J-E-T-S, JETS JETS JETS
- Bruno@Racingwithbruno
- May 19
- 4 min read
Ahhh… yes. The melodrama of modern racing discourse. A digital Colosseum where gladiators of the saddle are dissected not by horsemen or stewards, but by legions of self-anointed oracles wielding iPhones and hot takes, most of whom wouldn’t know a gelding from a hay rack if it galloped over them in full tack.
There’s a phenomenon—one I find particularly fascinating—playing out in the modern jockey’s mind. It’s not the split-second decision at the quarter pole that haunts them. It’s the aftermath. The viral condemnation. The fury from faceless neophytes rage-posting from the comfort of a backyard lounge chair, beer in one hand, racing form in the other, the ink still wet from highlighting horses they barely see.
You see, the inside trip, once considered a badge of courage—now? It’s a minefield. One wrong move, one pause, one missed gap, and they’re not just beaten… they’re vilified. Riders hesitate not from fear of a rail pin, but of an algorithm—because getting stopped inside doesn’t just cost a race anymore; it costs a reputation in the eye of the social media jock.
And what’s truly amusing, deeply ironic, is where this hysteria seems to originate. New York. The Spa. Saratoga—the hallowed ground where racing meets chaos, and the self-appointed cognoscenti used to stampede not toward paddock insight, but for tables in the backyard like it’s the last chopper out of Saigon.
Ah yes, the New York racing fan. A fascinating specimen. Yankees fans loathe the Mets. Mets fans root for Yankees to implode. Rangers and Islanders can’t stand each other unless they’re one overtime goal from a Stanley Cup. Jets and Giants? Don’t make me laugh. Olive Oil and Saratoga water. The only time a Jets fan acknowledges the Giants is if Big Blue is one win from a playoff run. And vice versa. The Nets and the Knicks? Shakespearean stuff. Tragicomedy in sneakers. And through this glorious tribal warzone marches the racing fan—opinionated, territorial, proudly irrational, loud, boisterous, with nicknames like Jo Jo the Ace, Bootsie, or Little 'Andy.
I saw one the other day, nicknamed Papa' swearing up and down that they “respect all jocks too much to have a bias.” Heartwarming. Noble. A real tribute to equine sport—until, of course, the conversation turned to Umberto Rispoli. Suddenly that high-minded neutrality collapsed faster than a cheap lawn chair in the backyard during a traditional Summer Lightning and Thunder Storm at the Spa. Turns out “all jocks” was a code phrase. What they really meant was “all New York jocks.” Rispoli? Not one of them. Fair game. Open season. Crosshairs engaged.
Therein lies the hypocrisy. The cult of regional loyalty dressed up as objectivity. Rispoli makes a move that Jose or Irad would get a standing ovation for at the Spa, and suddenly he’s "reckless,” “poor rider,” " a turf rider'', why? He won the race, but is he not a New York rider. It’s not analysis—it’s allegiance. Not reason—it’s religion. Ten Hail Irads and they are ready for confession.
But I, for one, look forward to the coming pilgrimage. The Belmont at Saratoga. The pageantry, the noise, the backstretch whispers, the attitudes, all of it. And oh, the faces—when a horse from Kentucky, Florida, California, or Maryland blows past their beloveds in the stretch and snatches their Pick 5 dreams from the jaws of inevitability. Forgetaboutit! I will celebrate because we will cash on it. Unapologetically. Like a Jets fan who just watched Tom Brady retire again.
J-E-T-S. You know the rest, all together now.
Because in a world gone cultish, partisan, blinded by stable colors and ZIP codes, I’ll choose to remain open-minded, impartial… popcorn in hand and thoroughly entertained.
Coming Soon: Ah… coming soon—those two words carry such promise, don’t they? Mystery. Suspense. A delicious whisper that something wickedly illuminating is on its way. And in this case, it’s not a heist, a hit, or a half-baked coup in the Balkans—it’s something far more dangerous: truth… about Saratoga.
Yes, The Spa. The summer place to be. The crown jewel of New York racing. A shrine of history, heartbreak, and more hidden agendas than a Senate subcommittee. And while most come for the horses, the hats, and the halcyon haze of nostalgia, you—well, you're different. You want to see the whole board. You want to understand the games being played.
So, coming soon: a tutorial—not for the casual punter or the mimosa-sipping backyard wanderer. No, this is for the discerning. The skeptical. The student of sleight-of-hand and the subtleties of race-riding.
Because Saratoga is not just a racetrack. It’s a stage. A theater of probability, deception, and bravado. And once you learn how to watch—really watch—it will never look the same again.
So stay tuned. Bring your notes. Sharpen your instincts. Leave your sentimentality at the gate.
Coming soon: How to Watch Saratoga—a masterclass in the art of the game, where the horses are real, but the game… oh, the game is brilliantly played.
Disclaimer: No NYers were harmed, in the processing of this blog, a bit butt sore, ego bruised, and most likely pouting, but not harmed in any way, shape or form.