Just putting it out there. What jockeys really mean on Twitter.

March 9, 2013

I enjoy reading what jockeys think on Facebook and Twitter.

It makes us mug punters feel like we’re part of the family. Even if we’re at the table set aside for the kids.

They’re not allowed to tip, but every now and then we get pointed in the right direction.

I love how they support each other. For all the ribbing (and there’s plenty of that), they look after their mates. Especially when the going gets tough.

The likes of Nash Rawiller, Josh Parr, Ryan Wiggins and Luke Nolen are great value. The Pumper has a huge following too. You can hear them cheering when he pinches another one from out front.

Blokes who’ve been around a bit know how to keep the youngsters on track. Chris Munce is forever praising and encouraging. It must mean the world to an apprentice just starting out, to get praise from a legend.

It hasn’t always been like this. Not too many years ago, the only way we’d be able to connect with the little guys and girls would be through the Sunday papers. And even then, there’d be plenty of the same old stories.

“The favourite was just a bit too good on the day”.

“He’ll be tough to beat when he gets up to a mile”.

“He didn’t handle the going. Forget the run”. Blah blah blah.

That’s the beauty of social media. Follow the right people, and you’ll get to hear what they really think.

Imagine if Jim Pike had been on Twitter. Would he have given much away? Or would he have been working on getting a price for Big Red?

@JimPike1 .. Riding Phar Lap again today. The weight is a worry. And the boss has been working him hard. Sure, we won by 10 lengths last start. But he’s vulnerable. Just don’t tell the bookies. #cansomeonegetonforme?

Some of racing’s most famous moments may have been recorded differently. Bill Collins would have loved to be tweeting after the ’82 Cox Plate.

@BillTheAccurateOne .. Just to clarify, when I said Kingston Town couldn’t win, I was talking about the Melbourne Cup. He was ALWAYS going to win the Plate. #cansomeoneerasethetape?

The boys involved in the Fine Cotton debacle would have gone straight to twitter. And stuffed that up too.

@HaydentheGoose .. Bit of a mix up today guys. No harm done. Weren’t we silly billys! #cansomeonecharteracheapflight

If you’re a racing fan and you’re not on Twitter, you’re missing out. Get your kids to explain what to do, and be part of the fun.

You’ll be amazed at what you discover, from the biggest names in the industry. And you’ll have a laugh along the way.

Just don’t trust Jim Pike. I’m sure that Big Red horse goes better than he’s telling us.

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Mates for 45 years. A bloke who’ll always be our Captain. Even if he falls asleep mid-sentence.

March 5, 2013

We’ve known each other since we were 4 years old.

Kindergarten buddies. First day, with Miss Thorburn.

I don’t remember the finer details, but I’m sure he would have been organising us. Who could sit where. What we’d do at the lunch break.

We were together in primary school. Played footy and cricket all the way through.

He was the Captain. That went without saying. A natural leader. Even back then, he was defending his mates.

His other nickname was ‘Weird Harold’. From the character in the Fat Albert cartoon. They looked nothing alike, but by actions alone could have been twins.

As kids, a bunch of us would get up to wonderful fun each afternoon. Whatever was going, we’d be into. He was always leading the way.

It was the same in high school. If we were in a team together, he was the Skipper. By then, we were also playing league on the weekend. Of course, he had the ‘C’ next to his name in the program.

He was fearless on the field. Always looking out for his friends. He loved the battle, and the mateship. He knew how lucky we all were, forging friendships that would last a lifetime.

I remember The Captain in a dressing room, before a final. He was receiving a pain-killing injection from the club doctor. His knee was a mess, but he refused to leave us short. He climbed the wall as the needle went in. All the way up. Excruciating pain.

I thought about that episode, when I saw him limping last weekend. A visit we’d both been looking forward to. He’s already had major surgery on that leg. It’s playing up again.

He’s paying the price for not wanting to let us down, all those years ago. It just wasn’t in his nature. Old school.

There was no complaining this time around, of course. He was too busy telling me a thousand stories. And listening to mine. Over numerous cool drinks.

We still laugh at tales we’ve heard a thousand times. That’s what old mates do. We get faster, and stronger, and funnier, as time goes by.

He’s another one who graduated from the University of Life. With an opinion on everything. And you’ll hear what it is, whether you like it or not.

Don’t tell him I said this, but he’s one of the smartest people I know. An answer for everything.

We talked for hours, until he fell asleep. Mid-sentence, sitting up, on the lounge. Granted, the hour was late. But I didn’t think I’d been that boring.

He explained it later as a ‘micro nap’. Part of his army training. Yes, he’s also incredibly full of it. He forgets that I’ve been watching him nod off since Hawkie was PM.

We made time to remember a great mate, who’s no longer with us. A cancer victim, who was taken far too early. We both miss him dearly. He was another from those carefree early days. Glasses were raised. The joy of shared memories.

Mateship, in all forms, is a wonderful thing. I feel for those who miss out on it. Life-forming, and life-lasting.

We’ll catch up again soon. There’ll be more laughs. More drinks. And The Captain will fall asleep. That’s the beauty of true friends. You know exactly what you’ll get.

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Blame the floods on Pintuck. Owners who dream of having a mudlark.

March 2, 2013

From the outset, an apology.

All this rain of late is our fault. The floods are not an act of God. They can be blamed on a horse. Our horse.

The second he even looks like heading onto the track, dark clouds appear from nowhere. Blue skies turn to grey.

We learnt early on in the piece that he had precisely zero ability on a wet track. His giant hooves can’t handle the slush. You could throw a saddle on me, with pie in hand,  and I’d get through the going better.

He’s had five starts on rain-affected tracks. It was like we’d tied two of his legs together.

One run on top of the ground, he wins, like the good thing we know he is. I may have made a brief mention of it on these pages.

It was enough to make us dream again. Big things ahead. As long as the sun stays out.

But that didn’t happen. Because this bloke attracts rain, like Black Caviar attracts First Place Ribbons.

It was uncanny. And incredibly frustrating. Queensland’s big wet of 2013, can be traced back to our horse coming back into work. Almost to the day.

For an owner, the ability to run in the wet is one of the great unknowns. Sure, a pedigree that shows a family of mudlarks helps. But even then it’s no sure thing.

It causes so many bloody disruptions. And being such a large lump of a thing, any missed races set us back a furlong or three.

We drool over the thought of owning a wet tracker. Especially in a state where it rains on the hour.

Can you imagine what it must have been like to own Van Der Hum, or Subzero, or Doriemus? They grew a leg when someone left a tap running. The owners woke on a cold and wet Saturday morning, and danced a money jig.

Not us. We get scratched, again. He stands in his stall, and gets a little fatter.

Bring back the drought, I say. We’ve had enough of the rain. Spare all those hard hit cities and towns. And those owners who aren’t allowed to play in the wet.

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Waterlogged memories. The change in rain, that’s driving me insane.

February 26, 2013

It’s true, my memory isn’t what it used to be.

I forget things, past and present. Something to do with age. And other stuff I can’t recall.

I’m sure the rain used to be different. There, I said it. Back when things were in black and white. Yes, it’s still wet, and cold, and .. rainy. But the way it comes down has changed. Hasn’t it?

The younger folk will be sniggering about now. He’s finally lost it, they’ll be texting to their friends. No surprises there. I’m just hoping fellow Old Farts agree with me.

As I scribble these words, it’s pouring outside. Again. Every other day it’s raining cats and dogs and other domestic pets.

No middle ground. It’s either a few drops, or a severe weather warning.

When I was a young man with long hair and few cares, there was steady, soaking rain. For days on end. No broken river banks. Just boring, uneventful precipitation.

In our early footy days, we loved the rain. We’d train in it, and play in it, and leave our saturated clothes on the carpet.

Love turned to hate if games were called off. We’d curse some sport-hating council pen-pusher, who would rather protect his precious grass than let us roam through the mud and slush.

As we got older, and we combined the odd night out before play, attitudes changed. There were a handful of times when our prayers to the God of Hangovers were answered, and games were abandoned.

I have little memory of major rain events from those days. Seriously, I just don’t remember them. Yes, of course there were floods. But not in my neighborhood.

Later, as a North Queensland resident, I saw rain of biblical proportions. That’s what happens in the tropics. But even up there, there would be times when we’d enjoy calming, uneventful falls.

So what’s changed? Some will jump at the chance to scream climate change. I’m not sure that’s it. Maybe it’s nature’s cycle. The steady stuff might be on the verge of a damp comeback.

Of course, I might have it all wrong. My memory might be gone for good. Damaged by moisture of a different kind.

When this latest forty days and forty nights finishes, keep an eye out for some normal, routine rain. And let me know. I’d hate to forget that I was right.

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Where did all those candles come from? Coping with birthdays for the elderly.

February 19, 2013

I have a birthday coming up. It’s not The Big One, but it’s fair to say I can see that disturbing number looming large.

This one will be relatively painless. A few nice dinners, with no need for reflection. That will come next year.

There was a time when we celebrated our birth date with gusto. My 18th party was one such occasion.

It centred around one of the all-time great games of backyard cricket. We played over an entire weekend, and into Monday morning.

There was a large keg, and little else. Our dog, the tennis ball-chasing border collie, was exhausted by the end of play.

Players came and went, but the game rolled on. The effect of refreshments meant the pace bowlers lost their line, and the batsmen had trouble seeing several feet in front of them.

Someone told me they witnessed a streak as part of the event. Up the road, past the club, and back to the game. Without video proof, I still refuse to believe it.

There were other great parties around that time. A bunch of us were born within a few weeks of each other. Each event was a triumph.

Perhaps the highlight was a mate who ended his 18th night, clinging to the Hills hoist, while playing a harmonica. Naked. There were photos, which I believe have since been destroyed.

Through the years, milestones have been celebrated in various locations. The 30th was in Cairns, during a rain storm of biblical proportions. The pub we were in became a temporary houseboat.

Year 40 was marked at the races. A lovely day at Eagle Farm with some good chums. We then had Chinese, and were almost arrested, because of a dispute over the cake. Good times.

The celebrations since have been a little less spectacular. Hard to get too excited through the mid-forties. Still good fun, but no marathon sporting events or nude musical interludes.

Next year could be different. The old boys are emerging from their slumber, and starting to prepare. Once again, we’ll have a clutch of events within weeks of each other. Medical teams will be put on standby.

I’ll keep you posted through the year as the plans take shape. All ideas will be considered. Just one condition. No harmonicas.

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My secret role in getting Black Caviar back to Brisbane.

February 16, 2013

The connections of Black Caviar were at a loss.

Everyone wanted a piece of the Mighty Mare. Offers were coming in thick and fast. Where should they take her next?

We were on our weekly phone hook-up. Yes, it took up some of my valuable time, but I was happy to assist. As a fellow winning owner (midweek), it was my duty.

Moody came on the line late. Some excuse about stocking the fridge with XXXX Gold, so they’d be icy cold for tonight’s celebrations.

When the master trainer asks a favour, it’s hard to say no. On the promise of a steak at the Breakfast Creek on his next visit, I agreed.

He wanted me to draw up a list, to help them decide where to take the Champ on her farewell tour.

The connections joined in, almost pleading with me. What could I do? As a National Treasure (her, not me) I had to help.

I promised them I wouldn’t share this information, so you’ll need to keep it between us. You know how narky those southern race clubs can get.

So here’s what I sent them. Let me know if you agree. If you don’t, contact the connections.

FLEMINGTON: What a wonderful track. But fair’s fair. She’s running there today. The joint will be packed. Once is enough.

RANDWICK: You know how much I love this place. But there’s so much construction work going on. Not a good look in the after-race photos. And the Sydney trainers will complain that she’s being offered preferential treatment. We don’t need the negatives.

MORPHETVILLE: Nice place apparently. But they turn the lights out after 8pm. How will we celebrate? And we couldn’t listen to that call again. No chance.

ASCOT: Now you all know I love my Perth racing. But it’s such a LONG way to get there. The Great One doesn’t need the trip. Apologies to my western friends, but it ain’t gonna happen.

CAIRNS: Don’t laugh. We could get BC out on the reef for some snorkelling. She’d love that. We’d need some fair size floaties though. There’s no better track to watch The Angels after the last, with rum in hand. Keep it on the shortlist.

And finally….

EAGLE FARM: The ideal choice. They’ll come from the Cape to Coolangatta. The Mighty Mare can spend some time in the sun on the Gold Coast, before heading up to meet the locals at Hendra. Moody can take his place on a bar stool at the Brekky Creek, and every Queenslander will have a beer with him.

It will be around Origin time, so the Mighty Maroons will shout her to dinner. Mal Meninga will give her a Queensland jersey, signed by the boys, that she can wear to the track each morning. And she can sit in the coaches box during the game.

Most importantly, the crowd on that Saturday will make her feel like the most special girl in the world. We’ll cheer till we’re hoarse, over the horse. No one does that better than a Queenslander.

The connections tell me they’re still studying my proposal. Such a big choice. No pressure. Although I will say, they’re saving that seat at the pub for Pete. I’ll have my steak medium thanks.

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My brush with Drugs in Sport. How we performed on the original sports supplements.

February 12, 2013

It was the summer we decided to get serious about our fitness.

Three of us made a pact. For the first time, we would get fair dinkum with our training. Start the footy season in tip-top shape.

We turned the old garage into a gymnasium. A faded, heavy boxing bag took pride of place. We’d even tape our hands, as if we were in Rocky’s original gym.

Each would spur the other on, and go an extra minute. There was no shortage of sweat in that hot, dusty room.

When we weren’t belting the bag, we’d be running up a God-awful hill, next to where we lived. It got steeper at every turn. Calf muscles were ready to explode. Lungs screaming for air. No pain, no gain.

It’s true, we took our share of supplements. Every night, if we could afford it (meaning if we hadn’t lost our money mid-week at the Gosford dogs).

Our performance enhancing agent was steak. Big, juicy cuts of meat. Eggs too. The more protein the better. It’s what you did when you were in training. So our Dads told us.

It worked. Both my housemates played first grade that year. Having more ability than me helped them no end. I managed to wreck a shoulder in the lower grades early in the piece, thereby wasting all that good work. But our fitness routine had paid dividends.

The blokes around me who succeeded in sport didn’t need powders or needles. They just worked harder than the next guy. No shortcuts. No magic potion from some snake oil salesman.

I should add here, that the game in my time was awash with drugs. Few weren’t involved. Yet there was no probe.

The drugs were legal. Grog and smokes. We were there to have a good time with our mates.

I knew of players who needed a tipple before the game. One bloke carried a bottle of port in his gear bag. A half-time swig before returning to the fray.

Those were the days when the esky in the dressing room was full of cans, not orange juice and sports drinks. Few beers are tastier than the ones consumed after battle.

There were smokers, too. Some would still be puffing before they ran out. And they would certainly light up after the game.

We didn’t think twice about such things, because we knew no better. But there was no cheating. Too much respect for ourselves, and the game we loved. It was the same at coastal and country sporting clubs all over the country. A different time.

I’m not sure when sport got to the stage when hard work wasn’t enough. When scientists and clowns in lab coats started convincing coaches that they were a necessary part of the team.

As some players get banned in the coming weeks, there will be others working hard with their mates in backyard gyms. Sweating to a chorus of encouragement. In the hope of making something of themselves.

They’re the ones I want to go and watch. Because they know that the game is bigger than all of us. I hope they’re eating their steak.

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From Jack Gibson to Gandhi. Words of wisdom to help us stop worrying.

February 5, 2013

There are certain stages in life, when there’s no need for worry.

The first few hours of life are usually stress free. Hopefully, the mind will be clear around the time of our final breath. With any luck, there are a few peaceful periods in between.

When was the last time you weren’t worrying about something? Not a care in the world. Can you remember?

After I left school, everything seemed to be where it should be. I’d recovered from my dad’s death (so I thought), had an amazing circle of mates, and was being paid actual money.

All we did was have fun. If there was something worth stressing about, no-one told us.

Things change, of course. We get older, and while we love our life and all those around us, things get complicated.

We cause our own problems. Put strain on our families. Our bodies start coming up with conditions we hadn’t heard of a decade ago.

I’ve been worrying too much of late. About things great and small. Worrying about my family. Worrying about the future. Worrying about surgery to beat a pesky cancer.

It’s painful, and exhausting, and in the most part, unnecessary. And I’m over it.

I’m reading books. Not just form guides. Basic philosophies, from a variety of authors, to live a good life, and make sense of things.

I’ve re-visited my favourite philosopher. A man who always seemed to find the simplest way. The late, great, Jack Gibson. Football coach, and graduate with honours from the University of Life.

Don’t worry if you’ve never heard of him. He wouldn’t have cared in the slightest.

Jack collected quotes and sayings from all over the world, and eventually made books out of them. I have every one.

I dragged them out last night, to remember some favourites. Here are just a few. They might mean something to you too. Some are from famous people. Others from Jack himself.

If you walk towards the light the shadows are always behind you.

If you don’t know where you’re going, any road will take you. LEWIS CARROLL.

Success in life comes not from holding a good hand of cards, but in playing a poor hand well.

A retentive memory may be a good thing but the ability to forget is the true token of greatness. ELBERT HUBBARD

Make a rule in life never to regret and never to look back. Regret is an appalling waste of energy. You can’t build on it. It’s only good for wallowing in. KATHERINE MANSFIELD

All so true. There are hundreds more gems just like these. Those yellowing pages never fail to inspire. And bring back a smile.

You might have similar books that lift your spirits. Don’t forget them, when things get tough.

And here’s one more quote. I keep coming back to it, because it sums up the idea of living a better life.

It’s from a bloke called Gandhi. Pretty handy performer, back in the day. (Note to some of my regular readers – no, he is not a member of the Broncos Under 20 squad. Yes, it’s been heavy going so far, and you’ve done well to stay with me. I promise to lighten up next week).

Put this on the fridge, next to the emergency numbers and your video store specials. It’s worth remembering.

Keep my words positive. Words become my behaviors. Keep my behaviors positive. Behaviors become my habits. Keep my habits positive. Habits become my values. Keep my values positive. Values become my destiny. MOHANDAS GANDHI

Hard to argue with any of that. Even if he didn’t make the cut with the Broncos.

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Life on hold. Convincing kids they CAN survive without their phone.

January 22, 2013

The Teenager’s eye was twitching. Her beautiful face had become distorted.

She could see it. Almost close enough to touch. Connect. Send a message on.

It was her mobile phone. And she wasn’t with it. Daughter Two as well. Stripped of their most vital possessions.

A holiday rule had been introduced. Part of the day was to be phone-less. It was like I’d asked them to shave their heads.

My first suggestion was to leave the devices behind when we went to the beach. They gave me the look. The one that Dads everywhere know. The ‘Thanks, but that won’t be happening in this lifetime’ look.

They explained that they had to take i-phone photos. Hundreds of friends were waiting. There would be action shots in the surf, and glamour shots on the sand.

These images would be posted immediately onto social media sites including Facebook, Instagram, SnapChat and WhoGivesaFlying. Ok, I made one of those up.

Everything is about photos and videos, being shared as quickly as possible. No phone, means no sharing.

With the beach off the negotiating table, I moved to meal time. Surely there was no need to have the phone during a holiday dinner?

No can do, they chorused. It’s prime-time to receive messages from friends. They’ll stay in our pockets. You won’t even know we have them with us. Promise. Because I was waiting for my own message, I didn’t push the issue. And yes, I see the irony there.

I wasn’t giving up. We were watching favourite DVDs each night before bed. It would be done without electrical devices.

It was an outrage, they cried. We HAVE to check stuff. You just DON’T understand.

We compromised, and they survived. With sneaky peeks, as I visited the fridge. And we all enjoyed the movies, fully focused.

My quest to reduce phone use was hard enough during a week of sun and surf on holidays. What chance do we have at home?

Parents everywhere are fighting the same battle. Our kids are addicted, to devices that were invented to promote talk. But they’re conversing less. It’s all about internet data, in the palm of a hand.

We’re not much better. My phone never leaves me. You’re probably the same. The constant link to work. Up-to-the-second info from around the world on Twitter. Monitoring the exploits of friends on Facebook. Do as I say, not as I do..

In the holiday tavern, I saw a couple sitting at a table near the bar. Both in their fifties I reckon. Both with i-pads. Their heads were buried in them. They’d gone to the trouble of going out together. Yet they could have been in different suburbs.

It’s hard to see us screen-saving our kids, when most of us are just as bad. If our phones are getting smarter, then we must be getting dumber.

Back to The Teenager’s twitching episode. It came late in the day, during a game of cards. We’d finally come to an agreement, that any activity on the balcony would be phone-free. Keen to hear the end of my campaign, they had agreed.

It meant that as we made up our own poker rules, and certain family members cheated, we were talking. And laughing. Without disruption.

There will be those of you without kids, or with children long gone, who will be scratching heads. Yes, we could ban the devices. Banish them to a mobile wasteland.

Trust me when I tell you it’s more complicated than that. Their phones are such a part of how they exist. The social fabric is so very different from when we were young.

For better or worse, we need to help them stay connected, without shutting everyone else out. And to save the sanity of parents all over.

For our part, we’ve working on sticking with our holiday plan at home. More phone-free time. Device-free zones. Baby steps, but it’s a start. No more living life on hold.

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Awful conduct by a winning racehorse owner. And I’d do it again tomorrow.

January 19, 2013

Quite simply, it was appalling behaviour.

Screaming like a One Direction fan. Banging tables. Foot stomping. A jig was performed, badly. And that was before he crossed the line.

I was in the public bar of a delightful little coastal pub. A midweek race had just been run, and won. By our horse.

To be fair, I had given due warning to the handful of punters present. As a part-owner, there was the remote possibility that I might get a tad excited, if things went our way.

I even tipped them in. Told them that our bloke would run way better than his odds suggested. Suggested that they have a dollar or two each way.

Two elderly locals in faded Hawaiian shirts offered little more than rude sniffs my way. I guessed they sat in those same chairs every day. They didn’t need tips from an unshaven bum with a bad case of sunburn.

Not so two young blokes in the bar. They were excited. Took my advice, and settled in as my new syndicate cheer squad.

Let us pause, because I hear you all asking the same question. Why was I not at the track, if the horse was such a decent chance?

Fair point. The original plan was very different. A drive back to Brisbane from our beachside holiday was on the cards. Until we put it to the vote.

The girls had lodged their verdict before I’d finished the question. No way were they going to endure a few hours in the car, when they could be enjoying the glorious sun and surf. Especially for a dumb horse race.

In the end, I had to agree with them. I couldn’t bring myself to put a shirt on, let alone long pants and shoes. And I’m pretty sure the good folk at Doomben wouldn’t have wanted me in the Members wearing my board shorts.

So that’s how I ended up in the pub. With strict instructions from the girls, that I had to be back for our afternoon surf session.

In running, he looked the best of things. I may have mentioned this, loudly, to no-one in particular.

Jeff Lloyd angled for a run, and the big chestnut surged. I brought the whip out in the bar, to lend a helping hand.

The finish was tight, but no-one could hear the caller. Because I had found a volume I wasn’t aware existed. The windows rattled, and glasses shook, as I urged him home.

It was then that I banged my hand on the table. Several times. And screamed Yes. Several times. It was something like Meg Ryan’s famous restaurant scene with Billy Crystal, in a Pub Tab. I’m sure someone in the adjoining bar whispered “I’ll have what he’s having.”

It was everything I hate seeing in others while trying to watch a race. But I couldn’t help it. After colic, and shin soreness, and wet tracks, and outside barriers, and sheer bloody bad luck, we’d done it. Our boy was a winner.

The young blokes were yelling too. And slapping me on the back. The old blokes were gathering their belongings to leave. Dirty, no doubt, that they’d ignored the tip.

When I came to my senses, I apologised, and asked if I could buy them a beer as a peace-offering. Too late. They’d be writing their complaint letter to the publican right about now.

My young friends had no hesitation in accepting a free drink. They were genuinely excited. That’s what racing does.

The mobile phone was in meltdown, with mates messaging from all over. They all knew how long we’d waited. Another wonderful part of the industry we love.

On any other race day, I would have been the last to leave the track. But not this one. An hour after correct weight, I was back in the surf. The girls were excited too. They were on promises of new bikinis if the photo-finish went our way.

If you were in the bar on Wednesday, or happen to live in surrounding streets, please accept my apologies. To the publican, thanks for erasing those security videos.

Part of being an owner, however small, is the fact that you can go crazy every now and then. It’s in the handbook.

Now that I think of it, me being off-track might be our lucky charm. It could be the secret to his success. I still reckon we can win the Cox Plate. Does anyone know a little pub near Mooney Valley?

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