Rematch!

Ah… The Rematch. A showdown steeped in history, ego, bloodlines, and a touch of chaos. Allow me to set the scene --

Ah, the Belmont Stakes… How delightfully American — a grand stage where titans clash not in back alleys or marble boardrooms, but on dirt, under the sun, maybe in the slop, surrounded by hats, beers, and the thundering promise of glory.

Now, this isn’t just any race. No, no, no — this is the rematch. Mano a mano, hoof to hoof, nose to nose. A poetic collision of muscle, will, and legacy.

Journalism — the handsome bay carved out by Phidias himself, right besides Zeus and Athena, with the pedigree of a prizefighter and the gaze of a war correspondent. Crisp, calculating, and plays the long game. A metaphor, really, for truth — relentless, occasionally inconvenient, but impossible to silence.

Then we have Baeza — the enigma. Named for the Hall of Famer, perhaps, but don’t be fooled. This isn’t some tribute act or a cover band. This is a creature bred in the purple, trained in silence, and unleashed like a whispered threat at midnight. Think tango dancer with a vendetta — grace with a dagger hidden in the saddlecloth.

And of course — enter the disruptor — Sovereignty. The very concept stirs something primal, doesn’t it? Independence, self-determination, the audacity to say “I don’t answer to anyone.” In the world of hooves and heartbeats, Sovereignty is your Derby winner— not bound by expectations, not limited by history. A creature of defiance. A horse that runs not for victory, but for revolution, unless its the Preakness, then all bets were off.

But then, just when you thought the table was set, comes Rodriguez — the 'Gringo from out west, trained by a gunslinger from Nogales, Arizona. Never underestimate the gunslinging gringo — history is littered with kings brought low by gringos who never got the memo.

So here we are: The Belmont. Where truth clashes with legacy, sovereignty with scandal, and somewhere between the gates and the wire, one horse etches its name into legend — or vanishes into dust.

BUT…. How did we get here?

The Belmont Stakes, the so-called "Test of the Champion." But this, this year? It's not just a test. It's the trial. A blood feud on dirt. A vendetta dressed up in silks and saddlecloths. And like all great clashes — Troy, Gettysburg, Cannes in ‘84— it didn’t begin here. No, my friend. It began in the undercurrent. The rip tide of the Derby.

Ah yes, Churchill Downs. The roses. The Derby, The bourbon. The illusion of civility. It was there — beneath the twin spires and the polite chaos — where the illusion of order was shattered.

Many of us — the romantics, the dreamers, the degenerate philosophers — believed we were watching greatness unfold in Journalism. A colt with a name like a crusade. Quick, principled, and precise — as if the spirit of Edward R. Murrow had been reincarnated in muscle and mane. 'Good night and Good Luck'

But what we saw... what we felt... was betrayal. A cold, clinical takedown by none other than Sovereignty.

Let me paint the picture for you. Journalism, sent with purpose just past the half-mile pole, gliding like a scalpel out wide, through the field of cudgels. Rispoli poised — European ice with Latin fire — while behind him, the shadows moved.

Baeza, with Prat aboard, crept in like a burglar through the basement window, stalking inside on the far turn. And Sovereignty — oh, Sovereignty — that arrogant, aloof destroyer with Junior Alvarado sitting chilly as if he had the code to the vault.

And when the stretch came? They fanned. Oh, they fanned out like it was Judgment Day and the only salvation was smack down the middle of that golden strip of Churchill real estate — where MINDFRAME, KOPION, LIBERAL ARTS, HYPNUS, even a damn LEMON MUFFIN had carved their names into the sloppy dirt.

Journalism, gallant but awkward, started climbing. Up and down, up and down. Like one of those fiberglass horses outside a broken-down supermarket — all noise, no motion. You could see it — the difference. The ineffable thing. He wasn’t striding out. He was fighting the surface, the bias, the sabotage. The horror, and here comes the blue silks.

Because Sovereignty? Sovereignty didn’t just pass him. He walked by him, wore him down like a well-funded lobbyist. Sovereignty wore the roses.

And then… nothing. No Preakness for Sovereignty. No second jewel. No ambition. No heart.

The connections — in their infinite 'wisdom' dissed on Baltimore, dissed the Crown. Cited "what's best for the horse." A noble lie. An alibi, as it seemed 'they didn't feel like it'.

The ghosts of Secretariat and Slew stirred, I assure you. Some bird, quite literally, could’ve flown over their tombstones and dropped a steaming opinion labeled “we’re doing what’s best,”

But the truth? The truth was made inconvenient.

Bill Mott himself — a man who’s forgotten more about horses than most know — said Sovereignty was 100%. Fit. Capable. But no — they sat it out, celebrated the Derby win and played it safe while Journalism went to war in Baltimore.

The Preakness — that was a vendetta dressed as a stakes race. Prat, desperate, out of horse, yet trying to ride Rispoli into a box. The feud with Journalism was barely about horses anymore. It was a proxy battle for the real war: Prat vs. Rispoli. Hatfields and McCoys, but on hooves.

Rispoli, they say, isn’t "one of them." Not part of the family. And New York? Ah yes, New York racing. A tighter circle than a Sicilian baptism. If you’re not in, you’re a target. And Journalism? Outsider. Interloper. Not their jock. Not their game.

And yet — the resilience. Journalism, in the Preakness, ran like a beast possessed. Overcame two, maybe three coordinated attempts to pin him, squeeze him, break him. He blew through it like a wrecking ball through politics.

So now we arrive at the Belmont. And I ask you, friend — who’s going to play the villain this time? Who plays Bret "The Hitman" Hart? Who takes the chair shot? Because there will be one. There always is.

Joe Ramos tried in the Derby — ended up eased. Westwood and Barnes in the Santa Anita Derby — made a tactical pact to double team Journalism, only to finish dead last with front row seats to his brilliance.

And Alvarado? Will he need another slap on the wrist — too many strikes?

Will Rodriguez bring the hot salsa..... rice and beans with that?

but... wait Ah… yes. Mike Repole.

Now there’s a name that drips with irony, bravado, and the unmistakable aroma of recently polished self ambition.

Because what is the Belmont without a Mike Repole moment? Like a wedding without drama, or Thanksgiving without that one relative who insists on bringing up politics after dessert. It's not quite the same. In fact, it's incomplete.

Picture it: the paddock buzzes, the crowd hums like a cicada hive just poked with a stick, and somewhere — somewhere always in earshot — there's Repole. Loud. Proud. Drenched in self-confidence and probably in Gatorade-brand cologne called Vitamin Water.

A man who speaks like he's narrating his own documentary… in real time… with no commercial breaks.

He never leaves the winner’s circle. Not metaphorically. Not emotionally. Some say the man sleeps there — curls up next to the silver tray and dreams of microphones and microphones only.

And the gift of gab? Please. Mike Repole could talk a salt and pepper - shaker to sleep. He doesn't need a press credential — he is the press conference. Full of impromptu quips, slightly rehearsed humility, and the occasional monologue that somehow ends with him being compared to Branch Rickey, Walt Disney, Goofy, Mickey Mouse or all of the above.

This year? He’s done it again. Slipped one into the Belmont field that, if we’re being honest, belongs at Aqueduct on a foggy Thursday, not at the final jewel of the Triple Crown. But that’s Repole. Always angling. Always selling. The man could put a saddle on a Fiat and convince half the betting public it’s live at 8-1.

He wants to be commissioner. Of everything, it seems. Of racing, sure — but also of truth, justice, oxygen consumption, and the Belmont concession stands. He wants to run the show, produce the show, star in the show, and deliver the closing monologue. And frankly? I admire the audacity. The man markets himself like Secretariat bred with Don King.

But here’s the truth, and you didn’t hear it from me — the game loves a villain. And Repole? He’s not quite a villain. He’s the jester who thinks he’s the king. And sometimes — just sometimes — the kingdom plays along because he keeps things interesting.

So let him talk. Let him inflate his own mythology. Because while he’s calling for reform from the winner’s circle pulpit, the real war is happening on the track— where Journalism is dodging body shots, Sovereignty is uncoiling, and Baeza… Baeza is waiting, biding, circling.

Let Repole dream of commissioner’s chairs.

The rest of us? We’ll be watching the stretch run.