The Sport of Kings by C. E. Morgan

kinds of rich, Henry. Our family name depends on your ability to distinguish between the two.”
    Henry did not respond immediately, but stared ahead at the sweep of this farm, its perfectly painted buildings shining like white knights standing guard over an emerald expanse. His one ear was trained to his father, but the other extended itself in the direction of the fields and whatever sounds might be rising from them, which were none. Nature was manicured into silence. The horses moved slowly in that distant silence as if underwater.
    Again, his father pointed out over the wheel. “Look how they’re trying to outshine every modest tradition that the first families established here two hundred years ago. This is just ostentation. Does your mother need to dress like a common prostitute to prove her value?”
    Henry looked down, startled.
    â€œAnd look at this one here.”
    Henry turned to watch the slow progress of a black man stooped over his mower as he traced the outer edge of the fencing. His face was turned down against the midmost glare of the sun. He moved as if burdened by an unearthly fatigue.
    â€œWatch how he slouches around without any dignity whatsoever. Born colored but made a nigger by being caught up in all this—and he knows it. He’s panning for fool’s gold, and it demoralizes him. The black race has always depended upon our guidance to steward them into lives worth leading. A colored man uses his place of employment as a school to learn the best of what white society can offer. It’s the only place he can hope to better himself, regardless of what the restless voices may shout from time to time. The irony of Negro intelligence is that it makes them aware of the poverty of their own intellect. The only proper response to white influence is humility. And the only right schooling is correction. To whatever degree is necessary.”
    â€œBut it doesn’t have to be as fancy as all this,” said Henry. “Mr. Osbourne just—”
    â€œTo condescend to any of this would be to insult your family.”
    Henry’s eyes escaped his father’s and returned to the man at his mower. The boy’s heart rebelled, but there was a kind of plain disregard in the man’s body; he saw that, and it disappointed him.
    â€œThere’s a long line behind you, Henry.”
    â€œI know,” he whispered, his mouth and eyes appearing downcast, but they were only distracted by his warring selves.
    â€œLook at me, Henry, when I’m speaking to you.”
    He looked at his father.
    â€œYou need to think like a man, not a child. There’s a sore temptation upon youth to discard with tradition, but tradition is learning collected. You’re a fool if you forget that and are forced to relearn what so many men before you have already learned. You owe obedience to them and you owe obedience to me, just as I owe it to them, and I owe it to my father, in greater degree than my brother because I am the eldest. All roads have led to you, Henry, and I won’t have you throw everything away for a heap of rhinestones. I’m a planter’s son, and you’re a planter’s son. There is no need for improvement, Henry, only adherence to a line that has never altered, because it’s never proven unsound. Have I made myself clear?”
    â€œYes, sir,” Henry said thinly.
    His father narrowed his eyes. “Say it.”
    â€œSay what?”
    â€œSay right now whatever it is you want to say. This is the one and only time we’re going to have this conversation.”
    â€œWell … I…,” Henry skated.
    â€œDon’t flirt with your words.”
    â€œWhat if,” Henry rushed, “what if your father had asked you to marry a different woman?”
    John Henry reared his head back slightly, but he didn’t hesitate. He saw clear through his boy. “I would have married her,” he said, “just as he