The Horsewoman(92)

And Bitsy talked about how it was about more than just numbers, and how that made it much more difficult for the people picking the team, especially in a year like this when the top riders were grouped so closely at the top of the rankings.

“Blah blah blah,” I said.

“Hush,” Grandmother said.

On the television screen Bitsy Morrissey then said, “And Mike, it’s worth reminding the viewers, especially on a night like this, that the enduring beauty of our sport never changes: Men competing against women, men and women my age competing against riders a third of our ages, men or women. Nick Skelton, from England, won the gold in Rio at the age of fifty-eight. If Becky McCabe makes the team tonight, she’ll get her chance at the gold medal at the age of twenty-one.”

“Big if,” I said.

“And she might get a chance to do it alongside her mother, Maggie Atwood,” said Mike.

“Hush!” Grandmother said, even louder than before.

They took everybody through the rankings then, right before showing some of the interview NBC had done with Mom and me a few days ago at the barn, on the chance that we both did make the team for Paris.

“In truth, Mike,” Bitsy Morrissey said, “it’s Becky McCabe who’s the outlier. Her and her horse, Sky. At the start of the year, neither one of them was supposed to be here.”

“Becky McCabe the alternate, she means,” I said.

Gus said to my mom, “Can you send her to her room?”

“It never worked,” Mom said sadly.

Ten minutes from the end of the half-hour show, after they’d tortured those of us in the room that long, they finally got to it, Mike Tirico actually holding up an envelope as they did at the Academy Awards. The riders’ names would be read in the order they’d been chosen, first to fourth, including the alternate.

“But first,” he said, “one more message from our sponsors.”

“Kill me now!” I yelled.

At least they didn’t kill more time when they came back from commercial.

“First is Tyler Cullen,” Tirico said. “No surprise there. He’s been at the top of the rankings for the past three years, and now qualifies for his first Olympic team.”

When Gus and I would watch videos of my rides, he’d sometimes point out that I wasn’t breathing. I wasn’t breathing now.

“The second name on the list, and we’ve just told you about her inspiring comeback story, is veteran Maggie Atwood,” Tirico said.

A cheer exploded in the living room. Roof raiser. Everybody shouting except Mom. I looked over at her. She just sat quietly in the chair she’d moved over next to Gus, still staring at the TV set motionless. I started across the room from the couch to give her a hug. She held up a hand.

“Let him finish,” Mom said. She smiled now. “And by the way? Veteran just means old.”

Mike Tirico turned to Bitsy Morrissey now.

“Any prediction on who’s next?” he said.

“It has to be Rich Grayson and Becky McCabe,” she said. “It’s just the question of who’s the alternate.”

“Out with it!” Grandmother yelled.

I hid my face behind a pillow, knees up to my chest, the way I would when I was watching a scary movie in this room when I was a kid.

One more pause from Mike Tirico.

Then he smiled and said, “The third rider on the team is…Becky McCabe.” He smiled. “The young woman Bitsy called the outlier is in. And she’s going to compete alongside her mother!”

More cheering in the room, even louder than before. We never heard Mike Tirico announce that Rich was the alternate.

Now I got off the couch and went over and hugged my mother.

“Damn,” I said, “we did it.”

“Didn’t we, though?” she said.





Paris





ONE HUNDRED SIXTEEN



MOM AND I scored a two-bedroom apartment at the Olympic Village, which had been built in the Seine-Saint-Denis area outside of Paris. Mom had said that at her age, she was too old for dorm life. But the place was new, clean, spacious, even quiet, despite the fact that there were fifteen thousand athletes from all over the world living in the Village. And when we weren’t riding, we were hanging out at the Hotel Pont Royal downtown, where Grandmother had booked rooms for her and Gus.

We’d been in Paris a full week before marching with the United States team in the Opening Ceremonies. Me and Mom, along with the NBA players and tennis players and America’s best golfers, swimmers, and track and field stars filed into the Stade de France, which became the selfie capital of the world.

When we weren’t riding, we’d all eaten well and seen as many of the obligatory tourist sights as we could. Mom had occasionally gotten Gus to go along with her and Grandmother and me, even though he kept saying that the only tourist attraction he cared about was the inside of the ring where our competition would be held, about twelve miles outside of central Paris, at the Chateau de Versailles. That’s where they’d built the horse park for equestrian events. The ring, the far end of the property near the Grand Canal, had officially been named Etoile Royale. Gus just called it “The Royal.”

As much as he liked to be a professional grump, though, he was clearly enjoying himself. He was even working well with an old competitor of his, Charlie Benedict, the official show-jumping boss for the US team. His title was “Chef d’Equipe.” Gus said that made him sound like he should be cooking at one of the fancy restaurants where we’d been eating. Charlie and Gus were the same age and had come up through the ranks together. Everybody had figured Charlie as an alternate on the team that went to Beijing in 2008. That was before Gus got hurt. But now they’d made it to Paris together, with our team, enduring the wait for the first day of competition.