Del Mar > Saratoga

Depends on who you ask — but I’ll go ahead and say it: Yeah. It damn well is, this weekend.

Now don’t get me wrong,— I’ve lived both. I’ve sweated through mornings on the rail at Del Mar and hustled through the backyard at Saratoga with a fried chicken sandwich in one hand and a scratched horse in the other trying to dodge lightning strikes. I’ve earned my stripes at both tracks, and I ain’t here to trash one. I’m here to tell you the truth, with a little flavor on it.

Let’s break it down, y’all:

At Saratoga, they line up in the rain or shine just to grab a table in the backyard like it’s a July 4th cookout at your cousin’s house. They got that cute lil’ lake, they got Hattie’s Chicken (which is pretty damn good, let’s be fair), and yeah, it’s historic, it’s scenic, it’s charming. It’s also humid, packed, and you’ll likely hear the phrase “I know a guy at Chad’s barn” 37 times before noon.

Now at Del Mar? Buddy, it’s different. You’re walkin’ distance from the Pacific freakin’ Ocean, people dress like they just stepped off a yacht wearing loafers and no socks — even if they Ubered in from Mission Valley — and instead of sweating in folding chairs, they’re lining up for the Turf Club. Classy, but still chill. You got Roberto’s Tacos, The Brig, Maurizio’s Trattoria, and downtown San Diego’s Little Italy if you really wanna eat like royalty. And guess what? It don’t smell like wet hay and lost dreams.

Pacific Classic vs. Travers? Oh boy — y’all ain’t ready for this one.

This year? 2025? Pacific Classic wins. Period. It's a bigger field than the Travers and more depth? Yeah — lean and mean. Quality, baby. You got three of the top horses in the country — and one of ‘em, Journalism, a freakin’ three-year-old, takin’ on the old boys like he’s been here before.

But, let me add somethin’: Nysos is a SERIOUS animal. Not just fast — smart fast. There’s a difference. Dude worked 1:09 and change for six furlongs six days before the San Diego Handicap and still came out cool as a cucumber. No meltdowns, no washed-out theatrics, didn’t need a therapy pony to calm down after. That’s a pro, son.

Then he came back and worked 1:35 and change like he’s out there joggin’ for his mental health. You look at that and think, “Damn… he’s different.” And you’d be right. Nysos is like Journalism, just a year older, and if he hadn't gotten injured we might be say Mystic who?

Now here’s where it gets real spicy: You got folks nitpickin’ Journalism — not because of what he did during the Triple Crown, but because of who was on his back. Umberto Rispoli rides him, and suddenly it’s like, “Well I dunno, he ain’t no Irad or Prat...”Yeah, well he also has bulled his way along rail, diving through gaps like a wreckin’ ball. Rispoli rode his ass off. If your favorite jock had made that same move, y’all would’ve thrown roses on the track and started cryin’. But because it was a “West Coast guy” you don’t know? You drew a line in the sand like a toddler who didn’t get the red cup.

We learned a lot that day — not just about Journalism, but about how petty and tribal this damn sport can get. You got people hatin’ because their favorite barn didn’t win. Newsflash: the horse doesn’t know who you like on social media.

Alright y’all, just when you thought the Pacific Classic couldn’t get any juicier, here comes Fierceness struttin’ in like he owns the joint — and right behind him? Mike Repole, the self-appointed commissioner of racing, ridin’ shotgun with a microphone in one hand and a double standard in the other.

Now listen, Repole — bless his caffeinated heart — he’s a walking soundbite. The man talks more than a preacher at a tent revival, and with about the same amount of self-righteous fire. He's got opinions on everything from steward decisions to how to fix racing, as long as the fix benefits him and his horse. He wants transparency... except when it’s about his scratches.

He wants fairness... unless his horse didn’t win. Buddy's got more shifting standards than a moody teenager deciding who to take to prom.

But hey, one thing's for sure — he shows up to win, and Fierceness is no joke. Repole puts his monies where his very big mouth is. That colt’s been punching above his weight since day one. He ain’t exactly built like a tank, more like a wirey little scrapper, but he’s got rocket fuel in his hooves and the heart of a fighter. And you know Repole’s in his ear like Rocky coaching Adonis Creed:“Yo, Fierceness! Take it to ‘em! Don’t wait, GO NOW!”

You can just imagine that horse trash-talkin' the entire field down the backstretch like he's Apollo Creed mic'd up for HBO.

And Todd Pletcher? Poor Todd just stands there like the dad at Chuck E. Cheese who's just tryna keep the peace while the kids break furniture. Man’s stoic, cool, professional — says five words a week — and probably hasn't gotten a full sentence in since he met Repole. But he sure as hell trains 'em good.

Now, as for the race? Whew. It’s a tactical freakshow in the best way:

• Fierceness is all speed. Front-end freak. Needs things his way and even whe he's hooked he may throw a tantrum and fight back in it in by the eighth pole.

• Nysos? Buddy can match him early and sustain late. He’s got gears. Grit. And a brain in his head, and possibly the greatest trainer to don a white hair do

• Then there’s Journalism — that stretch-running assassin who shows up late like a horror movie villain in Act III like Freddy Kruger or Michael from Halloween without a mask, you think he’s out of it, and then BAM, he’s ghostin' past ‘em like they’re standin’ still.

  
  

And thank the turf gods, no Sovereignty here — not this time. He got his licks in beating up a 5-horse Travers field of four less than Grade 3 runners. Looked good doing it, but let’s not act like he just stormed the beaches at Normandy. Not yet. He will need to storm the beaches at Del Mar this fall.

Maybe, just maybe, come Breeders’ Cup time, we’ll get the full party: Mindframe, Sovereignty, Fierceness, Nysos, Journalism — all throwin’ down by the Pacific Ocean, under the sun, with tacos in one hand and dreams in the other. But for now?

It's the Pacific Classic, which makes Del Mar > Saratoga.

So, You’re in Del Mar, baby, grab a taco from Roberto’s, make a dinner res at Maurizio’s, and put your money where your mouth is, 'cause this right here? This is the Pacific Classic. And it’s gonna be a damn classic indeed.

Let me end on this: Saratoga, for some It’s magic, it’s tradition, it’s Americana with a side of racing. But Del Mar? Del Mar is chill, sunny, sharp, and delivers the goods — especially in 2025.

Pacific Classic is the race this year. Nysos is the truth, Journalism is the man, and Fierceness, well, Repole will tell you.

And if you ain’t watchin’? Well… bless your heart.