October
FebruaryRiddle of the ring
The Sphinx. He would stare into the betting ring and for a $2 punter at Caulfield just to watch the Sphinx was enough. He was all class.
Brylcreamed hair. Spotless in demenour and flash suits.
That was John H. Griffiths. He would appear to be staring out into the nothingness but no doubt had his minions placing bets around the ring and beyond. He never blinked. Cool as that proverbial cucumber.
As an 18-year-old you just gawked at John H.
My brother John and I were warriors from the Moonee Valley North Hill and from the Moonee Valley flat. The South Hill was operating back then but we avoided it. Too far to walk from the North Hill.
We got used to watching rump fly past and ready up for the run to the judge.
Soon we branched out to Caulfield and Flemington. Mark Read was in full steam on the outer ring at Flemington. His odds were 10-20 per cent better than the rest of the ring.
John H. Griffiths held court in the prime spot on track on the coveted rails.
He was the man. Unflappable.
We couldn’t afford to bet with John H., but it made our day just to watch him.
Sadly the ring today is but a shadow of its former self. But as my late brother John would say: “Kev, they’re the breaks!”
Ocean Grove (Vic)