Pinocchio
- Bruno@Racingwithbruno
- 10 hours ago
- 5 min read
"...you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free".
Ole Carlo Collodi — or Carlo Lorenzini if we’re usin’ the government name — wrote Pinocchio back in 1881 and somehow accidentally gave us the daily preview show for modern horse racing. Feller probably thought he was writin’ a children’s story, turns out he was writin’ the condition book at Geppetto Downs, but Carlo was tellin the truth and nothin but the truth.
Cause what is Pinocchio really? It’s a story about people lyin’ with such confidence they expect everybody else to participate in their fantasy. That little wooden rascal’s nose grows every time he tells one, and buddy, if that rule applied at the racetrack today, half the backside would need a USDA permit just to turn their heads around in the barn.
"You might as well tell the truth at the track because everybody thinks you're lying anyway"
“My horse worked great.”
Meanwhile the work video looks like the horse was pullin’ a U-Haul trailer uphill through wet cement.
“Best he’s ever worked.”
Nose grows another foot.
“Just what we wanted.”
Sir, what exactly was wanted there? Because from where we’re sittin’, it looked like the horse wanted a nap and a transfer to another profession, not being pointed to the Preakness like Cinderella step sisters wanted to go to the Prince's ball.
And the public gets bombarded with this stuff nonstop. Every horse is doin’ terrific right up until they finish twelfth beaten thirty-seven lengths, then suddenly we get the excuse wheel.
“Didn’t like the track.”
“Didn’t care for the surface.”
“Didn’t switch leads.”
or simply, mum, and they ain't got a word to say.
Hell, apparently the horse conducted a full post-race press conference in fluent English explainin’ all this, and the tabloids line up for the shindig like it’s the State of the Union address.
“We caught up with Thunderbolt Express after the race and he informed us he simply didn’t appreciate the moisture content in the racing surface today.”
Did he now?
But that’s racing now. Every bad effort gets translated by a committee of spin doctors, interpreters, astrologers, and emotional-support clockers.
“The horse said he never got comfortable.”
Sir, the horse weighs 1,100 pounds and communicates primarily through ear position. Y’all out here actin’ like he filed a grievance with Human Resources.
And the media folks line up for it every time too, noddin’ serious as church deacons.
“Mmm yes… tactical pace adversity combined with spiritual headwind.”
Buddy, the horse got tired.
That’s it.That’s the mystery. Case closed.
But plain truth ain’t glamorous enough anymore. Everything’s gotta become a narrative. Every horse is either a misunderstood genius, a victim of circumstance, or a future legend temporarily inconvenienced by reality.
Meanwhile handicappers are sittin’ there watchin’ replays like crime-scene investigators tryin’ to separate actual information from the Mount Everest-sized pile of manure stacked around the sport.
And somewhere ol’ Pinocchio’s nose just wrapped around the grandstand twice.
Folks repeat these scribed lines like they’re gospel scripture, write elaborate columns and articles as if they discovered 'gold in them hills', 'he said the horse doing great', Nobody ever just says:
“Yeah, I wanted to dance at the ball. I talked myself into it, so I had y'all fellas put it in writing.”
No sir. Accountability in racing is rarer than a cheap hot dog at track near you. If it smells like bull shite, looks like bull shite, it's bull shite, but we go ahead and amplify for all to smell.
“If it’s in writing, it must be true.”
Boy, ain’t that the foundation this whole circus was built on right there.
.
And that’s why Lorenzini was smarter than people realize. He wasn’t writin’ about a puppet. He was writin’ about human nature — the endless ability folks go to justify nonsense, spin reality, and manufacture optimism clean outta thin air. Pinocchio wanted to be a real boy so bad he lied constantly to get there. Racing’s got plenty the same way: everybody’s sellin’ it, protectin’ ego, workin’ angles, pullin’ strings like Geppetto backstage at the puppet theater.
Boy, even when ou walk into a horse auction, and it’s like steppin’ into a combination revival tent, used car lot, and hostage negotiation all at once.
Every consignor suddenly turns into a televangelist.
“Yessiree! Right over here! I got you a bona fide superstar! Real Grade 1 type! This one’s special now! Amen”
Buddy, if every horse at this sale was the next great champion like y’all claim, the Hall of Fame would need a parking garage.
Then they hit you with:“Clean as a whistle on them X-rays.”
Which apparently means “clean” in the same way my uncle Joe describes his garage before the fire marshal arrives.
Cause the minute the vet report comes back, that thing lights up like the Rockefeller Christmas tree. Chips floatin’ around in there lookin’ like somebody shook a snow globe inside a sesamoid or fetlock joint.
And everybody suddenly develops selective amnesia.
“Well now… our vet wasn’t concerned.”
Of course he wasn’t concerned — he’s employed by you.
Then comes the workout commentary, which is my favorite part because now we have entered a full alternate reality.
“He was so impressive. Did everything right. What a nice horse.”
Meanwhile the actual video is sittin’ there in high definition for the whole world to see, and the horse is switchin’ leads like he’s avoidin’ potholes on Interstate 40. Hits the wall like a jack in the box, at the sixteenth pole or even better, like a college kid realizin’ tequila was a mistake.
My favorite, "he's just got a pinhole tear, miniscule on a tendon, vet says 90 days'' until the farm vet discovers a tear the size of a volkswagen a week later. Pinocchio struck again.
At some point it stops bein’ exaggeration and turns into performance art and Pinocchio is at the Oscars. .
And that’s the thing about this game: the truth ain’t even hidden anymore. It’s available on replay in 4K resolution. We can WATCH the horse labor. We can SEE the horse drift, you can see the horse shortening strides, yet society eats that up like its red velvet cake, just because someone said so.
We can literally observe physics occurring in real time. Yet somehow folks still stand there tellin’ you black is white and mud is mayonnaise.
It’s like bullshite done gained consciousness and learned how to walk upright and discourse in plain English.
And look, everybody sells a little in this world. That’s commerce. But horse racing takes it to an Olympic level because ego and agenda is the product. They ain’t sellin’ horses — they’re sellin’ dreams. They’re sellin’ Derby visions, winner’s-circle pictures, ego, prestige, fantasy.
So every horse becomes:“A runner.”“A beast.”“A machine.”
“A freak,” until it is NOT, the gate opens and runs like he's got cement shoes on.
Then all of a sudden:“Didn’t care for the track.”“Needed one.”“Didn’t get the setup.” "blah blah blah" a bullshite sandwich with dressing.
That’s the hard part for handicappers. You ain’t just analyzin’ horses anymore. You’re analyzin’ motives, personalities, agendas, insecurities, and public relations campaigns disguised as barn chatter and the hardest of all Pinocchios, disguising their noses as confidence.
Some folks in this game are straight shooters and we appreciate them. They’ll tell you the truth even when it hurts. Others got more layers than a county-fair onion blossom, and that makes you wanna cry about the nature of society as a whole.
One minute they are barking for the yak woman, next minute they’re givin’ testimony like they witnessed the Second Coming in the morning workouts and spreading dixie dust on the tilt-a-whirl at the county fair.
Somewhere ol’ Carlo Lorenzini is probably laughin’ his Italian arse off knowing’ he diagnosed society 145 years ago with a wooden kid and a growin’ nose. Because whether it’s politics, television, social media, or horse racing, the lesson’s still the same:
You can listen to what people say, but eventually you better learn to watch, see what they do and most importantly how their horses perform.
A smart man named John said once "The Truth Shall Set You Free", I'll vouch for that~!
