Opinion

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.

It was the Travers. I was in trouble.

My on-again-off-again girlfriend and future wife called and said she wanted to come to Saratoga that weekend. Travers Weekend. It must be 20 years ago, maybe more.

Dear Miles,

Thanks for coming to Saratoga. I’m sorry I wasn’t fully engaged with you and your mom while you were here. It’s something I try to be and always think I’ll be, but, like always, I struggled with being present. I got your mom’s phone number at Saratoga in 1990, we’ve had our ups and downs here ever since. There is something about Saratoga that does that to, I believe, everyone. It’s vibrant and intoxicating but it’s also pressured and stressful. I wish I could deal with the latter better than I do.

Billy Howland buffed a brass chifney with a rub rag, walked in loose, light loops in front of the Old Chapel Farm consignment Monday night.

He wrote the speeches, all of them, from the Hall of Fame to the Eclipse Awards.

He went to the father/daughter dances with Bob Baffert’s daughter, when the trainer went on the road to Churchill Downs or Dubai or Belmont Park, always calling his college buddy afterward and reminding him, “You owe me, brother. You owe me.”

Gary Gullo came to Saratoga in 1974. He was 14. He and his friends, they lived on the track, walked hots for Gullo’s dad, Tom. It was good money for 14-year-olds. Water boiling in rusty red metal barrels, propane hissing underneath, corn on the cob dropped in the water for a mid-morning snack. You had to pump the faucets for cold water, dip a bucket into the barrels for hot.

Every year, it happens. I slide into the Hall of Fame induction late after another frenzied pre-sales, pre-Whitney morning at the track. Every year, I nestle in the balcony, usually a corner, always standing. I realize I should have showered, should have shaved, should have put on a coat and tie, at least a button-down dress shirt. But there wasn’t time. There is never time.