Triggered!!

Ah… allow me.

Congratulations to Dylan Donnelly—who, like a seasoned assassin with one bullet left in the chamber, chose his moment with exquisite precision. A 10-1 shot at Santa Anita… not luck, no—never insult a man like that with the suggestion. That, my friend, is timing… nerve… and a touch of artistry. The sort of decision that separates the merely ambitious from the truly dangerous.

And then there’s Tom Lenberg.

Ah, Tom… what a marvelous creature with the Triggered sweatshirt.

Dylan Donnelly (left) and Tom Lenberg (right)

Third place, Tom, you say—but don’t be so pedestrian. The man was stalking greatness deep into the stretch, dancing on the razor’s edge of triumph. To lead, to falter, and yet remain composed—that requires a constitution most men simply do not possess. He came armed with two entries, sat comfortably in the top five after day one, and carried himself with the quiet confidence of a man who knows exactly what game he’s playing.

And let’s not forget… the sweatshirts. Those gloriously wacky, almost defiant garments he paraded through every Zoom, as a member of our Gold Zooms meetings, like a badge of honor. You see, in this game—this beautiful, maddening game—character isn’t optional. It’s essential. And Tom has it in abundance.

In my estimation, he’s already won.

Of course, heartbreak was not in short supply. Frank Polk—second place, by a mere 84 cents. Eighty-four cents… I’ve seen empires crumble over less. That kind of loss lingers. It whispers. It stays with you long after the lights go out.

And Lenberg? Just over eight dollars shy. Close enough to taste it… far enough to haunt you.

But make no mistake—all of them, every name in that top ten, deserve recognition. This isn’t a pastime for the faint of heart. It’s a proving ground. A crucible.

So yes… we celebrate Dylan Donnelly, as we should. A performance worthy of applause.

But we do not forget the others.

Not the heartbreakers. Not the characters.

Because in the end… those are the stories worth remembering, even when triggered.

Ah… the Kentucky Derby. Less than 46 days away—

and already the masses are behaving exactly as one would expect.

Recency bias… such a deliciously predictable flaw. Like moths to a flame, Derby followers flutter toward the most recent prep, the freshest headline, the latest illusion of brilliance. One race—one fleeting performance—and suddenly a colt is anointed king.

Take Paladin, please.

Favored, you say? Mm. Off a Risen Star that left you… underwhelmed. And yet, there he stands atop the lists. Why? Not for what he did—but for who he is. Pedigree… connections… the comforting familiarity of powerful names whispered in well-appointed rooms. You see, people don’t just bet horses—they bet stories. And Paladin comes wrapped in one.

But the modern horseplayer… ah, now there’s a tragedy.

They’ve grown enamored with flash. Fast works, gaudy figures, and—my personal favorite—the auction price. As if a receipt were a résumé. In my world, we have a term for that: Utterly, unapologetically lazy.

The parade of “$500,000 purchase” this and “seven-figure yearling” that… it’s become less analysis and more theater. Breathless commentary, as though the horse arrived at the track sprouting wings simply because someone paid a small fortune for the privilege. I assure you… money may buy a very fine suit, but it does not make the man.

Or the horse.

Meanwhile, the overlooked—the modest, the unheralded—are quietly dismissed. Shuffled aside like they’ve arrived uninvited. Never mind their performances, their grit, their undeniable ability. No, no… they lack the proper price tag. And in today’s climate, that’s apparently a cardinal sin.

You ask why the talking heads cling to it?

Simple.

They’re trapped. If they ignore the price, they risk overlooking the obvious narrative. If they embrace it, they sound like auctioneers masquerading as analysts. It’s low-hanging fruit… easy to reach, easier to repeat, and safest of all in a world terrified of being wrong alone.

Right or wrong?

Oh… it’s right.

But more importantly… it’s profitable—for those clever enough to see through it.

You see, we don’t traffic in parlor games. No tidy little “Top 10” lists in February to be conveniently resurrected in May like some self-serving prophecy fulfilled. No… that’s theater. That’s for the redboarders—the men who rewrite history after the fact, polishing their opinions until they gleam with false brilliance.

We prefer something far more dangerous.

Patience.

We wait. We observe. We let the picture develop in full, like a slow-burning masterpiece. Angles reveal themselves to those willing to sit in silence while others shout predictions into the void. And when we do act—right or wrong—it’s deliberate. Singular. Precise.

Now, of course, there are those who scoff.

They say "you won’t get a price that way,” they insist. So what do they do? They scatter their wagers like buckshot—five, six horses at odds—blanketing the field in the hopes that something, anything, connects. And when it does… ah, the self-congratulation is deafening. Genius, they call it.

If that’s your game… God bless you.

Truly.

But let me offer a small word of caution about this… shotgun approach.

It has a rather nasty side effect.

You become so consumed with covering every possibility… that you fail to recognize inevitability. The winner—the real one—can be staring you in the face, and you’ll miss it entirely, buried under your own excess.

And that, my friend… is the purest definition of shooting yourself in the foot.

A ritual as triggered by springtime itself