Between munches on my bacon-egg-and-cheese sandwich and slurps of muddy black coffee, I noticed a plater in the ninth race at Chuchill, which gave me pause and made me break the Sunday morning silence: “Cripes, Brom, who names their horse OLIVIA LOVES JESUS?” Guffawing, in the way that a guffaw wraps its maw around an inside joke, Brom said, “You know, we should keep track of all the ridiculous names of horses we see, everything we like, everything that somehow got past the Jockey Club.”