An empty glass on raceday. Could this be the secret to successful punting?

June 15, 2013

In times gone by, it’s fair to say I’ve enjoyed a cool drink on a warm day. Sometimes, even on a cooler afternoon.

Those who’ve been following closely will know a medical hiccup has slowed me down in that regard of late. The big dry continues.

Several of my favourite activities would usually be carried out with an icy cold one. Or two.

There is no way a BBQ can be cooked without a beer. I believe it’s actually law. Here in Queensland anyway. Those in other states should make their own checks.

A day on the punt is no different. It’s what we do. At the track, brews will be had. The girls will find a decent chilled bottle. A win late in the day will send us to the top shelf.

At home, there are few finer things to do on a Saturday arvo than to raid the grog fridge while watching them run around. Break out the Smith chips and gherkin dip and you have the dictionary definition of Relax.

But professionals in the ranks will tell you there’s a downside to all this. That such consumption can lead to impaired judgement. And empty pockets.

It’s a theory I’ve always dismissed. Usually loudly. After the third shout.

Now, I’m not so sure. The last few weeks have shown me a very different way to approach the art of finding a winner.

I’ve been punting while sipping water. At one stage, there was even a cup of tea involved. Like one of those cardigan-wearing gents who arrives at the track at 8am to get the best table.

On each day, I’ve won late. Last race winners. Even a few trifectas. And not a hard luck story to have the most basic whinge about.

Can it be a co-incidence? For the first time since the great Bart was a silver-haired boy, I have cash at the end of the day.

I’m not missing races I have good things in. No ridiculous late changes from texting tipsters with less idea than me.

Because I’m stuck on the lounge, the winnings are staying in my account. Not being splashed over the bar somewhere. Or re-invested on the 1 dog later in the night.

Of course, it could all come crashing down today. In a perverse sort of way, I hope it does. I need an excuse to get back to normal in the weeks ahead. There’s a beer in the fridge with my name on it. I’m counting the days. Winning just isn’t as much fun, when you’re celebrating with Bushells.

Exciting times with strangers and friends (and how I nearly killed a trainer..)

April 12, 2011

For a split second, Queensland’s leading trainer thought he was a goner.

What a way to go. Train a winner, and seconds later be knocked over the grandstand balcony.

Luckily Rob Heathcote saw me coming. At a frenzied pace, from a few rows behind. He braced just in time to hold my weight, as I grabbed him like a small boy latches onto Santa Claus. Not that Rob was built like Santa. Although I will say it was before the diet kicked in.

Anyway, it was a close thing. In my excitement I almost sent us both toppling over the rail, where we would have taken out a squadron of strappers.

That’s what owners do. Even part-owners. Even part-owners who own roughly a section of the tail.

The thrill of winning a Saturday race. It’s a sensation that some might find a little difficult to comprehend. After all, we’re not talking Melbourne Cup here. Just an Open Class event, the kind run on metropolitan tracks across Australia every weekend.

The horse in question was the mighty Beartracker. Honest as the day is long.

Small in stature but with a huge heart.

That day, he loomed up to the leaders in that long Eagle Farm straight. He went past them. And kept going.

As he approached the winning post, I realised I was screaming like a young girl at a Justin Bieber concert. Screaming and jumping. Then I thought I would have a heart attack. Right there in the Owners’ section. Then I screamed again. And headed to lay kisses on our trainer.

As Larry Cassidy brought the Bear back to scale, to the cheers of a small section of the crowd, I realised I had to behave like a responsible owner, in the company of mature and experienced racing people. So I screamed again. And hugged anyone within reach.

Winning connections get to go into the committee room. This is a time-honoured practice. Winners of Stradbrokes have stood at that bar.  We were offered beers to celebrate. They were in tiny glasses, so we had several.

Someone important made a very nice speech, and we clapped, and had several more tiny beers. I knew screaming Bieber-like was frowned upon in such company, so I made do with more hugs.

Apparently, the idea is to move out of the room soon after the speech, so that the committee members can prepare for the next batch of lucky owners. No-one told us that. We had another tray of mini ales, before being politely tossed out. Next stop – trainers’ bar.

I love that bar. It’s small and old and can’t fit everyone. But only a select few get invited in, and we were that day. Rob was kind enough not to mention my clumsy display of affection in the stands. Then he was off to saddle up more winners, and we made our way to embark on more celebrations.

Now, I don’t want to make it sound like winning a race is in any way linked to the abuse of alcohol. There are strict guidelines for such activities. Apparently.

I believe the day ended with a very nice dinner at a fancy restaurant nearby. I’m told one of our party attempted to call the final 200 metres of the big win, while standing on a chair. His tie may or may not been undone. And his voice was hoarse from all that screaming.

In some countries, only the rich and famous get to experience such fun. Lords and their lucky lasses. Here, we all get to have a crack. And that’s primarily through syndication. A bunch of people from all walks of life, thrown together with a dream. To win a race. Any race.

There are some great syndicators out there. Gathering people who love the racing game, but can’t afford a horse themselves. Or even a large chunk of a horse. A small share is enough to get you jumping up and down in grandstands, and slobbering on jockeys, without spending a fortune. Go in with some friends, and it’s the same as shelling out on a carton of fancy grog a month.

Imagine if someone had invited you to race a yearling, a filly with a big bum, that they’d eventually name Black Caviar? Even scarier, imagine if you knocked them back?

We all hope that somehow, we’ll stumble into the next champion. Yes, it’s long odds. Most of them struggle to run faster than me. Some don’t make it onto the track.

We’re no longer with the Bear. He had a lengthy spell, but is now back, trying his heart out. His photo hangs proudly on the wall.

Our new syndicate is now ready to race a 2 year old. Very, very exciting. And he doesn’t even have a name yet. Horse owners are the supreme optimists. Someone prepare those tiny beers. And Rob Heathcote, be warned. Stay away from that railing.