'You Big Dummy'

Ah... Derby time. The scent of pollen and freshly cut grass lingers in the air like a whispered secret, a harbinger of spring's chaos. Allergies run rampant—nature’s annual tax on enthusiasm—but none of it dulls the singular beauty of the Kentucky Derby.

For true aficionados, the Derby is not merely the “fastest two minutes in sports.” No, it's a season-long, winding odyssey that crescendos into the first Saturday in May. The morning gallops, the blistering works, the vibrant pageantry—it’s all so deeply, uniquely American. And while others find themselves drawn to the people, the spectacle, I, myself, find solace in the horses. I listen to them. They speak to me. As for the rest—well, I keep a finger hovering over the mute button. Most of the voices that echo through this time of year? They inspire one to fall backwards while pretending to lean in.

Now, to be fair, there are some—precious few—whose opinions I genuinely respect. But they are unicorns in a herd of braying mules. The rest? Just noise in a sport that deserves poetry.

Even now, at my... let’s call it a "well-seasoned" age, I remain a student. Always learning, always reaching forward by shedding the skin of the past, eyes open in the present. That’s the magic of the Derby—it brings together the sages and the thrill-seekers, shoulder to shoulder, all chasing the same ghost: the winner of the race. You could win twelve races on Derby Day, but hit the Derby itself just once, and you’ll earn bragging rights for the year—and perhaps a few shackles to jingle in your pocket.

Of course, along with the spectacle come the braggarts and the bravado. So many puffed-up egos predicting greatness, only to end the evening with a “GoFundMe” plea for dinner money. And the analysis... oh, the analysis. Gems like: “They worked him on the rail to teach him to ride the rail,” or “He came out on the track and was looking around.” One I must admit I rather liked—“I like a horse that keeps his eyes forward.” Ah yes, because what we really want is a horse with forward-facing eyeballs and good posture. Beat me with a hot dog on a stick, that one had some serious mustard on it.

And the commentators—“He could go to the lead… or then again, might not.” Bravo, truly. The hedged bet. A masterclass in saying nothing with conviction. “He looks strong,” they proclaim. Yes, and water is wet. The Hulk is green.

You see, around Derby time, racegoers—veteran and novice alike—lose their collective minds. Everything they’ve ever known about this game, or the little they think they know, becomes a scene out of Sanford & Son. “You big dummy.”

But I digress. In the end, the Derby isn’t just about the race—it’s about the noise. The noise you learn to shut out. The kind that makes you wish tongue ties were fitted for humans. For my sanity, I’ll put blinkers on—metaphorically, of course—and let the horses talk. Quietly. Intimately.

Eyes forward. Always.