Bread man never failed to deliver
By Shane Templeton, June 23, 2015 - 2:42 PM

Each week Shane Templeton brings Winning Post readers a yarn from racing's past. This appeared in the June 6, 2015 edition.

So I wake to a dawn suburban symphony.
Twittering of birds backed by the percussive clip-clop of the milkman’s horse plugging his way around Woodvale Grove, Essendon.
This is the very early ’60s. The telephone prefix of the area is FX.
The DLP is a political force and we are in the middle of its heartland.
Doctors visit patients. The postman generally walks.
Everything is home-delivered if you want, by kids on bikes or vans or carts pulled by horses which are very much a part of daily life.
Years earlier, a young man with ambition escapes his family dairy farm in South Australia to get a job in Glenelg.
Such an upbringing is unfortunate for someone who does not like cows. To emphasise his point, he takes his tea strictly black.
He does, however, love horses.
He secures a position delivering on a horse-drawn vehicle.
Not milk, of course. Bread.
Regularly his route steers him to the racing stables of Bart Cummings’s father, Jim, trainer of many great horses including the mighty Comic Court, winner of the 1950 Melbourne Cup.
George Hanlon watches, listens and learns as hungry customers wonder what’s holding up the bread rolls.
Inevitably, George and Bart move to Melbourne to establish their legendary roles in Australian racing history.
With his unprecedented achievements and quotable quotes, Bart is folklore material, an icon in every sense of the word.
George is a master horseman too, with three Melbourne Cups of his own and many other big race wins.
But, for many of us, he is best remembered for brightening up a grey, routine racing afternoon with daring strategies, quirky responses and interesting philosophies.
Like a certain winter Saturday at Caulfield where George is saddling up one of the main chances in the staying race.
Now George is a deep thinker and keen observer.
He is a pioneer of thorough track walks and the reading of bias.
On many a wet track, like this one, George finds the fast lane for his horses and reaps rewards in unusual circumstances.
Not this time.
Unbeknown to most, jockey Michael Barlow is riding under strict instructions: to make a beeline to the outside fence as soon as he reaches the 800-metre mark.
An astonished crowd watches as young Michael obeys orders.
The horse finishes a distant fourth.
Dumbstruck soon turns to rowdy unrest.
George hurtles down from the trainers’ stand to the mounting yard, yelling: “It’s my fault. Blame me.”
Okay, say stewards, call him in and serve him with a reprimand, probably for not notifying tactics.But the official report concludes the result of the race was not affected.
Sun racing writer Brian Meldrum does not buy this.
Armed with a measuring device and accompanied by a photographer, he heads back to Caulfield the day after.
He is amused to find an aspiring young steward there as well, doing much the same thing. They both conclude that George’s horse covers the equivalent of about 20 extra lengths in distance.
Brian forcefully writes that the horse should have at least finished third and therefore the result for each-way, place and trio/trifecta punters was affected.
Another time, George wins a race for one of his new owners, Robert Holmes a Court.
Eager pressmen, who love swarming around George, are quizzing him relentlessly about the future of this galloper.
All George will say is what a great owner this rich man is.
Eventually one journo — you guessed it, B. Meldrum — bites:
“Why is he such a good owner, George?”
Quick reply: “I never hear from him.”
Then there is the post-race conference to top them all.
Two weeks earlier, a George horse, backed from juicy odds in, wins by a space.
Same track, distance, similar class, now this galloper is a red-hot favourite.
Unsighted.
The jeering is deafening as the reporters take their places for the Hanlon performance.
“I feel like booing too,” George opens the show.
A couple of lines later: “Really, this horse isn’t all that good.”
Like lightning, Rollo Roylance is on the offensive.
“Last time you said he was the most promising horse in the stable.”
Silence.
George breaks it with a puzzled look and: “Did I say that, did I?”
Then it’s his turn. The anecdotal, homespun rationale we are expecting.
“I was at the golf one day. Went especially to watch Jack Nicklaus. You wouldn’t believe it. Couldn’t sink a putt. Missed one after the other.
“I went to the footy to watch Geelong another time. Doug Wade just kept missing goals.”
The journos are taking notes, shaking heads, smiling, some laughing.
George continues until he is ready to make his crucial point about racehorses.
They are only human.

 

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