Orson Welles

Ah... be prepared. Or, as I was taught by men who lived hard and died harder—do the work. That quaint little phrase that once defined champions, soldiers, survivors… now replaced by the algorithmic scroll of endless opinions, influencer insights, and digital echo chambers louder than common sense itself.

In today’s world, “preparing” means snipe-hunting through social media. Occasionally, you’ll stumble upon something worthwhile—a video, a sliver of truth caught on camera. But more often, you’re knee-deep in noise. You’ll see people waxing poetic over horses who move like broken shopping carts—horses so mangy, so physically unprepared, that you’d think the footage was satire. And yet there they are, praised by someone who clearly sees the world through the eyes of Ray Charles or—if you’re feeling a little more dramatic—hears it through Orson Welles narrating War of the Worlds. Blind, panicked, and completely detached from reality.

But let me tell you something: you need information you can process. Not emotion. Not hype. Not the breathless exclamations of someone who watched one breeze and called it destiny. No. You need visuals. Footage. Context. You need to see the horse before you ever believe in it.

In our experience, going back—digging—through what others have discarded or overlooked is often the key. And tonight, yes, this very evening, there’s something buried on the Churchill Downs After Dark card. A clue. An opportunity. And, for those who still believe in doing the work, a reward.

Start with the Churchill Downs Sheet for Saturday night. It’s your map. Your key. Then, like all the best scavenger hunts, it's up to you. Because, while the masses are out there seeking opinions, the only opinion you need to seek—is your own.

Now let me share a little tale from the field.

While handicapping one of my assigned races for tonight’s card, something caught my eye. A horse—let’s call it... a curiosity. Well bred. Excellent connections. Last seen working through the summer—July, to be exact—then disappeared for seven months. Vanished. Went off the radar, training at a facility we don’t have clockers or cameras. Which, of course, only made it more enticing.

So I did what any rational lunatic would do—I put on my metaphorical Indiana Jones hat, grabbed my whip, and began to dig.

I remembered something: last summer, we had a crew at Keeneland. Dug into the archives—two gate works jumped off the screen. Went straight to the Video Work Library, drilled down like a post-hole digger, and there it was. This horse—this unassuming little ghost—was outworking a future champion. Not just a graded winner. A champion. A legitimate, headline-making, eclipse-worthy machine.

And that’s when it hit me—that rare feeling. Like Monet stepping back from a fresco. The work? It paid off.

This footage isn’t encrypted. It’s not behind a velvet rope. It’s right there—but you have to look. You have to want it badly enough to go through the digital rubble and find the gem lying quietly beneath.

It’s basic, really—Common Sense Archeology 101. But as we both know, in today’s world, common sense isn’t common.

So here we are.

The clues are in place. The video exists. The horse is real. The opportunity is hiding in plain sight, beneath the noise of Martian-invading, flat-earth-posting madness that defined our age.

Now, the rest? That’s on you.

This is your scavenger hunt, disguised as an edge. Just remember: the winner is never behind someone’s post.

Ah yes… horseplayers. A most peculiar species—equal parts dreamer, desperado, and delusional optimist. They’ll tell you they’re chasing greatness, edge, insight. But the truth? The bitter little pill hiding under their tongue? All they really want is one thing: to find the winner.

And not just any winner. No, no. That would be too civilized.

The moment you offer a pick—a thoughtful, reasoned selection rooted in hours of tape-watching, pedigree combing, weather factoring, and rail bias analysis—they cock their heads like confused parakeets and ask the same thing every time:“What’s he gonna pay?”

That’s it. That’s the entire calculus. Not, “How’s he working?” Not, “What’s the trainer’s intent?” Not even, “Does he belong?” No, the only concern dancing around their fragile little minds is whether the toteboard will flash a number big enough to scratch their gambling itch. If it’s not 6-1 or more, well—cue the disappointment. And God forbid you suggest a horse that might go off at 2-1. You’d think you’d offered them a salad at a steakhouse.

My first impression of horseplayers—the real ones—was always shaped by respect.

Dedication. Perseverance. Racing IQ. Students of form who understood the nuance of a prep, the intent behind a soft work, the quiet confidence of a barn ready to spring.

But lately? It’s as if the grandstand has turned into a row of failed game show contestants.

We’ve got the Price is Right crowd—guessing odds like they’re bidding on washing machines.Then there’s the Let’s Make a Deal players—passing up the logical horse behind Door #1 because they heard from their buddy’s Uber driver that there’s a bomb behind Door #3.And worst of all... the Dating Game degenerates. You know the type. They don’t handicap—they court. They fall in love. “That horse owes me money,” they whisper like a jilted lover sending one last late-night text. These aren’t horseplayers. They’re heartbroken adolescents in a parimutuel romance.

And let’s not even discuss the rookies—the wide-eyed amateurs with all the insight of a three-toed sloth staring at the habit forming Sudoku puzzle. They’re not playing the races, they’re surviving them. Barely, if at all.

So what’s the point? Simple.

The price is what you get—the horse is what you bet. Don’t reverse it. Don’t get cute. And for heaven’s sake, don’t fall in love with a runner like Rachel McAdams in the final act of The Notebook.

If you want to win? Stop asking what he’s going to pay.

Start asking if he’s going to run.

It's right there in front of your eyes—if you’re willing to think like Orson Welles.