IT'S IMPOSSIBLE!

Alright, let’s talk about somethin’ near and dear to my heart—and apparently far, far away from most folks’ brains—and that’s how you approach the damn game. And by “game,” I mean handicapping, the beautiful, maddening art of tryin’ to predict what a thousand-pound animal with the attention span of a toddler is gonna do under a 115-pound man in silk pajamas.

Now listen—if you start anything with a negative-ass mindset, you're already halfway beat. And handicapping? That ain't the exception—it’s the rule. If I had a crisp five-dollar bill every time I heard some doofus whine, “This race is impossible!”... buddy, I could buy myself a Kia sports car. Not even used—new, with seat warmers and Bluetooth and everything.

It blows my damn mind how folks let their own personal failings become universal truths. Like, no, Todd—Churchill Downs ain't impossible. You just suck at it. You tried to copy-paste your Saratoga brain onto Kentucky dirt, and it went about as well as you'd expect.

Every track has its own rhythm, its own ecosystem. You can’t just waltz in with your little one-size-fits-all playbook and expect it to work everywhere. That’s like bringin’ a snowmobile to Daytona—wrong damn machine, buddy.

And that’s what people do! They fall in love with a trainer-jockey angle from somewhere else—usually with names like “Chad” or “Irad”—and then they show up at Churchill like they’re at the summer meet in Saratoga. Spoiler alert: it don’t work. Different barns, different barns’ agendas, different horses, and yeah—different clockers, too.

Let’s talk about that—clockers. These are the folks who decide what you see in the official workouts. And let me tell you somethin’ most people clearly don't understand: time is not a constant. Especially not in the morning. It’s like me tryin’ to run a mile before coffee—you ain't gettin' the real picture.

Now lemme just say this loud and clear for the folks in the back still trustin' workout rankings like they’re the Ten Commandments: Not all clockers are created equal. Alright?

And I gotta give credit where it’s due—over at Churchill Downs and Keeneland, those clockin’ teams? Straight-up professionals. I’m talkin’ sharp-eyed, no-nonsense, stopwatches-don’t-lie kinda folks. They ain’t missin’ works by ten lengths or makin’ up numbers like they’re playin' Sudoku. They show up, they do the job, and they don’t let their damn gambling habit override their integrity. Imagine that—doing your job like a grown-ass adult.

But then you got New York. Ohhhh, New York... home of thin pizza slices, overpriced rent, and apparently the most shady-ass workout clockers on God’s green Earth. I wouldn’t trust those dudes to time a microwavable burrito, much less a freakin’ morning breeze at Belmont.

They ain’t just watchin’ workouts—they’re playin’ the angles. This ain’t clockin', it’s insider trading with saddle towels. Every damn bullet work looks suspicious. Every ranking looks like it came straight off someone’s pick-6 ticket. And don’t even get me started on how protected they are—these guys could clock a damn carousel horse in :46 flat and someone up the chain would call it “a strong move over the surface.”

'Please do not attempt to time a microwavable burrito at home, without professional supervision'

You gotta ask yourself—where do the loyalties lie? ‘Cause I’ll tell you what: when there’s money involved, and there always is in this game, people don’t serve the truth—they serve their own damn pocketbook. That’s just human nature in a sport where the line between professional and degenerate is, let’s be honest, paper thin.

So yeah, Churchill and Keeneland, they’ve got professionals out there doin’ the Lord’s work with a stopwatch and some common sense. But if you think that standard holds across the country? You probably also think politicians tell the truth and your cousin’s pyramid scheme is gonna pay off. Wake up.

Because if you’re handicappin' off workout reports without understandin’ who is holdin’ the damn watch, you might as well bet based on moon signs and horse birthdays.

But y’all still drool over fast times like you’re Pavlov’s dogs. “Oooh! 47 and 2! He’s gonna fly!” Man, shut up. You ever watch the workout? You ever see how that horse finished? Gallop out? Nah, you just stare at numbers and hope for the best like it’s a damn scratch-off ticket.

Me? I don’t want no fancy, flashy quarter-miler that fades faster than my Uncle Gary at Thanksgiving dinner. Give me the horse that goes 49 flat, then gallops out in 1:13 and change like it ain’t nothin’. That’s fitness. That’s intent. That’s somethin’ trainers actually care about—conditioning, not showboatin'.

And speaking of being fooled by the paper—do y’all even realize that on the East Coast, a lot of those “4F” works are actually 5 and 6 furlong drills in disguise? Especially with someone like Pletcher? They stop the clock at 4, but the realwork is just beginnin'. But unless you’re watchin'—religiously—you’d never know. You just see a 4-furlong time and go full dumbass from there.

And that, my friends, is why some of y’all keep sayin' Churchill, or any other track you ain’t figured out yet, is “impossible.” It’s not impossible. You just ain’t payin’ attention.

You’re rootin' for jocks like it's fantasy football, followin’ bullet drills like they’re gospel, and wonderin’ why your bankroll looks like it got mugged in broad daylight. You ain't watchin' the game—you’re just lookin' at it.

But hey, keep chasin’ that 47 half mile bullet works while I cash on the one who just galloped out like a diesel truck.