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

April 18, 2013

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Why it was more than just a win. The Mighty Mare shuts up the narks and the haters.

April 14, 2013

It’s not often you get surprised by racing people.

Salt of the earth, most of them. The older ones have pretty much seen everything.

Sure things beaten. Camels that sprout wings. Jockeys finding fast lanes, and zip-tight pockets, all on the same day.

It takes plenty to get their attention. Even more to get them excited. And that’s what happened yesterday.

I saw something I’ve never seen, in forty years of loving the racing game. It was at a pub. Not one of your fancy inner-city places. This was an old school establishment, with blokes who still eat white bread, and wouldn’t be able to name a fancy imported brew in a skinny bottle.

Like everyone else, they gathered around screens just after 5, to watch Her in action. The usual rowdy conversations stopped. All eyes were on the Number 9, in the black and salmon.

As the race unfolded, there was none of the usual boisterous barracking. It was almost a respectful silence. Until the Mighty Mare hit the front.

They cheered. Someone yelled ‘Go Girl’. Ok, that may have been me. And then, something I’ll never forget.

This crowd in stretched t-shirts and well-worn thongs, started clapping. Loud, sustained applause, in a suburban pub. They love Black Caviar so much, this mob, they couldn’t help themselves. And it was perfect.

It’s what the critics don’t get. What this champion racehorse has done to a nation.

She has reached far beyond the punters. People from all walks of life are talking about racing. They’re watching tv, and reading sports pages, to find out what’s she’s up to.

Families are going to the races to watch her. Thousands of them. Stands that have been empty for years, are packed again.

The narks choose to ignore all this. These small minded nobodies want to find fault. They want to criticise her owners, and her trainer. And it’s a disgrace.

Peter Moody is at the forefront of dragging the industry off the floor. At a time when the gambling dollar is under threat like never before, he’s become the public face of everything that’s exciting about racing.

He shares her, like a proud father shows off his favourite baby photos. Does interviews with good grace and great humour. Makes us feel like we’re on the journey with him. Which of course, we are.

Forget the rubbish you hear about her beating inferior fields. It’s utter crap. Trainers have been dodging the Mighty Mare for years now. Because they know they can’t get anywhere near her.

She demolishes anything game enough to challenge her. Believe me, there hasn’t been a horse sitting at home in a stall, that could have changed a result that she’s been part of.

They don’t hand out Group Ones. She’s won fifteen of them. Mostly untouched.

But that’s not the most telling factor in this wonderful story. Winning races is only the start of it.

She’s become part of the family. Our kids will tell their kids about a horse that could fly. Everyone will have a story, about the day they saw Black Caviar. And amazingly, the great majority will have never won a dollar on her.

She’s so good, most of us don’t need to back her. And those that do outlay something, keep the ticket to put in the pool room.

We’ll never see another like her. And we’ll never see a greater example of what really makes people go to the races.

Nothing beats seeing a champion in action. Just be thankful that those around her want to take us along for the ride. That deserves another round of applause.

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Your chance to pat a champion. And help him retire in style. Why we all love Chief De Beers.

May 26, 2012

Imagine if Matt Hayden had scored all his test centuries at the one ground. Hundred after hundred, at his beloved Gabba.

What about if Dawn Fraser had only won gold in the one pool? Picture Cathy Freeman streeting the opposition time and again, at just the one stadium.

I hear you. It could never happen. Unless, of course, you were Doomben’s favourite galloper.

Racing fans know the story of Chief De Beers. The Chief. I’ve heard it a dozen times, and it still amazes me.

The great horse won twenty races. All at the one track. Something we’ll never see again. He was simply unbeatable at Doomben.

Send him to Eagle Farm, or anywhere else for that matter, and he lost a leg. Yet a few hundred metres up the road, they couldn’t get near him.

Why would that be? I’ve heard plenty of theories. From old punters, and sports psychologists, and modern-day horse whisperers. And none of them have a clue.

I reckon it was all about being comfortable. We do our best work in a happy place. Maybe it was the view from his stall.

He was even happier, when the Doomben 10,000 rolled around. The great sprinter won it twice. With the crowd cheering his name all the way down the straight.

The best horses can take ownership of our biggest races. Makybe Diva made the Melbourne Cup her own. Super Impose was forever linked to the famous Doncaster Handicap. Won it back to back. From impossible positions. Find one on YouTube, and watch it again. Simply breathtaking.

The Chief did the same thing for the 10,000. The mere fact that the race was at Doomben gave him a few lengths start. Today, old timers will recall the link with a smile.

When they retired him, the Chief became an equine copper. The most famous of police horses. Patrolling the streets, always just in front of his four-legged colleagues. Old habits die hard.

A policeman I know reckons that whenever they used the Chief to patrol late night party districts, violence from drunken yobbos would reduce. Someone in the crowd would know the Chief’s story. A crowd would surround him, and tempers would calm. They weren’t game to cause strife on the Chief’s watch.

He left the force last week. It’s a young horse’s game now. I’m hearing he received a golden hoofshake, involving buckets of carrots. Every one deserved.

He’ll be back at Doomben this afternoon. Special guest at the track he made his own.

You can go and pat him. Get a photo. The old boy will love that. And when he parades for the crowd, cheer like there’s no tomorrow.

When the great day is over, the Champ will leave his favourite place, possibly for the final time. And he needs a new home.

His fans at the Brisbane Racing Club club are on a mission. They’re raising money, to allow the Chief to spend his final days at the Living Legends facility in Victoria. A 5 star retirement village for racetrack superstars.

He’ll be the first Queenslander to be retired there. Sharing paddocks with the likes of Might and Power, Saintly and Fields of Omagh.

You can help him get there. They’ll be raising money today at the track. If you have a win, give a little back to help one of our best.

Racing thrives on tradition, and memories. The exploits of Chief De Beers will be remembered for generations to come. Especially at Doomben. He only needed one place to shine.

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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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Farewell Locky, and thanks. From the next generation of Maroons.

July 5, 2011

I like my champions humble. No loudmouths required. No need for tyres to be pumped up. Guys that leave the game in better shape than when they started. And they give back, constantly.

For mine, the best ones are those special characters who work their entire career, craving the respect of their teammates. Young men and women who more often than not become leaders, on and off the field.

Sure, some of the better ones have egos you couldn’t jump over with a decent run up. Good luck to them. Just not my type.

I’m not using the term hero here. Because the people I’m talking about, athletes who perform feats that dazzle us each weekend, know they’re not heroes. They get embarrassed by the comparison.

A hero is a bloke like Corporal Ben Roberts-Smith. The Aussie soldier who was awarded the Victoria Cross earlier this year. Remember him? A giant of a man. Wouldn’t he do some damage running off Thurston? You’d rather be feeding him for a day than a week.

Instead of performing on the paddock, he gets the job done on the battle field. With bullets whizzing past his ears. He single-handedly stormed a machine gun post in Afghanistan, to save the lives of his fellow Diggers. Yep, that’s a hero.

Which brings me to Darren Lockyer. A special type if ever there was one. A gifted footballer with a rare talent, who would cringe at being on the same page as a VC winner.

He’ll captain his beloved Queensland for the final time tomorrow night. You may have read about it. The Origin Decider. Pretty big deal. In front of a sell out crowd at the home of rugby league. With every lounge room and every pub in Queensland screaming his nickname.

A crowded desk of Hollywood scriptwriters with access to a full bar couldn’t have come up with this script. The perfect farewell. At the perfect stadium. Against the perfect enemy.

It’s difficult to line Locky up with the greats who’ve gone before him. Not that he’d want you to anyway.

The King is the natural comparison. But he’s not Wally, who was larger than life. Tallis was larger than everyone else. I swear he grew a few inches when he stepped over the chalk.

Alfie was smaller than everyone else. With a heart larger than everyone else. And Gilly was tougher than everyone else. Humble too. But different again.

No, he’s not any of those legends. Because he’s his own man. And he’s a champion.

It’s hard enough to be number one in the world in one position. It’s easy to forget, the skipper has been the best in two. With a bit more hair and a clearer voice, Locky was the ultimate fullback. He wasn’t running through those holes. He was gliding. Twinkling toes barely touching the turf.

It’s the way old timers describe the great Dragon Reg Gasnier slicing through defences. Yes, I’m talking about people who are older than me. They do exist.

Locky could have played out his time in the Number One jersey, breaking try scoring records, and at the same time adding a few years to his career. But he didn’t.

He was given a challenge, and he accepted. Play a new role. Wear the six. Become a true leader. And a greater player. Yet another reason why he’s a champion.

You’ll never hear the bloke give himself a wrap. He’ll praise the team, and the coach, and sometimes even his opponents. But not himself. It’s not his style.

Darren is not one for extravagance. No crazy PR stunts. The hospital visits, the chats to others down on their luck, are done in private. And there are plenty of them. Sound like a champion to you?

You’ve heard him say he doesn’t want the decider to be about him. And he means that. With all his might. Because he doesn’t see himself bigger than anyone else. Certainly not more important than the others. And most of all, not bigger than the game itself.

What he wants to do tomorrow night is run, and tackle, and lead. He wants to make the right choices in attack, every play. He wants to defend like his life depends on it.  He’ll drive the big blokes, and keep emotions in check when the going gets tough. And he won’t niggle anyone. Not once.

I want him to be holding the shield above his head after fulltime. Yes, the perfect farewell. I want Mal to produce that toothy smile. I want big Sam to give him a bear hug, and Thurston to do that groovy hand shake.

It means all of Queensland will smile on Thursday. An entire state will be happy. Poor Gus and Ricky will go home, and complain about something. Making our smile even bigger.

And I reckon it will happen. I do.

As great as that is, there’s something even better. Because of Darren Lockyer, there’ll be a spring in the step of kids from Coolangatta to Coen.

In backyards, and parks, and playgrounds, they’ll be running with the footy, and laughing. Playing with their mates, and their brothers, and their dads. Running, and stepping, and scoring.

It’s how all those great names started. Those same neighborhood games.

This week, and for the weeks and months ahead, youngsters will be inspired by a bloke who plays the game for all the right reasons. Loves everything it stands for. A humble man, who just happens to be the best there is. A true champion.

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