Opinion

It’s Saturday afternoon, as I sit down to write this. A blank page stares at me, the horses for the third race canter to the start, Tom Law handicaps Sunday’s races, Linzay Marks sketches a scene for an ad, Joe just walked in the office, he looks like a run-over dog, the interns – fresh off a 72-page deadline and a night out on Caroline Street – are at the races, ready to hammer out some of the words to issue number 29. As I write this, the Travers lies in wait, five hours away. 

Of all the mornings on the backside of Saratoga, it might be my favorite. It was pouring, only the diehards had come out, huddled and hovered under the awning of the Morning Line Kitchen on Travers morning. All of us should have gone home, but somehow stayed, wasting and preserving time all at the same time. 

We are at the stage where solitude is sought. So many conversations, so little sleep, so many late deadlines, so few square meals, so many requests, so little peace. 

Driving the golf cart in the morning has its plusses, you can escape, until someone grabs the windshield stanchion and won’t let go. You get stuck, listening to stories about their first time to Saratoga, fielding suggestions for things we should write in the paper, hearing about one more poor-poor-pitiful-me gambling lament. 

“He’s the last one. The last good Flying Zee horse.”

That’s how Phil Serpe described Weekend Hideaway, winner of a Monday allowance race. It was said in passing, as Serpe walked toward his barn and my golf cart went wherever it was going. Looking back on it, I don’t know if it was before or after the 6-year-old son of Speightstown earned his 11th victory in a tough New York-bred allowance Monday, pushing his earnings to over $800,000.

There is no walk like it in sports. Two thick red lines mark the path, as it burrows through bettors and drinkers under the clubhouse, descends a few feet, past the hand stampers and around the bend, past the red railing where the gate crew hangs, then slices diagonally right, past the bands and the dancers, between the food stands, through the charbroiled burger smell, then juts back to the left past the administrative offices, through the jocks’ agents and wives waiting for celebration or commiseration, then a hard right into the sanctuary of the Saratoga jocks’ room. 

Ask, well text, a simple question. 

Doug,

I talked to Catalano about Family Tree, he said Florent isn’t riding her…is this correct? If so, why? Thanks.

– Sean Clancy

Doug Bredar texted back quickly.

It’s a really long story. Call me if you want the details. It’s a good story!

Around here, we like long stories and we like good stories, so I called him back. 

Watching horses and contemplating trainers, Kidd Breeden leaned back in his golf cart and sighed, “And everybody wants to be a horse trainer.”

We were in the midst of talking about picking spots for horses, wondering if it’s better to run a week early in an easier race or a week later in a tougher race. We never really came up with an answer as the agent drove off to pick up Kendrick Carmouche after he breezed Reporting Star for Elizabeth Voss and I went to chase down Jimmy Jerkens for a Fasig-Tipton Stable Tour. 

Nobody could write it better than Joe Hirsch covering the beat at Monmouth Park for the Daily Racing Form in 1972.

Johnny Mallano had this buddy who made good money walking hots at Aqueduct for Gene Jacobs. The money was the lure for a 16-year-old boy from The Bronx, and so one fall morning two years ago, Mallano accompanied his friend to the Big A and found a career. 

Antonio Sano stood in the winner’s circle at Saratoga. Surrounded by his family – his wife, two sons, his daughter and a cousin. Sano’s Gunnevera was on his way to the test barn after upsetting the Grade 2 Saratoga Special for Sano’s first win at Saratoga on his first visit to Saratoga. The 53-year-old Venezuela-born trainer was basking in the accomplishment, the moment.