Death & Taxes

Alright now, y’all buckle up, ‘cause we’re about to talk about handicapping horses like it’s a family reunion that done got hijacked by Wi-Fi.

Back in the day — and by “back in the day” I mean when we were arguing about the ‘99 bias like it was the Zapruder film — handicapping was simple. Not easy. Simple. You had pace. You had speed. You had class. The race still went to the swiftest, just like the Good Lord and The Bible said — well, Ecclesiastes said it, but y’all get the point.

Speed figures mattered. Bias mattered. A horse either could run or he couldn’t. That horse didn’t care if you had dial-up internet or a flip phone with Snake on it.

Now?

Now we got influencers, some even live in Mom's basement or better yet with a drink firmly implanted in their palm.

Horse racing done turned into Ghostbusters: dogs and cats living together, mass hysteria. Everybody’s an influencer. Trainers got fan clubs. Jockeys got brand deals. Some fella in his mom's basement with a ring light and a spreadsheet is now the Oracle of Gulfstream.

I heard tell of a television handicapper who admitted he checked social media to see who liked his horse before a big race. For validation. Validation! Son, if you need Twitter to tell you whether your horse can run, maybe take up fantasy football. He thought conviction was only seen on Perry Mason or Matlock.

The mindset has changed more than the game has.

Pace is still pace. Speed is still speed. A :22 and change opening quarter ain’t become a suggestion just because somebody got 80,000 followers and a podcast.

But now gamblers don’t just want a horse.

They want a cascade.

They need:

• Their favorite handicapper nodding solemnly like he’s knighting the colt.

• A bullet work so bright it blinds the backside.

• Trainer stats packaged up like a late-night infomercial.

• A tidy little jockey-trainer percentage that makes them feel warm and statistically superior.

• 
  

And if ONE of them puzzle pieces is missing?

“Overlay!”

Overlay?! Lord have mercy. If it ain’t on social media it must be a value play. That’s where we are.

We went from bias and figures to bullet works and boutique stats to auction prices like we’re bidding on the Mona Lisa instead of a two-year-old that still spooks at butterflies.

You seen these maiden races this weekend?

At Gulfstream Park, Saturday, on the Fountain of Youth card, they got a maiden special weight, the 2nd race, with $1.67 million worth of auction graduates. Then over at Oaklawn Park, they roll out $3.75 million worth of horseflesh like it’s the Kentucky Derby of accountants in the 10th race on Sunday.

Folks cheering at the sales like it’s the Super Bowl.

News flash: that horse can’t read.

He don’t know what a dollar is. He don’t know what a check is. He don’t know he’s “well-meant.” He knows hay, oats, water, and whether that gate just scared him half to death.

A million-dollar colt and a nickel stud both gotta put one hoof in front of the other. That stopwatch don’t care what the receipt said.

But tell that to today’s handicapper and you get the blank stare of a The Walking Dead extra. Past performances rolled up in one hand like a sacred scroll, auction prices in the other, shuffling toward the window growling “percentaaaaages…”

Auction prices won’t help you find winners, now there is a fucking shocker of a statement.

They’ll tell you what an owner’s accountant thinks about depreciation schedules, though.

Because see, in this country, some folks believe death and taxes are inevitable — unless there’s a deduction involved.

Y’all out here handicapping tax strategy.

They used to bury the Pharaohs in Ancient Egypt with all their gold and riches so they could take it to the afterlife.

We all know better than that, right?

You can’t take it with you, right?

And you can’t take that Keeneland receipt to the starting gate, I reckon.

When that saddle gets cinched and that bell rings, the horse don’t care about your influencer, your cascade, your neatly packaged stats, or your social media affirmation circle.

He either runs.

Or he don’t.

And that, my friends, ain’t obsolete, right?