The Merit

Ah, yes… racing. The grand theatre of hoofbeats and heartbreaks. Where million-dollar flesh gallops over dirt dreams, and the illusion of meritocracy holds court like a drunk king at a rigged casino. Everyone watches the winners, but no one ever questions the odds they started with. And in that shadowed corner of the game—where there are no champagne toasts, no auction paddles slapping seven-figure bids into the air—you find men like Larry Demeritte.

Let me tell you something about the Larrys of the world, and I say this with the bitter reverence of a man who’s seen behind too many curtains: they are the keepers of the real game. The unadorned, uncelebrated artisans who sculpt racehorses not with diamond-studded budgets, but with instinct, grit, and the stubborn kind of hope only desperation breeds.

The “super trainers”—oh, what a darling euphemism that is—play the game on God mode. They inherit speed, inherit bloodlines, inherit the unspoken privilege of never needing to be right, because there’s always another fast-bred colt or filly waiting in the wings. When one is done? Swap him out like a flat tire on a Bentley. But Larry? Larry had to build the whole damn car on a junkyard budget and still drive it into graded stakes company.

Larry Demeritte gets to the Derby with West Saratoga. "I just believe I am here for a purpose"

He didn’t just “train.” No, he alchemized. He turned $11,000 or less throwaways into black-type earners. Lady Glamour, Daring Pegasus, West Saratoga—those weren’t horses, they were middle fingers raised to an industry that prefers flash to function. Larry didn’t walk through the Keeneland pavilion with swagger and entourage. He walked with an eye. An eye honed on the backstretch of life, where character is currency and pedigree is just paper.

And let’s not pretend, for even a millisecond, that race wasn’t a factor. In a sport that still carries the antebellum weight of its traditions like a rotting saddle, being a Black man with a sharp eye and no billion-dollar backing is the ultimate outsider role. You don’t get second chances. Hell, you barely get a first. And yet there was Larry, smiling, dignified, the lone symphony in a cacophony of corporate noise.

The Industry reflects on the passing of Larry Demeritte

When others turned their backs—when whispers passed like poison in the morning fog—Larry walked up to me. Said hello. That’s all. Just... hello. A small gesture, but in this game? It’s a revolution. Because most people in this business, they don’t see you until they need you. Larry saw people.

You see, the real Hall of Fame isn’t built with bronze plaques or red carpets. It’s etched in the respect of those who noticed when no one else did. It’s built in the silence between races, in the text you got later that day just to say "nice to meet you," from a man who didn’t need anything from you except a moment of mutual humanity.

So here’s to Larry Demeritte—horseman, outlier, artist of the overlooked. He didn’t demand your respect. He earned it. Quietly. Relentlessly. And with a ledger that turned pocket change into power.

In a game obsessed with numbers, he reminded us that value isn't measured in what you spend—but in what you make of it.

And that, my friend… is worth more than any trophy, but why in the world do we have to wait until they are gone.....