Justificating
- Bruno@Racingwithbruno
- Aug 3
- 4 min read
Do you ever wonder how horses actually get timed in a work?
Well, I do. And let me tell you — it’s not as neat and tidy as you’d think. You might imagine some guy with a stopwatch standing at the finish line, maybe chewing a cigar and wearing a bowler hat like it's 1912. But no, it’s way more complicated than that.
Timing a horse is like going to the most chaotic circus in town. There are lions and tigers hanging out with the zebras, trapeze artists playing footsies with the clowns, and the whole show’s taking place on a big oval — where everyone’s just running in circles, fast, like they forgot where they were going in the first place.
There are no sensors and photo finishes, lasers and computers — oh yes, no computers — because nothing says “old-time tradition” like a fiber-optic cable hooked up to a thousand-pound animal that might stop to scratch itself mid-run if it feels like it. Saddle towels! You got to know whom is whom by the trainers saddle towel, unless the trainer decides its white, green or black today! I remember when a towel was just something you used to dry your hands, not track a million-dollar horse sprinting past you at 40 miles an hour.
But in the end, it all works. Somehow. Kind of like the post office — just with more dirt and less chance of getting bitten.
Boy, lemme tell ya about the guy that shows up in the morning, and he wants to know what you like today, while you're busy timing 30 horses in 19 minutes —some folks out here walkin’ around like they’re in dire need of attention. And I don’t mean the "just broke my leg, somebody help" kind—I mean the "somebody please validate my existence 'cause my daddy never came to my t-ball game" kinda attention.
They’re the human version of a car alarm at 3 a.m.—loud, unnecessary, and ain't nobody comin’ to check on you. Whether it’s at the racetrack, on Facebook, or holdin’ up the line at the gas station arguin’ with the clerk about a $2 scratch-off—they just can’t stand the idea of the world not starin’ at ‘em for five seconds.
And you can see it in horseplayers too. They’ll bet every exotic on the damn board just so they can yell out, "TOLD Y’ALL!" when their fifth-place horse finishes a strong fourth. Buddy, nobody was listenin’ I had two Bafferts from the gate, a Sean McCarthy grey, the third today and some barn with like animal balloons on the saddle cloth. We’re all just tryin’ to survive and you want to know about our pick-4 ticket right now.
And it’s always the same type—wearin' shades inside, callin' horses by nicknames like they go to brunch together, shoutin’ to the heavens like they just discovered fire. Newsflash, hoss: you ain't special. You're just loud at 6 am.
Look, I get it—attention feels good, right? But there's a difference between sharin’ a laugh with the folks around you and bein’ the guy who brings a karaoke mic to a funeral.
And, that goes for owners as well, after losing a Grade 1, they feel they need to take the blame or justificate their losing in an industry where everyone loses at least 80% of the time. Maybe just maybe, try bein’ a decent human for five minutes without needin’ applause because of all your monies you throw around for kicks and giggles. You’d be amazed how peaceful life can be when you're not constantly beggin’ the universe to look at you.
And, this guy wants to be commissioner, well over my empty koozie he is.
Now listen — I’d be remiss, downright negligent, if I didn’t talk about the high-powered juvenile horseflesh runnin’ at Del Mar today. That’s right, baby: Del Mar — where the sun’s always shinin’, the margaritas are strong enough to knock a cowboy on his arse, and Mother Nature don’t seem nearly as pissed off as she is at NYRA.
See, Mother Nature's a real piece of work. Fickle as hell. She’s like your ex who swears she’s over you but still likes to mess with your thermostat and send cryptic Facebook statuses about "finding her chee." One minute she’s smilin’ on your picnic, the next she’s unleashin' hellfire on your track meet and splitting a tree in half in the backyard with her lightning bolt.
Right now, she’s blessin’ the fine folks up at Saratoga with a stretch of nice weather — which is a setup. I’ve seen enough crime documentaries to know when a serial killer’s about to strike. Mother Nature, she loves to get caught. Leaves clues everywhere — a heat index here, a gentle breeze there, then bam! A thunderstorm that knocks out your Wi-Fi, your fence, and probably your grandma’s tomato plants.
But Del Mar? She likes Del Mar. Ocean breeze, palm trees, tanned gamblers in cargo shorts thinkin' they understand speed figures. Ain’t no crime scene out there — that’s paradise, buddy. Clear skies, good vibes, and two-year-olds runnin’ like their allowance depends on it. Honestly, it’s the only place where a horse named Snack Attack can make you five grand and a tan.
And let me just say this right now: I approve this message. Hell, I might print it on a koozie.
