Best Australian Racing Stories (19 page)

Leafing through the catalogue for the upcoming New Zealand sale, you come on a bay colt by Sir Tristram from Taiona. This means he is a brother to Sovereign Red, Gurner's Lane and Trichelle. The blood is so hot that only one and a quarter generations are needed to fill the catalogue page. Again, it takes few brain cells to conclude that the boys from the footy club won't be buying this fellow with the proceeds of the pie night.

You can learn much about genes without leaving your living room. The literature of the turf abounds with tomes on famous stallions, nicks, crosses, in-breeding, line breeding, dosages and the laws of Mendel, the pea-growing monk. But there are few volumes on athleticism in the future racehorse.

Genetics, of course, is a science. I'll rephrase that in haste. When it comes to racehorses, genetics is sort of a science. Matters of conformation, on the other hand, are subjective art. I'll re-word that one, too. Matters of conformation are occult art. You can learn a little only by leaving your living room and looking at flesh and blood. Any horse. Anywhere.

A trainer looks at a yearling with a witch's brew swirling in his head and in his heart. The brew contains instinct and intuition. It contains the logic of an engineer—and rabid prejudice. It contains his idea of what constitutes a toff. It contains all his experience with this or that breed, or with horses with this or that fault, all the advice from the old man—handy things such as: washy chestnuts are always bad luck, son. Mind you, much was written about what was desirable in the horse in the days before derbies and TABs. Henry VIII ran to a little flesh and fancied himself as a sire. He liked size on a horse. He decreed that no stallion under 15 hands be allowed to reproduce. Shakespeare was often driven to lyricism about horses. He said they should have ‘broad buttock' and ‘fetlock shag and long'. Bill would have been a whiz with the brewery horses. Richard III, blundering around Bosworth Field after his house of York had blown out the gate, wasn't the least fussy. He said he'd take anything; the auctioneer missed his bid.

None of this really helps. Damon Runyon at least defined the ‘non-athletic' racer with his portrait of Itchy Ironhat's bay mare Emaleen: ‘She has four bad ankles and in fact the only thing that is not the matter with her is tuberculosis and maybe anaemia . . . she cannot keep up with the lead pony even when the pony is just walking.'

Well, that was a big help too, Damon. But it really is very hard with racehorses. The youngster is led out of the box; you inspect the chassis and, if you are feeling brave, pronounce it sound. But you cannot see the motor. You cannot see things like courage or the killer instinct, the things that make champions.

The trouble is this whole ‘athletes' business comes down to compromise. To probabilities rather than certainties. To a loose set of rules, if you like. But with exceptions, always the exceptions. For instance . . .

You don't want a really small horse, do you? But then Northern Dancer couldn't attract a buyer as a yearling because he was a pony. As an elderly stallion he stands only about 15.1. But he knew how to get his neck out. Hill Rise towers over him in the black-and-white clip of the 1964 Kentucky Derby, but the Dancer had the V8 motor. Hyperion was so small as a youngster they considered putting him down. As a small three-year-old he bolted away with the Epsom Derby. In recent times at home, Drawn was small but it didn't stop him winning the Caulfield Guineas. So was Mr McGinty: he won six group ones. The adage holds: it's not the dog in the fight but the fight in the dog.

You certainly wouldn't want an unsound horse, would you? But maybe it's worth mentioning that Placid Ark, the best sprinter since Vain, may have flunked a conventional soundness test as he walked away, so gingerly, after shattering the record in the Linlithgow. Princequillo, who appears twice in the pedigree of Sir Tristram, was such a day-to-day proposition he caused his trainer to have a nervous breakdown. Princequillo was a top racehorse and a great sire.

Of course, you want a yearling with a nice topline, a short, strong back, just room for the saddle. A sway-back wouldn't look too ‘athletic'. Tulloch had a sway-back. And a roach back wouldn't look too ‘athletic', either. Century, the champion sire, has a roach back.

A smart head is a necessity. Matrice, winner of 27 races and the stallion who led the resurgence of ‘colonial' sires, had a boofhead. Taj Rossi and Pago Pago, two of his champion sons, were plain about the head. Toparoa and Red Handed had heads only mothers could love. Both won Melbourne cups. You certainly wouldn't want something as unsightly as a parrot mouth. Dulcify had a parrot mouth.

And your youngsters need a good eye, big and generous. Bletchingly, the champion sire, had an eye that sometimes looks piggy, although he's a sweet horse to be around. And, of course, you wouldn't want a wind-sucker. Kingstown Town, Bletchingly's famous son, wore a cribbing strap for a spell.

You must have a horse who, as they say, fills the eye. Manikato, the chestnut warrior, had good limbs, but he always bespoke coarseness. Man o'War, who is in the American pantheon with FDR and apple pie, was coarse.

All right, well, you want a horse with balance, with some symmetry between height and length, one who gives the impression that it all hangs together, a horse like Beau Zam. Todman, who was greater than Beau Zam, always seemed too long for his height; he also had a shambling walk. Emancipation, the crack mare, sometimes looked as though she had been assembled from the pieces of three horses, with a mule donating the ears. Oh dear. All right, well, what about the legs? Legs are everything. At the gallop each leg has to take the full weight of the horse and jockey for an instant. You want to be able to drop a plumb line that passes through the centre of the knee, cannon bone and joint. You don't want these legs turned in or out.

It is undesirable for a yearling to be turned in. Biscay was turned in; so was Galilee. Forget that, then. To be turned out is much worse: the ‘winging' legs tend to strike each other. Seattle Slew was slewed out in one leg: he won the US Triple Crown.

All right, well, what about being back at the knee? That's inexcusable, isn't it? Yes . . . except that some Grey Sovereign-line horses are a little back. And there was this yearling in America who made only $1100 because, apart from his unfashionable blood, he was back at the knee. On the track he won $6 million. They called him John Henry.

Compromises, compromises. There are a few matters we can surely be dogmatic about. All good horses, regardless of size or shape, seem to possess a big sloping shoulder (the greater the slope the greater the reach), a deep girth, and a good length of rein. A true champion must also have the quality you cannot see at the sales—courage.

And, despite the irritating exceptions above, it
is
better to stick with the probabilities. You do want good legs and balance—because for every John Henry there are countless cripples, because horses with bad legs break down before horses with good legs. But you still have to make little compromises: it is, after all, the world of the occult.

Personally, I got around this ‘athletes' business long ago. I wait until some beast pokes his nose out to take the Tancred or the Cox Plate. At this instant, and with a flair for the obvious which is contemptible, I turn to whoever is dim enough to be standing next to me and pronounce: ‘Now,
there's
an athlete!' Oh, it's cowardly, I know—but I usually get it right.

18 January 1988

PART 2
The Humour of
the Track

A lesson in laconic

JIM HAYNES

T
HE RACETRACK SEEMS TO
inspire humour, especially in Australia. Racing is such a part of everyday life in the ‘Land Down Under' that racing stories, anecdotes and jokes abound in our oral tradition.

In the stories and verses which make up this section, the humour ranges from amusing reflections on childhood by footballer Crackers Keenan to the tall-tale-telling of famous poet Barcroft Boake, who was able to write far-fetched humorous tales like ‘How Babs Malone Cut Down The Field' in spite of the chronic depression which caused him to hang himself with his stockwhip at 26 years of age.

Also included are a few of the ‘delightful and insightful' tongue-in-cheek pieces written about racing by C.J. Dennis for the
Herald-Sun
, and a series of wry anecdotes by Banjo Paterson.

Banjo's memories of racetrack skulduggery in the ‘old days' are wonderful glimpses into a time gone by, and yet they also remind us that little has changed as far as racetrack characters go. His anecdote about Breaker Morant is a favourite of mine.

I have also included a verse and a story about Banjo's fictional, but very realistic, pub full of sporting men that he called simply ‘Mulligan's'. In the first poem Mulligan and his crew outwit the forces of authority with a clever ‘con-trick' and, in the story, justice is perhaps done as they become victims of a cleverer con-artist on a trip to Randwick. These yarns have long been favourites of mine and demonstrate just how well Banjo knew bushmen of all types!

Certain kinds of racing characters have almost become clichés or caricatures in Australian humorous literature. The cunning old trainer (often a battler from the bush), the hardened old punter, the insensitive bookie, the unlucky jockey and ‘mugs' of all shapes and sizes.

One of the most common types of racetrack joke is that where fate conspires to spoil what seems to be a sure-fire tip based on inside information, or perhaps some divine or supernatural prescience.

One such example is the story of the man who bumps into a neighbour on the tram going home.

‘Hello, Bill,' says the friend, ‘where have you been?'

‘I've been to the races,' Bill replies.

‘You don't usually go to the midweek meetings, do you?' says the neighbour.

‘No,' says Bill, ‘I only went today because I had a very vivid dream early this morning. I saw sunshine through fluffy clouds and a voice kept repeating “number seven . . . number seven . . . ”. So I looked in the paper and there was a horse carrying saddlecloth seven, coming out of barrier seven, in the seventh race at Sandown, at seven to one. So I went to the track and put $777 dollars on it.'

‘What happened?' asks the neighbour.

‘It ran seventh,' replies Bill.

Stoicism is a common element in racetrack humour. Another of my favourite stories concerns the old battling punter who heads off to the races with $20 in his pocket.

The old battler, let's call him Jim, backs the first winner at 10 to 1 and then goes all up on the next three favourites, who duly salute the judge, giving him a bank of $500 when the fifth race comes around.

Now, Jim has done the form carefully on this race and has a ‘special' which opens at 6 to 1 and drifts out to 8 to 1. Unperturbed, Jim steps in, backs his ‘special' and watches it win with his hands in his pockets and no emotion on his face.

Two more all-up bets on successful favourites take Jim's bank to almost $20,000 before the final race on the card.

This race features Jim's second ‘good thing' for the day, a track specialist named Wire Knot, third up from a spell over his pet distance.

Jim extracts a $50 note from his wad, tucks it into his back pocket and puts the rest on Wire Knot, on the nose at 3 to 1.

Wire Knot misses the kick, flies down the outside late and it's a photo finish. The judge calls for a second print before awarding the race to the rank outsider, Mitre Guest. Wire Knot misses by a nose.

On his way to the bus stop Jim meets a mate who says, ‘Hello Jim, how'd you go today?'

‘Not bad,' says Jim, deadpan, ‘I won $30.'

This stoic acceptance of the cruel hand of fate is a common feature of many racing anecdotes. Another common situation is that in which one character underestimates another's knowledge, or overestimates their own.

The Western Districts of Victoria are a great area for racing. This story was told to me by a great old yarn-spinner at Port Fairy, near Warrnambool.

It seems that an old cocky once turned up at a jumps meeting with a tough old steeplechaser, but with no jockey to ride it.

As the lad he had engaged for the ride didn't show up, the old trainer approached one of the professional city jockeys and asked if he would take the ride.

The jockey looked the old bloke up and down with a bored expression on his face and said, ‘All right Pop, I'll take him around for you I suppose, the moke I was booked for has been scratched and it will warm me up for the important races later in the day.'

As the old bloke legged the jockey aboard, he whispered urgently, ‘Now listen carefully, this horse will win easily if you remember one thing.'

‘I'll do a good job on him, Pop,' the jockey said impatiently. ‘Don't worry, I do know how to ride, you know.'

The old trainer persisted, ‘This is important, listen. As you approach each jump you must say, “One, two, three—jump”. If you do that, he'll win.'

The jockey was already moving the horse away from the old trainer as this advice was given. ‘Sure, Pop, it'll be all right, don't you worry,' he called back over his shoulder.

Of course the smug city jockey took no notice of the old trainer's advice. Away went the field and the tough old chaser was up with the leaders as they approached the first fence. When the horse made no preparation at all to jump, the jockey desperately attempted to lift him. The horse belatedly rose to the jump, struck heavily and almost dislodged the startled ‘professional'.

This incident caused them to fall right back through the field, the horse being lucky to stay on his feet and the jockey using all his skill to stay in the saddle. The jockey's mind was now racing to remember the old man's advice and, at the next jump, he succeeded in calling, ‘One, two, three—jump!' and the horse easily accounted for the fence.