Nysos - Scratched

We updated the product for Del Mar providing updates for the Green Flash and Pacific Classic.

Ah, yes... Nysos. A name that danced with potential, cloaked in mystique, and galloped like a damn freight train. But here we are, dear reader, once again left holding the emotional bag of shattered hopes and foot bruises. Like a child at Christmas denied the shiny toy he circled in the Sears catalog—ripped away not by Santa, but by the cruel, indifferent physics of a racetrack.

Updated Del Mar:

PACIFIC CLASSIC SAT at DEL MAR With The Works

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You know, I always found something poetic—tragic even—about how the greatest races so rarely go to plan. A field drawn like a masterstroke, horses at their peak, fans salivating, and then—pop—a foot bruise, and it all unravels like an old sweater. Nysos is out. The Pacific Classic loses its electric charge. We’re left with an empty socket and a hope that Journalism doesn't leave us clutching at straws while Repole and Fierceness strut into the winner's circle with the subtlety of a brass band on Bourbon Street.

And yes, Mike Repole… the Mike Repole. A man whose mouth enters a room five minutes before he does. He’s everywhere. Like glitter. Loud, omnipresent, and impossible to vacuum out of the sport. Don’t get me wrong—I admire confidence. Swagger. But this is racing, not the NFL Draft. You don’t get to declare yourself commissioner because you own a few monsters and paid someone to feed them oats. Racing has no commissioners. It has chaos. It has uncertainty. It has the kind of cruel poetry that lames Nysos before his coming-out party.

Now, why is Nysos out? A foot bruise, they say. And you know what? I believe it. Bob Baffert—whatever your views of the man—knows when a horse ain’t right. You don’t fire bullets like a 1:09.3 work before the San Diego, then suddenly gassed up to a mile in 1:35 without reading the room—or the horse, in the morning. Oh, this week the track has been playing like a slipstream made of glass. Inhumanly fast. Frighteningly so. No wonder.

I’ve always said: when the track gets this fast, it’s no longer about speed—it's about survival. You don’t get 20% of your morning workers cracking sub-59s on a 200+ tab without wondering how many of those joints are screaming into the hayrack later that night. We’re not clocking rocket launches; we’re asking living, breathing, fragile athletes to grip and glide over concrete disguised as dirt.

The splits? Bonkers. 21 and change quarters in the afternoon this week. Del Mar’s become a proving ground for equine lightning bolts. That kind of surface isn’t forgiving. It punishes. And it doesn’t just steal races—it steals horses. You get hock flare-ups, sore ankles, bruised feet, bone bruises that don’t show up until the X-ray is tilted just right.

Updated Simulcast Edition (all Tracks)

SATURDAY SIMO (All Tracks Incl.) WiththeWorks

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So when people ask, “What happened to Nysos?”—well, maybe the better question is, how didn’t something happen? The signs were there. And while the work video analysts are busy measuring stride efficiency in 10-second clips, the real picture is in the context. What did the rest of the morning look like? Was 59 a rocket or the morning’s baseline? If you don’t know that, you’re not analyzing—you’re guessing.

I don’t pretend to be a trainer. I’m just a well-read man in horsemanship, i have analyzed and purchased, campaigned Graded winners, and with a long memory and a seat at the track, I get by with my knowledge. And, I know this much: when you push elite horses on concrete masquerading as cushion, you roll the dice with fate. And sometimes, fate comes up snake eyes.

So, here we are. Nysos is out. Journalism is under the spotlight. Repole is already making room in the winner’s circle. And the rest of us? We’re left to dream, speculate, and mutter, “We can’t have nice things.”

God, I love this sport. Even when it breaks your heart.