Coach

Ah… D. Wayne Lukas.

What can one say about a man who didn't just train racehorses… but shaped the very fabric of modern American racing—stitched it together with grit, showmanship, and a touch of rebellion. For me, he was never just a name in the program. He was there—always there. From the early morning gallops under Santa Anita’s rose-gold skies to the gentle hum of Saratoga mornings, where champions were sculpted from sinew and sweat.

The white bridle. The unmistakable green "WL" stitched into saddle towels like a seal from some ancient horseman’s guild. And then there was Wayne himself—atop his pony, stetson shading a keen pair of eyes, watching his charges flash by like cavalry in training. A general in command. A poet with a stopwatch. Patton on horseback.

You see, Wayne saw what others didn’t—or wouldn’t. The racing world’s obsession with plain bays and good papers? Not Wayne. He loved the chrome. So did I. The white faces, the socks, the blaze that danced in the sun. The ones trainers avoided because they looked too flashy to be serious. He understood—horses don’t win races with color. They win with heart. WILL TAKE CHARGE, his best chromed runner, along with ON THE LINE and many others, weren’t just chrome, they were courage in motion.

And Serena’s Song… ah, Serena. Barely bigger than a Shetland, but gutsier than a barroom brawler. Five straight graded wins, a symphony of defiance to the old guard. How could I forget that day in ‘93, standing with Bob Baffert and Bob Lewis at Santa Anita. Bob Lewis, bless his big heart and even bigger bankroll, with that voice like Kentucky bourbon, swore he’d never use Lukas. Life’s funny like that. Don't ever say never. A few months and a flight later, he’s buying Serena with Wayne in the seat next to him. Fate, you sly old fox.

Their partnership would become one of the great alliances in racing—a contradiction of that initial vow, and a testament to the power of connection. Yet Wayne, ever the competitor, beat them too. I still remember it—Del Mar, August 10, 1996. Silver Charm debuts. The hype, the entry, the Lewis duo. And who upsets the party? Lukas. With Deeds Not Words, of course. $14 on the board. Classic Wayne.

But life wasn’t all roses and trophies. There was Tabasco Cat—brilliant, temperamental, dangerous animal. When he ran down Jeff Lukas on the backside… it wasn’t just a horrific accident. It was a cruel twist of fate, one that changed the Lukas family forever. Jeff, the prince in Wayne’s empire, so much like his father—level-headed, sharp, respectful—never the same again. Some scars don’t heal. Not in racing. Not in life.

Yet through it all, Lukas kept coming. He didn’t dodge bullets. He walked into gunfire. "You can't win it unless you're in it." That's how he lived. Beat Sunday Silence with Criminal Type when no one dared challenge the champ. While others were guarding their win percentages like fragile heirlooms, Wayne was throwing haymakers. 30,439 starts. Just shy of 5,000 wins. Modest percentages, massive impact.

Even this year—2025—at 14%, he was still showing up. Still giving the next one a shot. That was Wayne. Never content to be remembered. Always fighting to be relevant, in a sport that will bury you and throw dirt on you if you stop to smell the roses for too long

Art Sherman, another legend, sharp as a tack at 88, said something to me just this past weekend, a quiet moment amid the chatter at San Luis Rey Downs. "All my friends are dying." He didn’t say it in sadness. He said it in truth. A generation is leaving us. A generation of real horsemen, gamblers, characters—people who loved the game with everything they had and lost more than they could afford.

D. Wayne Lukas wasn’t just part of that generation. He defined it. No one will replace him. Because legends—true legends—they don’t get replaced. They get remembered.

Rest well, Coach. The mornings will never look the same.