Ghetto Cowboy by G. Neri

what it woulda been like if I grew up this way. Would I be like Harper, all into horses, working in the stables every day, keeping busy? How would it be growing up with him and not Mama? Would we do more man stuff, being cowboys and hanging with the guys? Would it be any better? Or would I just end up like Smush, some corner boy with a mouth on him?

W e turn a corner and at the end of the street, I can see it: the park. After a few minutes, we leave the city behind us, and it’s like we in the country all of a sudden. Trees everywhere. I can hear the wind blowing on the leaves as we make our way across the grass.
    We pass a swimming pool with a bunch of kids in it. Some of ’em see the horses and press their faces up against the chain-link fence to get a look. We mosey down a trail, past some tennis courts. The sound of the city is far off in the distance. I can hear birds chirping, something I ain’t heard in a long time.
    I ease up, feel okay on Boo’s back. Harp tells me Fairmount Park is one of the biggest parks in America — so big, you can even get lost in it. We ride, and for a good while I can’t see no buildings no more, only trees. We could be anywhere, a thousand miles from the city. I ain’t never seen so much trees and stuff.
    Then I hear it. Laughing, music, cheering . . . and a rumble. We come out through some trees into a clearing, and I see what the rumbling is: two horses racing toward us faster than I ever thought a horse could go. They fly by us, two young guys, hootin’ it up, and one of ’em raises his fist like he won.
    I look down the other way, and all the guys is there — Tex, Bob, and then some — cheering, cursing, paying off money. Behind them is a bunch of cars, some women sitting on beach chairs with coolers and stuff, a few kids running around chasing each other.
    “This is it. The Speedway,” Harp says.
    “
This
is the Speedway? It’s just a strip of grass in a park.”
    “You was expecting Churchill Downs? This is where the real deal is.”
    I shrug. “Whatever you say.”
    He laughs at me. “Boy, what do you know? Black horse trainers started racing retired Thoroughbreds here a hundred years ago. How do you think the Chester Avenue tradition got started?”
    The two racers come galloping up to us. “Harper! We ain’t seen you around here for a while. So it’s true, you gonna race?”
    I look at Harper, who scratches his head, glancing over at the crowd across the way. “Maybe. What’re they saying?”
    The guy who won smiles. “Big Dee saying you too old. Past your prime. And that Lightning’s racing days are over and done.”
    “Who’s racing his horse?”
    They look at each other. “You don’t know? Carmelo.”
    Harper’s face changes, gets all grim.
    “Who’s Carmelo?” I ask.
    Harper don’t answer, so one of the guys pipes in.
    “Carmelo is the new sheriff out here. You’re nobody if you don’t beat Carmelo. And nobody beats Carmelo.”
    “I beat him,” Harp says.
    The guys look at each other. “Yeah, Harp, but that was a long time ago. Last time, he whupped your —”
    Harp raises his hand. “He cheated. Cut me off. It’s all on video.”
    The guys look at each other, unsure.
    Harp shrugs. “Hey, you wanna bet against me, go ahead. Just make sure it’s money you don’t need anymore, because you ain’t gonna be keeping it.”
    He turns and ambles toward the starting line, Boo an’ me following along. When the other guys see him, a cheer goes up.
    I see Big Dee dressed in a bright-red Sixers jacket and cap and big ol’ shades. “Well, well, well. Look who it is, the Lone Ranger and Tonto,” he says, grinning.
    I have no idea what he talking about.
    He looks at me. “You his son, right?”
    I nod.
    “That’s too bad. I hope you don’t mind if my horse puts your daddy to shame. Hate to ruin his rep in front of you and all.”
    I see Harp roll his eyes.
    I shrug. “Don’t make no difference to me.” I’m joking, but Harp gives me