If If If.....

Ah, yes… what if. What if Journalism, the precocious prince of promise, the ink-stained wretch galloping toward greatness, simply... opts out of the Belmont Stakes?

Not with the breezy indifference that Sovereignty’s camp trotted out like a half-eaten alibi—“didn’t feel like it”—as if they’d misplaced not just the saddle but the entire point. No, this time it’s different. This time, it’s deliberate. Calculated. Not an omission, but a quiet declaration:

“We are not ready.”

And suddenly, everything tilts.

The very idea that Journalism—your supposed Triple Crown redeemer, the gallant, the articulate, the narrative darling—might skip the Belmont because the preparation wasn’t sufficient? Cue the locusts, cue the blackout. Gotham goes feral. Taxi horns blare not in traffic but in protest. A thousand delis go silent in grief. And those New Yorkers, bless their eternal grievance—still reeling from the Knicks’ annual appointment with disappointment—wouldn’t just light trash cans on fire. No, no. They’d torch symbols. Pizza slices tossed like Molotovs. Eggplant parm sacrifices offered to the Racing Gods. Madness.

You see, Mott? Oh, he’s golden. He could say he stayed home because his lucky belt wasn’t dry from the cleaners and they’d carve it into the Saratoga Hall of Fame. That’s the upstate gospel. He’s the hometown whisperer. A man who, on his birthday, triggers a betting frenzy like a Wall Street run on thoroughbreds. The man could lead a parade of underfed squirrels onto the track and they’d bet it down to 3-1. Why? Because he’s theirs.

And Prat? Prat can part traffic like Moses. Inside move? Inspired. Bowling through? Gutsy. Rispoli tries the same thing—“reckless.” Umberto dares go inside? “Dangerous.” Don’t even think about showing up at Hattie’s Chicken Shack. No chicken breast for you. In fact, try Schroon Lake. Farther.

It’s that provincial lens—the Little Andy echo chamber, the Sinatra loop, that self-satisfied golden rail they worship—that filters everything through a parochial prism. If Journalism skips? The fabric of their mythology tears. It’s not just a horse scratching. It’s the story unraveling.

Because when the Belmont goes off, and if Journalism isn't there…The narrative is what’s missing.

Ah… but hopefully, everything clears up. The skies, the circumstances, the delicate ballet between fate and fortitude. The weather? Well, that’s a capricious mistress, isn’t it? Fickle as ever. One moment the heavens threaten deluge, the next they part like the Red Sea for a chosen few. And on this particular Sunday morning, with mist still clinging to the shadows and the air thick with tension, Journalism—our quiet storm—took to the Saratoga main track. Not just any surface, mind you. A drying track. The kind of footing that demands respect. The kind of surface where excuses go to die, and truths rise from the dust.

And there he was… moving. Not just galloping, gliding. Clean. Controlled. Purposeful. Through the lane like a whisper wrapped in thunder in 100.2, 112.2 and 126 and change.

Captured—perfectly—by none other than our own Mike from Saratoga. Yes, that Mike. A sentinel of the morning light, a man whose camera lens has seen more raw brilliance and fleeting fragility than most ever will. Since 2014, he’s stood his post with Racingwithbruno. A stalwart presence on the Whitney Stand. A ghost in the Turf Terrace. You’ll find him sipping coffee laced with anticipation, noting every flick of an ear, every stride, every nuance others miss while reaching for another cup of java.

Journalism working on June 1 at Saratoga

This isn't even his day job, in fact he also coaches a variety of sports, Lacrosse, Baseball, Soccer, Badminton. Way to do it Mikey, he's like a YMCA all wrapped up into a village, people.

He doesn’t just take pictures. He documents truth. And if Mike says Journalism was right on the money—cutting through that lane like a surgeon with a vendetta—then you better believe he was.

So yes, maybe the weather clears. Maybe the stars align. Maybe the narrative regains its spine. And maybe—just maybe—Journalism shows up at Belmont not because he has to… but because he’s ready to.

Ah... Sovereignty.

A horse cloaked in expectation, mythologized by whispers and wagers, his fans circling like a pack of wolves outside a Brooklyn bakery waiting for the last cannoli. Or better yet—hovering like Saratoga regulars about to sprint for that elusive backyard table, eyes sharp, elbows sharper. It’s like Bill Mott’s birthday all over again—anticipation so thick you could cut it with a soup spoon from the Turf Terrace brunch.

Well, fear not. The prince made his appearance.

This morning, Sovereignty got in his exercise in escorted out by Bill Mott, who felt like it was hi duty this morning. He worked over the Oklahoma training track—the Spa’s main track quieter, wiser sibling. The kind of surface where legends are sharpened in silence. No fanfare. No track bugle. Just hooves, breath, and the rhythm of readiness with an audience on the rail.

Sovereignty working on the Oklahoma Track on June 1

And there, waiting—prepared, focused, dressed to kill in what can only be described as his Sunday best—was Mike. Yes, our Coach Mike whistle and clipboard in hand. The Spa’s quiet sentinel. The man who treats each morning like high mass and every gallop like gospel. There he was, camera in hand, eyes tracking every stride like he was expecting an audience with Saint Shug himself. It was less a workout, more a sacrament.

Sovereignty went 4 furlongs in 48.1, out 5 in 1:02.1, and 6 in 1:16.2. Efficient. Composed. Glistening like polished obsidian under the brooding skies of Saratoga Springs. Not just a workout. A statement.

You can’t knock either of them—not the colts, not the cameraman. Both warriors in their own rite. Both tuned, tenacious, locked in on a mission.

And now? Well, now it’s Lemon Ice time.Sugar free, of course. Because discipline isn’t seasonal—it’s a lifestyle.

So here we are… two titans tuning up in the mist, one camera capturing it all, and a Spa summer about to boil over. The question isn’t if something big is coming.

It’s who gets there first, maybe Baeza has something to say as well. Lemon Ice and Cannolli's for three, and may even a California Burrito for Rodriguez. The gringo from out west, sombrero and all

And wouldn’t that be something? a Belmont Stakes to wager on.

And what is racing—what is sport—without its story?Just noise. Hooves on dirt.