Dead Head(s)

Now look, in this damn industry — where losin’ is more common than humidity in August —

it’s real easy to get jaded. So when you see somebody actually winnin’? Feels like you just seen a unicorn ridin' a jet ski.

It ain't supposed to be simple, and trust me, it damn sure ain't. 'Cause anytime money’s involved, so are games — and I don’t mean Monopoly with MeeMaw on Christmas.

No sir. These are high-stakes, backroom, slick-talking, smoke-and-mirrors kinda games. The kinda games where they don’t just change the rules halfway through — they set the board on fire and tell you to keep playin’. So if you wanna win, you gotta learn to understand the game. Like REALLY understand it — not just parrot back some old ‘90s horse-track lingo your uncle Randy swore by when he was three PBRs deep and still thought AOL was the future.

We already talked about connections — and how what you think you know might be doin' you more harm than good. That old "gut feeling" crap ain't gonna cut it no more. You gotta de-program all that mess, flush it out like last week’s gas station sushi, and start lookin' at things from the perspective of folks who actually know their arse from a hole in the ground.

‘Cause listen: when there’s too many chiefs and not enough Indians — which, let’s be honest, is how most places run — the whole operation turns into a blindfolded donkey game run by a confused golden retriever. It’s chaos. You need clarity, not another damn opinion shouted over your shoulder while you're tryin' to read the signs.

That’s where we come in. Daily observations, real talk, no B.S. That way, you can make smart decisions, which — fun fact — you’re gonna need not just to win, but to feel like you actually got a grip on life. And once that confidence starts snowballin’? Oh buddy, it’s a whole new world.

Alright y’all, lemme go on and say: we’ve had us a damn fine meet up at Saratoga so far. Horses are runnin’, folks are winnin’, and most importantly — we’re readin’ the signs right. And with Del Mar comin’ in hot like a July sunburn, and our Midwest gal, THE Amy Kearns, absolutely wreckin’ ball at Ellis and Colonial, Yippee Ki-yay mother truckers!

Well hell, you ain't just covered — you’re wrapped up tighter than a Cracker Barrel biscuit in grandma’s Tupperware.

Now look, here’s what I mean when I say we don’t just guess and hope for the best — we do the homework, son. Let me give you a little taste from Friday’s card — just a little appetizer, without the Tupperware, alright?

6th race at Saratoga — got taken off the turf. Now some folks see that and go, “Welp, throw out the turf horses!” And sure, if you’re stuck in 1997, that makes sense. But here’s where we went deeper.

You got Dr. Agne — now this horse? He’s the son of Lady Eli, who if you don’t know, was one of the baddest female turf horses we’ve seen in the last twenty damn years. Straight-up turf royalty. So the casual fan, the guy flippin’ through his program with a Coors Light in one hand, sees that pedigree and goes:“Ahh hell naw, he can’t run on dirt.”

But us? We ain’t casual. We watched, we broke down the breeding, the visual, we dug into this horselike a possum in a trash can. And in our notes? We said, clear as day — “Into Mischief colt struck me as a dirt horse at Keeneland.” We erased that doubt like a 'Dead head Sticker' at an Eagles concert.

That’s the kind of edge we’re givin’ y’all. It ain’t just numbers and guesses — it’s insight, experience, and a healthy dose of common damn sense, aside from the occasional humor and light-hearted smart arse cracks.

Like the great philosopher Kenny Rogers once said:"Know when to hold ‘em, know when to fold ‘em."Also know when to stop takin’ advice from your drunk cousin at the bar.