Get-The-Money
With The Works 

Sometimes folks just need a reminder, like Lassie barking out in the yard. There is a reason why, and sometimes we just need a nudge to pay attention. Sometimes, a full-on verbal cattle prod for their own damn good is needed. And if you’re messing around with horse racing—handicapping, betting, all that—buddy, you’re gonna need all three. ’Cause here’s the deal: we get lazy. We get complacent. We get lackadaisical—yeah, I said it, big word, even for me. We start drifting, ju

Ah… allow me. Congratulations to Dylan Donnelly—who, like a seasoned assassin with one bullet left in the chamber, chose his moment with exquisite precision. A 10-1 shot at Santa Anita… not luck, no—never insult a man like that with the suggestion. That, my friend, is timing… nerve… and a touch of artistry. The sort of decision that separates the merely ambitious from the truly dangerous. And then there’s Tom Lenberg. Ah, Tom… what a marvelous creature with the Triggered swea

Ah, horse racing… one of civilization’s most elegant paradoxes. A sport draped in tradition, steeped in pageantry, and yet—underneath the silk and saddlecloths—driven by the same primitive instinct that built Las Vegas and toppled empires: the irresistible desire to cash a ticket. Now let’s talk about this fashionable phrase everyone keeps whispering—AI. Artificial Intelligence? Please. That’s not what the sport needs. What racing needs is AI: All In. All in on integrity. All

But why, Bruno? Why? Why you gotta post a success story when half the internet just got their tail kicked at the track? Why you gotta ruin somebody’s day y'all had it right? That’s the world we live in now. You say something good happened and folks act like you committed a felony. You see the days of word of mouth are gone, and in that if it ain't on social media it didn't happen. Yup, this is how some folks live these days, addicted to social media post like its crack cocain

Las Vegas… The neon cathedral of risk. The one city in America where a bad decision can feel like destiny. Soon, the elevators will hum and the cocktail glasses will clink as horseplayers from every corner of the civilized world descend upon the NHC Championship at the Caesars Sportsbook inside the Horseshoe Las Vegas . They’ll arrive polished. Confident. Armed. Subscribers to Racingwithbruno have walked this floor before. In 2012, a gentleman named Michael Beychok took ho

Ah… there is something wonderfully subversive about logging miles with intent. We've been the Dukes of Hazzard. We’ve left the sun-drenched civility of Carlsbad, California — our winter headquarters — and pointed The Raptor east, toward the bluegrass promise of Kentucky. Two huskies in tow, ears perked, as if they understand this isn’t merely travel… it’s pilgrimage. Albuquerque slipped by in desert hues. Oklahoma City offered wind and wide skies. And now — Hot Springs — tuck

Ah… yes. Now we’re getting somewhere. We need our X's and O's. So here we are again, circling the Derby preps like seasoned jewel thieves casing the room before the lights go out. And thanks to Dery Media at Churchill Downs, we have something that horseplayers swear they crave more than oxygen in the stretch — FREE past performances. For the Gotham Stakes at Aqueduct Racetrack. For the Fountain of Youth Stakes at Gulfstream Park. For the Rebel Stakes at Oaklawn Park. FREE. I

Alright now, y’all buckle up, ‘cause we’re about to talk about handicapping horses like it’s a family reunion that done got hijacked by Wi-Fi. Back in the day — and by “back in the day” I mean when we were arguing about the ‘99 bias like it was the Zapruder film — handicapping was simple. Not easy. Simple. You had pace. You had speed. You had class. The race still went to the swiftest, just like the Good Lord and The Bible said — well, Ecclesiastes said it, but y’all get the

Ah… my friend. Gather close. You see, this isn’t just “that time of year.” No. This is when the air itself sharpens. When fortunes are whispered about in private rooms and lost in public daylight. The Triple Crown of Thoroughbred Racing is approaching. And with it… opportunity. First, the Derby preps, the Rebel, the Fountain of Youth, the Santa Anita and Florida Derby, last but no least the Arkansas Derby and Blue Grass Stakes, and there’s the pageantry of the Kentucky Derby

Boy I swear, every year it’s the same mess. A horse wins one Derby prep and folks hammer the futures pool like they just saw Pegasus flap down outta heaven and autograph the saddle towel. Colt wins the Risen Star Stakes and BOOM — straight to 9-1 in the futures for the Kentucky Derby. Not 19-1. Not “let’s think about this.” Nine to one. Like he just cured a disease on the gallop-out. Paladin didn’t exactly part the Red Sea down there. He struggled to get by Chief Honcho. And

“How’s he look?” That’s my favorite question at the racetrack. I always give ‘em the same answer: “With both eyes.” And buddy, that usually ends the conversation right there. See, ten folks can stand shoulder to shoulder at the rail at Churchill Downs, mint juleps sweatin’ like a sinner in church, and watch the exact same race. One saw brilliance. One saw bias. One saw a bad ride. And one—God love him—thought the chestnut was a bay. But almost none of ‘em actually looked at t

Afleet Alex passed away in the same 24 hour circle as John Shirreffs, the circle of life, yes Hakuna Matata. Autumn, 2004. The Lone Star State dressed itself in pageantry and bourbon confidence, and I found myself at Lone Star Park — Grand Prairie, just outside Dallas — for the Breeders’ Cup. The air carried that particular electricity one only finds when ambition and immaturity converge. Two-year-olds, you see, are less racehorses and more unfinished symphonies. It was there

Ah… John Shirreffs. You see, in a game intoxicated by velocity — by bullet works, by stopwatch hysteria, by the vulgar need to be seen doing something — a true horseman practices something far rarer. Restraint. John Shirreffs first emerged from the California morning haze in the late 1990s, training for Marshall Naify and 505 Farms, sending out horses like Swept Overboard, Manistique, David Copperfield, Hook and Ladder. They arrived fueled by Bertrando, polished in Kentucky b

Well now, listen here, y’all. We are livin’ in a time where common sense done packed up its bags, kissed us on the forehead, and moved to a cabin in the Smoky Mountains. Everything’s performative now. Folks ain’t tryin’ to be smart — they’re tryin’ to look smart. It’s a mad, mad, mad, mad world, and if it ain’t a reality show yet, it’s ‘cause the producers can’t keep up. But thank the good Lord above, there’s still one thing we can count on every spring: the road to the Tri

Alright y’all, let’s talk about this weekend’s Derby preps — and I say this with love, caffeine, and a healthy amount of side-eye. Because these races showed up prepackaged . I mean everything was included: the bells, the whistles, the propaganda, the bold absolutes, and a big ol’ box of uncut, straight-from-the-factory FUBAR . No assembly required. We had the Southwest, the Withers, the Robert B. Lewis, and the Sam F. Davis — all featuring hopeful three-year-olds, all alleg

Ah… obsession. Such an ugly word for something so beautiful when properly justified. “I want a Paynter,” I declared — repeatedly — to my longtime sales mentor, Rudy Delguidice. A man with the patience of a saint and the eye-roll discipline of a monk. “Why do you want a Paynter so badly?” he’d say. That was ten years ago or even more, I was engrossed in my quest for a Paynter. I never quite got the chance to explain my obsession to Rudy, the man, until this week. I tried to

Ah… Oaklawn today. I don’t merely like the card — I love it. The way one loves a well-executed con, an unopened bottle of something expensive, or the moment right before a secret is revealed. It’s rich. It’s layered. It demands attention, not obedience. This is the kind of card that doesn’t hold your hand or whisper sweet nothings. It asks a simple question: Are you paying attention, or are you just along for the ride? Field size, conditions, intent — it’s all there, hidin

🌟 LADIES AND GENTLEMEN — HANDICAPPERS OF ALL SKILL LEVELS — today at Oaklawn you’re looking at a live, juicy 10-race card that came out of the winter fistfight stronger than ever. After days of canceled cards and icy training days, we have horses whose lungs aren’t frozen solid and workouts that actually mean something. That’s a treat right there. 🐎 THE WORKOUT REPORT YOU CAN’T IGNORE Every handicapper worth his/her morning coffee knows workouts are the pulse of a raceho

Oaklawn is back , and we are on it like gas station subs and a bag of chips you didn’t even mean to buy but somehow ate in the parking lot before the engine cooled off. Winter racing salvation has arrived in Hot Springs, Arkansas, and buddy… we needed it. Because let’s be honest, the last few weeks for handicappers have been Slim Pickens in a Slim Pickens movie. There’s only so much Gulfstream a person can take before their brain starts feelin’ like it’s trapped in a beach

‘Since the East Coast right now look like the inside of a busted freezer at Piggly Wiggly, where you got to go? Bomb cyclone done come through here actin’ like it pay rent. Snow piled up, ice everywhere, cars frozen so solid they got feelings about it. Folks slidin’ down the road like baby deer on linoleum. Football season? OVER until the Super Bowl, This weekend - Pro Bowl? Man please. That thing got all the intensity of a church league picnic where everybody scared to spil