Being chucked in at the deep end. The day the swimming teacher tried to drown me.

November 22, 2011

The pool shop man sighed. “Ok, let’s go over this one more time.”

He’d been trying to explain how I needed to remove my pool pump. He may as well have been asking me to memorize the Space Shuttle’s flight plan.

I realised there was a problem in the cement swimming hole, when the water turned vomit green a few days ago. It’s quite possible that Shrek is enjoying some quiet time at the bottom.

My routine to test if there’s a problem with the filter is a time-honoured one. I turn the control switch to ON. If nothing happens, I rush to the pool shop.

I explained to the pool shop man that I might not be able to complete this task he was setting me. It sounded… technical.

Easy, he said. Even for you. And we can only fix it if you bring it in to us. The pool shop man is kind and patient. And rich, from all my visits.

I went home, and did what he said. He now has my pump, which may or may not be repaired by the next state election.

Of course, pool pumps never fail in the dead of winter. They are designed to turn up their metal toes only in extreme heat.

In the meantime, the family has no-where to swim. Which is why we decided to join the masses at the public swimming pool. And that’s when my nerves surfaced.

The first time I went to our local pool, all those years ago, Dad couldn’t come. So Mum took me by bus.

She wanted me to learn to swim like the other kids. Dad couldn’t understand the fuss. He worked out the swimming caper in the surf, and thought I should do likewise. As was usually the case, Mum won the day.

I remember spotting the bloke they claimed was the Swimming Teacher. It was an interesting description. He was a successful swimmer. He wasn’t a teacher.

It was a weekday, which meant the pool was all but empty. He told me to take my shirt and thongs off.

Mum hadn’t even taken her seat in the stand, when he picked me up, and tossed me into the deep end of that pool. I was about 6 years old.

His method, a long-standing one apparently, was to MAKE me get to the pool’s edge. The true definition of sink or swim. Sadly, I embraced the sinking part of the equation.

After thrashing around for a bit, I sank like a stone. Mum told me later that the more she screamed, the more he laughed. Maybe he didn’t realise that she couldn’t swim either.

Someone else jumped in to save me. Safely out of the water, I coughed, and spluttered, and cried.

My mother was not a woman to be messed with. Especially when it came to her children. The so-called teacher had just landed himself in a world of hurt.

Years later, I asked what happened. All she would tell me was that they stopped letting him teach small kids after that. I’d always suspected that his bigger problem was the visit Dad paid him the next day.

My greatest recollection of that terror, was the smell. Chlorine. I suspect that the pool had just been given a healthy dose. It’s stayed with me ever since.

Whenever I returned to that pool, or any other public swimming facility, the mere sniff of the stuff saw a wave of panic wash over me. Even when I could swim. Which, I might add, was the result of lessons from a wonderful, caring teacher soon after.

It returns, that feeling, for just a few brief seconds, even today. When I walked into that crowded pool on the weekend, I picked up the chlorine the same way as large hungry men detect a pie stand.

We move on, of course. My greater fear now is re-connecting pool pumps. If it ever gets fixed. Now that’s really being thrown in at the deep end.

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Why it hurts so much when we lose a jockey. Take a minute, and think about the dangers they face.

November 19, 2011

I didn’t get a chance to back Corey Gilby. A battling bush jockey. One of those characters who ply their trade away from the big smoke.

He was based in Mt Isa, but had ridden all over the place. From the NSW South Coast to country Victoria. Central Queensland to the Northern Territory.

The young bloke had cheated death once on the racetrack. Can you believe, he was hit by lightning while in the saddle? And survived.

That should have been enough. But fate can be awfully unfair.

Last weekend, Corey rode on the five race card at Julia Creek. About as far as you can get from Flemington. A training gallop was organised after the last. Not uncommon at country meetings.

Just two horses. Both passed the post. Then something went wrong.

Corey’s horse, a galloper that will never make it to Randwick or Eagle Farm, floundered. It seems the young bloke was crushed underneath.

He died in Townsville Hospital on Sunday night. Corey was 25.

The thing about being a jockey, is that tragedy doesn’t discriminate. Group Ones count for nothing. Accidents can happen if you drive a Mercedes to the track, or catch a bus.

Ken Russell was a huge name in the eighties. The King of the Gold Coast. Doncaster winner. He got them home everywhere.

He was one of the industry’s most popular hoops, with thousands of senior rides under his belt.

The Queenslander lost his life, on a black day at Rosehill, in 1993.

I know racing people who still get emotional about his death. All these years on.

Then there are those jockeys who survive. But have their lives changed forever.

Alan Cowie is one. Another much-loved rider, who had the ability to make horses travel sweetly for him.

I was at the Gold Coast the day ‘Pup’ fell. It was one of those terrible moments, when you feared the worst.

He’s in a wheelchair now. With an incredible spirit. He does form, and manages jockeys. Rare to see him at the track without a smile.

The problem is, the horses they ride are so bloody big. Over 500 kilos. On four skinny legs. Going like the clappers.

The margin for error is so tight. It only needs to go slightly wrong, and we hold our breath.

They face dangers like few other sportspeople. Lives are on the lines, every half hour. Often for very little reward.

It’s worth remembering, the next time you grumble about a jockey. I thought about that, after seeing a mid-week special go under this week, thanks to a ride that may or may not have involved a blindfold.

Yes, it was infuriating. Yes, the family will be eating beans for a week. But there are worse things.

Let’s hope Corey Gilby’s family knows how much we feel for them. That sometimes, a terrible price is paid, simply for doing something you love.

Our jockey friends will go around again today. And tomorrow. And next week. There’s no racing game without them. And we thank them for it.

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Mum’s place used to be in the kitchen. Daughters, are you listening?

November 15, 2011

Mum did all the housework when I was a kid.

Cooking. Cleaning. Washing. Ironing. I can’t remember Dad doing any of it. And I was no help either. Just a boy.

We’re talking late sixties and early seventies. Things were different back then.

Dad looked after outside stuff. And fixed things. He worked hard in the building game. It was like Mum didn’t expect him to do anything when he arrived home.

He’d have a beer, and pour the missus a shandy. They’d talk about the day. Usually while Mum was making dinner. Steak. Or chops. If we were lucky, maybe a mixed grill.

Later, Dad and I would take our plates back to the sink. That was about it.

She would wash up, while we relaxed at the table. No offers of help from us. And she never complained. Not once.

In those early days, I’m pretty sure our washing machine was one of those old wringers. Nothing like today. It must have been bloody tough going.

Dryer? Forget it. They didn’t exist. Anyway, that’s what the clothes line was for. I’m not sure the old man even knew where the laundry was.

Before I was old enough to go to school, I remember my dear mother dusting, and mopping floors, and making beds. Every day. There would be music on as she zipped around the house. Which was always clean and tidy.

Things changed a few years after that. Dad’s business went bust. Just like that. I remember our trip home from the bank. The manager, who he’d known for years, refused to help. It was the first time I’d heard Dad swear.

They made us sell our clean house. We moved into a rental place. Much older, but closer to the beach. I’ve told you about it before. The one with the outside dunny and the orange tree out the back.

With money tight, Mum went back to work. Dad was still building, but for others. It hurt him deeply.

It meant their household routine changed. Mum didn’t have time to do all those chores on her own. So Dad had to help. He’d do more around the kitchen. I’d dry up. Sometimes.

He got crook soon after that. And died a few months later. He may have even blamed the washing up.

After that, it seemed Mum went back to doing everything. I have no idea how she did it. She was keeping us afloat financially. And still doing the dusting.

When I moved out of home, I lived with mates, who also had no idea about the finer points of housework. So for the most part, over many years, we’d simply ignore any domestic work.

Can you believe, Mum would actually come over, armed with brooms and buckets, and clean that house too? She couldn’t drive a car, so she’d arrive, unannounced, in a taxi.

On one such trip, the driver warned her not to go inside. Thinking she was a hired cleaner, he thought she should be aware of the horror stories he’d heard about our House of Sin. Even she laughed about that one.

Marriage changes a man. The Treasurer might dispute this, loudly, but I believe I picked up my game. Jobs were shared. Still are. Most of the time. Such is the agreement.

I should stress, I’m still no good at any of it. The blokes out there hear me. We try, but we miss spots. And mopping just doesn’t come naturally.

That’s the beauty of having kids. Of late, they’ve become our domestic helpers. Washing dishes. Drying up. Clearing the bench. And they hate it with a passion.

We cheerfully ignore their excuses. And because they need pocket-money, for important items like Girlfriend magazine and after-school slushies, they have no choice.

They’ll be so much better prepared than I was, if they ever happen to leave home. And even better, their husbands will know no better than to pitch in.

If things had been different, I’m sure Dad would have to. The bloke managed to go to war for his country, and build houses. He would have coped. As long as it didn’t involve anything in the laundry.

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No Black Caviar. No movie stars. And empty pockets. Sandown, you need to woo me.

November 12, 2011

Saturday at Sandown after the Flemington Spring carnival is a bit like visiting your second favourite pub.

You know they do things better down the road, but you’re still happy enough to drop in for a pie and a pint.

It’s the same scenario for State of Origin players, heading back to club footy after a Suncorp Stadium triumph. You have to do it. But it’s not quite the same.

I run into similar problems after Stradbroke Day in Brisbane. Just seven days later, we’re in the massive crowd for Ipswich Cup day. Trying to work out which weekend the favourite was actually set for.

I’ve never been to Sandown. I’m sure it’s pleasant, and that they put on a fine show, like every other big race day in the southern capital.

It should be said, however, that my instinct at this time of year is to spell myself, to recover from the flogging I endured over Cup week.

For the purposes of research only, and in the interest of you, dear reader, I shall ignore that instinct, and saddle up again.

So how do we find a winner, with only the sounds of coins jangling in our pockets? Good question.

In most races, we have to decide whether they were unlucky over the carnival, or just not good enough.

Would they rather be picking buffalo turf in the paddock, reminiscing about chasing a Group One rump, instead of trying for a Group 2 or 3 consolation?

The Sandown Classic provides an annual headache, for those of us still trying to work out how we did so badly in the Melbourne Cup.

Usually, we see a stack of horses backing up from the great race, and every year I forget how the form will stack up.

Stayers who’ve been trained to the minute for the great two-mile race, dropping back in distance at the tricky Sandown track.

No such problems this year. Only five runners will face the starter. How does that happen? Hardly makes for a memorable day.

And that’s a shame. For the first time, the race will be known as the Zipping Classic. Yes, another name change. That great old horse deserved better.

Americain will win easily, at no price. Connections must be giggling. Easy pickings for them, but not much fun for the punter.

I hate to be negative, but the rest of the card is hardly inspiring either. We’ll do our best to find a winner, as always. And it’s still better than fixing the bathroom tiles.

The problem, you see, is that we’ve been spoiled. It’s hard to move on, after the greatest week of racing on the planet. But accept it we must. Remember, there’s only one Cup week.

Yes, it would be nice if we were still at Flemington. No use complaining I suppose. After all, the beer is still cold at your second favourite pub.

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It’s party time in the garage. Just make sure you’re allowed to move the junk.

November 8, 2011

I’ve noticed that people are doing strange things in their garages.

Not that I’m spying. Or perving. Just observing from a respectful distance.

It seems there’s been a shift in where we do things. Maybe homes have become too small. Cars are being left outside to make better use of space.

A bunch of lads down the road seem to be having fun whenever I drive past. Sometimes singing. Usually with a guitar. They laugh lots. Such is the Islander way.

Head up a few streets, and you’ll find a double garage that’s become a makeshift dance studio. Lots of girls dressed in national uniform. A mini Bollywood in suburbia.

Smiling parents line the walls. It’s never too noisy. Just enough for the dancers to hear the beat.

There’s another gang not far away. This gathering is a boys-only affair. They drive souped-up cars, which usually sit on surrounding front lawns.

Inside, there’s lots of fun stuff. A giant pool table, and a dart board, and other Big Boys Toys.

I noticed their collection one evening, heading home after some generous hospitality from my local publican. Admittedly, I was a little confused, but I swear there was a decent card game going on.

It was duly noted, that I didn’t receive an invitation.

Sadly, there is no such frivolity going on in my garage. No happy tunes, or toe-tapping, or sporting contests. Because the Garage Full sign is up.

Yes, it’s a double garage, but there’s only room for one vehicle. Just. Officially, I’m advised that it has become an Additional Storage Area.

I’m sure there’s a conveyor belt somewhere in the house, silently shifting mountains of stuff that, like a father’s favourite song, can be out of style within minutes.

Think I’m exaggerating? How’s this for a list of useless crap, that remains on a Protected Items list..

Doll house. Hula hoop. Santa poles. Unfashionable CD stacker. Faulty cat carrier. Broken table. Rug with small but definite dog wee stain. Hose with holes. Suitcase with no handle. Oh, and about 100 plastic bags of unwanted and unnecessary paperwork.

Fancy having all that rubbish, sharing the same space as my priceless bag of surf club medals from the Seventies, and those very important coaching notes I’ve kept since our premiership days.

As you can see, there’s a definite mix of highly significant memorabilia, and utter garbage. All on the one floor.

There’s been talk of a garage sale. I’ll believe it when I see it. The women of the house just hate to let anything go.

If you’re heading out our way, with a song in your heart or a dance that won’t wait, don’t come to our garage. There’s simply no room. You’ll be looked after up the road.

Keep an eye out for cool garage parties in your own neighborhood. You might be surprised what the locals are getting up to. And if you happen to find a card game, see if you can get me an invite.

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The inside word: What Kim Whats-her-face said when she heard about Black Caviar’s big day at Flemington.

November 5, 2011

The Hollywood hand maidens exchanged nervous glances. This wasn’t in the script. Trouble was brewing.

Their girl was a star. Apparently. Los Angeles royalty. The PR types from all those big companies had been begging for her to appear at this race meeting down under.

It took some convincing. What with the reality TV show. Oh, and a marriage. Sort of. How lucky would they be, these Australians at their fancy racing carnival?

Now she was here. With a mood darker than her flowing locks.

The star looked up from the notes they’d assembled for her, and drew breath. This wasn’t going to be pretty.

“Like, what do you MEAN, that like, some HORSE will be, like, more popular than ME?”

The highly paid helpers tried to soothe their meal ticket. Giant doses of spin were needed, fast.

“Kim, honey, you know that could never be the case. Your face is on billboards around the world. You have your own line of handbags. A horse could NEVER be more popular than you.”

Another chimed in. “Kim, darling, what are you thinking? It’s a smelly horse, that doesn’t even have a line of perfume. And from what I’m hearing, her arse is ENORMOUS!”

They were on a roll. “Kim, sweetie, once you’re frocked up and waltzing around the racetrack, they’ll forget all about some freakish mare.”

The star wasn’t being distracted. She knew what she’d heard. From one of those pesky Aussie journos.

“Like, that horribly dressed man said that this horse has, like, never been beaten. And that she is, like, the best in the world. And that thousands come to, like, cheer her, and, like, wave flags for her. Tell me NOW, like, is he telling the truth?”

There was a shuffling of feet in the penthouse. The truth could end a career.

The silence was crippling. They were saved, by a loud knock. Room service. All sprouts, and tofu, and yoghurt. With a young Aussie steering the tray.

“Hey, aren’t you that American sheila from the TV. The one with the crazy family that wouldn’t work in an iron lung?”

The assistants were stunned. No-one spoke like that to their princess. But the boy was on a roll.

“So you’re off to Flemington today, to see our Mighty Mare, eh?” (Yes, he was a Queenslander). “She’s the best thing since sliced bread, our Black Caviar. We adore her. Today will be 16 straight. With the eyes of the world on her. How special is that!”

Finally, the helpers jumped from their comfy lounges, and hurled the excited race fan into the corridor. But it was too late. The damage had been done.

“Like, that’s IT”, Kim said coldly. “Get me out of here, like, NOW. There’s no way I’ll be a support act to a goddamn horse, even if her arse IS bigger than mine”.

So was the tale of an American reality TV star almost making it to Flemington. On the day Australia’s wonder horse will add to her amazing record. Before a crowd that will match Cup day. Kim won’t be among them.

And that’s a good thing. No overseas stars needed today. The biggest star of all will do her thing, on the turf. And every single person on course will be screaming her name.

Trust me Kim, you made the right decision in going home. Most of those at the track wouldn’t have known your name.

And here’s a tip. Your helper got it dead right. The mighty mare’s behind IS enormous. And, like, we’ll be cheering it all the way home.

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Finally, the official mug punter’s Melbourne Cup guide. By the biggest mug punter of them all.

October 31, 2011

Are you being laughed at for your lack of Melbourne Cup knowledge? Kids being teased at school because mum and dad missed the barrier draw? Friend, help is at hand.

Face it, we all want to back the Cup winner. Even for a dollar. Bragging rights can last for years.

You need something easy to digest, with no punches pulled. And here it is. The first annual Hold All Tickets Melbourne Cup guide.

I hear scornful giggles. Fair enough, my Cup record isn’t flash. Before the great Makybe Diva, we go back to Kiwi in 1983. There may have been one or two in between, but my memory of Cup afternoons is hazy at best.

Anyway, here we go. A highly researched document, some of which may or may not have been made up.

1/ Americain – Gerald Mosse (jockey). Won last year. Won’t win this year. Too much weight. And I can’t pronounce the trainer’s name.

2/ Jukebox Jury – Neil Callan. Big wraps overseas, but has never raced here. Would be like backing Meat Loaf to sing at a footy grand final. As if that would happen.

3/ Dunaden – Craig Williams (appeal pending), or some French bloke. Not for me. Won the Geelong Cup, now a popular form race. Except Geelong’s population is the same as Ipswich. I won’t be backing the Ipswich Cup winner either.

4/ Drunken Sailor – Dwayne Dunn. Nope. But anything with ‘drunk’ in the title on Cup day is worth a cheer.

5/ Glass Harmonium – Lisa Cropp. Should be leading early. Will be overtaken like there’s a sniper in the Flemington grandstand about 600 metres from home.

6/ Manighar – Damien Oliver. No chance. Only because he was my initial tip. Even the great D. Oliver won’t overcome that hurdle.

7/ Unusual Suspect – Nash Rawiller (appeal pending), or any small bloke with riding boots. A visitor from the U-S. Not even with help from NASA.

8/ Fox Hunt – Silvestre de Sousa. I think the jockey played for Portugal in the soccer World Cup. Can someone check that for me?

9/ Lucas Cranach – Corey Brown. Great run in the Caulfield Cup. And that was on three legs. Fully fit now. Will give this a shake. (Note, that’s a racing term).

10/ Mourayan – Hugh Bowman. The winner. Go and collect now. Order the Chinese for Tuesday night. Bowman’s riding so well he could go out on a rocking horse and still run a place.

11/ Precedence – Darren Beadman. Bart’s best hope. The horse hasn’t won since Bob Hawke was Prime Minister. Will have support from above.

12/ Red Cadeaux – Michael Rodd. The jockey is a Queenslander. At least that’s something.

13/ Hawk Island – Glyn Schofield. Couldn’t win if he started an hour early.

14/ Illo – Jim Cassidy. German horse, trained by Bart, and ridden by jockey who has won the Cup twice. No third time lucky.

14/ (a) – Mister Ed – Wilbur. Would give the best post-race interview ever. Might be a bit old now.

15/ Lost in the Moment – William Buick. Has all the pace of me striding home from an afternoon at the tavern. Possibly with better steering.

16/ Modun – Kerrin McEvoy. Jockey is another winning plenty of late. Just as well, because he won’t be saluting here.

17/ At First Sight – Steven King. Two jockeys tossed a coin to ride him. Nice throwback to ANZAC tradition. That gives him a chance.

18/ Moyenne Corniche – Brett Prebble. My outsider. Saw him score an amazing win in the UK before he came over. Jockey knows his way around the big track. Include him in multiples. (Note – another racing term).

19/ Saptapadi – Chris Symons. If you get him in a sweep you’ll get your money back for last. They might have to delay the start of the next race he’ll be so far back.

19/ (a) Phar Lap – Jim Pike. He’d lap this lot. God bless the mighty horse.

20/ Shamrocker – Luke Nolen. Black Caviar’s jockey. He’ll notice the difference.

21/ The Verminator – Craig Newitt. When did the Wyong Cup winner claim the Melbourne Cup? On the First of Never, that’s when.

22/ Tullamore – Chris Munce. Brisbane Cup winner. Queensland jockey. Trained by Gai. Will try his heart out.

23/ Niwot – Dean Yendall. Made the field with a slashing win last Saturday. Stranger things have happened.

24/ Older Than Time – Tim Clark. And will take his time to finish. Hopefully before sundown.

So, there we have it. You are now a Cup expert. Feel free to pass these expert comments on. Go and have fun taking on colleagues who pretend they know what they’re talking about.

Time now to look at the rest of the day’s races. Does anyone know if that Portuguese soccer player is riding in the last?

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Are you a Phar Lap fan? Still angry about what they did to him? Then join our Derby Day protest.

October 29, 2011

Last night 25 years ago, we would have been gathered around the old VHS player.

Our favourite movie would be getting yet another workout. Phar Lap. What else? The perfect way to prepare for Cup week.

It was our routine to get ready for the Carnival. And no one could get us there quicker than Big Red.

Viewing would take place with several cool drinks, and delicacies from the local Chinese.

Like any classic of the cinema, heroes were cheered, and villains hissed.

We celebrated every time the great horse hit the front. Applauded the efforts of Tom Burlinson, as he battled cranky trainer Harry Telford. And wished we’d been around to back Jim Pike.

But there was one man we loathed. The boos would echo around our lounge room as soon as he appeared. I believe more than one spring roll was thrown in his direction. Lachlan McKinnon.

Remember him? The pompous, snobbish head of the Victorian Racing Club. I’m pretty sure the same actor played one of those Pommy generals giving the disastrous orders at Gallipoli. No one was more hated in our bachelor pad.

Back to Flemington. McKinnon wanted his own donkey to be in with a chance to beat the greatest galloper of all. After Phar Lap won the 1930 Melbourne Cup, McKinnon made it his mission to get our hero out of the winner’s stall.

The images replay in my mind now. I can hear his voice. See his scheming features. Ordering weights that would have crippled a lesser animal.

I can’t remember the pin number for my credit card, but I recall with ease scenes from a movie decades ago.

McKinnon and his cronies made Phar Lap carry 68 kilos in the ’31 Cup. Kim Beazley would have almost made the weight. It was the bravest 8th in racing history.

We couldn’t take it any longer. The screen was getting covered in too many Chinese entrees. Something had to be done.

My mate came up with the solution. A practice we follow to this very day.

It was decided that we would boycott the McKinnon Stakes. When the field jumped in the time-honoured event on Derby Day, we would turn our backs to the screen.

This would happen in the pub. The three of us were on self-bans. No watching the race. And no bet. After it was run and won, normal viewing, and punting, would resume.

None of our mates joined in this silent protest. We may or may not have been mocked. Didn’t worry us. If Phar Lap could lump the grandstand, we could take the barbs.

Year after year, we assumed the position. I took the stance with me when I moved on. The lads in Bundaberg thought I was mad. They would punt on the tide going out. Missing a race was unheard of.

I’m proud to say one of the boys did join in. He’s still part of our team. Rings me just before the McKinnon, every year, to make sure I’m facing in the honourable direction.

The beauty of our ban, is that the premise behind it has never been researched. Not once. Our stance was taken solely on the script of our favourite film. That was often viewed through one eye.

We refuse to contemplate that it could be false. McKinnon may have donated buckets of cash to orphans and baked cookies. But I doubt it.

So, the tradition continues. As they jump in race 5 this afternoon, I’ll be in my lounge room, facing the other way. So will a handful of other blokes, in various parts of the country.

If you worship Phar Lap like we do, feel free to join in. At the pub, or the TAB, or the track. Tell your mates you’re helping to right a wrong, all these years later.

Trust me, it will feel good. The punting Gods might even smile on you kindly later in the day.

If you know the real story, don’t bother telling us. Too late to change our ways now. We owe it to the memory of Phar Lap. And besides, it’s the one race of the day I can’t lose on.

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Memories of getting it wrong at the school fete. If only mum had picked a different song for me..

October 25, 2011

There was a nasty incident at the Tea Cup.

One hell of a mess. That’s what happens when you go on rides with a mix of fairy floss and pineapple slushie.

It was this year’s school fete. Where kids have licence to run even wilder than usual. And parents secretly wish the committee had approved one of those terrible beer stalls. Or was that just me?

Daughter Two was breathless as she relayed the gory tale to us. Her friend had lost her lunch over a young man she’d been trying to impress. Mid-ride. The poor bloke couldn’t escape. He just sat there in the spinning yellow Cup, covered in a fair portion of the day’s meal deal.

That’s the fun of fetes. Reputations can be made with an impressive display on the scariest ride. And lost just as quickly with an ill-timed puke.

I can’t recall us having fancy rides at our school fetes. It was more about stalls, and games, and chasing girls.

There was one particular young lass who was a favourite of mine. We were great mates. In the old world, she may have been described as a Tomboy. And she could run like the wind.

Back then I had a fair turn of foot myself. Difficult to imagine now, I know. But I could gallop. Just not fast enough to catch her.

I would set off in pursuit across the school oval, and she would evade me with ease. Not too different to how my football career would pan out.

Our parents would laugh at their kids having such harmless fun. Her mum and dad thought I was a safe bet. They were right. There was no plan for what I’d actually do if I caught her.

Performances are also a major part of fete day. High-energy routines on the big stage. This year, the girls had to do dance routines. In front of boys. How embarrassing.

Even worse, it was all caught on cameras. About a thousand of them. No-one actually watches anything anymore. They just point their fancy phones, and watch later. So much easier than enjoying it on the day.

Thank God there were none around forty years ago. I endured several troubling school shows. But one stands out, for anyone unfortunate enough to experience it.

It was a concert, that all the kids were invited to participate in. Of course, very few did. But Mum, God bless her, thought it was a marvellous idea.

To make things worse, my dear mother selected the song for me. Rolling Stones? Beatles? Daddy Cool? Nope. It was a dreary track from her favourite act of the time. The Carpenters.

With any luck you’re too young to remember the brother and sister duo. The rest of you, enough of the thigh slapping.

The song was called “Close to You”. One of the sappiest tunes of the century. With the greatest respect to the late Karen Carpenter. Feel free to check it out on this YouTube link, that I may or may not have included. If it does work, I defy anyone to last more than 30 seconds.

With me at the microphone, it was way worse. Pure pain. Three minutes of vocal torture. Luckily the laughs drowned out most of my off-key screeching.

I’m not sure how I survived that episode. Maybe the audience thought they were watching the show’s comedy section.

I’ll check our video camera later, but I’m pretty sure there were no comparable efforts over the weekend.

Except for the girl who threw up. Nasty business that. She has two choices for next year. Either run fast or sing. My tip? Pick your own song.

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Dreaming of Cox Plate glory. The old fashioned jockey and the country horse everyone’s given up on.

October 22, 2011

The first time I met the jockey, he wasn’t riding.

His weight had ballooned. From an injury, or suspension. Maybe both.

He looked big. For a second, I wondered if I’d been introduced to the wrong bloke.

We were in a pub, and he was doing his bit to support the publican. Friendly enough, but distracted. Like he was missing out.

My mate knew him well. Still does. Explained that he was trying to get back in the saddle, but it was tough.

He started riding again soon after. I watched with interest. Always easy to find in the form guide. Topweight, or close to it.

The talent was obvious. A true horseman. They travelled so easily for him.

He rarely found trouble in running. Horses relaxed. And he knew exactly where the post was.

The second time I met the jockey, we were at the track. He’d been back in action for a few years. Winning too. All over the place. Distraction was replaced by focus. And fun.

We had another beer. Mine was delivered by his outstretched skinny arm. And a big grin. This was a happy hoop.

He’d just ridden a winner, after being unlucky early. No matter. He was loving it. Excited about doing the job he was born for.

That’s the thing about Chris O’Brien. There’s nothing else you’d want him to be doing.

He’s been making horses run fast since he was a kid. In New Zealand. The one thing we can hold against him.

There are plenty like him, plying their trade on tracks from Cessnock to Randwick, and all points in between.

Tradesmen, if you like. Not superstars. The blokes who keep the industry rolling along.

But don’t be fooled. O’Brien is much more than that. It’s just that his body is constantly battling against him.

First, it was a terrible leg injury. Not from a horse, but a harvester. Sliced his heel off like ham from the bone.

They told him to forget about riding. Long odds to even walk. He ignored the experts, and did both.

There’s still a limp though. You’ll see it today at Mooney Valley.

He’s no lightweight. Far from it. And that bung foot means he can’t run. So he cycles for hours, all over the place, to trim down.

The bike has been copping a workout of late. Because the battler has been given a break. A career-defining galloper.

Sincero is O’Brien’s special horse. Gave him his first Group One. And today, together, they could add their names to the record books.

The Wyong galloper has been set for the Cox Plate all along. He was fancied early, but is now an outsider.

They’re hoping the spark returns today. Blinkers go back on. Like the day he flashed home to win the Stradbroke. Chris was no chance of making the weight that day.

It must have been a crushing blow, but he didn’t complain. The owners stayed solid, and had him straight back on. He’s been there ever since.

They think they can win today. On one of racing’s greatest stages. Those closest to the jockey will be at the Valley, cheering themselves silly. If Sincero gets up, you’ll hear them from interstate.

He gets to live the dream. All the struggles, all those bike marathons, will be worthwhile.

There’s something heartening about barracking for the underdog in the big event. Success, if it comes, is just that little bit sweeter.

Make no mistake, Chris O’Brien deserves his place in this field.

No-one has worked harder to get to the barriers today. And if Sincero triumphs, no-one will celebrate longer than the little bloke with the limp.

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