October 25th, 2007
Edited and Republished May 6, 2016
It was the Monmouth County racetrack in Central New Jersey. I must have been about 15, or something thereabouts. My sister—six years older—was dating a self-made entrepreneur whose father was very much into horses. He owned a horse whose name was Native Heir.
It was quite the talk of the family—Joy, my sister, dating Jim, whose father—an elegant, tall, sophisticated engineering executive—was grooming a thoroughbred race horse.
In a sense, it all swirled together. My young teen years. Joy’s serious dating years. A certain amount of extravaganza with the race horse. And Terrill, patriarch as he was, an enormously influential figure in both his family and what apparently was going to turn out to be his son’s future in-laws.
As we went from racetrack to racetrack, Native Heir did not do terribly well. As Terrill continued to pony up (no pun intended) the entry fees for the races, Native Heir did not do as well as any of us would have hoped. They were wonderful outings on Sunday afternoons . . . and Native Heir was a truly magnificent horse. But, at the end of the day, he ran 4th or 5th in most races.
At some point, however, we all began noticing something about Native Heir and it was actually the subject of a post-race afternoon discussion on a sunny Monmouth County Sunday. 5/8th races were impossible. Three quarter milers not a possibility. But what appeared to be the case was that the longer the race, the better Native Heir did.
And then came one fine summer Sunday with a glistening sun and a Belmont-sized race. Native Heir was far behind at the quarter mile, long behind at the half mile, keeping his own nearing the mile marker. And suddenly, Native Heir launched strongly and firmly into what was almost a sprint. As the other horses tired, Native Heir gained momentum, speed and strength. And as the race ended – as the other horses continued to fade – Native Heir glided ahead, as if on air. If the race had been another half mile, no other horses would have been left on the track. The longer the race, the better for Native Heir.
I attached to Native Heir that day. He showed me the way or, at least, “a” way!
Life is not a sprint. It is not a quarter miler. It is not a race to the finish. Those individuals who have the fortitude to continue and the strength to keep galloping are the ones who ultimately win, primarily because they have endured the race, and sometimes because they’ve learned something in the process.
As I have been viewing from afar Donald Trump’s full-frontal stampede from a distant post-position to where he is now after the Indiana Primary, I was reminded the other day of Native Heir and the blog I had written several years ago. I thought it was worth refreshing today.
In any event, Trump aside, I owe Native Heir a debt of gratitude. Or maybe Native Heir and I are kindred spirits in some other life form. Either way, I will never forget those sunny Sunday afternoons as Joy and Jim, a young couple in love, watched their dad and future father-in-law’s horse run a race as I celebrated a life lesson I remember to this day.