’Twas the night before Celebration, all over the grounds,
Not a poor man was stirring—they priced him plumb out.
The stalls had been bedded, the tack polished bright,
And the invoice alone caused a grown man a fright.
The horses were tucked in, the trailers were parked,
While accountants kept working long after it dark.
For entries cost plenty, and stalls cost some more,
And your wallet gets lighter each trip through the door.
The box seats were waiting, all padded and neat,
At a price that seems they would have velvet seats
To a Cadillac, condo, or beachfront retreat—
Nope, it’s a rusty folding chair , watching horses wave feet.
The parking pass gleamed like a Treasury bond,
And concession-stand pricing had gone well beyond
What a sensible person would willingly pay—
“Twenty bucks for a sandwich? Just mortgage the hay!”
The trainers were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of judges danced round in their heads.
“Who’s judging this year?” came the cry from the hall.
“Same fellows as always!” “Well, that narrows it… not at all.”
One judged us last season, one judged us before,
One’s judged so often , he should just live by the door.
They rotate the badges, they shuffle the chairs,
Then somehow we look up—and the same bunch is there.
“Fresh faces!” they promised. “New thinking!” they cried.
Then the same old set came strolling inside.
He’d judged here in ’19, in ’21, and ’24—
At this point just give him his own office door.
And down in the barns came the old whispered joke:
“Will judging be straight?” Someone laughed till he choked.
For every grandstand has its theories to share
About who knows who—and who’s tied in where.
Now nobody’s saying a card’s bought or sold,
But some winning traditions are certainly old.
When the same names keep winning, year after year,
Even Stevie Wonder would scream, “Somethin looks wrong here.”
The sponsors arrived in their corporate parade,
With banners so large they could furnish some shade.
And wouldn’t you know it, when ribbons were passed,
Some familiar connections kept finishing fast.
“Pure coincidence!” echoed all through the night,
As another big sponsor got called under lights.
Maybe lightning just strikes the same mansion each year—
It’s amazing how lucky some people get here.
The little guy entered with hope in his chest,
Paid entries and stalls and then prayed for the best.
He sold half his hay and refinanced his truck,
Just hoping this season he’d finally have luck.
Meanwhile old Moneybags rolled through the gate,
With six horses, three trainers, and dinner at eight.
His box had a buffet, his cooler had wine,
And somehow his horses kept “showing up fine.”
The organ would soon play that old stirring tune,
While Visa called MasterCard: “We’ll max him out soon.”
The tack shop was humming, the vendors all smiled—
Celebration prices could bankrupt a child.
A T-shirt? Good gracious. A program? Oh Lord.
By Thursday you’re charging your lunch to your Ford.
A hot dog and Coke shouldn’t require a note
From your banker approving a ten-year fixed quote.
Still somewhere a youngster dreamed under the stars
Of riding that oval past packed parking cars.
He dreamed of blue ribbons, of roses, of fame—
Not realizing Daddy had to refinance his name.
The lights would come on and the crowd would ignite,
And everybody’d swear this was one magical night.
The horse would hit running walk, heads would all turn,
While somewhere another hundred-dollar bill burned.
Then out from the speakers the announcer would call,
And trainers would hustle their horses down wall.
The crowd would erupt, the old faithful would cheer,
For the greatest eleven expensive days of the year.
Same judges, same rumors, same sponsors, same crew,
Same box-seat invoice that makes your face blue.
Same “new direction,” same old insiders’ grin,
Same folks explaining why the same folks still win.
Same programs, same politics, same coffee, same line,
Same rich man insisting, “The system works fine.”
Same promise of fairness repeated each fall—
And the same old familiar names answering the call.
But still we come back, and that may be the joke:
They raise every price and we somehow stay broke.
We fuss and complain, swear, “Next year I am through!”
Then August rolls round and—well—there we are too.
So sleep tight, Shelbyville, tomorrow’s the show,
Check your credit-card limit before you all go.
Bring your tickets, your passes, your checkbook held tight,
And perhaps bring a lawyer to read prices right.
May the barns all be full and the grandstands be loud,
May the horses be brilliant and thrill every crowd.
May judging be judging—not favors or friends—
And may somebody new get a ribbon for once in the end.
’Twas the night before Celebration, and here’s what we know:
The horses are priceless—
and apparently everything else at the show.
The 88th Celebration was ready to start:
Eleven great nights, one tradition, one heart—
With repeat judges, big sponsors, and prices sky-high…
Welcome home, Walking Horse Country.
Now hand over your Visa and enjoy the ride.
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