Sean Clancy

How did you get here?

Bill Mott stood in the road outside his barn on the Oklahoma bend Wednesday morning and directed traffic. Making sure there were no cars, golf carts or horses, Mott asked for his paddock schoolers to make the walk, hoping to slip through a break in a relentless rain.

The tack trunk sits in the corner, next to a Saratoga 2-year-old winner, under the overhang of the T-shaped barn inside Clare Court. A bag of timothy hay cubes folds and falls. Ankle paint, a soft-bristled, long-stemmed brush dropped in the plastic holder taped around the jar, you know, the quintessential groom-rigged method of efficiency. A stiff bristle brush, it looks like it was thrown from a passing car. Green gel, Epsom salt, a feed tub and a bag of laundry.

Victor Berrios went to school one day. Into the army the next.

It wasn’t his choice.

Early Thursday morning, Joe Campbell waited for a coffee and a chocolate Coolatta at the counter of Dunkin Donuts. A couple of racetrackers stood in line, two golfers planned a tea time from a table and I asked the most natural question I could ask.

Jim Croce said it best.

There is nothing like a Saratoga morning. I’d take the morning over the afternoon, the backside over the frontside. Just for the stories, the conversations, the light nature to a day that hasn’t gotten away from you – yet.

The letter came in the mail about a week ago. Postmarked July 30, San Francisco, California. The return address is from San Mateo, actually. Window envelope, a label with my name, our address over the window. A letter. An actual letter. There is nothing like a letter in the mail.