The Curious Case of Saratoga Sale
Updated: Aug 12
Y’all seen them prices at the Saratoga Sale?
Good lord.
35 - MILLION-DOLLAR BABIES.
Thirty-five.
MILLION-Plus Dollar babies.
Benjamin Button would be proud. Start out as a million-dollar baby, and by the end of the career, somehow you’ve managed to age all the way down to zero.
What the hell were they serving at the bar at that sale? Jet fuel? Everclear? Somebody spiking the punch bowl with liquid cocaine?
Because I don't know what the hell happened, but apparently everybody in the building looked at a horse and said, “Yep. Four million sounds about right.”
The previous record was around 25 - million dollar babies.
And somebody apparently said, “Well boys, that record has lived long enough.”
So here we are.
35 - million fucking dollar horses.
Thirty Fucking Five - And I’d really like to see the Mother %##ng bar tab.
Because I guarantee you there was a moment in there when some fella in a $6,000 pair of loafers looked at another fella in a $9,000 pair of loafers and said, “Fuck it, bid again.”
And the other guy said, “How much?”
“Two million.”
“Sounds good.”
THAT'S NOT A HORSE SALE. THAT'S A BENDER.
Now here's the part nobody wants to talk about.
Of those 35 - million dollar babies, how many are actually going to make it to the races?
I’m gonna throw a number out there:
Half of 'em probably never make it.
So right off the bat, you can take roughly 17.5 horses and put it in the category of “Well, that didn't quite work out.”
Of the ones that do make it?
Hell, another chunk of them are gonna breeze a few times, look pretty doing it, and then somebody's gonna say:
“Yeah... there's something there.”
And then six months later:
“We retired him.”
Goddammit.
Now we're down to maybe less than a handful that can actually run.
And some of those are gonna be fair to middlin'.
You know what fair to middlin' means in horse racing?
It means they look fantastic in the paddock, have a beautiful name, and finish seventh by 14 lengths.
And eventually, a few of them are gonna be running for a claiming tag.
Imagine paying millions of dollars for a horse and six months later somebody's standing there saying:
“Anybody want him for $40,000?”
“Well, he does have good ankles.”
SO DOES MY BROTHER at 60 AND HE'S NOT WORTH $40,000 EITHER.
I am confident we will run against them with our horses in the future and like in the past and beat them.
That always makes me do a happy dance.
And out of that entire 35 million dollar pile?
Maybe you get one genuine graded stakes horse.
Maybe.
And if you get a Grade 1 winner?
Congratufuckinglations.
That's horse racing, folks.
And that's why I love this game.
Because somewhere in the middle of all that money, bloodlines, blue-blooded pedigrees and billion-dollar egos...
there's still a horse that can run his ass off that nobody noticed.
And THAT'S the horse I'm looking for.
And..................you’d think some of these folks just watched the fireworks finale on the Fourth of July.
Meanwhile.....
“Ooooooh!” “Aaaaaah!” Every time another yearling walks into the ring, people are looking up at the ceiling like the colt just sprouted wings and took off like a bottle rocket.
But, three weeks late the whole thing can deflate like a party balloon somebody forgot behind the couch.
And what do you have left?
A memory.
Maybe a your paid check stub.
Nothing that looks that good lasts forever.
Not a pie.
Not a pony.
Not even prom night.
Now, let me tell you something: there actually is such a thing as auction-price handicapping.
I know. Crazy, right?
These horses have been spoon fed, spoiled because what they represent, a pay day. Some of them turn up softer than a marshmallow.
And, some people simply cannot understand how a $1,500,000 horse can eventually find himself in a $30,000 maiden claimer looking like he fell from the penthouse straight through the basement.
And to that I say:
Well duh, Dude!
The horse doesn't know what he cost.
He isn't walking around the backstretch saying, “Excuse me, peasants, I was seven figures.”
He doesn't care.
The only people who cared about that price tag were the people who already got paid and disappeared.
And now somebody else is holding the bag.
Because here's the truth:
That horse might never have been worth $1,500,000.
Not even with the two-for-one pedigree.
Not even with the catalog page dressed up like a Hollywood headshot.
But they polished him.
They fluffed him.
They found the good angle.
They gave him a spit shine.
They took conformation pictures so beautiful they could make a blind man reach for his checkbook.
And before you know it, he's popping up in some digital sale later like a discounted elf.
The auction game has become theater.
And not the good kind.
We're not talking Swan Lake.
We're not talking Hamilton.
We're talking Jerry Springer with a bloodstock catalog, three cocktail napkins and a guy in the corner trying to remember whether the horse was a Curlin colt or a Candy Ride filly.
By the time the hammer falls, you're not even sure whether you bought a racehorse or accidentally proposed to somebody's cousin.
And here's the part everybody forgets:
The auction price doesn't run.
The horse runs.
That's the gotcha, who knew?
You can put seven figures in the past performances, put a pedigree on it that reads like the guest list at the Kentucky Derby, and put enough zeros behind the price to make your accountant nervous writing it off, and you got the public looking like they seeing the reincarnation of Secretariat right before them eyes.
None of it matters when the gate opens.
Like they owed child support and saw a white van pull into the driveway, the monies been already spent, they sometimes only know to run backwards.
These people ain't buying horses.
They collecting them.
Like baseball cards.
Except instead of a Ken Griffey rookie, they gots a Tapit colt with a questionable foot and a trust fund.
But I'll tell you what really warms my heart more than Mimi's oven in August.
Beating one of those seven-figure, gold-plated, imported-from-the-heavens horses with my own little bargain-bin beauty.
You can categorize what we are in the bloodstock division to be more like a Dollar General Store.
Cost me a candy bar and a soda.
That's right.
My Almond Joy.
Maybe a Mounds.
Because, as we all know, sometimes they come without nuts.
And wouldn't you know it?
That little budget beauty gets out there, puts her ears up, finds another gear and outruns the
Swiss-chocolate Snickers dipped in Dubai gold.
We have done it before and will probably do it again.
Horses like Banksy's, from $5K stallion, and has earned ,from purses and a partial sale of 20%, already a quarter of a million dollars. Ms Locust Point we bought at auction for $17K become a $1.8 million dollar horse by the end of her career, Bo Cruz who we bought for $45K at auction become a $1.1 million dollar horse before tragically succumbing to a twisted intestine.
All of that for an original $67K investment.
These 35 - million dollar babies are like the Curious Case of Bejamin Buttons at auction.
That's the part I like, they are moving backwards.
You buy these million-dollar babies hoping they’re going to add to the coffers — that you’re going to wind up with something even MORE valuable than what you paid for.
But in horse racing, sometimes it works more like Benjamin Button.
You start out with a big, fat, healthy bank account...
…and then you watch it age backwards.
$1 million becomes half a million.
half A million becomes $100K.
$100K becomes 40K.
And before you know it, you're standing in the paddock holding a $40,000 claiming horse wondering where the PRICE TAG went.
You didn't buy a racehorse.
You bought a very expensive money shredder with four legs.
Meanwhile, back at the auction pavilion?
We keep hearing about the “demise of the industry” while wealthy folks are out here throwing money around like they’re trying to make it rain at a strip club.
And look, spend your money. Buy the game. Own the game. Whatever. But here’s the part I don’t understand: if you’re investing all this money into the industry, why the hell aren’t you interested in making the game better?
Nobody seems interested in actually fixing the cheating. Nobody wants to address the stuff that’s driving people away or making the game harder to enjoy. It’s like everybody wants to own a piece of the sinking ship, but nobody wants to patch the damn hole in the hull.
Have we heard from NYRA or the Gaming Commission about these Fair Hill 5 that dominate the headlines "Betting Coup Read all about it". Nope.
Maybe I’m dense. Maybe there’s some billionaire-level financial - 5 dimensional chess -strategy I’m too stupid to comprehend.
But if you need the game to flourish so your investment is worth something, shouldn’t you maybe want to help make the game flourish?
I mean… what in the actual fuck am I missing here?
It ain't always about the zeros.
It ain't always about the pedigree.
And it sure as hell ain't always about what somebody paid for the horse.
Sometimes it's about guts.
Sometimes it's about timing.
Sometimes it's about finding the horse nobody else wanted and the horse that says I will not be beaten by that Trust Fund baby.
Sometimes its about luck.
So welcome to the circus.
Bring your wallet.
Bring your checkbook.
Bring Your Tax Specialist.
Bring your bloodstock advisor.
And, for God's sake, bring a therapist.
Y'all need'em all.
