My brilliant plan to get Black Caviar back to Brisbane. Just don’t tell The Chief..

February 25, 2012

Sports fans, the time has come. The challenge has been issued. Greatness is within our grasp.

We need a cunning plan. Something that will be so sweet, so enticing, that Peter Moody will have no choice but to again tie up his famous horse to the Doomben rail.

The master trainer is tossing up what to do next with Black Caviar. Will it be Brisbane or Adelaide, for win number 20?

Really, I’m hearing there’s a chance the mighty mare could be heading to the City of Churches. Stop laughing. All I can think is that the team wants a good night’s sleep, given lights will go out there at 10pm.

Normally, I’d be relaxed about our chances. But there’s so much at stake here. I want every Queenslander to have the chance to experience what 20,000 of my mates did last year. So we must get to work.

Keep it between us, but the powers-that-be in our great state have made some quiet approaches to the marketing arm of Hold All Tickets. Smart move.

They realise that there isn’t another blog in the land with access to such a qualified reader base. A bunch dripping with oodles of common sense and bright ideas. Yes, those still in pyjamas, I’m talking about you.

To help, I’ve come up with a preliminary plan, that I think will take some beating. For a modest deposit into my TAB account, I’ll get her back, and have the House Full sign up at Doomben.

It’s all about making Black Caviar’s return to Brisbane a major event. More than just the race. Like the Cup, and the Slipper, and the Stradbroke, it must last for days.

The mare, Moody and Luke Nolen will be required to attend all of my events. Three chairs at the front each and every time. One very big one. For the horse, not the trainer.

There’ll be a lunch, of course. Friday will see us fill the Convention Centre. Bart Sinclair and Wayne Wilson can co-host. And a special guest. I’m going outside the square here. Forget Cummings or Freedman or Glen Boss. This champion will blow Adelaide back into the Great Australian Bight.

Ladies and Gentlemen, please welcome… Chief de Beers! Yes, THE champion of Doomben, back on stage.

Imagine the interview. With the Mighty Mare looking on, eyes menacing, Bart would nervously ask the question everyone in the room wanted to hear.

“So Chief, you won all 20 of your races at Doomben. Black Caviar will be chasing her second. How does she compare to you?”

“Simple”, the old boy would say with a cheeky grin. “Tell her to come and see me after another 18.”

The room would explode. The mare and the police horse would be trading blows centre stage. Wayne would be doing his best to keep Sinclair and Moody apart. The parched jockey would sneak a beer amid the chaos. What theatre. It would lead every news bulletin across the land.

Saturday, we’ll need something different. This is no normal day. And it all starts before we get to the course.

I propose a street parade. Down the length of Racecourse Rd. From the pub to the track. They’ll fly flags, and wear salmon and black hats, and cheer until they’re hoarse for the horse.

We’ll put the mare, Moody and Nolen in their own special vehicles. An open top BMW for the boys. An open top float with extra hay for Her Majesty. 4TAB and Sky Channel could do crosses along the route.

No need to explain the race itself. She’ll look after that side of things. Which takes us to Saturday night.

I would propose a free beer for every Queenslander at the Hamilton Hotel. Clive Palmer, are you listening? Ditch that soccer club, and spend your cash where it will be appreciated. For an hour at least.

From there, the entire race day crowd will head to the Brekky Creek pub. One famous steak per person. Compulsory. Two for the trainer. A snag for the jockey. And some A-grade hay for the horse. Thanks Clive.

So there we have it. When you see Queensland Events outline the above at a special media conference in a few months, remember where you read it first.

Reserve your spot for the street parade now. Get your Thank You card ready for Clive. And if you’re planning to visit from South Australia, take your time. We’ll be open all night here.

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The pests who want to pot Black Caviar. Here’s a tip – we don’t want to hear it.

February 11, 2012

Someone, somewhere is bagging Black Caviar.

Can you believe that? The best horse we’ll see in our lifetime, and the Village Idiot wants to have a crack at her.

It would seem that the rest of us have been fooled all along. Those 17 consecutive wins weren’t the real deal.

According to the lunatic fringe, the mighty mare isn’t beating anything. The competition is ordinary. Therefore, Moody’s flying machine isn’t the awesome animal we’ve declared.

Proof once again, that one doesn’t need a long neck to be a goose.

It irks me no end when people go out of their way to find fault with a champion.

Un-Australian, that’s what it is. These same fools would declare Alfie Langer too small, and Dipper too big.

The clowns without wigs, who announce to their mates that Doug Walters wasn’t fit enough, and Harry Kewell only cares about the cash.

Spend long enough with them, and they’d probably tell you Mother Teresa needed to work on her wardrobe.

I don’t get it. Why not just sit back and enjoy the freakish talents of the great ones?

True sports fans don’t need to bring champions down. They simply marvel at the performance.

Today, Black Caviar tries something different. An extra 200 metres. Her first attempt at 1400 metres.

She will win again. No doubt about that. In my humble opinion, she’ll be even better over this distance. An extra furlong to break their hearts.

Peter Moody thinks so. He’s always believed she’d be stronger as the trip increased. Luke Nolen too.

That enormous, soul-destroying stride. She’ll swallow them up again, soon after they straighten. Their lungs will be screaming for air. She’ll be cruising.

These dimwits who subscribe to the argument that she’s beating second-raters, weren’t at Doomben when she won the BTC Cup last year. The day she crushed Hay List, again.

At his best, he’s a world-class sprinter. If she wasn’t around, he’d have a mantlepiece full of trophies.

That afternoon at Doomben, for the briefest of seconds, Glen Boss thought he might have pinched it. Hay List was flying in front. Maybe this would be the day.

It wasn’t. In the space of a few strides, the Mighty Mare caught up, drew level, went past, and exploded away. Seriously, just a few strides.

There were 20,000 race fans jammed into the course that day. Screaming her name. I’m here to tell you that not one of them thought Black Caviar was beating nothing.

We were all just happy to be there. In the presence of something so special. The rank and file of the racing game get a buzz from such events. They have no time to look for negatives that don’t exist.

I didn’t see Phar Lap or Tulloch. Wish I had. To be in the stand at Flemington watching Big Red winning the Cup must surely have been the greatest thrill the sport has produced.

I have no need to compare them with our current superstar. Good fun in the pub and on talkback radio, but I don’t need the answer.

Peter Moody’s Superhorse has already given me my greatest experience in racing. The day she created history in Brisbane.

She provides that joy for so many people, wherever she runs. They don’t care about winnings. It’s about golden memories. And smiles.

You and I, we’ll see other great ones before we head to the Great Spelling paddock in the sky. But nothing like her.

Enjoy what she does this afternoon. Turn your back on anyone who dares to doubt her. And take it all in. This journey we’re on won’t last forever.

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The bus driver, the loudmouth and the veteran. And me. How we helped Black Caviar win again.

January 28, 2012

It was a scene repeated in pubs all over the land.

People from all walks of life. All shapes and sizes. Young and old. All finding a spot to watch a champion.

I ran out of time on the way home last night. Couldn’t risk missing the Mighty Mare continue her record-breaking run. So I made a detour to our friendly neighborhood tavern.

I’d cheered Black Caviar before at home. And at the track. But never at the pub.

It wasn’t crowded. In fact, there were just six of us in front of the big screen.

The Loudmouth was explaining to no-one in particular how they should be taking her on. The other trainers are crazy, he yelled. Have a go, and take the prizemoney for second. That’s what he’d do.

His business shirt was untucked, as he continued to tell us his version of The Black Caviar story. I was straining to hear Greg Miles as they headed to the barriers, just as The Loudmouth declared she would be beaten one day.

The Veteran was sitting. His shirt was flannelette. He wasn’t drinking, or betting. Just watching. He’d seen plenty before. And he knew this would be special.

The Bus Driver was still in uniform. Wide as he was tall. He may have left his glasses on board. Because he kept getting up, to check the tote odds. Then he’d sit down. And get up. And sit down. Did he think she would blow out late, so he could plonk the day’s fares on her?

The Young Blokes couldn’t stop smiling. Two of them. They wouldn’t have known Phar Lap. Or Kingston Town. They would still have been in school when Makybe Diva was winning Cups.

But they knew Black Caviar. Both were texting about her, and laughing. The Veteran gave them a look. They didn’t notice.

One minute to race time. I looked around the pub. A table of twenty-somethings with caps on backwards were facing the other way. Others, too, ignoring the moment. If only the Loudmouth had time to tell them what they were missing out on.

As she jumped from barrier one, someone behind the bar turned the volume up. No-one spoke. We watched, and waited.

No surprises. They went hard up front, in the hope today would be their day. It wouldn’t be.

She cruised up to the leaders. Luke was sitting with his feet on the dashboard. They were in overdrive. She was having a track gallop.

As she approached the finish line, the Bus Driver jumped to his feet. The Young Blokes laughed, and gave each other High-Fives. The Loudmouth was lost for words. For a few seconds. And the Veteran just nodded.

It was then that I realised I was clapping. Standing on the floor of the pub,  applauding this amazing champion, and everyone involved with her. No-one minded.

And that was it. The night Black Caviar won her 17th consecutive race. Some were at Mooney Valley. Other in their lounge room. I was with a motley crew, in a pub, where they had Aerosmith playing before Correct Weight was declared.

Champions do that. They give us moments we’ll never forget. Wherever we happen to be. They make us smile, and clap. And nod. What’s even more fun, is that we’re all on this amazing journey together.

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

November 5, 2011

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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How you can be part of Team Black Caviar. Just cheer like a dizzy schoolgirl.

October 8, 2011

Have you ever been part of sporting history?

Were you there the day Cathy Freeman ran the race of her life in Sydney? That life-changing, golden lap.

I have mates who were. Magical, they called it. Bordering on a religious experience.

What about the tied Test at the Gabba? Back in ’60. Were you at the Vulture St end for the final over? The great game’s greatest game.

It was the biggest crowd ever. Around 400,000 that day. That’s if you believe everyone who said they were there.

If only I’d been around back in 1930. Phar Lap achieved the impossible. And then some.

He won the Cox Plate in a canter, then lumped more than 62 kilos to win the Melbourne Cup. He also won three other races that Cup week. Four wins in seven days. All that, after being shot at on the morning of Derby Day.

The cheap seats at Flemington would have been just fine. Anywhere, just to witness such perfection.

The huge crowds cheered themselves hoarse, over a horse. Most had nothing in their pockets. It didn’t matter. Big Red lifted their spirits like no politician could.

I reckon I heard a similar sound a few months back. The day the roof nearly lifted off Doomben. What might now rank as my greatest racing moment. The day Black Caviar came to town.

I wrote about it that night. Basking in the glory of a magnificent win in the BTC Cup.

“This was one, furious, magnificent roar. The stands shook. Form guides quivered. Chills multiplied. Just before 4 o’clock, on Saturday May 14, sporting history wasn’t made. It was amplified.”

And so she’s back. We’ve been counting the days. Officially rated the world’s best. The mighty mare with the ability to make the most grizzled racegoer giggle like an X-Factor fan.

You don’t need me to explain what’s in store today. But I will, because it’s so damn exciting. Win number 14 is a few hours away.

They’ll be hanging from the rafters at Caulfield. When she surges past the post, with Luke Nolen sitting quietly, possibly doing the crossword, Black Caviar will equal Phar Lap’s number of consecutive metropolitan victories.

If you’re lucky enough to be there, savour it. Every sight and sound. Especially the sound. File that roar away.

The rest of us will be watching from afar. At the track, and in pubs and clubs. We’ll be loving it too.

If you’re at home like me, gather the kids. And Grandma. Let them feel that exhilaration. They don’t need to be race fans. That’s the beauty of it.

Enjoy today. Embrace a champion, and the wonderful, all-Australian cast around her. Play your part in sporting history. We all have a role. Cheer like crazy. You might never get the chance to do it again.

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A bit like batting after Bradman. Can Hay List become the star of the show?

May 27, 2011

The mighty mare cocked her regal head in the float. Was that cheering she could hear? Not the roar she was used to. More relieved, sustained hooting.

Black Caviar’s driver, too, pricked his ears. He’d only just begun the long journey back to Peter Moody’s Victorian palace. And here they were on Nudgee Road, just up from Eagle Farm, being whistled at.

If they’d looked closely, they would have spotted a bloke and his horse, celebrating roadside. Trainer John McNair pulling party poppers, and Australia’s second best sprinter stomping those hulking hooves.

Who could blame them? Finally, Hay List gets his chance to shine.

Punters know how game McNair’s gelding has been. All those seconds, behind the great One. Lesser types would be crushed. But not these two.

While She was treated like royalty in her custom-built Brisbane stable, Hay List was left to bunk with the rest. When they came out for the BTC Cup, it was like 20,000 fans saw right through him. But not McNair.

All along, he’s been up for the fight. Giving his bloke every possible chance. Refusing to believe that She couldn’t be beaten.

He was still thinking that, right up to the time they hit the bend two weeks back. Then Luke Nolen pressed the go button. Whoosh. Game over. Second again.

The Gosford trainer was generous in his praise of the winner. Yes, She’s too good. For everyone.

But now, She’s gone. And there’s a new hot-pot in town. Except he’s been here all along.

Don’t be fooled into thinking the path ahead is easy. It’s a bit like coming in to bat after Bradman‘s just made another 200. Not a heap of upside. Plenty of potential downside.

Hay List is a deserving short-priced favourite for the Doomben 10,000. The form line says it all. And not just in the contests against Her.

In Brisbane’s winter carnival last year, Hay List blitzed a handy field in the Healy Stakes. Five lengths easing up. It was one of the most impressive wins we’d seen.

It was just expected that he’d come back and sweep all before him. Didn’t quite work out that way.

He should win. Easily. Clearly the best horse in the race. But unlike Her, he’s not foolproof. Those taking the skinny odds could face an anxious few minutes.

Again, Buffering is the knockout chance. The Heathcote team is flying. Queensland’s top trainer calls this bloke the stable bulldog. The battle could be another carnival highlight.

But for the sake of John McNair’s health, let’s hope it’s Hay List’s day. Another second just wouldn’t be fair. They deserve some time in the sun. Much easier to shine without pesky world champions in the mix.

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One for the night owls – the day Black Caviar came to town.

May 14, 2011

The woman on the fence was in her best dress. She’d been waiting a while. It was the perfect spot to see the winner return. The lady was waving a flag. And shedding a tear.

She’d just seen something special. Like the rest of us. The fastest racehorse in the world, gobbling up the second fastest racehorse in the world.

Her friends were cheering too. They’d also been there a while. It was such a good spot. A bloke a few rows back kept yelling out to us. “She’s the best in the world, mate.” Just in case we hadn’t noticed.

Everyone knew Black Caviar would win. Everyone knew it would be exciting. What we didn’t know, was just HOW exciting.

You know the cheer they make when the field leaves the barriers in the Melbourne Cup? The Doomben crowd did a pretty fair imitation. And then, as this magnificent mare rounded the bend, and took over from poor old Hay List, the cheer turned into something else.

I’ve been bumming around racecourses since I was 16. I’ve sat in State of Origin cauldrons. Even Wembley once. I’ve heard passionate crowds, in top voice.

But this was something else. This was one, furious, magnificent roar. The stands shook. Form guides quivered. Chills multiplied. Just before 4 o’clock, on Saturday May 14, sporting history wasn’t made. It was amplified.

When all was done, they left her out there alone. It was her time, after all. The other horses and jockeys were ushered off the Grand Dame’s stage.

Luke Nolan was in no hurry. He took her all the way back up the straight she’d just scorched. When he came back a second time, it was at a leisurely stroll. So everyone could get a look. Cue more cheering.

Peter Moody was covered in kisses. From owners, and journos, and committee men. We all owe him big time. Forget winning a Group One race. He could do that anywhere. This was about showing off his girl to Queensland. Making us feel good. Getting people of all ages back to the track.

It wasn’t just the biggest crowd since we were doing the ‘Crocodile Rock’ and blushing while watching ‘Alvin Purple’. It was the happiest. Smiles everywhere. We would have stayed all night if they hadn’t kicked us out.

Hours earlier, before the champ even had her saddle on, I shared the end of a bench with two good ol’ boys. I munched on my hot dog; they sipped on cool drinks.

The bloke next to me started talking, as men of his vintage do. Told me he hadn’t been to a racetrack since the late seventies. Until today.

He’d decided to come out, with his thirsty mate, to be part of sporting history. They’d been planning it for weeks. Now, could I recommend a nice bar until race time?

The boys might have to make another trip in two weeks. Every chance the Champ will return for the Doomben 10,000. We’ll all be back. Every one of us.

Can it get any bigger? She’s capable of anything, this mare. Fans will be booking tickets tomorrow. That roar, however, is another thing. That was one for the ages.

　

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My secret friendship with Black Caviar, and what she wants to hear tomorrow.

May 13, 2011

I’m friends with Black Caviar on Facebook. We’ve been tight for weeks now. Celebrating each other’s success. Ok, mostly her success.

She’s probably my most exciting friend online. No offence to the rest of you. But really, it’s not much of a contest. Some of my closest acquaintances would need a cab to cover the 1200 metres.

You must know by now that the world’s greatest racehorse is in Brisbane. And she’s the hottest ticket in town. Just a few weeks into the Winter carnival, and they’re about to put the ‘House Full’ sign up at Doomben. Twenty thousand people, coming to see one mighty mare.

She’s running in the BTC Cup. Hardly one of the classics. Remember who won it last year? Probably not. It was Albert the Fat, at 20 to 1. Decent horse, but not Facebook worthy.

Traditionally, it’s a stepping stone to bigger days ahead. The 10,000 and Stradbroke. Not any more. After tomorrow, it might just be the most memorable race ever run here.

People are flying in from around the country, to watch a horse race. Can you believe that? From Cairns, and Townsville, and Sydney, and beyond. And not just racing nuts. Sports fans. Ready to be part of something we might never experience again.

There are very few horses that can hold the interest of non-racing types. Punters are used to our nearest and dearest tuning out the minute we start babbling about odds and weights. How unlucky we were in the last.

Phar Lap could do it. I wasn’t around at the time, even though it might look like I was. Big Red gave hope to thousands during those grim Depression years.

More recently, Makybe Diva had that pulling power. Winning three Melbourne Cups will do that. But would she have sold out Doomben racecourse in early May? Maybe. Maybe not.

Someone asked me this week why Black Caviar is so special. A bloke who loves his sport, but wouldn’t know a hoof from a hat rack. There are some easy answers. Winning 12 consecutive metropolitan races is a start. And doing it with ease. Officially rated the best in the world. Making potential superstars look second-rate.

But it’s more than statistics. It goes deeper. I reckon those playing the bit roles around this mighty mare have plenty to do with the whirlwind romance we’re all caught up in.

Trainer Peter Moody is a bloke you just want to have a beer with. He’s a Queenslander, of course. A bush boy, from out Charleville way. He’d rather have his champion in Brisbane, than mixing with the toffs at Royal Ascot. It’s a huge call to ignore those wolf whistles from overseas.

Jockey Luke Nolan seems a humble guy. Make no mistake, he’s one of the best in the land. But he plays down his role in this show. Reckons she does all the work. He takes her out, she wins, he brings her back.

She’s not owned by a Sheik. Just a bunch of friends who got together, to race a horse. Living the dream. And giving hope to thousands of others, that our own minimal shares might one day turn to gold.

Dare I say, as much as she’s a superstar, there’s a touch of the ordinary about the Black Caviar camp. How good is that. Nothing appeals to the Aussie sports lover more than to think one of us could have been in that group photo with them.

It’s a rare thing for a modern racecourse to hoist the House Full sign. Numbers have been dwindling for years. Too easy to punt on the internet at home, wearing your pyjamas and not walking the length of the straight to find a toilet.

We constantly hear about race clubs trying to attract crowds. Marketing gurus are sometimes involved. Slick slogans and shiny campaigns. Bands and fashion parades and giveaways.

They don’t always work. So what does? What makes 20-thousand people want to catch trains and buses and taxis, to stand shoulder to shoulder on a Saturday afternoon?

A horse. The best horse. They’ll come from far and wide, if they get to see a living legend. So they can tell the grandkids they were there the day Black Caviar made thirteen a lucky number.

She’ll be as short as it gets. No one will care. Watch how many have a dollar bet, and keep the ticket, just so they can frame it for Dad’s wall of fame.

Back on Facebook, we’re both trying to stay relaxed ahead of the big day. I can’t give too much away about our private conversations, except to say, she’ll be winning. No boasting there, and no great surprise. Just fact.

The champ wants to hear the cheers. From the top of the straight, as she unleashes that breathtaking sprint. She wants the flags waved, and the banners hoisted high. And when Luke brings her back to scale, she wants to hear the passion that Queenslanders are famous for.

What a day it will be. If you’re heading to Doomben, soak up every last bit. If not, don’t despair. She’ll have all the details on Facebook. For her friends anyway.

　

　

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Black Caviar: can the world’s worst punter jinx the world’s best sprinter?

March 25, 2011

What’s tonight’s must-see sporting event?

The battle of the south-east between the Broncs and the Titans? Nope.

The AFL’s bumper clash between the Cats and St Kilda? Close, but no cigar.

It’s not a football match. Nothing to do with the World Cup.

Think racing. The half million dollar William Reid Stakes, under lights at Mooney Valley. It will be done and dusted in just over a minute.

Not so much the race. More the horse that will win it. The world’s best sprinter. A mare with a behind that makes Beyonce look like a stick figure.

Black Caviar.

She’s the unbeaten superstar. Ten starts, ten wins. All on city tracks.

Last time out, she won the time honoured Group One Newmarket Handicap at Flemington in a jog trot, while jockey Luke Nolen sat quietly up top, dunking a Tim Tam in his cup of tea.

Lets put all of this in some sort of context.

Imagine Johnathon Thurston kicking fifty consecutive goals. Blindfolded. Brett Lee taking ten wickets in an innings. Twice. Craig Lowndes lapping the field at Bathurst. On a scooter.

You get the picture. She’s a flying freak. And tonight, hundreds of normally sane people will hop on buses all over Victoria, and head to the Valley. They’ll join thousands of others, to experience a little piece of sporting history.

We love a true champion in the racing game. Think back to Phar Lap. Blokes tossing dodgy hats skywards, as Big Red won again. Hope, somehow, during the darkness of the Depression.

When Makybe Diva started winning Melbourne Cups like they were lucky dips, it seemed everyone was on. Friends who didn’t know form guides from fetlocks started quoting winning margins. My missus even knew those famous Santic colours.

But this is different again. To not taste defeat just doesn’t happen at the top end of the racing game. Wise old heads tell you every win gets you closer to a hard luck story. So can she be beaten?

There are two question marks tonight. There’s been rain this week. Will she handle an affected track? More importantly – can she carry the burden of me jumping on the bandwagon?

Her trainer Peter Moody is a Queenslander. Of course. He says’s she’ll be winning again. He’s a bushie at heart. But no mug. The boy from Charleville knows how important it is for racing to have a genuine superstar. And he wants to give everyone the chance to see her in action.

She’ll race in Sydney next month. Then in Brisbane during the winter carnival. Can you imagine the scenes if she’s still unbeaten in May?

So, for the next chapter in this amazing tale. 8.45pm Queensland time. Leave the footy for a bit, gather the kids and neighbours around Sky Channel, and watch the champ in action. It won’t take long. Then book your seat on one of the Brisbane buses. And start practicing how to throw your hat in the air. You might never get the chance again.

　

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