Annnnnn-ticipation.......
- Bruno@Racingwithbruno
- Oct 29, 2025
- 3 min read
Ah, Del Mar. There’s a certain poetry to it — the kind you only find when the stakes are high and the champagne is lukewarm. You stand there, watching those thoroughbreds glide across the dirt, and you realize this isn’t just a set of races. It’s a theater of obsession. The players come dressed as gamblers, trainers, touts, and hangers-on, but underneath the hats and the tailored blazers, they’re all the same: seekers.
They’re seeking redemption, mostly. Some for money they shouldn’t have lost, others for validation they’ll never quite earn. The track is merciless that way. It exposes everything — the fool who bets with his heart, the cynic who bets against it, the loudmouth who mistakes volume for wisdom. I’ve seen men lose fortunes before breakfast and call it “strategy,” and we have made scores, there you go.
Now, the Breeders’ Cup season, that’s a different animal altogether. The big names descend like hawks on a field mouse. The barns hum with activity; horses polished to perfection, handlers whispering like priests before confession. You can feel the pulse of it — the electricity, the ego. It’s intoxicating… and deadly.
And then there’s that delightful little rivalry — the New Yorkers versus the Californians. The Manhattan set, bless their pinched expressions, will tell you no horse truly breathes outside of Saratoga. They treat the Spa as if it were Olympus itself, and anything west of Jersey as an affront to civilization. They’ll sip their rye, talk about “track bias,” and complain that the sun here is too bright, the surf too close. And yet… they’re all here, aren’t they? Betting, boasting, bleeding.
You, on the other hand, you’re a connoisseur of quiet. You watch. You count. Twenty mentions of the same pony in five minutes — that’s not confidence, that’s hysteria. You fade the noise, because you understand that where the crowd gathers, value dies. Sovereignty, for the wrong reasons, Ned Toffey, all those darlings of the moment — let the mob chase them off the cliff. You’ll be waiting on the other side, smiling, cashing.
And of course, there’s always the peanut gallery. The trolls. The armchair prophets. One posts a thoughtful observation about a horse’s form, and another jumps in, declaring with absolute certainty: “Won’t hit the board.” No insight, no logic, just the smug satisfaction of digital nihilism. Ah, the modern world — where everyone has a voice and no one has anything worth saying.
But that’s the beauty of it, isn’t it? Amid the chaos, the shouting, the desperate need to be right — there’s still something pure at the heart of the game. A horse, a stretch run, a moment when everything else falls away and instinct takes over. For a few fleeting seconds, you’re free.
So yes, things are heating up at Del Mar. The egos are flaring, the odds are shifting, and the weak are breaking. Yes, the ones that know it when the words come out of their mouth, they know it, they have no shot. But for those of us who’ve learned to listen — not to the noise, but to the rhythm beneath it — this is paradise.
Remember, our Zooms are Thusday for Friday and Friday for Saturday, both scheduled at 8:30 Eastern 5:30 Pacific. Book it!
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have more works to add… the anticipation is deafening.
