Missing It
It’s that time of year again. With six days of racing and one edition of The Special to go, it’s time for the annual “I’ll miss, I won’t miss.”
We all know it. We all feel it. The good of Saratoga and the bad of Saratoga. The passion of Saratoga and the pressure of Saratoga. The beauty of Saratoga and the beast of Saratoga.
Bruce Brown walked out of his barn Monday morning and said it for everyone. “This place is great when it’s great.”
And brutal when it’s brutal.
I’ll miss making deadlines at The Special. I won’t miss missing deadlines at The Special.
I’ll miss the ones chasing the pot of gold. I won’t miss the ones smoking pot.
I’ll miss the joy of Jen Paragallo after winning her first race at Saratoga. I won’t miss the dismay of trainers after losing another race.
I’ll miss watching races from the box seats. I won’t miss watching the dress code slip slide away.
I’ll miss the madras jackets. I won’t miss the yellowjackets.
I’ll miss the first slice of pizza. I won’t miss the third slice of pizza.
I’ll miss seeing Christophe Clement loosen a drop noseband on a Joe Sharp hacker. I won’t miss the exercise riders who don’t know to loosen their girths on the walk home.
I’ll miss the highs. I won’t miss the lies.
I’ll miss seeing Lisa Lewis’ patient horsemanship. I won’t miss seeing another one of her horses, after her patient horsemanship made them lucrative, running for someone else.
I’ll miss the fruit from Tom’s garden. I won’t miss the fruit flies in the office.
I’ll miss Rich Cristiano’s boat. I won’t miss the realization that we didn’t go out on his boat once all meet.
I’ll miss the elation of the winners at the clubhouse TV. I won’t miss the deflation of the losers at the clubhouse TV.
I’ll miss doing a Stable Tour. I won’t miss asking to do a Stable Tour.
I’ll miss meeting owners like Jon Clay and Karl Glassman after their first Grade 1 stakes wins. I won’t miss looking at the winner’s circle and seeing the same trainers and same owners after another numberless, numbing Grade 1 win.
I’ll miss the cubs at The Special. I won’t miss the cub who blew up my interview with Todd Pletcher the day before the Travers.
I’ll miss the morning cup of coffee on the porch. I won’t miss the evening cup of coffee at the office.
I’ll miss the runners on Circular Street. I won’t miss the traffic on Circular Street.
I’ll miss 9 Miles East. I won’t miss 2 3/8 miles rained off the turf.
I’ll miss seeing a good, tactical jump race. I won’t miss a strung-out, pace-ignorant jump race.
I’ll miss the last strides of the Travers. I won’t miss the strides of another 5 1/2 turf sprint.
I’ll miss Next. I won’t miss seeing the spent chasers behind Next.
I’ll miss the norms. I won’t miss the storms.
I’ll miss the home-made cookies and cakes dropped off at the office by loyal readers. I won’t miss the trash stashed in the paper boxes late at night.
I’ll miss deadline dinners from the Neighborhood Kitchen. I won’t miss the downtrodden gamblers at the Morning Line Kitchen.
I’ll miss the goats. I won’t miss the ruts.
I’ll miss seeing Miles conduct his first interviews for The Special. I won’t miss saying goodbye to Annie and Miles as they headed home.
I’ll miss the horses walking into the winner’s circle. I won’t miss the owners knocking the grooms out of the way to walk the horses into the winner’s circle.
I’ll miss the positive vibe of the Davis family. I won’t miss the negative vibe of so many others.
I’ll miss Rick and the crossing guards keeping us safe. I won’t miss the honking horns by motorists who don’t understand that horses have the right of way.
I’ll miss our editorial meetings. I won’t miss failing at our editorial assignments.
I’ll miss filling our pages. I won’t miss proofing our pages.
I’ll miss seeing Jeremiah Englehart deliver the printed-out form to Shug McGaughey each morning. I won’t miss the crumpled-up form along East Avenue at the end of a race day.
I’ll miss the lifers. I won’t miss the posers.
I’ll miss seeing the Godolphin string, all dressed in blue, amble out of Greentree for a morning exercise. I won’t miss the nervous horses and undisciplined riders scatter through Clare Court on their way to and from the harness track.
I’ll miss the beat. I won’t miss the heat.
I’ll miss the kids asking for autographs and goggles. I won’t miss the adults blocking the way.
I’ll miss the valets, especially Barry, as he retires from the room. I won’t miss seeing the valets trying to saddle an under-schooled horse on the walk.
I’ll miss the stories. I won’t miss the suggestions.
I’ll miss the gate crew who keeps the show on the road every day. I won’t miss the drunk fools who keep the bender going far too long.
I’ll miss Tom and Joe’s dedication to the craft. I won’t miss Tom and Joe’s annoyance as they wait for me to finish the last page.
I’ll miss Saratoga.
