It’s Oakbank again for me this Saturday.
A couple of years ago I’d declared it had changed irrevocably. Good memories but no longer a consideration.
But, as they should, other factors intervened.
Mum is still in Adelaide and we’re in Melbourne. We’re a family of few “traditions”, but I’m passing the Riordan baton this Saturday.
My son, Tom, and nephew, Matt, will be with me on the “flat”, where their Pa and Great-grandfather set odds for so many years. They’ll kick the footy on the track, crowd around the starting gates for the Onkaparinga Cup, perch near a jump of the Harry D Young and head up to the fallen log for the Von Doussa.
Their Granny – our excuse for being in Adelaide – will pack sangers and cordial which they’ll probably ditch for donuts at the fairground.
I’ll be swinging the bag there like I first did for my Dad 35+ years ago. In many ways it will not be like the “old days” – but the boys will return to my stand flushed and excited. Within an hour of “the last” it will be freezing and we’ll wind our way home with stories from a new generation spellbound by the magic of an Easter at Oakbank.