Give Me Horses or Give me.....

Ah... the world, as always, is distracted. Obsessed with faces on screens, enamored by noise, and utterly deaf to the quiet brilliance happening right in front of them — if only they’d care to look.

I find great pleasure in writing — not because I wish to be seen, but because I hope something I say might make people think. A rare pastime these days, wouldn’t you agree? In an industry — this one — swollen with egos and soundbites, I prefer the silence of the barn. The slow rhythm of a horse breathing through its morning gallop. I come from a background where people said what they meant, and more importantly, meant what they said. Northern Florida. Carolina clay. Humble origins that taught me to watch, to listen, to learn. Not perform.

Now… industry insiders. Oh, yes. These people are remarkably adept at performing — little reality stars propped up by their own warped narratives. Lights, camera, delusion. They speak with such conviction, you’d think they personally trained the horse, bred it, foaled it, and ran the final eighth of a mile themselves.

I assure you… they did not.

I am here for the horses. Full stop. They are the silent gladiators of this sport. They don’t speak in hashtags or network deals. They speak in strides and sweat and courage. Everything else? The bowl-cut talking heads parading their Pick 5 tickets like they’ve cracked the Da Vinci Code? It's theater. Bad theater. The kind you leave at intermission.

The sport has been hijacked — not by gamblers or cynics or even PETA — but by those who insist on injecting themselves into the competition. Like they saddled up and galloped to victory. The only weight they carry is ego. The only races they run are to the microphone.

But I am diving into my own pool of opinion.

Because amidst all this noise… we have horses. Magnificent ones.

Three, in fact. Journalism. Sovereignty. Nysos. Three rare meteorites on a collision course for Del Mar. A moment of alignment so perfect, it feels cosmically orchestrated, with crossed fingers......The Big Bang.

Journalism is the metronome — steady, reliable, almost frightening in his consistency. He glides like a machine built for one purpose: to run. His recent move in company was surgical. No theatrics. No lollygagging, as the southern saying goes. Just work. And when you find a horse that works like he does, you listen — not to your ego, but to him.

Journalism at Del Mar, August 16th

Sovereignty? Oh, I tried to beat him. Lord knows I tried. And all I got was egg on my face — which, I assure you, is a poor outcome when you're allergic to both losing and poultry products. He doesn't sparkle in the mornings. He doesn't care for applause. But put him on the track — force him to run — and he answers. Consistently. Quietly. Brutally. A true professional.

Sovereignty at Saratoga on August 16th

Nysos is the wild card. The assassin. He came back from his layoff like it never happened. Worked a 1:09 and change, and won six days later like he’d just strolled out of a spa. That level of calm under pressure? That’s not training. That’s genius. Kobe Bryant in a bridle.

Nysos at Del Mar August 16th

And yet… they are the ones we rarely hear about. Their accomplishments overshadowed by the noise — the endless talking heads, the owners mugging for cameras, the self-aggrandizing industry “experts” who never met a spotlight they didn’t love.

The horses don’t need the spotlight. They are the spotlight.

Which is why my screens are full of hooves, not haircuts.

Now… while I am salivating over the potential big bang at Del Mar — dreaming of Breeders’ Cup collisions, of titans clashing beneath California sun — there’s a quieter, more disquieting reality playing out elsewhere.

Friday. Saratoga. Six horses failed to finish their races. Saturday a couple of more....

Let that settle in.

Others were injured in morning training, casualties of a surface that shifts like sand beneath the illusion of prestige. And yet — not a whisper. Not a headline. Not even a feigned expression of concern from the usual media suspects.

Because it wasn’t Churchill Downs. Because it didn’t suit the narrative. Because certain institutions enjoy a kind of immunity — one earned not through transparency, but through mutually beneficial silence.

Instead… the chorus sang its familiar tune. “Amoss has a Derby horse.”It’s Our Time breaks his maiden by a city block, and suddenly we’re anointing him heir to the Triple Crown throne. “Greatest 2-year-old performance in years,” they said. Of course they did. The winner got a 94 Beyer fig according to DRF Grening, that means that with the marging of victory the 2nd place horse, Hero Declared received a 57 Beyer, which doesn't add up mathematically, because that would equate to a 104 Beyer for It's Our Time. What is going on here? A 104 is certainly an accomplishment..... and worth noting..... but a 94, that's what they want us to believe?

This exactly my point when i tend to say this is theater, a grandstand, 'of keep'em in the dark and feed them manure'.

Because that’s what happens at Saratoga and around this industry.

We can't say the runner up ran a 46 Beyer, so a 57 sounds better.... 'Nobody will know the difference', and that in a nutshell is the main problem in this industry, its lack of respect for the bettor and race fan, absolutely disturbing. It is insulting to our intelligence.

We know this game.You’ve seen it before.The vultures only circle when the corpse lies on a property they’ve already deemed corrupt. And when it lies in their own backyard? They draw the blinds, pour another cocktail, and go back to penning puff pieces about bullet works and Derby futures.

This… isn’t journalism. This is propaganda. Controlled messaging masquerading as truth. A delicate dance of omission and selective outrage, you can't be surprised at that.

And while the world keeps watching the show, clapping on cue, I’ll be over here… watching the horses. Because they don’t lie.They don’t edit. And they sure as hell don’t spin.

So you’ll excuse me if I have no interest in personalities, press releases, opinion puffs, bullet works and Beyer figures that don't add up. I’m not here for agendas. I’m not here for name tags, selfies, or speeches.

Give me horses. Give me truth. The rest?

Well, I’ll leave that for the people who watch racing for the humans.

I’ll be with the horses.