Have You Been Saved?

It’s all relative, of course. The price of truth, the weight of salvation, the sanctity of a road trip playlist that does include Free Bird, Can't You See, and Patience—all relative. But my dear friend, let me tell you: the proverbial it is not just going to hit the fan. It’s got a direct flight, first class, landing squarely in the middle of Churchill Downs with Saratoga baggage in tow and Del Mar waiting at the gate. The summer is heating up, the ponies are poised, and the madness is about to begin.

But before all that, something curious happened—something divine, depending on your perspective.

Last week, I was saved. No, not in the rolling thunder of spiritual rebirth, though we did pass a tent revival somewhere outside Lexington that might’ve begged otherwise. No, saved a whole dollar—a whole dollar—per gallon-at the gas pump, courtesy of a well-timed swipe of my club points. Divine intervention? Perhaps. But I digress.

It all began with the boys and me—a four-day exodus westward. Lexington to Kansas City (barbecue, super-yummy), Kansas City to Colorado Springs (altitude and attitude), and onward through the barren beauty of St. George, Utah before descending into the beachside, sunny, Carlsbad, California. A modern pilgrimage fueled by hummus, pita chips, ice tea, good banter, and the occasional philosophical musing on whether Secretariat could've outpaced the Teslas we kept passing with my friend Vic thru bluetooth.

Now, the gas station—a humble waypoint, often forgettable, but every so often, a theater for the absurd.

There they were: Kentucky preachers in canvas tents, handing out Bibles like festival wristbands. A voice called out to me—earnest, full of fire, and unmistakably Southern.

"Son," he said, with the sort of sincerity that can only be honed over years of potlucks and pulpit proclamations, "have you been saved?"

Ah. That word. Loaded, laced, and occasionally weaponized.

I nodded, gestured toward the gas pump, and said, “Yessir, the Lord saved me a dollar—right here, right now.”

His eyes blinked once. Twice. I could see the gospel short-circuiting behind them, the delicate machinery of his conviction grinding under the weight of gallows humor and unleaded irony.

Before he could thrust his King James toward me like a flaming sword, I was in the truck and gone—Bon Jovi on the stereo, Livin on a Prayer, the smell of petrol and providence fading in the rearview.

Now don’t get me wrong—I believe. I've read the scriptures, sat through enough sermons to know Ecclesiastes from Ephesians. I do believe the truth shall set you free. But timing, my friend, is everything. And at that moment, my truth was 87 octane and a dollar off per gallon.

The racetrack may not be the pearly gates, unless you were the old Arlington Park, but it's where destinies are written in dirt and hooves, where saints and sinners alike line up at the window hoping for a little salvation at 12-to-1.

Ahhh… now that’s a sermon I can get behind.

You see, my friend, while others are clinging to their creeds and commandments, thumbing through the Old Testament for wisdom and the New for hope, we—well, we’re operating on a different gospel entirely. One stitched together from racing forms, weather patterns, and whispers, four star works and better instincts than most prophets.

Yes, it’s the final weekend at Churchill Downs, and we’ve got more intel than the Book of Revelations, more footnotes than the Dead Sea Scrolls, and—dare I say it—more insight than the Vatican archives on Derby Day. It's not blasphemy, it's just... preparation.

Of course, I must tread carefully. Last time I invoked the Almighty in matters of wagering, 2016 if memory serves, the heavens didn’t just frown—they struck. A bolt of lightning, clean through a hundred-year-old tree in the Saratoga backyard. It was less a warning and more a divine mic drop, all because I hadn't believed in Abraham to win the 6th. Swear to God!

So I say this delicately.

Handicappers could do worse than to spend a little time in Ecclesiastes: "To everything there is a season." Or Ephesians: "By grace through faith." And what is wagering if not a dangerous dance between grace, faith, and a damned good gate work?

The others? They’re still in Genesis, waiting on divine inspiration and betting chalk like the plagues or even worse fearing the arrival of the locusts. But us? We’ve cracked the seventh seal—we’re writing Revelation in real time. Four-star works, second-off-the-layoff types, troubled-trip rebounders. Apostles of the paddock and prophets in the post parade, from our lips to god's ears.

Last year at Saratoga and Del Mar, our works—not our words—and prayers were heard with $40 to $50 bombs off good works at Del Mar. We don’t take dictation from mountaintop messengers with stone tablets. No, we move with rhythm. We watch. We learn. We listen. Not to burning bushes, but to ourselves, tote boards, and that one grizzly Racingwithbruno character with the limp and the laugh who only talks in riddles.

So if you're following us this summer, remember: salvation might just be a well-timed exacta, and divine intervention sometimes looks like a $14 maiden winner on a Thursday at Del Mar.

Pray more, worry less with a four star work on a Saturday afternoon with the Tide rising.

And above all—use your club points at the pump.

Hallelujah. Amen. And pass the past performances.

Speaking of Past Performances: We have updated our contract between Racingwithbruno and Brisnet, for all your past performance need please go to:

https://www.brisnet.com/product/past-performances