You guessed it. It’s that time of year. With six cards of racing and one final edition of The Special to go, it’s time for the annual “I’ll miss, I won’t miss.”
You know the one, you know the feeling. The ecstasy of Saratoga and the agony of Saratoga. The pomp of Saratoga and the plummet of Saratoga. The beauty of Saratoga and the beast of Saratoga.
I’ll miss writing the Cup of Coffee. I won’t miss starting the Cup of Coffee at 8:27 on another Tuesday deadline.
I’ll miss having a catch with Miles on a writing break outside the office. I won’t miss diving for his errant slider that crashes into the side of the office.
I’ll miss delivering the paper in the morning. I won’t miss the rare few who refuse to take the paper (you know who you are).
I’ll miss the advertisers who have helped make The Special go for 25 years. I won’t miss the ex-advertisers who are transfixed by clicks and likes and heart emojis.
I’ll miss the office. I won’t miss the office mouse.
I’ll miss Sovereignty in the third stall. I won’t miss the empty stalls.
I’ll miss the horses running numbers. I won’t miss horses being called numbers.
I’ll miss the calm of the stakes barn. I won’t miss the chaos of the Union Avenue crossing.
I’ll miss exercise riders singing. I won’t miss exercise riders texting.
I’ll miss Darby O’Brien, Julia Reedy and Alec DiConza and their exuberance and innocence. I won’t miss feeling like time is slipping away as the interns grow up and move on to bigger and better things.
I’ll miss the morning calm. I won’t miss the morning siren.
I’ll miss the clockers. I won’t miss the clock.
I’ll miss walking the shedrow and meeting horses for a Stable Tour. I won’t miss transcribing and typing out a Stable Tour.
I’ll miss the blue touches of Phil Serpe’s barn. I won’t miss the injustice of Phil Serpe’s suspension.
I’ll miss the first slice of pizza. I won’t miss the third slice of pizza.
I’ll miss the West Coast IPAs getting delivered to our door. I won’t miss the empty cans and trash strewn down East Avenue every afternoon.
I’ll miss the charm and class of Saratoga. I won’t miss shorts in the paddock and T-shirts in the boxes.
I’ll miss the pride of the grooms, assistants and hotwalkers after winning a race. I won’t miss owners ripping horses out of every-day hands to walk horses into the winner’s circle like county-fair exhibits.
I’ll miss all the little guys. I won’t miss all the big stables pushing out all the little guys.
I’ll miss upbeat texts from Wally at the harness track. I won’t miss negative texts pointing out mistakes.
I’ll miss the trees inside Clare Court. I won’t miss the peeling paint on the barns inside Clare Court.
I’ll miss looking for license plates with catchy racing names. I won’t miss the driver who backed into my car and dented my license plate Sunday night.
I’ll miss catching a ride with Bill Mott from his barn to our office after the Travers. I won’t miss catching another sales week cold.
I’ll miss Tom Law’s porch on Circular Street. I won’t miss the cross-town traffic on Circular Street.
I’ll miss the Five Mile Trail in the State Park. I won’t miss the last hill of the Five Mile Trail in the State Park.
I’ll miss the first mile of the Boilermaker. I won’t miss the last mile of the Boilermaker.
I’ll miss the moments before a race thinking this is the one. I won’t miss the moments after a race when another one slips away.
I’ll miss downloading the form as soon as it drops. I won’t miss tossing the form at the end of the day.
I’ll miss asking, “Hey, Law Man, who do you need here?” I won’t miss the silence when no one is in the office.
I’ll miss a goat named Mickey Blue Eyes at Cherie DeVaux’s barn. I won’t miss the overbuilt houses on Fifth Avenue.
I’ll miss seeing Junior Alvarado sitting outside Mott’s barn. I won’t miss knowing I’ll never see Doc Richardson sitting outside Mott’s barn.
I’ll miss Miguel Clement’s horses standing along the outside rail and Shug McGaughey’s horses standing outside his barn. I won’t miss so many horses sliding across the macadam on their way to and from the track.
I’ll miss the stories. I won’t miss knowing we won’t get to all the stories.
I’ll miss the fans lining the rails looking at horses. I won’t miss the steady stream of fans walking down East Avenue long before the feature has run.
I’ll miss the three-turn turf races. I won’t miss the one-turn turf races.
I’ll miss hearing from Dad after another big race. I won’t miss hearing from Mom after another typo.
I’ll miss the towering paddock trees. I won’t miss the whizzing traffic behind the saddling stalls.
I’ll miss giving morning tours to first-time visitors. I won’t miss hearing what-if stories from the down-and-out gamblers.
I’ll miss the urgency of the festival meet. I won’t miss the drudgery of a longer meet.
I’ll miss seeing friends and fans walking down East Avenue and waving outside our window. I won’t miss the late-night visitors who are vacationing while we’re working.
I’ll miss writing notes about horses who catch our eye in the morning. I won’t miss writing to-do lists that never get done.
I’ll miss Joe and Tom and their dedication to writing and to racing. I won’t miss Joe and Tom hurrying and harassing me when I’m on the last page at the last hour.
I’ll miss Saratoga.
