The Crown

h, the Claiming Crown at Churchill Downs… a day I hold in particular esteem. You see, it’s not a celebration of gilded pedigrees or the aristocracy of the turf, no. It’s a tribute to the grinders—those noble creatures who’ve earned every inch of their reputation the hard way. Horses who didn’t arrive in a parade of seven-figure bids, escorted by men convinced that excess zeroes on a check somehow guarantee them glory.

No, the Claiming Crown is not about morning glories on the work tab—those shimmering illusions handicappers love to chase. It’s not about how swiftly or sluggishly a horse meanders down the backside before breakfast. The lack of a large workout report is NOT a mistake it is whom we are dealing with on days like today. The Crown is for the connoisseurs of the true puzzle, those who understand that speed figures and sale prices are merely the small talk of the sport.

These runners fight their way into this day not with polished breezes but with battle scars from the afternoon, where it actually counts. Barry Abrams once told me—God rest him—“Horses get hurt in the morning, not in the afternoon.” He was right. We push them, stretch them, drill them into some imagined ideal of fitness. Bobby Frankel, in that marvelous New York growl of his, put it even more bluntly: “Most horses are overtrained.” And he was right, too.

The Claiming Crown horse is always in refresh mode, not bullet work mode.

So today… today is for the handicapping men and women who understand the claiming game. For those who know the rhythms of each racetrack—their quirks, their class ladders, their subtle tells. This is your peanut-butter-and-jelly delight, familiar and satisfying. These Claiming Crown runners have shipped in from every corner of the map, and it will take every ounce of your knowledge to decipher them.

It’s a sprawling jigsaw puzzle, pieces scattered, a few missing entirely. And yet, somehow, horses prevail. They always do and so will you, with a little luck.

Enjoy the day.