Cocks Plate

Footy over, my attention goes to the track. Fact is, it never really leaves the track. Curable only by death is the punt. Let no one tell you otherwise.

 

Frankly I need a rest from footy. Well not footy per se, it’s the dialogue. It’s the continual talking heads telling you nothing. And moreover, taking forever to tell you nothing. One week at a time, every week for six months. Ten zillion footy shows and analysis of every stat known to man, apart from the scoreboard. Why don’t they analyse the scores, they’re important, aren’t they?

 

Anyway a break will do me good and return me to the track. The Police (Mrs Sharpen) has other ideas with an endless list of household chores. Things get a bit behind in winter.

 

Moonee Valley’s big day always coincides with Hobart Show week. We used to have the Hobart Show Cup on Cox Plate day. Now there’s no racing in Tassy on Saturdays. We are dominated by Sky Channel and we’ve been shunted to Sundays and Wednesday nights. Doesn’t stop the punter. Rain hail or shine the Tassy’s line up.

 

I spent Friday night watching and wondering. Watching Moonee O’Valley and wondering how they’d get it back up and ready for the punter and the pony. Seems they managed.

 

Saturday arrived and a good study of the form revealed it was difficult to get traction on any of the runners. I scoff at those who say, “It’s a poor field. I say, “Get one in it and have a crack.” But I was starting to think geez, I’m like the rest, there isn’t too much to enthuse about this year.

 

I break from domesticity every half hour or so to keep my eye in. Then a cuppa, a nice piece of sponge and the inevitable question from the Police, “What time Is the Cup on?” They know there is racing and they know it’s important so by very deduction it must be a Cup. Ever been to a country pub and footy trophy night is on? Standing in the gents I’ll often ask, “Who won the big one?” they’ll soon tell you. Well springtime is no different.  The Cup? It’s about as clever as Boxing Day’s perennial, “Who’s winning?” “What the Test or the Sydney-Hobart?” I generally reply. Blank looks, not realising either were on, or for that matter what they are about.

 

They are at the barrier and the Police looks interested. They’re off! One of the youngsters slides to the front. The Sheik’s “Holmes” comes over and looks for cover.  Despite the bleatings of the weight advantage, I’ve never warmed to the three year olds. It’s like AFL veterans playing under 19’s. The weight is one thing, a tough battle hard thoroughbred is something else.

 

Weiry wont settle. The grey rips and tears. Some get posted and look like they’ll be there for the duration. Down the Dean Street side and now Gai is caught wide. Young Shinn surges forward. All Gai’s go forward. They love it up on the speed, this time outside the leader. I said to the Police this is one of Gai’s outside the leader with the white winkers. The Police sits up and takes more notice. She loves Gai. Or more accurately, she likes what she has done in the once male-dominated Sport of Kings. She loves Gai big time. “It’ll be three in front when this leader drops off.” I say with authority. She takes more notice. “They won’t catch it.” I add knowingly. But on the turn the leader slips away.

 

What the hell is it? The big saddlecloth number says it’s a three-year old. I fumble for the form guide. Then I scan back looking for mine. “Where am I?” I think. Where’s Byron and Roy Rogers? Then he charges. For one fleeting moment I think I’m gonna get there. Excitement takes over, I jump up from the rocker recliner. As I do, my track pants fall down, I’m wearing no underpants!