"The name is Grady, five-feet short in stockings and boots, a slightly distorted offshoot of a good breed of humans who race horses. He happens to be one of the rotten apples, bruised and yellowed by dealing in dirt, a short man with a short memory who's forgotten that he's worked for the sport of kings and helped turn it into a cesspool, used and misused by the two-legged animals who've hung around sporting events since the days of the Coliseum. So this is Grady, on his last night as a jockey. Behind him are Hialeah, Hollywood Park and Saratoga. Rounding the far turn and coming up fast on the rail - is the Twilight Zone."
Grady's innermost wish is to be tall. After being banned from the track, he awakes to find he is taller, over eight feet. After getting a call telling him he's been given another chance at racing, he realizes he is too tall to ever jockey again."The name is Grady, ten feet tall, a slightly distorted offshoot of a good breed of humans who race horses. Unforunately for Mr. Grady, he learned too late that you don't measure size with a ruler, you don't figure height with a yardstick and you never judge a man by how tall he looks in a mirror. The giant is as he does. You can make a parimutuel bet on this, win, place or show, in or out of the Twilight Zone."