A/N: Seabiscuit has long been one of my favorite movies, and every time I rewatch it, I think about how many parallels there are to be made between Seabiscuit and Steve Rogers. And then I think about how Steve would have actually been alive at the same time as Seabiscuit. I wondered what his reaction would be to that little horse. And then I had to include Bucky and Howard as well.
This story follows some of the dramatic licensing in the movie, so blame any historical errors on the movie producers. :)
1928
Howard sits on the floor in the cramped parlor and tinkers. He's always tinkering. Finding the broken pieces of random technology discarded in the trash bins lining the alleyways. Useless bits to ninety percent of the world, but Howard's not like them. The pieces whisper to him, challenge him, inspire him to create.
He's repaired this radio to a state the original designer never even dared imagine. He proudly plays it for his parents, who enjoy the programs on it much more than he does; he only wanted to prove he could fix it. It's just one of his many projects, and so he sits on the floor with his recovered trash, mind puzzling over the next challenge, while his parents enjoy his creation. It's only when he hears the program's host say his name that he briefly lifts his head up from his meticulously-sorted pile of scraps.
Charles Howard, California millionaire, is racing cars.
Howard bolts upright at that pronouncement. The radio fills the room: roadsters flying down the countryside, the inventor at one of the wheels. A dizzying, dangerous race and Howard grins when the other Howard beats them all.
And then the other Howard's words cement themselves into his captivated, eleven-year-old mind.
"This is not the finish line. The future is the finish line."
He latches onto those words as he cheerfully builds his inventions from scraps. When a year later the future tries to pulverize his (and every other American's) dreams to dust, he leans on those words for support, carves them into his soul. This hand-to-mouth nothing won't be his finish line.
He claws his way into MIT, Charles Howard's words burrowing ever deeper as he learns and builds and invents. Their echo never truly leaves him.
…
1937
The papers can't stop talking about it. One hundred thousand dollars. It's a number beyond meaning, a heart-stopping amount of zeroes behind that one, and Steve finds that even he is not immune to a twinge of jealousy.
Bucky slides onto the stool next to him and Steve wordlessly plops the paper down on the drugstore counter.
Buck whistles as he takes it in.
"Looks like I missed my calling," Steve says with a small shrug.
Bucky snorts. "Somehow, I doubt the hundred grand goes to the jockey."
"I bet he gets some of it," Steve counters.
"Well, you know, punk," Bucky lightly smacks Steve's arm with the paper, "we could, too."
Steve raises an eyebrow. "You got a horse I don't know about?"
"Well, there is that old nag lives next door to me." Bucky grins but moves on before Steve can offer an objection. "Just place a bet on the right horse. Easy money."
Yeah, he's heard that before. "In all the bets you've placed over the years, have you ever picked a winner?"
"Loads of times."
"When?" If Bucky's ever won, Steve's never heard of it. Which means that Bucky's never won.
"Every time I bet against the Dodgers."
Sometimes he doesn't know how Barnes dared to call himself Steve's friend. Joking about the Dodgers when they were just recovering from their worst season in years. "You're such a jerk," he mutters. But Bucky's already grinning as Steve tries to maintain his annoyed huff.
"Come on," Buck says, somehow taking his response as approval of the idea. "What's it say the best horse is?"
Steve hesitates. The best horse, as all the papers report, is obvious. "Rosemont," he answers, his voice flat. It's stupid, not important.
But Bucky's studying him. Steve suffers the scrutiny for a moment before he gives in. An inch. "Charles Howard's the man behind this whole idea. And he's got a horse entered." There, that sounds reasonable. Not at all stupid and asininely naïve.
Bucky turns his attention back to the paper, reading the entire article this time around. Steve can't help the embarrassed flush rising in his cheeks as he sees Bucky understand just which horse Steve wants to bet on. And why.
"Big odds," Bucky finally says. "Be a lot of money if we win."
Steve tries to hold in his grin at the words. He forgets sometimes, the unwavering loyalty his friend had promised him. But it's times like this he knows he shouldn't. Even in the most absurd little things, Bucky would always have his back. "We'll win," Steve promises. That little horse would show the world.
...
1937
They've almost forgotten all about it, the ridiculous horse race out in California, until they're in the theater, watching the reels before the new Joan Crawford film begins. Steve takes in the headline sprawled across the screen, and his face sets into stone. Bucky's cast a worried glance at him, and Steve mentally rails against the concern. There's no need for him to be worried. The whole thing is ridiculous.
It's silly, sentimental, and self-indulgent. Even if that Seabiscuit horse had won, none of that glory would be Steve's. Steve would have had no right to be proud of that victory.
Feeling a kinship to a horse was something he shouldn't even feel, and - Steve wryly admits to himself - if the horse had actually won, then that would have ended the comparison between them. Seabiscuit would be a winner with a hundred grand, while Steve would still be…not a winner and with only ten bucks to his name. So, really, he should be grateful.
He watches silently as the race plays out on the screen, the announcer narrating the frenetic jockeying for position, and for a few glorious seconds, Seabiscuit was in the lead. Beating them all.
But then, it's the same in Steve's own life. He's always been able to hold his own for a few seconds as well, but inevitably, invariably, the world punches back.
And the photo finish had Seabiscuit beaten by a nose.
It was just a dumb race. Nothing to get upset about. He'd have liked for Seabiscuit to win, but he didn't. Bucky would have liked to earn some easy money, but he didn't. His mother might have enjoyed seeing the little horse win, but the horse didn't, and she wouldn't have known, since she'd still be dead six months either way. So congratulations, Rosemont.
When Bucky continues to stare at him, Steve shrugs. "Guess you should've stuck to betting against the Dodgers." He even manages to say it with a smile.
But Bucky's looking at him, dead serious. "I've never bet against the Dodgers in my entire life."
It's ridiculous that that admission makes him feel better.
…
1938
James Buchanan Barnes had bought the tickets the moment he'd heard. He'd scrimped and saved ever since he'd read about the match race, determined to try, even though he knew he'd never be able to afford the tickets. But then the infield had opened up and the common folk could now get in.
Bucky had seen Steve's face last year when Seabiscuit had lost to that Rose-what's-its-name. Normally fiercely independent and confident (a confidence he wore like protective armor), but that Seabiscuit had struck a vulnerable chord with Steve. Steve had pinned all his own self-worth and dreams onto that horse and that little pony had let him down.
But Steve was loyal, and Bucky had seen him read all the articles over the year, as Charles Howard raced around the country, demanding a chance for Seabiscuit to show his greatness.
If anyone deserved to see that fool little horse win, it was Steve Rogers. And it was Bucky's job to try to take care of that punk kid.
That horse just better not let him down again.
..
1938
Howard smirks as he's led to his seat. He's new money and he knows it, but he earned it all, and he's the one who has the right to sneer at the rest of them, not the other way around. He's the one who's taking the world by storm.
Besides, Charles Howard had been new money once, and he's one of the reasons Howard himself is here. Not a big reason, that would be far too sentimental, and Howard's not that. He's here because this is what the rich folk do, and he's determined to join in. So he came to watch this match race, because all the other wealthy snobs were doing it. Charles Howard being here was just a bonus. Howard Stark's own attendance was nothing more than a shrewd business move.
And anyway, Charles Howard isn't exactly inspiring him anymore. Giving up on his inventions to go into horse-racing? And pinning all his hopes on that puny horse of his? There's no finish line in that.
Howard's not even planning on betting on that other Howard's horse. See, not a shred of sentimentality left over. He's twenty-one now, not some starry-eyed kid.
…
He and Steve took the train, a six-hour ride, the longest, biggest trip for two poor guys from Brooklyn. It was an adventure in and of itself, and the two of them are as excited and energetic as three-year-olds. The whole world seems to open up before them as the train chugs its way down to Maryland and to the match race of the century.
The news they've heard sobers them a little: Seabiscuit's jockey, Red Pollard, was severely injured in a horrific accident. The race is still on, which Bucky's selfishly thankful for, so the excitement still holds as they walk out into the infield of the brilliant track, but there's an added sliver of tension. It doesn't seem to bother Steve as much as it does him. Well, Steve seems more concerned for Pollard's well-being, while Bucky's privately fuming at the unfairness of having a replacement jockey for this historic race. The future perfection Bucky was hoping for is already marred.
..
Howard's surprised at the muttered comments he overhears. Charles Howard has been a millionaire for almost twenty years, but it apparently doesn't matter to some of these snobs. The man's not Eastern blue blood, and that won't change no matter how much money Charles has.
That's the way the that this world works. Howard knows that; it's why he's here, after all. The upper echelon of society loves the races and Howard would love to have their money investing in him, so he'll pretend interest in this sport. He should just nod along with their remarks about Charles Howard.
But the older millionaire's words still thrum quietly through his blood.
And no matter how hard he may try to pretend, Howard will always be from the Upper East Side.
Inwardly, he sneers at the sea of pomp and pretension. Outwardly, he gets up to place a bet on that puny colt to cross the finish line first.
..
They get there early enough that they are able to claim a spot near the rail. Bucky is determined to keep it; they spent enough money, and Steve's not going to be robbed of his chance to see history simply because he's too small to look over a crowd.
Steve stands quietly at the rail as they wait. Bucky can practically feel the agitation creeping in; Steve wants Seabiscuit to win but keeps trying to force himself into indifference at the potential loss.
Finally, it's time. They watch the horses enter, and, well -
"He's pretty small," Steve admits.
Small. Their Seabiscuit is a tiny carousel ride compared to the hulking triple-crowned War Admiral. Still, there's something about the little horse's attitude that rings too many familiar bells with Bucky.
"But he doesn't know it."
The horses trot on by as they finish warming up. Bucky sees the replacement jockey, George Woolf, up on Seabiscuit, and he can't help but scowl for a moment at the injustice of it all.
Steve sees both his glare and whom it is directed towards, and nudges his arm. "Relax, Buck, it's fine."
Bucky knows it should be, but he can't get past it. This was supposed to be perfection (if the fool horse got its act together and actually won this time). It would have been something for the history books. An underdog horse with his underdog jockey. But now with the jockey's accident, the great "Iceman" Woolf was given the reins and would get the credit for the win. Where's the Cinderella story in that?
Steve's had enough rotten luck in his life; was this one little thing too much to ask? One moment where all the underdogs could get the glory?
"You know, Pollard asked Woolf to ride for him," Steve says. "Woolf's just helping his friend out."
Buck studies the jockey a little closer. "He better do a good job," is all he says. Steve's lips twitch, and Bucky knows what he's not voicing. But he finds the knowledge does help. One friend helping out another…well, it's something he can maybe understand.
They settle in, the crowd pressing up against them as the two jockeys direct their horses to the rope start. It's a moment Bucky knows he will never forget. The bell shrills out and the rope drops, and the two horses thunder down the track, the roar of forty thousand swelling in his ears. He and Steve can barely catch glimpses of the two as they hurtle around the first turn, but what they can see has them yelling with everyone else in the infield. Their little horse is in the lead.
But the grand champion is steadily gaining on Seabiscuit, and the crowd clamors into frenzy as the two horses speed down the track neck and neck. Neck and neck. Back at the finish line, Buck finds himself shouting at that dumb little horse as the two animals continue to race in match step.
But then Woolf, the Seabiscuit's replacement jockey, turns to his rival, and Bucky can tell he says something. It's a statement that few could hear at the time, but a phrase that would end up joining the national lexicon. And Seabiscuit explodes away, pounding towards them. Their shouts join the screaming din as Seabiscuit hurtles through the finish line as the best horse in America.
The little guy won, and both he and Steve are grinning and shouting and triumphant.
…
Howard smirks as Charles Howard leaps to his feet, clutching his wife to him, almost falling over as his neighbors pound his back.
Howard Stark's not one for sentiment, but the profit he just reaped from his one moment of emotional weakness just might make him reconsider.
And maybe, he thinks as he watches the older Howard rush down to the winner's circle, eager to greet his little horse that finally proved himself to be better than all those fancy Eastern pedigrees, maybe he can empathize with an underdog. Just a little bit.
Howard goes to collect his bet, the smirk never leaving his face.
So long, Charley.