Back at the Dope City oval again Sunday. Mascot races. Something I have shunned since the spectacle began. Now I know from personal experience why I have shunned them so. They are like an election in Israel or Italy except the candidates keep their fucking mouths shut and no matter who wins you get to cheer for them.
(I had originally planned to get to Kin Park again Sunday. The previous night's boozing stuck a fork in the ass of that plan. Guglielmino won the first race of her career, on the very horse that spilled her hard a month ago at Sunflower. We congratulate her and look forward to watching her climb up the riding ranks - be nice if somebody put her to work soon riding winners in Dope City.)
Been keeping an eye on sire Rosberg's first crop of two year olds all year. Not really expecting too much of them as our province's baby horses only get one route to compete in and it is run at a shorter distance than mighty Rosberg ran best in. Quite a few have run and I have just watched them, passed on backing them with my saw bucks, until today when a son of his named Dog was entered in the second. There was something in the untested horse's form that suggested he might be the one I had been looking for. The needle in the haystack. The fist sized nugget in the mine.
Bet him, then sat in the shady grandstand with my binoculars, to see if my speculative investment ought to be increased. Sure enough on parade he was more muscled up than his competitors and looked exactly like a smaller Rosberg. Looked like a fucking champ. I re-bet and took my seat again.
Won wire to wire at odds of 7-1. Thank you Rosberg and thank you to the connections who brought him to Hastings and later retired him to a farm not far from where I live from where his genes will strengthen and give increased stamina to our local thoroughbred pool.
Fuck the mascots.
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