But first; the handicapping.
I had given passing thought to spending some hours handicapping at Oxford's newly-opened Lane Library. Yet every time I drive by during business hours, it's meager parking lot is jam-packed with assorted dented Volkswagens, Volvos plastered in bumper stickers and Prius'....Priuses?.... Prii?....Priusites? At any rate you understand. I wasn't certain I would find for myself a quiet, comfy space where I could study my Daily Racing Form. Plus, when handicapping from The Ranch I could look out my window and see a setting like this:
All throughout the region, this autumn, the maple trees have been putting on a show!
Here (above), you see the Jeep Main Battle Tank idling at the post office where a maple tree blazes its autumnal color at the end of the parking lot.
Most of the week, however, was cloudy and rainy and so when I took a break from scrutinizing the DRF to gaze out upon the West 40 here at The Ranch, the fall colors often were subdued due to the lack of brilliant sunlight:
The green-yellow leaves of the tulip poplar occupies the center of the image above. At upper left, a hickory tree's leaves have already shifted from yellow to brown. In gold, at upper right, the tallest tree on the property - a mighty ash - has already been subjected to invasive insect attack and its days are now numbered. In point of fact, this ash tree stands well back from the tulip poplar and, even so, from this angle of sightline the ash still tops the tulip poplar. A veritable kaleidoscope of colors right outside my window. Why go anywhere else?
Along the right edge of the photo above, a skeletal-looking walnut tree lost its leaves long ago. Walnut trees here at The Ranch are always the last to produce leaves and the second (after the buckeye trees) to lose them.
Back into the sunlight, a bright carpet of leaves on the lawn was underfoot:
On the rare occasions last week when the sun made its appearance, it announced itself by brushing a shifting pattern of shadows across my Daily Racing Form. Inside the Form, I discovered the usual sort of funny or odd elements. Such as a horse which raced recently at Ascot (UK) in a 30-horse field!
That was the Ascot Royal Hunt Cup. One wonders if it was a steeplechase that included foxes?
Closer to home, a stakes race with a name nearer and dearer to the hearts of comedy-minded race fans in North America:
The Mr Warmth Stakes!
If you prefer to bet horses based upon their names, you had a wide variety to select from:
Who couldn't like Da Big Hoss?
"30 minutes or less!" Lou said of The Pizza Man. Lou is sneaky funny.
Bogie most certainly wasn't bred in Ireland! In North America you cannot name a racehorse with the first and last name of a specific individual without first receiving permission (and then final approval by the Jockey Club). This is not the case elsewhere around the globe where pirates and communists care little for copyrights, property rights or identity rights.
Among the oddities to be discovered in this years Breeders' Cup Advance issue of the DRF was this item, above. The Irish-bred Esoterique is owned by the Baron Edouard de Rothschild. Yes, of those Rothschilds. Back in August of 2014 the Baron entered Esoterique into the Prix Rothschild (highlighted, above in the red box). Funny enough, he won his own race. Yes... funny, that.
Another oddity involved an Irish-bred filly named Miss France:
Again; an Irish-bred filly named Miss France. Sired by a British horse. Out of an Irish mare. Ridden that day by an Italian jockey. As my source deep within the Reds organization codenamed BOSS observed - truly an international sport!
Easily, the name which generated the most misanthropic mirth among The B Team Syndicate was that which was applied to this sprinter:
In the pragmatic reality of handicapping, the name of the horse did not prevent me from wagering upon this fleet steed. Limousine Liberal was a bitter disappointment in the Breeders' Cup Sprint, and in this outcome I cannot say that I am surprised.
Phat Daddy can't believe I didn't make, here, a joke as his expense.
Handicapping complete, on Saturday morning I jumped into the Jeep Main Battle Tank and made my way to pick up The Old Master of the Turf at his top secret bunker in a location that remains classified. With the above horse in mind, and Election Day looming the following week, I found it mildly coincidental that the first transmission received by the Jeep's satellite communication system was this presumed paean to political moderation (and, methinks, capitulation):
Aren't political moderates extinct?
At Turfway Park on Saturday morning, we were seated at a window-side table in the Homestretch Room and soon set about our task at hand.
I understand that some go to the track to socialize, drink alcohol and make a spectacle of themselves. The B Team prefers to study the Form in peace, make bets and watch races. In the minutes leading up to the races and immediately after, that is when there is space for light conversation, sharing of analysis and conducting raids upon the all-you-can-shovel prime rib buffet. The prime rib very good. I had two. I also didn't eat for the following 20 hours.
I understand that most who read this don't have much interest in the details of my handicapping or wagering. As such, I'll be brief and to the point.
The B Team had a bad day of wagering.
Without question, the Kentucky Derby is the hardest race to handicap. The Breeders' Cup is the hardest day of handicapping. With champion racehorses from the four corners of the globe, at varying distances, on different surfaces, different ages, some females taking on the males, across a dozen races on the (two-day) race card... handicappers face a monumental effort.
The Old Master of the Turf did not cash a single ticket. To be fair, he had a busy week and didn't even look at the DRF until the night before.
Lou and I struggled valiantly to cash a couple of tickets. While Lou managed his losses, I opened the flood gates by losing more cash muney (you have to say cash muney out the side of your mouth and with an extended emphasis on the letter "a") than The Old Master brought with him to Turfway. It was just that kind of nightmare for The B Team. Now, before you get all weepy for me, I also walked out of Turfway that evening with more cash muney in my pocket than I lost. Bloodied but not broken. Or broke, as it were.
Two big-ticket wagers drew the most blood; first, The B Team Syndicate Pick Six:
We hit 3-of-6. Which pays nothing. We loaded up the front end and narrowed down the back end to a single horse in each of the last two races. We correctly selected the winners in the first two legs, so we were off to a great start. This can partially be attributed to my consistent proficiency at handicapping the Breeders' Cup Sprint, this year correctly identifying the #5 horse Runhappy as the eventual winner in the second leg of the Pick Six (Runhappy also set a track record in his victory on Saturday). But then we were torpedoed in the third leg, the Breeders' Cup Mile, when the best our three selections in that race could manage was a 4th place finish, and we were unceremoniously sunk when in the fourth leg of the Pick Six, the dreaded Juvenile, we ran 3rd.
Thus with our Pick Six officially dead and my own bankroll taking a strenuous beating, it was time for a bold play.
The penultimate race of the Breeders' Cup was the $2 million Turf. The favorite was a 3-year old colt from England named Golden Horn. You will have read about Golden Horn here and here on the digital pages of Heavy Artillery. Golden Horn won in June this year's running of the Epsom Derby, England's progenitor of our own Kentucky Derby. In September he won the Irish Champion Stakes. Last month Golden Horn won the biggest horse race outside of North America, the Prix de l'Arc de Triomphe. In 8 lifetime starts, Golden Horn had 7 wins and a second (and that, by a neck) and amassed more than $6 million in earnings. And on this day, Golden Horn had the services of his regular jockey Lanfranco "Frankie" Dettori - the greatest jockey in the history of mankind. How could he lose?! goes one infamous refrain.
Needing a big score to draw back to even for the day, but with Golden Horn going off at odds of 3 to 5, I dug deep into my pocket and wagered the kind of jack one only wagers on a horse like Wise Dan aka the Free Money Express:
The plan that Lou and I drew up, thus, was for each of us to parlay our certain winnings on Golden Horn into a massive win bet on the Triple Crown champion America Pharoah (off at odds of 3 to 5) in the Breeders' Cup Classic.
Just one, minor problem. Golden Horn ran second in the BC Turf, beaten by half a length. That drew the most blood from me. Hemorrhage might be a more accurate term.
The hole I then found myself in was so deep that only wagering J.P. Morgan-type money on American Pharoah could have gotten me back to even. This I did not do. A man has to know his limits, otherwise he ends up like Keith Moon.
By now you probably know that American Pharoah won the Classic, becoming the first Triple Crown winner ever to do so (and the first Triple Crown champion to have had the opportunity). He was bet heavily and rightly so. There wasn't a horse in the starting gate on that day that could have beaten him (The B Team Syndicate had American Pharoah singled on the back end of our Pick Six).
Bankroll aside, watching American Pharoah romp home to victory was a fun and memorable way to end my Breeders' Cup 2015.
Roll the credits!
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