Figs

"Now look, I ain't sayin' numbers ain't helpful—but handicappin’ a horse race by nothin’ but numbers is like tryin’ to pick a date off a spreadsheet. It don’t tell you if she’s got crazy eyes or a pet raccoon named Steve. Numbers might tell you who was fastest last Tuesday, but they don't tell you who’s feelin’ frisky today. Horses ain't machines, y’all—they got moods, personalities, and sometimes they just wake up on the wrong side of the stall.

These fancy speed figures and whatnot, they’re made by people who prolly ain’t never been within pissin’ distance of a horse. They crunch all this data through a computer and then act surprised when the horse that won ain't the one with the highest fig number. That’s like buildin’ a robot to predict who’s gonna win a bar fight—it might look smart 'til it gets punched in the face.

I’m tellin’ ya, relyin' on nothin' but numbers is like watchin’ the race with both eyes closed and a calculator in your hand. Sure, figures help, but they ain’t gospel. Sometimes you gotta use your gut, your eyes, and maybe even talk to ol’ Earl down at the rail—he might be drunk, but he knows horses. So yeah, the race might go to the fastest, but today? That fastest horse might be feelin’ lazy, or maybe he just don’t like the mud or simply didn't fire, or lo and behold, the figs were wrong, like Mr Bill would say "oh nooooooo"!

"Now there’s always that one guy—y’all know who I’m talkin’ about. In our case, it’s this little Hungarian feller named Cinch. I swear to God, this dude walks around with a stack of numbers thicker than a Waffle House menu, talkin’ ‘bout how every winner had their highest fig—every single time. Never fails. If you believed Cinch, you'd think the numbers crawled down off Mount Sinai with the Ten Commandments.

He’s still lurkin’ around the clubhouse out in SoCal—racing’s answer to Latka Gravas from Taxi, remember him? Yeah, Latka, bless his heart, speakin’ in riddles with a sweater vest and no earthly idea what planet he’s on. But hell, if Latka had ever taken up handicappin’, he’d be a damn box office draw. People would show up just to see what the hell he said next. Instead, we got the same ol’ cast of characters—the sheets, the rags, and Andy freakin’ Beyer. Household names in racin’, sure—but also professional confusion artists.

You ever read the sheets? They penalize horses for savin’ ground and reward 'em for goin’ wide. Like what the hell kind of logic is that? I mean, maybe the horse went wide 'cause he ain’t fast enough to get inside. That’s like givin’ extra points to a high school kid who walked the long way to class 'cause he wanted to miss gym class. If that grading curve existed in my school days, I’d’ve gone Ivy League just by bein’ lost.

Speed horses? They break clean, hug the rail, run their damn hearts out—and what do they get? A slap on the wrist from the sheet gods. Meanwhile, the clunky ol’ gelding who got shuffled back and tiptoed around the parking lot gets bonus points like it was some kinda artistic expression.

It’s like racin’ is judged like figure skatin’ now—technical difficulty and dramatic flair.

And Beyer? Look, I started makin’ my own Beyer figures as a wee lad—fresh outta diapers and already nerdin’ out on variant math like some kind of equine Doogie Howser. Met the man many times. Nice, smart fella, but very much a one-way street. Like tryin’ to have a conversation with a traffic cone wearing a Harvard tie.

"Now lemme tell y’all about my favorite little run-in with the ol’ Speed Pope himself, Andy Beyer. We were jawin’ about this horse—Old Trieste—real classy colt back in the day, trained by Mike Puype for Cobra Farm. The horse was no slouch, but bless his heart, he was battlin’ a foot issue—ain’t exactly ideal when runnin’ is kinda your whole job. Chris McCarron—legendary jockey, real-deal horseman—was in the mix, helpin’ Puype figure out what the hell to do.

So here comes Andy, all numbers and logic, actin’ like someone told him the earth was flat. He’s sittin’ downright puzzled, that they would really send a horse that’s not 100% to the 1999 Breeders Cup Classic? Like the idea was completely alien to him. And I said, with all the wisdom a man can muster thru a telephone, ‘Well, Andy… even Cinderella’s stepsisters wanted to go to the ball.’

Now y’all—that one stuck like a blowdart. He just blinked at me like a Windows 95 error message. Didn’t know whether to laugh or call security. But lo and behold, come Breeders Cup weekend, Andy finds me—like I’m the damn Yoda, master jedi of racehorses—and says, ‘You know, that quote of yours? Got more feedback than damn near anythin’ I’ve written in some time.’ Hey—I’ll take it.

And look, that’s exactly why I stand by my claim: these number guys, they don’t know squat about horses—real horses, I mean. They know digits, fractions, speed ratings—but they don’t know what it looks like when a horse’s right front is barking and he’s just tryin’ to keep it together ‘cause he’s got heart. Ain’t no algorithm for that.

By the way—just to tie a neat little bow on it—Old Trieste did make it to the Breeders Cup Classic in '99. Ran like hell... straight to last place. Never raced again. Turns out he had about as much chance of winnin’ as Cinderella’s stepsisters did of gettin’ that glass slipper. But hey, at least he got to go to the ball, as a last hoorah, right?"

Bottom line? Most figure makers, bless ‘em, they know math, but they don’t know squat about horses physically. But WE get a hold of those numbers and suddenly we all think we’re damn horse whisperers. Like Pinocchio wakin’ up one day and sayin’ ‘Holy shit, I’m a real boy!’ Well congratulations, buddy—except the horse still finished fourth and your rent’s late."