My tears for the funniest bugger to ever look through a bridle

From the Oxford Dictionary: Disappointment (noun) – the feeling of being sad because something has not happened or been as good, successful, etc, as you expected or hoped.

I can tell you the exact date. Monday, August 15, 1994. Five days before the start of the Premier League season.

I was in the shower, feeling a bit down but also privileged to have witnessed something remarkable. I was 20, driven, fiercely competitive and fitter than I'd ever be in my life. And then another man joined me in the shower.

His name was Matthew Le Tissier. He walked in, had a chat about something or other and then left. I can't recall what he said because, having just witnessed something remarkable on the training pitch, he'd confirmed half an hour earlier the nagging doubt that I'd never be good enough to make a living out of playing football.

I wish you could have seen how good he was on the training pitch that Monday morning. He was blessed by brilliance, while I was a mere bystander – albeit a bystander with bags of energy who never stood still, trying so hard but failing so convincingly to make up for my shortcomings.

I don't think I cried that day because, as I say, the nagging doubts were already there but, 26 years later, that same feeling of utter disappointment consumed me on Saturday morning when I got home from work.

To the naked eye it did not look good and the scan had done nothing to assuage my nagging doubt that perhaps he'd done more than simply knock himself. Ross the vet, in his uniquely forthright fashion, confirmed my biggest fear.

Sod it, why not be honest? I cried. Daft really because nobody had died.

My best mate died last month and, although I shed a few tears, I did not cry half as much as I did on Saturday. Mainly because John Verney was 84 years old and also because we had already expressed the love we had for each other. JV was coming to Royal Ascot this June until the uncompromising ravages of being an old git dashed his promise.

A promise, as it turns out, that was not going to be fulfilled anyway.

Michael with good friend John Verney, who passed away last month

Yes Yes Yes was 'my horse' for exactly a year – I've had socks for longer than that, but socks will never be quite as life-affirming as Yes Yes Yes.

I could do Coolmore's marketing job for them here, but that's neither my style nor my emotions right now. Because Coolmore probably would not describe the latest stallion to join their roster as 'the funniest bugger to ever look through a bridle'.

I've a feeling that Yes Yes Yes is, though.

He'd be the bloke you most look forward to seeing in the pub or the daft rescue dog who greets your return home from work with the kind of enthusiasm that makes you wish people are that way.

In short, every single thing he did brought joy. Firstly (and obviously) to him, for he is only a horse, but as a knock-on effect he brought joy to everyone in our barn.

I'd bring him out of his box and everyone – our foreperson Candice, Connor, Ali, Ben, Adam, Garry, George, the whole team – would often say 'Yessie!' as he swaggered along looking forward to whatever the next ten yards would throw his way.

Invariably that would be his work-rider Daniel Cremin before he came back to us and he'd tackle other activities, all of which are routine and predictable.

The wash bay was brilliant. The saltwater treadmill was brilliant. The pool was brilliant – even though he could barely swim. In fact, the three of us required to drag him through the pool viewed it as a survival exercise.

Having seen his enthusiasm for mundane interactions with a hose pipe, iodine shampoo, saltwater and a pool of water, my mind boggles at how he's going to enjoy visiting the covering barn. His stallion man is in for a treat.

I saw a tweet from David Pipe the other day lamenting the loss of two of his horses in a week. Working with racehorses can be as cruel as it is rewarding, so I'm well aware that, on a scale of 1-10, my disappointment needs to be tempered.

In my time I've spent a few, but also far too many, moments swearing about the whereabouts of a vet who says he's "five minutes away" while waiting in the company of a catastrophically injured racehorse on the Berkshire downs. Those are truly terrible occasions, but they also must be acknowledged.

A minute in their company never leaves you. Minutes that feel like hours, all bizarrely taking place while the horse is picking grass until the ultimate relief is administered.

That is why I'm asking myself why the retirement of a racehorse to stud has hit me so hard.

I've overcome far worse in my life, we all have, but I guess it's the fact that, as with Matthew Le Tissier all those years ago, I genuinely feel as though I witnessed brilliance – even if I was yet again a bystander in the whole game.

Just watch the Everest.

I also promised myself that I'd decide where my future lay once he had slaughtered what you Poms tried to throw at him in the Diamond Jubilee – with John Verney watching on.

I don't know. This article might be fuelled by a hurt ego. All I do know is that Yes Yes Yes made me smile and laugh every day, a bit like John Verney always did.

I feel very proud but a little bit robbed.

Thankfully, Yessie will now go on to a life of luxury and untold glories as a stallion, although he'll never get to enjoy a pint of 'Good Old Boy' in his retirement as John Verney did so very often.

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