by H. G. Nelson
Rostov-on-Don, a great Russian horse-racing centre, is now twinned with Moonee Valley. This is a triumph of quiet diplomacy by the foreign affairs boffins. The proposed Northern Cox concept is a weight-for-age event for Russian and European horses. Russian racing is licking its lips. The Moonee Valley Racing Club is actively supporting the concept. Imagine a horse getting the Australian and Russian Cox Plates in the same year. The Everest and our racing diplomacy take Australian values to the world. The current prime minister is very bullish about the promotion of Australian values through racing in parts of the world that know nothing about our great mouse plagues and dud coral reefs.
The final challenge for Australian racing is normalising the punt for all sections of society. This will take time. Racing supremo in the pantaloons of plumage Peter V’landys, aka ‘Saint Peter of the Punt’, has an ambition to make the wagering caper the bedrock of a prosperous free market economy.
He knows there will be Victims of the Punt. The dud punter will always be part of Australian society. The refreshing V’landys view is that the problem gambler is a problem for others to worry about, not those involved in the punting, casino or poker machine industries. These so-called ‘victims’ will not need to be addressed for another thirty years, by which time he will have moved on to running the IOC.
But Pete is conscious of the caper’s critics. He is very mindful that society’s mores have changed. A modern sensitive approach is required for equine management during the horse’s race career and this will continue once the hayburner is retired from the track. Belting a horse to make it go quickly is now considered cruel and inhumane. As V’landys maintained in a recent three-way turf talk with Ronnie ‘The Duff’ Dufficy and Troutie Hughes on Racing Radio:
Troutie, you make a great point! Look, I understand where the woke generation is coming from. They see flogging a horse all the way down the straight, with great chunks of rump steak carved off from the entire flanks to get it home in a tight finish, as cruel. I get that! It is not a good look when our great jockeys are forced to reduce a horse to mince to score a win and earn a sling for the ride. It is unsightly. That is why we have invested millions in race-track technology so the stewards can get the whip issue under control.
We have set out strict rules about whip use based on the modern understanding from the vets and horse shrinks that a horse does not mind being belted, say, three times every 100 metres, but every horse draws the line at being bashed twenty times in ten metres. That simply is a university-proven fact.
Like you, Duff, I used to love seeing ‘Fractious’ Bruce Woodis and Mister Muscles, ‘Brawny’ Barry Lash, get to work on a bludging three-year-old, first up from a spell, at the top of the straight. But Troutie, vigour that was once admired, vigour that was remarked upon, is now a crime against horse humanity. The days when the whip ruled are long gone. This is a new age of racing. By the way, what do you like in this afternoon’s Doomben 10,000?
As mentioned, the pinnacle of the new age of racing, The Everest, is the first fixture on the international racing calendar aimed directly at a new generation, the formally lukewarm, under thirty-five-year-old racegoer. It is their race. They have supported it as a meaningful entertainment option.
What can The Man of Feathers do for an encore? Disruption is a real bugger. Everything everywhere always needs another kick up the date. Change is constant. The next generation of racegoers do not want a bar of what satisfied their older brothers and sisters.
The next generation of racegoers do not want a bar of what satisfied their older brothers and sisters.
How long before the Australian racing industry’s brains trust has to return to the drawing board? How long before it is forced to come up with a horse happening that will appeal to the nation’s newly jaded appetites? How long before the bean counters demand an event that will capture the imagination of the under twenties? How long before the under thirty-fives move up into the under fifties age bracket and lose all interest in The Everest? Remember the hip groovers of today are the fuds of tomorrow.
What will Peter V’landys have to pull out of his feather-filled jodhpurs? Maybe an event called the Randwick Hustle aimed at the under twenties? A few years later will the trackside supremo have to dive back into his pantaloons for a race called, say, ‘Spider-Man: The Tangled Web’, a race that captures the imagination of under-fifteens?
Finally, will Saint Peter of the Punt do the impossible, and pluck a final quill out of the feathered flares and produce ‘The Big Ted’ – a race that fascinates the under sevens? To paraphrase the Jesuits, ‘Give us the punter at the age of seven and we will have them for life.’ That is Australia’s racing nirvana. A race that hooks all seven-year-olds into the glories of the punt. Given the younger person’s attention span, this may be a race over a distance of twelve metres. But that hard-to-reach younger set going the plonk is the Holy Grail of the TAB’s ‘long may we play’ caper.
CRICKET’S HOLY GRAIL
The long-buried concrete strip made sense of it all. Like an oasis shining in the desert, there it was hiding in full view, the Don’s lost pitch still chock-a-block full of runs.
VERY HARD TO ADD anything original to the swirling vortex that is the knowledge pool of Australian cricket. No new ground broken here. This deep dive into the third leg swamp is just a lazy amble up to the crease off a very short run.
It’s a blast at the tailenders with seven back in the pavilion. It is a roll of the arm over, giving the pill air, letting the ball do the work in flight. Hopefully there is a bit of grip and puff of dust off the pitch or a hint of reverse swing at the very least. If lucky, the delivery will be followed by a vigorous ‘Howzat!’ from behind the furniture and a simultaneous leap skywards from the slips cordon.
At the time this scorecard was inked, 460 fit Australian men had pulled on the pads or taken the new ball up the hill from the river end.
Since the first Test in 1877 against England at the MCG, Aussie blokes had donned the Gawler creams and baggy green in 834 tests. The team saluted in 394, flashed home for a fast-finishing second in 226, managed a be-on-me next time draw on 212 occasions and dead-heated twice.
Nine years earlier, between May and October 1868, there was a tour of England by an Australian First Nations team, made up of players largely from the Western Districts of Victoria. This first touring side played forty-seven matches throughout England, winning fourteen, loosing fourteen and drawing nineteen. The star with both bat and ball was Johnny Mullagh, who scored 1,698 runs and took 245 wickets. Everywhere they went, the tourists attracted big crowds who frequently put on displays of boomerang and spear throwing after stumps. After all that, on returning from the tour, restrictions on travel by the Victorian Government stopped First Nations involvement in the game at international level.
From very humble beginnings in the 1930s, 176 women have turned out in cricket Tests for Australia. Our women’s Test team has played seventy-four big ones and snared the chocolates in twenty of them. They have lost ten and drawn forty-four.
They are impressive stats. But the number of players turning out for the nation is dwarfed by the collection of dedicated souls whipping up stump cam–inspired content for a wide variety of print, broadcast and digital outlets. This travelling circus of commentators slaves away, inhaling and exhaling every delivery across the planet in all forms of the game.
Many more than those actually out in the middle with the excellent hand–eye coordination, pulling on the pads looking for the quick single, are crouched behind the broadcast mike or slogging away in the press box trenches.
The scorebook devotees have the Bic biro poised over the notebook or are tapping loudly on the keyboard for every minute of play in every match. All are hoping for a hat trick or a ton in every over. Unlike the players, the vast cast and crew of the commentating community find something absorbing in every ball.
On-air cricket chit-chatters are masters of the radio and television hook through. This is the rare s
kill of encouraging listeners and viewers to stay tuned even when there is absolutely nothing happening and no chance of anything happening, on the off-chance that something might happen. An example being:
On-air cricket chit-chatters are masters of the radio and television hook through.
Thanks very much for that excellent summary, Jim, of the morning session where only three overs were possible due to rain . . . And join us right after the break for another session of spin from the Cathedral end and more of your fifth Test memories. As we go to lunch, Australia right on top, England 3 for 43.
The world of cricket commentating is always licking the lips in anticipation that something right out of left field will suddenly swirl centre stage and allow extended commentary and analysis of this shattering event. With hours of airtime to fill, there is space to unpack the implications of the latest discovery, rule modification or technological change on the future of the game and the wider world. It goes without saying that the best moments from the commentary box are often in those hours when no actual cricket was played due to rain or injury or drinks or at the end of overs. Commentators are at their best when they have a roaming commission to talk about anything, and not just the current game.
There is nothing the well-travelled press box huddle likes more than a day’s play interrupted by an international betting scandal involving match fixing, or a subcontinental chucking imbroglio or a trio of players wandering on with a sheet of sandpaper wedged down the front of the Gawler creams. Suddenly, there’s so much to talk about, so many incidents to recall and so little time.
The discovery of the Don Bradman concrete pitch in the scrub near the Bowral CBD in the Southern Highlands of NSW was right out of left field. News of this historic find landed with a loud clunk in the inbox of 4,980,027 ticketed cricket journalists. It has reignited and revitalised interest in the long history of cricket across Australia. The Don is always headline news wherever stumps are set up and the fielding team bursts out of the rooms and is told by the skipper to ‘scatter’ at the start of the day’s play.
News of this historic find landed with a loud clunk in the inbox of 4,980,027 ticketed cricket journalists.
From evidence in TV news and eyewitness reports, this Bradman/Bowral number one strip looks in great nick. Cricket pundits have established that the site is a significant destination for any tragic wanting to understand the Don in his totality or for a traveller at a loose end on the prowl for something to do for the weekend in the Southern Highlands. Visiting this cricket ground zero site will fill in thirty minutes early Sunday morning before a hot breakfast. Many buffs and former players come and simply stare and wonder for hours.
Bradman freaks have placed this concrete pitch discovery alongside the quest for the Don’s first cruet protector, the first ball the Don hit for six and the stump he used to bash the ball against the tank stand in the backyard.
The Bowral heritage strip was unearthed by Project Pucovski. This federal government probe uses revolutionary techniques adapted from archaeologists working on the Giza Plateau. It was funded by Kerry Stokes AO, BHP, Steggles Chicken and the Dannii Minogue Foundation Trust. Project P is tasked with unearthing lost cricket artifacts. So far, they have exhumed 374 significant finds, including 227 pitches that had been lost for over five decades.
The atmosphere that surrounds this stretch of Australian sporting history is incredible. Even today it is easy, with eyes half-closed, to imagine the young Don confidently striding through the gate in the picket fence at 11 am on a bright sunny day. His eyes take in the light before a couple of quick steps to make sure everything is moving. He notices the time on the St Jude’s Church clock and sets his mind firmly on getting a quick 50 before lunch and pushing on to a fat ton before the tea break.
Even today it is easy, with eyes half-closed, to imagine the young Don confidently striding through the gate in the picket fence at 11 am on a bright sunny day.
One of the most amazing aspects of this discovery is that the concrete pour, all those years ago, is still vivid in the minds of those who witnessed the cement mixers arrive and drop a load.
At the time it caused genuine excitement across the cricket-mad tri-city hub of Moss Vale, Mittagong and Bowral. So many residents still remember with great enthusiasm, stunning clarity and incredible detail the day of the pour.
There was a very moving ABC Australian Story in October 2015 that allowed people who saw the cement arrive to recall their emotions on that day. And to discuss what it means to this cricket-obsessed area with its sky-rocketing real estate prospects.
Jarrad Reek Jr, who was captain at Bowral High School in ‘the year of the pour’, was overcome with emotion when recalling that hot day in late summer. Jarrad has never forgotten the seven green Pioneer trucks rolling into town looking for an oval or a vacant paddock where they could back up and dump a load of concrete. A load that had the future of Australian cricket written in every grain of sand embedded in the mix.
Reek, now well into his eighties, is a quiet man full of unexploded menace. He looks as if he still has an over or two left in him, at the highest level. It is not impossible to see him steaming in from the Punt Road end of the MCG in the first session on day one of the Boxing Day test against a lively Sri Lankan eleven. Reek would not let Australia down.
In a startling interview with Jarod ‘JT’ Tiffen, local ABC TV Wollongong-based news anchor, the former school skipper, Reek, was remarkably frank in an interview that took four days to record. Junior had a slow, measured and deliberate way of talking, often taking minutes to say a few words. The interview was controversial and had a shock at the start:
To be honest, Jarod, I didn’t know what was going on. I was not that interested in cricket. Rugby league was my go. Like many I thought the Don was an overrated joke who hogged the strike!
I got him plumb first ball on three occasions and knocked over his leg stump more than once. After that I lost interest in the game. He just didn’t move his feet. Like I say, I considered the bloke a joke. Fancy getting out for donut in your last dig for Australia . . . How un-Australian is that?
And I simply don’t believe that 99.94 rubbish.
What’s more, Jarod, I had not given the pitch or the Don a moment’s thought since the school bell clanged on that afternoon and we took off on our Speedwells to see what the concrete blokes were doing with that truck near St Jude’s.
I did not realise the twenty yards of cement cricket magic was lost until your producer, Trevor Tartine, rang up. I had no idea the local council had a search party out for three decades and they finally found it using lolly from Project Pucovski. I knew where it was all the time. I could have saved them a lot of trouble.
The filming stopped for lunch. Eventually, a terrific spread of Lake Illawarra bream was served.
Jarrad barbecued the fish in a lime and ginger marinade. He served the fish with a fabulous pomegranate, sweet potato and mung bean salad. But tragedy struck when quite a sizeable bone got stuck in Jarrad’s throat.
There was a substantial break in the recording at this point while Jarrad was rushed to Wollongong Hospital for three days. When he came to in Ward 27, he picked up the Bradman story as though nothing had happened.
Filmed in his pyjamas in a hospital bed, Jarrad continued:
Jarod, one thing that is firmly cemented in my mind from that wild afternoon. On the day of the big pour, I remember the cops bailing me up in Aitkin Road. Senior Sergeant Brucie Longbottom bellowed at me above the screech of the siren from the front seat of his Austin A30, ‘Hey Reek, slow down! Where is the fire, sonny Jim? Where is everyone going?’
I explained what was happening. He gave me a police escort down to the pour. That detail has always stuck in my mind. Remember, Jarod, any youngster never forgets his first grilling from the fuzz.
The whole unearthing of the strip project left me pretty vacant until a few months ago when the blanks were finally filled in. The whole concrete circus escaped me.
The next eyewitness was Bruce ‘Nubs’ Nubbin, who takes up the story, setting the scene of life in Bowral at the time:
Tiffy, you are too young to remember, but when the Don roamed these parts looking for a place to knock up a ton or two it was a different place. There was bugger-all going on and pouring a slab of concrete anywhere was big news. It always pulled a crowd whether it was a four-bedroom house, a cheese factory or a servo.
As I recall it, I had tugged a sickie for the day from school. Got up late and had breakfast late. At lunchtime I was camped over a big bowl of Weet-Bix and SPC Two Fruits when bestie ‘Stumpy’ Bottomley let the cat out of the bag. He bellowed over the back fence, ‘Hey Nubs, they are pouring a pitch in that rubbish tip alongside the Church of England.’
By the time I got there, the whole school had raced down for a sticky beak. I actually stumbled onto the cement stretch while it was still wet. Right on to it! There was a bit of push and shove, you know how mad a bunch of rowdy teenage boys can be, we all got involved and there is the footprint of one of my Clark’s Ripple Sole Desert Boots in the town end just off the crease. You can still see it quite clearly.
Cyril ‘Stumpy’ Bottomley, who had a newspaper run at the time, clearly remembers pushing his Malvern Star with 359 copies of the Telegraph and the Sydney Morning Herald past the site in Church Paddock every morning. He had to distribute his load of ‘fish wrappers’ before 8.50 am and had a great vantage point from the back of the Malvern Star to witness history in the making.
Honestly, Tiffster, this site needs to be saved from the developers. Sure, the pitch could be broken up and sold off for souvenirs like the Berlin Wall. Real Australians would love to get a slab of it and make it the basis of a water feature in their front yard.
