In the World of Welly (Wellington, Florida), it is said that any horse less than eight years old walks around in a cloak of invisibility. Expenses are high, riders are...
The week the paparazzi descended upon Eyecandyland... Eyecandyland is what we call the farm here in Wellington, Florida—center of the horse world and home of Eye Candy Jumpers. I live...
(Note: Your columnist continues to miss deadline while struggling with delirium from a persistent virus and an onerous seasonal workload.) “You appear to me to be the sort of man...
When I first decided to become someone who writes about our sport of show jumping, I looked to the famous sportswriters of the early- and mid-century who worked during the...
I was given an assignment by my editor: “Imbibe the Show Pony.” “The Show Pony?” “WEF has a signature drink now.” I did some googling and found the press release:...
I’ve turned melancholic. I sit in a chair facing the sea, unmoving like a sentry. I spend long minutes, maybe hours, watching the water and trying to find words to...
It is a truth universally acknowledged that one can be brilliant at riding a horse or brilliant at love-making, but not both. “And I don’t ride,” I often add suggestively...
“Your brain is three pounds of Jell-O.” The doctor was speaking, holding a colorful model of a human brain in her hands. Is my brain three pounds of Jell-O? I...
We are in the thick of it. Mid-WEF, thick like syrup. You have three places to go every day, and more in the evening. Nights go late at fundraisers, galas,...
You think you know the game. A rider enters the ring. She is riding a horse. Together, they negotiate a series of obstacles—jumps—and come out with a score based on...
A menacing face hangs over the arena—huge eyes hollowed out by shadows. It is Ben Maher, looking as grim as anyone ever has. Flash! Boom! Pow! Bam! A veiny hand...
A regiment of kilt-wearing, bagpipe-playing Scotsmen enter the ring. Dozens-strong, unexpected, they give every neck whiplash as all eyes turn to them, a triumphant parade of pomp. A small troupe...
Somewhere in the reclaimed swampland of the Everglades, that glorious river of grass (although it’s actually sedge, not grass, and it’s technically a marsh, not a swamp), a columnist is...
