A story about a woman ahead of her time and coping with adversity.
An Unlikely Trio of Hope
“Floss, tell me the Biscuit story again, please,” I pleaded. To the day she died, none of her grandchildren called my wispy Irish grandmother “nana” or “grandma.” She was Floss, short for Florence, to all of us—same as she was to everyone else.
Floss settled back in her chair and her eyes saw something far beyond our tiny living room in Philadelphia. I sat at her feet, ready to travel back in time with her, to relive the magic of her memories. In the early 1900s, making a place in a new world meant marriage and a family for every beautiful Irish-Catholic girl. Floss was no exception. As the Great Depression gripped our country, Floss struggled, as many did, with raising a large family. Her struggle bore an atypical twist—her husband had left her for another woman.
In those days, few options existed for an abandoned woman raising six children on her own. Fortunately, some of her neighbors suggested an unusual opportunity and before long Floss became a part-time bookie. Her work put food on the table and kept her brood in good graces with people she knew would protect her and her family.
Every time she shared a story from her past, I felt the bittersweet emotion that filled her soul. I knew the empathy she felt for the underdog, empathy engendered from her own experiences. Empathy acquired from doing what had to be done to get by.
I reached up for her hand and squeezed it as much in anticipation of the good story as to let her know I was there. She smiled, squeezing back, then began.
“Lass, the Biscuit was the ugliest horse you’d ever laid a pair of eyes upon. His first race was down in Florida at Hialeah but he didn’t break his maiden for another sixteen starts, and almost fifty before he won a race of any consequence.”
“First time I heard the name Seabiscuit, some fool wanted a deuce to win in an allowance race at Rockingham. I could tell this fella didn’t have that kind of money to be wagering, but I gladly took the bet, thinking of my vig. As I was paying off the win the next day, I remember thinking to myself, I want to get a look at this Seabiscuit.” Her eyes twinkled at the memory.
“’Twasn’t a problem getting into the barns and paddocks in those days. When Seabiscuit was on the card, I made the races and started paying attention to the Biscuit and his handlers. Pretty soon, I had lots of company.” “The trainer was a ghost of a man—looked like smoke, like death warmed over. That horse was a handful most of the time, and a lazy son of a gun the rest.” Shaking her head softly, Floss gave a short chuckle. “The trainer, Smith, he had a gift. You could see that horse and the ghost talking to each other without words. Like both of them knew they were out of second chances and this was the end of the line.”
“They had this handsome jockey, a redhead named Cougar, who used to pick up boxing matches when he couldn’t find a mount. He was tough as nails and had desperation in his eyes. I knew that look—saw it a lot in those days.”
Floss paused, and I knew without her having to say so that the desperation she had seen in the eyes of many during those days had just as often been in her own. She continued, “Turns out Cougar was an Irish who had ended up in Canada. His real name was Johnny Pollard and I don’t know whether I was more taken by the horse or the jockey. Both of them had the mischief in their eyes,” she chuckled softly again.
“When Pollard was up, the Biscuit settled. Pollard knew the Biscuit’s quirks and let him have his rein. He ran like a duck and liked to mess with the other horses—horses do that you know, play with each other. The Biscuit, he’d lay back and let them come right up, side-to-side, get them feeling like the match was theirs, then he’d look them in the eye and take off like a bullet.” Floss laughed out loud at that.
“It was something to see, those three. ’Course most folks just saw Cougar and the Biscuit. Only us that liked the ponies paid any attention to Smith.” “Folks who didn’t know anything about horses were betting money on the side they didn’t have. Naturally, most of the time I was happy taking book on the Biscuit. That horse was a blessing on four feet. Don’t know what we would have done if he hadn’t come along. Folks loved betting when they were pulling for the underdog. Being the underdog was something they understood.”
I nodded.
“Seabiscuit wasn’t a sure thing, ran hot and cold for a long time until he came into his own. I think he got bored and liked to stir up the pot now and then. Then that darn Smith would scratch him from big races when folks had traveled hundreds of miles just to see him run.”
“Those three—they were fixed on winning and they paid some high prices for that desire, but lassie, they put on a show. They saved a lot of souls in those years. I know some folks believe those souls were damned from doing the jig with the devil and betting good money they didn’t have, but that horse gave people something to look forward to, something they could dream about. Never saw so many people without hope get so excited about a horse.”
Floss’s eyes cleared and she focused on the sights and sounds outside the little living room in Philly.
“Yeah, I fell in love with that horse. Never been another like him before or since, and you know, girl, I’ve been watching the ponies all my life.”
“I know, Floss,” I whispered.
“Not another like him,” she said again. “Nary a one kept me dreaming or filled me with hope like that, that’s for sure.”
(c) 2003 Theresa Peluso
[Author’s Note: In November 1938, 40 million people listened to the radio broadcast of Seabiscuit’s victory in a much-anticipated matched race with War Admiral. The Biscuit set a track record at Pimlico for the mile and three-sixteenths, winning by four lengths in just a minute fifty-six. Two years later he captured the elusive win at the Santa Anita Handicap and retired to Charles Howard’s Ridgewood Ranch where he passed away peacefully in 1947 at the age of fourteen.]
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An Unlikely Trio of Hope
