by Jim Haynes
Having won in all eastern mainland states at four, she was kept in Melbourne as a five-year-old until April 2012 and won six times, three at Group 1 level and three at Group 2. Peter Moody kept her schedule pretty much the same as the previous year with the Schillaci, Schweppes and Patinack Classic but, in January 2012, she also took out her second Australia Stakes at Moonee Valley, a race she had previously won at three. From that point on she would never again race below Group 1 level.
Black Caviar was extended beyond 1200 metres for the only time in her life to win the C.F. Orr Stakes over 1400 metres at Caulfield in February 2012.
In April 2012, she made the long journey to South Australia to win the Robert Sangster Stakes and the Goodwood Handicap. In winning the first of those races, she broke the Australasian record for the most wins in succession, which had stood since the 1920s.
But a much longer journey was just around the corner for the highest-rated sprinter in the world. Royal Ascot was calling.
The drama, hoop-la and media frenzy of that ‘trip away’ has been well documented and she took us all on a mighty ride of which not one moment was missed by television and newspapers in Australia. The specially designed thermal suit, the training gallops, the owners enjoying themselves in funny, old-fashioned hats, and Peter Moody’s nervous cigarettes and good-natured interviews were offset by the horrible possibility that she might not win.
If the build-up to the Diamond Jubilee Stakes was agonising, the race itself was torture.
It was obvious to those of us who knew her that she wasn’t at her best during the running of the race. Luke Nolan certainly knew it and felt there was ‘something wrong’.
There was something wrong, she had torn two muscles during the race but won anyway. X-rays showed an 8-centimetre muscle tear, a grade-four tear in her quadriceps and a grade-two tear of the sacroiliac.
In trying not to hurt her, Luke Nolan eased down near the line and was almost beaten by the French-trained mare Moonlight Cloud. The margin was a head.
Nolan admitted that over-confidence and worry had led to his poor ride. ‘It was an error that every apprentice is taught not to do,’ he said at the time, ‘and I got away with it today.’
Peter Moody admitted that the mare had not coped with the 11,000-mile journey as well as expected and said she was ‘tired and worn out’ after the Diamond Jubilee Stakes, as well as injured.
(Incidentally, we should take nothing away from Moonlight Cloud. She was no slouch; she won six times at Group 1 level, including the Prix de Maurice Gheest three years running!)
There was talk at the time that the great mare would retire and go to the breeding barn in the UK, perhaps even be mated to the other undefeated wonder horse of the age, the mighty Frankel, but it was just talk. Black Caviar wanted to go home and it was an obvious decision to miss the second race she was entered for, the July Cup, and bring her home.
I think many of us thought that her racing days were over, 22 races undefeated and a win at Ascot was good enough for most of us to remember. But we were to be blessed with three more wonderful races and three more victories and I, for one, am forever grateful to her connections for making that decision to go on, because I got to see her race again in her final performance, and what a day it was!
I was there, part of a sell-out crowd at Randwick, with thousands more lining the fence outside the track along Alison Road, to see Black Caviar win her last race, the T.J. Smith Stakes, on 13 April 2013. It’s the only time I ever saw a standing ovation as a horse went onto the track, which was followed by an even bigger standing ovation after she cruised up the rise to her 25th win, and eternal glory. Thousands of fans bet a dollar on her just to keep the betting slip as a souvenir.
I have seen many great horses race, but I have never seen a horse accelerate and outclass the opposition like she could.
We were all given little salmon-pink flags with black spots that day and the racetrack was a sea of waving flags as she returned to scale. I’ve still got mine on my office bookshelf.
In spite of Glyn Schofield getting sick of seeing her bum, the rest of us never got sick of seeing her win.
INTRODUCTION—FUN, FACT AND FANTASY
The racetrack is a rich source of great yarns and there is something very ‘Australian’ about the yarns that come from the racing game. I guess they often emphasise the stoic, deadpan nature of Aussie humour, that dry self-deprecating style we seem to enjoy—laughing at ourselves.
The racing industry is so full of colourful true stories that there seems to be no reason for exaggeration or make-believe, but Aussies being what we are, there are plenty of tall tales told about the races.
So this section mixes totally factual yarns about racing with fantasy, tall stories and often-told anecdotes and jokes. You can guess which is which!
Banjo’s memories of racetrack skulduggery in the ‘old days’ are wonderful glimpses into a time gone by, and yet they also remind us that little has changed as far as racetrack characters go. His anecdote about Breaker Morant is a favourite of mine.
The final story in the section is from Wayne Peake’s collection of stories called The Gambler’s Ghost, published by Ascot Press.
NOT BAD
JIM HAYNES
Stoicism is a common element in racetrack humour. One of my favourite stories concerns the old battling punter who heads off to the races with $20 in his pocket.
The old battler, let’s call him Jim, backs the first winner at 10 to 1 and then goes all-up on the next three favourites, who duly salute the judge, giving him a bank of $500 when the fifth race comes around.
Now, Jim has done the form carefully on this race and has a ‘special’ which opens at 6 to 1 and drifts out to 8 to 1. Unperturbed, Jim steps in, backs his ‘special’ and watches it win with his hands in his pockets and no emotion on his face.
Two more all-up bets on successful favourites take Jim’s bank to almost $20,000 before the final race on the card.
This race features Jim’s second ‘good thing’ for the day, a track specialist named Wire Knot, third-up from a spell over his pet distance.
Jim extracts a $50 note from his wad, tucks it into his back pocket and puts the rest on his second ‘special’, Wire Knot, on the nose at 3 to 1.
Wire Knot misses the kick, flies down the outside late and it’s a photo finish. The judge calls for a second print before awarding the race to the rank outsider, Mitre Guest. Wire Knot misses by a nose.
On his way to the bus stop Jim meets a mate who says, ‘Hello Jim, how’d you go today?’
‘Not bad,’ says Jim, deadpan, ‘I won $30.’
VICTOR SECOND
A.B. ‘BANJO’ PATERSON
We were training two horses for the Buckatowndown races—an old grey warrior called Tricolor—better known to the station boys as The Trickler—and a mare for the hack race. Station horses don’t get trained quite like Carbine; some days we had no time to give them gallops at all, so they had to gallop twice as far the next day to make up.
One day the boy we had looking after The Trickler fell in with a mob of sharps who told him we didn’t know anything about training horses, and that what the horse really wanted was ‘a twicer’—that is to say, a gallop twice round the course. So the boy gave him ‘a twicer’ on his own responsibility.
When we found out about it we gave the boy a twicer with the strap, and he left and took out a summons against us. But somehow or other we managed to get the old horse pretty fit, tried him against hacks of different descriptions, and persuaded ourselves that we had the biggest certainty ever known on a racecourse.
When the horses were galloping in the morning the kangaroo-dog, Victor, nearly always went down to the course to run round with them. It amused him, apparently, and didn’t hurt anyone, so we used to let him race; in fact, we rather encouraged him, because it kept him in good trim to hunt kangaroo.
When we were starting for the meeting, someone said we had better tie up Victor or he would be
getting stolen at the races. We called and whistled, but he had made himself scarce, so we started and forgot all about him.
Buckatowndown Races. Red-hot day, everything dusty, everybody drunk and blasphemous. All the betting at Buckatowndown was double-event—you had to win the money first, and fight the man for it afterwards.
The start for our race, the Town Plate, was delayed for a quarter of an hour because the starter flatly refused to leave a fight of which he was an interested spectator. Every horse, as he did his preliminary gallop, had a string of dogs after him, and the clerk of the course came full cry after the dogs with a whip.
By and by the horses strung across to the start at the far side of the course. They fiddled about for a bit; then down went the flag and they came sweeping along all bunched up together, one holding a nice position on the inside. All of a sudden we heard a wild chorus of imprecations—‘Look at that dog!’ Victor had chipped in with the racehorses, and was running right in front of the field. It looked a guinea to a gooseberry that some of them would fall on him.
The owners danced and swore. What did we mean by bringing a something mongrel there to trip up and kill horses that were worth a paddockful of all the horses we had ever owned, or would ever breed or own, even if we lived to be a thousand. We were fairly in it and no mistake.
As the field came past the stand the first time we could hear the riders swearing at our dog, and a wild yell of execration arose from the public. He had got right among the ruck by this time, and was racing alongside his friend The Trickler, thoroughly enjoying himself. After passing the stand the pace became very merry; the dog stretched out all he knew; when they began to make it too hot for him, he cut off corners, and joined at odd intervals, and every time he made a fresh appearance the people in the stand lifted up their voices and ‘swore cruel’.
The horses were all at the whip as they turned into the straight, and then The Trickler and the publican’s mare singled out. We could hear the ‘chop, chop!’ of the whips as they came along together, but the mare could not suffer it as long as the old fellow, and she swerved off while he struggled home a winner by a length or so.
Just as they settled down to finish Victor dashed up on the inside, and passed the post at old Trickler’s girths. The populace immediately went for him with stones, bottles, and other missiles, and he had to scratch gravel to save his life. But imagine the amazement of the other owners when the judge placed Trickler first, Victor second, and the publican’s mare third!
The publican tried to argue it out with him. He said you couldn’t place a kangaroo-dog second in a horserace.
The judge said it was his (hiccough) business what he placed, and that those who (hiccough) interfered with him would be sorry for it. Also he expressed a (garnished) opinion that the publican’s mare was no rotten good, and that she was the right sort of mare for a poor man to own, because she would keep him poor.
Then the publican called the judge a cow. The judge was willing; a rip, tear, and chew fight ensued, which lasted some time. The judge won.
Fifteen protests were lodged against our win, but we didn’t worry about that—we had laid the stewards a bit to nothing. Every second man we met wanted to run us a mile for one hundred pounds a side; and a drunken shearer, spoiling for a fight, said he had heard we were ‘brimming over with bally science,’ and had ridden forty miles to find out.
We didn’t wait for the hack race. We folded our tents like the Arab and stole away. But it remains on the annals of Buckatowndown how a kangaroo-dog ran second for the Town Plate.
LUNCH FOR DIPSO DAN
JIM HAYNES
Here is a yarn I heard years ago and turned into a poem. It’s one of the funniest stories I ever heard based on horses’ names. The central idea of a drunk confusing a horse’s name with the advertised lunchtime in a pub was how the ‘joke’ worked when I heard it. I added a few twists and turns and it took me a while to think up the final tagline. Then I put the whole thing into rhyme so I could copyright it! You can’t copyright a joke, but you can copyright a poem.
Dipso Dan is the town drunk in my ‘perfect country town’, Weelabarabak.
***
Dipso Dan is a man who can strike any time,
You rarely get any warning,
He’s thrown out of the pub as the minister passes
Late one Saturday morning.
‘G’day there Reverend,’ says Dipso Dan,
‘Got any good tips today?’
‘Well Dan,’ says His Reverence, ‘Lunch might be
A good thing for you I’d say.’
‘Thanks for that Reverend, Good on ya,’ says Dan,
‘I never forget what I’m told.’
To himself he mutters, ‘Never heard of Lunch,
It must be a two-year-old.’
Back in the pub goes Dipso Dan,
The drinking day is still young.
And the first thing he sees is a sign that says,
‘Lunch is 12 to 1’.
‘Look at the odds!’ says Dipso Dan,
‘That’s gotta be worth a chance!’
But a firm hand grips his collar
And another the seat of his pants.
He’s back on the street, but now he’s obsessed,
‘That Lunch might be a goer.
I’ll go down the Royal and back it,’ says Dan,
‘Before the odds get any lower’.
So Dan staggers off to the other pub,
At the other end of the shops.
Halfway down there’s the Chinese restaurant—
That’s exactly where Dan stops.
And he stares at the sign in the window.
It says, ‘Lunch is 11 to 2’.
‘They’re backing the thing for a fortune,’ says Dan,
‘That minister musta knew!’
‘Fancy missin’ out on 12s,
That’s just the thing to spoil
Me afternoon, I’ll hurry up,
I’ll back it at the Royal.’
Dan staggers on and he’s almost there
When he stops with a strangled yell.
‘Lunch 1 to 2’, says the blackboard sign
At the door of the Royal Hotel.
‘Bloody odds-on, I’ve missed it,’ says Dan,
‘Me chance of a fortune is wrecked!’
Then he slides down the wall of the Royal Hotel,
Booze and exercise take their effect.
He sleeps through the paddy-wagon ride
But he wakes when they lock the cell.
He hears them walking away with the keys
And he knows he’ll have to yell.
‘I wanna know about Lunch,’ yells Dan,
‘And I’ve got a terrible thirst.’
‘Bad luck about lunch,’ the sergeant yells back,
‘Cos I’m telling ya, sober up first.’
‘Sober Up first eh,’ says Dipso Dan,
‘So much for the minister’s hunch.’
He lies down on the bed, ‘Sober Up first, eh,
Thank gawd I didn’t back Lunch!’
A MEMORY OF BREAKER MORANT
A.B. ‘BANJO’ PATERSON
Amateur racing, for some reason or other, has always had some sort of encouragement from the Rosehill proprietary, and that club is the only metropolitan institution that caters for the ‘lily-whites’. Their annual race at Rosehill is a sort of ‘Custer’s last stand’.
They used to also run an amateur steeplechase, and one of these was to some extent memorable, for among the riders was Harry Morant, whose tempestuous career was ended by a firing squad in the South African war.
Plucky to the point of recklessness, he suffered from a theatrical complex which made him pretend to be badly hurt when there was, really, not much up with him.
Morant was breaking in horses and mustering wild cattle somewhere up in the west, and he had been accustomed to ride after hounds in England.
Arriving in Sydney at the time of the amat
eur steeplechase, he set out to look for a mount.
Mr Pottie, of the veterinary family, had a mare that could both gallop and jump, but she was such an unmanageable brute that none of the local amateurs (and I was one of them) cared to take the mount.
Morant jumped at the chance, but as soon as they started the mare cleared out with him and fell into a drain, rolling her rider out as flat as a flounder.
He was carried in, supposed to be unconscious, and I was taken up to hear his last wishes.
The doctors could get nothing out of him, but after listening to his wanderings for a while I said, very loudly and clearly, ‘What’ll you have Morant?’ and he said, equally clearly,
‘Brandy and soda.’
CORN MEDICINE
HARRY ‘THE BREAKER’ MORANT
‘A well-bred horse! but he won’t get fat,
Though I’ve done the best I can;
He keeps as poor as a blessed rat!’
Said the sorrowful stable-man.
‘I’ve bled and I’ve blistered him, and to-day
I bought him a monster ball;
But, blow the horse! Let me do what I may,
He won’t get fat at all.
‘I’ve given him medicines galore,
And linseed oil and bran,
And yet the brute looks awfully poor,’
Said the woebegone stable-man.
One glance the intelligent stranger threw
At the ribs of the hollow weed,
Then asked, with an innocent air, ‘Did you
