Seabiscuit Page #5

You goddamn sack-of-crap

old plater. Probably the

fastest you're gonna run

in your entire life,

you piece-of-sh*t

old glue-pot.

That's right.

The first time

he saw Seabiscuit,

the colt was walking

through the fog

at 5:
00 in the morning.

Smith would say later

that the horse looked

right through him,

as if to say,

"What the hell

are you looking at?

"Who do you think you are?"

He was a small horse,

barely 15 hands.

He was hurting, too.

There was a limp in his walk,

a wheezing when he breathed.

Smith didn't pay

attention to that.

He was looking the horse

in the eye.

God damn.

He was the son of Hard Tack,

sired by the mighty

Man o' War.

But the breeding

did little to impress

anyone at Claiborne Farms.

Get rid of him.

At six months,

he was shipped off to train

with the legendary trainer

"Sunny" Fitzsimmons,

who, over time,

developed a similar opinion

of the colt.

ls that a racehorse

or a lead pony?

The judgment wasn't helped

by his gentle nature.

Where his sire

had been a fierce,

almost violent competitor,

Seabiscuit took to sleeping

for huge chunks of the day

and enjoyed lolling for hours

under the boughs

of the juniper trees.

His other great talent

was eating.

Though half the size

of other colts,

Seabiscuit could frequently

eat twice as much.

Fitzsimmons decided

the horse was lazy

and felt sure he could train

the obstinance out of him.

l want you to hit him

as many times as you can

over a quarter of a mile.

When he didn't improve,

they decided

the colt was incorrigible.

They made him

a training partner

to better horses,

forcing him to lose

head-to-head duels

to boost the confidence

of the other animal.

By the time

he was three years old,

Seabiscuit was struggling

in two cheap claiming

races a week.

Soon he grew as bitter

and angry as his sire

Hard Tack had been.

He was sold

for the rock-bottom price

of $2,000.

And, of course,

it all made sense.

Champions were large,

they were sleek,

they were

without imperfection.

When they finally did

race him, he did just what

they had trained him to do.

He lost.

What exactly is it

you like?

He's got spirit.

l'll say.

Can...

Can he be ridden?

Oh, sure.

Eventually.

He can be a little touchy.

Yeah, l got it.

No. Really.

l'm fine.

Jesus Christ!

That horse is nuts!

Come on!

Come on! Come on!

Let's go! Come on,

you sons of b*tches!

Let's go! Come on!

Let's go! Come on,

you sons of b*tches!

l'll take all of you!

Come on! Come on!

lt's okay.

l'm not afraid of you.

Sure. l know.

l know what you're all about.

You hungry?

Huh?

Yeah. Bet you are.

Come on. Come on, boy.

Yeah.

Why don't you just

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