Capish?

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 gambling bug—though that one ain't exactly rare—but the curiosity bug. I wanted to know everything. Pedigrees. Trainers. Jockeys. Track maintenance. Why one horse looked like a champion in the paddock and another looked like he needed directions back to the barn.

Forty-plus years later, what have I learned?

I've learned horses look forward until they don't.

I've learned you didn't win a race until you cashed the ticket.

And I've learned you might as well tell the truth, because everybody in racing assumes you're lying anyway.

The racing industry is one of the strangest ecosystems ever assembled by mankind. It's every bit as political as Washington, every bit as dramatic as Hollywood, and every bit as forgiving as a rattlesnake.

One day folks are trying to bury you. The next day they're showing up at your doorstep with groceries because they heard times got tough.

It's a business where people will help you change a tire at midnight and then try to beat your brains out at the claim box the next day.

The game can be awfully self-serving.

You'll meet people who talk with the confidence of somebody holding a Rhodes Scholarship in one hand and a GED in the other. They got an opinion on everything.

They'll explain breeding, economics, veterinary science, weather patterns, international trade, and the meaning of life before breakfast.

Ask them to spell "oxymoron," though, and they'll stare at you like a German Shepherd puppy hearing a harmonica for the first time.

And here's the thing about racing people.

They don't always get mad.

They don't always argue.

A lot of times they just get even.

That's why some of the best handicapping you'll ever do has nothing to do with speed figures.

Watch.

Listen.

Keep your mouth shut.

Who's talking to who?

Who's suddenly not talking to who?

Who's got the yips?

Who's carrying a grudge?

Who's got a "Kick Me" sign stuck to their back and doesn't know it yet?

If you can handicap human nature, you're halfway home before the horses ever leave the gate.

The old movie gangsters had it figured out.

Never tell people what you're thinking.

And just when you think you're finally out of this game, it drags you right back in.

Racing people understand that better than anybody.

Every year we swear we're done.

Then the entries come out.

Then the past performances arrive.

Then somebody starts talking about a horse that worked lights out Tuesday morning.

And next thing you know, we're studying charts at midnight like we're trying to crack a century old cold case.

Which brings us to the Belmont Stakes.

The Belmont card has something most racing folks can't refuse: hope.

Hope that today's the day you spot something nobody else sees.

Hope that your horse gets the trip.

Hope that your opinion turns out to be worth more than the paper it's printed on.

So grab a program.

Grab a Racingwithbruno you won't be disappointed.

Argue with your friends.

Pretend you've got it all figured out.

That's some of our finest work right there.

And if history is any guide, about half of us will be wrong, a few of us will be lucky, and every one of us will be back next week pretending we knew it all along.

Capish?