Post Preakness Rant

Well heck, what a damn day. I got more accomplished today than a county commissioner dodging subpoenas in an election year. Four meals, a snack, an hour nap, took the boys out twice — TWICE — identified Churchill Downs morning work videos like some backwoods horse-racing Private Eye, AND handicapped the Sunday card at Churchill while keeping up with all 14 races at Laurel without missing a single one. That ain’t multitasking, that’s rural dexterity.

And buddy, we loved Napoleon Solo in the Preakness. Lord yes we did. Spent half the evening on Zoom the night before breaking down that field like it was the Zapruder film and we were on the grassy knoll.

Talked folks off Ocelli — politely, of course — made a modest little hillbilly lawyer case for Incredibolt, while still being fully cognoscenti — look at me using SAT words — of the fact that horse couldn’t close in a Derby meltdown if you spotted him jumper cables and a downhill slope.

And the media, bless their hearts, they treat trainer quotes like Moses carried ‘em down from the mountain on stone tablets. Every microphone in America shoved into some trainer’s face while folks nod solemnly like, “Well Earl says the horse really likes the dirt this week.” Oh DOES he, Earl? Good to know. Somebody alert the Vatican.

But it was fun. Great time had by all. Fellowship. Debate. Mild delusion. Horse racing at its finest.

Next stop: the Belmont Stakes. Which means another week of everybody on Earth suddenly becoming an expert because they watched two TikToks and heard a podcast with a guy named Joe who owns three quarter-zips.

Oh, and somewhere in all this, I still had time to go pick up sushi and get back before the next race with fifteen minutes to spare. That right there is logistics. That’s operational excellence. That’s the kind of time management NASA oughta study.

Made a few observations too. This game’s become one giant popularity contest. Everybody wants a platform. Everybody wants to tell you what they know. Folks screaming takes into the void like racetrack philosophers hopped up on iced coffee and engagement metrics.

And with all the hoopla over Great White and his size, ain’t it funny he was actually the best turned-out horse in the paddock? He beat Taj Mahal, sure enough, but still finished worse than sixth. And people STILL bet him because folks confuse spectacle with substance every single time.

That may be the lesson from this whole Triple Crown season: everybody wants a voice. Everybody wants to be heard. Some folks will say absolutely anything if it gets a retweet and a camera pointed at ‘em.

But here’s the good news:

We do not, in fact, have to listen to them.