Word Salad for Dummies

Ah, the bullet work.That flashy little fart of data that every horseplayer clutches like it’s the Dead Sea Scrolls."The caviar of handicapping," they say—yeah, if caviar came out of a vending machine at a Greyhound terminal.

You ever watch people when they see a bullet?They light up like they just saw Jesus in a Daily Racing Form.“Oh look, it went 47 and change! Must be a monster!”No, genius—it went 47 because it needed to pee and didn’t like company. Or maybe the jock just wanted to go home.But go ahead, build your whole Pick Five around that time. I’ll be here with a six-pack and a shovel when you bury your bankroll.

Patterns. Oh, the sweet, sweet myth of patterns. Like horses are Swiss watches."Every seven days, I want to see a breeze," they say. Sure, pal. And I want to see world peace and my ex return my lawn chairs and sweater. But that ain’t happening either.

You ever heard of weather? You ever seen what happens to a racetrack when it rains sideways and freezes solid? You can’t even get a snow cone to stand up straight, but you expect a horse to keep his schedule? Come on. Horses miss works. Trainers scratch their heads. You panic like your retirement plan just ran off with your brother-in-law and your wife. And God forbid social media hears about it—then it’s DEFCON 5.“OH NO! Missed a work! He must’ve fallen in a hole! He's done!”

No. Maybe he just needed a goddamn break.You ever think about that? Horses, like people, get tired of running in circles for people wearing fedoras and losing tickets screaming your number instead of your name.

And now—let’s talk about “The Game.”The Real Game. Not the one on the track, but the one behind the curtain, where the men in suits don’t wear silks.You think it’s about competition? It’s about control. About who sets the odds, who sells the dream, who rakes the chips in. It’s a carnival scam with better lighting and fancier jargon. And you? You’re not a player—you’re the goddamn mark.

They sell you bullets and patterns like it’s gospel.“Believe in the numbers!”Like you're in a cult led by some spreadsheet-wielding wizard with endless lives. But the truth is, none of that matters if you don’t know what the hell you’re watching.You gotta know trainer intent.You gotta see the horse, not the hype.

Some horses blast off like missiles and fizzle out in the last few yards. Others take a furlong to wake up and then run like their tail’s on fire. It’s not about time—it’s about movement, mechanics, the damn poetry of muscle and bone.

Stride integrity! Yeah, that’s the one. Not how fast, but how well. Those who hold their stride integrity the longest are the ones with the big bank accounts. You ever see a horse glide like it’s not even touching the ground? That's what you're looking for. Not the one that clocked a 59 flat with its neck jammed and legs flailing like an inflatable car lot dancer.

And then there’s Saratoga. Oh God, Saratoga—the Ivy League of racing dysfunction. Pressure? You think Wall Street’s got pressure? Try sending a $400,000 yearling into a maiden special on a muddy Thursday morning track. Everyone wants to win at Saratoga.So they push. They rush. They force. And next thing you know, they’ve cooked a good horse into a pleasure riding horse, maybe even one that can jump fences.

Because fit isn’t enough.You push too hard, and suddenly your Derby hopeful looks like it needs a joint and a support group.

So yeah—watch your bullets. Watch your patterns. And for God’s sake, watch your step—because this game is full of banana peels wearing Rolexes.

The real players?

They don’t chase shadows.They see the system for what it is: a beautifully rigged machine.And the art? The art is knowing when to play along... and when to burn the damn script.

Sticky Horses

Sticky horses. Oh, Jesus. Sticky horses.The gum-on-your-shoe of the racing world. The type of horse that wins the mental battle, but loses the damn war. They beat one horse—just one!—and then... they wait.Like they’re in line at the DMV.“Excuse me, sir, is it my turn to pass the next horse yet? No? I’ll just loiter here in the two-path like an indecisive jogger.”

They linger. They stick.They treat the lead like a weird Airbnb—uncomfortable, awkward, and probably temporary.

These are the types that will inherit the lead and then look around like,“Well hell, I wasn’t trying to be in front—should I wait for someone to come challenge me?”YES, DAMMIT, and that someone is already blowing by you like a goddamn hurricane on rollerblades.

And it drives the horseplayer insane. You’ve got your dough riding on this horse, and he’s sitting there playing Red Light, Green Light with a bunch of horses he already handled!

And then—BAM!—from out of nowhere comes a horse who doesn’t care who's around him. He’s got tunnel vision and blood in his eyes. Meanwhile, your sticky horse is still writing a postcard to the one he passed at the quarter pole.

How can you tell a sticky horse? Look at the equipment.

Look, if you ever find yourself starin’ at a horse wearin’ more hardware than a damn NASCAR pit crew, it might be time to ask the trainer a few hard questions—not about the horse, but about their life choices.

You’re sittin’ there lookin’ at this poor animal with blinkers, a tongue tie, a shadow roll, figure-eight noseband, maybe a set of draw reins, and a bit that looks like it came from the Spanish Inquisition. And you go:

"My guy… what do we got here, is this horse Hannibal Lecter or auditioning for the Renaissance Jousting competition?"

Because if you need that much gear to convince this majestic 1,200-pound athlete not to make a hard left turn for the Baskin Robbins cart on the apron—or to avoid the siren song of the snow cone machine over in General Admission like he’s a drunk uncle at a county fair—then you got a horse problem, brother.

Let’s break it down:

• Blinkers? Okay, sure, maybe he’s spooky. But full cup, half cup, cheater cup, French cup—what are we doin', makin’ espresso, macchiatos or trainin’ a racehorse?

• Tongue tie? That ain’t for speed, that’s to keep him from telling someone what the trainer been doin’ to him.

• Shadow roll? Is he jumpy or just trying to not trip over the weight of the trainers insecurities?

• All of it together? This ain't trainin’ a racehorse, its dealing with a damn hostage negotiator.

  
  

At some point, someone’s gotta say, “Hey man… maybe if the horse wants ice cream that bad, maybe he’s just done with this gig. Maybe he’s not the next Secretariat—maybe he’s the next Dairy Queen franchisee, and that’s okay!”

'Cause a horse shouldn’t need a medieval torture kit to convince him to run in a straight line. And if he does, that’s not a training strategy—that’s a cry for help.

So yeah, maybe next time you're strappin' on every piece of tack in the catalog like you’re loadin' up for a Renaissance Faire bonanza, just take a breath. Look your reflection in the aluminum shed wall and ask yourself why am I betting on this medieval pony.

If the answer is, “ the equipment is an effort tryin’ to stop him from takin' off toward the funnel cake stand,” well… then you have your answer, don’t ya?

And it’s not just horses.Oh no, sticky isn’t just for four-legged indecisive creatures with blinders. Handicappers can be sticky too. Sticky on figures. Sticky on ratings. Sticky on the idea that one damn number can explain everything.

Investing in horses without properly giving the pony in question a thorough visual inspection is like being a diabetic in a candy store.

What about the dude that only looks at the stars or ratings on a workout report?

“I just look at the stars.”Yeah, well I just look at the exit when I hear that.

Let me tell you something about those stars. A 2-star work isn’t a condemnation—it’s a neutral. A “meh.” A “did nothing because that’s what they wanted today.”It’s not a funeral. It’s a stretch. It’s yoga for Thoroughbreds.

But these people—they lose their minds.They want every work to be fireworks and glory and Secretariat reincarnated, every damn week.They don’t understand that sometimes the best thing you can do with a horse is let him breathe. Let him coast.Let him feel his oats without having to prove his manhood every six days, that's how they end up being geldings.

And oh, the physical appearance trap—yeah, that’ll get ya.I had a guy once—let’s call him “Jeff,” because his real name was probably “Moron”—He worked for a California trainer, knew his way around a horse, could pick a pretty one out of a crowd. We’re at Churchill Downs, fall meet.He sees a Bill Mott horse and melts like a teenager at a boy band concert.“This one’s a champion!” he says.No, genius—this one’s a Mott horse. They all look like that.

I told him: "Don't fall in love with the wrapper. You’re buying the whole damn chocolate bar. "But no, Jeff was in heat. He’s betting the house, the car, the inheritance, the neighbor’s cat and parakeet. And what happens? Horse runs fourth. Dull.

He is an hair stylist now. Not the horse, 'Jeff'.

He’s standing there after the race like someone stole his bicycle.“How could something so good-looking run so bad? ”Well maybe because looks ain’t performance, Jeff.This ain’t a beauty pageant—it’s a survival contest with dirt.

And horseplayers? God love ‘em, but they can be the most sticky, gum-covered, star-chasing, note-ignoring Brady bunch in the game.They get addicted to one thing: validation. They want three stars, four stars, glowing commentary, a telegram from God saying “Bet this one. ”But they never want to hear “average” or “by design.”They treat a 2-star like a death sentence—when really, it just means the damn horse was jogging and not auditioning for Cirque du Soleil.

Some horses work lights out every week—and amount to absolutely nothing. Because this isn’t about stringing together fast times. It’s about knowing when to push and when to pause. Horses aren’t machines—they’re athletes. And the best ones? They peak. They dip. They strut. If you can’t handle that, maybe your money belongs in a video poker machine.

So yeah—horses can be sticky. But horseplayers? Horseplayers can be stuck like gum in hair.On patterns, on numbers, on assumptions.They want this game to be easy, but easy doesn’t pay. Easy gets you broke, bitter, and asking your Uber driver for loan advice after a fifth of Vodka.

You want to win? Unstick yourself. Peel the gum off the shoe, wipe the stars outta your eyes, and start thinking. 'Cause if all you’re doing is chasing numbers without context,Then you're not handicapping—you’re just gambling with subtitles.

"But he drew the rail."

There it is.The phrase that drops out of someone’s mouth like a turd in the punchbowl.You’re sittin’ there, feelin’ good about your pick—numbers check out, works are solid, horse looks sharp—and then here comes some half-baked bobblehead, with a forehead so shiny it should come with a lens flare, sayin’:“Yeah, but he drew the rail.”Cue the sad trombone.

The rail—the red-headed bastard stepchild of the post position family.You’d think horses who draw the one-hole were legally obligated to go directly into witness protection and never be heard from again.

And I’m tellin’ you right now—it’s bullshit. It’s become one of those lazy, regurgitated, no-thinking-required clichés that gets passed around like your weird uncle’s coleslaw at a family picnic—nobody wants it, but somehow it keeps showing up.

You hear it from everyone:“He drew the rail, that’s tough.”Tough for who? Tough for the horse, or tough for the handicapper who doesn’t know when to stuff his pie hole to stop talking.

'Cause guess what? Post position isn’t some mystical curse, it’s just a damn number on a gate. If your horse can’t handle being inside, he probably can’t handle much of anything. The rail didn’t kill him—being mediocre did.

And don’t give me that crap about getting “boxed in.”You know who gets boxed in? Slow horses.You know who doesn’t get boxed in? Horses with intent. Horses with gears. Horses who didn’t wake up that morning wondering if they’d have enough room for a little jog in the park pulling a cart with some fruit.

But, oh no—once the rail comes into play, logic goes out the window and suddenly people start talkin’ like Nostradamus on NyQuil: “Historically, the inside has been a disadvantage on this surface...”Yeah? Well, historically, people used to think Earth was flat and leeches could cure the flu—so how 'bout we stop worshipping history like it was written by Moses on Mount Track Bias and start sprinkling some common sense on your wheaties in the morning.

Let me drop a little reality on you: The rail is only a problem if you make it one. If your jockey knows what he's doing, and your horse has the ability, you can win from anywhere. It’s not the rail’s fault your horse has the early speed of a garden gnome in flip-flops.

And here's the kicker—they keep using it. Again and again. As a built-in excuse, a nice cozy pillow to land on when they get it wrong.“Oh yeah, I liked him, but the drew the rail man.... like they just got out of a Cheech and Chong movie. They just say things. No accountability, no critical thought—just repeat the greatest hits of Handicapper Karaoke:"Speed’s holding,""Bounce-back angle,""He's due,"And of course... “He drew the rail.”

These people think a “trip note” is what you leave your dealer after a mushroom binge.

So let me ask you this: What if I told you the rail is just fine? What if I told you the inside posts win at a normal clip or better at most track, depending on the surface, the distance, and the other dainggone horses in the field?

But nah. That wouldn’t fit the narrative. That wouldn't let them cling to their precious clichés like a toddler to a stuffed giraffe.

Because that’s what it is, man. It’s fear. It’s ignorance. It’s laziness with a thesaurus. It’s a world full of bettors trying to explain why they lost with a horse who couldn’t outrun a can of soup, and they say—“Yeah, he drew the rail.”

The post position stats for Saratoga shine a light:

The rail sprinting and routing on the main are out of this world.

While we are here, let’s visit post position stats, shall we?

Yeah, those precious little numbers that tracks treat like sacred scripture—“This post wins 17.3% of the time!”—as if the horse gives a damn about decimals.

Let me tell you something about post position stats: They’re a con. A statistical shell game played by WHAT SEEMS mouth-breathing data monkeys who couldn’t tell a chute from a shedrow. They take every possible variable in the known universe—surface,

distance, turn configuration, hemisphere, maybe even lunar phase—and they just throw it in a blender and pour out some steaming hot B.S. for you to digest.

When Bo Cruz broke his maiden at Fair Grounds, in his second start, he was going two turns, and drew the rail, the talking head on the television, out loud, "but he drew the rail."

The rail at Fair Grounds going two turns on the main track was clicking at 20%, by the far the best percentage of any post at routes, and here is Yoko Loco, questioning the rail.

That's what they do! The curiosity of a snail.

When it comes down to stats, as well, they lump everything together like it’s a box of CHOCOLATES. Turf, dirt, Tapeta—doesn’t matter. They all go in the same pile. South Florida? You got Gulfstream Park running on main track, synthetic, turf, and maybe your grandma’s driveway, and these geniuses say, “Well, the 1-post wins 12.6% of the time overall.”

Overall?! OVERALL?! Are you KIDDING me?

It’s like saying “Most car crashes happen in vehicles,” and expecting that to help you drive better. I have been in a few car accidents and in all of them a vehicle was involved.

Sprint? Route? One turn? Two turns? Oh who cares, right? Just call it a race! They’ll tell you a one-turn mile is a “route” because it’s eight furlongs...Eight furlongs, my ass! Seven and one Half Furlongs on the turf, going 2 turns, is a sprint. The one turn mile is a one-turn drag race, and it’s got as much in common with a two-turn 7 and 1/2 half furlong as a bar fight has with a chess match.

But don’t worry, your local analyst will be on air with their stupid little pointer, saying “Well, the outside posts don’t do well here.”Yeah? Based on what?! Turf sprints? Route

marathons? Synthetic nightcaps in hurricane season?! Tell me what data you’re quoting before you use it to scare the public into betting Post 5 like it’s the goddamn ark of the covenant.

Post position matters, yes, but only when you give a shit about context. And context is the one thing the racing industry would rather not talk about. Because that would require a functioning brain stem attached to a medulla oblingata.

They break things down by sprint vs. route—oh thank you, lords of logic! But do they tell you how many turns are involved? or account for quirky start points like a mile on the Widener turf at Belmont where the rail position is closer to Canada than the inner rail?

Hell no!

They slap a number on it and expect you to worship it like a golden calf.

And let’s talk about that—worship. The average bettor sees “Post 8 is winning 5% of the time,” and suddenly their pick might as well be buried alive under the toteboard. “Oh no, he’s in the 8-hole, scratch him off! ”Why?! Because the track lumped together Tapeta, turf, two-turn dirt, and maybe a steeplechase or two in that sample?

It’s not just lazy—it’s intellectually bogus modus operandi.

The industry sells these stats like Powerball numbers, and horseplayers eat it up like slop at a petting zoo.

So here’s the real deal:If you're gonna use post position stats, then use them with precision. Break it down by surface. Break it down by distance. Break it down by configuration. One turn ain’t two turns. Seven furlongs ain’t six. Turf ain’t dirt. And Tapeta? Tapeta ain’t nothin’ but track sorbet—it’s what they serve when they ran outta real racing.

So the next time someone tells you a post position is “winning X percent of the time,”you tell them:

“Only if you're dumb enough to believe in astrology for gamblers.”

And then go handicap the damn race like a real human being.With eyes.And a brain.And common sense.

Because lumping post position stats together like that?That's not analysis.That’s laziness in a necktie.

That’s not an explanation.That’s a cop-out. That’s a mental Band-Aid for people too afraid to admit they just picked the wrong horse.

The rail didn’t kill your bet. Your logic, or lack of, did.

So next time you hear someone mutter that phrase like it's some holy warning—Just smile. And bet the best horse regardless.

The Bounce

Finally, Ohh baby, now we're gonna talk about “the bounce”—and not the kind you see at the strip club at 3AM. No, this is racing’s favorite invisible boogeyman. You know it. I know it. The guy in the bowtie on the simulcast feed knows it.

They throw it out like confetti every time a horse runs like a sack of wet laundry.“Oh, he bounced.”Yeah, well, so did my rent check. Let’s dig in.

Figure-makers—you know, the math nerds with the $500 glasses and the $5 insight—will tell you a bounce is just a regression in performance numbers. Like this whole thing is just numbers in a spreadsheet and we’re all just racetrack actuaries. “The Beyer dropped eight points!”Yeah? Well, so did my faith in humanity.

But here’s the thing... that bounce ain’t just in the numbers—it’s in the body, it’s in the mind, it’s in the soul of the damn animal. These are not widgets. These are living, breathing bundles of nerves and muscle that shit standing up and panic when they hear a trash can lid.

Horses don’t just bounce because some math geek says they should. They bounce because of stress.You ever get stressed? Ever lose your keys, stub your toe, burn your lips on your coffee, and then walk into a meeting where your boss says, “You look tired”? That’s a bounce, pal. And it happens to horses, too.

Let’s run down the list of bounce-o-matics, shall we?

1. Competition.

Oh yeah. Stick your horse in a race with real runners, the kind that eat pace pressure for breakfast, and suddenly your freaky-fast maiden breaker looks like a lawn ornament with blinkers.It’s like tossing a beer-league softball player into Yankee Stadium—he ain't bouncing, he’s drowning.

2. Mental Stress.

Oh, here's the fun one. You can see it in the eyes. Ever look at a horse in the paddock and think, “He’s about to file his own restraining order against his trainer”? Yeah, that horse is about to bounce like a Super Ball in a dryer.

Mental stress is silent sabotage.The heart rate spikes. The adrenaline misfires. The horse gets hot, fractious, edgy—starts doing the piston shuffle, you know that one—legs going up and down like a jackhammer on Red Bull.I see that? I’m out. I don’t care if he just worked like Secretariat on rocket fuel. That’s nervous energy and that turns a racehorse into a rodeo act.

3. Post-Race Works.

Ohhh the post-race trap.You see that monster work a week after a monster win, and you think, “Oh baby, he’s BETTER than ever!”No.No he’s not.He’s wound up tighter than a church lady in Vegas, and he’s burning gas he doesn’t have.The bounce is brewing. You just don’t see it yet.You’ll see it when he hits the eighth pole like he forgot how to gallop.

4. Bad Racing Luck.

You ever sit in traffic for 90 minutes and still arrive late? Yeah. Same thing.Horse gets boxed, bumped, clipped, checked, steadied, dragged into a speed duel, or just plain doesn’t get to do his thing—boom!Bounce.But instead of calling it what it is—a bad trip—they go straight to the ol’ “He must’ve bounced.”Like that’s the universal scapegoat. The horseracing equivalent of “my dog ate my homework.”

5. Physical Pain.

Yeah, here’s the dark truth. Sometimes, they’re just hurting.But it’s not always visible right away. A horse can be lame, off, or injured before you even know it. Stress fractures take days to show up. Bruised feet, back soreness, inflammation—it’s all under the hood. And the horse? Can’t tell you. He just knows something hurts and he ain't runnin' like he did last week.

And now the kicker: Handicappers bounce too.Oh yeah. You can tell who they are. They start saying “bounce” like it’s a get-out-of-jail-free card. Their horse runs up the track like he’s looking for his car keys and they say, “He bounced. ”Nah, man—you bounced.You bounced from one lazy narrative to the next, ignoring the parade, the paddock, the gate behavior, the pace, the jockey, the trainer, the damn moon phase—just so you can pretend you're still sharp. Spoiler: you're ain't.

Let’s be honest, y’all: The bounce is real.It’s as real as your cousin Ricky’s mullet at a Kid Rock concert.But—and here’s the kicker—not every bounce is a bounce.

Sometimes? The horse just had a bad day.Hell, don’t you? You ever try gettin’ up early on a Monday after drinkin’ too many Busch Lights at a family reunion? Exactly.

Sometimes? The horse got stressed. You ever been asked to run a mile while 40,000 drunk people scream at you and your underwranglers too tight? Yeah. Me neither. But I bet it’d mess with your performance, too.

Sometimes? The race didn’t suit him. Like, yeah, he can sprint, but not seven furlongs up a hill into a headwind with a damn drag chute on his back. Don’t mean he’s a bum, just means you asked him to play jazz when he’s a bluegrass guy.

Sometimes? The jockey went rogue. You ever watch a jock throw out the game plan like he’s tryin’ to beat traffic out the parking lot? "Oh we’re rating now? Nah, let’s go full send at the 3/8ths pole!" Like, bruh, this ain't Fast & Furious and he ain't Vin Diesel.

And sometimes…Brace yourself. Hold onto your koozie.

It’s your fault.

Yeah, I said it. Not the trainer, not the jock, not Mercury being in Gatorade or whatever.

YOU.

You saw one sharp work and a sixth-place finish where he “closed a little” and you built a whole Disney underdog movie in your head.

You told your buddies, “He’s the wise guy horse.” No man, he’s a last-out maiden winner stretchin’ out on short rest. That ain’t smart. That’s delusional optimism with a parlay ticket.

So next time your pick tanks—lays an egg so hard it rolls uphill—don’t go yellin’ “He bounced!” like it’s some cosmic conspiracy.

Ask yourself:

Did he bounce…Or am I just a good ole boy with a beer in my koozie ?