Kids who decide life isn’t worth living. It has to stop. Why we all must be part of the solution.

October 25, 2012

My daughter and her friends went to a funeral this week.

Fourteen year old boys and girls. They should have been in school. Instead, they were in tears.

They lost a friend. A beautiful, smart, popular, bubbly girl. And they don’t understand why.

Fourteen year olds shouldn’t be going through this. They should be making up dances, and talking about boys, and pulling faces when their teacher’s back is turned.

They found out late last week. As is the way of the world, the message went out on Facebook. It spread quickly, even though most were still in class.

Some thought it was a hoax. It had to be. Their friend had everything to live for.

She’d been to our house a few times. One of the gang who took delight in keeping me awake during girly sleepovers.

By nightfall, the dreadful news was confirmed. Their social media world went into a frenzy. All asking the same question. Why?

They began posting tributes. With love hearts and kisses, as young girls do. Touching messages, of how much they loved her. Written out of hope, that she was somehow still reading them.

Together, they organised their own memorial service the following night, at one of their favourite places. More than one hundred of them. A place they’d gathered so often. Now a location to share grief.

They lit candles, and sent little hand-made boats across the water. They hugged, and cried. Some were distraught. A bunch of kids, trying to make sense of something the rest of us don’t understand.

This beautiful girl’s parents were there too. With their hearts breaking. I don’t know them, but my heart is breaking for them. Still. I can’t begin to imagine their pain. Their sense of loss.

They wished their beloved daughter could have seen the outpouring of emotion that unfolded that night. So many people who cared for her. So many decent teenagers, who wanted the chance to help. Now, it was too late.

I picked my daughter up when it finished. She was with a friend. They walked to the car, slowly. In the distance, I could see the parents, saying goodbye to the last of the kids. It looked like they didn’t want to leave that spot. Maybe they wanted to hold onto that outpouring of love just a little longer.

In the car, I asked the girls how it went. Good, they said. If only their friend had been able to see how much they all loved her. If only.

At home, our family talked long into the night. About the importance of looking after each other. Of sharing problems. Outing the bullies. Becoming a voice against wrong. And the fact that nothing is so big that it can’t be dealt with together.

I want this to stop. I don’t want another child to think that there’s no way out. I don’t want another loving mother and father to go through that unimaginable torture.

We need to start talking about it. We need to have conversations with our kids. It can’t be a secret any longer.

Every other day, in cities and towns all over the land, another youngster is taking this terrible option. Too many are now looking down, realising there was, in fact, another way.

Governments and schools have roles, and they must play a part. Getting even tougher with on-line thugs. Making sure there’s a place for everyone, no matter what their make up might be. And listening.

No-one has more power than us. Mums and Dads. Grandparents. We need to take this thing on.

Write down your own thoughts on it. Send them somewhere. Share this post with someone you think might benefit from it. Ring a radio station. Bring it up at the dinner table. With i-phones off for just a few minutes.

We can send cameras to take photos on Mars. Surely, together, we can provide a society that our children don’t feel the need to escape from.

I don’t have the answer. But I want to help find it. And soon. I’m sure you do too.

No more funerals for 14 year olds. Give your son or daughter an extra hug today. Think about that special girl. And get chatting. Play a part. The only thing more precious than life, is a young life.

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Why Peter Moody will be sipping XXXX Gold from the Caulfield Cup tonight.

October 20, 2012

Exactly seven weeks ago, on these very pages, I gave you the winner of the Caulfield Cup.

A long-range tip, for one of our great races. The feedback was overwhelming.

The great majority of you had a hearty laugh, and marked the selection ‘Can’t Possibly Win – tipster an absolute dud.’

Hard to argue with that. It must be said, my record in the 2400 metre event is less than flattering.

But a select few, obviously with way more dollars than sense, jumped on board. Without telling anyone. Just in case.

I’ve fancied Lights of Heaven for a while now. Since Peter Moody started wrapping her two seasons back. Something special.

Things didn’t work out last Spring. The mare needed more time. Moody admitted he needed to re-adjust his thinking with her.

She was a different horse in Brisbane over the winter. Improved every run. Blew them away at Eagle Farm. With some left in the tank.

Granted, the smarties still don’t accept the Queensland form as genuine. More fool them.

Moody has always had this race in mind for her. Even when the current  campaign started shakily. He hasn’t wavered. And as the big day approached, the pieces have tumbled into place.

Luke Nolen selected her, over the stable’s two other runners, both imports. Rest assured, if Moody thought the others were better chances, Luke would have been on them.

She’s carrying 53 kilos. A luxury impost for a quality performer. And the camp draws barrier 8 during the week. Perfect.

It will be run at a genuine clip. The on-pacers, including the highly fancied Glencadam Gold, will be at each other for the first half of the race. That’s not the way to win a Caulfield Cup.

Nope. The winner will get a cosy run. A world away from the battle up front.

The big question is .. is she good enough? Does she have the talent to hold off the overseas raiders?

I think she does. We’re about to see the best of her, striding past them on her home track. The great man from Charleville will be holding the Cup aloft.

Seven weeks ago, when I gave her the big tick, she was paying 21 dollars. If you were jumping on last night, you would have had to settle for 8 bucks. And don’t be surprised if she keeps tightening during the day.

The internationals will have their turn in a few weeks at Flemington. But not today. Wish us luck.

When you collect, as big Pete is downing that frosty Queensland brew, remember to keep a few dollars aside for my Cox Plate tip. Another special.   More on that next week.

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Words of wisdom from my favourite racing journos. The scribes to find you winners.

October 13, 2012

As a young racing fan, I grew up reading Bill Casey and Max Presnell.

While other young kiddies were brushing up on Macbeth and Mark Twain, I was learning about life from two great men of the track.

Casey made journalism look so easy. He was able to take us on his own remarkable journey. From the races to his local pub, we felt like we were at the bar with him.

He loved a laugh. Nothing was taken too seriously. Except when some bumbling administrator ran out of pies, or forgot the racebooks. Then the paint would come off the walls.

He seemed to know everyone. A bulging contact book. And not all the names were above-board. That’s what made his stories so fascinating.

His love of the racing caper jumped off the page. There was a passion, especially when someone had done the wrong thing. And he stressed the importance of history in the art of finding a winner.

Max Presnell does it to this day. Constantly reminding us that everything old is new again. That winning training methods and jockey techniques have been around since Banjo Patterson was leaning on the outer rail.

Speaking of the great Banjo, dig up some of his stuff, if you want to see how racing journalism helped portray our earliest days. Wonderful accounts of hard luck stories and dodgy characters.

It’s those characters that turn a good racing yarn into a cracking one. Because the racetrack, and the agencies involved in the punt, are full of them.

If you haven’t read anything by Les Carlyon, you are missing out big time. No-one writes better accounts of all things Australian. From Gallipoli to Bart Cummings, and all photo-finishes in between.

He can describe a thoroughbred like no other. Reminding us that these amazing animals are more than just horses.

Les understands how trainers think, and why jockeys wait until the 200 metre pole to let loose. He’s able to put us in the thick of an early morning trackwork session, because he’s stood there frozen so many times himself.

Again, the passion shines through. A writer’s love of the industry.

Read Kenny Callander’s book, and you’ll take a trip with a man who has spent a life mixing in circles your mum might not have approved of. If you’re like me, you’ll be jealous. So many adventures, involving so many interesting people.

Like Presnell, Ken has been around since they ran the first Cup. Or so it seems.

His columns today pull no punches. He’ll take jockeys to task for questionable rides. Trainers will be asked how last week’s losing favourite was able to turn things around yesterday. The punter’s pal.

You don’t have to agree with him. That’s the beauty of it. Opinions are like bums. Everyone has one.

I love knowing that my favourite racing journos are mad punters. I want them putting their folding stuff on the things they’re spruiking. Winning and losing like the rest of us.

It pains me to see that Bart Sinclair is about to leave our racing pages. Another master of the game. And such a wonderful, decent man. In a time when hype can take over from fact, Bart gives us information over crap every time. Praise in measured doses, and gentle jibes when needed.

When racing administrators stuffed things up so badly in his home state, no-one was in their ribs more than Bart. He wouldn’t let up. Articles so powerful they ended up running on the front pages instead of the back. It took a while, but Bart won the day.

I like the work of plenty of today’s younger journos too. Nathan Exelby is a fine form analyst, who tells us stories that matter when it comes to making a dollar.

My mate Ben Dorries gets some ripper tales from jockeys and trainers. Stories from real people. An insight into the characters, that most punters don’t get to meet.

Sometimes I wonder if those in the industry’s shiny offices fully appreciate the work of these blokes, and my heroes before them.

More than just tips and results. That rare ability to dig under the surface, and make us love racing even more.

Enjoy their articles today. Share them, so others can too. Our industry has so many great yarns to tell. I reckon old Bill would be nodding from the Upstairs Bar.

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Forget the Horse Whisperer. Meet my mate the Woy Woy Goat Walker.

October 9, 2012

It wasn’t something you see every day. A grown man walking a goat by the side of the road. Complete with collar and leash.

Traffic slowed to a crawl. Drivers strained for a better look. It was difficult to work out who they were more focused on. The high-stepping farm animal, or the giant wearing nothing but his footy shorts and a smile.

My big mate has always done things like that. He’s not embarrassed easily. When you tip the scales at over 120 kilos, you can pretty well do as you please.

Memories of the goat came flooding back on the weekend, as a few of us celebrated his 50th birthday.

In typical style, he’d banned any party. Said he wouldn’t attend. Too much fuss.

Instead, it was decided that we’d surprise him several weekends before the actual date. A shock and awe approach to a birthday bash.

Over a few cool drinks at the club we helped build thirty years ago, stories of tall tales from the early days emerged. The goat received several mentions.

We were minding it for one of the Big Bloke’s friends. I never found out why. I just came home one Friday night, on unsteady pins, to find a new pet chained to the clothesline.

This puzzled me. I was sure there hadn’t been an animal there when I left for work earlier that day. One would remember such a development.

I checked with the housemates, who confirmed that my eyes weren’t playing tricks. So began our time with Spot the Goat.

Visitors loved Spot. They thought he was a quirky addition to our bachelor pad. Like the barber’s chair on the back deck. And the bathroom that had never been cleaned.

I had less affection for Spot. His diet consisted of grass, cardboard (as in beer cartons), and my work shirts. His other great trick was to position himself at my bedroom window, and make the most awful of noises at approximately 4am. Every day.

His time with us was eventful, but brief. Spot went to the farmyard in the sky. The Big Bloke was upset for a week.

My mate’s other great passion, aside from family, Fords and Manly, has always been food. You don’t get to be his size without knowing a little about preparing a meal.

Back then, he took it upon himself to make lunch for all three members of the house. One loaf of bread per day. White, of course.

He bought us lunch boxes, and had them packed, ready to go, early each morning. Sometimes with a treat. This, from a burly front-rower who packed down with the best of the time.

At work, my colleagues chuckled. Don’t let that one go, they’d say. I’d landed myself quite a catch.

It all worked fine, until the day I was invited to a business lunch. I’d forgotten all about it, and duly lined up in the morning to receive my allocation of the loaf.

Those four hefty sandwiches remained in my bag, as I dined out on fancy Chinese. Big mistake.

What I didn’t realise, was that my towering housemate was checking our lunch boxes each night. Just to make sure that his efforts weren’t being wasted.

It was our first and only confrontation. Me full of cheap wine and dim sims, and him waving soggy cheese and beetroot sangers in my face.

From then on, if I had a work lunch, I’d dump his carefully made sandwiches in the bin. Nothing like keeping the peace.

He hasn’t changed. Made me breakfast before I left for my flight home. Three fat sausages, two eggs, two tomatoes, baked beans and toast. And watched as I took every bite.

He loves looking after people. Always has. The Big Bloke doesn’t believe in throwing anything away. A mighty heart in that giant frame. Even the cat is a stray.

I could have asked if he had any goat’s cheese to go with my cup of tea. But I thought better of it.

He doesn’t exercise farm animals any more. That’s a shame. I guess once you’ve walked with goats, there’s not much left to achieve.

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Going with the flow. How our city draws strength from a mighty river.

October 2, 2012

I’ve fallen in love with a muddy river.

A waterway that defines a city. So much of what we do revolves around it. Or on it.

Everyone in Brisbane has a story about their river. You either live to the north or the south of it. Our great watery divide.

Other cities boast about aquatic attractions too. I like that. The magnificent Sydney Harbour. Bondi. Surfers Paradise beach. The famous Yarra. We’re all drawn to the water.

If you were somewhere else over the weekend, you missed a great time here. Riverfire is a spectacular like no other. We blow up tonnes of fireworks from one end of the river to the other, sip on cold drinks, and cheer like crazy when it’s done.

People find the best viewing spots early. Some are in place twelve hours before the first cracker goes off. Then they sit, and read, and talk to their neighbour in the next camping chair. All day. The river does that to you.

It’s great fun. But I don’t need a festival to celebrate what this amazing stretch of water provides.

I see it every morning. What a way to start the day. The same view, that’s constantly different. Colours change. Ever so slightly. If you look hard enough, you’ll see various shades of sparkle.

There’s always something happening. I see tug boats. And kayaks. Million-dollar cruisers and two-bob tinnies. Moving together, as if guided by an unseen marine conductor.

Forget the morning ritual on overcrowded trains. A mob of lucky ducks get to commute on a slick Citycat. Or a majestic ferry.

Their skippers spend their day cruising up and down the river. Constantly smiling. Probably because they don’t have to drive a bus.

Their passengers are happy too. Such a pleasant way to go somewhere. Life seems to slow down just a little.

I can catch a ferry to two of my favourite pubs. Almost door to door. Water transport to watering holes. On the way home, a bloke gets to see the city lit up at night. Sometimes through one eye. It could be straight out of a tourism brochure.

For all the beauty, there is awesome power in the river. We know that, from painful experience. In flood, a monster is revealed.

Memories of last year’s devastation remain raw. So much damage. Awful pain for many. Some still haven’t recovered. Others won’t come back. They couldn’t go through such trauma again.

I still can’t believe how high the water came. Stretching to levels that seem ludicrous. Reaching places that few would have expected.

It means we’ll never take her for granted. A generation won’t forget.

But it’s hard to hold a grudge with her. She’s such a major part of our life.

You’ll have your own special waterway. Take the time to enjoy it soon. Fireworks or no fireworks. Life by the river is pretty cool.

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The Boss Man does it again. Why you must follow him in the big races this Spring.

September 29, 2012

Bossy got me out of strife again. I’ve lost count of how many times that is now.

It was at Caulfield. On one for Peter Snowden, as the shadows were lengthening, and my pocket was emptying.

He’d ridden a Group One winner a few hours earlier. And no-one was the least bit surprised.

There are some footballers who love finals time. It brings out the best in them. Glen Boss comes alive in the Spring.

We all have our favourite racing memories. Mostly, it’s about the horses.

I have a heap of them. Black and white vision of Gunsynd saluting in the 1972 Doncaster. Kiwi and the Pumper storming home in the 1983 Melbourne Cup. Super Impose doing the impossible in the 1991 Epsom. Black Caviar raising the roof at Doomben.

Stirring efforts from wonderful animals. But tucked away in my treasure trove, is a memory of an amazing performance from a jockey.

The day Bossy drove Makybe Diva down that long Flemington straight to win her third consecutive Melbourne Cup, was special for so many reasons.

The obvious, of course. The mighty mare setting a record that will never be conquered.

But it was the effort of the jockey that stays in my mind. Surely we’ve never expected so much from a single ride. Pressure most will never come close to experiencing.

Lee Freedman called it the perfect performance. Said it should be dusted off in years to come, and shown to every young hoop.

Boss left nothing to chance. Zero trouble. No hard luck stories, on the biggest of stages.

He’d done it many times before. None of that mattered on this day. Perfection was all that could be accepted.

He delivered. She won. A nation cheered. They deliberately took their time coming back to scale, this pair of champions. The cheering got louder.

The mare nodded her magnificent head to the frenzied crowd. And Bossy did a jig. Right there in the saddle. He waved his skinny arms, and smiled the smile of a man who had given his all.

How easy it would have been to take the foot off the pedal after that remarkable day. So many others would have. Not G. Boss.

He’s incredibly driven, this proud Queenslander. You only need to watch him before a race to see that. And the bigger the event, the steelier the resolve.

Don’t call him a veteran. That’s what we label old fellas. Experienced is a far better term.

The leading trainers will battle for his attentions over the coming weeks. Take note when he jumps on one. There are more big winners ahead.

One of them might just be Southern Speed in the Caulfield Cup. Bossy’s taken the ride, as the South Australian looks to win the race two years running. I hadn’t given her much hope. Now I do.

None of that will worry the jockey. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t care too much what others think. He’s ready to create more memories for a new generation of racegoers. And get me out of strife yet again.

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Idiots on the road who spoil the day. My special punishment for stupidity behind the wheel.

September 25, 2012

I sat there, going nowhere fast.

A motorway, designed for three lanes of fast flowing traffic, stopped still. Because of an idiot.

Somewhere in the distance, many suburbs away, there had been an accident. Yet another one. We were stuck. Thousands of us. All with somewhere to go.

I was on the way to meet an old mate. Holidaying on the Gold Coast, my friend was keen for a punt and a chat. He was in for a long wait.

I looked around me. Everyone with their own stories. Mum taking kids to footy finals. Others heading to dance concerts.

Trips to the beach. Tradies on their way to weekend jobs. Giving up time with the family, to make a few extra bob. Not at this rate.

The hi-tech flashing sign at the side of the road had no sympathy for us. Only the facts. ACCIDENT AHEAD. TWO LANES CLOSED. EXPECT LONG DELAYS

We all let out a collective groan. In the world of Traffic Management, LONG DELAYS is about as bad as it gets.

I fiddled the radio, hoping to find a traffic report. Races, footy, music. Not the information I needed.

Finally, a young man on a groovy FM station came to the party. Traffic and surf at the top of the hour. No doubt carefully prepared, in full knowledge that we were hanging on his every word.

Or not. His report lasted all of 14 seconds. ‘A nightmare on the M1. Avoid it if you can.’

Thanks so much Sherlock. Although it must be said his wide-ranging report on what Burleigh Point was doing was most helpful.

We started moving, ever so slowly. That one open lane was having an impact. But with movement, came impatience.

The lane-changers got to work. From left, to right, and back again. Looking for the fast track. The better going. As we crawled.

What’s the point? Do they really think they’re going to find an opening we haven’t spotted?

We pass a woman who’s having worse luck that the rest of us. Smoke billowing from her engine. Her old beast, off the road, has had enough. She has a face like thunder.

It takes close to fifty minutes, from start to end of the traffic jam. So long, the offending vehicles have already been moved on. Not even a tow truck. Somehow, it makes it all the more annoying. We want someone to glare at.

How do people crash on straight, well-built motorways? There are no obstacles to dodge. No sharp bends. Not a dangerous intersection to be found.

Let me answer my own question. They crash, because they’re stupid. Driving too fast. Tailgating. Swerving through traffic. Texting at 100 ks.

Someone is at fault. And I want them to pay.

Maybe put their picture up on one of those annoying roadside signs. Large as life, for all to see. Instead of LONG DELAYS, they could use the caption BLOODY IDIOT. That would make us all feel better.

I’ll even turn up to take the photos. Once I get through this bloody traffic.

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There’s nothing wrong with being Gai. Especially in Melbourne this Spring.

September 22, 2012

If you’re in a pub with Gai Waterhouse over the weekend, don’t buy tickets in the raffle.

You’ll stand no chance. She’s winning everything at the minute. You could buy the lot and she’d still walk out with the T-Bone tray.

Something has happened at Tulloch Lodge. It was just a few seasons back that the wheels had fallen off. Winners were hard to find.

The dazzling smile was there, but only just. What hadn’t disappeared though, was her work ethic.

It’s now clear that those in the stable put heads down and bums up. Hard yakka got them back. And some pretty handy horses.

The trainer with racing’s best hats ventured up the highway for the big Newcastle carnival during the week. Day one they knocked off the Spring Stakes, with the highly impressive Proisir.

How good is this bloke? He left them for dead in the long Broadmeadow straight. Even Gai was surprised at the ease of the victory. Not speechless, just surprised.

Twenty-four hours later, the Waterhouse colours claimed the Newcastle Cup with Glencadam Gold. An imported stayer, of course. Found by husband Rob in the UK.

Even Nash Rawiller was impressed. It’s always exciting seeing a distance horse bowling along in front, and still being there at the post.

Both winners will eventually head to Melbourne. Part of Gai’s strongest team to venture south in many years. Maybe ever.

And that prompts the question we usually hear in September. Why can’t Gai dominate over the border?

History tells us that for such a successful trainer, her returns in Melbourne have been slim.

She’s won a Caulfield Cup. No luck in the Cox Plate. Nothing from the Melbourne Cup either, although Nothin’ Leica Dane was unlucky in 1995.

Compare that to what racing’s First Lady has achieved elsewhere, especially in her home town, and it makes no sense.

There are narks out there who seem to get a kick out of it. She’s such an easy target. Always willing to put herself out there. Promoting the sport day in, day out.

This year, those smarties might be out of pocket. Because the Waterhouse team is on fire.

She has a stranglehold on the Caulfield Guineas. The winner will come from her trio of Pierro, Proisir or Kabayan.

What about the Cox Plate? The top two in the market are Gai’s favourite, More Joyous, and the superstar three-year-old Pierro.

Finally, she has some decent Cup contenders. Glencadam Gold will be well supported. Fat Al, Julienas and Strawberry Boy are being talked up.

There is confidence in the camp. The team is flying. It would be a brave punter to leave any of her top hopes out in the coming weeks.

Winning form is good form. Whether it’s Group Ones, or pub raffles. Don’t be surprised if Gai is celebrating with those T-bones by the end of the carnival.

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Hey ref, make a decision. Any decision. The simple way to make our game great again.

September 18, 2012

As young blokes, we didn’t really care who our referee was.

They were all pretty much the same. Except for old Charlie.

I reckon he’d been around when Clive Churchill was a boy. It’s probably being unfair to say that others his vintage were getting around on walkers. But he knew plenty of short cuts. And he loved the game.

When I was 13, he told me something that I remembered for the rest of my highly uneventful career. I’d scored a try, and threw the ball away to celebrate.

The old boy, when he’d caught up with us, pointed to the spot. And then took me aside.

‘Son, always pick the ball up. You might never score another one’. That was the last time I threw a ball away.

I thought of Charlie, and others like him, as I watched the NRL horror show unfold last Friday night.

My beloved Cowboys bundled out of the comp, thanks to incompetence on a grand level.

Two breath-taking decisions by officials, that were simply wrong. Everyone else knew it.

Forget the jokers fumbling their way through 80 minutes in the video replay room. As hopeless as they all are, there’s a bigger problem here.

Referees have lost the ability to make decisions.

They are now trained to ask someone else. Constantly. Don’t take the chance of making a mistake.

I’ve had dealings with dozens of whistle-blowers over three decades. Some better than others. All with a few key qualities.

They enjoyed being part of the game. They had no desire to be loved. And they had the utmost confidence in their ability to make a call.

Out there on their own. No second referee. No video replays. Just one man, two eyes, and a whistle.

They would rule on what was in front of them. Most of the time they’d get it right. When they didn’t, we’d blow up for a bit, and then move on.

A good mate in Bundaberg became one of Queensland’s best referees. Rob was cool as a cucumber, fit, with an amazing knowledge of the rules.

He cost me a grand final one year. Penalised us for an obstruction on the try line. I could have killed him. I still disagree with him. But I respect him for having the courage to make the decision.

Rob also played his part in the funniest game I was ever involved in. The day one of our players went into battle without his eyebrows.

They’d been hacked from him the night before by a teammate with a rusty razor. Part of his 21st birthday celebrations.

For reasons still unknown, he took to the field with fake eyebrows, drawn on with thick black texta in the dressing room. I’m not making this up.

For the entire game, trainers from both teams aimed their water bottles at the now running black markings.

Late in the game, with our boys up by a cricket score, referee Rob penalised the birthday boy, who happened to be one of his friends.

We could detect no breach of the rules. The skipper asked what had been done wrong. With a straight face, Rob explained. ‘Those painted eyebrows have officially become dangerous. Straighten them up or next time you’re off.’

Both teams collapsed in fits of laughter. Except the smudged 21-year-old.

The problems facing the game’s administrators today are no laughing matter. And while others are baying for blood, I actually feel for the refs.

They’re being taken in the wrong direction. Urged not to use a referee’s number one asset. Instinct.

Remember, these blokes have all come through the ranks. From juniors and bush leagues, where there’s no one else to make the call. No help. No videos.

They achieve their dream of making it into the big time, and suddenly they’re trained NOT to make a decision. If it’s important, ask someone else. It’s a behaviour that’s habit-forming. The less big calls you make, the less big calls you make.

If the ruling that killed off the Cowboys had been made in Cairns, or Ipswich, or Campbelltown, or Dapto, the ref would have dealt with it on the spot. Guided by years of involvement in the game.

And you know what? I reckon any of those part-time decision makers would have got it right. They make those calls every weekend. Bread and butter stuff.

The refs I’ve known over the years always had plenty of confidence in their own ability. They actually enjoyed being involved in the key plays.

As a fan, I’d accept them getting one wrong every now and then, if it meant they went back to making decisions themselves.

It would also speed up the game. End those mind-numbing breaks, where two blokes with coloured wigs and big red noses look at 20 replays. Slowly.

Let’s go back to the future. One referee. Touch judges that actually contribute. Video replays used sparingly. Decisions, from the bloke with the whistle.

It couldn’t make things any worse than they are now. They could even bring old Charlie back. He’d make the big calls. Just as soon as he caught up.

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Saluting Shane Scriven. Why we’ll miss a true heavyweight on and off the track.

September 15, 2012

Can you imagine not eating for the last 30 years? Bar the odd grain of rice and teaspoon of fish.

Every kilo counted, every day. Where a big meal could actually stop you doing the job you love.

Ask Shane Scriven. Group One winner. Career jockey. Heavyweight.

You might have to wait a bit to get an answer. I’m guessing Shane is spending every waking hour shoving carbs into his mouth. Making up for lost time.

He retired this week. One of Queensland’s most successful hoops. Punter’s pal. An inspiration to hundreds of young jockeys, who’ve picked up tips from one of the best.

For over three decades, he did a job that his body wasn’t suited to. Too damn big. Yet he forged ahead, because that’s what you do when you’re a natural horseman.

I feel for our racing heavyweights. The blokes who more often than not ride with the number one saddlecloth.

There are times when the planets align, and the fridge is locked, and they drop a few kilos. But it never lasts. That constant battle with the scales.

Think of the great Roy Higgins. Amazing that he rode as many winners as he did, given his size.

Steven Arnold has ridden more topweights than anyone. My mate Chris O’Brien, who does as many bike rides as Anna Meares to keep his weight down. And then there’s Scrivo.

I don’t know him. But I feel like we’ve been friends for years. A jockey who did the right thing by owners and punters alike. He was always trying. Knew no other way.

Those of us with heads stuck in the formguide are always wondering if a topweight can carry the load. Especially in big races. There’s an art to cuddling horses carrying the grandstand. Get it wrong, and they’re no chance.

Time and again, Shane Scriven got them home. Somehow convinced them that it wasn’t REALLY that much weight. Just a bit further. Beautiful balance. Old fashioned strength.

He’s famous for his association with another old marvel, Scenic Shot. I can’t  remember ever backing them in their many victories. More fool me.

But I backed plenty of others with Scrivo up top. Those bread and butter Saturday events, that keep the game ticking over. Just when the experts had decided something couldn’t possibly win with so much lead in the saddle, away he’d go.

Then there were the comebacks. After becoming the size of a small house, that fighting instinct would kick in. A punishing few months, breaking his body down, and he’d be back.

He pinched a whip at Ipswich one day. In the straight, not the jockeys’ room. The stewards suspended him. I would have given him a medal. Winners grab whips. Losers let them go.

There was a lovely tribute to Shane this week from our top racing journo, Bart Sinclair. Look it up and have a read. His piece in the Courier-Mail let slip that they’ve been mates since the jockey was a gangling teenager. Fair to say that was many moons ago.

It’s a mark of both men that the relationship is as strong as ever. Both doing their job with expertise. Not taking things personally. Something that doesn’t always happen today.

I hope Scrivo isn’t lost to racing. He’d be great out on the track doing the post-race interviews, as the horses come back to scale. It would be done with a grin and a cheeky line or two.

Just make sure his mount has a padded saddle. The little bloke won’t be little for much longer. He has three decades of meals to catch up on.

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