Confessions Of A First Year Scribe

Click here to read the complete article

188 – October, 2014

By Delores Kuhlwein

I was a former eye-roller. You know that conversation, when you’re sharing your opinion about a judge’s results and someone says that everyone should have to stand inside the ring, just once, to see what it’s really like? Cue the eye-roll. Admittedly, I wasn’t blessed with a poker face. Oddly enough, I have found the cure and it came while standing inside the ring.

How could it possibly make such a difference being inside the ring as opposed to standing outside the rail where everything is still in plain sight? I can tell you from first-hand experience that it does. I became a believer in January, when I innocently volunteered to steward and scribe for the very first time at a two-judge horse show for my husband, an APHA judge, so I could be prepared to scribe at a much larger show later this year.

Something unexpectedly humbling happened when we stepped out onto the freshly harrowed arena. The sun was just peeking over the trees and the atmosphere was still. The judges were reviewing the pattern and exhibitors were quietly warming up their horses for Showmanship.

I felt nervous. I tried to take a deep breath, reminding myself that I have shown now for 10 years and the arena is not an unfamiliar place. “All you have to do is stand here, pay attention to the judges, and check the cards, dummy,” I mumbled to myself. Then, the first exhibitor took her place at the cone, the show started, and everything became clear. All of those things my trainers had told me in the past were true.

I stumbled awkwardly while learning the ropes that day. Despite my desire to look like an expert, I relied heavily on the veteran head steward for cues. I wondered why I had never before noticed what the people inside the ring are responsible for doing. For example, did you know that a steward must tell halter exhibitors exactly where to line up? It’s simply because, if the ring is small, you have to “stack” them accordingly. Also, you don’t want to be responsible for making the judges walk a mile and causing the show day to last any longer. When one exhibitor ignored my cue, and picked her own spot, I cringed during the entire class, hoping that the judges weren’t aware of my mistake.

My day continued with rail classes; Western Pleasure is one of my favorite disciplines. By this time, I was getting into the rhythm of the show. I arrogantly began thinking I could be a judge. This wasn’t that hard. Then, I started playing “let’s see if I can match how the judges are going to place this class” game. The horses looked wonderful, at first. As the class progressed, I started to see mistakes. My star, first place horse broke gait in the corner, and my former second place horse couldn’t manage to lope the second direction in a cadenced manner. Then, another horse loped by, while chomping on her bit and fiercely grinding her teeth. “What do you do about that?” my brain cried.

By the time the judges’ cards were turned in, I was completely baffled. I wondered who should be rewarded for what, and I was dying to ask questions. However, the formal expectations of being a “professional” steward silenced my thoughts. The results came in, and it turned out that I agreed with half of the judges.

Then, after a rushed lunch, came Trail and Western Riding. I was excited to apply the scribing skills my husband had carefully practiced with me at home. I was still unsure how I was going to know when I was supposed to write on which line of the scoring sheet, but I pressed on, attempting to clear my mind of the cobwebs that surrounded my middle school memory of fractions.

Just when I thought I was getting the hang of things, Western Riding began. The lead change scores, corresponding penalty scores, and maneuver scores came lightning fast. If I made a mistake, I didn’t have time to fix it before the next horse was on course. I madly erased while scrambling to catch up on the scores the judge was reciting.

It occurred to me, in a Homer Simpson-like moment, that when we exhibitors are waiting expectantly, and sometimes impatiently, for judges’ cards to be turned in and announced, the holdup could very well be because of an inexperienced scribe who had to check her addition…

The next few months flew by and the experience was pushed to the back of my mind. I was accompanied by a feeling of confidence as I was launched into serving as a scribe at one of the largest APHA shows in the country. A flurry of learning how to scribe Ranch Horse Pleasure, stewarding important futurities, and blocks of hours and hours of Trail lay ahead, yet the cocky side of me thought, “No problem!”

The first day of Trail was expected to take 10 hours, outdoors, and was accompanied by strong bursts of cold wind. Meanwhile, I was attempting to flip back and forth between sheets that corresponded to the different classes in each block; it was a surprise I didn’t expect. Nonetheless, I persisted alongside the experienced scribes, wishing madly that I had their seat time in my repertoire and trying hard to play the role of a math whiz. Despite my inexperience, each horse and rider that entered the course felt like a breath of fresh air; every one was filled with promise at the start cone. The once unfamiliar set of pluses and penalties slowly became clear in my mind.

Following lunch, and more than six hours into the first 10 hour day of nothing but trail, my mind began to wander as planes flew by and the tractor dragging the arena next door droned on like a cadenced lullaby meant to induce sleep. I jerked back to attention and shifted in my seat, but it was to no avail. I wondered how the judges could possibly concentrate for this long. Tick, tick, tick went the trail poles, and I numbly recorded the scores while praying the sheets wouldn’t blow off the table every time I moved my arm. Then, I knew the answer – caffeine. I nodded yes to the young man taking requests for coffee. Forty minutes later, my frantic worry now reflected on how the judges could stand having so few bathroom breaks. I managed to control the urge to bolt from my seat as the day wore on, finally settling into the groove of pluses and penalties.

After seven mind-numbing hours, my respect for the judges grew enormously as they scored each obstacle without fail. I suddenly understood how much knowledge and discipline their job really requires. They took the grueling day in stride while presenting themselves professionally.

Somewhere along the line came a new understanding and reverence for the exhibitors, for the sport, and for the professionals who judge it. I watched as a competitor disqualified herself for the second time that morning, after turning the wrong direction in the box. After she completed her pattern, one of the judges got up to tell her why her score would be marked as a zero. I watched her expression change from embarrassed to extremely grateful as she looked down at the judge, and my heart grew surprisingly warm.

By the end of a second day of seemingly endless Trail, I could say that I had a better understanding of how the event should be judged than I’d experienced in 10 years of being a competitor. When it came time to learn how to scribe Longe Line, I felt appreciative and humbled. There was still a lot I needed to learn, but now I was armed with a hunger to know even more.

When it comes to thinking about how a judge places a certain class, I think some folks have it all wrong. After working with multiple judges during five different shows this year, I can honestly say that all of them did their best to score and judge each exhibitor fairly.

The biggest question I have been asked by my peers, now that my eye rolling is a bit more under control, is this: Will this experience change the way you show? You bet. Having the opportunity to serve as a scribe and steward has forever changed my outlook, now that I’ve stood on the other side of the cone.