by Trey Nosrac

The voice behind me was a low rumble, “Got a minute, Bub?”

The leaves were turning in early October, and I was near the race office, about to climb into my Prius. The words startled me. I swiveled my head and did a cartoonish double-take.

“Me? Sure. What’s up?”

He was one of those people you know but don’t know. I once heard the paddock judge refer to him as Tennessee, a burly guy with gray flecking in his beard, in bibb overhauls. He took a few steps toward me, stuck out his meaty hand, and said, “Roger Tanner, horse trainer.”

After slightly hesitating, I clasped his hand and smelled a hint of whiskey, “Trey, idiot ne’er-do-well.”

He smiled, but an awkward few seconds passed as he gathered his courage, and then, in a low mumble, he said, “I’m looking for an owner.”

“Sorry, I already have a trainer.”

“You HAD a trainer and a good one, but that was two years ago. You ain’t got one now. You ain’t raced in two years.”

“Are you undercover for my ex-wife? The pump is dry. If you dug deeper, you’d find out I don’t have money.”

He flashed a hint of a smile, which exposed a gold tooth, rubbed his hands together, and said, “I got plenty of money, and I got two yearling trotting fillies.”

“Whoa, that’s kinda bold. How much have you been drinking?”

He dropped his bushy chin and gave a small headshake, “I ain’t no drinker. Asking stuff of strangers is something I ain’t done before, so I took a slug to get a little braver.”

“Roger, or is it Tennessee? Your direct approach is interesting and mysterious, but you need a real owner and player with real money. You got me all wrong.”

After a sigh, he talked slowly, “I know all about you. I searched the Internet and asked around. You got a reputation as a small-timer owner who pays his bills, doesn’t bitch, but can be a touch goofy.”

“I should write that down for my tombstone.”

He chuckled and said, “You’re not pushy, just active.”

“Guilty as charged.”

I know that you ain’t got a wife or much of a job, so you have time to hang around and like to watch your horse train down. You got time on your hands.”

“Not really. Keeping myself amused is a full-time job.”

“Look, Trey, I’ll give you a sweetheart deal on part of a horse or both horses and train dirt cheap, way below the going rate.”

“Thanks, but…”

“I’ll make you an offer you can’t refuse.”

“That’s what the guy from Bankman-Fried said. Now he’s in the slammer, and I got bit coined in the ass.”

“Just take a walk out back and look at these fillies.”

He took me to his tidy barn and showed me his two new yearlings and racehorses. We talked about horses and racing, an endless, bottomless subject. It did not take long for us to relax. We killed two hours. Then he gave me some crazy low numbers for training the yearlings.

I was bewildered and finally asked, “Roger, I know a little about the business, and I know damn well the money isn’t right on your end. Is this a scam?”

He shook his head and slowly said, “I know what I’m doing.”

I sighed, “That makes one of us. I’ll get back to you in a few days.”

I did some investigating of my own over the next few days. Roger “Tennessee” Tanner, could train a horse, was a racetrack lifer, never had a big stable, and did the work himself, but was a loner. He was born in Mumford, TN, and owned a bungalow 15 minutes from the racetrack. I cruised past one afternoon. His place was nice but isolated.

He headed north to work in the GM factory, which lasted 20 years, and somewhere, somehow, he got into harness horse racing as a hobby. He was self-trained and did all the work himself. He preferred the stakes racing part of the game and sometimes drove at the fairs, but he had a few overnight horses. The big bulletin was his wife died two days before the first COVID Christmas, and his son, Jason Tanner, a recent college graduate, moved to Denver the following April. The pieces began to fall into place.

My thinking was confirmed when I returned to his barn. We reviewed the deal and the ludicrous terms. When we shook hands, he said, “I know you have some buddies that hang around with you. If you vouch for them, we can find ’em a place.”

Tennessee did know what he was doing. He is an intelligent guy. When he felt depression and loneliness seeping into his bones, he didn’t want those feelings to become his life. He realized that racing horses alone was not satisfying and that sharing the ride was better. He took a bold step that day in front of the race office. He has taken a few more since.

All this took place two years ago, around year two of COVID. Yeah, Tennessee slid into our life. Tennessee is there when my motley menagerie of friends, buddies and family get together for Thanksgiving and Christmas. We tease him about his new ballroom dancing adventures and respect him for joining Saint Mary Magdalene Church and working in their outreach programs.

Reaching out was good for Tennessee. It’s beneficial for everyone.