Chewing Gum

"Ever sat in a corner and tried to make the right decision, even if you're used to making wrong ones?"

I have.

And you know what? It’s not as easy as people make it sound. Everybody loves to talk about “doing the right thing” like it’s picking a brand of toothpaste. But when you’ve spent your life choosing the wrong one—like me buying discount orange juice that tastes like regret—it’s a little more complicated.

You sit there in the corner, thinking. Corners are good for that. They’re quiet. They don’t judge you—unless you’re in one of those new modern homes where there aren’t any corners. Just curves and clean lines. I don’t trust homes without corners. Nothing honest about a house that doesn’t know where it begins and ends.

Anyway—there you are.You’re weighing your options. Right or wrong. And even when you want to do right, that old “wrong decision” muscle starts twitching. It’s like an old jacket—too tight, missing a button— but somehow it still feels comfortable. Like bad decisions do, they make you feel at home in a mental straitjacket.

And everyone around you? They say things like, “Go with your gut.”But nobody ever asks what kind of gut you’ve got. Some people have a six-pack. Others have a crock pot full of chili and bad instincts.

You ever notice how people are always talkin’ about “gut instinct” like it’s some kind of mystical power?“Trust your gut,” they say. But nobody ever asks: What kind of shape is your gut in?

I mean, some folks out here got more chili than clairvoyance sloshin’ around in there.

And in this business—handicapping, the beautiful, maddening art of trying to predict which 1,200-pound animal is gonna run the fastest in a big circle—it’s not just your gut on the line. It’s your ego, your money, and half the time, your sanity.

Now, I’ve been doin’ this a while. Long enough that my gut and brain don’t even send memos anymore—they just know. It’s like muscle memory.

Sure, you can spend hours crunchin’ numbers, runnin’ figures, and talkin’ about “late pace fractions” like you’re auditioning for a job at NASA. But if you’ve been watchin’ horses long enough, sometimes your brain, or whatever half-functioning circuit board you’ve got between your ears, just kicks in and says:

“Yeah. That one.”

You don’t know why, exactly.You just know. It’s like that old friend who shows up with a six-pack and no plan—maybe not smart, but somehow always right enough.

But here’s the thing nobody talks about: What if your gut is just tired? Tired of bein’ blamed when things go wrong. Tired of people sayin’ “I knew I should’ve trusted my gut”—like it’s some kind of clairvoyant punching bag.

Sometimes your gut just wants to sit back, take a Tums, and let the speed figures do the heavy liftin’.

But here’s the thing nobody ever says out loud:

Some of us got bigger guts than others—literally.But that don’t mean a hill of pinto beans when it comes to actual instinct.

You can have yourself a tight little gut, six-pack abs, yoga core, the whole deal—and still got the horse sense of a malfunctioning Roomba.

Or on the flip side—you could be rockin’ a full-on beer belly, the kind that hangs out your T-shirt like it’s tryin’ to get its own Zip code—and somehow have the raw, unteachable instinct of a backstretch racetrack wizard crossed with a possum in a storm.

I’ve seen fellas look like they ain’t moved faster than a couch cushion in five years call $40 winners like they read it in a scroll from the heavens. And I’ve watched fit, spreadsheet-totin’ “data guys” get smoked by a horse named “Nana’s Cornbread.”

It ain’t about the gut size.It’s about what’s inside that gut. And I don’t mean chili dogs and light beer—I mean grit, feel, and a little bit of divine dirt-road intuition.

See, your gut ain't about how big it is. It’s about what it’s learned.

You ever try watchin’ Del Mar and Saratoga back-to-back—or worse, at the same exact time?It's like tryin’ to read War and Peace and a Waffle House menu at the same time.

But here’s the thing—I started realizin’ I’m better at jugglin’ than I gave myself credit for. Two feeds, three races, four opinions I didn’t ask for, and a parlay ticket that looks like it was built by a sleep-deprived stoned squirrel. And I’m keepin’ up!

But then I look over at folks like Amy Kearns—you know her, the absolute wizard behind the curtain at Keeneland and Racingwithbruno. And I start to realize— we are just built different, thank you, Sweet Baby Jesus.

Now Amy...She can professionally chew gum, run video, true story, find the horse on a screen the size of a box of Blockbuster membership card, blow a bubble the size of a hubcap, and if the wind hits just right? That bubble floats up, snags a little strand of hair like a precision airstrike…And she never misses a beat while blessing your heart at the same time.

Meanwhile, me? If I try to blow a bubble and hit "record" at the same time, I’ll either hit my chin with the camera or swallow the gum, start seein’ purple and blue colors, and have to sit down for 90 seconds.

And let’s not even talk about my hair—I ain’t got enough to make silly string.

You know what I want?

A behind-the-scenes video of Ms. Kearns—mid-bubble, gum in her hair, screens flickerin’, horses loadin’,and that video comes out flawless, a 4 star work, like the whole thing was choreographed by Steven Spielberg and James Cameron.

And that’s kinda what handicapping is, ain’t it?

Some folks?They make it look effortless. Pickin’ winners with one eye open, a burrito in their hand, and three wining tickets in their pockets.

Others? We’re sittin’ there with flowcharts, printouts, our gut talkin’ back, and still find a way to land on a 35-1 claimer named “Uncle Jimmy’s Mistake.”

It’s a gift. A rhythm. And the best of 'em—whether they're in the paddock, the press box, or behind a monitor—make it look like chewin’ gum and winnin’ tickets were all part of the same skill set.

Still, in the end? I’d rather lose with my gut than win with a spreadsheet. Because at least when your gut’s wrong, you can cuss it out in the mirror like an old friend. But when a computer’s wrong? It don’t apologize. It just reloads.

So yeah—I’ve sat in the corner trying to figure it out. And once in a while I still pick the wrong one— those are the days I should just pick up chewing gum professionally.