A big thanks, to those who helped me kick cancer’s butt.

June 11, 2013

My surgeon, The Genius, said it like we’d won the pub meat raffle.

“The tests are back, and we’re sure we’ve got it all.” His voice was pleased, but measured. The tray of t-bones thanks.

I was in my hospital bed, enjoying the lingering effects of the morphine. Minus a cancerous prostate.

What do you say to someone who may have just saved your life? It is a moment in time. Surely worthy of a man’s greatest speech.

Or not. I came up with two slurred words. “Thanks Doc”.

He didn’t seem to mind. Everything had gone perfectly. Text-book surgery, he called it. Just what a patient wants to hear.

It’s hard to describe the relief. Fears and doubts, extinguished in a single sentence. Light overcomes dark. Success, I have no doubt, from all those positive vibes.

Later, as The Genius was off saving someone else, I reflected on the love that has been directed my way. Strange in a way, that it took cancer to make me fully appreciate that.

In the days before surgery, I received messages from such a varied bunch. Family and friends. Media colleagues from today, and decades ago. Old school buddies. Footy mates. Racing folk. And you, dear readers of this blog.

A few went above and beyond. The precious gift of passing on strength I didn’t possess. Support and reassurance from the heart. It let me enter that operating theatre, as positive as I had been in the months before. I’ll never forget that.

After a few days of being looked after by a wonderful medical team, I left hospital. With a catheter attached to me. This is a device inserted where things should never be inserted.

It must have originated as a military weapon of torture. How it came to be part of the medical world I have no idea. But it did the job. It came out after a week, and I would have gladly given the nurse responsible a new car for her gentle efforts.

Now, I’m resting up. And yes, there are challenges ahead. A blood test in a few weeks will tell me whether the cancer has spread. The Genius is confident that won’t be the case. So am I. In fact, I’ve called the result of this race before they hit the post.

To everyone, thank you. I asked for help to kick cancer’s butt, and you gave it to me.

Others are still in the fight. I think of them daily. Some are not so fortunate. A great mate lost his mum, just days after I was released from hospital. So unfair.

The mission now is to help others. If you’re a bloke over 40, get your prostate checked. Yes, 40. If you’re the partner of a bloke over 40, make him get his prostate checked. And don’t take no for an answer.

Life is a raffle. I’m confident I’ve won this time. If your turn comes, I want the same result for you.

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How I plan to kick cancer’s butt. Let the battle begin.

May 28, 2013

The first struggle will be with that stupid hospital gown.

Try as I might, I won’t be able to fasten it properly.

I’ll be the one with the rear section flapping merrily in the breeze. My pimply white bum on show for all to see.

In the scheme of things, it’s not my greatest problem. I have prostate cancer. And the time has almost arrived to go under the knife.

Some of you already know. Others may be surprised. And a few will be wondering why I’m telling you about it.

I’ve pondered that too. Keep it a secret, or put it out there?

If there’s one thing I’ve discovered since embarking on these scribblings, it’s that sharing usually helps. So be it. I’m enlisting you all to be part of the fight.

They found the first tumour late last year, during a routine procedure. A tiny one. Time was on my side.

Back then, it didn’t quite sink in. This was a disease for old blokes.

Everyone had an opinion. Get it out tomorrow. Do nothing. Wait a few years.

Those who mean the most to me became upset. A few offered comfort, by explaining that if you had to get any form of cancer, this was the one. They meant well. And it’s probably true. But somehow, when you have the tumour, it doesn’t help.

My surgeon is the most amazing of men. A gem. So when he decided on one more scan, just to make sure, I had no hesitation.

In the meantime, I got on with things. Did my best to push those dark, nasty thoughts aside. Did I tell you this was a disease for old blokes?

The second lot of results came back. I knew straight away, things were crook. Doc wasn’t smiling. I’m guessing he’s no poker player.

They’d found a second, more sinister blob. Hiding underneath. It’s unusual, apparently. He’d consulted other specialists that morning. All agreed this changed our game plan. The prostate needed to come out. Sooner rather than later.

For the first time, I actually felt like a cancer patient. No more waiting. At no stage had I entertained the idea that this thing might spread. Dark, nasty thoughts.

That’s when the fight began in earnest. I decided I needed to approach it as a battle. Physically and mentally, I had to prepare.

So began the fitness regime. Early morning walks. Gym work. I’m almost back to my playing weight. How ironic, that I feel healthier right now than I have in years.

I have loving, caring people around me. True friends. We’re a giant pool of positive. They’re refusing to accept anything but a successful outcome.

I’m off the grog. I’ll miss Stradbroke Day for the first time in years. And those wonderful racing lunches sprinkled around it. I’m sure the boys will avoid the temptation of ringing to tell me how much fun they’re having. For the first ten minutes, maybe.

If I get down, I think of friends who have done it much tougher. Just last week, a wonderful family I know lost a mother, and a wife. Another great man, who happens to be the father of a mate, is battling cancer for the second time. They’re operating on him the same day as me. It makes me realise I have nothing to complain about.

Alone, at night, I get scared. I wait for those positive forces to kick in. Mostly, they do. No time for negatives.

I hate this disease with every fibre of my being. I want it out. I refuse to accept that it will get the better of me.

There’s so much to do. The girls need me harping about the need to clean their bathroom. I must take more photos of them. And of the sunrise.

I have to pick a Melbourne Cup trifecta. I’m booked for a night picnic by the river. I’ve promised to visit the farm. So I can see someone’s special place. Holding hands.

I want you to get tested. That’s one of the reasons I’m writing this. I want my mates to hear the snap of rubber gloves behind them. You simply can’t put it off.

Forgive me if you don’t see anything on this page for a week or so. I’ll be busy, trying to sort out that bloody hospital gown.

Prostate cancer isn’t just a disease for old blokes. It can strike any of us. My plan is to be talking about it as an old bloke. Wish me luck.

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Farewell Pintuck. Thanks for the memories. If only you had been faster.

May 25, 2013

I fell in love the first time I saw him.

He was a giant of a two-year old. Massive. With the biggest arse I’d seen.

I have a yellowed clipping, where Bart Cummings explained how he always looked for a big bum in young horses. Among other things. This bloke qualified, and then some.

The young man at the stud farm walked him around the yard, and he looked majestic. With a stride I’d only read about in books. Those hooves ate up the ground. I was sold.

We bought our share, with high hopes. So well-bred. Big fans of the Pins bloodline. No-one was aiming too high. The Cox Plate would do just fine.

Right about then, the problems started. I still have the e-mail somewhere, explaining how the big horse was struck down with colic. It was serious. They had to operate.

The cost didn’t concern us. As high as it was. I started reading about the careers of horses after colic surgery. The honour board was a tiny one.

It set us back months. Finally, he made it into Rob Heathcote’s yard. Rob, too, had liked him from day one. He remained confident.

Not long after getting into work, he went shin sore. So bloody big. In fact, by then he was starting to resemble a chestnut Clydesdale. The decision was made to lop off his prized bits. If he was unhappy about that, he didn’t tell us.

Another delay. Patience was our buzzword. He would come good. Breeding would shine through.

Back he came. The word from the training track was encouraging. Then he went shin sore. Again. Off to the paddock once more.

Patience. Through gritted teeth. And a fistful of dollars. But we still had hope.

After an eternity, he hit the track again. It seemed that he’d shaken off the bad luck. Track riders gave him the thumbs up.

We ignored his first few runs. Wet tracks were destroying us. He couldn’t get out of a trot whenever a shower was turned on opposite the course.

Finally, on a dry track at Doomben, our dreams came true. The gold blinkers hit the front. Challengers came, and he fought them off. There was a nose in it, but he won. What a moment.

I told you about it at the time. Even now, the thought of that victory gives me a thrill. But with success, came expectation.

Wet tracks again spoiled things. Looking back, the excuses were mounting. He was going backwards.

His last start was awful. We knew that was it. Our lovely horse was, in fact, slow. And he wasn’t going to get any faster.

The end of our adventure came quickly. He was sent to a country trainer. Maybe he’d pick up a local race down there.

Or maybe not. Another e-mail. This time, to advise that he’d bled. For his safety, and everyone elses, he would need to be retired.

Thanks for the memories Pintuck. A giant horse, with a lovely nature. And one win.

He’s off to a show jumping career now. I’m tipping he’ll represent Australia in the Olympics. After all, a beautiful arse like that must be good for something.

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It’s official. Dads with obese thumbs can’t type on i-phomes.

May 14, 2013

Daughter Two was giving me the look.

The one that tells me I’m not performing at the level she expects.

As usual, it was followed by the giggle. When she stopped laughing, she set me straight. Again.

“Dad, why are your thumbs so fat? You’re making mistakes on every word.”

She was watching me trying to send messages on my new phone. And she was right. It wasn’t pretty.

Picture a baby hippo, penning an important note on the latest communication device. Letters being splayed left, right and sideways.

Incredibly, the phone tries to help. This amazing function called auto-correct. The tiny people inside pick up my mistakes before I’ve finished them, and suggest the correct word.

There’s only one problem. These mini-wordsmiths sometimes come up with words I don’t want. And when I’m messaging without my glasses on, which is often, I don’t always realise this.

There have been several near misses. No law suits just yet. It’s only a matter of time.

What my bulky digits do, is make the process of messaging longer than it needs to be. I am constantly fixing, and erasing.

I can’t walk and thumb-type. The girls find this a major embarrassment. If we’re at the shops, they’ll keep walking, pretending they don’t know me, when I stop mid-stride to make a reply.

It wasn’t always this difficult. I used a typewriter once. In the days of silent movies. Those two fingers served me well, as they do all these years later on the computer keyboard.

Before phones went mobile, I carried a pager. We all did. Mine worked perfectly across vast areas. Except inside the local RSL club. Try as they might, they couldn’t contact me in there. Must have been something in the walls.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m all for progress. The features on this new phone are mind-blowing. I’ve mentioned them on these pages before.

So if this amazing piece of technology can let me take video, and check the weather in Mt Isa, and play my favourite John Cash songs, why can’t it accommodate my fat thumbs?

There’s a challenge for you tech-whizzes out there. Design something for my kind. For your trouble, we’ll send you nice clean messages. Every time. I pronise.

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The beauty of loud voices in the racing game. At least we’re never boring.

May 11, 2013

Imagine being part of an industry that puts people to sleep. Where participants are comfortable in beige. No thanks.

We racing folk, we’re nothing if not vibrant. Everyone has a voice. Usually raised.

It seems everyone has been yelling this week. Major spats in two states.

The Singo and Gai show will be a mini-series one day. Scribes better than me have documented every juicy bit. You don’t need that again today.

What I will say, is that there was passion at every turn. It’s what racing does to us.

Whether it’s at the bar, or in front of the Stewards, nothing is held back. No punches pulled.

In Brisbane, it was Rob Heathcote v Larry Cassidy. My mate the trainer, against the Group One jockey.

I’m still scratching my head over that one. We all know they don’t like each other. So what? Could it not have been sorted out before an official inquiry?

The fact that Brisbane’s leading trainer was fined for speaking his mind on a private blog, puzzles me. If things were that bad, take it to court. If not, move on.

No-one does more to promote the sport in Queensland. He doesn’t mind letting people know what he’s thinking. There should be more of it. It’s easy to stay out of strife, if you don’t open your mouth.

The beauty of these spats, is that we all get over it. Racing types are great at moving on. With or without grudges. We have to. There’s a race about to start any minute.

Listen to the old blokes this arvo at your local. Best of mates, will go toe to toe over the merits of the ride on the topweight.

No thoughts for feelings. Because we have hides like rhinos. Throw your best insult. Then pass the peanuts.

In our game, strong opinions aren’t confined to millionaires. The strength of your argument isn’t measured by the thickness of your wallet.

Don’t get too concerned the next time you hear about a racing blow up. As long as it’s not about cheats ripping us off, then laugh if off. Worse things happen at sea.

And one more thing. If you’re off to the track today, don’t wear beige. It’s just not our colour.

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Getting ready to remember my wonderful Mum. Just don’t trust her with the seafood.

May 7, 2013

For a tiny woman, Mum sure packed a punch.

Whether you were a school administrator, a local politician or a teenage son, it was wise not to tangle with her.

She was always polite, of course. But beware the terrier, if she thought the wrong thing was being done.

Mum had our primary school hall built. She didn’t think it was acceptable that we had nowhere to hold proper assemblies, or musicals. So she set about changing things.

My mother was a tireless letter writer. She penned notes to scores of people over that bloody hall. If they didn’t respond, they’d get another.

Mum took to the airwaves. She decided talkback was a valuable tool, to push her barrow. She painted a sorry picture of our rundown school. Politicians who had been sitting on their hands, were starting to look bad.

Finally, they relented. We would get our hall. More than anything, I think, to shut Mum up. She was delighted.

When I got to high school, she decided it needed a new hall too. Seriously. The letters started again. This project proved easier. The powers-that-be didn’t have the energy to fight her.

After Dad died, we used to have terrible fights. I was heading off the rails. She was trying to be mother and father, and it wasn’t working.

I eventually moved out, at 19. I know that hurt her deeply. She didn’t say a thing. Just went about supporting me any way she could. From pots and pans to cleaning cloths. Not that any of them were used in those early years.

When we were no longer living under the same roof, the fights stopped. I finally appreciated the incredible struggle she’d had, to keep my brother and I safe and well. She finally understood the difficulties a teenager had, after losing his much-loved Dad.

When I started work, she was so incredibly proud. I was employed by the same radio station she featured on, a few years earlier. She continued to call them, whenever something took her fancy. Always with a reminder about who her son was.

I moved interstate eventually, into a different part of the media. She demanded I send home tapes of stories I’d done. I’m pretty sure they were shown at morning teas, with her friends. Poor ladies.

Mum would visit whenever she could. We were lucky enough to live in some of Queensland’s most amazing parts. She was constantly amazed at the beauty of those places.

Towards the end of her life, she struggled. Her sight was all but gone. So cruel. This woman who loved her crossword puzzles, now had to use books with only the largest print. And even then, she could barely make out details.

On one of her final visits, I took her to a seafood shop, to get lunch. I asked if she wanted prawns. Yes, she said, that would be lovely. How about those ones there in the window? They look big and juicy.

They were indeed. Sadly, she was pointing at the lobsters. We had a laugh about that. She kept her sense of humour till the end.

In her final hours in hospital, I held Mum’s tiny, frail hand. She told me that the giant Indian was calling her. I actually looked about the hospital room that night, so sure was she that the big guy was there with us. I couldn’t see him. But she could. I still picture what he must have looked like.

She gave me so many valuable lessons. Near the top of her list, was to fight for what you believe in. And that if something will make your heart happy, then it’s worth chasing. Nothing is more important.

I miss Mum every day, but especially on Mother’s Day. Give yours a hug for me on the weekend. And if you’re having seafood for lunch this Sunday, make sure you check those prawns.

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My mates, the old time cops. Why locking up bad guys never goes out of fashion.

April 30, 2013

The first police officer I knew was a family friend. A giant of a man, with shiny black boots so big that babies could have slept in them.

He ran our town like a smiling version of Clint Eastwood, in an early spaghetti western.

We would see him walking the streets after school. Helping an elderly woman with her shopping bags. Talking footy with Harold the barber.

I’d only ever seen his friendly side. But the toughest of the local kids were scared stiff of him. I would soon discover why.

Bored one afternoon, I started throwing stones at the front of our house. Actually, they were rocks. In the direction of on-coming cars. To this day, I can’t tell you why.

I wasn’t trying to hit anyone. But I did. Straight through an old bloke’s windscreen. How he kept control of his rusty bomb I’ll never know.

Neighbours came running. So did Mum. It was a major incident. I was in strife.

When the dust settled, I sat in my room, waiting for the wrath of Dad. Before that happened, there was a knock at the door.

It was my parent’s policeman friend. I came out, to find him blocking the doorway. It was like there had been an eclipse in our street.

His voice deepened, and he gave me the biggest bollocking I’d ever received. There was mention of being locked up. And a reference to what happened to young blonde boys in prison. I was close to wetting myself in terror.

Years later, Mum told me she’d asked him to come over that night. There was never any chance of me being taken away. It was all about giving me the fright of my life. And it worked.

It was an early version of pro-active policing. Helping kids stay on the right path. When a boot up the bum or a clip over the ear wouldn’t lead to an internal investigation.

Funny how some of my best mates are now cops. Or ex-cops. I met most of them back in the day. When police and journos got on. Often by spending nights consuming cool drinks, and solving the problems of the world.

They were from different cities and towns over many years, but all shared a common trait. They loved locking up bad guys.

Not one was a paper-pusher. They were street-smart. Some, it should be said, would rather a fight than a feed. Again, a different time.

Those who remain in the job today, are high-ranking. Still driven by the desire to make the streets safer. That will never change.

Others have successful careers outside of the force. When we get together, the tales are tall, and the laughs loud.

I’m hearing that there’s a push to get back to that raw style of policing. More cops on the beat. Experienced eyes and ears, nipping trouble in the bud. Let’s hope so.

We hear so much about young people not respecting authority. Of having no fear at being spoken to by a police officer. It remains one of the greatest concerns for my mates in the force.

The time of the local copper being invited home by worried parents might be gone. But pro-active policing never went out of style. The results are worth the effort. That stupid, rock-throwing kid would tell you that. If he wasn’t still shaking.

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Watching the races, in the palm of our hands. What will they think of next?

April 27, 2013

There was a time when punters crowded around the radio to listen to the races.

Such activity often took place in a pub. The public bar. Loud-mouths had to be told to shut it, as Ken Howard brought the field into the straight.

This was before tv, and the internet. A few years after dinosaurs stopped roaming.

I can remember listening to the daily double at the kitchen table. Mum would have had a dollar or two on her favourite jockeys of the time.

Miss a race, through an unexpected visit from a thoughtless relative, and you’d have to wait until the Sunday paper to get the result.

If I’d suggested to Mum that she could find the placings on Twitter, seconds after they crossed the line, she’d have scolded Dad for giving me sips from his large bottle.

Who would have thought things could change so much? From crackly transistor, to world racing in the palm of your hand.

I now have an i-phone. Yes, I’m the last person on the planet to have made the change. And what a change it is.

Multiple betting sites are a tap away. Anywhere in the world. They will take my money, with another tap.

What’s more, I can actually watch races live, on my phone. Sitting on the bus, or the ferry. Or the toilet. With a tap.

There they are, running around Randwick, or Doomben, or Hollywood Park, and I’m not missing a second. On the same device that I can talk to my girls on, and use as a torch. Yep, it does that too. Who thinks of this stuff?

I should add here, for the benefit of any media company financial officers who may have stumbled across these pages, that I will never actually use such a feature on the company phone. I am fully aware of the contract involved, and there is absolutely no need to check my records each month.

No wonder administrators are having trouble keeping up. This new breed of racing fan is so tech-savvy, they expect nothing but the best when it comes to accessing our sport.

And they have zero patience. Don’t give them what they want, and they’ll be gone. To the next smart sport, that provides better online ways to have a punt.

Sadly, I’m unable to offer any help. I’m struggling to make a phone call on the bloody thing. And I don’t know how to retrieve voice mail. Leave me a message, and I might get back to you next year.

But with any luck, I can watch them run around next time I’m at a school dance concert. Mum would be looking for that large bottle right about now.

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Time for our young heroes to shine, on a new look ANZAC Day.

April 24, 2013

For a long time, our war heroes were older.

They’d march on ANZAC Day in dusted-off jackets, with rows of medals clanking. Year after year.

Our veterans would share the same steely gaze. And a rum toddy as the sun came up.

Over time, crowds grew. Finally, as a nation, we got it. Parents and their kids lined the streets. We wanted to show this wonderful bunch what they meant to us.

Their numbers are dwindling, of course. It makes every year, extra special.

I wish Dad had been around to see the change. Things were so different when he was trying to adjust back to normal life, all those years ago. When people didn’t care as much.

He would have been amazed to see the flags waving. And all those mini-medals, worn by sons and daughters. Including his grand-daughters. Girls he never got to meet.

Something else would surprise him. The emergence of our young heroes. The men and women fighting for us today.

It’s only recently, that ANZAC Day has taken on a new look. Slowly, but surely. A reflection of a changing world.

We’ve been fighting another war for years now. Not that everyone understood that in the early days. So different from what Dad experienced. Against an insidious enemy, often hidden, in a far away land.

Those involved in these battles are not old men, carefully placed in the back of jeeps. Men we will adore, until the last one takes the final salute, to re-join his brave mates.

These modern soldiers have families just like us. They follow the footy on their i-phones. They’re on Facebook.

For a while, it seemed some were unsure of their place on ANZAC Day. They worship the men and women who went before them.

Sure, they’d be there for the dawn service, and the march, but more to help the veterans of battles done. They would wear their medals with pride, but clap loudest for others.

In the last few years, the mood has shifted. Possibly because there’s so many of them, coming back from those awful, dusty fields.

They see the public’s reaction to the likes of Ben Roberts-Smith and Mark Donaldson. Heroes, in every sense of the word. As brave as anyone we’ve produced.

I hope this new breed understands how proud we are of them. For their courage. And their sacrifices. Just like their fathers and grandfathers.

This year, save a cheer for the young heroes. After the march, shake one by the hand. Get your mum to give someone a hug. Let them know what we think of them.

Dad struggled so much with what he was asked to do. For years, he chose not to think about it.

If he was able to have a beer with me now, I think he’d see things differently. He would understand, that all those who serve deserve our ever-lasting gratitude.

The diggers of today are following our heroes of yesterday. And we’re proud of every single one of them.

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How we let Black Caviar into our family. And we don’t want to let her go.

April 18, 2013

The tears have dried up now. We’ve composed ourselves, knowing the journey has come to an end.

And what a journey it was. Twenty-five starts. Twenty-five wins.

I remember Steve Hewlett on 4TAB giving her a wrap after her second or third win. Said she might be something special.

Now, we say that lots in racing. Usually, for anything that salutes, when we’re on board. Overcome some trouble, and you can make that extra-special.

But Steve was spot on. This mare with the giant arse named Black Caviar, would dazzle us. Time and again.

For a while, it was just racing folk following her progress. She would lose, eventually. They all get beaten. Phar Lap, Tulloch, Kingston Town. All of them.

But not Nelly. She kept winning. Soon, other sports followers got involved. Then the general public. Those who would rather read the classifieds than the form guide.

Kids started wearing her colours to the races. Mums made flags. Dads had dollar bets and kept the tickets.

They did tv specials on her. Books and magazine articles. She found time between trackwork sessions to set up her own Facebook and Twitter accounts.

They took her overseas, and she won in front of the Queen. Just. When the narks wanted to write her off, she came back and went even faster.

Win number 25 was at Randwick. It was breathtaking. The victory we’ll never forget.

Now it’s over. The most magnificent of careers, finished. She’s off to the breeding barn. How do you think the first stallion will feel on the big day? He’ll be texting his mates all morning.

We all get to keep our special memories of the Mighty Mare. I have two that stand out.

The Teenager and I sat up late, the night Black Caviar raced at Royal Ascot. I loved that she got caught up in the excitement of it all.

The two of us were joined by an entire racing industry on Twitter. We cheered, and gasped, and then cheered again. It felt like we were all in the same lounge room at midnight.

The other unforgettable moment, was when she raced at Doomben. I wrote that night that when she hit the front, it sounded like the grandstand roof had lifted off. I’ve never heard a roar like it, at any other sporting event. Even now, recalling it, I get chills.

Anyone who has watched her anywhere, had that same feeling. How lucky we are.

There will be other champions. We’ll dress up in someone else’s colours one day down the track.

But there won’t be another Black Caviar. A once-in-a-lifetime champion.

We owe Peter Moody and her owners so much. They shared her, when they could have kept her locked up at Caulfield. They gave of their time, and promoted the sport they love at every turn.

I’ve written more about the Mighty Mare on these pages than any other subject, outside of my much-loved girls. They’re lucky the horse has given it away. She was catching up.

Thanks for the memories, BC. Good luck having babies. We’ll never forget you. And if you find the time, can you let us know which of your youngsters runs the fastest? A Twitter post will do just fine.

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