WHAT HAPPENED TO SEABISCUIT?'

I've been thinking about Seabiscuit lately.

And I've come to the conclusion that if Seabiscuit came along today, I'm not sure he'd get the same reception he got in his day.

Actually, I'm pretty damn sure he wouldn't.

In the Seabiscuit era, the underdog was celebrated.

Cheered.

Elevated.

Paraded.

The little guy had a horse to believe in.

Seabiscuit wasn't supposed to be there. He wasn't the horse with the biggest price tag, the biggest pedigree or the richest people standing behind him.

He was the horse people could identify with.

He represented the little guy.

Today?

Good luck.

Today, the expensive horse comes with his own cheering section.

The wealthy connections have cheerleaders.

The media is a cheerleader itself.

Social media has an army of cheerleaders.

And if you've got enough money behind you, apparently you can buy yourself a fucking bandwagon with WiFi and all.

Seabiscuit would have one bad race today and the internet would be lined up waiting to bury him.

“He's a bum.”

“Overrated.”

“Never belonged with these.”

Meanwhile, the horse with a seven-figure price tag gets every excuse known to mankind.

Bad trip.

Wrong surface.

Wrong distance.

Didn't like the track.

Needed the race.

Trainer can have a left guard, a left tackle and probably a fucking fullback out there blocking for him.

Whatever it takes.

Because when enough money is involved, failure apparently requires an explanation.

The Seabiscuit era was different.

He was a champion of the little folks.

Today, the bandwagon often starts at the auction.

That's where we've gotten.

How much did he bring?

That's the first question.

Not how he moves.

Not how he thinks.

Not how he handles himself.

Not what kind of athlete he is.

How much did he bring?

Seven figures?

Oh shit, everybody get behind him.

Homebred?

Yawn.

Well...

Who the hell is that sire?

Who was the dam?

Did the dam win a Grade 1?

Did the sire produce a Grade 1?

Did somebody spend $2 million on the family?

Because if not, apparently we need to move along.

There is this unbelievable thirst for the lifestyle of the rich and famous in racing.

People scour auction results looking for seven-figure horses.

And here's the amazing part:

They can actually recognize seven figures.

Congratufuckinglations.

Big numbers are wonderful for the seller.

Period.

The bigger the number, the better it is for the person selling the horse.

It doesn't automatically make the horse better.

If somebody actually did a legitimate study of all the million-dollar horses bought at auction and tracked them over their careers, I suspect you'd have a bloodbath.

A very expensive bloodbath.

Maybe a nice tax write-off.

But a bloodbath nonetheless.

Money buys quantity.

If you've got enough money, you can buy more horses.

And if you buy enough horses, eventually you're going to get a good one.

That's not necessarily genius.

That's mathematics.

Buy enough lottery tickets and eventually somebody's going to hit the damn lottery.

Of course, if you're lucky.

Seabiscuit today?

He probably gets bought by somebody like the late Larry Demeritte.

And for a minute, everybody loves the story.

Everybody gets warm and fuzzy.

Look at this!

The little guy!

The old-school trainer!

The overlooked horse!

What a great story!

And then, two minutes later, we're back to talking about the sires, the buyers, the auction prices and the latest $2 million horse.

Because that's what we've trained ourselves to worship.

Money.

Numbers.

Names.

Connections.

The lifestyle.

If Seabiscuit were running today, I can almost hear the social media comments.

“Who did he beat?”

“Look at the Beyer.”

“He's not a real Grade 1 horse.”

“Wait until he faces the expensive horses.”

And if he loses?

“See? Told you he was a bum.”

That's today's game.

And here's the uncomfortable truth:

The problem isn't the horses.

It's us.

We've become fascinated with wealth.

Reality television has helped turn wealth into entertainment.

We're watching the Housewives of the Rich and Famous and whatever other bullshit television shows people watch where somebody's greatest accomplishment is apparently owning a purse that costs more than my first house.

Then we bring that mentality into horse racing.

We see somebody spend $1 million and suddenly we're interested.

Somebody spends $2 million?

Holy shit, this must be the next Secretariat.

Somebody spends $3 million?

Better get the damn parade ready.

Meanwhile, some guy buys a horse for $25,000, or god forbid, breeds to race, brings him along patiently and wins a stakes race. Yawn... boring

Crickets.

That's not sexy enough.

There isn't enough money attached to the story.

There isn't enough celebrity.

There isn't enough lifestyle.

You know someone would have uttered "He was bought for $3K how good can he be?"

And that's exactly what Seabiscuit had that today's racing doesn't seem to value:

He gave ordinary people somebody to believe in.

He wasn't just a horse.

He was a story.

He was hope.

He was proof that you didn't have to be born into the right family, sold for the right price or surrounded by the right people to matter.

Today, if you're not connected to the right people, you'd better have a hell of a marketing department.

And if you're rich enough?

Well, congratulations.

You've already got one.

If Mike Repole wasn't filthy rich, he probably wouldn't get nearly the traction he gets.

That's not an insult.

It's reality.

Money brings attention.

Attention brings followers.

Followers create momentum.

Momentum creates a bandwagon.

And once the bandwagon gets moving, everybody wants a seat.

That's the modern version of War Admiral.

Except today, War Admiral would have a social-media team, a media machine, a million-dollar auction price and 400 people explaining why every bad race wasn't really a bad race.

Seabiscuit?

He'd have to fight his way through the comments section.

And that's a damn shame.

Because maybe what horse racing needs isn't another seven-figure horse for us to worship.

Maybe it needs another Seabiscuit.

A horse that gives the little guy somebody to believe in.

A horse that reminds us why we fell in love with this game in the first place.

Not because of the price tag.

Not because of the bloodstock agent.

Not because of the owner.

Not because some talking head told us who to cheer for.

Because the horse gave us a reason to cheer.

And you know who's going to cheer?

Me.

My friends.

The people who love this game.

The people who don't have a $10 million bankroll.

The people who don't have a private jet parked outside the sales grounds.

The people who don't have their own cheering section built into the price tag.

Because that's the beauty of this game.

The dream isn't supposed to belong only to the people with the biggest bankroll.

It's supposed to belong to all of us.

That's what Seabiscuit represented.

The idea that maybe—just maybe—you could find that horse.

That horse nobody else wanted.

That horse nobody thought was good enough.

That horse that didn't come with a seven-figure receipt or a famous last name.

And maybe, just maybe, that horse could take you somewhere nobody expected him to go.

That's the dream.

That's why we're here.

And if I ever get lucky enough to have another Seabiscuit come along?

You won't have to tell me who to cheer for.

I'll already be standing there, screaming my fucking head off.