This is meant to be my sort of “Love letter to Racing.”
Might be a little indulgent though real later on, but this doesn’t start well.
An army of patriotic punters around the country were literally on the floor. I was with some.
Stiff drinks skolled and then re-ordered. Tee-totallers tempted, swear jars filled.
Multis, quaddies, win bets, get-outs, all gone after Makram nailed Jimmysstar at Flemington.
And on the tele comes Ben Hayes with that almost cherubic smile and demeanour that suggested he would soon take the arm of an elderly lady and help walk them across the road at the lights. Very likeable is Ben, even at moments like this when his $151 shot (traded $890 in play) that he didn’t think could win either, knocks off the $1.26 favorite.
“Horses can surprise you and that is why racing is so exciting,” he said.
Ben is right. And this is it. Racing is exciting, ok sometimes the punt hurts but as conscripted soldiers to the game, we well, soldier on.
Yet it gets back to the horses, yes those who ride, train, own, strap them too, get roles written into the script, but what ultimately barnacles you to the game is the horse.
And we all have different journeys, inspirations that take us there.
Upstairs at Flemington on Saturday, Radio 3AW’s morning breakfast supremo, Ross Stephenson, on an unbeaten ratings streak of his own that is about to match that of Black Caviar’s 25, suitably on her anointed Lightning Stakes Day, is holding his annual “Love Letter To Racing” luncheon.
Stephenson is like most of us here, tragic isn’t the word, it’s a way of life, a passion. He too dreams of a Melbourne Cup, and I’m only talking of getting a starter.
His “This Racing Life” show on racing.com with Hamish McLachlan highlights his intrigue for all of the sport, (as much as that he loves endlessly circling things on the run-down sheet.)
But as he says: “Racing people are never boring.”
They have a story to tell, a letter to write even.
Ok, so who writes letters these days, but these days like this very one, are now littered with odes to the sadly departed Verry Elleegant, and not merely just regurgitation of the statistics -11 Group 1 victories but more so the genuine journey she took so many fans on – starting with a father in sire Zed, who was so unglamorous early days he was once serving Clydesdale mares. Racetrack champions aren’t meant to start off like this.
Racing’s best stories, as Stephenson knows, can’t be made up.
Which is why Stephenson loves the stories, so on Saturday he got his varied squad to write and share their letters, their stories.
There was Sly Of The Underworld, that’s ace crime reporter John Silvester, of Underbelly fame and much more, but isn’t part of racing’s appeal that whiff of danger and a little derring-do.
There was Paul Guerra, who has impressive titles like CEO of the Victorian Chamber of Commerce and Industry, not to mention sitting on the Racing Victoria Board, which he will still do after an imminent reshuffle, but mention Zaaki getting scratched on Cox Plate morning, and you know how racing becomes the great leveller, as the former Defence Minister and convivial racing man Sir James Killen once said, ‘either when you six feet above the turf or six feet under it.” Guerra is a part-owner of Zaaki.
Jack Jenkins, who goes by the twitter handle (when its not suspended) Phar Jack, as in Phar Lap of course but proudly a Bacchus Marsh Boy, is a UFC fighter (form card 12-3), a featherweight but not that of a jockey (fights around 65kg), but seen out and about at the sports, as he was with his letter on Saturday. His story a little shorter in history but he’s been seconded into sharing many thoughts on other media platforms of late as he awaits his next cage.
And then Karyn Fenton-Ellis, the latter bit because she married David of Te Akau fame in 2004, but a polished life-long media performer and holder of the World Public Speaking Competition (1989in Britain), which comes in handy when required to wax endlessly, but always loving about the world’s best sprinter Imperatriz, as she did again on Saturday.
As many did of course, marvelling at the horse, her horse, and all her partners in the “tangerine army”, yes that is nine Group I’s but the appeal is more than a trophy, it’s the manner of the combat to earn it and the fans across the other side of the mounting yard admiring that as well.
If it is Imperatriz that is to start a journey for a young racing fan, they have picked a mighty one. Remember that youngest child Lee Freedman called out for after Makybe Diva completed the Cup trilogy, even it was only five, they would well into their 20’s now and hopefully still on board.
My letter?
Well, my love, unbeknownst to me at the time, but brought on from recollection, must start with Gala Supreme.
And I don’t mind it dates me to 1973, year seven at Ashgrove State School in Brisbane and Mr (John) Spottswood (shorts and long white socks pulled up in a Brisbane pre-summer), is teaching maths on Cup Day.
No daylight saving back then but the Herald Sun made sure the Cup was run at 2.40pm, so that chief racing writer Jack Elliot could get the afternoon edition out as he inserted the copy as they crossed the line. The school bell rang at 3pm (when they start it now).
You are to take a mythical dollar and place it on one of the runners in the Cup said Mr Spottswood and work out your returns.
Of course, I had factored in that Gala Supreme had won the Herbert Power, run second in the Caulfield Cup, stayed down on 49kg and Frankie Reys was carrying his rosary beads. What’s not to like about 9-1 of $10 there. Could have bought a Malvern Star dragster bike back then if it wasn’t a mythical note (they were notes – brown ones - not coins right).
But there I was, gambling responsibly, a fantasy bet, and like Black Caviar unbeaten in the run.
Soon after I was lining up at the Ashgrove TAB with my father, bets then written into tear off sheets with carbon copies – yes that’s carbon paper between the sheets, carbon paper has gone the way of Kodak film – and payouts were a day later at best.
I’m not sure if that was the hook to racing, but it is a first memory. Schooling graduated to Brisbane Boys Grammar, and again racing and sports betting was an integral development, ahead of our times methinks, Michael Sullivan (eventually Sportingbet, BlueBet etc after a long stint on the Brisbane rails with Brian Ogilvie) and I ran the SP book on all activities, Michael once losing his prefects badge leaving the school at lunchtime in a powder blue Ford Escort (top of the range back then for us) to bank our kitty.
I might suggest as an aside we still have an outstanding debt from a senior sports teacher of the time but perhaps there is a statute of limitations.
Our pre-Roy and HG like First XV GPS (Greater Public Schools) rugby calls recorded onto a Sharp tape came with a copy of the cassette and a betting voucher.
See, everyone has a story, a letter about the great game.
So, as we lament Verry Elleegant, and Makram upsetting so many or Fangirl suddenly becoming the next Winx, a nod to George Hanlon.
If he wrote a letter, the three-time Melbourne Cup winner, Hall of Fame inductee and enamoured with a sterling well-earned dose of self-deprecation, would write: “I don’t mind losing, I just hate getting beaten.”
And add rather poignantly to this discussion: “After all horses are only human.”
Don’t return that to sender.
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