worthy of the wonderful fish. The fact that it was eaten by sharks rather than by people was perhaps poetic justice, for then the flesh of the fish remained in the sea, not defiled by people who could never love and understand it as did Santiago when he ate of its flesh to give him strength. Still, because he had the proof of his great catch in the skeleton, he retained his dignity. His dignity was the dignity of aquiescence to the inevitable and was better than pride. "He knew he was beaten! It is easy when you are beaten, I never knew how easy!" In this book, Hemingway seems to tell us that better than dying gloriously for a great cause is living nobly even if the cause is not great. The greatest thing in life is just living, doing it well, according to the rules of the universe; and by this thesis the old man was not defeated, for he lived well by the rules of nature; and he triumphed through the exchanging of pride for the dignity of submission. 32 CHAMPION WHAT? Pat Wade The last bend was a frenzied scramble and then the granitic hooves pounded against the well-manicured turf as we made the frantic sprint for home. The finish line appeared and disappeared beneath a blur. Banking off the end of the arena, I reined in my sweat-flicked pony. Frontier Joe, my horse, was an ex-race horse, and as we wound up, pulling all stops and blasting for home, it sometimes occurred to him that the spotlights had been shinnied up those poles solely to illuminate his bally face, and he was running for the roses. On such occasions as this, there was a red streak with a white face and a brown pigtail sticking straight out behind like an inverted lance, darting and slashing through hotdogs, cars, trailers, between horses tied to fences, around trucks and terrified, bulging-eyed cowboys and their size fourteen bottomed sweeties stuffed into their size twelve pants. Consquently, when there was an end arena fence to run into, it was like a benediction. As yet, kismet had seen fit that no one was laid to rest after one of Joe's personal bids for fame and fortune. I anxiously awaited the announcer's call of time: "Ladies and gentlemen, the best time of the evening is seventeen and two-tenths seconds. Pad Wade is the new Utah Barrel Racing Champion. Ride out and take a bow, Pat." Wheeling my pony over his hocks, I rode to "center stage." I was ecstatic. I didn't see anyone. I could hear the cheers, but the stands were just a moving, swimming mass of colors. The meteoric floodlights winked and danced on the vivid colors of my bell-bottomed trousers and satin shirt. I imagined the rhinestone band around my wide brimmed hat took on an eerie halo of fire. Sweet victory was mine. At last, there was no one left to outrun. I had everything and I was masticating it. I couldn't have felt more like royalty had I been attired in a spun gold dress and crowned empress of all the land. It had been a grueling climb. Endless hours with the sun bleaching my skull, the dust fogging up, choking and caking. Lonely nights driving home after the rodeos had ended. Battered and bleeding skins when I had misjudged 33