by Helen Thomas
‘This wasn’t in the script,’ he says, but he’s laughing. Having raised two children of his own, he is remarkably unperturbed by the latest twist Rosie’s career path has taken, though he is concerned for her welfare. ‘She’s not hurting, that’s the main thing.’
He is right, and I realise that everyone’s response again has much to do with their faith in Robbie Griffiths’ skill as a trainer. And why shouldn’t we believe in this horseman, who picked up the heat in the filly’s knee and unsaddled her before she started working?
I also ring Diane, who literally helped bring Rosie into the world, and she is not quite so sanguine about the matter.
‘Whaaaat?’ she yells, on her way up the Hume to check on some cattle. ‘She never had anything happen to her at home, and she’s never had a lame day in her life.’
I assure her I have already told Robbie exactly that and explain what the vet believes might have happened.
‘Bloody hell, that’s unbelievable,’ she says. ‘But at least they caught it before any real damage was done.’
Sitting in his office a few days later, I am reminded that Robbie’s laidback demeanour tends to belie his exacting attention to detail and overall consideration that many trainers don’t have.
Relaxed and quietly cheerful, Robbie is enjoying one of the few Saturdays of the year when he doesn’t actually have a runner at the races, either in town or at a provincial track, and is more than happy to talk through his plan for the filly’s next few months.
‘The vet’s confident the bone-strengthening agent will work and I can say it’s been pretty effective, this treatment, when we’ve used it before. And the good news is Rosie’s never really missed a beat, as far as going off her tucker, or feeling that leg at all. She’s never missed a meal and as I said the other day, she’s never been sore at all. Plus she’s well within herself and has taken even this in her stride, so that’s good.’
She was almost at the end of her first preparation anyway, I suggest.
‘That’s right,’ he says. ‘And if all goes well with the calcification of the bone, she should be right to come back into training in three months.’
‘That’s December,’ I calculate quickly. ‘So there’s no longer even a sneaky hope of this girl being a star two year old?’
‘No,’ the trainer replies, a little smile playing around his lips, as usual not beating around the bush.
‘She never really was going to be one anyway; I know you hate me saying it, but she was too far behind in her development to expect that she could have been. That’s what happens when they come in late in their first year. It’s hard to catch up.’
In other words, this is what happens to most home-breds, the young horses born and raised on small farms as opposed to big commercial studs.
Yet, even in this bunch, who would no doubt fall into the ‘$0–$10,000’ group of youngsters the Melbourne University’s Equine Centre study identified, there will always be one or two surprise packets each year, who don’t quite look the goods, either on paper or when you first see them, who turn out to be ready-made gallopers in a very short space of time. But by now we know enough about Rosie to understand she isn’t one of them.
So who is?
Of the nine yearlings Griffiths Racing had on show at the parade at the open day five months ago, the smallest and cheapest filly tucked away in the end stall—by Black Hawke, the most unfashionable sire on the list—has turned out to be the natural sprinter, while the hardy son of Catbird—foaled in Victoria, trucked to Perth for the Magic Millions yearling sale in January and then back across the Nullarbor again—is also coming to hand nicely. Having survived that arduous journey so early in life, learning to gallop must seem like a breeze.
The rest of the bunch, flashier and better credentialled, are pretty much cooling their heels for now, or on the backburner like Rosie, out in the paddock to grow.
What is also intriguing is that, as we run through the list of the stable’s youngsters to check on their progress, Robbie realises he has a few more babies in his care than he thought. He seems genuinely astonished when we carefully run through the list, using his office whiteboard to help jog his memory.
‘Gee, that’s good, isn’t it? That’s great.’ Many of these extras have come in via their owners without much fanfare.
Later that morning, as I look over Rosie’s X-rays, or radiographs, with Leigh the vet, I hear Robbie updating Robert Kingston. ‘How many two year olds do you reckon we’ve got?’ he asks, hardly waiting for a response. ‘Forty. Can you believe that?’
For any trainer, these young horses represent a future. They may not turn out to be any good at all, but when they are young and healthy and untried, the future looks good. And 40 young horses represents a pretty solid future. If nothing else, it means Robbie will have a lot of stock to work with over the next couple of years, and hopefully one or two of these youngsters will prove to be outstanding.
Meanwhile, the vet is keen to help me see where the problem lies in Rosie’s knee, and what it amounts to is a slightly deformed fourth carpal bone. It is an important bone, as it is in her knee. But it isn’t one of the most important bones. Again, it could be much worse.
‘See where the shape doesn’t look as smooth and curved as on this other (good) knee?’ Leigh says.
This latest setback is, I’ve come to accept, just one of a myriad of problems that seem to haunt horses, young and old. Trouble, in some mysterious form, is always just around the corner, even if the road ahead looks clear and safe. So no turn or twist is ever really unexpected; anticipating the unpredictable with horses, in fact, is a practical and emotional necessity for anyone closely involved with them.
For a lifelong journalist, primed to deadlines and impatient for facts, living with horses has inspired new reflection.
When Robbie explains there is a book being written about the making of Rosie the racehorse, Leigh exclaims ‘But she’s broken …’ before recovering her diplomacy, and assuring me the filly will be fine. I take more heart from the fact that another, more senior vet she has asked to have a look at these X-rays for a second opinion is pretty sure there isn’t a hairline fracture in the knee.
‘When do you have to finish the book?’ Leigh asks. I tell her my deadline is seven months away.
‘Oh good, she should have had her first start by then.’
Really, I ask? Will her knee be up to that?
‘Oh look, she should be fine by then, this Tildren (treatment) is pretty good and she’ll just get bigger and stronger.’
An already sunny winter Saturday morning suddenly looks brighter, and when I follow Robert out to see Rosie, who is still stabled at the pre-trainers yard a few blocks away, my relief is turning to optimism.
As we walk towards her stall, Rosie’s unmistakable head is already over the door, nose extended, keen for a sweetie.
‘I see she knows who you are,’ Robert laughs, as she rummages through my jacket pocket, looking for a treat. And moments later, when she is standing out in the sun, the suspect knee looks normal to my untrained eye, although—as I run my hand over it, following Robert’s example—I do feel a small spot of heat still there.
Far more dramatic is the shaved hair on the side of her neck, where the Tildren has been injected every day for the past 10 days. But Rosie looks as unperturbed as usual, although she will no doubt welcome her time out in the sun.
‘Three months in the paddock should do the trick with the knee,’ Robert agrees. ‘At this point, it will do her the world of good generally. She’ll come back a lovely filly. Don’t you worry about that!’
We spend the next 10 minutes discussing the more clear-cut future of Harry aka News Just In.
‘He will also be doing well out in the paddock now,’ the foreman says. ‘To tell you the truth, I really thought he’d won one or two of those races he came second in, they were so close. But we’ll get that win under our belt, for sure.’
How far does he think the ge
lding can go, if and when things do start to roll his way?
‘I think he could make a night meeting at Moonee Valley, I don’t think that grade is beyond him.’
As I drive away, I allow myself to imagine, just for a minute, how exciting that will be if it actually comes to pass. But I know better than to get my hopes up too far, and my good friend Deane helps level the dream before it gets too far out of control.
‘A win at Yarra Valley would be good at this stage, Helen.’
Naturally, he is right again.
Chapter 15
Blood doesn’t lie
I return to Melbourne several weeks later, timing my visit with the height of the famous Spring Racing carnival and the city alive with excitement. This is the one week of the year when all Melburnians allow themselves to be taken up with thoroughbreds, invigorated by their beauty and courage, swept away by the excitement of the turf.
To make it even more of a celebration, trainer Bart Cummings, national living treasure, is having an absolute blinder of a season, winning many of the major races of the carnival. This includes last year’s Melbourne Cup winner Viewed running away with the Caulfield Cup, and Bart’s stunning three-year-old colt So You Think leading all the way to win the WS Cox Plate, Australasia’s weight-for-age championship. Who knows what else The Master is capable of, given there are still two weeks of elite racing to go.
When I arrive at Cranbourne Training track on Saturday morning, it is Victoria Derby Day and I expect to feel a palpable pulse of anticipation even if it is just before 6.30 am. As I drive in slowly along the back-stretch of the course, I notice a horse lying down on the track, very still, with one of two handlers kneeling by the horse’s side, the other standing behind them.
Something has obviously gone terribly wrong, a sad reminder of all that can happen on a racecourse, at any time of day. Even on a big day like this. The usually busy thoroughfare is also unusually quiet as I walk towards Robbie Griffiths’ tie-up stalls; it is quickly apparent not all his horses have arrived for their work yet. Harry’s certainly nowhere to be found, so I wander up to the observation tower, where Robbie and Robert are sitting at the long bench along the window, binoculars pressed to their eyes.
‘Morning,’ the trainer says eventually, without looking round. ‘Things are a bit backed up today,’ he says, putting his glasses down.
‘A little filly broke her leg out there about an hour ago, and they’ve just put her down. So we’re a bit behind. Don’t think your boy’s even here yet.’
Silence descends again, as we all think of the youngster who has just lost her life doing what she was bred to do, as well as the obvious, unspoken point. It could have been any one of the horses out on the training track this morning. It could have been one of Robbie’s. I know better than to ask what happened because until the vet has a close look at the filly’s leg to try to determine why it broke, there’s no way of knowing what exactly went so horribly wrong. She may have put a hoof in a pot-hole on the track. She may have had a weakness in a leg or shoulder no one picked up before she went out for a gallop—for as strong and fast as they are, horses can be fragile beauties.
Robert is still concentrating on what is actually happening around the track itself and Robbie’s not quite his usual welcoming self; he is pale and somewhat peaky, obviously backing up from a late night out. Ten minutes later, he tells me Harry has just arrived on course.
‘Harry,’ he says, his grin resurfacing, ‘is in the building!’
I walk back to the stalls and sure enough, there he is—an even bigger, sturdier version of the horse I waved off the farm some 18 months earlier. I introduce myself to trainer Enver Jusufovic—known simply as ‘EJ’—and we walk up to the new, improved gelding we used to call Newsboy. I’m amused to see him grab one of the chains linked to either side of his halter, and pin his ears back in a very good impression of a moody racehorse.
‘Don’t worry,’ says EJ. ‘That’s just him, that’s what he’s like in the mornings.’
I laugh and step towards the big bay trying so hard to look fierce.
‘Is it now?’ I ask. And the ears flick forward. ‘Ah well, I guess that means no sweeties …’
Within seconds, the real Harry reappears and his nose thrusts out in search of a treat.
‘You two know each other, I see,’ says EJ. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’
So I stand with five-year-old Harry, waiting for him to be saddled and jockey Luke Currie legged up for his early morning hit-out. Harry looks different; taller again, stronger through his shoulders and chest, more muscled-up and round in the rump. And his attitude is vastly changed, much more professional and ‘on the toe’. Clearly this is the way our trainer likes his horses.
Harry is now fully grown and close to the prime of his racing life. As he heads onto the track, tail tied in a knot to keep it above the wet surface, he is obviously keen to get going and I rejoin the training team in the tower to watch as he trots around the sand circle right in front of us, very alert, warming up.
‘He’s showing off for Mum,’ says Robbie.
‘Oh no,’ Robert interjects. ‘That’s just him now.’
A few minutes later, the horse is rolling along the back of the course, and the stopwatch is on as he passes the 400-metre mark and really stretches out to the 800-metre mark, which is acting as the finishing line this morning. Time: 23.75 overall, 11.07 for the final furlong, or 200 metres.
That is good work.
‘Especially as we had 17 mils of rain last night, so even the Viscoride (dirt) track is a bit soggy,’ says Robert. ‘He’s going well.’
Their attention turns to another of their smaller charges going through the same pattern.
‘Recognise her?’ asks Robbie. ‘It’s the little God’s Own filly you liked so much.’
And sure enough, the daughter of Espiare swings into the main part of her fast work.
‘We didn’t send her out with Harry because he would have gone too fast for her at this stage of things,’ the trainer explains. ‘But she’s going really well.’
She is the only two year old currently in work right now.
Robbie walks out onto the landing at the top of the stairs and leans over to talk to his two jockeys as they bring the two stable mates off the track.
‘He’s all business, this bloke,’ Luke Currie tells him, as he and Harry walk past us. ‘He wanted to really get going, but I knew you didn’t want him to have a gut-buster, so I didn’t let him.’
‘How did he feel?’ I venture.
‘Good, strong,’ Currie replies.
We wait for the two year old to return and she looks diminutive compared to our big boy ahead of her.
‘All right, mate?’ Robbie asks the rider.
‘Yeah, good.’
Even so, the filly will be turned out into the paddock within the next month, like most of his youngest charges, even the robust Catbird colt. As we are learning, Robbie is a patient man. This is just as well, because as good and strong as Harry seems on Derby Day morning, within a month he has become one of the stable’s most confounding gallopers.
Like most horses working towards their first start in a racing campaign, he has an unofficial barrier trial at Cranbourne one Tuesday morning, winning the short 800-metre scamper by three lengths. Regular rider Peter Mertens is pleased with how he feels and over the next couple of weeks, the trainer’s email updates are increasingly positive. And so the horse is nominated for yet another 1200-metre maiden at Sale, the big wide provincial course where he ran so well when debuting for the stable several months ago.
The plan to return for another first-up tilt makes sense and everyone involved is upbeat about his chances, not to mention how solid and successful this campaign is going to be. We might not make it to the city, but there is real confidence now that Harry can make his mark around the country courses.
At least he will break his maiden status and work his way through one or two of the next class of race on th
e calendar. Not only will this be exciting and fun for his owners, and rewarding for the team that has been working so hard to get him to this point, it also means he will pay his way. At around $2500 a month, having a horse in training isn’t cheap. But Harry managed to offset most of this when last in work, and all the signs look good that he will be able to balance the books in a positive way from here on.
On the other hand, as everyone involved with Harry and Rosie is learning, sometimes—just as things seem to be following a properly developed, professional strategy—something unexpected throws it completely out of whack. In Rosie’s case, it was an unlikely inflammation of a knee. In Harry’s case, it is something much harder to pinpoint. On the morning of his planned return bout at Sale, the trainer rings just before 7 am.
‘We’re going to have to scratch him today; he has a slight temperature and his white blood cell count is up.’
To Robbie, this second piece of information is the most significant. As in humans, the readout of a horse’s blood reflects their physical wellbeing and the Griffiths stable relies on pre-race blood tests to give them as much information as possible, in terms of how each potential runner is—quite literally—within themselves.
Up until this morning, every time Harry has raced, his blood count has been normal, consistently so, hardly deviating up or down. So for his white cells suddenly to be in the high range is unusual, and worrying. Something clearly isn’t right. No matter how good he looks, how well he’s been working and the trial he seemed to win on his ear, something is affecting him.
‘He’s not really sick at all,’ the trainer says. ‘He’s just a bit off colour and it’s probably just a summer bug, or some minor infection he’s picked up over the past couple of days, which isn’t surprising, given the changes in the weather we’ve had.’
That is true. Victoria has just endured an extraordinarily hot November week, mixed with torrential rain.
