Mudders

Ah… Sovereignty. The name alone suggests dominion, control, an air of inevitability—and on Derby Day, it delivered. Congratulations to all who saw it, who felt it, who trusted in the craftsmanship of Bill Mott, a man who doesn’t train horses so much as he sculpts them. And let us not, in our collective Derby haze, overlook Godolphin—a global empire cloaked in blue, reminding the world what elite horsemanship looks like with three Grade 1 victories across two continents, from the banks of the Ohio to the green stretches of Newmarket. Quite a flex.

As for Journalism, he ran well. Not well enough, of course, but credit where due—he fought. Baeza? Came running late. Timing? Off by a beat, but the intent was there. It was, in every sense, a very good Derby. The kind that doesn’t just crown a winner but exposes the ambitions, miscalculations, and unraveling strategies of everyone else. The kind that leaves you drained but grateful.

And then there was Owen Almighty—perhaps the last of the front-runners with breath in his lungs turning for home. Fifth, yes, but standing when others folded. Respect. The Japanese contingent? Vanished into the Churchill shadows. The Sandman? Crushed not by the clock, but by the unbearable weight of online expectation. A horse can only carry so much, and social media baggage is heavier than saddlecloths.

Baffert—ah yes, always the looming shadow. This time? No magic. No coup. Just a flame that flickered and moonwalked after showing speed, simply stopping, as if he'd realized halfway through that he was alone at the masquerade ball. Burnham Square? Rail ride and all, ended up precisely nowhere. Final Gambit? A bit of theater—dropped back, came running, like an actor missing his cue and ad-libbing his way through the third act. Admirable, if not effective.

Saturday, however… ah, Saturday. We had more allergies than winners. More sneezes than exactas. If Mike Tirico was under the weather, he had company—we caught a fine case of wire allergy. One of those days where the horses show up, fight valiantly, and fade just in time to break your heart.

Chillax, Boss Sully, Nysons, Hope Road, Journalism… we danced with the wire. We dined at the edge of glory. We sipped from the cup but didn’t get to toast. And yet—that’s racing. Some days you have an affinity for the wire, others… well, it reacts like a pollen bloom in your soul.

But we were competitive. And that, my friends, is all you can ask for. This isn’t a game of guarantees. It's a dance with uncertainty—and we led.

After the Derby, I took the boys—my four-legged mudders—to their favorite park. They ran wild, rolled in the slop, looked like they’d come out of Sovereignty’s gallop-out. They bathed, they napped, they dreamt of Royal Ascot. As for me? I came back muddy, too. A little bruised. A little humbled.

And no—I didn’t handle the kickback particularly well.

But I wouldn’t trade it for anything, and I thank you for being part of our week. We do it again in 2 weeks, who you got in the Preakness?