The Witching Hour

We have entered the Derby Witching Hour, where winners become losers and losers turn into winners.

That’s right, folks—this is that special time of year when the entire Kentucky Derby industry collectively loses its ever-lovin’ mind.

But that’s how it goes. Every year, we got folks huddled up over workout videos like they’re huntin’ Bigfoot.“One bad step… little hitch right there… oh Lord, did you see that?

”Meanwhile somebody else is hollerin’, “Did you see that time?! Lickety-split! That boy’s READY.”

Well, at least, they involved. Right or wrong!

Nowadays, people also lose their ever-lovin’ minds over workout times. I mean lose it. They start seein’ things that ain’t there—ghosts, spirits, conspiracy theories. A horse works fast and suddenly he’s Secretariat reborn. Works a tick slow and folks act like he just applied for a desk job.

It’s all bandwagons or bailouts.“He went 59 flat? I’m ALL IN.”“He went 1:02? That ain’t no good.”

Ain’t no good?! Buddy, what you expect, breakneck speed every time, they going 10 furlongs, on the first Saturday in May, not hot-rodding in the street.

And it’s always the same cartoon logic too—straight outta the Wile E. Coyote playbook. Y’all treat these workouts like it’s Road Runner versus the Coyote.“Meep meep! Fast time wins! Slow time loses!”

That ain’t handicappin’, that’s Saturday morning cartoons, grow the hell up! What's next you channeling Scooby Doo... ?

Ruh Roh!

‘Cause here’s the thing nobody wants to admit: Them morning works? They matter… but not the way folks act like they do. It ain’t just the time—it’s how they did it, why they did it, and whether that horse even cares about time in the first place.

Some of these horses out there cruisin’, barely breakin’ a sweat, while folks at home are ready to mortgage the house ‘cause the stopwatch said somethin’ pretty.

Time might be of the essence…but context is the whole dang recipe.

The run up to the Derby makes even the weakest links in the handicapping food chain think they are smart, like they part of a re-run of Dumb and Dumber on some back TV Channel.

Meanwhile, twenty of ‘em are gonna line up, on the first Saturday in May, anyway and run like their rent’s due for the roses.

And right in the middle of all this chaos… you got the jockeys makin’ life-alterin’ decisions.

Enter Irad Ortiz Jr..

Now Irad had himself a buffet of options:

• Commandment

• Further Ado (both from Brad Cox, who’s sittin’ there like, “hey buddy, you literally can’t go wrong”)

And then over here you got:

• Renegade trained by Todd Pletcher and owned by Mike Repole

What a treat to be in, now gotta make a decision.

And Irad says, “You know what? I’m goin’ with Renegade.”

Now that’s bold. That’s confident. That’s also the kinda decision that could age like fine wine… or like milk left on a dashboard in August.

Because let’s talk about the numbers—which, ironically, everybody ignores until it’s time to feel regret and then becomes 'he has the numbers Skip, he can't lose', or maybe he can, Skippus.

Pletcher? Sixty-five starters. Two wins. That ain’t dominance—that’s a man who has attended the party a lot but only caught the bouquet twice. Repole? Seven starters, none of them hit the board, plus a highlight reel of heartbreak—Uncle Mo, Forte, Grande—it’s like a trilogy called, “Almost, But Make It Painful,” all three late scratches.

And don’t forget, Pletcher’s had three scratches in the Derby—all with Repole. At this point, them two got a relationship built on hope, talent… and unfortunate timing, that's one more than his winners, for those who like to count. Yes, unfortunate timing.

Then there’s Irad—eight Derby mounts, best finish is fourth. Which is like bein’ invited to the cookout, smellin’ the food, and then havin’ to leave right before they fix your plate.

And yet… here we are.

Because on the other side, you got Chad Brown and Cox, and collectively—with Pletcher—they got three wins outta 90+ starters. Ninety! That ain’t a stat, that’s a support group.

Cox’s lone win? Mandaloun—and even that came after the fact, like findin’ out you won a raffle three weeks later.

So now the question looms larger than a church hat on Easter Sunday:

Did Irad pick the right horse…or did he just step off the Derby winner?

Because that happens. Oh, it happens. This sport will humble you quicker than a bad haircut before picture day.

And the cruelest part? We won’t know until that gate pops, and win or lose, it ain't going to stop Irad from dominating for the rest of the year. Just saying.

So yeah… the witching hour.

Not just in the prep races. Not just in the numbers.

But in that one quiet moment… when a jockey picks a horse and says, “This is the one.”

And come the first Saturday in May, we’re all gonna find out whether that was prophecy…

—or a lifelong "maybe next year”