Another good 'un gone
Uncle Gerry died on
Saturday. Another good ‘un gone.
Gerry, Dublin born and bred,
loved his racing, as I found out on a family holiday to Ireland a few years
ago. My mate Bacchy had been put on to this horse called Down To The Woods. One
of the best two-year-olds in Mark Johnston's Middleham yard at the time. We had
won on the colt more than once already.
So, come late August, I'm
telling Uncle Gerry about this in his local bar in Raheny, a decent enough
suburb in north Dublin.
“Oh yes, it's running at Doncaster tomorrow.”
“Is that so, now?”
“It's already won there, so it should go well.”I've had a Guinness or two so the bullshit is beginning to flow quite nicely.
“As long as the ground doesn't come up too soft it's a real contender.”
You would really think I
knew what I was talking about. I frighten myself sometimes.
“D'ye hear this, Michael? We have a tip for the races tomorrow.”
The landlord leans over and
pours us another smooth one.
“Ah, I like a bet myself on the horses from time to time. What's the name of yer fancy?”
“Down To The Woods, Doncaster. Two-thirty. Can't lose. I know the partnership that owns it”.
A needless flourish. But I
think I got away with it. There was a metaphorical wink and tap of the nose. I
wince just to think about it.
Gerry was one of the most
quietly spoken, gentlest and understated guys I knew. Possessing enormous
integrity and naturally garnering respect. We had a good banter in his local
that night. There was a lot more to him than met the eye. It was obvious from
the tone of the conversation how highly he was regarded by his friends.
Passionate lover of Gaelic football, he talked me through the subtleties of the
game; former golf club captain, we reminisced about Ryder Cups.
I’d not spent much time with Gerry away from his lovely wife and he was more animated than I'd seen him before. Like he’d been
let loose. Aunty Carmel is spectacularly generous and warm-hearted. She does like
to talk, though. These facts are not unrelated, I suspect.
Gerry sidled up at
breakfast, next morning. In no more than a whisper, he said,
“Now David. Would you be thinking of having a little bet on that there horse you mentioned?”
“I’ll check to see if he’s a runner”,...and nipped out to buy a paper. Down To The Woods was declared alright and in no time at all Gerry whisked me down to the local Ladbrokes. As if by telepathy, Michael from the boozer was in there too. I grinned and he exchanged knowing glances with Gerry.
Gerry played it cool. I had
no idea how much he and Michael put down. I wouldn’t have dreamt of asking. But
I got a tad nervous. My credibility was at stake here. Wish I'd kept my
gibbering stout-loosened tongue still.
The family and I were off to
a holiday cottage in Wexford for the week, so I knew I wouldn’t see the race.
We bade farewell and struggled through heavy traffic heading south out of
Dublin. Soon I realised why. We passed Leopardstown. The place was mobbed with
punters queuing to watch Giants Causeway edge another epic struggle in his
glittering career. Today was Irish Champions Day. I could see the towering
Grandstand from the car. My thoughts turned to Doncaster, but I couldn't pick
up anything on the radio.
Hours later we saw the other
extreme of Irish racing as we snaked past the ramshackle Wexford racecourse
perched on a rise overlooking the coast outside the town.
The cottage was a few miles
down the road and was fantastic, set next to a ruined castle overlooking a
perfect horseshoe harbour. And the telly had teletext! Down To The Woods won at
a miserly 2-1. The morning prices were a touch more generous. I was saved! “Pissed
it”, Bacchy told me later.
Sometimes the smallest
victories are really the biggest.
Gerry said I was welcome
back any time and especially if I'd got some red hot tips. There was free Guinness
in his bar whenever I chose to collect.
We met a few times since,
but I never did quite manage to cash that one in.
Rest in peace, Gerry. Much
respect.
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