Racing for Dummies: Understanding Saratoga

Saratoga is unlike any other race meet in North America.

At roughly 11 weeks, it's actually a short window when you're talking about developing young horses. For maidens—especially first-time starters—there's barely enough time to get everything accomplished.

One mistake, for starters, I see handicappers make every year is looking at workout tabs in May and June and assuming every horse that will race at Saratoga is already on the grounds.

It's a fair assumption.

It's also wrong.

The horse population in early June is not the horse population you'll see in August. Part of that is turnover—horses win, lose, get freshened, or move on—but a much bigger factor is the constant migration of horse flesh throughout New York, New Jersey, Maryland, and neighboring circuits.

Around the first two weeks of July, there's a changing of the guard.

New horses arrive.

Others leave.

The "A Team" moves into Saratoga while the "B Team" heads to Belmont, Monmouth, private farms, or secondary training centers. It's a constant game of musical chairs as trainers position their stock for the opportunities ahead.

That's why workout patterns require context.

The flashy work tab you're studying in June doesn't necessarily tell you who's going to be running six weeks later. Likewise, don't dismiss a horse because it doesn't have ten Saratoga breezes. Many of the better young horses build their foundation elsewhere before ever setting foot on the Oklahoma training track.

One of the biggest misconceptions about the Spa is that all the good babies debut during opening week.

Not even close.

The latter half of the meet is often when the horses that have quietly spent six to eight weeks learning their craft finally make it to the races. They've matured physically and mentally before stepping onto one of the biggest stages in the sport.

The lesson?

Understand them.

Where they occurred, when they occurred, and why they occurred are often more important than how many there are.

Then there's the Saratoga mystique.

For many horseplayers, Saratoga occupies a place somewhere between Churchill Downs and heaven.

"It's Saratoga. It must be good."

Not necessarily.

What happens at Saratoga often stays at Saratoga.

The rider colony is unique. The pressure is unique. The competition is unique. The entire ecosystem is different.

If you really want to understand Saratoga, don't just follow the horses.

Follow the jockey room.

Watch the Ortiz brothers.

Watch who gets on.

More importantly, watch who gets off.

Jockey assignments tell stories long before the race is run. They reveal stable relationships, agent decisions, confidence levels, and barn intentions. Likewise, don't automatically downgrade an out-of-town trainer because they ship in with their regular rider. Continuity is often a positive, not a negative.

Saratoga is a beast all its own.

Everybody wants to win there.

Owners want the picture.

Trainers want the prestige.

Jockeys want another tally on the standings. A notch on their post.

Winning at Saratoga still carries a little extra shine, as if the winner's circle were plated in gold.

That pressure affects horses.

It affects trainers.

And it certainly affects horseplayers.

Nowhere is that more obvious than around the Oklahoma clockers' stand.

Walk by on a summer morning and you'll see people gathered around like pigeons waiting for someone to throw breadcrumbs.

They're hoping to hear a whisper.

A name.

A tip.

Anything.

"I heard..."

Those two words echo around Saratoga Springs more than any bugle call.

"I heard from a guy..."

"My buddy knows the assistant..."

"My cousin's friend's wife knows the jockey..."

"The horse is live."

By the time that "inside information" has been passed through people, it's about as fresh as yesterday's news.

Yet people cling to it like they just found a golden nugget.

Saratoga has always reminded me of the California Gold Rush.

Everybody comes looking for treasure.

Everybody thinks they're going to strike it rich.

Every rumor becomes a vein of gold.

Every workout becomes gospel.

Every tipster becomes an expert.

Clockers get bombarded for information.

Exercise riders and barbers become accidental celebrities.

Assistant trainers suddenly have people they've never met wanting to buy them breakfast.

Everybody's mining.

Most are digging in the wrong place.

Horseplayers convince themselves they're receiving inside information, when in reality they're participating in something much simpler.

Human nature.

People like to belong.

Tips become social currency.

Sharing one makes someone feel connected.

Receiving one makes someone feel special.

Whether it's accurate almost becomes secondary.

Even the commercial workout reports can become victims of their own popularity. By the time a horse has been universally praised, the value is often long gone. The information has been consumed, repeated, and baked into the odds.

Personally, I love betting against those universal "good things."

The horses everyone agrees on.

The ones everybody "heard about."

The ones the grandstand has already crowned before they ever step into the gate.

Those horses win often enough to keep the myth alive. The blinking lights are a beacon, a lighthouse to guide their way, or so they think.

They also lose often enough to keep me interested, but yet disattached.

Today's world encourages following rather than thinking.

People would rather borrow someone else's opinion than develop their own.

Saratoga amplifies that tendency.

If you're going to survive the Spa, learn to compartmentalize.

Separate your handicapping from the noise.

If you liked a horse before you heard ten opinions, don't abandon that opinion because Tony's cousin says the trainer's wife's best friend loves the three horse in the same race.

Maybe they're right.

Maybe they're not.

But it shouldn't matter.

Your money deserves your opinion—not somebody else's.

That's Saratoga in a nutshell.

One big, happy family......all betting the same horse.

What could possibly go wrong?

Tomorrow an insight into Del Mar.