Lassie
- Bruno@Racingwithbruno
- Mar 20
- 6 min read
Updated: Mar 21
Sometimes folks just need a reminder, like Lassie barking out in the yard. There is a reason why, and sometimes we just need a nudge to pay attention. Sometimes, a full-on verbal cattle prod for their own damn good is needed.
And if you’re messing around with horse racing—handicapping, betting, all that—buddy, you’re gonna need all three.
’Cause here’s the deal: we get lazy. We get complacent. We get lackadaisical—yeah, I said it, big word, even for me. We start drifting, just like that horse down the stretch, some call it herding, its drifting, daydreaming about hitting big scores instead of doing the work it takes to actually hit one.
We sit there fantasizing like winners just fall outta the sky. Like money grows on trees just feed it manure and that's exactly what you get. This ain’t no fairy tale. You ain’t no Alex in Wonderland. Ain’t no magic rabbit coming out the hat with a winning ticket.
You wanna win? You gotta work. Period.
Now sure, you can sit around and blame the system. “Oh, the takeout’s too high!” “Them CAWs are the evil empire!” “The Jockey Club’s pulling all the strings!” or my favorite ''even mickey has three fingers'', fine. If that’s the case, then quit whining and be horse whisperer or something, be the Cesar Milan of horse racing and train yourself the right way.
Figure it out. You, not the horses, you.
Horse racing don’t care what worked 20 years ago. It barely cares, if it remembers, what worked 5 years ago. This game changes faster than a weather forecast at Saratoga. If your whole strategy is some past performances folded up in your back pocket, then bless your heart—you’re already beat.
I don't care how many times you tell yousself all the winners are in there, well, they ain't for you.
This is a right-now game. A Gotcha-Game, You gotta be present and accounted for. You gotta see what’s actually happening—not what you think should be happening.
And here’s where most folks mess up real bad: they don’t know how to look at a horse.
I mean really look.
They see four legs, a tail, maybe a few dapples and they think they’ve done their homework. Meanwhile, the folks who actually win? They’re seeing everything. Tiny changes. Subtle behavior. The stuff you only notice if you’ve trained your eye and paid attention.
Ah! there's that word attention, in a world loaded with A.D.D triggers, low hanging fruit and overstimulation its so simple to fall for 'that fellor on the social media says he likes the
three...'
Seriously, you gonna fall for the fellor that lives at the liquor barn? the fellor that last week said he he knew the JFK assassin, or even better whom Jack the Rippers' identity was in his back pocket, next to the flak of ripple and lives with his mother?
That guy?
If you got a dog, or a cat, well cats are a bad example, them creatures are born with a middle finger staring at you, but, a dog, you can read your dog, can’t you? You know when he’s happy, nervous, about to tear something up, or just faking it for a treat. Same idea. The horse, he ain’t no different—you just ain’t put in the time to understand them.
Once again you listening to the dapples lady and wondering if they be apple crisp or Fiji.
You need to be that dwag that googles, 'is splitting treats in halves - legal', looking at alternative ways other than what mainstream media tells you so, to really shake that money tree.
And don’t even get me started on folks who fall in love with all that flashy nonsense mainstream media spreads like fig jelly on toast.
Horse comes prancing into the paddock, bouncing around like it’s his birthday party and he’s about to blow out candles and open presents—people lose their minds. “Oh my God, he looks ready to run!”
No, Tex. He looks ready to waste all his energy before the race even starts.
That ain’t confidence. That’s nerves. That’s anxiety. That’s a horse burning fuel it’s gonna need in about ten minutes. That right there? It's the kiss of death.
But every day—every single day—handicappers fall for it. Hook, line, and sinker. Big large mouth bass ready for the grilling.
I really believe with all of my heart, that people love dipshits, truly love them, the loser, they can't get enough, while loathing the smart, thoughtful ones just because he makes sense, can't have none of that, folks got to feel right at home with dipshiti-ness.
What do I wanna see?
Calm. Composed. Efficient. A horse that ain’t out there putting on a Broadway show. A horse that’s saving it for when it counts, like that guy sitting outside an establishment, savoring that last cigarette.
Less drama for sure.
But folks don’t wanna hear that. They want excitement. They want emotion in motion. They need to see Uncle Larry coming to dinner in his finest suit in a bag. They want 'Buster, the pit bull, running up, to slobber your face like you just got home from the war.
Well guess what—that dog and Uncle larry, ain’t about to run a race.
And then—oh Lord—dont even get m started, them numbers lovers.
There should be that T-shirt, numbers are for lovers.
Figures, figs, ratings… spreadsheets thicker than a Sunday Bible and twice as judgmental.
Now look, I ain’t saying numbers don’t matter at all. I’m not out here trying to fight math like it owes me money. But let’s not sit here and pretend numbers are the gospel truth handed down from the mountaintop, without getting all religious on y'all, lord have mercy on your soul, if y'all do.
Numbers are man-made. And if there’s one thing humans have proven time and time again, it’s that we can screw up a perfectly good thing with arrogance and Wi-Fi.
Some fella in some room, somewhere, decided, “Yep, that’s a 92.” Based on what? Wind speed? Vibes? The alignment of Jupiter? a pace calculator designed in 1972? Who the hell knows. And now folks treat it like it’s carved in stone.
And of course, my favorite, y'all " he regressed two points from last out". Pure comedy central there. They ain't even got no clue what those two points account to, maybe a half a length? yeah, sure genius, he regressed, you aint' wrong numerically, but barking up the wrong reality pole. Have you tried a strippers pole, I haven't, was just a wondering, cause if ya did, maybe that's it right there.
They’ll ignore everything right in front of their face because some number told ‘em otherwise.
Horse looks flat? “Yeah but he ran a 98 last time.”
Last time is in the past, if you hadn't noticed, it aint' today. and shirley, not tomorrow.
Horse looks like he’d rather be anywhere else on Earth? “But the figs say he’s improving!”
No sir. That ain’t handicapping—that’s outsourcing your brain, on a one way trip to the next race empty handed.
Numbers tell you the past, period, if that, them ain't Zoltar the fortune telling machine.
Listen, if your own two eyeballs—God-given, front-of-your-head, been-working-since-birth, for most of us, eyeballs—are telling you one thing, and some spreadsheet is telling you another… maybe, just maybe, trust the equipment you came with, whether you have glasses, perscriptions, or not.
Yet, some folks just can't get away from numbers, that's all they know, they can count, like A box full of rocks, but that don't make them any smarter, trust your own two 👀.......
Another one of my favorite riddles in racing "he sure did look good winning, but I need to check the number !" Anyone who tells you that is a complete utter fraud. They may be better suited for spreading pixie dust on a tilt a whirl or barking fo the Yak woman at the carnival. Some dude, again, in a room going, yup looks like a '92' and you nodding in approval like you in one of them hypnotics show like Kevin Stones.
Your eyes ain’t perfect, but at least they’re yours. You can train ‘em. You can sharpen ‘em.
You can def learn from ‘em.
Them numbers? They don’t learn. They don’t watch the paddock. They don’t see a horse sweating like he’s in a courtroom drama or walking like he’s got somewhere better to be.
They just sit there. Quiet. Confident. Wrong as hell sometimes.
Now don’t get me wrong—numbers, same as salt and pepper shakers. Little bit’ll help. Too much and ruins the whole meal.
And some of y’all? Y’all out here dumping the whole salt or pepper shaker on them, wondering why, later, everything tastes like regret.
So yeah, use the numbers if you want. Glance at ‘em. Consider ‘em.
But if it comes down to a fight between what you see and what some speed chart says?
I’m riding with my eyeballs every single time.
So if what you’re looking for, is consesus via numbers or popular impressions, you’re in the wrong game.
Now if you see me and i'm barking like Lassie, well, i must have done some good, because something, like my eye balls, nudged me the right way.
