A Day in the Life

7 AM: Wake up call. It's Big Boy Day. Christmas in the Fall. The Keeneland+Commonwealth Daily Double. As Kentucky as Boone and bourbon and burgoo. A veritable rite of passage for anyone in the Bluegrass and a faraway fairytale to those outside. The sun is shining, autumn leaves a-fallin, baccer's in the barn, and you have a date with the country’s premier racing meet at the sport’s most bucolic venue capped off by an evening with SEC football. Hot damn. It’s your cake and eating it too. It’s two birds with one stone. It’s the power and the glory. The hustle and the flow. A day to make memories best told to grandchildren. 7:42: That sport coat with this tie and those slacks. Look out. 8:03: [Ding!] Sausage biscuits are ready. 8:04: Burn the roof of your mouth on sausage biscuit.

8:30: Confirm ride to Keeneland with your crew. Pick ups at 10:00 sharp. Drop down for 50 push-ups to get your mind, body and spirit aligned...23 will have to do.

9:25: Whip up a bloody mary and catch up on Homeland.

10:45: The crew's here. Hop in, roll out.

10:47: Roll back in. Forgot your shades, rook.

11:20: Arrive at Keeneland, park, and immediately put out the vibe. It’s a strong vibe, a tone-setter that says “today is my day, and while you are all here to share in its perfection, I’m the director/executive producer. Action!” You sip an ice cold beer because today, just like the 5th race going a mile and â…›, is all about pace. While browsing the racing form you drop keen remarks to your friends like, “Big tip from my guy. 3 horse in the 4th. All-in.” You throw your half-empty beer away. Bourbon time. Noon: The second bourbon is always the best. 12:15 PM: But the third is making a push. 12:45: Time to get inside and throw down some exotics. Leaving the tailgate vibe behind you stroll in like you own the joint. “Sir, you have to pay, $5 to enter,” groans a green-blazered grandpa. You chuckle. “No, it’s all good, I’m Mr. Keene and this is my land.” “Son, you…”

“I’m a horseman.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Horseperson?”

“FIVE.”

1:15: They’re at the post. You feel good about your trifecta. The one you told the crew you picked based on pedigree and workouts but in reality was chosen from your favorite club jam from back in your prime. “3-6-9, damn she’s fine.”

1:18: That’s alright, you’ll get the next one. Tough to handicap on an empty stomach. Double bourbon and brat for dad.

1:40: You spot a cluster of Bama fans. “Welcome to heaven, folks. Nice jeans. Please don’t kill these trees.” After some light-hearted back n’ forth you step up the hospitality game with a round of beers because this is no time to think about that stockpile of debt and looming mortgage payment. Here, we're all drawing from a clean slate.

1:44: If you were lost in the desert for three weeks and happened to stumble upon a crystal clear mountain stream, it still wouldn’t be the most refreshing sip you’ve ever guzzled. That distinction belongs to Keeneland Beer, and you’ll need a couple more.

1:51: ATM

2:30: The 3 horse in the 4th finishes last. “Needed more distance.” Right.

2:34: ATM

2:38: Chugging contest with some frat bros near the paddock. “Y'all are 21 right?...So anyone got an e-cig, or an aspirin?"

2:43: The day’s first pronounced yawn comes in hot. 5-Hour and vodka, please.

3:10: You celebrate a winning show ticket like you just hit a game 7 walk-off. Reel it in big fella, reel it in.

3:15: Ice cream cone is calling your name. You answer.

3:38: No two ways around it, you’re about 3 exits from Sloppsville and your crew seems to have taken heed as they are nowhere to be found.

3:50: With only a minute to post and the window lines stretching beyond the horizon you hop over to the $100 minimum window and bet on the wrong horse in the wrong race.

3:58: ATM

4:12: You feel a buzz in your pocket. WIFE CALLING with the reminder that you’re to meet her and the in-laws in the red lot NO LATER THAN 5. THEY NEED MORE ICE AND ALSO A BLANKET CAUSE SHE WILL GET CHILLY SHE ALWAYS GETS CHILLY. You had honestly forgotten about her and you feel pretty awful about it.

4:13: You notice your phone battery is running on grit. A familiar harbinger of imminent doom.

4:15: Where the hell did your crew go?

4:21: You hideaway in a bathroom stall to gather yourself and tend to nature’s call when you notice your tie has dipped into the bowl. Shit. Stay cool. It's just a tie, Jos A Bank will send you 12 more tomorrow. Your head's starting to hurt and you reach for the aspirin you bummed off one of the frat bros.

4:30: Panic time as you find yourself on an island with no line of communication. You need to get to red lot and you need to get there now. "Anyone going to Commonwealth?!" you shout repeatedly. Of course no one is going to Commonwealth, at least not with you in the car. You look like a better dressed version of Nick Nolte’s mugshot and you smell of booze, mustard and dishonesty. You look for the shuttle busses but you’re a minute too late. Next one’s coming at 5 which is when you were supposed to have arrived. Not good. No, not good at all. You want to scream but all you can do is yawn. You call out for a hand. "I'M SO SLEEPY! I just want to nap, Lord, I just want to nap."

4:42: That wasn't an aspirin. 4:50: "Spaceship? Can I go on you spaceship? I'm sweating corn syrup. Roll. Elephant. Roll. Ohhh nooo." 5:00: [black]     6:45: You come to with a big bag of ice on your face. What a strange dream, you think. Why is my wife trying to suffocate me with a bag of ice in a giant parking lot? "Honey, WAKE UP! What is wrong with you?!" "3-6-9, damn she's fine. From a windowwww to a wall. Night, night." "I don't know what the hell happened to you but you're lucky Mark and Mary Ann saw you and talked them out of taking you to jail. You can't go into the game like this, we have to go." "Game?...GAME! CATS! AIR RAAIIIDDDD! LET'S GO!" You stand up and bolt towards the stadium. You're still grappling with the chemicals but in your sprint you notice you're down a shoe and you may or may not have---with a strong lean towards have---wet yourself. You approach the gate and don't even blink. "Sir! Sir! Ticket?!" In mid stride you turn and yell, "I'm Mr. Common and this here's my wealth!" You collide with an old lady carrying a giant tub of popcorn and two large sodas. It goes flying everywhere. [cue laughtrack] Making a hard right you duck into the nearest concourse...only, this isn't a concourse... You feel a hand on your back. "There you are. Found him!" The hand guides you up a tunnel and through a roaring blue sea of helmets and pads. "Here he is coach." "This the guy from the foundation?" The hand quickly looks you up and down again. "Has to be. And he's ready to take us out there, isn't that right big guy?" A slurred "GO BIG BLUE" is all you can muster.

"Son, are you ready to take us out on that field?"

"I’ve been ready for this my whole life, Coach." "Atta boy! Hey, where's his other sh...nevermind." The music kicks on and you feel the base climb in through your ears, surge through your body and shake hands with your soul. Just as you begin to dance you feel a tug on your arm. "It's time! Ready? Let's go get some!" After another dead sprint you stop for air. The roar of the crowd, the glare of the lights...you realize you just led the team out of the tunnel and onto the field. Only one thing left to do now...     You kind of remember vomiting at midfield, kinda don't. It's but one more piece of debris left in the carnage of a well intended shit-show that, just got away from ya a little bit. Sure, there were some losses: a good chunk of savings, respect, a loafer, consciousness, a place in your bed, etc.. But oh, how you won.