I have always been attracted to animals no one else wanted and Rocket was a perfect example. I was just starting the seventh grade at McDonough, which at that time was a boy’s military academy, where all the sports you participated in were chosen for you by an administration of retired army officers who so far had had me slog through football, wrestling and lacrosse, which I figured was their way of getting a fat little kid in shape to be a soldier, but it didn’t work.

The only way out of this was to be selected for the cavalry and seventh grade was the first year I was eligible to try out. Now, I had been riding horses at McDonough’s summer camp since I was five and had progressed quickly from the bomb-proof ponies to one of McDonough’s cavalry horses, which made no difference to the camp counselor who was not kind in his word selection, “I was too fat and would never be a good rider.“ 

But regardless of what he said I knew riding a horse was the one thing I would rather do then anything else and I was determined to prove him wrong.

When I went to the horse barn for my try out the instructor noticed my plump stature. I swear he was getting ready to tell me never mind until he looked at his stall list and saw there was one horse that hadn’t been chosen. He got a little smirk on his face before handing me a piece of paper with my assigned horse’s name, Rocket, which I thought was a cool name and went back to the stalls to meet my steed.  

When I entered the shed row I was met by some of the other boys who all started laughing when they saw Rocket’s name. “What’s wrong”, I asked. Their eyes got big as they told me stories of Rocket’s reputation: “He’s thrown everybody who’s ever gotten on his back”, “He bit some kid’s finger off”, “He kicked some other kid in the head”, and it went on and on. I thought to myself do you really want to do this? But then, I thought about the alternative.  

In the first stall stood Rocket, but that wasn’t his real name. According to Pete, the stable manger, it was Farewell Missile who had been ruled off the racetrack for refusing to go into the starting gate. Evidently he wasn’t doing any better at McDonough either if none of the other boys wanted to ride him and then there was that smirk on the riding master’s face. I didn’t know what to believe, but I thought since I was only in seventh grade riding him would make me look good and decided to give it a try.

The tack room was right across the shed row from Rocket’s stall. Saddles and bridles hung from racks alphabetically labeled with each horses name. I was relieved to find an English saddle and a bridle with just a snaffle bit under Rocket’s name. He couldn’t be too bad I thought if this was all the tack I needed. Pete stood at the door and checked off the tack that each boy took.

I walked confidently across the dirt-shed row towards Rocket’s stall. As I began to put the saddle and bridle across the stall door Rocket charged at me pinning his ears back and baring his teeth. When I took a step back someone was behind me pushing me towards the stall. I cringed waiting to be mauled, but nothing happened. “You’s gots to stand up to him,” a voice behind me said as he turned around and left. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Pete walking down the shed.

Rocket tried to bite me several times as I put his saddle and bridle on, but I remember what Pete had told me. Once in the ring the problems continued; as there I was, on this horse who would either take off running any chance he got, or slam on the brakes and run backwards if he thought he had a chance to kick a horse that was near him.

The first few days were terrible. Rocket’s behavior continued and each time it happened we were sent to the center of the ring to stand for five minutes. By the end of the week we were spending most of the class in the center. Each day I noticed Pete standing by Rocket’s stall watching and on Friday when I put my saddle away Pete tossed me a riding crop. I wanted to ask him about using it, but when I looked up he was gone. 

On Monday I carried the crop into the stall with me and Rocket was a different horse. Now, instead of trying to bite me he stood in the corner sheepishly as I put the saddle and bridle on him. I still wasn’t sure what to do with the crop, but as we rode I realized why Pete had given it to me. Anytime I picked it up Rocket stopped his bad behavior. Each day things got better and better and Rocket started to stay in his place and not run ahead or put on the brakes and back up.

The week before Christmas was the end of our testing and Rocket and I had been staying with the class the entire time. On Friday the riding master gave a long talk about the importance of being selected for the cavalry and that only five boys from our class would be chosen. As he walked around the ring stopping to stare at each boy my leather reins began to turn dark brown from the sweat that was on my hands, but Rocket stood completely still as the riding master began to read the names. There were no surprises in the first four names, but then he stopped, turning to look at each one of us again. The drum began beating faster in my chest and the reins were getting darker.

“ There is one of you whose riding has improved each week, so much so that I decided to give you and your mount a chance.” I saw his eyes look directly at me when he said, “Wayne Bien and Rocket.”

“Thank you sir,” was all I could say, as anything else would not have been considered appropriate. But I knew inside something special had happened. I patted Rocket on the neck as we left the ring and gave him a big hug back in his stall. I had won my battle!

When I put my tack away Pete was standing at the door. He gave me a wink as I left. A wink that meant more to me than any words could say.