Dandelion’s Folley

“And the winner, by a nose ladies and gentlemen - Man’s Moxy!”

The stadium thundered with the roar of the crowd. Cheers of joy mixed with groans of disappointment filtered the humid summer air, lifting the audience to their feet. Applause, shouts, curses - all rang around the stadium, as each jockey dismounted from their saddle and led their horse to the stables.

That is where the little boy stood. He shifted from foot to foot, waiting at the edge of the gate and gazing at the magnificent creatures that sniffed and clamored before him. His eyes gleamed as he watched each rider hand over the reins to the trainers, who then took the large animals back further into the enclosed area.

Restricted. The boy blinked at the little sign that hung from the metal gate; the gate that stood in his way.

He wanted to go in. He wanted to pet them -- to run his little fingers across their soft and silky bodies, watch them stomp their hooves and flex their muscles. He wanted to brush their manes, sweep his hand through their tails, the whole nine. But, more than that- more than anything, really- he wanted to ride one. He wanted to mount his own mighty steed and take off, shooting through the air with the speed of a bullet.

No- he thought to himself - it wasn’t a want. It was a need.

He gripped the gate that blocked him from the rest of the stables, preparing to jump.

“Ahem,” a throat cleared behind him.

The boy turned, slowly, and met the eyes of the security guard who disrupted his plans.

“Who do you belong to, young man? Where are your parents?” The guard walked towards him, placing a hand on his shoulder with a grip that said ‘you’re not jumping anything today’.

The boy looked down at his shoes and remained silent.

“You lost, son?” No response. The guard gave the boy a little shake, “Speak up now.”

With the smallest of movements, he shook his head.

“Well then, if you don’t belong to anyone and you aren’t lost, then you’re trespassing. I’ll have to escort you out,” At that, he began to turn the boy towards the exit.

“No!” The child ripped his shoulder from the guard’s grasp and dashed towards the crowds of people in the stands.

“Hey! Stop! Stop him!” He heard the guard’s shouts behind him as he weaved between the patrons and onlookers. He pushed, and slid and jumped until he found himself in front of a similar gate as before, on the other side of the stadium.

RESTRICTED - spelled in large letters on a similar sign. The smell of animals and sweat wafted in the air beyond the metal gate.

More shouts came from behind him. The boy looked back to see three guards fighting their way through the crowded stands towards where he stood.

He had only a moment to think - to decide. And he did. He jumped.

And landed with an “omffphh” on his butt, on the dirt ground, on the other side of the gate.

The boy blinked and almost laughed, then abruptly stopped when he heard the guards above him. “Stay right where you are kid!” One guard ran around the metal fence, likely to enter from the other side, while the other two prepared to jump.

The boy hopped up and made a dash for the tented area in his eyesight. He slipped inside a partially ajar entrance and stopped dead. Hooves came crashing down in front of him - so powerful that he stumbled back into the tented walls.

So magnificent, so large, so strong - the boy stood, eyes and mouth wide, in awe of the creature. The horse snuffed and neighed, whipping his mane and dipping his nose in line with the boy’s face. He reached out his tiny hands to touch-

“Have you seen a little boy run through here? Black hair, wearing a grey sweatshirt?” the voice came from right outside. At that, he slid between two empty stalls that stood next to the large horse. He ducked his head, just as two of the security guards whipped open the tent flaps.

The boy looked on through a crack in the wood and watched as the two guards searched around and asked people questions. One stepped closer to the stall where he hid. The boy quickly shuffled and threw some nearby hay over his head. He lay perfectly still, listening to the man’s footsteps. Just when he thought the guard would yank open the stall door and he’d be caught, a loud whine and a crash erupted from the stall next to him. He heard the guard shout, then curse, then his retreating steps. The boy lifted his head to the crack in time to see the uniformed man walking away, then let out a breath of relief, and mouthed a silent ‘thank you’ to the horse next to him.

He watched as the two guards spoke with a few more people, then exited the tent. The boy breathed another sigh of relief, then shook the hay off his clothes and hair. Just as he was about to stand, something caught his eye through the crack.

On the ground, a few feet from the stall where the boy crouched, was a little black book.

There was nothing special about it, just a tiny leather bound notebook from what the boy could see. Despite that, for some reason, he felt drawn to it. And so, he slowly opened the stall door and walked out. No one noticed him, no one stopped him, no one even looked his way.

He reached where the book lay on the ground and picked it up. Flipping through the pages, he just saw a list of names and numbers, dates and dollar amounts lined in order. He flipped to a page with today’s date - and recognized the names - one of which had just been announced: “Man’s Moxy.” They were horse names, the boy confirmed.

“Gotcha!” A hand grabbed a fistful of the boy’s sweater and yanked him backwards, almost knocking the little book out of his hands. He caught himself, and the book, sliding it securely underneath his shirt.

The guard pulled the boy until he faced him, “You’re out of here!” then began to drag him towards the exit.

“Excuse me, is there a reason you’re choking my nephew by the collar?”

The voice came from behind the two, and the child craned his neck as much as he could to see its owner. A short younger looking man stood, pulling off his gloves and staring at the guard holding the boy in place. He was dressed like the other jockey’s, uniform and cleats, all white with a stripe of yellow down his pants and the sleeves of his shirt.

The guard yanked the kid as he turned to face the jockey, “You know this kid, Mr. Stan?”

The man, attaching his gloves to his side, walked towards the pair, “Like I said, he’s my nephew, and I’d appreciate it if you let go of his shirt.”

The guard, unsure, slightly loosened his grip. “The kid’s been running around the stadium and jumping gates - is he even allowed back here?”

Mr. Stan shrugged and apologized, “I sent him to get some snacks earlier, I guess he forgot the right way to get back to the tent. He’s my sister’s kid, I promised her he’d get the private tour today.”

After a beat, the guard grunted and let go of the boy’s sweater. “Fine, don’t let him run around anymore or he will be thrown out.”

With a nod, Mr. Stan slipped his arm around the boy’s shoulder, nudging him to his side. “Of course, I won’t let him out of my sight again sir.”

The guard nodded back, then gave the kid one more hard stare in warning before turning and exiting the tent.

Another breath of relief exited the boy’s lips, before he looked up at the man who, despite what he’d said, was not his uncle, and whose arm still rested over his shoulders.

Mr. Stan looked down at him with an angled smile, “That was close, eh?”

The kid gave a small nod, debating whether he’d need to make another run for it.

“Relax kid, I’m not going to turn you in.” Mr. Stan removed his arm from the boy’s shoulder, and took a step back, keeping his eyes on him as he moved.

The boy relaxed slightly, “Thanks.” He eyed Mr. Stan, not completely trusting him or his motives.

“Why did you help me?”

Mr Stan’s smile faltered slightly, “I saw you picked up my book. Can I have it back?” He stepped forward, hand extended.

The boy took a step back, eyes wary, debating.

The jockey lowered his hand and fixed a kind smile on his face. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a small slip of paper, then crouched down to the boy’s eye level. “How about we trade? You give me my book, and I’ll give you this ticket?”

“A ticket?”

The man nodded, “A bet. Made this morning - for the next race.” He pointed to the little paper, “If this horse wins, you’ll get $20,000.”

The boy’s eyes grew wide. That was more money that he could even comprehend.

“Wh-what if he doesn’t win?”

Mr. Stan gave a shrug, “Well then, you don’t get anything.”

The boy frowned, “That doesn’t seem fair.”

A laugh, “Well kid, that’s gambling.”

Mr. Stan took a quick glance around, then leaned closer to the boy and whispered, “But between you and me, I think this one’s got a good shot.” Then he winked.

The boy stood there, hugging his arms around himself, holding the little black book to his stomach. Finally, after what felt like hours, he slipped the book from under his shirt and held it out.

Mr. Stan smiled wide, “Atta boy,” then he took the book and gave the boy the little slip of paper.

He stood then, turning to leave, but before he did, he paused. He looked back down at the boy, “What’s your name kid?”

“Canon”

“You want to ride horses one day, Canon?”

The boy nodded, profusely.

The man chuckled at his enthusiasm. “We’ll see about that. If after the race - after you win - you still want to be a jockey, come to the tent and ask for me.” At that he turned and walked away.

Moments later, Canon watched as a gunshot signaled the next race. He stood just beyond the tent, watching the horses charge down the track. He glanced at the little paper in his hands. The name read: Dandelion’s Folley. He recognized the name. He’d seen it in the little black book, written just under Man’s Moxy, on the page with today’s date.

The boy turned away from the race, and ran towards the tent. He was stopped by a guard, “What do you need, kid?”

Out of breath, the kid panted, “I need- to see- Mr. Stan. He’s- my uncle.”

Just then, the crowd bursted into a roar of excitement.

“Oh my goodness, folks! What a nail biter! The winner, by a hair, ladies and gentlemen - Dandelion’s Folley!”