Uma Musume: It All Started When I Got Sent Flying Ten Meters

Chapter 40: I Really Appreciate Young People Like You

After asking his question, Saburo suddenly let out a sigh before Makoto could respond.

“Sorry, that was a bit much of me to ask. After all... winning a G1 race isn’t something that can just be done on a whim.”

The old man then began to ramble on.

“Haha~ to be honest with you, Yasui-san, I’ve been a fan of the Shining Star Series for a long time.”

“When I was younger and tired from singing practice, I used to listen to race broadcasts or read race reviews from discarded newspapers.”

“Once I could afford tickets, I often went to the racecourse in person.”

“But as time went on, I got busier and busier.”

“Some of my siblings’ kids, as well as the children of friends, disciples, and students, have already debuted and run in many races.”

“But as their elder, I rarely got to see them race in person—sometimes I didn’t even hear about the race until long after it was over.”

“And that’s why I understand that a G1—no, even just winning any graded stakes race is incredibly difficult for these kids.”

Hearing this, Makoto nodded without realizing it.

In the Shining Star Series, prize money is awarded to the top five finishers in a race, with higher placements receiving more.

Take Kitasan, for example—her debut race win earned her 6 million yen.

This time, the winner’s prize was even higher: 7.2 million yen.

But these races weren’t considered "graded stakes."

Consider Daiwa Scarlet and Vodka, who had just left.

The former’s retirement race was the G1 Arima Kinen, with a winner’s prize of over 180 million yen.

The latter’s most famous win was the Japanese Derby, one of the Classic Triple Crown races, which had a winner’s prize of 190 million yen.

Only races with prize money at that level are classified as "graded stakes."

Correspondingly, the higher the prize money, the stronger the competition and the more spectacular the performance.

Graded stakes races are limited to three levels: G1, G2, and G3.

Though there are tens of thousands of races held across Japan each year, only about 300 of them are graded stakes.

So whether you win or not, just qualifying to enter one is already a one-in-a-hundred achievement for an Umamusume.

Winning even the lowest-grade of them, a G3 race, brings enough prize money to change both the Umamusume’s and the trainer’s lives—not to mention the fame and recognition that follow.

That’s why winning one isn’t something you can do just by wanting it.

Let alone winning a G1—the highest level of all.

“So please, just ignore what I said earlier about G1 races, Yasui-san. Chalk it up to me being an old fool.”

With that, Saburo gave a self-deprecating yet encouraging smile and waved to someone behind him.

“I’m not great at giving pep talks, but I really appreciate young people like you who have such drive, Yasui-san.”

As he spoke, a middle-aged man in a black suit approached and pulled a pitch-black card from his inner pocket, handing it to Makoto with both hands.

As Makoto took the card, Saburo Kitajima explained:

“That’s my business card.”

“If you run into any problems during training that you can’t solve, bring that card to Ōno Trading Company.”

“They’ll find a way to help meet your needs.”

Makoto accepted the card with both hands, looking a little puzzled.

He vaguely remembered something about Ōno Trading Company.

In recent decades, the company had gotten involved in the Shining Star Series and had supported Umamusumes in competitions.

But whether due to bad luck or an unskilled racing division, not a single Umamusume they supported had ever won a graded stakes race.

Now hearing this, it seemed Saburo was connected to Ōno Trading Company—perhaps even one of its investors.

That wasn’t uncommon in the music industry; many musicians owned various businesses.

What puzzled Makoto was: if this company existed, and Saburo supported his granddaughter this much, why hadn’t Kitasan ever mentioned it?

But he didn’t ask. Instead, after taking the business card, he nodded respectfully.

“Don’t worry, Kitajima-san. I’ll do everything I can to teach Kitasan well—I won’t let you down.”

“Hearing you say that puts my mind at ease.”

With a gratified smile, Saburo waved his hand.

“Forgive me—an old man like me can’t stand for too long.”

“And I imagine you’ve got things to do as well, Yasui-san, so I’ll be taking my leave.”

With a nod, he began walking toward the Winner’s Stage. The black-suited security team swiftly followed behind.

After a short distance, the middle-aged man in the black suit—the one who had handed over the business card—stepped up quickly.

“Father, what did you think of that trainer...?”

Saburo paused, then continued walking.

“He’s very composed. That honestly surprised me.”

Pondering aloud, the old man spoke slowly:

“When I first found out that such a young trainer would be in charge of Kitasan’s training, I won’t lie—I had my doubts.”

“But first of all, this is a matter of training. As family, we’re outsiders, and it’s not our place to meddle.”

“Second, the academy chairwoman herself had high hopes for him—she even personally called me. I had to respect that, and I trust the judgment of someone like her, who’s also a former Umamusume.”

“And third...”

He let out a sigh.

“You’ve seen how the other kids in our family turned out. We tried to get good trainers for them too, and look how that ended…”

“Well, I suppose it’s enough that they can compete at all. How well they do... that’s up to luck.”

“Besides, all the well-known trainers are getting older, more rigid—just like me—and their methods are increasingly strict.”

“Kitasan’s such a lively girl... how could I bear to see her spend her youth doing nothing but run, day in and day out?”

“As long as she grows up happy and cheerful, that’s all I care about.”

“As for races—again, it’s all down to luck.”

“Actually, having a younger trainer might be better. He and Kitasan probably have more in common, and that way she won’t end up becoming all grim and serious at her age just because of training.”

“And back to the point—he may be young, but his qualifying scores as a trainer were no joke.”

“He’s also a lot more mature than most people his age. Not like some who either start rambling incoherently the moment they see me or get all flustered trying to kiss up.”

“When I mentioned G1 and graded stakes, he didn’t even blink. Maybe that’s youthful ambition, but it’s far better than being timid and hesitant.”

“He’s a good one.”

“Let Kitasan stay with him. We’ll see about the rest later.”

“I understand. I’ll follow your instructions,” the black-suited man—Saburo’s son—nodded. Then, with a trace of concern, he added:

“But if he takes Kitasan to a hot spring again this time... and that commotion from the song he wrote...?”

Saburo paused once more. This time, he stood still for a while.

“No need to worry.”

“His parents were decent, upright people. His upbringing seems solid, too.”

“He’s been steady and hardworking all his life, with no bad habits.”

“If he has one flaw, it’s probably just that he doesn’t get along with kids his own age.”

“But that’s not really an issue. Talented people tend to have quirks.”

“As for that hot spring inn—didn’t I tell you to station someone there?”

“No need to overdo it. If we scare Kitasan, that would be missing the point entirely.”

“As for the song—give the necessary warnings and keep an eye on it. Just make sure not to cause problems for the Association or the Academy.”

“Who would’ve thought he had such musical talent?”

“Sigh... what a waste... but still, he should focus on training Kitasan.”