Since the moment I had learnt that his boat was moored in the general vicinity of where Dean May had taken his final plunge, the name Jack Shepherd had been dominating my thoughts. A coincidence? Unlikely. Because although in many ways our lives are ruled by the forces of luck and fortuity, some occurrences are far too convenient to be dismissed as mere chance. In this case, a footy team’s coach had ended up dead in the water right near the boat of that team’s major benefactor. If the gods were trying to sell it to me that this was sheer fluke, there was no way that I was buying.
More in the hope that I might bump into Laura than any desire for a latte, I entered the ‘Cup and Crumb’ early. The dailies were laid out on a bench, and I took great care not to soil my fingers by touching The Hun. Someone had left behind a copy of Best Bets, and as I took a seat I found myself thumbing my way through it. There was a time when I was enamoured by the sport of kings, and a slave to the punt. When I reached the point where I had no shirt on my back left to bet with, I realized that something had to change. And the lesson was that abstinence was the only answer. The Best Bets had a familiarity to it. How many hours had I wasted thoughtfully circling the saddlecloth numbers of losers? But then, there it was: in a meet at Werribee that very day, a race named ‘The Jack Shepherd Stakes’. It seemed like the old boy’s largesse extended to sponsoring races. And it also seemed that I was about to grace a racetrack for the first time in eons. Again, I got to thinking about coincidences.
There are few places more dispiriting than the public area of a midweek race meet. It was not yet winter, but the grassed area in front of the stand was deserted but for a couple of diehards. These days, the tentacles of online betting stretched so far and wide that not even the bookies bothered making an appearance. Behind the glass was a different story, however, with the function rooms looking to be in full swing. The sun had just passed the yardarm, so I made for the only bar that was open and asked for any available whisky. The bartender wore the plastic smile of a person who wished that he was anywhere else in the world. But here he was at the Werribee races serving drinks to desperadoes. Like me.
After days of rain that had transformed the track into a Soft 7, the ‘Jack Shepherd Stakes’ became a 1600 metre slog that was won by a long-shot mudlark that would probably never again salute the judge. Thankfully, I kept my dough in my pocket, as the nag I fancied finished well back in the field. I made my way to the presentation area, and wandered about trying to stay as inconspicuous as I could, which was difficult when the horses, jockeys, and trainers were my only company. It seemed that Jack Shepherd was too clever to appear in person, and had deputized a couple of the unlikeliest looking goons to present the trophy to the winning connections. One had a head like a robber’s dog, the other a head like the beaten favourite.
As they departed the podium, I approached them and introduced myself. “I’m an old friend of Jack Shepherd, I was hoping he’d be on course”. They eyed me suspiciously. “Jack don’t get to the races much nowadays,” answered the robber’s dog, and he surveyed the desolate surrounds. “And who could blame him? He’s far too busy for this shite”. He suggested that I give him my phone number and intimated that he would pass it on. I obliged. What the hell else was I supposed to do?
I decided to stay on for a couple more of the races. I once knew a German fellow named Otto, who would study the manure in the mounting yard and use the horse-shit’s health or otherwise as a guide to placing his bets. I stood adjacent to the mounting yard as the next group of horseflesh paraded about. It was as good a betting method as any, I supposed, although I wasn’t sure how successful old Otto had been on the punt.
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Building the suspense nicely Smokie !
Smokie,
Your call about there being “few places more dispiriting than the public are of a midweek race meet” is so accurate. I can testify that, should there indeed be any such places, I have yet to come across them.
Which is all a bit of a shame because, back in the day when work involved driving around the schools of the Central Highlands & Wimmera, I managed to visit not all but many of the region’s racetracks – and they were much better patronised then than they have now become for many reasons.
Werribee racetrack, on the other hand, had a much harder hand of opponents to contend with. In their infinite wisdom, railway authorities decommissioned a perfectly good railway siding about 100 metres from the front gate of the track thereby requiring not only marquee rats, but also, honest thirsty punters keen on pushing the .05 envelope to engage in a series of multi vehicle public transport manoeuvres to get to and from the track in twice the time it took from the railway siding.
Around this time, the Werribee Committee – or should I say more accurately, the Port Phillip Racing Association – allowed the track to suffer from neglect to such a point that closure became necessary. to enable remedial repairs that seemed to take an inordinate amount of time for no apparent reason.
Of course, while the years ticked by, the anti-racing mob’s calls to close the track became ever more shrill especially whenever one of the many own goals the racing industry managed to score at that time made the headlines. “Why build houses around the track?” they asked with some apparent logic given how long nothing much had gone on there. “Why not close the track and build there?”
Of course, the supreme irony in this campaign involved a suggestion to build a new station to service the proposed new housing estate – and where do you reckon they wanted to put the station? Yep, right where the old racetrack siding used to be!
Whether by good luck or good management, it is not clear but many believe the successful use of the course as the newly created Post-Arrival-Quarantine facility to house overseas horses arriving for the Spring Carnival from 2000 onwards proved to be the white knight that forestalled its formidable battery of opponents. The nearby University of Melbourne veterinary hospital at Werribee proved to be the ace in the pack too powerful for counter greedy developers, entitled bed wetters and weak local council planning authorities to find their way around.
BTW Smokester, love the story thus far. That omnipresent nascent hint of romance with Laura keeps this reader hanging on for more. For goodness sake my dear boy, when do they consumate it?!
RDL
I love the ‘Jack Shepherd Stakes’ as it brings to mind those one-off races named things like the ‘Happy 70th Mavis Newman’ Stakes. I do enjoy these. I need to emply Otto’s strategy. Thanks, Smokie.
If I remember correctly, the above mentioned quarantine facility in the comments was where the first case of horse flu was discovered.
I hope Swifty doesn’t get I’ll, or worse…