I feel bad for turf writers who have to cover the horse sales. I do.

There you are. Sitting atop some platform. In front of a laptop. What do you do? You watch these yearlings saunter into the ring with eyes as big as the baseballs and listen to auctioneer Walt Robertson hibbity bibbity.

And watch as the Fasig-Tipton boys do a Howard Dean "Yyyyyyeah!" when an A.P. Indy goes for $4.2 million. Here’s a made up quote that you will hear in more or less the same for every seven-figure sale, “Striking, just a striking colt with the conformation to go short or go long. He really has the makings of a classic contender.” Uh, huh. Wait till he bucks a shin and goes out drinking a few times with the Green Monkey.

I can’t imagine what the mainstream fan must think of the sales. Actually, he probably doesn’t even know they exist and that’s probably just as well. Here are some headlines:




The only thing more boring than the sales would be a silent movie on a blank screen.
They really should show some highlights of the yearlings’ sires in action on a screen and have some babes hot walking the horse instead of some shmoe in a suit and bad shoes. Yes, I’ll take that hip, thank you.

Hooters gets away with objectifying women and serving bad food and they are a multi-million dollar enterprise. I demand more objectifying! More objectifying! Why can’t women parade around the ring with a card above their head broadcasting the following hip like the next round in boxing? Hibbity bibbity.

And can I get a free drink? There’s no greater gamble than buying a racehorse so it would behoove Fasig-Tipton to get these bidders loose with their trigger fingers. Works for me in the sports book.

It makes my mind wander. I mean, do you think the horse who played Secretariat in the new movie, aptly titled “Secretariat,” is afraid of being typecast? He could play Curlin or Summer Bird in “Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire.” I’ll get on that screenplay as soon as one of my many unpublished manuscripts hits the BIG TIME. Stay tuned. And, yes, hold your breath, I gotta feeling ...

That horse is like Will Smith playing Muhammad Ali, Denzel Washington playing Hurricane Carter, and Richard Harris playing Marcus Aurelius.

“You’re failure as a man, was my failure as a ... father,” said Aurelius to his weak-hearted son. Didn't he pen a letter to his son touting the virtues of being a man, essentially comparing him to Maxiumus?

I can picture D. Wayne Lukas writing a letter to Mine That Bird about the few virtues of being a racehorse: courage, class, dignity, speed, talent. And then Mine That Bird approaches him and says, “I knew I had none of them. But I do have courage, maybe not courage on the racetrack, but there are many forms of courage. A low center of gravity ... for when I get kicked I will rarely topple. A good sense of self ... followed swiftly by a strong sense of humor.”

Then Mine That Bird smothers D. Wayne and banishes Dublin to be one with the Visigoths.

(This, herein, makes the assumption, based on the story of "Gladiator" that Dublin would bring revenge and triumph back to his name. This is just plain silly.)

Brock Sheridan at The Brock Talk asks the question as to whether Mine That Bird can even make a stab at a comeback. The answer is no, he can’t. What’s sadder? A Derby winner aching to get his first win since a Saturday in May or the persistent efforts for one last photograph?

Maybe all he needs is a little Churchill and a dash of Calvin Borel — the two ingredients that won him his last and best race. Hey, this horse only sold for $9,000 at auction.

Hibbity bibbity.

Brendan O’Meara blogs about horse racing here at HRI and at The Carryover. He also blogs about narrative nonfiction and his book project Six Weeks in Saratoga and The Last Championship at The Blog Itself where he tirelessly awaits a willing publisher. Follow him on Twitter @BrendanOMeara. His Web site is http://www.brendanomeara.com.