Travers Day

"Well hell, y’all—Travers Day done showed up and showed out. Good weather, great racing, and a superstar colt struttin’ his stuff like he knew damn well he was the main event. Let’s talk about Sovereignty.

Since the Derby? The boy’s been flawless. Not just winning—hell, anybody can luck into a win—but he’s been evolving. It’s like watching Goku hit Super Saiyan in real time. Every race since the first Saturday in May, he’s shown more speed, more stamina, and more “come get some” attitude, and that’s with the distances getting longer! Which is backwards from what usually happens when a horse starts getting tired and showing their limits—this son of a gun just keeps leveling up.

Now let’s give a lil’ credit where it’s due: Bill Mott, who caught more heat than a Walmart rotisserie chicken for skipping the Preakness. Folks called him old-fashioned, said he didn’t have that Triple Crown killer instinct. But you know what? Turns out, maybe ol’ Bill was just playin’ 4D chess while everybody else was hollerin’ about the same tired game plan.

Spacing the races out? Smart. Let the horse rest, mature, get stronger. It’s lookin’ like a masterclass in patient horsemanship. And now? We got ourselves the most dangerous 3-year-old in the country—hell, maybe the world—headed toward the Breeders’ Cup Classic.

But don’t go countin’ your trophies just yet. Next weekend’s Pacific Classic is about to be a throwdown, possibly featuring Journalism and Nysos—and let me tell you, that ain’t no undercard scrap. That’s a damn trailer for the main event at Del Mar. Whoever comes outta that mess intact? That’s your number one suspect for tryin’ to rob Sovereignty on racing’s biggest stage.

"Alright, folks, look—our gameplan was about as simple as sweet tea in summertime: beat Magnitude, get paid. That’s it. And guess what? We did just that.

Now, we didn’t need no AI supercomputer or war room full of Ivy League data crunchers to figure it out—we laid out the blueprint plain as day. The whole damn key was Bracket Buster—he had one job: don’t let that overhyped front-runner get comfy up front. You let a horse like Magnitude set his own pace? You might as well mail him the trophy with a Hallmark card. But if you press him? Get up in his kitchen early? He folds like a lawn chair at a Baptist potluck.

And wouldn’t you know it—Bracket Buster did exactly what we needed. Got up there, said, “Not today, Junior,” off a 4 star work at Keeneland, and leaned on Magnitude like an overdue bill. That poor horse backed up faster than a Walmart checkout line on payday. By the time they hit the wire, Magnitude was as far back as Albany, and I ain’t talkin’ geography—I’m talkin’ irrelevance.

Now look, we’d seen through that paper tiger the last two races. Didn’t buy the hype. Those past performances looked more like a resume someone padded for a job they weren’t qualified for. We knew better.

And the kicker? Sovereignty to Bracket Buster in the exacta paid $9.90 for a dollar. That’s 9-to-1 on a play we drew up like a football coach with a whiteboard. That’s value, baby. That’s hittin’ the jackpot without needing to guess somebody’s middle name or birthday.

So yeah, next time someone tells you horse racing's all luck and chaos? Show 'em the tape.

Show 'em the tape—and remind ‘em who said Magnitude was gonna melt like butter on blacktop the minute someone leaned on him."

"Alright y’all, let’s talk about the Forego—a little longshot lovin’, a little hunch play, and a whole lotta ‘almost made ‘em pay.’

Now we weren’t out here chasin’ chalk like we’re scared of commitment—no sir, this was a longshot play from jump. We knew Book Em Danno had Mullikin’s number. Mullikin? More like Mull-it-over, ‘cause he sure as hell didn’t look like a clear second choice to us. And sure enough, Danno stamped his passport and said, “Book me for another win, Mahalo.”

But the one we were sweet on? Scotland. Aye. We thought he was bonny, and yeah—I know that’s French slang in Scotland for “good,” and I also know I don’t give a damn if it’s linguistically accurate, ‘cause the horse was live.

See, this wasn’t some wild stab in the dark—we did the homework. Five wins from ten starts on a fast main track, comin’ off a muddy prep that set him up just right. And who’s in the barn? That same ol’ silver fox Bill Mott, makin' yet another run at a sneaky good Saratoga day while everybody else is either nappin’ or stressin’ over odds-on favorites.

Now, did Scotland win? Nah. But he came rollin’, and if that boy hadn’t swung wider than your uncle’s political opinions after two bourbons, we might be talkin’ about a different outcome. Dude was 7 wide and still came chargin’—finished second at 11.70-to-1, paid $7.70 just to place, and if you had that EXA with Danno, you were smilin’ like a raccoon in a dumpster: $42.40 for every $2.

Was it a home run? Nah. But it was a damn good swing. Smart bet, sharp angle, and a runner that showed up when it counted. No regrets. We’ll take that shot every time—‘cause when it hits? You ain’t just right—you’re rich and right. And that’s the dream, baby."

Wanna line one up for the Jockey Club Gold Cup next?

"The Ballerina? Oh we loved Hope Road—been on her since springtime like white on rice. Back then she ran straight into a damn freight train named Kopion, and still gave a good account of herself. But this time? Different story. We circled this race like it owed us money."

See, we highlighted her plight—not in a sob-story way, but like, “y’all pay attention, ‘cause this one’s got talent and travelin’ shoes.” Trained like a lock at Del Mar, then packed up her bags like she was on a business trip, flew cross-country, and showed up in New York like, “let me show y’all how Cali girls do it.”

And damn if she didn’t look like a winner every damn step. Smooth as Tennessee whiskey. Drifted right down to 2-1 favoritism, which means it wasn’t just us who saw the writing on the wall—it was written in neon by post time.

Now as for Scylla—we called that too. Said she’d be ridden aggressive, and that’s exactly what they did: popped her out on the lead like she stole something. And bless her heart, she ran her guts out but got tagged late. Still held for 2nd, just like we forecasted. So what’d that give us?

A cold exacta, baby. $13.70 for every $1. That ain’t life-changing, but it sure feels good when you thread the needle like that. We weren’t out here fishing—we brought the map, we drew the X, and we dug up the treasure.

Bingo.

Now don't go screaming "chalk"—I’ll be over here cashin’ tickets and callin’ shots, we took what they gave us"

That's the name of the game, we don't play Price is Right, we play to win.

"Alright y’all, the Allen H. Jerkens—and yeah, I know it’s named after a legend, but today it felt more like The Allen H. Curveball, ‘cause this one didn’t quite unfold how we saw it on the vision board."

Now look, Barnes was our dude. Our horse. We expected a good effort and by God, he gave us one. Ran his tail off, dug in like a stubborn mule, and came rollin’ late for third. Solid. Honest. Like a lunch-pail kind of performance. But “solid” don’t pay the bills when you’re tryin’ to get rich at the windows. Respect to the effort, but it wasn’t good enough.

Then there’s Patch Adams—this horse just refuses to quit. I mean, seriously, he runs like he’s late to a custody hearing. The kind of gamer you want in a street fight or a stretch duel. He showed up again, like he always does. Tough as two-day-old cornbread and just as dry for our bankroll.

But then, here comes Captain Cook, throwin’ a damn money wrench right into our whole setup. Just got switched from Dick Dutrow over to Todd Pletcher—and yeah, I know that barn switch comes with shiny new saddlecloths and a hype machine louder than a monster truck rally—but we didn’t see this performance comin’.

Captain Cook waltzed in like he was late to his own coronation, ruined our exotics, and left us lookin’ at our tickets like they were scratch-offs from a gas station we kinda regret goin’ to.

So yeah, we had the right ideas—Barnes ran big, Patch ran hard—but the Captain had other plans, and suddenly our payouts were floatin’ off into the sunset like a kid’s balloon at a county fair.

Good try. Solid read. Wrong day to be right-ish. On to the next one."

Meanwhile, at Del Mar:

Journalism working this morning.

Journalism this morning, 25.3, 37, 100.2 (23.2) to the wire with PHOSPHORENCE out in 112.2, 125.3, and a mile in 139.1 on our watch.

Nysos on the 21st ..... Wow

Nysos working on 8/21

Nysos worked on Thursday, 12.3, 24.4, 36.3, 59.4, 111.1, 122.4, and a mile in 135.1 !!!! 💥

"Alright, now it's time for the gut punch, the soul-crusher, the ‘maybe we should’ve could have...

Cue the damn music, y’all: DORTH VADER.

Now we loved her. Not liked—loved. We were singin’ her praises like she was the second verse of a Skynyrd song. Her record at 9 furlongs? Chef’s kiss. That was the key. She had the foundation, she had the setup, and most importantly—she was gonna be a price. Went off at 11-1, and we were feelin’ real smug watchin’ that tote board all the way down the lane.

And buddy, she ran like we knew she could. Stalked, waited, pounced—like a damn panther in blinkers. She had her nose in front a stride before the wire, and again one stride after the wire...

But you know what don’t pay?

The part before and the part after the wire. It’s that one damn pixel on the photo finish where it all counts. And at that precise soul-snatching moment? The venerable, the reliable, the never-miss-a-step Thorpedo Anna dropped her nose like a seasoned pro and snatched our glory right off the platter.

I mean, hell—give Dorth Vader a GoPro and she’s a winner. But the photo says second, and the payouts say heartbreak.

We were right there, y’all. Had it. Felt it. Lived it. And then… just like that, it’s gone. Hope turned into a crumpled ticket and a quiet walk to the bar.

So yeah. Tip your cap to Thorpedo Anna—she earned it. But don’t you dare tell me we were wrong on Dorth Vader. She ran her damn race. She just didn’t win the step. And sometimes in this game?

That’s the cruelest part of all."