Shady Dog Stories

Kevin Cashman recalls some of the strokes pulled in the greyhound racing game. And some of the plans that came unstuck.

There is a man in Abbeyfeale who feels very badly used because the bookmakers never paid him over a coup he organised at Mullingar Greyhound Racing Stadium in 1978. What he does not broadcast so widely is that his coup was a carbon copy of one done at Dagenham in 1963. And the originators did not get paid either: although their idea was so breathtakingly and simply brilliant that it should have been made the foundation of a Euclid of punting. All of which might seem to prove that plagiarism does not pay.

Well, only some plagiarism doesn't.

For, not so long ago, Murphy's Stroke - a coup at least as ingenious as the Dagenham one was plagiarised. And the organisers, unlike Tony Murphy and his originators, got paid: - well, there again, it depends on how you look at it. It was easy enough to follow up on Murphy's inspiration. But, the imitators added a refinement and avoided a pitfall. Murphy's Stroke failed, in the end, because the "dead" one - the non-runner - was proven never to have left the stable. Repetition of that basic mistake was sedulously and elaborately avoided.

The game plan was the incarnation of simplicity. Three dogs entered at different stadia. First: the odds-on favourite for a major open sweepstake - call him Rocky Marciano. (Not his real name.) Then the "live" one - a dog secretly prepared for a huge and unbeatable improvement on his previous poor performance, and, thence, almost certain to start at goodish odds - Cassius Clay, let's say. And, finally, the "dead" one - Gerry Cooney. Entered only as a blind: but, of course, necessary to be withdrawn within the rules and without arousing suspicion.

The trick now was to back the treble: but, only at the stadium where the first dog was running - which necessitated acceptance of next day's newspapers' starting prices. To bet at the second track would reduce the odds on the "live" one; and at the third track, the "dead" one was already, before racing, listed as a nonrunner.

This, in itself, was a little masterpiece of strategy. A car breakdown out in the country. Then, with time moving on, the racing manager of track number three got a call from a nearby town saying that the caller had been asked to tell him that a dog just might not make it, because of a breakdown out the road. The dog's name? He wasn't sure, ... Mooney? Rooney? something like that. "Gerry Cooney?" "Yes, that's it!" "Thank you very much for your help, caller, you're most obliging." "No problem, glad to be able to help."

Half an hour later the same racing manager had another call from the same town. "Sorry we won't be able to make it with Gerry Cooney; had a breakdown out in the wilds. Sorry about the short notice." "That's okay, some guy rang in for you a while ago." "Oh! did he? We asked him, but we didn't think he'd bother." "There you are, there's some decency left in the world. Did you fancy your own fellow tonight? I hope you're not too disappointed." "Ah, we thought we hall a chance alright. Hut sure, that's the way it goes."

Now check in to HQ - no problems at our end. Okay, all ready to roll here. See you at the share out.

Rocky Marciano flew in at two to one on. And, eighty miles away, so did Cassius Clay. At six to one against.

A bookmaker makes a routine check. Hears those odds. Smells a rat. Rings track number three Gerry Cooney a non-runner!! Caught, hooked, gaffed and squeezed! By the short and curlies! Nine and a half to jasus one - to a jasus monkey! Five grand down the harbour!

Check the other books. Same story - told four times over. Time for cool heads now. No panic. Check Gerry Cooney again. No dice - withdrawal in order, chapter and verse. Easy now, think again.

The press!! Guardian of our freedom! Comforter of the afflicted! Smiter of the unrighteous! Hotfoot to the bar. Okay he's still here. I'll do the talking.

"Hiya, Red; do any good tonight? Yeah, tough ouI' station. Listen you could do both of us a bit of good. How about tomorrow's paper reports no betting Rocky Marciano? Just this once, yeah? Four ton see you right, yeah?"

No deal. Red doesn't want to know. Jumped-up fart. Fix his hash another time.

No surrender. Phone again - bar of track number two.

"Is Blackie there? Hiya, Blackie! Report in yet? Okay! Now listen, how about doing both of us a bit of good? How about Cassius Clay showing at evens in tomorrow's paper? How do you mean you couldn't? There's four ton in it. Okay, okay, how about two to one then? Two to one it is, then!

Sound man, Blackie! Yeah, l owe you one. See you in Harry's."

"Jesus; that was close! Another minute, he'd have phoned it in. Right! So, that's seven to two to a monkey we're each stuck with. No sweat. Don't

forget a ton a man for Blackie.

Quare oul' kick in the cobblers it'll be for the bastards when they see two to one in the morning. Yeah, sure it's all going through life."

Then, there was Benvolio. A large animal. Native of Tipp. Reflective, harmonious, ingratiating - a bit of a conscientious objector, in fact. Too much of the Gelert about him. Babies about to drown in tubs, or skylarks game for a morning's frolic, had his undivided attention and cooperation.

But mechanical hares left him singularly unmoved.

His owner was a man who deplored waste of Nature's gifts. And this same owner was a friend and collaborator of Sylvie from Wicklow who had a way of combining the gifts of Nature and Science. "Putting a bomb under 'em" crude persons called it.

So, Benvolio was sent to Wicklow. And, in the fullness of time, was deemed to have learned the facts and purposes of a dog's life. Or, at least, enough of them for one 325 yard sprint.

So, one evening in the company of Sylvie, and feeling as fit as a mobile pharmacy has ever felt, Benvolio arrived in Cork; there to be greeted by a genial and confident owner and a few professional friends. And there, too, Sylvie was greeted by a man called Buzzy who, being a man who enjoyed a little mystery and enjoyed its solution even more, pressed the convivial cup on the Audenesque principle:

"So it's you that I now raise my glass to

But Sylvie wasn't giving. And Buzzy wasn't giving up. And a check with the mates revealed that four of the five sprinters were, as listed, in local ownership and obedient to the curfew, as of Monday night. And that left Benvolio - and nobody was sure where

he'd been. And Sylvie was being reticent. And Buzzy was thinking fast. And so, when betting on the sprint opened he watched and waited. And watched the pros waiting. And when Benvolio went three to one against, Buzzy struck. Six hundred to two; and three hundred to one three times. And, suddenly, up and down the line the pros were scrambling to get on at evens or worse. And were being baulked and harassed by hangers on and bloodsuckers and enthusiastic amateurs and people who hadn't the vaguest notion what was happening but joined in the melee for reasons no

doubt sufficient to themselves.

The best. laid plans had ganged agley: but nobody told Benvolio, and he shot from traps like one of Mick Barry's milers - fast, straight and true. He was six lengths to the good at the first bend, and eight turning for home. And still eight, thirty yards from the line.

And then he gave a mild protesting moan - and slowed to a lope. At the line he was walking, and beaten by a head.

He collapsed before they reached the kennels. Ten minutes later he was dead. And, most likely, his gentle soul conceived no ill of Sylvie, as flights of songbirds sang him to his rest.

It was a rare setback for Sylvie. He was a methodical man, and took the view that life, far from being a matter of peaks and valleys, should tend more to the likeness of a spiral staircase. Recoupment he considered to be not only desirable but imperative.

It duly happened that a man, who gloried in the possession of a Rolls Royce, an indescribably gorgeous wife, and the rank of Englishman, came to buy a greyhound from Sylvie. At the end of a tour of the kennels he asked Sylvie to recommend a dog. Now, Sylvie had many commendable dogs but only one that he wished to sell.

So, this dog, let us call him Aspic, was led out, resplendent in jacket of deepest red, and stated to be on offer at three hundred guineas. And the buyer bethought him of his motor, his wife and his rank, and told Sylvie that he had something a little classier in mind. So, Aspic was led away, and Sylvie suggested that the matter might best be discussed over lunch. That seemed an admirable idea, and Sylvie had just one telephone call to make before they left for town.

But, at Sylvie's favourite, discreetly exclusive, restaurant, they were informed that every table was taken. So, Sylvie had to insist that the manager be called. Who, of course, on seeing Sylvie and his distinguished party, instantly arranged for lunch to be served in his private suite. And, seeing who was in it, champagne was, naturally, de rigueur. And two very famous, very handsome international sportsmen chanced to drop in; and were introduced, and joined the party, and, a little later, took turns at dancing with the indescribably gorgeous wife, and discussing Rolls Royces with the husband and Sylvie, and toasting the indubitable success of the upcoming deal.

And, towards evening, they all returned to the kennels. And Aspic was led out resplendent in jacket of royal blue, and stated to be on offer at two thousand guineas. And the buyer thought ... well, perhaps something not quite that pricey. But the indescribably gorgeous wife said "Nonsense, darling", she was in love with the dog already, and just couldn't leave without it.

Thus did Aspic become an emigrant; and Sylvie begin to think a little less unkindly of poor Benvolio.

That little seam of iron in Sylvie's soul should call forth neither surprise nor aspersion. He was far into man's estate before ever he came upon a primrose path. In his childhood in darkest Clare there was little to love except Battling Banner Boy, and Sylvie loved him not wisely but too well.

But Sylvie's father was a man who, of stark necessity, had an eye, and a keen one, to the main chance. And dearly as Sylvie and Battling Banner Boy . himself would have loved to swagger home a field in front, night after glorious race night, harsh economic factors far beyond their tender control ordained that things would rest not so, but very much indeed otherwise.

And so, night after excruciating race night, Sylvie suffered as the Battling Boy trailed in also ran. And, while Sylvie suffered in the mind, the Battler suffered agonies of the flesh. For Sylvie's parent was not one to squander his meagre substance on those lbs. of raw sausages and white puddings which were the modish way of nailing one to the ground in that bygone age. Instead, as he installed the Battler in traps he would squeeze the collar as near to strangulation point as would have educed mutiny from any but the noble Battler.

The wait was long and agonising for Sylvie, and more so for Battling Banner Boy. But the great night came. The Battler was "off". Sylvie listened as his father mumbled of "options" and "first refusal" and "security" and the like to fast-talking, flitty-eyed men.

And watched as they streaked amongst the bookmakers and winked and gave each other thumbs up. And as they paraded Sylvie winked at the Battler too, and gave him a blushing secret thumbs up, and could have sworn that the

Battler winked back.

Into traps, and this time no choking, no wheezing, no eyeball straining gasping. The hare came round and the other dogs never sa w Banner Boy again. They only felt his slipstream - and it nearly bowled them over. Round the last, and stopwatches were coming alive and burning the hands of their owners.

And Sylvie would not be denied, All the pride and defiance and stifled joy of all the lost and downtrodtlen generations of DalgCais surged forth in one pounding convulsive exultant whoop "Come on the Banner! Yooooo!"

And the Banner came. Fifteen yards before the winning line he came - bounding over the wall, and bristling and whooping in his tum, into Sylvie's arms.

Sylvie never went home. Years later in Birmingham, he heard that the Battler himself and a fair deal more around the old place had gone to settle with the fast-talking ones.

And the stars faded from Sylvie's eyes, and thereafter he watched many thousands of races and six times as many dogs. And each one entered in‡ delibly into his mind. But no further.. .