'Hold My Beer' A Belmont Primer
- Bruno@Racingwithbruno
- 1 day ago
- 4 min read
There’s no honor in whispering when the truth demands a scream.
Telling your audience anything but what you actually think is not just dishonest — it’s treasonous. Treason against your own intellect, your own conviction, your own spine. If you’re afraid to tell the truth because it might ruffle a few feathers or cost you a hot pass, then you’re not a journalist. You’re a mouthpiece with a clipboard.
You don’t have to be mean. But for God’s sake, be honest. Say it. Say it all. And if someone doesn’t like it, well… the bar’s over there. Have a drink. Have a bit of a drink.
Because in this industry — in this world — you might as well tell the truth. Everyone already thinks you’re lying anyway.
“Not ‘A Bit’”
Ah yes, May 29th. Sovereignty. The narrative, as the polite corners of the racing world might whisper, is that he was “a bit keyed up.” A bit. What a delightfully evasive little phrase. Harmless. Nonspecific. Designed, of course, to offend no one, to imply disruption without admitting to it.
But let’s not insult each other with pleasantries. He wasn’t a bit — he was keyed up, like a violin string pulled so tight you half expect it to snap. Up on his toes, fire in his chest, eyes sharp as shattered glass. This wasn’t a colt having a moment. This was a creature alive with nervous brilliance. Tension masquerading as poise.
You could feel it — in the way he shifted, danced, coiled like something waiting to bolt. It wasn’t misbehavior. It was electricity. And to describe it as “a bit” is to describe a lightning strike as “a flicker.”
No — he was a lot. And that’s not criticism. That’s clarity.
See, when you dull the language, you dull the truth. And in this game — a game built on fractions of seconds and the instincts of animals far more honest than the people wagering on them — the truth is your only ally. Even when it stings. Especially when it stings.
So no… he wasn’t a bit keyd up . He was Sovereignty. On May 29th. Charged, volatile, alive.
And if that unsettles someone? Well, the bar’s still over there. Have a drink.
You know, people love to talk about attitude as if it’s some immovable pillar, carved in stone. But the truth — the inconvenient truth — is that attitude is never constant. Not in people. Not in horses. Not in anyone or anything that's truly alive. It’s not fixed, not permanent. It’s fluid. Shaped by the day, the mood, the air in the room, the shadow you cast or the one following close behind.
Take May 30th, for instance.
New sounds. New smells. The track — not just dirt and distance, but a crucible. He felt it. You could see it. The tightness in his motion, the dart of his eyes. It wasn’t panic — it was anticipation. The way you feel rushing through the backstretch not on a mount, but in a linen jacket and sharp sunglasses, elbowing your way to secure a table for opening day at Saratoga, or Churchill, or some gilded place where racing still pretends to matter.
The unfamiliar becomes familiar — but only through experience. And in that first experience, there is always a shiver of vulnerability. Attitude, in that moment, is a question mark. And that’s beautiful. It’s not weakness. It’s truth.
Upon his next admission to the main track —on May 30th — Sovereignty was a different being entirely. Gone was the coiled wire from the day before, the restless energy, the nervous majesty. He was relaxed, centered… present. There was a stillness to him, but not the kind that implies detachment — no, this was a focused quiet, the calm that comes only after you’ve seen the dragon and realized it was just your own shadow on the wall.
The main track, the once-intimidating colosseum of chaos and color, was no longer something to be conquered. It had become his playground. He moved across it like he’d been born there — fluid, unbothered, as casual as walking the dog on a sleepy Sunday morning. And in that easy gait, that quiet confidence, we learned something essential about Sovereignty.
He’s not impulsive. He’s not reactionary. He’s observant. He needs to acclimate — not just be placed into the scene, but understand it. To see it, smell it, breathe it in with his own lungs. Only then does he proceed. On his terms. In his time.
So no — attitude is not constant. It shouldn’t be. Only dead things stay 'a bit' the same.
And while some horses barrel through new environments like tanks — unthinking, unaffected — Sovereignty says otherwise. Sovereignty says, “I’ll hold my own beer, thank you.” You don’t rush his process. You don’t shortcut his understanding. He doesn’t follow blind faith — he follows evidence, experience.
We all process differently. We all adapt on different clocks. Journalism might be unfazed, immune, sterile in its routine. But Sovereignty? He’s alive. Which means he feels it all. Learns from it. And once he understands the room… he owns it.