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Watkins might well have had misgivings. “No stable boy wanted to clean Seabiscuit’s stall. He was famous as a horse you didn’t want to be around.”
Watkins surmises that in Seabiscuit’s rough-and-tumble early years he suffered the fate of many horses of the day, who found themselves at the wrong end of a pitchfork wielded by a nervous stable hand.
“He was never well treated until Mr. Smith got him,” she explains. “I had the feeling, though I never said anything to Mr. Smith, that he didn’t like men.” Smith, of course, was an exception, Watkins notes, along with Seabiscuit’s two jockeys, Red Pollard and George Woolf.
At 5 a.m. Watkins arrived at Seabiscuit’s stable area, which was heavily guarded. “I walked up to his stall and said, ‘Hi, Bub.’ I thought he was going to come storming across with his ears back, but he didn’t. He put his head over the gate, and I kissed him on the nose.”
Smith spoke in his laconic fashion. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
Watkins mounted and rode the mile and sixteenth as ordered. “I didn’t have to hold him too tightly,” she recalls.
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