On the sad walk from Anthony’s grave, his wife slipped his guitar pick into my hand.   I tucked it away in my desk drawer.  From time to time, when I have a decision to make, I pull it out and hold the tiny plastic triangle in the palm of my hand. 

Another yearling horse investment waits to slurp up money. My partner and I like the pedigree of a filly in the sales catalogue.  Or should we take another look at the colt we saw romping in the field last month?  Which one? Or should we just pass on buying a yearling this year? A prudent man would look at my track record as a horse owner and decline.

After getting burned countless times, I still feel the urge to reach into the fire and go to the post with yet another dream, another adventure.  The pick I pull out of the desk say’s, “Always follow a dream.”

Anthony, my Italian friend and the former owner of the pick, did not glide through life like a figure skater; he careened like a hockey player chasing the puck.  Anthony was far from perfect, but he was always interesting, always involved.  Throughout his half century on this planet he found arenas he loved to enter and assaulted them with a passion that was unfathomable to normal people.

Pick one of his passions.  Rock and Roll records – Anthony knew more about them and had more than anyone.  Baseball from the 50’s and 60’s – you would never stump him.  Old cowboy movies – he collected many, he knew about more.  He took up the guitar around age 40 and practiced religiously every day.  He hosted a weekly local radio show for 30 years – for free. He would think nothing of driving 500 miles just to spend an evening with an obscure old doo-wop singer.  Let me sum up by saying, Anthony went deep and did not worry about how others viewed his obsessions.

I could never interest Anthony in harness horse racing.  Several times I took him out to the barns and explained the sport.  He listened, but horses and horse racing never entered his golden circle.  One day, after yet another introduction to one on my new yearlings, we stopped for a bite to eat at the racetrack restaurant.

I remember Anthony looking at me through a cloud of his ever-present Marlboro smoke.  He grinned and said, “I don’t understand this horse stuff but it’s easy to see you enjoy it.”  He tapped on the table with his index finger and blew another cloud of smoke and looked deep into my eyes.  “Remember this, if you ever are short of money for this racehorse stuff, just ask me, it’ll be there.”

I never needed his money.  He gave me enough – friendship, advice, laughter, enthusiasm.  When the shocking call came from the emergency room I raced to the hospital knowing he was already gone.  As I drove, a strange thought pushed the heartache back.  I’m going to miss that fanatical little Italian from the sidewalks of New Jersey, miss him deeply, but at least he crammed as much living into his time as he could, he danced every dance, sang every song. 

A sales catalogue of yearlings rests on my desk.  A paper listing the potential expenses rests on my lap.  A dwindling bankbook is in my desk drawer.  A guitar pick is in my hand. 

I close my fist around the pick and smile. I pull out my I-Phone, press send, and wait for the voice at the other end.  My horse partner answers and asks for my decision.

“I’m in.”

I look at the pick.

“Let’s buy the filly and the colt.” 

Anthony would understand.

By Bob Carson