#this isn’t tennis or olympics related but it’s fucking exciting

[sincaraz]

foster dog had her puppies :’)

[deehollowaywrites]

A serendipitous confluence of events occurred over the past several days when one of my favorite television shows returned with an unexpected side character, the AWP writing conference took over downtown Tampa, and three Kentucky Derby preps ran, including a much-contested San Felipe Stakes.

If these seem disjointed, know that horses are always--shall we say--the glue of my spiritual landscape.

A few friends who also watch the soapy, sneakily feminist Lifetime twist-buffet UnREAL admitted that they didn’t want to spoil my delight at the inclusion of a jockey character, however briefly poor, much-maligned Norman was onscreen (I assume my Twitter reaction delivered). The show, which is a dramatized take on the Bachelor empire of reality TV, attempted to lampshade the ingrained humor of a petite man trying to win the affections of a statuesque woman by having all the characters involved remark on this apparent absurdity. Producers Rachel and Quinn, Everlasting’s star Serena, and Norman all know he’s being played for giggles. A few heated conversations and a drunken bathroom tryst later, Serena cuts Norman from her lineup of possible future husbands. Knowing the show, he might pop up again, but I was sorry to see only one episode devoted to exploring this particular corner of heteronormative masculinity.

“So you’re a jockey jumper, then?” asks the protagonist of Jason Beem’s racetracker novel Southbound. The narrative elaborates, noting that most of the women one might reasonably class as race-rider groupies are “at least five foot seven,” and then moves onto the more pressing topic of whether the woman in question, beautiful and popular paddock host Maria, might shift her interest to the horseplayer protagonist. Despite the novel centering around various racetracks, jockeys rarely show up; there are 44 instances of the word in a 400-page novel. When jockeys do appear, they’re at a distance, on horseback or in the saddling paddock, and seen through a specific, borderline-hostile lens: that of the horseplayer who mistrusts riders. Jockeys are there to be yelled at by spectators, to “stiff” bettors, to do anything other than their jobs, and most saliently, they’re “notoriously horny little creatures” who can be trusted neither to ride their horses honestly nor remain faithful to their partners. Simultaneously sexualized by their in-group and unsexed by external observers, (male) riders are shrouded in layers of marginalization. How is it possible for a rider to be trite joke fodder in one context and erotically imposing in another? In both the universes of UnREAL and Southbound, jockeys fuck women but they’re not meeting the parents--the difference lies in admission, in context required for comprehension.

“I’m an elite athlete!” Norman protests, standing on his five-five dignity, and later, as it seems Serena might be opening up to him, starts a spiel about how his profession is misunderstood. But Serena is intent on hiding their hook-up once she’s sober again, the show’s narrative turning ambiguous as to whether her shame is rooted in poor decision-making, loss of control, or the fact that the guy giving it to her doggy-style was half her height. Meanwhile, Maria the paddock host is casual about dating or sleeping with riders; protagonist Ryan is the one with opinions about it, and so the reader’s attitudes are directed by this point of view. It’s normative but distasteful, where the cast and producers of Everlasting find the idea of a jockey romantic lead neither normative nor tasteful.

Readers of the nonfiction canon of Thoroughbred writing will see reference to a few superstars of the sport edging into popular consciousness as viable romantic heroes. These nearly always fit within a certain profile: white, blond, all-American. Steve Cauthen, Chris Antley, Gary Stevens. Norman of UnREAL is, of course, white. Observers might also note that the current lineup of rock-star jocks is heavily Latino. The sport relies on sexy imagery to sell itself as glamorous and attractive but limits this imagery to female spectators and participants, largely sidelining the appeal of male participants. Barbara Livingston’s infamous beefcake calendar notwithstanding, racing is shot for, marketed to, and discussed almost totally within the realm of the heteronormative male gaze. It’s impossible to untangle the overarching reputation of jockeys from their status within the sport, their concurrent location at its center and its fringes. Physically, according to UnREAL and the accepted romantic tropes it trades on, riders cannot fit the profile of a romantic lead (they might tick the box marked abs with a bullet but they’re--gasp!--short). According to Southbound, reams of five-foot-seven-and-above women are willing to set this deficit aside, and starfucking can’t always account for taste, since low-level Portland Meadows riders get their fair share too.

It’s almost like the height-gap trope beloved of romance enthusiasts only applies to tall men and short women. Who’da thunk?

My favorite panel out of the two days I attended AWP’s writing conference was “Shooters Gotta Shoot: Voice in Sports.” Never have I felt so understood by a bunch of strangers! Author and panelist Katherine Hill noted that football players talk a lot, an offhand comment that kicked the hamster wheel of my brain into high gear. Do jockeys talk? Not where horseplayers can hear them, usually. What they say is filtered through the lens of what the trainer wanted from the race, how the odds stacked up, whether their horse won or lost. Their voices are reduced and fragmented from intersecting angles:

English may be a second language;

The sport of racing itself is a niche one, replete with specific, exclusive vocabulary;

Secretiveness prevails on the backstretch, while the pop-media view of Thoroughbreds relies on tired images of corruption, rigging, and under-the-table deals;

The riders’ place within their sport is layered with uncertainty, from physical danger to the tentative handshake that confirms a mount or takes it away.

If certain trainers had their way, jocks wouldn’t talk at all and no one would request it of them. They would be emotional whipping boys for the losing horse, emotionless mannequins for the winner. Within the shelves of fiction, it’s also rare to hear a jockey speak, likeliest in the crime-novel aisle under Francis. On Harlequin’s website, a search for “football” returns 142 titles, while “baseball” gets 94 options and “hockey” 73. These are the Big Three of sports romance, with basketball, soccer, tennis, NASCAR/F1, and all Olympics-related sports making minor showings as well. Horse racing, when it shows up, falls largely into historical-romance settings--a scandalous duchess at Newmarket, a sheikh’s stable girl--or again in crime and suspense, with horse-theft plots and murdered barn managers. Trainers appear as romantic hero/ines almost to a fault; out of Harlequin’s 9 results for “jockey,” only 2 titles feature an actual Thoroughbred jockey, and both characters are female. While I’m always pleased to read (and write) about female jocks, I don’t find it cynical to assume that these books exist in part because short women are palatable and appealing romantic heroines, while short men are perceived as having Napoleon complexes or little-guy syndromes, and generally being 200 pounds of testosterone in a 115-pound body. So who gets the happily-ever-after? Viking-esque hockey hotshots, American-beefcake ball players, and any hero who falls within an appropriate, narrow conception of heterosexual masculinity. Whose voices are reflected and amplified within the larger field of sports fiction? Whose experiences are projected as normatively male and typically American? Whose bodies are portrayed and received as alluring and desirable, and whose are operating within a historic context of abuse, control, and ownership?

I ground up my nerve to ask a question in that “Voice in Sports” panel, which I rarely manage because I’m a shy doofus. After the panelists’ conversation shifted to the imperial "we” of sports fandom, I asked Hill and poet Jason Koo to discuss how the collective love of fans for their sport can turn toxic--how the boundary is transgressed, at what point possessiveness becomes ownership and how that in turn affects how players are permitted to speak. I was thinking, as I am always thinking, of the relationships between horseplayers, trainers, owners, and jockeys; of that word, owner, and racing’s intertwined history with slavery; of a sport built on the underpaid and sometimes unpaid labor of people of color; of the vitriol casually displayed on the apron, as two days later at Tampa Bay Downs I’d listen to a man next to me yell SHITHEAD! at Julien Leparoux in a post parade. I said that racing is my sport of choice, waited for someone to say that racing isn’t a sport. I said after the panel, thanking Hill and Koo for their remarks, that I write romance--that I have marginalized my own voice in my choice of sport to write about, and my choice of genre to frame that sport, and my choice of mostly queer characters to people that sport’s fictional world.

Nonetheless Javier Castellano has his better story, his voice triumphing over Mike Smith’s. Nonetheless I write on, delighted in the space in which I’ve found myself, continue to find myself.

It’s my job as a romance writer to depict race-rider leads and love interests as exciting, sexy, and appealing. It’s my pleasure as a racing fan to depict jockeys themselves as multifaceted, compelling, and human.