Get-The-Money
With The Works 

I find it absolutely hilarious when someone says, "You liked that horse, it got hammered, how much did you bet?" Really? As if I am the only human being on planet Earth with a wagering account. As if the entire parimutuel market revolves around my humble opinion and a few dollars pushed through a betting terminal. Do y'all really have time for that? The horse takes money, the odds drop, and suddenly I become the prime suspect in a global conspiracy to destroy value. Then com

THE BELMONT STAKES PRODUCT AIN'T BUILT BY ACCIDENT I'm proud of our Belmont Stakes product, and these days that's saying something. You know why? Because in an industry where half the folks are looking for an angle and the other half are looking over your shoulder, we went out of our way to make sure what we produce stays ours. Now, I know some people don't want to hear that. They think everybody's just one big happy racing family. That's adorable. This business has more copy

HOW IN THE HELL DID I END UP AT THE BELMONT STAKES? How did a Southern boy who went to school down in Jacksonville, Florida, learned a few redneck habits along the way, then wandered up to North Carolina chasing an athlete's dream, end up standing around talking about the Belmont Stakes in 2026? Same way most folks end up anywhere important. A woman. Or, more specifically, a woman whose mother loved horse racing. One trip to Del Mar was all it took. I caught the bug. Not the

There's worse Kool-Aid a person can drink than pedigree worship, but not by much, there is a religion worshipped at the track and its pedigree. Some pedigree analysts can't see a modestly bred horse if it's standing right in front of them wearing a sign that says, "I'm a runner." They just can't. Their ranks range from sycophants to full-fledged cheerleaders, pom-poms and all, rooting for the bluebloods before they've ever set foot on a racetrack. Back in 2007, we bought a co

“Value.” Lord have mercy. Every race now sounds like a bunch of hedge fund managers trapped at a county fair. “Who’s got the value?” “He’s an overlay.” “That horse is too short.” “Seven figures at auction.” “Great betting opportunity.” Buddy, I thought we was trying to pick the damn winner. Somewhere along the way handicapping turned from:“Who can run the fastest?”into: “How can I lose intelligently?” That’s what half this “value” talk is. Folks done wrapped losing in a vocab

Well heck, what a damn day. I got more accomplished today than a county commissioner dodging subpoenas in an election year. Four meals, a snack, an hour nap, took the boys out twice — TWICE — identified Churchill Downs morning work videos like some backwoods horse-racing Private Eye, AND handicapped the Sunday card at Churchill while keeping up with all 14 races at Laurel without missing a single one. That ain’t multitasking, that’s rural dexterity. And buddy, we loved Napole

Alright now, lemme ask y’all somethin’ by show of hands — how many of y’all play Laurel? Mhmm. Okay. Sparse crowd. Now let me rephrase it in terms horseplayers actually understand: how many of y’all blindly bet Brittany Russell at Laurel like she’s index funds with a saddle towel? There we go. Couple hands shot up REAL quick on that one. Honest people. Degenerates, but honest. Now I don’t play Laurel much myself, but I watched that Friday card and I came away thinkin’ three t

“Who’s gonna get the lead?” That’s the sacred chant of the horseplayer. Hell, that’s the first thing outta their mouth every single time. Don’t matter if it’s some slick-haired analyst on TV with seventeen monitors behind him, or Jimmy Jack down at the OTB holdin’ a losing ticket and a hot dog that’s been rollin’ since the Clinton administration. First thing they say is, “Yeah but… who’s gonna get the lead?” Not “Who’s the best horse?”Not “Who’s been trainin’ well?”Not even “

Ohhh yeah buddy, here we go again… soon as the Derby’s over, everybody turns into a world-class excuse artist. Every single one of ‘em, including yours truly. “My horse got bumped.”“My horse got slammed.”“My horse didn’t eat his breakfast.”“My horse woke up on the wrong side of the stall.” Hell, somebody’s gonna was even sayin the Japanese Horse had a Ginzu knife moment. Like they were wathcing Desperate housewives of New Jersey on a loop. And then over here—oh Lord—here come

Well, well, well… if this weekend didn’t feel like déjà vu in a silk jacket, then I don’t know what does. The Kentucky Derby rolls around, the hats get bigger, the mint juleps get stronger, and somehow—somehow—the Ortiz brothers are already standing in the winner’s circle like they never left. It’s less “horse racing” and more “The Ortiz's Universe” at this point. A Hollywood ending in the making. And I’ll admit it—I got cute. Instead of just blindly following Irad and Jose l