by Jordan McCarthy
a ruby red stout
The majestic gates of Cheltenham
racecourse rise in front of me. Big, golden letters arc above the welcoming
pillars, bordered by a blue sky, dotted with cotton clouds. The welcome sign
glistens in the March sunlight. Getting here is a rite of passage; I’ve reached
the biggest festival, the greatest show.
The natural amphitheatre that is
Prestbury Park is magnificent. The modernised stands alongside the track gape
out over the theatre of grassy plains and rolling hills. The course is flanked
by the wonderful Cleeve Hill, which stands over the racecourse as the most
beautiful backdrop; the shades of green and hues of gold along the hills make
me feel like I’m on an otherworldly adventure.
It doesn’t feel like Cheltenham is
just a hop across the water. Nope. This is like another planet. It is like a
magical land, kind of like the stuff you hear about in fairy tales. Except that
this is real. Cheltenham does exist. I can now vouch for that, even if I never
thought I’d get here.
But, I always knew it existed. Sure,
you’d hear about it on the news on RTE; the late, great Colm Murray giving his
daily updates on how the Irish were doing and what our best chances of a winner
were for the following day. Names like Istabraq and Beef Or Salmon were
familiar to me, but I wasn’t sure why.
I think I officially caught
‘Festival fever’ when I was a 13 year old pupil in secondary school. Some of
the lads were talking about horses that week.
‘‘Can we watch the Champion Hurdle,
sir?’’ one of them asked, on a spring afternoon.
I thought he’d be told ‘no
chance’, but the small antique television flickered on. The teacher reached
legendary status. He also started my yet-to-be-ignited passion for horse
racing. Brave Inca was one of the horses running that day. I heard one of the
older lads in the corridor boasting about a bet he had on him. The guy was
already a very keen punter by that stage. Hardy Eustace won the race, I’m sure.
Harchibald was well up there. Rooster Booster and Macs Joy were some of the
other runners; they were names that caught your attention, though I didn’t know
why.
I remember having two euro on Sir
Rembrandt in the Gold Cup, when he was racing against Kicking King. Take The
Stand was in the line-up. Beef Or Salmon ran, as did Celestial Gold. These sounded
like extravagant names. Kicking King was a character on our alphabet wall in
the primary school days. Rembrandt I’d heard of in history class. I discovered
that, if Sir Rembrandt won the Gold Cup, I’d get around 24 quid back from the
bookies. Anyway, Kicking King was the favourite and sure you couldn’t get rich
backing favourites, you had to try and be smart. Alas, Sir Rembrandt didn’t
win. Kicking King did.
Nevertheless, the spectrum of colours
of the jockeys’ silks, the glorious shades of bay and brown and grey galloping
across the turf and the lavish odds of who and what was going to win had this
lad hooked. I kind of forgot about it then for a while. Except I didn’t really
forget about it at all; the famous Grand National at Aintree came along just a
few weeks after Cheltenham.
‘Let’s watch it, let’s have a bet.
Ring my uncle to do my bet will you, mam?’
Hedgehunter won it that year. Great
name. I envisioned this horse out hunting hedges, and nothing could stop him.
Nothing did stop him. Ruby Walsh was sporting the green and yellow quartered
colours in the saddle. Another great name. Willie Mullins the trainer. Big
name, too. I remember they had the horse on one of those morning television
shows the following week. I thought it was mega. And no, I didn’t back him. I
think my sister did, all the same. I picked Take The Stand, the name registered
with me for some reason.
Being at Cheltenham is surreal.
Commentary of iconic races rings out over the PA system. Punters are filling in
to the stands; some are sipping from plastic cups of ruby red stout, while
others are pouring their eyes over shiny rectangular brochures. Racing
professionals trod across the spring turf, sussing the state of the ground.
Cleeve Hill glimmers in the sunshine. Its aura drags me ever closer to the
rail.
Well, boy, you never thought
you’d get here, did you?
I remove the race programme from my
jacket pocket and flick-open the glossy pamphlet. The Supreme Novices’ Hurdle
is the first race. Altior will be running. Buveur D’air too. There’s Min as
well. Bellshill. Tombstone. Supasundae. Petit Mouchoir. Promising names,
rainbow-like colours, and a series of form figures remind me of why I love it
all so much. Sure, isn’t all a puzzle? And a colourful one at that.
The feeling of excitement reaches
down into the pit of my stomach. My eyes fill, my smile broadens. Seeing the
colour, the names, the glitz and glam of the race card, I hark back to the
schoolyard days. We’d be showing off our collections of soccer stickers. The
more swaps you had, the higher your status in the social circle. I found one
buried deep in the backpack I’m using for my trip to Cheltenham. It was a
Manchester United player – Nicky Butt.
The shiny stickers were worth two
normal stickers. Say, if you had a shiny Coventry City crest or a sparkling
West Ham United badge, then the lads would have to give you two stickers of
soccer players to get you to trade. There were half-stickers as well.
Opening a new packet of Premier
League or World Cup stickers was a sensation that brought meaning to my life as
a nine year old. I think there were around six stickers in a pack. Cost around
50 pence. The smell of new, the smell of printed paper and plastic and vinyl
satisfied my nostrils. On Friday, I might get four or five packets; that was
euphoria. I’d carefully pull open the packet at the top, making sure that my
tearing didn’t rip the sticker. You’d shuffle through; ‘‘have, have, have…yes,
don’t have! Ohh, a shiny Arsenal one, wait ‘til I tell the lads!’’
The relief on my parents’ or
grandparents’ faces when they realised that there were new stickers in the
packet. It was worth the few quid to keep me occupied for a few minutes.
The following week in school, we’d
show each other our collections of swaps. One lad, Dion, had around 700
stickers, clasped together in a chunky, blue elastic band. ‘‘Need two more
stickers to fill the book. Derby County’s Mart Poom and Leicester City’s Muzzy
Izzet. Anyone have ‘em?’’ he’d shout.
For me, as a kid, life was packets of
soccer stickers. Seeing the faces, the colours, improving your collection; it
was like you were achieving something. Filling a book was the dream for years.
Apparently, they had these big trade gatherings in England where people from
all over would go to swap and complete their sticker books. I never did manage
to fill one of the books, mind. Never even got close. Dion almost did. Dion was
almost king.
‘‘Not long to go ‘til the roar, lad,’
beams a small elderly man to my right. The curled-up emphasis on ‘r’ gives him
an accent which is truly wonderful; a West Country accent.
‘‘This is my seventy-fourth year at
the Festival. Been comin’ ‘ere since I was a nipper,’’ he adds.
‘‘You’ve been coming to the races
here for seventy four years?’’ I gush, forgetting about my mental walk through
the nostalgia lane of Premiership stickers. My jaw drops. He has been going to
the races at Cheltenham almost three times longer than I’ve been on this
planet.
‘‘Sure ‘ave. Seen all the greats;
Arkle, Dawn Run, Istabraq, Best Mate, Kauto Star. The lot. Course, ‘ave seen
some mad results, too. Will never forget Norton’s Coin. Hundred to one so he
was,’’ the old man reminisces.
‘‘It’s my first time at Cheltenham.
Feels like a dream, ’’ I say.
‘‘You Irish bloody love it ‘ere.
Course it adds to the atmosphere. Great hearin’ the Irish voices every year.
You’ll be back again for sure!’’
‘‘I hope so. What keeps you coming
back?’’ I ask.
His eyebrows rise in an M, as if I’ve
just asked him to run a lap of the track
‘‘Well, never really thought about
it, lad. I suppose…seeing the horses in all their beauty. It’s good for the
soul. The gambling and drinking followed, but the horses were first. Although
my wife might say that I go racing just to avoid her! Still, I’ll always bring
her something nice back,’’ he said.
‘‘Like jewellery?’’
‘‘Sometimes, yeah. Other times it
might be a stick of rock or one of those women’s magazines.’’
‘‘That’s nice.’’
‘‘What is it for you, lad?’’
‘‘I’m sorry?’’
‘‘What’s your story with horse
racing?’’
‘‘Oh! Am…I just love the colour of it
all really. I love opening a race card or a newspaper and seeing the jockeys’
silks. The horses’ names, too. Racing gives me the same buzz that the Premier
League sticker books gave me as a kid, d’you know what I mean?’’
‘‘Aye, I do lad. Used to buy some of
those football stickers for my grandson, years ago. Kept him quiet while I
watched the racing on the box. He doesn’t like the horses though. Not sure why.
Anyway, nice meeting you, lad. I’m off to get my bet on. Altior is the one
today. Have a few pound on it, son. The boys at the yard tell me that he is a
monster,’’ he says, as he turns and walks towards the jungle that is the
betting ring.
The roar didn’t disappoint. The
crowd’s cheers reverberated across the hills. It was incredible. The race was
incredible, too. Altior won. I had ten pounds on him. I collected my winnings
from the bookmaker down near the finish line. Bliss!
‘‘Well done, bud. Don’t get too fond
of winning now, d’you hear me?’’ he jokingly warned.
He’s probably right. I won’t. But, I
was in front for now. Twenty quid in profit, to be exact. I’ve backed a winner
at Cheltenham and I’m here to take it all in. I think of the amount of Premier
League stickers that nine year old me could buy. Nine year old me is salivating
at the thought.
I take out my smartphone and finger
the words ‘soccer’ and ‘stickers’ into the search engine. My mouth opens. These
are still a thing. Wow! I scroll down through the rest of the
search results and I notice that some full-albums are for sale on the second-hand
buy and sell web pages. The top result is a 1999 Premier League album; Beckham,
Bergkamp and Owen are on the front cover. It’s full with every sticker; all the
players, logos, shiny ones, the team ‘half’ photos, the lot. €300 o.n.o. it
reads. The seller is a KingDion69. Dion? Could it be? I haven’t
seen or heard from him in years. Looks like he found Mart Poom and Muzzy Izzet,
after all. A couple of more winners this week, and I could be paying him a
visit.
About the author
Jordan
McCarthy is a writer, podcaster and producer from Cork, Ireland. He has
written sports features for The Echo and The
Irish Examiner. Read his blog, 'Tipping Away', at thejordanmccarthyblog.wordpress.com or check
out his podcast, 'Leeside Lives'.
