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Like the rest of us, agent Billy Castle watched the Travers somewhat in disbelief. His jockey, David Cohen, established a position on the rail with Golden Ticket, turned for home, implored the 33-1 shot for energy. At the eighth pole, they led the $1 million race by a length; at the sixteenth pole, the margin was the same . . . and then it wasn’t. At the wire, they didn’t lead it at all as Alpha arrived alongside.

It’s that time of year . . . when you lament what you didn’t do instead of promising what you’re going to do. It’s nearly over. Three remaining issues, that’s it until next year.

 Pete Bradley is no Irishman. But he can imitate one. “You know, she ran pretty good, she won by six, you know,” Bradley said, in his best Irish brogue, imitating his friend Ed Daley who had called about a 2-year-old filly who had broken her maiden by 6 lengths at Navan in April.

Beau Choix could be your buddy from college. You know the guy. He’s big, he drinks as much free beer as you’ll give him, he’s successful enough to make you jealous but he’s not going to overwhelm you with it.

Push, pull, push, pull, push, pull. John Velazquez looked more like an Olympic rower than a jockey while describing what it’s like to ride Love And Pride, a 4-year-old filly with her own ideas about racing strategy.

Allen Jerkens drove his golf cart from this barn deep in Clare Court to the outside rail, near the three-quarter pole to see a daughter of Passing Shot gallop. On a dreary Tuesday morning, rain had drenched the track, keeping many horses in the barn and a late night at 13 had kept plenty of others in bed.

Walking down the stairs from the box seats, Kiaran McLaughlin looked across the track to the big screen in the infield. He uttered one word that summed up the 143rd Travers Stakes.

“Tight.”

Kiaran McLaughlin watched his Kentucky Derby dream slip away.

“We lost the race before the race,” the trainer said. “I went to the paddock with 88 minutes to post, I sat down on a bench and was waiting. Alpha came in with 20 something minutes to post, I felt like he was a popsicle melting right before my eyes.”

In the photo, you can count the treads on John Velazquez’s boots. Braced like the anchor man in a tug of war, his feet are angled at 45 degrees, his hands eight inches off Turbulent Descent’s neck, her ears are pinned back as she rips through a half-mile breeze on the main track, 20 days before the Grade I Ballerina.

“We are not doing this like this again.”

The over/under on that statement was issue #11, as sales week began to inhale us. It’s the first tell-tale sign of stress, you can’t get to the cleaners, you’re out of razor blades, you forgot an ad, you put the wrong stakes name on the cover, you get kicked around by a Saratoga star who was born in 1978, you lay on your horn as the old lady tries to walk across the crosswalk and you’re late for the races.