There were a number of railbirds that crisp spring morning, clutching coffee in Styrofoam cups, clutching video cameras, reading the show program, waiting for the riders to enter. It was the first class of the day and weak sunlight, shafting through the rafters, made pools on the arena floor. All around me was the quiet hum of conversation, spectators looking like they had spent their early morning hours grooming a horse instead of themselves. We all smelled of Absorbine, Supershine, and Folger’s instant, but it was the air of expectancy that was our common bond.

At two minutes past the half-hour, the judge and ring steward walked into the arena. Unlike the rest of us, they looked sleep-satisfied and well pressed. With clipboard and rulebook in hand, they took up their post just inside the big double doors. The doors opened and the entries began to trot into the arena. The hum of the crowd was gone.

There were six of them in all, six miniature people jog-trotting around the ring and into the spectators’ hearts. It was a 13 and under Western Pleasure class and adorable doesn’t come close as an adjective. Five little girls and a boy sat their steady Arabians that morning as they smiled their way through the class. Moms with tear-filled eyes watched their precious babies as the announcer called for a left lead. A couple of trainers heaved sighs of relief when the leads picked up were, indeed, left. Here a blond child riding a big, steady chestnut passed below us. Her hair was pulled back and tucked under her Stetson so hard it gave her a slightly Oriental look to her eyes. Her smile was just as steady as her gelding. Polished professionals at 10 and 15 respectively.

Across the arena the lone boy was riding loose and easy on a short-coupled bay. The boy looked like he had been born in the saddle and the horse looked like he had been born under him. The boy’s outfit might have been mail-order, and there wasn’t much silver on his saddle, but he looked real. The judge spun slowly on his heel as the announcer asked for a walk. Five horses slowed to the correct gait. One pretty little, dish-faced chestnut mare tried to line up. I shifted my attention to the rider who, for all her troubles, was calmly and quietly steering her horse back to the rail. She snuck a peek at the judge. The judge dropped his gaze and marked something down. You could almost see the little girl’s shoulders’ slump. Almost. For she kept her head up and her smile in place and her little mare on the straight and narrow.

I stopped watching the five other riders and concentrated on that one little girl. Her outfit was dusty rose chaps and a not-quite-matching dusty rose hat. Her blouse looked homemade and as she passed just beneath me, I thought I saw her rein-hand tremble.

The riders reversed, performed their three gaits and lined up quickly. The little girl in dusty rose came in 6th. But I saw her bend forward and give her mare a hug on the way out.

Sarah tells us she wants to show again this year. Music lessons and summer programs have kept her from the ring for some time. And though it’s been awhile and her dad and I can now afford a nice outfit in something other than dusty rose, when she rides through the gates on a slightly older, more polished little chestnut mare, it will be the first show, so many years ago, that we all remember. Nothing forms character like challenge. And the worst of times can also be — the best of times.