The Big Book of Australian Racing Stories

by Jim Haynes

  For the last half-mile—you’ll be sure to win,

  And they’ll think you raced behind ’em.

  ‘At the water-jump you may have to swim—

  He hasn’t a hope to clear it—

  Unless he skims like the swallows skim

  At full speed over, but not for him!

  He’ll never go next or near it.

  ‘But don’t you worry—just plunge across,

  For he swims like a well-trained setter.

  Then hide away in the scrub and gorse

  The rest will be far ahead of course—

  The further ahead the better.

  ‘You must rush the jumps in the last half-round

  For fear that he might refuse ’em;

  He’ll try to baulk with you, I’ll be bound,

  Take whip and spurs on the mean old hound,

  And don’t be afraid to use ’em.

  ‘At the final round, when the field are slow

  And you are quite fresh to meet ’em,

  Sit down, and hustle him all you know

  With the whip and spurs, and he’ll have to go—

  Remember, you’ve GOT to beat ’em!’

  The flag went down and we seemed to fly,

  And we made the timbers shiver

  Of the first big fence, as the stand flashed by,

  And I caught the ring of the trainer’s cry:

  ‘Go on! For the Mooki River!’

  I jammed him in with a well-packed crush,

  And recklessly—out for slaughter—

  Like a living wave over fence and brush

  We swept and swung with a flying rush,

  Till we came to the dreaded water.

  Ha, ha! I laugh at it now to think

  Of the way I contrived to work it.

  Shut in among them, before you’d wink,

  He found himself on the water’s brink,

  With never a chance to shirk it!

  The thought of the horror he felt beguiles

  The heart of this grizzled rover!

  He gave a snort you could hear for miles,

  And a spring would have cleared the Channel Isles

  And carried me safely over!

  Then we neared the scrub, and I pulled him back

  In the shade where the gum-leaves quiver:

  And I waited there in the shadows black

  While the rest of the horses, round the track,

  Went on like a rushing river!

  At the second round, as the field swept by,

  I saw that the pace was telling;

  But on they thundered, and by-and-by

  As they passed the stand I could hear the cry

  Of the folk in the distance, yelling!

  Then the last time round! And the hoofbeats rang!

  And I said, ‘Well, it’s now or never!’

  And out on the heels of the throng I sprang,

  And the spurs bit deep and the whipcord sang

  As I rode! For the Mooki River!

  We raced for home in a cloud of dust

  And the curses rose in chorus.

  ’Twas flog, and hustle, and jump you must!

  And The Cow ran well—but to my disgust

  There was one got home before us.

  ’Twas a big black horse, that I had not seen

  In the part of the race I’d ridden;

  And his coat was cool and his rider clean,

  And I thought that perhaps I had not been

  The only one that had hidden.

  And the trainer came with a visage blue

  With rage, when the race concluded:

  Said he, ‘I thought you’d have pulled us through,

  But the man on the black horse planted too,

  And nearer to home than you did!’

  Alas to think that those times so gay

  Have vanished and passed for ever!

  You don’t believe in the yarn you say?

  Why, man! ’Twas a matter of every day

  When we raced on the Mooki River!

  I HAVE A DREAM!

  JIM HAYNES

  While we are roaming the realms of pure fantasy, here is a racing yarn that I heard years ago but cannot corroborate.

  The scene was suburban Melbourne a few years back.

  A bloke bumped into a neighbour on the tram going home.

  ‘Hello, Bill,’ said the friend, ‘where have you been?’

  ‘I’ve been to the races,’ Bill replied.

  ‘You don’t usually go to the mid-week meetings, do you?’ said the neighbour.

  ‘No,’ said Bill, ‘I only went today because I had a very vivid dream early this morning. I saw sunshine through fluffy clouds and a voice kept repeating “number seven . . . number seven . . .” So I looked in the paper and there was a horse carrying saddlecloth seven, coming out of barrier seven, in the seventh race at Sandown, at 7 to 1. So I went to the track and put $777 dollars on it.’

  ‘What happened?’ asked the neighbour.

  ‘It ran seventh,’ replied Bill.

  FLASH JACK’S LAST RACE

  A.B. ‘BANJO’ PATERSON

  Here is yet another yarn from the pen of Banjo Paterson, in prose this time. This incident took place not far from where Banjo spent his childhood. He went to school at Binalong, not far from Jugiong, New South Wales.

  ***

  It was at the hamlet of Jugiong that an event occurred, which is perhaps unique in turf history.

  It was a publican’s meeting, which means that the promoter was less concerned with gate money than with the sale of strong liquor.

  The unfenced course was laid out alongside the Murrumbidgee River and one of the Osborne family, graziers in the district, had entered a mare which was fed and looked after on the other side of the river.

  Off they went, and the mare made straight for home, jumping into the river and nearly drowning the jockey who was rescued by a young aboriginal boy.

  Meanwhile Mr Osborne, under a pardonable mistake, was cheering on another runner in the belief that it was his mare.

  Then there came a splashing sound at the back of the waggonette and Mr Osborne, looking around, was astonished to see his jockey.

  ‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ he said. ‘What are you doing here? Where’s the mare?’

  ‘She’s home by now,’ said the boy, a bush youngster known locally as ‘Flash Jack from Gundagai’.

  ‘And I’m going home too,’ he added, ‘I’ve had enough of it. In the last race my moke fell in front of the field and there was me lying on the track with nothing but horses’ heels going over my head for half an hour and this time I was nearly drowned. I’d sunk four times when that black boy came in after me.

  ‘I’d like a job, Mr Osborne, picking up fleeces in the shed if you ain’t full up; but Flash Jack has rode his last race.’

  THE FASTER RACEHORSE

  BETTY LANE HOLLAND

  Why is it so often thought

  An owner’s knowledge can be sought,

  By all and sundry at the track,

  Who are offended if knocked back?

  A stranger blocks an owner’s way,

  ‘I see your horse is in today,

  Should I have a bet or not?’

  The owner’s pride is on the spot.

  ‘My horse is fit and win it may,

  But play it safe and bet each way.’

  The stranger goes to find a mate,

  Such inside knowledge to relate,

  The mate in turn will then pass on,

  This information come upon.

  And each repeat will escalate,

  Until, ‘He’ll win by half the straight.’

  Later they’ll come back to him,

  ‘What went wrong? It didn’t win.’

  They speak as if he was to blame,

  As if to question his good name.

  The owner says (to save his pride),

  ‘Perhaps the jockey rode too wide.’

  Or, �
�Perhaps he had too great a weight,’

  Or, ‘Got blocked-in into the straight.’

  But one owner had enough,

  Decided it was all too rough

  It was not some urger’s place to know

  Why his horse had been too slow.

  Why should he have to tell them why?

  Give a reason—he wouldn’t try,

  When queried why his was the ‘last-er’,

  He snapped back, ‘’cos the rest were faster!’

  WRONG DIAGNOSIS

  JIM HAYNES

  The Western Districts of Victoria are a great area for racing. This story was told to me by a good old yarn spinner at Port Fairy, near Warrnambool. He swore it was true but couldn’t give me any names or details.

  It seems that an old cocky trainer once turned up at a jumps meeting with a tough old steeplechaser, but with no jockey to ride it.

  As the lad he had engaged for the ride didn’t show up, the old trainer approached one of the professional city jockeys and asked if he would take the ride.

  The jockey looked the old bloke up and down with a bored expression on his face and said, ‘All right, Pop, I’ll take him around for you I suppose, the moke I was booked for has been scratched and it will warm me up for the important races later in the day.’

  As the old bloke legged the jockey aboard, he whispered urgently, ‘Now listen carefully, this horse will win easily if you remember one thing.’

  ‘I’ll do a good job on him, Pop,’ the jockey said impatiently. ‘Don’t worry, I do know how to ride you know.’

  The old trainer persisted, ‘This is important, listen. As you approach each jump you must say, “One, two, three . . . jump.” If you do that he’ll win.’

  The jockey was already moving the horse away from the old trainer as this advice was given. ‘Sure, Pop, it’ll be all right, don’t you worry,’ he called back over his shoulder.

  Of course the smug city jockey took no notice of the old trainer’s advice. Away went the field and the tough old chaser was up with the leaders as they approached the first fence. When the horse made no preparation at all to jump, the jockey desperately attempted to lift him. The horse belatedly rose to the jump, struck heavily and almost dislodged the startled ‘professional’.

  This incident caused them to fall right back through the field, the horse being lucky to stay on his feet and the jockey using all his skill to stay in the saddle. The jockey’s mind was now racing to remember the old man’s advice and, at the next jump, he succeeded in calling out, ‘One, two, three . . . jump!’ and the horse easily accounted for the fence.

  The jockey repeated the process at each jump and the horse jumped brilliantly, making up many lengths, but just failing to catch the winner at the post.

  On his return to the enclosure, the jockey was confronted by the old trainer who said, ‘You didn’t listen to me, did you? You didn’t say, “One, two, three . . . jump” at the first fence.’

  ‘Yes, I did, Pop,’ lied the jockey, ‘but perhaps I didn’t say it loudly enough the first time. He didn’t hear me, he must be deaf.’

  ‘He’s not deaf, you bloody fool,’ replied the old trainer laconically. ‘He’s blind.’

  FLEW IT LIKE A BIRD

  JIM HAYNES

  It was the district’s annual meeting, the cup and steeplechase.

  And one prospective entry seemed a little out of place.

  He wore a monocle and pantaloons and rode in dressage style.

  ‘You sure you want to enter?’ asked the steward, ‘it’s four mile?’

  ‘Look here, my man,’ the new chum said, ‘I may look out of place,

  And I’m new here in this district, but my horse can win this race.’

  ‘But you have no race experience,’ said the old man, with a frown,

  ‘And are you sure this horse of yours can jump and not fall down?’

  ‘We’ll fly them like a bird,’ said the new chum, ‘he can leap,

  Logs and hedges, post and rail, he’ll jump ’em in his sleep!

  Around the Sydney countryside we had some lovely fun,

  I rode him with the Sydney hunt, he can jump and run.’

  The old man listened to the words, and slowly scratched his chin,

  ‘But this is on a racetrack, mate, this race you’re entering.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ the new chum said, ‘we’ll fly ’em like a bird!’

  He repeated the assertion as if the old man hadn’t heard.

  The steward walked around the beast, he wasn’t often fooled,

  ‘How long has he been jumping? How long has he been schooled?’

  ‘I’ve ridden him cross country, over creeks and logs and such,

  So I doubt your racetrack fences will worry him too much!’

  ‘He’ll take ’em in his stride,’ he said. He savoured every word,

  And spoke again the well-worn phrase; ‘we’ll fly ’em like a bird!’

  ‘I hope you’re right,’ the old man said, ‘and I admire your pluck,

  But a four-mile chase, for your first race? Oh well, I wish you luck.’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ the new chum said, and climbed aboard his horse,

  And trotted him genteelly to the start out on the course.

  The flag went down and off they went, racing tight and fast,

  Unused to such a hectic pace, the new chum followed—last.

  The first jump in the home straight was right before the stand

  But the new chum couldn’t see too well, it wasn’t as he’d planned.

  The rumps of thirty racing horses quite obscured his vision,

  Then they all rose, the jump appeared, and his horse made a decision.

  The result was such a spectacle, it brought applause and cheers

  The racing crowd who saw it talked of it for years.

  ‘I will say this,’ the old man said, ‘He was true to his word,

  For when his horse stood still—that new chum flew it like a bird!’

  ASK THE HORSE

  A.B. ‘BANJO’ PATERSON

  Bill Kelso was an old-time trainer, a very direct-spoken man and if you didn’t like what he said you could leave it.

  I was doing some amateur writing and falling about over steeplechase fences and, like a lot of other young fellows, I began to fancy myself as a judge of racing. So, one day I asked old Kelso, ‘Mr Kelso, what will win this race?’

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’ll tell you something. Do you know what I was before I went in for training?’

  I said, ‘No.’

  He said, ‘I was working for a pound a week and I might be working for a pound a week still, only for young fools like you that will go betting. You leave it alone or get somebody to sew your pockets up before you come to the races.’

  Well, it wasn’t very polite but it was good advice.

  The committee had him in once to explain the running of a race, before the days of stipendiary stewards. It took them a lot of trouble to get the committee together and they sat down, prepared for a good long explanation.

  ‘Mr Kelso,’ said the chairman, ‘can you tell us why your horse ran so badly today?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid I can’t,’ he said, ‘you’ll have to ask the horse. He’s the only one that knows.’

  THE URGING OF UNCLE

  C.J. DENNIS

  No; I ain’t got a talent for races.

  I ain’t no frequenter of courses;

  But I’ve lately been watchin’ the paces

  Of some of these promisin’ ’orses

  Huh! promise? if ’orses ’ave uses,

  ’Tain’t bringin’ no joy to the faces

  Of uncles wot ’arks to abuses

  From nieces wot follers the races.

  It’s this ’ow. A friend of my niece’s

  Is friends with a friend wot rejoices

  In knowin’ a cove wot increases

  ’Is wealth thro’ ’is wise racin’ choices.

  So we gi
ts the good oil. But reverses

  Leaves me with three thruppeny pieces,

  While riches pours into the purses

  Of friends of friends’ friends of me nieces.

  Now, I ain’t a great reader of faces

  Nor wise to the wiles of the courses;

  But when I gits out to the races

  I meets a nice feller wot forces

  Acquaintance, an’ w’ispers advices

  Concernin’ dead certainties w’ich is

  All startin’ at much better prices

  Than wot my niece tips. So I switches.

  Now, I ain’t so much ’urt that our riches

  Is down to three thruppeny pieces

  Because from sure winners I switches;

  It’s them narsty remarks of my niece’s.

  ’Ot anger within ’er it surges,

  She sez, at an uncle wot places

  ’Is faith in a feller wot urges . . .

  No; I ain’t got much talent for races.

  NO CHANCE

  JIM HAYNES

  It was a country race meeting with small fields and only a few bookies fielding on the six races.

  Just before the last race, a handicap with five starters, a well-dressed ‘squatter’ type cockie approaches one of the bookies who has come up from the big smoke to the meeting.

  ‘I want a hundred on Blue Peter,’ he says, ‘what are the odds?’

  ‘You can have ten to one,’ says the bookie and the bloke is quite happy with that and hands over the money.

  Five minutes later the cockie is back, having visited the other five or six bookmakers fielding that day.

  ‘Do you still have Blue Peter at tens?’ he asks.

  ‘Look mate,’ says the bookie, ‘you can have twelves if you like, but I have to tell you, I don’t think he has a chance.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ says the cockie, ‘I only want the bet, not the advice.’ And he pulls out another hundred and gets his ticket.

  Just as the race is about to start he is back again, ‘What price Blue Peter now?’ he asks.

  ‘Mate, you can have twenty to one but I have to tell you, I own Blue Peter and we brought him up for the run. The horse is running off weight and being trained for much longer races—he hasn’t much hope at all in this race. I’ve already got two hundred quid of your money, I don’t want to rob you blind!’