"A two-ton lottery ticket, waiting to be cashed"

Paul Fitzpatrick

There’s a reason why old-style bookies’ shops have two or three windows taking in bets and only one paying out. Mug punters – pleased to meet you – are what keeps the turf accountants' coffers over-flowing.
I like a bet but I am well aware that for some people, the practice is destructive. Online betting is extremely dangerous because, like a poisonous gas, it’s silent and invisible. It should be regulated closely.
But, I am a believer that every adult should bear some responsibility for their own decisions, too. And in that spirit, I continue to gamble, winning sometimes, losing moretimes.
Now, here's a parable. On St Patrick’s Day last, I was in Croke Park for the All-Ireland club finals. Standing around in one of the smoking areas after Ballyhale Shamrocks had won the hurling, I was approached by an elderly gentleman in a cap.
“Could I borrow your mobile phone to make a phone call?” he asked. Sure, I said, handing it over.
After ringing a character called, I think, Larry, he returned the device and asked me what he owed me. Nothing, I told him, being an extremely generous sort.
“I’ll tell you what,” he said, throwing a conspiratorial wink my way, “I’ll give you a tip for a horse instead.”
By now, I was all ears. “And he will make you a lot more than the price of a phone call, I’ll tell ya!” my fellow Gael added with the flourish of the salesman.
And lo, he announced, in a half-whisper, the name of the nag. It was called Grange Walk.
“Is he any good?” I asked, glancing around me, for some reason, nervously, making sure there were no eavesdroppers.
“Oh yes,” he said assuredly, “he’ll be out to win soon. He'll be running in England.”
Of course, being a seasoned bettor, I recognised this opportunity for what it was. A less shrewd type may have let the moment pass but not me. This was it, the sort of golden nugget of information that comes along once in a lifetime. This chance meeting was going to make me rich.
What a lucky break it was for me to meet an oracle of the turf with such insider knowledge, a hurling man with such disdain for Gaelic football that he wasn’t even staying for the second game. Truly, this Kilkenny fellow was a sporting purist, I felt, a lover, in equal part, of both sports of kings, the spellbinding game of hurling, self-professed code of the warriors, and, of course, the noble pastime of racing thoroughbred horses.
And here I was, in his presence. Oh, lucky day! I wore a grin wider than the Golden Vale as we shot the breeze.
Grange Walk, Grange Walk. Grange. Walk. I rolled the words around in my mouth in anticipation. They tasted good. So good that I couldn’t wait to share the excellent news of our forthcoming good fortune with my fellow patrons on Jones’s Road, who were wisely sheltering from the biting Spring breeze at a pricey little hostelry beside the jacks to the rear of the Cusack Stand.
“I got a tip for a horse,” I announced grandly, adopting the racing parlance as I added that it was “a good thing” and hurriedly relaying my good fortune to encounter a sporting savant like The Man In The Cap, with his metaphorical camán in one hand and bulging wallet of winning dockets in the other.
“How good of a thing?” came the first inquiry from one of the lads.
“Let’s just say,” I replied, inspecting my fingernails, “that the boom will soon be back, baby.”
It was only when they, understandably, wanted to know the horse’s name that I realised I had forgotten. Cue deep sorrow on my part and naked scorn on theirs.
And then, several pints later, redemption. I recounted the tale again and one of my compadres stopped me. “Hold on. Did you say he used your phone?”
“Yes,” I said, “he was arranging to meet some lad called Larry for a lift home.”
“Sure, ring Larry.”
So I raced out of the pub – the football was long over and we were now in a city centre watering hole – and called the number my sage new friend had dialled earlier. As luck would have it, Larry was still on the road and my pal was beside him. Grange Walk, he told me again quickly, was the name of this four-year-old equine superstar, this two-ton lottery ticket waiting to be cashed.

Waiting game
And then, the waiting game began. Three weeks later, scanning the entries online, I spotted that this princely chestnut gelding was declared to run in Windsor, in the shadow of the castle (I may have made that last part up).
He was priced at a meaty 14/1 in a 15-runner race. I laughed aloud at the bookmakers' folly before I gathered up whatever I could spare and lumped on him, having first informed all friends, family and passing acquaintances of the good news.
Unfortunately, in the hands of jockey Paddy Bradley, trouble in running saw him finish fourth, inches out of the money. Next time out, at Lingfield, he was ninth of 14. In late May, he was fifth of seven. A trend was developing. Each time, I backed him. Each time, I lost.
The big one was on July 8, back in Windsor. That date is my brother's birthday, which I took as a promising omen. It was also two days after Cavan had been hammered by Tyrone in the All-Ireland qualifiers; I ignored any prophetic sporting significance that may have held.
Race day came and Grange Walk went off at 5/1 and this time he meant business. With two furlongs to go, he was produced. With one to go, he looked the winner. But Arctic Sea out-lasted him on the home stretch.
I looked at my phone and the texts were flooding in. “Walk is right,” said one of the kinder messages. “Paddy Bradley should have stuck to the football,” said another. The rest are unprintable.
I kept an eye on old Grange Walk as the season wore on. He ran twice more, at Sandown and Epsom, never finishing better than third. As I write, his records now stands at 11 runs, zero wins. His total career earnings are under £3,000, which, I imagine, would hardly keep him in hay. But I hope he's happy, nonetheless, even if my face was longer than his every time he ran.
The moral of the story? I have learned my lesson.
Never, ever lend your phone to anyone, especially not a hurling man with a passion for the gee-gees. It could prove more expensive than you would think.