Legends
- Bruno@Racingwithbruno
- 20 hours ago
- 5 min read
Ah, yes… the incessant march of modernity, the slow bleed of tradition, the surgical sanitization of what was once a blood-and-dust proving ground for greatness. That's what legends were made of.
My friend, I now speak with the anguish of a man who has seen not only history trampled, but the very soul of sport diluted — suffering like a fine bourbon poured over too much ice.
Allow me. You see, the Triple Crown was never meant to be convenient. It wasn’t built for the careful, the coddled, or the calculating. It was forged in the fire of stamina, strategy, and sheer will. Three races. Five weeks. One crown. Like storming Normandy, surviving the Siberian tundra, or dancing through Cuban gunfire with a forged passport and a Cuban cigar — it’s not for everyone. It’s for the extraordinary.
Now, they tell us: "Let’s move the Preakness, soften the spacing, rethink the mile and a half." Rethink? Rethink what? That greatness is too difficult? That asking a thoroughbred to recover and rebound is unfair? No. What’s unfair is stripping legacy of its edge, all to accommodate a generation raised on participation trophies and load management.
Secretariat? He ran like his hooves were kissed by the gods. Slew? A warrior. Affirmed and Alydar — that was a rivalry born in the heart of battle. And now? Horses like Sovereignty skip the Preakness because five weeks sounds better on a training chart. It's antiseptic. It's soulless. It’s… corporate.
And here’s the great irony — the public, ever defiant in the face of change, has suddenly become complicit in this sterilization. Because it's wrapped in the warm, cozy blanket of “horse welfare.” remember Sham?
I ask you: when did we stop trusting that greatness, true greatness, comes from discomfort, adversity, even pain? It doesn’t emerge from comfort. It rises from the fire.
So yes, the Belmont moves to Saratoga. The Preakness hangs in limbo. The Crown — a relic some would rather see displayed in a climate-controlled case than fought for in the mud and thunder. And yet, I say this: let it be difficult. Let it hurt. Let it mean something.
Because if you make it easier… it’s not the Triple Crown anymore. It’s just three races.
Ah, yes… Sovereignty. The name alone conjures visions of power, of dominion, of an equine monarch destined to rule the sport’s most sacred trinity. And yet, when the trumpet calls for the Preakness—he's going to be nowhere to be found. No grand procession into Baltimore. No test of resilience. No fire-forged continuation of the journey toward greatness. Instead… five weeks of rest. Five weeks of silence. Five weeks of bubble wrap.
Allow me to be blunt, in the way only a man with far too many enemies and not enough patience can be.
They say Sovereignty will skip the Preakness to prepare for the Belmont. Five weeks. Not two. Not three. Five. A full siesta between glory and whatever comes next. And I ask—why?
Why does a horse blessed with the raw brilliance to conquer Churchill Downs not dare to return, to push forward, to chase what only thirteen before him have ever caught?
Is he not tough enough? Is it the schedule… or is it the fear?
Fear that the invincibility might shatter under the weight of expectation. That the myth, so freshly inked in the ledger of Derby history, might be reduced to a footnote by an off day, a muddy track, or an hungrier rival. But therein lies the rub—immortality is never handed out without peril. It is earned in the fire.
So instead, will Sovereignty join a club, the nearly famous. Always Dreaming, Mage, Rich Strike, Country House, Mystic Dan. Beautiful, brief, bright. Like a match flicked into the night—flaring, impressive… and then, gone. One race, one win, and a quiet fade into the fog of what could have been?
And yet, for every one of them, there were those who chased the full crown. Smarty Jones, Real Quiet, Silver Charm. They didn’t just flirt with greatness. They courted it. Danced with it. Bled for it. They didn’t win them all, but damn it, they showed up. All three stages. All three battles. And for that, they are legends—even in heartbreak.
So what of Sovereignty? Which list shall he join? The doers or the dodgers? The immortals or the what-ifs? if only he had a bone spur we could find an excuse.
Because you see, there’s always something more. Always a reason, tucked behind press releases and "trainer discretion." Maybe it’s the horse. Maybe it’s the connections. Maybe it’s the breeding shed whispering promises of riches without risk. But skipping the Preakness isn’t just a change in schedule—it’s a forfeiture. A silent withdrawal from a war that demands courage, not calculation.
And make no mistake… when you pass up a shot at the Triple Crown, you're not preserving a horse—you’re burying a legacy before it had a chance to live.
But but, Ah… the theater of horse racing. A grand coliseum where tradition used to matter, where glory was earned and not managed, and where the weight of history pressed down on every furlong like a thousand pounding hooves. But now? Now it's a stage overrun with jesters—gaudy, loud, and dreadfully self-important—playing at the role of experts. Clowns in silk ties and sports coats, all telling you how the game should be run, while in the shadows they twist the rules for themselves like balloon animals at a child’s party.
You see, we live in a time—both in racing and in society—where hypocrisy isn't a byproduct; it’s the main attraction. “Do what I say,” they shout from their platforms, “but don’t you dare watch what I do.” or the always popular "whats good for me, is not for you''. They moralize, they dictate, they push for reform—until, of course, the change might cost them something. Then the rules bend, the schedule shifts, the narrative conveniently rewrites itself. One set of tracks, always going one way, and they never look back.
And now we come to you, Sovereignty. Kentucky Derby winner. Crowned prince of Churchill Downs, a well earned win. Congratulations, your team stood in the winner’s circle, garland of roses, the applause of a million nostalgic hearts ringing in their ears. And yes, I clapped. I raised a glass. For a moment, I believed.
But let me be perfectly clear.
You forfeit something when you skip the Preakness. You step off the path to greatness, not because the road was impassable—but because it was inconvenient. And that... that, I cannot abide. You don’t get to chase immortality on your own terms. The Triple Crown is not an à la carte menu. It's a crucible. You enter it, you run through it, or you don't wear the crown at all, in fact it might end up a crown of thorns, in the shadows is the poltergeist of having skipped the Preakness lives forever.
So no, I won’t be rooting for you in the Belmont. Because what you're chasing now isn’t history—it’s a headline. You may win the Belmont. You may run the race of your life, but you won’t be a legend. You chose not to be, legends don’t skip chapters in their stories, they write them.