Bless me, readers, for I have sinned.
Nothing, unfortunately, along the titillating lines of St. Augustine…but my Catholic upbringing does, on occasion, lead me to unburden that which is weighing on my soul. I can only hope that you will find my sins venial as opposed to mortal, and assign me penance and grant me absolution accordingly.
I have no interest in awards of any kind: Eclipse, Oscar, Most Valuable Player, Most Improved. Most of them serve only to further line the pockets of those receive them and to provide an opportunity for bickering about who won what and why. Achievement should stand on its own—why must accomplishment be granted by observers?
I can’t make myself pay attention to California racing. I get that there are great horses out West, and interesting stories, and every year, I vow that I’ll watch and read and know those horses; and every year, I break that vow. Mary Forney, forgive me!
I don’t care when Nicanor is going to make his first start (and yes, I know it’s this weekend—how could I miss it?). The Race is Not to the Swift takes pity on this poor colt and the large horseshoes he is being asked to fill…worshipping a false idol, indeed. Then again, perhaps the best idols are dead ones, because they can’t let us down.
The Kentucky Derby interests me not. For the next three months, it’s all three year old colts, all the time…yawn. They’ll be followed and scrutinized and touted, and when they finish up the track, all of that publicity will disappear, as will they, and all of that time we devoted to them, at the expense of fillies and mares and older horses and turf races, will have been for naught. Pyro, anyone?
Apostasy, sacrilege, blasphemy: I humbly beg your forgiveness. And now, a few
dozen hundred Hail Marys and Our Fathers await…