basketball and sneakers

The Story of a Saddle

Thump. A mass of black leather is placed before you. Pick it up, move it around. What

does it look like to you? What do you see? It is shaped like a chair with flaps under the legs. Can

you smell the mix of old leather and animals radiating off it? Trace your fingers along the edges,

along the seat, which is wrinkled from years of use. To you, this might not feel like much, but to

some of us, this awkwardly-shaped object is like a call home. Within it, we can see a bond like

no other, a group of people with a passion for a sport and an animal that transcends all

boundaries, all classes, all statuses. Feeling the cracks and dents and breathing in the smell as we

close our eyes, we see pounding hooves under an endless sky, the mastery of a few movements

that demonstrate a sort of communication that can be hard to believe possible. It is a part of us.

Look down at the sturdy thing laying before you. A little girl once sat there, learning to

fly on the back of a horse that would go to the ends of the earth to protect her. She was taught to

ride by her mother, who was taught by her mother before her. Before she gets off, she wraps her

arms around her horse’s neck, breathing in the scent that will mark her childhood. She pulls the

saddle of his back, taking care to wipe it and put it away gently. To her, every part of this sport is

a novelty, a passion just beginning. See that scratch at the front? My friend’s son left it there the

first time he rode a horse; he held on with everything he had, not wanting to even consider the

possibility of falling so far down to the ground. We all watched with wide eyes and unending

smiles because we knew he would never forget growing up surrounded by 1200-pound animals

with the power to kill and desire to love.

This saddle is worn and scuffed, bruised and battered. True, it has seen better days, and

one day soon, its life will come to an end. But now it has a new purpose: teaching the next

generation of riders how to mount, to post, to jump. When I look at it, I can see the laughter and

tears that surrounded it, made it into something important for someone. Every saddle has a story,

from the fancy custom one paraded in an Olympic arena to the decades-old family saddle passed

down like a beloved stuffed animal.

I can feel it in my own saddle. Carefully chosen with the guidance of a specially-trained

saddle-fitter and built to fit the shape of my horse, this ten-pound conglomeration of leather and

metal pieces is the portal through which I communicate with my horse. It may not seem

important, I know, but to us, this is everything. It is a touch to go left, a fluff of the leg to get

more air above ground, and a release of pressure as a thank-you for listening.

This particular saddle is young. It is at the beginning of its life, and its story started with

me. It does not yet have the scuff marks ands wrinkles that will mark it later; these are the scars

that will tell its story to the next person who owns it. Together we galloped without inhibitions

alongside a freeway as cars raced by. We rode a precise pattern in front of a judge in an arena. On

the top will be a long scratch that my spur left as I fell off when my horse bucked me off in his

exuberance to be running. We went, we saw, we did. This saddle feels like home.

Now, it is training the next generation of riders, young and old, to love this sport the way

I do. When I am at school, the pictures I get of small girls riding my horse warm my heart. Their

legs only reach halfway down his sides and do not even cover the saddle’s flaps. At home,

hearing my friends tell me how fun my horse was and how much they learned from him makes

me swell with pride. Through it, we foster a bond with my massive animal that surpasses

anything we have ever known before. This is a sport unlike any other, and once you fall in love

with it, there’s no going back.