News

Stop 1. The porch. 1,500 newspapers await. They go in the van 50 at a time. It’s 6 a.m. and the teenagers are already out the door and at the track. The air is cool, the list is long; come on day, let’s go.

Jock’s agent Mike Sellito took Jose Santos to the top (or, perhaps, back to the top). He took Kent Desormeaux to the top (again, back to the top). They are both Hall of Famers and Sellito was, at least somewhat, responsible for their latter-day achievements.

I didn’t bet the last race on Sunday, just watched it on the big screen in the clubhouse like normal – but I cheered, leaned, rooted, stomped my foot and took off running toward the track when Wet One crossed the wire first.

It’s a raw, foggy March morning and Mick Channon, former footballer turned racehorse trainer, is in high gear, driving his Land Rover between rows of turf and all-weather gallops at his West Ilsley Stable, the one Channon bought from The Queen, outside Lambourn in England.

Two years ago, I had to hunt for Charlie Lopresti. He was a name on a page, a trainer shipping in for a stakes and we needed a preview. He was also largely unknown.

There’s a chair outside the office of Kelly Breen’s barn. There’s an open brown box on top of the chair, inside that, a black briefcase; a white feed bucket tops off the mound. The trainer struggles to find a spot to place his iPad to charge. You’ve been there; those white cords are just never long enough. Breen places the iPad on the mound and in a perfect balancing act everything stays put.

Dear Mr. Lee “Toadie” Taylor:

I hope this letter finds you in good spirit and health. This office received a complaint from your office about the first two versions of the Cup of Coffee column in this paper. Your comment, “Too Syrupy” was duly noted in the Complaints Department at The Saratoga Special (otherwise known as “There’s the Door”). A representative of the company will be in touch with you as soon as possible (2027 looks like the next opening).

Tony Micallef waited for Kiaran McLaughlin outside the winner’s circle after the TVG Coaching Club American Oaks. The agent bearhugged McLaughlin.

The new Steeplechase Exhibit at the National Museum of Racing prompted a trip to the attic, over the crib, around the rugs, past the box of VHS tapes and under a hockey bag. There she is. Dropped there, like I was going to pick her up and go racing next weekend. Zipper broken long ago, it doesn’t close. The corner’s ripped, duct tape once held it shut for the long van rides to Nashville, now, the duct tape is gone, leaving a gaping hole, a flesh wound on an old soldier.

My friend Richard Valentine asked the question, innocuously, innocently, matter-of-factly, “Do you still get that same feeling when you drive into Saratoga?”