Hold All Tickets

There’s no such thing as the perfect trainer.

Even the great ones get beat. TJ came up empty every now and then. Bart lost a Melbourne Cup one day.

There are horses involved. Sometimes they don’t do as they’re told. Jockeys too. Wet tracks. Bad barriers. Painful as it is, losses are part of the game.

They can’t win them all, but some go mighty close. Followers of Peter Moody and Rob Heathcote this season have been collecting more often than not.

Moody has trained more than 100 Melbourne winners in twelve months. Breathtaking stuff. Only been done twice before.

His premiership lead over Mark Kavanagh is more than 60. It’s difficult to fathom how one trainer could be so dominant in such a tough racing city.

All that, and still a strike rate of over 20%. I have to take my shoes off to count to 20, but even I know that’s impressive.

His mate north of the border has also been in rare form. Heathcote cracked the elusive 60 wins in Brisbane.

Don’t worry about comparing the figures. Nowhere near as many meetings up here.

It’s only the third time in 160 years that the milestone has been achieved. Some wonderful Queensland trainers haven’t been able to get close.

So how did they do it? Well, they’re two different blokes. With striking similarities.

Moody is the boy from the Queensland bush, who was born to make horses run fast. A life of refusing to take no for an answer.

Heathcote hails from Tasmania. In another life he was a tour guide in Europe. He’s travelled more than the Concorde.

Look at them now, and marvel at their success. The quest to be the best starts at 3am. Every day.

Both are incredibly hard workers. Great listeners. They surround themselves with the most talented staff. And engage the finest jockeys.

They know the importance of owners, and don’t treat them as fools. No hanging up when someone from the media rings. Most of the time.

The pressure involved in training the very best gallopers is enormous. How must it be when you’re the bloke saddling Black Caviar?

When Moody came north with the mighty mare, he could have locked himself away in an expensive city hotel, and rocked gently back and forward until race time.

Know where he was the day before she created history at Doomben? At the Brekky Creek hotel. Having a beer, and getting slapped on the back by half of Brisbane.

I’ve been lucky enough to know Rob Heathcote for a few years now. He trained the first winner our mob was involved in. We went nuts. And he was genuinely excited for us.

There’s nothing better than watching him in action at trackwork. Doesn’t miss a thing. Even though he’s barking orders, stirring strappers and patting the dog.

Others do the same, I know. But winning premierships and breaking records is no fluke. I’m sure Bart once said “..the harder I work, the luckier I get”. That’s Cummings, not Simpson.

These two deserve every bit of the success they’re achieving. At the top of their respective trees.

We can be guilty of not saluting our stars in the racing game. Maybe it’s because the meetings never end. There’s always another race, somewhere.

Mind you, Peter and Rob won’t complain. As long as horses are healthy, owners are happy, and the winners keep coming, they couldn’t give two hoots.

It’s not finished, of course. Watch them win the last races at Doomben and Caulfield today. More easy money for their followers. A perfect end to a season most only dream of.

The best tip of the day is that Peter Moody and Rob Heathcote are only going to get better. Blokes who chase perfection are like that.

As a dedicated and valued reader of Hold All Tickets, you’ll be fully aware of how things work around here.

Tuesday is fun day. A laugh at life. Usually at my expense. Sometimes involving a bloke’s bumbling efforts at being a dad.

Up until now, Friday has been racing day. For punters, and those who share a love of the track. Hard luck stories. Maybe even a tip. Followed by the foolish and the brave.

Well, not any more. Friday, that is. Because Friday has become Saturday.

That’s right. You’ll now find the Hold All Tickets racing blurb ready to go each and every Saturday morning. Just in time to ignore when you sit down to do the form.

The shift comes after extensive research. If you call a drunken conversation at the Ipswich races research.

There’ll still be tales of woe, and ramblings from fun days at the track many moons ago. The odd colourful character. And a crook tip or too.

So, that’s the deal. Something to add to your reading list to start the weekend.

Tuesday is still Tuesday. Confused? Welcome to my life.

Of course, if this routine change has you worried that you’ll be missing out on what the cool kids are talking about, you can always subscribe, for FREE.

Have a look for the ‘Sign Me Up’ box on the Hold All Tickets home page. Whack your e-mail address in. And you’ll never miss these dribblings again. What a gift for that special someone.

You might also be reading via Facebook or Twitter. Even the Yahoo 7 website. That’s right. There’s no escape.

So, that’s the important message. OK, it wasn’t that important.

At least you have no excuse to miss tomorrow’s masterpiece. And I have one whole extra day to work out what it is.

Dad peered through the open window of the old EH Holden station wagon, and shook his head.

Across the carpark, one of my teammates was also in a car. With the windows up.

His father had air conditioning. We didn’t. Which meant he was warm.

It was under 10’s soccer, down south. Deep in winter. We had our usual ventilation. The old man swore by it.

One of my childhood memories is having the window open. At home and on the road. Dad was a believer in fresh air. At all times. Reckoned it kept the bugs away.

He had no time for cosy cars. It wasn’t healthy. So my dad, the local carpenter, told his dad, the local pharmacist, his fancy car with hot air was making their family sick.

He didn’t tell me what the reply was.

All those open windows, over all those years, and I can’t remember being cold.

Not now though. Sunny Queensland, and I’m freezing. Every morning. Old and cold. Windows shut tight. What happened to the kid who couldn’t sleep without a bedroom breeze?

I hear what you’re saying. He’s gone soft. Another casualty of the Age of Comforts. Guilty as charged.

The air conditioner is now a best friend. Cranked up. Extra blankets. Double doona.  And God bless the bathroom heater.

It’s costing us a fortune. I don’t care. I need to be warm.

It was all so different back then. We had a bar heater in the lounge room. That was it. Every chance the window was open above it.

My brother and I each slept with a decent blanket. Two if there was a frost. Didn’t need any more. And in the morning, it would be a barefoot stroll to the outside toilet.

In later years, I’d ride my bike to school, in shorts. Early too. I can’t remember ever complaining that it was too chilly to make the trip.

Now it’s all I do. Complain, that is. I’m cold going to bed. Shivering while shaving. I’d need to call a cab if I was still using that backyard dunny.

I put towels down over the bathroom tiles, to protect my tootsies. The Treasurer gets annoyed at this. She prefers bath mats. But they leave gaps. You understand, don’t you?

This won’t make much sense (nothing unusual for these pages), but I blame Cairns for my delicate thin skin. Yes, balmy North Queensland.

When we first went north, life was a constant heat wave. I’d sweat like Sir Les Patterson every other day.

Deep in a northern winter, the boys would be wearing tracksuits and beannies at footy training. They genuinely thought the nights were cold. I didn’t get it.

But just a few years later, I was rugged up too. In the tropics. It made no sense. My internal thermostat had gone haywire.

As soon as we ventured south, it was like I’d been robbed of any ability to handle the chill. And it’s still missing.

It’s true that people survive in locations that are genuinely icy. You might be reading this from such a place now. I bet you even walk barefoot on the bathroom floor. I’m impressed.

It would seem I need to toughen up. If the good folk of Hobart, and Melbourne, and the Blue Mountains can function in single digit temperatures, so can I.

The key could be to open those windows. A decent dose of fresh air. Become as one with the climate. Maybe Dad had it right after all. I’ll give it a try tomorrow night. Not tonight though. It’s freezing out there.

Righto, let’s take a breath.

What a week. Can you remember a bigger build up to a footy game? And a better result? I doubt it.

Locky bowed out a winner. We shed a tear. The football Gods got it right. Queensland smiled.

Ricky was sad. He shed a tear. The football Gods got it right. Queensland smiled.

Now, I know Fridays are usually time for a racing story or two. A tall tale, or a bold prediction. Maybe some nonsense about a special that slipped through our unlucky paws.

Today, however, something different. A change of pace. The reason? There was a State of Origin incident. It was kept pretty quiet. Nothing in the papers. But the story should be told. I nearly killed a grandmother.

You think it was noisy at Suncorp Stadium? Nothing compared to our house. Because the Blues’ most vocal supporter was sitting on my lounge. My sweet mother-in-law.

Before I explain the two-hour verbal assault, I should tell you a little about the Treasurer’s mum.

She’s a sweetheart. The kindest, caring, most thoughtful old girl you could imagine. Even bakes cheesecakes. But put the footy on, and cross her at your peril.

It could be any game. Origin. Titans. Runaway Bay Under Tens. She will support her team like life depends on it. Loudly.

I have no idea where the voice comes from. It’s un-relenting. Play after play.

If we’re at the game together, I can usually organise an escape. Head to the end of the row. But in my own home, I was trapped.

Referees are particular targets. Opposing teams are always off side. Opposing players are always tackling around the head. I know this, because she yells such comments at a level on par with a jet engine. Constantly.

During a tense time in the first half, I swear Tony Archer looked our way. The Origin whistleblower must have heard her through the telly, thirty suburbs away.

Fighting back is futile. She’s in the zone. Anyway, it would be a brave man who argues the interpretations of the play the ball law with the woman who’ll be preparing his post-origin desert.

My only defence was to turn the TV volume up. Through the roof. For a while it worked. Until I realised I was swapping mum-in-law for Gus Gould. Volume down. The barrage continued.

I imagined my defence lawyer. “Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, the defendant had no choice. The noise became too much. Insanity by way of disrupting Locky’s farewell. Can you blame him?”

Ok, I’ve gone too far. No one took harm in the construction of this article. Except my ear drums.

As is always the case, the crazed footy fan departed on the stroke of full-time. Replaced in an instant by the Grandma we love so much. She even clapped Locky. Said kind words about Mal. Then gave me a hug and did the dishes.

I admire her passion. Even if it is deafening. She’s the same about her kids and  grandkids. Her son-in-law too, who wears the wrong colours. Loves us all. And doesn’t care who knows. Just ask Tony Archer.