Voice Mail

Is ’tis the season to be merry? Then answer your dang phone, daggum it.

I swear, people treat their phones like newborn babies—cradlin’ ’em, starin’ at ’em, tappin’ ’em 24/7—postin’ hot takes like they just came down from Mount Sinai. But you actually call ’em? Straight to voicemail. Immediately. Like the phone just sighed and said, “Nah.”

And that, my friends, is handicappin’ for some.

Because people are a lot like racehorse opinions—especially around the holidays. I love people-watchin’ almost as much as watchin’ a couple two-year-olds bust out the gate. Everybody looks good standin’ still. Everybody’s shiny on paper. High percentages, nice stats, great smile, good mutuels… right up until you actually need ’em.

You dial ’em up when it matters? Voicemail. Horse breaks slow. Jockey disappears like a ghost in a mansion, voicemail.

Now I got friends who can dial a number real good when they need somethin’. Funny how magically they remember how phones work. But when you need somethin’? They vanish like a rider you didn’t bet on—wins everything you don’t have and nothin’ you do. Its a mother ducking Christmas miracle?

Trainers ain’t much different. Big percentages, strong ROI, look sharp in the program. Then you finally need ’em and they turn into a Wiffle ball—hard to catch and completely unpredictable. Just flutterin’ around, laughin’ at you.

So how do you deal with all that?

I got a New Year’s resolution for you: trust yourself.

If you ain’t never had any luck with Joe Breeze at the windows, don’t suddenly decide today’s the day. Ghost him. Look him dead in the eye—spiritually—and say, “Beat me if you can.”

That’s my handicappin’ system. Simplest one ever invented by man.

You like a horse, a rider, a barn—and you never had luck with ’em? Fade ’em. Challenge ’em. Make ’em run their race without your money on it. If they beat you, good for them. They earned it.

We ain’t as dumb as we think we are, most of the time. Our brains are incredible machines. Now, granted, some of y’all got a little less RAM than others—but it still works.

I know exactly where my RAM runs out: the obvious play.

Ah yes, the “safe” one. The blinking Christmas lights on the tote board. The one everybody and their uncle’s talkin’ about. You say you’re all about value, but that cinch keeps whisperin’ your name like a siren. F*ck that garbage, there ain't nothing that's the obvious play.

And the tote board? That thing ain’t information—it’s noise. It’s just the thoughts of a stampede of livestock, all runnin’ the same direction ’cause the outriders pointed that way. (Bookmark that sentence)

The tote board is not your friend. It’s your enemy. It’s makin’ decisions for you, can we get an Amen!

“Hey Gary, tote board says the 3.”Meanwhile your brain’s screamin’, “Gary, it ain’t the 3. Stop followin’ random opinions. I got one for you—but you ain’t gonna like it.”

You ever get that pit in your belly? That feelin’ where you know you’re wrong, but you do it anyway?

Congratulations. You’re Pavlov’s dog. Bell rang, you jumped.

Handicappin’ is like answerin’ your phone. Somebody’s tryin’ to tell you somethin’. And you better listen—because if you keep sendin’ it to voicemail, you’re just gonna miss another one.

And buddy, they don’t leave messages forever.

You ever notice how a workout analyst—one you actually trust—most of the time, will tell you, real calm-like, “Yeah… this horse is okay,” and that should be all you need? That’s the phone ringin’. That’s information knockin’ on the door, and you are treating that like he's one of them Jehova's witnesses knocking on your door today?

Nah! you decided not today..

Instead, you’re hung up on a bullet work from three weeks ago and a horse you’ve already emotionally adopted. That’s your jam. You named him. You defended him at Thanksgiving.

You told people, “Watch this one.”

And if you’d just answered the dang phone—actually listened—you had it dialed in. All of it. But instead, you followed your lack of intuition, and chased an apparition wearin’ a bullet-work costume like it was Scooby-Doo.

Ruh Roh!

Now listen—we done said this a thousand times: Bullet works are manipulated, figures are man made, and Biases can be a figment of A little guys imagination.

They are dressed up, filtered, staged like an influencer’s vacation photos. But here you go again, scrollin’ past the voicemail and clickin’ the hot take on social media… or worse… lettin’ the tote board tell you how to think.

I ain’t callin’ you dumb, and then again maybe I am, but you sure do sound like somebody handicappin’ by numbers like a kid countin’ stairs:

One: figures.Two: bias.Three: bullet works.

That’s your whole system. That’s your jam. And if I’m right, you lose every single time.

Because those ain’t handicappin’ tools.Those are sirens.And they singin’ your name.

And just like Pavlov’s dogs, here you come—salivating’, barkin’, jumpin’ straight into the water without askin’ who rang the bell.

You are smarter than you think. That brain of yours knows when somethin’ don’t feel right. It whispers before it screams. But intuition don’t shout like a bullet work or flash like a tote board—it just quietly says, “Hey… maybe not this one.”

And if you keep sendin’ that voice to voicemail, don’t be shocked when the race runs right past you.

Answer your phone, daggum it!