Negatory

Alright y’all, first of all, let’s talk about the week ending August 3rd, and lemme tell ya — it was a damn good one. Over at Colonial, we hit 47% top choice winners, and that's all Amy Kearns, steady as a damn limestone fence post. That woman’s more dialed-in than a Boomer’s rotary phone. She’s a natural — like Dolly singin’ country or a Waffle House cook at 3 a.m. You just don’t question the results.

Saratoga? Held its own at 31%, which ain't too shabby when Mother Nature’s playin’ Russian roulette with the rainclouds. And Del Mar — oh, Del Mar’s a whole vibe, cool as ever.

Racingwithbruno’s workout notes and Laz’s wizardry on the sheets, we were hittin' more than a drunk uncle at a family corn hole tournament in Laz Vegas.

Now look, I didn’t set out to come up here and talk about stats. That’s just a good side note, a little gravy on top of the biscuit. But since I got y’all’s attention right now— can someone please tell me why in the hell are the workout reports in Southern California so dang negative?

I mean, seriously. Reading those things is like eavesdroppin’ on a Yelp review from a cranky divorcee. “Horse went okay… lacked finish… didn’t do much… not very good....” C plus. Good Lord. You’d think these horses were out there knitting scarves instead of breezing four furlongs in :47.

You ever notice how negativity’s just the default setting for folks these days? I mean, we live in a world where “negatory” might as well be printed on driver’s licenses under blood type. It's like the whole damn culture is stuck in permanent eye-roll mode. You could give some folks a briefcase full of hundred-dollar bills and they’d gripe about how it didn’t come with a shoulder strap.

And don’t get me started on the delivery sector, okay? I swear, some of these folks got reading comprehension on par with a feral four-year-old who just found a crayon and a juice box. “Leave package at back door” somehow turns into “hurl it at the roof and hide behind the neighbor’s goat.” Directions? Nah. Reading the house number on the building is apparently, optional.

Part of the problem is the internet, which — for all its talk about bein’ this magical source of knowledge and connection — still hasn’t figured out how to show people the damn way. It’ll track your pizza to the exact square inch, but try gettin’ a clear set of paddock instructions or a race replay that don’t buffer like it’s powered by a hamster on a wheel, and suddenly you’re in the Bermuda Triangle of tech.

But hey — I digress.

The real kicker? As negative as folks are in the morning, they flip a switch come the afternoon, and it turns into a damn cheerleader convention. Suddenly, everything is impressive. Horse breathes once? “Oh my God, what presence.” Somebody sneezes in rhythm? “He’s got swagger, look at those dapples!”

i ain't never met a handicapper that even once said "I bet any horse with more than four dapples", that's for sure. EVER, but sure as shit seems to be important in the paddock, but if the horse is all dappled out and breezes in 50, awful.

So lemme tell y’all this one — an owner-slash-bloodstock agent, which is fancy talk for “I buy fast horses and act important,” was havin’ himself a full-on existential hissy fit the other day. And why, you ask? Because he got a workout stable alert sayin’ his horse had just breezed at Turfway Park.

Now. The only problem with that is — his horse was at Del Mar.

Now most folks might say, “Okay, honest mistake, wires crossed, maybe the internet hiccupped,” right? Oh no. That wasn’t what lit this man’s hair on fire. It wasn’t the location, it wasn’t the horse ID, it was the time.

See, according to the official clockin' tab — which, for the record, ain’t exactly the Library of Congress when it comes to infallible information — the work went in 1:02.2 for five furlongs. And y’all would’ve thought somebody told him his horse was gonna star in a Shetland pony rodeo.

“My horse don’t work that bad!” he declared like he was defendin' a relative’s honor in a Waffle House brawl.

Then, without missin’ a beat, he followed that up with:

“Well, he’s crabby right now... we gonna take our time.”

Buddy. You just nearly burst a blood vessel over a misreported workout that wasn’t even your horse, and now you’re actin’ like Dr. Phil meets Bob Baffert? Talkin’ about emotions and takin’ time? Please.

Let me get this straight — you’re mad that the wrong horse got clocked too slow, for a workout your actual horse didn’t even do. That's like gettin’ offended by someone talkin’ trash about a dream you didn’t have. Imagine gettin’ that worked up over a ghost gallop.

Also, and I feel like this goes without sayin’, but if your horse was workin’ that slow? Guess what — it’s okay. It don’t mean the horse sucks, it means maybe he’s just not a damn morning person. Hell, I run like I’m wearin’ cement Crocs before 10 a.m., and no one’s droppin' my stock price.

So here’s some advice:If you’re gonna live and die by the stopwatch — make sure it's your horse first. Identification is mandatory. and maybe calm the hell down. You’re buyin’ animals, not buyin’ crypto, but this guy would for sure make a fine workout report analyst here in Southern California, maybe even Turfway where they apparently offer wrong horses times, like Waffle House mixing up your grits with hash browns, is pretty on brand if you ask me.

You got people out here hypin’ up horses like they’re Oprah’s favorite paddock observations — “Look at him blink! LOOK AT THAT BLINK! That’s the blink of a champion.” Meanwhile, there's a fella in the paddock countin’ birds like he’s doin' government surveillance, and even he’s gettin' praised. “Yeah, he’s got great instincts, spotted three starlings and a dove last week. Sharp eye. Probably gonna nail the early double and get hired by Fan Duel.”

I mean, what are we doin’?

One minute the morning workouts are a Greek tragedy, the next it’s Broadway in the paddock on live Television. Ain’t no in-between. Just gloom or glory, like the sport is emotionally allergic to balance.

It’s like complainin’ about In-N-Out fries. Yeah, they might be a lil floppy sometimes, but c’mon — you know you’re still gonna eat every last one. "Fries were in hand a bit too warm, blew on it, too hot" B minus, or it’s like sayin’ the Double-Double ain’t that good — "Crispy lettuce, fresh tomato, spread was too tarty, burger salty, cheese runny" - C, get outta here with that nonsense. You should open up your judging Tent Revival with free bibles a plate offering for austerity that says 'you been saved'.

And don’t even bring that attitude down to Kentucky, where Cracker Barrel Blueberry Pancakes smothered in maple syrup and butter are a spiritual experience. Right?

You don’t need to tear down the breakfast to feel better about your morning, alright? The same goes with horses.

Look, it ain’t that hard to be positive. These ponies are doing their damn thing out there. They wake up, work out, and run like their hay money depends on it. And what do they get? A B-minus, if they’re lucky. That’s the horse racing version of “bless your heart.” Like, “Yeah, he moved fine... for what he is.” What’s that supposed to mean? He’s a horse, not your ex-husband, describing horses in their works should be matter of fact, what they accomplished, body language, and trainers intent, if any.

Alright, lemme break this down for the folks in the back — grading workhorses takes a little thing called sophistication. Yeah, I said it. It ain’t just stopwatchin' and guessin’ who’s gonna run like their tail’s on fire come post time. You gotta have a little philosophy behind it — some horsesmarts, and some deep thoughts, y’know? but nickering at carrots don't count too much.

See, these horses? They’re athletes. Big ones. We’re talkin’ 1,000 pounds of muscle, nerves, and spite. And just like any top-tier athlete, they gotta learn when to turn it on and when to just go through the damn motions. Because — say it with me now — we talkin’ ‘bout practice. Practice, man! Not the race, not the big show, not the damn Derby — practice.

You out here judgin’ a morning breeze like it’s a NASCAR tryout? You think every step outta the barn should look like the final leg of the Triple Crown? Buddy, if that’s your approach, lemme go ahead and tell you: don’t quit your day job. In fact, don’t even go part-time.

See, the morning works ain’t about who’s the fastest. They’re about who’s learning, who’s building, who’s getting sharp without emptyin' the damn gas tank. Some horses are naturally wired like rabbits — jittery, fast, twitchy little things — but when they’re just movin’ through the gears in the morning, they might look like your Uncle Randy strollin’ outta the Waffle House after an all nighter at Cousin Cooters' Bar and Grill.

And that’s where folks mess up: they confuse fitness with sharpness, and they confuse time with talent. Let me tell ya something: time ain't always on your side. You clock a :47 flat and think you found the second comin’ of Secretariat? Buddy, that stopwatch might’ve just measured a horse havin’ a panic attack.

'Cause horses — they’ll FOOL ya. They’ll act lazy when they’re ready to roll and act wild when they’re just confused. It’s not about one fast lap — it’s about purpose, efficiency, and knowin’ the difference between a horse that’s coasting and one that’s strugglin'.

So yeah, don’t treat the morning like it’s the main event. Appreciate the art. And most of all — don’t let the stopwatch raise your hopes higher than your bankroll can handle.

Anywho. I say we start grading these workouts like Southern mamas grade kindergarten art class: everything’s a masterpiece, and “he tried real hard” and they still get hung on the fridge.