral males throughout horse show history. He will become part horse chauffer, part baby sitter, part water hauler and full time emotional punching dummy. He will become a beast of burden serving an animal six-times his weight and the gopher for a woman who has promised to honor and obey him. He will become the Primary Peripheral Male.
For 10 years I was – by default - the Primary Peripheral Male. An occasional boyfriend would drift into the picture, but he would always drift back out before I had a chance to trick him into taking the reins. It wasn’t until Jamie went to college that I was finally off the hook.
And now I find myself here again, resting my arms on the top rail of a show ring (knowing how much the organizers hate that), feeling a little nostalgic and trying to explain it all to my bewildered son-in-law.
The show is not what Marc expected.
“You were expecting little girls on fat ponies, weren’t you?”
“I don’t know.” Marc pulls a creased show bill from his back pocket. “I wasn’t sure.” He studies the show bill and glances back to the ring. Class #21, Hunter Pleasure – Amateur, 18-49. There are 54 classes all together and it’s almost one in the afternoon. He’s already done the math.
“This is an unusually long show, right?”
“No, Marc. This is pretty typical for a one day show.”
I’m not worried. In time, Marc will be fine. He is a quick study and he excels at practical stuff. His trailer backing skills are already just about perfect. “Spot-on,” I told him.
Marc is going to make a fine Primary Peripheral Male.
He’s just a bit green.
“Marc, you held up well during fitting and showing, but it probably wasn’t necessary to tape the entire class.”
That’s something the Primary Peripheral Male needs to know. Eventually we learn what we need to. But unlike horsepeople, it is necessity not passion that motivates us.
“They’re done, Marc. They’re lining up now.”
“How do they figure out who wins? It seems so subjective. Even kinda political.”
“It is political. And it’s very subjective. But so is pass interference and unnecessary roughness. You are the Primary Peripheral Male. You don’t have to understand it. You just need to survive the show.”
“I think I’ll survive it.”
“And the next one and the next one and the next one. But down the road, something could happen that may surprise you: you might begin to like it. She’ll take a weekend or two off and you’ll find yourself missing it.”
“Maybe. I just think it’s kind of weird how intense some of the riders are. They really take this stuff seriously. They try to hide it, but you can tell.”
“The kids are anxious about impressing their parents and friends. For them, the placings are crucial. For the adults its worse – they have to please themselves. But they really don’t need anyone to tell them whether or not they had a good ride. It’s a bit of a mystery, but I think for the mature rider it’s more about the relationship she has with her horse.”
“Sounds complicated. And deep.”
“You need to learn to accept it without the luxury of understanding how it works. Like religion or cell phones.”
“Actually, I do know how a cell phone works.”
“That’s okay, Marc…Hey, she got fourth. Not bad for that rusty pair. I think she’s smiling.”
“Yeah, I better get that on tape.”

Bob Goddard is a freelance writer specializing in equine humor. He lives in Ravenna, MI., with his wife, Jenny, and their naughty, but gradually improving dog, Jessie. He can be contacted at bobgoddard@verizon.net.