Both Eyes Wide Open

“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 the horse.

With both eyes.

They’ll rattle off speed figures like they’re readin’ nuclear launch codes. Pace scenarios like its a google search. European bloodlines analysis that sound like they vacation in Monaco. But ask ‘em if that colt is travelin’ right behind, if he’s landin’ even, if that left front’s talkin’ back to him?

Suddenly they’re modern art critics.

“I’ve watched horses,” they’ll all say.

Yeah. So have I. But some of us are lookin’ through binoculars, and some of y’all are lookin’ through a kaleidoscope you bought at a truck stop.

I have seen a thousand-pound animal hobblin’ like he stepped on a Lego, and somebody behind me goes, “He looks fantastic!”

From forty yards away, in a shiny saddlecloth, everything looks fantastic. So does a pickup truck with no engine if you don’t pop the hood.

These ain’t machines. You don’t change the oil and send ‘em back out. That’s two hundred pounds per square inch slammin’ down on bone and tendon every stride. That’s physics. Physics don’t care about your futures wager.

And nowhere does that truth show up faster than on the road to the Triple Crown of Thoroughbred Racing.

Push. Prep. Breeze. Ship. Smile for the camera. Rinse, bath shot, and repeat.

Miss a work and folks act like you skipped prom.

Take Sovereignty. Wins the Derby. Five weeks to the Belmont. Handled careful. Real careful. Folks acted surprised.

Why?

Because somebody in that barn understood that brilliance ain’t a renewable resource. You don’t plug a horse into the wall overnight and get another 110 Beyer in the mornin’.

Then comes the Eclipse Awards. Hardware. Champagne still bubblin’. Big smiles.

Next thing you know, he’s not goin’ to the Dubai World Cup.

Well… yeah.

If you did the math back in December, you didn’t need a crystal ball. You needed a calendar. But a lot of racing media ain’t in the math business. They’re in the access business. Can’t hobnob with the elites if you’re askin’ inconvenient questions.

So the line becomes: “The breed is fragile now.”

No.

The breed ain’t fragile.

We are impatient. We are dumbstruck by fables, myths and misinformation.

We’ve traded horsemanship for a schedule and a syringe. Gotta get that seven-day work in. Don’t matter if the track’s sealed up tighter than a Tupperware lid and hard as your aunt’s fruitcake. They’ll breeze over it anyway.

You ever jog on concrete every day? Now weigh a thousand pounds and go forty miles an hour.

Joints don’t negotiate with ego.

But ego sure negotiates with everything else.

Had a trainer tell me once, “If you send one to the farm, you got three more comin’ in.”

There it is. The assembly line.

Especially on the Kentucky Derby trail. One goes down, next one up. Like musical chairs with fetlocks.

Owners? Some are horsemen. Some are just CEOs with silks. They’ll run one that ain’t right to make a starting gate, then holler like they’ve been wronged when he gets scratched. Funny how that horse don’t show up again for four months.

But sure. Total shock. Who knew?

Bo Cruz—Grade 1 on Derby Day. Big stage. Would’ve meant the world to a small outfit like ours. Something wasn’t right. Vets caught it. We stood down.

No tantrum. No conspiracy theory.

Because the horse comes first.

That ain’t revolutionary. It just feels that way now.

Now let’s talk handicappers.

Lord have mercy.

I heard one fella on the radio say what he looks for Derby week is “a horse that looks forward.”

Forward.

Well I’d hope so, sir. If he’s lookin’ backward we’ve got a different sport entirely.

These folks rediscover electricity every prep race. Colt wins a minor stakes at Oaklawn and suddenly we’re at NASA.

“That’s the one.”

January. February. March—remastered edition. By April it’s a director’s cut with bonus features.

They build Derby lists like medieval mapmakers draw dragons. Confident. Decorative. No proof whatsoever.

After the race?

“He was on my list back in February.”

Yeah, Skippy. So were seven others. And somehow he didn’t make your May newsletter.

When they’re wrong?

Track bias. Pace meltdown. Didn’t ship. Mucus on a 3 of 5 scale, or fever, my favorite.

When they’re right?

Oracle. Visionary. Prophet of the paddock all dappled up.

Bless their hearts.

But here’s the thing nobody wants to say out loud:

That horse you’re starin’ at? He ain’t a stock ticker. He ain’t a futures contract.

He’s an ever-changin’ physical specimen. Could be a star. Could be a bust. Could be a patient in a M.A.S.H. unit by Memorial Day.

And most folks never see it.

They’re already printin’ Derby tickets.

“He looks great!”

Maybe.

If he gets there in one piece.

Seeing the reailty of horses today thru your own eyes is the last handicapping frontier, and that, my racing friend, is the only part that’s ever been real.