Trading Places

Ah, the morning after. The fog of indulgence still lingers in the minds of our fair Saratoga brethren—hungover, full-bellied, and blissfully unaware that the Belmont Stakes card waits for no one, not even those whose last conscious memory involves tiramisu and complimentary aperitifs. Yes, the scratches are out. And who is the bearer of this sacred scroll? Not the well-fed emissaries of Saratoga Springs, no. It falls instead to a solitary figure in Frankfort, Kentucky—yours truly.

You see, there was a dinner last night. A free one. Hosted by—how shall I put this—benefactors of a certain pedigree. Randolph and Mortimer Duke. If you don’t recognize those names, you haven’t seen the underside of wealth when it smiles and offers you a glass of Chianti. These men don’t buy meals, they buy allegiance. Amusement. People. Just ask Billy Ray Valentine. Or Louis Winthorpe III. The Dukes don't host dinners; they orchestrate transactions of the soul, dressed in Marinara and Calamari.

And it worked, didn’t it? Gratitude poured forth like a fine Barolo. Social media lit up—not with racing news, mind you—but with odes to Caprese and cannoli. One could be forgiven for thinking we were at a culinary awards show, not on the eve of the Belmont Stakes. Today? A monsoon. A veritable deluge. The third, sixth, tenth and fourteenth races washed off the turf. Scratches galore and still coming. A canoe may be more useful than a racing form.

Today's evolving scratches at Belmont at Saratoga - click here

And yet, our New York friends, bellies full and heads cloudy, forgot. Forgot what day it is. Forgot their professional obligations. Forgot that the sport doesn’t stop because your osso buco was perfectly tender. And so they turned—reluctantly, perhaps unconsciously—to Kentucky. To the man who didn’t attend the dinner. Who remains unbeholden and always a free agent. I posted the scratches. A simple act. But telling.

All the meanwhile, the driver Hoke, was loyal, quiet, waiting in the car, waiting for Miss Daisy. Not because he wasn’t welcome, but because certain people are always expected to remain in the periphery of privilege. He sat beneath the flicker of a parking lot lamp, unbothered, chewing slowly on a Stewart’s hot dog. No foie gras. No truffle risotto. Just mustard, maybe a squirt of ketchup, and the sort of dignity that doesn’t need linen napkins to survive the evening.

And isn’t that the way? Those who feast may feel full, but those who watch from the outside—sober, sharp, unseen—are the ones who keep the wheels turning.

So here's to Mike Repole, bred from Secretariat and Don King, and now to the Dukes—puppet masters in pinstripes. Last night, no one wanted to trade places with anyone else. But today? Today you’re all relying on a guy in Frankfort to tell you which horses are still running.

Ah… now here’s a thought worth savoring—postponement.

You know, upon a bit of quiet contemplation—perhaps over an espresso in a Venetian café or while watching the rain lace its fingers across a Saratoga windowpane—one might ask: why not? Why not move the card to Sunday? Seventy-eight degrees, a gentle breeze, 4% chance of rain. Birds chirping, turf drying. It’s almost poetic. Logical. Humane, as the general admission tickets were a whopping $75, indeed humane.

If you delay the races, someone—Randolph and Mortimer, let’s say—might have to foot the bill again. And while they may play at magnanimity, nothing frightens old money more than being expected to repeat generosity. Once? It’s charity. Twice? It’s a precedent.

Too easy, you say. Not at all. In fact, it would be the harder choice. Because it would require humility. A rare vintage. Far rarer than the Barolo served last night at that ristorante, where deals were toasted and egos basted in olive oil and sycophancy.

Every free cannoli, every clink of a complimentary wine glass, is just another string in their marionette act.

But rescheduling? No chance. And that, my friend, is simply unacceptable to those who believe the sun rises only because they ordered it so, at a whooping cost for some.

So no, they won’t postpone. They’ll run through the rain. But don’t worry—they’ll have a fresh suit on by dinner especially if you didn't have to get in the door for general admission at $75 a pop..

"Looking good, Billy Ray."

"Feeling good, Louis."

Now, where did I leave that Belmont Stakes canoe?

That's Racing!