My sleeping beauty. The latest lessons in life from a September 11 girl.

September 11, 2012

She came into the world with a coo and a gurgle. No extreme crying.

It was almost peaceful, compared to her sister a few years earlier.

The Teenager’s first scream could be heard in nearby suburbs. A noisy sign of things to come.

I can still picture the look on Daughter Two’s face, in those first few minutes. It’s like a photo in my mind. More than a beautiful baby. There was a presence, that remains to this day.

Her Mum felt it too. Like this tiny one was letting us know early on, that she was something special.

It didn’t take long to discover that these two much loved little girls were very much their own ladies. So similar is some respects, but so different in others.

Older sister loved hearing bedtime stories. One book after the other, night after night. She refused to go to sleep, even then. Nothing’s changed.

Younger sister would last about five pages. Sleep came so naturally. Try as she might, those gorgeous eyes would close swiftly. Nothing’s changed there either.

She can still call it a night, hours earlier than her sibling. Like both Mum and Dad, she appreciates a long sleep.

She went to bed early, on this day eleven years ago. Hard to argue with that, when you’ve just turned one.

We’d had a first birthday party for her, a few hours before the unthinkable happened in New York. The day her birth date became synonymous with terror.

There are mixed emotions for us at this time every year. So many families feel such awful pain, on the same day we celebrate our amazing gift.

She loves special occasions more than anyone I know. Birthdays, and Christmas, and Easter. Weeks out, plans are always very much in place.

So it was this weekend just gone. We held the party a few days early. Lots of fun. But very different from those early celebrations.

Back then, she couldn’t get enough of us. Didn’t matter who else attended, the biggest hugs would always be for Mum and Dad.

When you turn 12, you realise how ridiculous those same parents actually are. This time, we were warned about talking to the party guests. There would be no need for such idle chat. And don’t organise any games. Leave it to us, she said. She wasn’t being mean. Just being 12.

We behaved ourselves, and the party was a success. Not that she told us as much. But we could tell. There were even cuddles at day’s end.

As parents, we see wonderful things ahead for our daughters. Most Mums and Dads do. That they can do anything they turn their delicate hands to.

It’s not easy though. So many distractions. This girl who still falls asleep in the car, could be anything. Once she decides what it is that she actually wants to do.

She can sing, and act, and make people laugh. But it’s all confined to the lounge room. Too shy, she tells us.

Modelling agencies have snapped her up. Why wouldn’t they. Those same traits of beauty that afflict all the women in her family.

She has a flair for sport, especially athletics. Won relay gold at the regional carnival just yesterday. But doesn’t have time to compete on weekends. Far too busy with social activities.

Her love of dance continues. She’s great at that too. But only on her terms. Push her to do more, and be prepared for a battle.

Maybe this is all just a proud Dad boasting about the little girl he adores. Guilty as charged, your honour.

I know she’ll work it out. Big things are ahead. And we’ll be with her every step of the way.

She will change the world, you mark my words. For the better. Along with her sister. We’re so lucky to have them both in our lives.

In the meantime, she will give us those looks that only a Grade Seven girl can. And let us know how we have most things wrong. In the nicest possible way. Great practice for when she becomes Teenager Two. Twelve glorious months to go. Happy birthday beautiful girl.

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Going mad for Mango. A tribute to a champion Cowboy who’s inspired a generation.

September 8, 2012

A change of pace this Saturday.

Yes, it’s a massive afternoon of racing ahead. A super card at Flemington with the Makybe Diva Stakes. And glorious weather for fun at Doomben.

But it’s all just marking time. Before the REALLY big event of the weekend. The Cowboys and the Broncos going head to head tonight in Townsville.

If you’re not a league fan, stay with me here. Because today’s offering is not about a game. It’s about a man. An amazing bloke, who has overcome obstacles that kill off sporting careers every other day.

Matty Bowen is North Queensland’s favourite son. Most games for the Cowboys. Origin and Test star. Indigenous hero. And so much more.

He plays his 250th game tonight. A career in the big time that began in 2001. It could have been so different.

Bowen comes from a tiny dot on the map called Hope Vale, deep in Cape York. Leave Brisbane now, and you’ll get there in a few days, after covering roughly 1500 kilometres. Melbourne is closer.

Like so many towns in the Cape, the road to success is so much tougher to negotiate. And sadly, less travelled.

I’ve been to plenty of them over the years. Some beautiful. Others heartbreaking. All with something in common. Energetic, athletic, carefree, fun-loving kids.

Matty Bowen was one. Playing footy on dusty streets from dawn to dusk. No restrictions. No shackles. Just a pure love of the game.

So many players have that youthful enthusiasm knocked out of them. Over-coached. Mistake-free. Play the percentages.

Not Matty. Watch him now, all these years later, and his mindset is still in the backyard. A loose ball is a try opportunity. Even on his own line. Go down to your local park after school, and you’ll see youngsters doing that exact same thing.

For a small man, his bravery is astounding. On those rare occasions that defenders catch him, they don’t miss. He gets up, with a shake of that curly mop. And looks for the next try.

More than that, his comeback from severe injury has been remarkable. Major knee surgery. Not once, but twice. Cartilage grown externally, then implanted. Awful times, enough to end careers. But not the bloke they call Mango (as in Bowen mangoes.)

Other flying machines get slower as they get older. Those injuries take their toll. Have you watched this bloke lately? He’s breaking low flying speed records.

Townsville has been good for Matty. Just the right fit. I doubt he would have survived with a Sydney club. Not because of ability. He just wouldn’t have enjoyed it as much.

There are so many more kids out there, with the same passion. In small towns where the game is an escape. So many have been given hope, by the bloke from Hope Vale.

He’s spent much of his career doing school talks, and community visits. They love him. A humble hero. Who runs like the wind.

Many years ago, one of the club’s development officers drove Matty to one such function in the north. A school where league was the number one subject, and young Cowboys were regarded as rock stars.

This guy told me later that the trip there took place in silence. Not a word. The shy young fullback was immersed in his own thoughts. Maybe thinking back to those street games back home.

The coach was a little worried. The visit required the diminutive champion to speak at some length to the youngsters, pointing out the pitfalls ahead, and the value of hard work and fair play. At this rate, they’d be back in class quickly.

On arrival, they found the kids in the middle of a typical playground encounter. No shoes and few rules. Before he’d taken the witches hats out of the boot, the coach had lost his special guest.

With panic not far off, the coach scanned the playground. And there, in the middle of the chaos that is lunchtime footy, was Matty Bowen.

The rep star of the future had joined in, to the delight of the kids. Running, and dodging, and scoring tries. And laughing.

There would be no speech. No need. Those boys would learn more that day than they would in fifty classroom lectures. From the champion right next to them. Inspiring in a way few others are able to.

I’ll be cheering him again tonight. Not just because I’m a Cowboys fan, and I think this is our time. I want to celebrate the deeds of a special sportsman, who has done more for indigenous relations and well-being than a room full of politicians. Without even trying.

The never-ending games in Hope Vale, and in other tiny towns, will take a rare break tonight. Just in time to see Matty weave his magic. Like he’s always done.

Those kids will then go to bed, with the footy at their bedroom door, and dream of making it in the big time. Thanks to Matty Bowen, there’s no reason why they can’t.

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My video stars. The beauty of memories, when big girls weren’t so big.

September 4, 2012

Our home videos are carefully stored. In a box, somewhere. With labels that make little sense.

Golden memories, of less complicated times. Before young ladies knew how to text.

All gorgeous in their own way. Some funny, others emotional. Especially when my Mum bobs up, trying to avoid the camera.

Photos, too. Lots of albums. For too long, I didn’t appreciate the importance of recording the journey we’re all on. Now, every image reminds me of something magical.

I thought about those memories over the weekend. On the day Dads get to reflect about the things most important to them.

The girls were playing with some old photos. When they were younger, and I was lighter. The sort of snaps families take most weekends.

They ended up on one of those websites that I don’t understand. Where photos are shared, and friends make comment. I tried to have a look last night, but it wouldn’t let me in. Too old, probably.

There’s a video of the girls, taken a decade ago. It doesn’t go long, and my camerawork is anything but fancy.

I find myself thinking about those few minutes more and more. Such an insight into how the girls would develop. Enough to brighten the saddest hour.

It was at a park, across the road from where we were living. The Teenager was all of four. Daughter Two had only just started to walk.

It was chilly, and both were rugged up. Cute clothes made by their Mum. The Teenager in a groovy jacket. Her sister in warm tights, straining over her nappy.

As was her way at the time, The Teenager was in charge. From the swing, to the slippery dip, to the climbing castle. With a frenzied commentary to match. The chat was non-stop. I can hear that little voice in my head right now, and it makes my heart sing.

Her sister, still mastering this walking caper, followed her every step. If The Teenager went on something, she’d have a go too. A desire to get it right, way back then.

The afternoon was pain-free, until Daughter Two changed the script. Instead of following, she decided to lead the way. While The Teenager was busy getting tangled in the rope ladder, her younger sibling decided she would have another crack at their park favourite.

The camera joined in, as she toddled towards the smaller seat of the swing set.

I helped her up, and there she sat, proud as punch, despite doing very little swinging.

That lack of movement would be changed soon enough. Courtesy of her sister, charging into the shot from right of screen.

This would not do. Baby sisters did not set the agenda. Especially when the camera was involved.

Daughter Two had no idea the push was coming. There was no time to brace. Down she went, exchanging her comfy seat for a mouthful of bark and dust.

This was all done to the sound of The Teenager explaining to the cameraman what his next shot should be, as she took her rightful place on the swing. “Video camera me Daddy! Video camera me!”

It remains one of my favourite items on tape. My oldest daughter, refusing to allow the spotlight to be shifted. And Daughter Two’s cry. Not from pain or injury. A squeal of defiance. With the added note, that she wouldn’t always be a pushover.

I stopped the camera and brushed her off. The urgings of The Teenager continued. I fought back giggles, and explained that there would be no more video camera-ing, while family members were getting knocked down.

They made their peace, and moved on to the next activity. From memory, Daughter Two was sent down the slide head first by her loving sister not long after. To laughter, thankfully.

A tiny snippet of life, that says so much about us. A few wonderful, fun minutes. Things a Dad never forgets.

Confidence, laughter, determination, resilience and love of family. All on show, right there in that park. And the sweet, innocent voice of a four-year old, that I don’t get to hear anymore.

I bet you have similar memories tucked away, in boxes somewhere. Cherish them like I do now. Take more photos and videos. You never know when you might need cheering up.

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All the Cup winners, two months early. Remember me when you cash in.

September 1, 2012

The dark days of winter are a mere memory. Spring and all her delights are in the air. When a young punter’s fancy turns to the Cups.

And the Plate, of course. The Cox Plate. The Caulfield Cup. And the big one. The race the rest of the world now pinches.

Today, the first of the Cup contenders show their stuff. Early days, on the way to bigger spoils.

The rules have changed, of course. Races that were once vital, now matter little. And country cups that were good for a beer and a cheer, now host Cup favourites.

I’m telling you nothing special when I say an overseas horse will win the Melbourne Cup. That’s just how it is now. They are deadly serious about breeding two-mile specialists, and we’re not.

Our money is for sprinters, and the milers. No use protesting about it any more. Someone, somewhere, decided we didn’t need to be in the staying game. And so, a foreign raider will again pinch the cup that connections of Phar Lap sipped out of.

Of course, that makes it bloody difficult to pick the winner this far out. Because we have no idea how good any of the foreigners really are. Or if they’ll even make it here.

Depressed yet? Don’t be. There are winners coming further down the page. Just not for the Cup we love the most.

Only the brave or the foolhardy would be plonking money down for the first Tuesday in November just yet. Another few weeks needed. Although I will say one thing. Forget this business about local trainers picking up foreign horses.

It’s all the rage at the minute. Anyone with a fat wallet and a dream is buying half-decent foreign stayers, and throwing them at an Australian stable. We’ve been caught out, and we’re playing catch up. It might work in a few years, when they get their systems right. But not yet.

The winner will be trained by an international. He’s been sitting in his barn, on the other side of the world, for months now. Maybe Cumani, or Dermot again, or the Sheik. Or some other bloke we’ve never heard of.

I know what you’re saying. You paid good money to read this stuff, and so far it’s still totally devoid of any decent tips. (Hang on, you PAID to read this? Seriously? You obviously have far too much spare cash. I’ll give you my TAB account details later.)

Ok, so we’ve established that together, we have no idea who’ll win the Melbourne Cup. Brilliant. But what if I told you that this year’s Cox Plate winner is running around today?

Have a look at Rosehill this afternoon, just after 3 o’clock, and you’ll see something special. Pierro. Triple Crown winner. Unbeaten as a two-year-old. One right out of the box.

I was on when he won the Golden Slipper. Bless him. Normally, that would force me to rule him out for the Spring Carnival the following year. But not this guy.

He just keeps getting better. Gai Waterhouse can’t say enough about him. Even in Gai talk. The wraps are twice as big as those she puts on all her other neddies. God love her.

But I reckon she’s spot on. He strikes me as one of those rare beasts, who will actually thrive over the torturous Cox Plate trip as a three-year-old. Tough as old boots. With an enormous desire to win.

The downside is that plenty of others agree. He’s ridiculously short for a baby in the nation’s premier weight-for age race. Seven dollars at the minute, second favourite behind stablemate More Joyous. And as much as I love Singo’s mare, I don’t think she can beat him.

Right, there’s our first winner, for a race that’s still weeks away. Write it down, put it in your early doubles, and remember me when you collect.

Winner number two comes up the week before. The Caulfield Cup can still be taken out by a local. Even with the foreign interest.

Lights of Heaven couldn’t have been more impressive earlier this year, culminating with victory in the Brisbane Cup. I love that Peter Moody has given her all the time she needed, after struggling a touch the season before.

Granted, she’ll have to keep improving. And I think she can.

Get on right now, and you’ll nab the Zabeel mare at twenty-one dollars. Money for jam.

I should add here, that I also like Green Moon. He’ll also be vastly improved this Spring. He’ll win something, for sure. But I can’t back one that is Caulfield Cup favourite this early. They just never, ever, get up.

Two winners, a special, and a game plan for the Big One. And there’s still two months to go.

We’ll re-assess our strategy in a few weeks. And the normal rules apply. Donations from all winners gratefully accepted.

In the rare case that someone might lose from this information, contact our Complaints Department. I’ll get back to you with that address.

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Angels in flat shoes. Why our nurses deserve so much more.

August 28, 2012

From a 5-year-old, it was a stroke of brilliance. A plan that just had to work.

I was in a little coastal hospital, with tonsils that were deemed no good. At a time when the mere whiff of tonsilitis meant an operation to whip them out.

It was sold to me as being necessary to end the weekly sore throats. And as a bonus, there’d be unlimited ice cream afterwards.

Sounded good. Until they told me that I’d be spending the night there alone.

No beds for parents back then. Mum and Dad had to go home without me.

Dad told me everything would be fine, and they’d see me first thing in the morning.

Mum, however, was teary. It was the first time we’d been apart. She was as upset as I was.

She hugged me, a giant squeeze from a tiny lady. And that gave me the opportunity to put my plan into action.

I grabbed her wrist, and held on for dear life. Small fingers in a death grip. Everyone else laughed, but I was serious.

They couldn’t leave me, if Mum was trapped. I’d hang on all night, and keep her with me.

Mum tried to reason with me. Dad tried to unwrap my bony fingers. He could have succeeded, of course, but let the show continue for a little longer.

It was a nurse who saved the day. Or night. I still remember her smiling face, promising me she wouldn’t leave my side, until my parents returned.

My grip eventually loosened, and with more tears, they departed. True to her word, that lovely woman stayed close, until I fell asleep. My first encounter with the angels who nurse.

A few years later, I broke my wrist. Playing soccer in the backyard, I fell, landing on the concrete lid of the old septic tank. This time, it was off to the big hospital.

I don’t remember much of the ordeal, expect that it hurt like hell. But there was a bigger drama, that Dad explained to me when I was older.

There were no beds. So we spent seven hours on a trolley, in the hospital corridor.

I do remember Dad doing his block. It was one of the first times I’d seen him blow up. While he was battling anyone who came near, it was a nurse who took pity on us. Not a doctor or administrator. Another angel.

Somehow, she got me a bed. And soothed the old man at the same time. Quite a feat.

Since then, I’ve seen them work their magic through the eyes of a parent. When you need all the help and reassurance you can get.

One night as a youngster, The Teenager had a fever that would have fried eggs. We’ve always been able to tell her temperature through the soles of her feet. Weird but true.

They were scorching. So it was off to an even bigger hospital.

Every parent knows the feeling of helplessness, when a child is sick. You think the worst, immediately.

The emergency ward was bustling. Doctors were flat-out. When it was our turn, the medico didn’t waste time or words. If the fever didn’t come down in the next few hours, our first-born would be admitted.

I thought back to the five-year old’s death grip, all those years ago. I didn’t want her to have to come up with the same plan.

For her part, the Not-Yet-A-Teenager was more interested in reading their colourful books. With steam coming off her forehead. Try as I might, I couldn’t convince her to drink the water they’d given her, to get that temperature down.

Panic wasn’t far off. Until a nurse came to the rescue. Male, this time. He convinced her what a cool idea it would be if she could read AND drink. Made it a game. It worked a treat.

All those stories came back to me, as I sat in hospital myself over the weekend. An unpleasant but necessary bout of surgery.

Late at night, it wasn’t the surgeon who provided me with comfort (although it should be said that he, too, was fantastic).

It was my nurse. Full of caring and compassion. With expertise to match. And the ability to ignore major levels of yuk. At all hours. Making things better. For scared little kids and impatient old farts.

What a noble profession. What wonderful people. Worth so much more than they’re getting.

Next time you’re in hospital, or visiting someone who is, thank the people in uniform. Our nurses. If you can’t keep Mum with you, there’s no better replacement.

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Toilet troubles, crook knees and baldness. Let the Old Fart celebrations begin.

August 21, 2012

We are all getting so very old. Ancient, even.

Thank you Captain Obvious, I hear the crowd roar. But you must stick with me here.

I’m referring to a particular group. My mates. The boys I grew up with.

We are all approaching fifty years. A bunch of us, hobbling towards five decades of life. Some with more hair than others.

The first of the birthdays was at the weekend. Others will follow in the months ahead. Then next year. And a few in the early part of 2014.

You might tag us as over the hill, but we’re all still young at heart. We remember how it once was. What we used to get up to. I wouldn’t say we were wild. Although others might. I prefer to remember us as high-spirited, and fun-loving.

When we get together these days, we try to do the things we once did. For a while at least. Before one of us nods off.

For this party, we decided to gather at our local a few hours earlier. A punt and a few cool drinks, before the official fun began. A time-honoured tradition among this gang.

One by one they arrived. I don’t get to see them that much now, so every greeting featured a heart-felt hug and a firm handshake.

The ales flowed, and so did the stories. But the topics are so very different.

I returned to the table after a successful wager at Caulfield, to find the boys deep in conversation about their prostates. Not the footy, or the surf, or even a joke. Prostates.

One was recovering from a test. Another had one booked. Everyone had a horror story. Can’t be too careful, you know.

This bunch had been known to take over entire disco dance floors, and drain kegs in backyards. And here we were, discussing troubled male glands. In the same bar that the more spirited had arm wrestled in their youth.

For me, the conversation was a timely one. I’m having surgery later this week. They asked plenty of questions and painted terrible pictures about what was ahead. So nice of them.

We then shifted body parts. One of the boys described his progress after a knee replacement. A bloke who terrorised opponents on the field years ago. Now paying a painful price.

We left for the party soon after. A gentle walk towards the beach. A few were hobbling. One softie was even complaining about the cold. Why didn’t I take a jacket?

We arrived, and found other tell-tale signs around the room. One of the boys on crutches. Another bung knee. And it’s fair to say no-one was carrying a hair brush.

A bloke I hadn’t seen in twenty years mentioned that he’d had a heart attack a few years back. He was a respected opponent in our battles on the paddock. Now he was careful about his weight, and what he ate. Although it must be said, his form on the night was most impressive. I’m guessing the cardiac surgeon has given beer the green light.

A few haven’t made it this far. So sad. One of our great friends fought cancer like a warrior a few years back. The despicable disease got him in the end. Another is in the fight of his life right now. And we’re backing him to get the cash.

So we’re the lucky ones. Still very much alive and kicking. Having a giggle. Just falling asleep earlier.

The birthday boy finished the night by falling down the stairs. There was mock concern for a while, before everyone started laughing at him. I’m told he made a full recovery.

That’s what’s got us this far. A healthy dose of that great Australian trait. The ability to laugh at ourselves. And join is the fun with those closest to us.

My time’s coming, I know. The good news is that my knees are fine. And I’m still safe on the stairs. But can someone lend me a jacket? It’s freezing in here.

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Finding a winner on Twitter. The racing names you should be following.

August 18, 2012

It will surprise many to discover that the racing industry, traditionally home to old farts, has become a leader in making the most of social media.

If you’re a punter, and you’re not on Twitter, you’re not in the game. Almost overnight, the major players have gathered in one place. And you can find them on your phone or computer.

Few sports use the medium better. Probably because everyone involved in racing has an opinion. Instead of yelling over the parade ring fence, we now tweet.

There are some stars, who you must follow. There are some dills too. You’ll work them out for yourself.

If you’re just starting out, fear not. Here’s the list of the people who matter, to get you up and running.

After you find your mum, dad, partner, kids, boss and bookie, your priority is to add Andrew Bensley. His Twitter name is @AndrewBensley (Newcomers, you’ll see that look frequently from here on. Twitter identities always start with an @).

The big man from Sky is a Twitter freak. The most prolific I know. He’s sent out more than 10,000 tweets, and shows no sign of slowing down.

Follow him, and you’ll receive all the racing news you’ll ever need. And then some. What the trainers are saying. Which way the jockeys are leaning. Who starred at trackwork, and the big improvers.

It’s a constant flow of golden information, that punters of old could only dream of. Ignore him at your peril.

The next must have is his mate, Ron Dufficy .. @DufficyRon. The Duff tells it like it is. He spares no-one, and is particularly scathing when administrators get out of line.

Not as many tips, but plenty of fun. And when he likes one, get on.

Another favourite of mine, is someone plenty of you won’t have heard of. A young racing journo on the up, by the name of Andrew Hawkins .. @AndrewNJHawkins. Andrew lives and breathes racing. For a young bloke, he’s incredibly well-connected. And he knows his stuff.

There are thousands of tipsters and form analysts. Part of the fun is finding those you like. For what it’s worth, here are a few that I enjoy following.

Gibbo .. @brissyraces (also has a great website). Chris Nelson .. @qldtrials (Best Bets analyst and contributor to 4TAB). Brent Zerafa .. @brentzerafa (Daily Tele). Ray Thomas .. @RayThomas1.  Jay Rooney .. @Jay_Rooney (West Australian form). Brad Thompson .. @BradThompson83. The legendary Tony Brassel .. @TonyBrassel. And plenty more.

There are media folk at every turn on Twitter. Some are great fun, and thoughtful performers. Try this lot. Mary Collier .. @mtc01 (owner and 4BC breakfast host – one of twitter’s finest). Nathan Exelby .. @xlbnathan (Courier-Mail scribe). Tony Clements .. @tonyontheradio (4TAB host and industry expert).  And Richie Callander .. @richieplz (one of the best Twitter names!)

Special mention goes to some old Twitter friends. Some of the funniest Twitter banter I see comes from a bunch of mates, who never miss an opportunity to have a crack at each other, especially over losing bets.

Do yourself a favour and follow Ben Dorries .. @bendorries (Courier-Mail), Gerard Daffy .. @GerardDaffy (betting guru), Wayne Hemming .. @TickerOz (legendary Brisbane journo) and Peter Psaltis .. @peterp79 (4BC sports lover and host).

More and more stables are coming on board. Check out Peter Moody .. @MoodyRacing, Gai Waterhouse .. @GaiWaterhouse1 and her hard working staff member Natasha Kent .. @KentNatasha. Plenty of good stuff too from Griffiths Racing .. @GriffithsRacing, Lee Freedman .. @Freedmanbros and Desleigh Forster .. @DesRacing74.

Want to stalk some jockeys? Try Kerrin McEvoy .. @KPMcEvoy, Glyn Schofield .. @ SchofieldGlyn, Chris Munce .. @MunceC and Josh Parr .. @JJParr7.

Some don’t fit into any category. They’re either smart, funny, helpful or controversial. Enjoy the offerings of Corinna Slade .. @CorinnaSladey, Steve Meakes .. @ourmaizcay,  Brad Tamer .. @Tatts_Tamer, Racing Good Oil .. @RacingGoodOil, The Gadfly .. @turfgadfly, Cox Plate .. @The_Cox_Plate,  and Racenet .. @RacenetTweets.

And of course, no racing fan’s Twitter account is complete without the great mare herself, Black Caviar. Yep, she’s on twitter .. @blackcaviar2006. Her phone must have mighty big keys.

So there you have it. The must-have names for punters on Twitter. Apologies to those who I follow and enjoy, but forgot for this piece. There are so many of you out there.

Have fun finding your own favourites. Hopefully it will help you build your betting account. And here’s someone who’ll never give you a winner, or a worthwhile tip. But you should follow him anyway. That Salmon bloke .. @salmo22

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An Ekka fashion adventure. See-through tops and slinky singlets. And that’s just the blokes.

August 14, 2012

It’s fair to say that Eric from Kingaroy had never seen anything like it.

I’m assuming that was his name. He certainly looked like an Eric. And if his home wasn’t in the peanut capital, it was surely just a few large paddocks away.

We were watching the fashion parade at the Brisbane Exhibition. The Ekka, to anyone who has Maroon flowing through their veins.

The city’s annual show. Every decent town has one. From Sydney to Cairns and west to Nashville, showtime puts a city’s heartbeat on display for all to see.

The Ekka is famous for bringing the country to the city. And Eric was as country as cattle stations and the pedal steel guitar.

This fashion parade had striking Australian clothes, shown off by stunning models. They were tall, skinny and confident. At times, there wasn’t much left to the imagination. And Eric was seated just metres away.

This is one of the delightful quirks of the Ekka, and shows like it. No matter how polished the parade might be, anyone can end up in the front row.

In Paris or Milan, such seats would be reserved for the industry’s biggest names. If you’re not an ‘A’ grade celebrity, forget it.

Here, the best seats in the house can go to bogans from Beaudesert and grandmas from Gympie. Possibly next to a mechanic from Maryborough. And Eric.

Somehow, he’d scored poll position. Front row, centre seat. If the cameras had been rolling, he would have been in every shot.

I’m not sure why he was there. Possibly to keep the peace. I’m guessing he’d never seen such an event before. Because his expression was one of constant amazement.

Mouth open, eyes popping. The occasional shake of head. Every now and then, he would glance at the missus, to see if this was all for real. That was a waste of time, because she refused to return his gaze. She was having too much fun in the big smoke.

I’m not sure why he was so startled. As fashion parades go, it was anything but outrageous. But then something happened, that was too much for the old boy from the bush.

There were two male models. Impossibly chiseled, with smiles so bright they could have lit up Eric’s remote airstrip on the farm at midnight.

Every time they strutted their stuff, Eric’s gob opened just a little wider. There were BLOKES doing this modelling caper too!

One came out in a white singlet. And not the style that Eric’s mates would have worn in the shearing shed.

This one had tiny, narrow shoulder straps. It was tight enough to show an eight-pack.

Over the top, sat a flowing tropical, short-sleeved shirt, in all the colours of the rainbow. I’m no expert, but I think the outfit was finished off with those cream drawstring cotton pants, that rich single doctors wear to the pub on a Sunday arvo.

Luckily, it was the final walk of the parade. Because Eric could take no more. Couldn’t get out of that prime position quick enough. He was last seen herding the women-folk to the nearest bar.

That’s the beauty of the Ekka, and annual shows the world over. Once you get through the gates, everyone is equal.

City-folk have that same look, when we head to the animal pavilion, and see the birth of a baby lamb. Or the farmer showing his prize-winning chook. We don’t understand it, but we marvel at the beauty, that we don’t usually get to see.

How wonderful is it that a bloke like Eric could experience all that? In the very front row. The boys at the local will be in for some stories when he gets home.

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Little people who are big targets. Give our jockeys a break.

August 11, 2012

The jockeys copped another bagging this week. Only a handful, mind you. But as usual, others get dragged down too.

Like any profession, there are those who qualify as good and decent. As well as a few who are more than happy to darken the reputation of their colleagues.

From doctors and lawyers, to plumbers, publicans and priests. Journos even. So it has always been.

There are thousands of blog writers. Some are brilliant. Others pedal rubbish and crud. Then there are the rest of us, compiling pages of harmless dribble every other day for our family and close friends.

My point here, and I do have one, is that it’s unfair to lump everyone into the same basket. And I fear that’s what happens when the spotlight is put on racing.

To those folk outside the industry, who wouldn’t know a saddle cloth from a soap dish, claims of wrongdoing equals everyone being a cheat. I hear it often.

As a punter, I can reach rare levels of fury when a jockey steers one in the wrong direction. Taking my cash with him or her. But I never stop admiring the skills and courage of the hoops every time they go around.

Few other professions pose such dangers. Certainly not six or seven times a day. And that’s not counting trackwork, and barrier trials. Huge, heavy, flying machines, that don’t always do as they’re told.

It’s easy to forget the dangers. They risk life and skinny limbs every time they take one out. A bit different to those of us who park large bums at desks, where the day’s biggest danger is burning a tongue on hot coffee.

I’m friends with plenty of hoops, mainly through social media. They impress me time and again, with their humour, and dedication, and support for colleagues.

Yes, there are some narks. But they’re in the minority. Look around your own workplace. Good luck if you don’t have any.

Most are young, working and playing hard. Unlike others of their age, this lot get up at 3am every day. And quite often eat similar portions to a sparrow.

It’s a sport of individuals, but the jockeys remind me of how a football team operates. They stir each other, and tease, and love nothing more than a decent prank. Watch them go at it if a mate gets a ride wrong.

But in times of trouble, they stick solid. Just like a team. There for each other, with more solidarity than most other groups. In those dark days when a jockey is seriously hurt, or worse, the bond is rock solid.

Here in Queensland, the riding ranks have never been so strong. And it’s no co-incidence that the form of the younger riders is on the up. Just like a footy club, the senior players set the tone.

Blokes like Chris Munce and Larry Cassidy have won more Group Ones than I’ve cooked lamb roasts. Those on the rise have role models right next to them. And blokes who know them, tell me they are well aware of doing their bit.

My humble view is that the game is cleaner than it’s ever been. The stings and shonks of days gone by are much harder to get away with. Listen to an old-timer explain the way things used to be, and tell me I’m wrong.

I’m not silly enough to think the game will ever be totally clean. When such big money is involved, there’ll always be someone wanting to get a piece of the action by means that aren’t allowed.

When they catch the crook ones, I’m all for throwing the book at them. Set an example, so others don’t go down that path.

But it doesn’t mean everyone sitting in a saddle is wearing a black hat. Without them, the industry we love would grind to a halt. Sure, let them know if their ride wasn’t up to scratch. As long as you cheer the good ones too.

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Time for change. Why horse racing should be part of the Olympics.

August 4, 2012

It’s painfully clear to any fair-dinkum sports fan that more than a few Olympic events need to go.

You and I know that members of the IOC are regular readers of Hold All Tickets. Here is our chance to point those learned gents in the right direction.

Badminton is a sport that kids play when they’re bored at parties. It’s not serious. That’s why all those teams started cheating. They’d done the same at their 7th birthday and no-one noticed.

I was a gun handball player at school. Made the ace square most lunchtimes. Funnily enough, that didn’t qualify me for the Olympics. Because we grew up and found far more interesting things to do. Ditch it, and no-one would notice.

Synchronised swimming? Please. I’m sure the girls put in plenty of training, and I admire them for that. But I can’t accept twirling and splashing as a sport. My girls can do that any summer Sunday.

A good rule of thumb is that anything I can do, shouldn’t be part of the Games. I believe I could race-walk, Kel Knight style, without too much trouble. Much slower than those in London, but it could be done. Either run, or go home.

Having tennis superstars playing for medals makes my head spin. Have they been training for the Olympics all their lives? No. For just a minute? No. If the Olympic concept folded tomorrow, would they give two hoots? No.

In four years time, golfers will be on the team. Yep, that model of Olympic spirit, Tiger Woods, could be part of the action. God help us.

Ok, enough of the negativity. I have a plan to put the Gosh back into the Games. And we might even win a few events.

I first saw the idea on that impressive racing website, Racenet. If you haven’t visited it, you should. One of the growing number of top-notch racing sites online.

The boys there suggested racing should be part of the Olympics. Possibly in jest. But they got a big response. And I think they’re onto something.

Imagine the world’s best horses, jockeys and trainers, on the Olympic stage. In the colours of their homeland.

You could have three races. 1200 for the sprinters, 1600 for the middle distance stars, and 2400 for the best stayers. Spread them over a week at the back-end of the Games, when the swimming is done and everything else becomes a yawn.

The best of the Brits. Kiwis would be there with pride. The USA, South Africa, Japan, Germany and all those other countries we see on Sky Racing late at night.

Start the debate on who would represent Australia. Let’s imagine the green light has been given, and we’re in action next week.

Black Caviar would be the only choice for the sprint. She’d take gold, of course. Can you imagine Peter Moody on the Olympic dias, singing the anthem, with a XXXX Gold in hand? It would be on highlight reels for decades.

A tougher choice for the middle distance race. I’d go for More Joyous. She’d have a red-hot go. Gai would be dashing in green and gold. And Singo would become the Laurie Lawrence of the Games Village.

So You Think would make an Olympic size comeback. In Australian colours. Back with Bart Cummings, and blitzing them over 2400.

So there we go. Three gold medals. And ignore all this talk about owners needing cash to compete. If Roger Federer can do it, so could we. It would be up there with winning the cup.

Forget mis-firing Missiles in the pool. The answer is on the track. We’ll go there together, in 2020. And get your bets on now for Bart to be carrying the flag at the Opening Ceremony. Might take him a while to get around, but what a journey it would be.

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