The youth club were looking more cheerful than I’d seen them at any time since the Fitzroy Football Club went tropical. After a small scuffle, Norm O’Neill won the front passenger seat. Argument about the day’s racing at Caulfield resumed.
‘Blind some people,’ said Wilbur Ong from the back. ‘Can’t see the elephant till it farts. Clarrie Kendall is Croft’s brother-in-law. This horse of Croft’s turns up in three of the last four Kendall’s got nags in. What’s his job? His bloody job’s to see Kendall’s ponies get a run. And you keep backin the thing. Just a bloody donor, that’s what you are.’
‘Typical,’ said Norm O’Neill, adjusting the fit of his flat cap. ‘Always lookin in the wrong place for the answer. That’s your problem, Wilbur, always has bin, always will be. Now take that horse Dunedin Star…’
‘Christ,’ said Eric Tanner. ‘Bloody Dunedin Star. Bloody Dunedin Star again, I’m jumpin out of this vehicle.’
‘Ten minutes to the TAB stop, men,’ I said. ‘I suggest you concentrate on your selections. And don’t worry about the second.’
June the second. Birthday of Cam’s cousin. The horse was running at Caulfield. On its record, there was no reason to believe the animal would earn its training bill today.
‘Got somethin?’ said Wilbur. ‘Hot, is it?’
‘Smouldering,’ I said. Passing on tips is dangerous. On the other hand, I’d had three tips from Cam in four years. Record: 3-0.
Outside the TAB, I said. ‘Fly Tonight, number six in the second. All care. No responsibility.’
Nodding vigorously, Norm led the charge.
Back on the road inside ten minutes. No-one had anything on the first race. We were closing in on the unhallowed ground when they came out of the gate for the second. Silence in the car. Eleven horses, twelve hundred metres.
Fly Tonight didn’t put any strain on the pre-war hearts, led from start to finish, won by two-and-a-half lengths.
The exultation was deafening. When they’d finished patting me on the shoulders, Norm said, ‘Know somethin, Jack, me boy. Had an eye on that horse meself.’
‘Christ, no,’ said Eric. ‘Not another Dunedin Star.’
Waverley Park, gale blowing the rain horizontally towards the scoreboard end. It wasn’t a day for pretty football. We found a spot on the edge of the big crowd of Saints supporters. Not quite with them, definitely not with the other lot. Geelong kicked two early goals against the wind. The Saints dawdled around a bit, then started kicking goals. The youth club made no comment until the sixth one without reply.
‘Bloody handbags,’ said Norm. He raised his voice slightly. ‘Stick it up em, Sainters.’
‘Go Saints,’ said Wilbur, mildly.
‘Much improved side,’ said Eric in the measured manner of a judge.
The Lark conveyed home a wet but content foursome. The Saints three-goal winners. Spirits were further improved by a stop at a TAB to pick up the winnings.
‘Jesus, Jack,’ said Eric, ‘they give you the money with a spade. What’d ya have on it?’
‘The farm,’ I said. ‘Story of my life.’
We had a few beers at the Prince, talked about the game, no major disagreements. The loyalty transplant couldn’t be declared a success until the youth club began making judgments about St Kilda players, tactics, the coach, the umpires, club management, the quality of the opposition, and which teams the Saints should hate most.
Stan came over, back to his normal state of grump, not the jovial Pickwickian publican this evening. ‘Talked to my old bloke,’ he said. ‘Get no sense out of him. Won’t sell. Gone out of his tree up there in the bloody sunshine.’
I said, ‘Been out of that particular tree all the time I’ve known him.’
He put his elbows on the counter, leaned towards me. ‘Jack, there’ll never be a better offer for the bloody place. Talk to him, will you?’
I looked around at the patrons. Ten years would see off most of them. ‘Let me think about it,’ I said. ‘Let me have a good long think.’
A ten-year think.
At home, sad, misty, loveless Saturday night, a chicken pie and two glasses of red took care of me.