Bet your bottom dollar, The Everest is the best

The glitz and glamour of The Everest is nothing without the thrill of the win.

Jockey Kerrin McEvoy rides Redzel to victory in The Everest. Picture: AAP

Who can deny the thrill of it? The flash suits. Voluptuous dresses. Polished shoes. The thunderous sound of hoofs. The drumbeat hours before the main event. The expectations. The predictions. The glorious ridiculousness of gambling on these animals, but alas the irresistible lure of it. You study the form. You take into account the opinions of the so-called experts. See how many winners they tip every weekend? Not many. They’re as wonderfully clueless as the rest of us. What foolish fun it is.

The Everest has 12 runners. Shoals is the $5 favourite. She’s agitated while she’s walking through the mounting yard but she likes a wet track, apparently, and it’s been pissing down on a 40,000-strong crowd that seems to comprise entirely of 30-year-old pissheads. She’s been brilliant at her last start, apparently, but she’s clearly not privy to the calming techniques used by the military and being shared with the greatest stress-heads in the country, the Olympic swimmers. Redzel looks more composed but he’s been no good recently. After his most recent start, he’s fortunate they didn’t take him out the back to be shot. So to speak. He’s paying $7.40 and has one thing going for him. You’ve heard of him.

Graff is strutting around, more Shaun than Steffi. There’s a late surge on him. Nine runners end up between $5 and $13. You’re on Redzel.

Now, put all these horses in a police line-up and you wouldn’t know Redzel from Little Red Riding Hood, but you’ve nevertheless made a financial investment in him. There’s no personal attachment. There’s no life story to grasp onto. You can appreciate that trainers, jockeys, owners and Bruce McAvaney become extremely emotional about these creatures, but all I see is a horse wishing it was somewhere else. All I can think about is a quote from the young Muhammad Ali about the times he thought he was being wheeled out purely for the entertainment and profit of rich folk: “They stand around and say, ‘Good boy. You’re a good boy. Good goin’.”

The Everest — wealthy people are about to get wealthier while mug punters do their arse again or pick up some minor winnings. The folly of it all. You’ve gotta bet huge to win huge. But most people cannot afford to bet huge. So they lose often, and when they win, it’s only small. I won’t see anyone celebrating the quality of The Everest unless they’re holding a ticket with Redzel’s name on it. Because to the vast majority, at the track and in pubs, winning money is the only aim. I’ve never seen the average racegoer celebrating a race while ripping up a losing ticket. To those outside the inner circle of devoted horse lovers, the rest of us view these creatures as money-making machines rather than majestic thoroughbreds. As a chance to jump around and pump our fists like Montgomery Burns in The Simpsons. I’m richer than you!

A hundred dollars has been thrown on Redzel. It feels idiotic. It’s money that could have bought new school shoes for the kids. Gone towards their term fees. A couple of nights at the movies. Paid off a bit of the credit card. It won’t break the bank if we lose, but it still feels irresponsible. Gamble responsibly? There’s no such thing. Bookmakers prey on the vulnerable and desperate. But here I am, lining their pockets. I have no interest in Redzel putting up a good fight, in producing a gallant defeat, in providing entertainment. I’m here to win a quid. If he loses, I will hate that bloody horse. If it wins, different story. The thrill.

And they’re off! It’s exhilarating. The skill of Kerrin McEvoy’s ride, I don’t see that. I just see 12 horses running. I feel dread and excitement and nerves and hope of a tidy little windfall. All the same feelings that come from watching a roulette wheel spin. The same question is at the heart of it. Am I going to win some cash? I don’t see the nuances in McEvoy’s ride. I don’t care for them. It may as well be a computer game. The only thing that matters is the final placings. One Kurt Vonnegut-style sentence is all we need. When Vonnegut wrote his first and last piece on horse racing for Sports Illustrated, he was asked to do a piece on a horse that jumped a fence and tried to run away. He stared at a blank page for most of the day and then wrote: “The horse jumped over the f...ing fence.” What else was there to say?

Redzel won the f...ing Everest. Enough said. And now I love that horse. I love that horse with everything I have. There’s the connection, it made me money. For those who have burned their cash on Shoals, it’s demoralising. Damon Runyon’s theory that if you rub up against money for long enough, some of it may rub off on you — well, it doesn’t always work like that. When you lose, the only way to get it back is to risk losing more. The greed of it all. When you have a win, you want to win more. And more. One thrill leads to a craving for another, the power of addiction.

Later in the day, The Autumn Sun is in the Caulfield Guineas. It’s a $1.60 favourite. More. More. You whack your winnings from Redzel on it. You regret it immediately. It’s coming fourth. The miserable bastard. The feeling is paralysing. The regret is immeasurable. It sneaks up to third. You good thing! Back to fifth, three-deep. To fourth. To third. To second! He hits the lead with 200m to go. He cannot lose from there. It’s the most beautiful sight … when you have money on him. It’s euphoric. A mate has backed the long shots and done his dough. Twice. The poor bugger. I’m richer than you, thanks to Redzel and The Autumn Sun. Good boys. You’re both good boys. Good goin’.