the odds. Sometimes his stable commissioners stride past one after another rails bookmaker, challenging each to risk the most he dares on a horse at long odds and with moderate form. At other times, the man himself lurks at the rear of the betting ring, looking to profit modestly from information obtained in the utmost secrecy. This man may have the appearance of the man that my father pointed out to me at Flemington in 1956, but much about him is other than factual. And so, A. R. Sands the demigod, as I call him, may have the sandy hair and the alert expression of the man that I followed through the betting ring, but whereas the man who backed Sandara had a wife and at least one child, my hero is unencumbered by domestic concerns. In his private life he resembles Jack Holt, a renowned trainer of the 1920s and 1930s, who became known as the Wizard of Mordialloc on account of his many successful betting coups. (It was a coincidence that both my hero-trainers had their stables at the same racecourse.) Holt was a lifelong bachelor who lived simply with his two unmarried sisters as housekeepers and companions. He had been born into poverty but amassed a fortune, most of which he bequeathed to charity.
Worshipping a demigod is rather like being in love—not the sort of love depicted in films or described in romance novels but the irrational, obsessive passion that has sometimes taken hold of me and that caused me to think for many years that I was unique, until I learned otherwise from reading the fiction of Marcel Proust. The worshipper of a demigod, far from approaching the object of worship, hangs back, keeps at a distance, remains for the time being unknown. For months, or even for years, it is enough for the worshipper to know that the demigod exists and is available for observation. During this period of preparation, the worshipper has to learn all that can possibly be learned about the demigod’s whims, preferences, beliefs, whatever comes under the heading of way of life . At the same time, the worshipper has to change, to improve, and to become worthy of the notice of the demigod at some fortunate time in the far future. Perhaps I exaggerate, but I can recall myself in late 1957 and early 1958 noting the details of every race start of every horse trained by Alf Sands. I had set myself the impossible task of learning from a longitudinal study of his horses’ careers how to predict when he was about to launch a betting plunge on one or another of them.
I recall a day in 1958 when I absented myself from the teachers’ college that I was obliged to attend daily. I travelled by bus to the Redan racecourse (Ballarat had two racecourses in those days—Dowling Forest and Redan). I was confident that one of the two Sands horses engaged that day would be well backed and would win. I even had the vague and absurd hope that one of the trusted stable punters, or even Alf himself, might see me collecting my modest winnings after the race and might be so impressed by my sagacity as to make himself known to me. (From this may be learned one of the several great differences between myself and my father, who were driven in opposite directions by our obsession with racing. He bet boldly and thrust himself into the company of the insiders, the smart men that he so admired; I bet timidly and dreamed about my admired characters from afar.) Nothing of the sort happened, and Alf’s horses finished well back after having drifted in the betting.
At the height of my infatuation with A. R. Sands and his ways, I noted that he had an entrant in the Melbourne Cup. This was in 1957, when I worked for a few months as a junior clerk, filling in time before I could begin my course at a primary teachers’ college. The man at the next desk was named Martin Dillon. He will be mentioned in another section of this book. He too was a racing tragic, although the expression had not yet been devised at that time. He had a great respect for Alf Sands but I
Worshipping a demigod is rather like being in love—not the sort of love depicted in films or described in romance novels but the irrational, obsessive passion that has sometimes taken hold of me and that caused me to think for many years that I was unique, until I learned otherwise from reading the fiction of Marcel Proust. The worshipper of a demigod, far from approaching the object of worship, hangs back, keeps at a distance, remains for the time being unknown. For months, or even for years, it is enough for the worshipper to know that the demigod exists and is available for observation. During this period of preparation, the worshipper has to learn all that can possibly be learned about the demigod’s whims, preferences, beliefs, whatever comes under the heading of way of life . At the same time, the worshipper has to change, to improve, and to become worthy of the notice of the demigod at some fortunate time in the far future. Perhaps I exaggerate, but I can recall myself in late 1957 and early 1958 noting the details of every race start of every horse trained by Alf Sands. I had set myself the impossible task of learning from a longitudinal study of his horses’ careers how to predict when he was about to launch a betting plunge on one or another of them.
I recall a day in 1958 when I absented myself from the teachers’ college that I was obliged to attend daily. I travelled by bus to the Redan racecourse (Ballarat had two racecourses in those days—Dowling Forest and Redan). I was confident that one of the two Sands horses engaged that day would be well backed and would win. I even had the vague and absurd hope that one of the trusted stable punters, or even Alf himself, might see me collecting my modest winnings after the race and might be so impressed by my sagacity as to make himself known to me. (From this may be learned one of the several great differences between myself and my father, who were driven in opposite directions by our obsession with racing. He bet boldly and thrust himself into the company of the insiders, the smart men that he so admired; I bet timidly and dreamed about my admired characters from afar.) Nothing of the sort happened, and Alf’s horses finished well back after having drifted in the betting.
At the height of my infatuation with A. R. Sands and his ways, I noted that he had an entrant in the Melbourne Cup. This was in 1957, when I worked for a few months as a junior clerk, filling in time before I could begin my course at a primary teachers’ college. The man at the next desk was named Martin Dillon. He will be mentioned in another section of this book. He too was a racing tragic, although the expression had not yet been devised at that time. He had a great respect for Alf Sands but I
Similar Books
