The telephone rang and sounded like a 1940s alarm clock. At least 20 seconds per ring. The telephone, a pre-war type, resembled one of the props from the Enigma Code.
The arranged call was from one of the most successful greyhound owners in the UK. The receiver of the call: an old Irishman hiding away in the most desolate part of West Ireland on the banks of the River Corrib.
The reason for the call: a joint agreement. How the two men had been linked together was their love of greyhounds. The owner had decided to breed from one of his best bitches and had placed an advert in the Sporting Life.
It was pure chance that the Irishman even saw the advert, which had been dropped in the pub by some hill climber. Greyhound Trainer required to whelp and rear a litter of greyhounds.
The bitch, Top Smile, had been mated with Faithful Hope, the winner of the English Greyhound Derby; the mating was pure class. In response to the advertisement the old Irishman had written a little note and offered his services as a trainer.
It appeared that the contents of the letter were what the owner was looking for; a little place in Ireland, far from civilisation. He wanted the rearing to be bleak and old fashioned - 'the Irish way'; he wanted the pups to be hard and keen. The irishman was in fact hiding away from something.
No one seemed to know what; he had been a very successful trainer 15 years before and had owned and trained some very good greyhounds, so he was not actually lying.
However he hadn’t had a fair dog ever since and was living with his wife in virtual isolation.
They lived in a very small cottage, two rooms, a few chickens and a potato patch that hadn’t altered since the potato famine. It was barren and just one look would have convinced anyone that it was a place to be leaving not arriving at.
Michael, for that was his name, was in his local pub awaiting the call, and had permission to receive it. There were never many in the pub but if Michael was out, there would be someone who could explain he was out on business. His business was in fact that of a Meitheal, his job was as a man of all trades, any widow or desolate, could call upon him to patch a roof or mend a window.
It was a long way from a ‘Trainer of Greyhounds’ but so what; if a trainer was what the Englishman wanted, a trainer he would once again become. His wife was also a Meitheal; her duty was to help any young newly weds in child birth, and a much busier occupation of laying out the dead. It was said that she could make the deceased resemble the prettiest of brides. On the other hand the Englishman was wealthy and lived in a palatial dwelling in the best part of Oxfordshire.
The contract was that he would send over to the west of Ireland, a racing bitch; the Irishman would whelp the litter, and then rear them until the age of 14 months. The pups would then all be returned to England to be schooled and trained by one of the Englishman’s top trainers.
The financial arrangement was £100 as a goodwill gesture, then £10 for each of the pups per week for 14 months, and £30 for the bitch.
When told of the arrangement Michael almost fainted, with a little luck a bonny litter and possibly £80 a week; a dream ticket and a possible new start in life. As soon as the destination and passage arrangements were given and the telephone went down, he poured himself a drop of scotch; although he did not own the pub he did have an arrangement that when there was no one in there he could help himself.
At least he was honest, well honest enough.
A few drams later and he was on his way; in his little cart pulled by a 15 year old donkey, he sang all the way home, at least he did when he wasn’t asleep.
As he arrived at his small holding he couldn’t wait to tell his wife, Siobhan, things were looking up; Mary Mother of god, our good fortunes have returned.
The cottage would have given a wrong impression if described as small; it was minute.
Built around 1800, it was a slate roofed cottage with two rooms; one kitchen and one bedroom. The rent, a peppercorn, was within the compass of even this poorest of couples.
A shell shocked Michael was amazed when the £100 cheque arrived so promptly.
A week later the bitch arrived, not in a good state may I add, the crossing had been terrible and was not helped by a very cramped box. She was dehydrated and it took her a few days to recover, but Michael could see that she was pure class.
Anyone watching proceedings may have been concerned with Michael’s ability to keep up his end of the bargain. Where would the pups live? would have been a concern, however once the bitch was taken into the kitchen and received a massage, anyone with just a little knowledge of the greyhound game could see that the bitch was in good hands.
Michael had in fact what the Irish call ‘Soft Hands’ just a little stroking and the bitch’s eyes would close as if in a trance. There was more to Michael than at first glance; he was no Meitheal. Just a few days to go, but Siobhan could detect a little frown, What’s wrong, Michael? Well the poor bitch, is very heavy, and I detect only three pups and one of those is breeched. Healing hands will not be enough tonight my dear.Praying is what’s required.
It was very late and the rain was belting down; nothing new for the west of Ireland.
The fire was warm though and the £100 had given a new lift to the couple; a bottle of best Irish whisky and a bottle of brandy adorned the kitchen table for the first time in 15 years.
Even so, Michael was concerned. This was a first time four year old bitch; she was sure to struggle anyway but if there were complications they were on their own and in trouble. It was 39 miles to the nearest vet and there was no telephone. Michael’s brother, 15 years his senior, had promised to pop in during the night. He was a battle-hardened veteran of many whelpings but he was at least 80 years of age.
Only a Caesarean would cause complications anything else we will manage.
he had said. Michael on the other hand understood that the only reason he had promised to help was the presence of the brandy. Already, in a very short time, the bitch had become a part of the family; not just because of the money it was a genuine affection.
The panting was now getting heavy and the bitch was in distress, not long now before the first contraction, Michael thought. Siobhan time to get up, he called and within a few seconds she was at his side. Oh Mother of god help us in this hour of distress! He was working with the oils, he had enlarged the passage; she would need help. The first born was certainly breeched, feet first, and with one look at the size of the feet, Michael gulped, what size pup is this?
There was a knock on the door, his brother had arrived, My god, that pup will be running at Cheltenham in a novice chase come March. Only an Irishman could offer a funny at this time in the proceedings. But it was followed with, I think the bitch and I will require much sustenance before this night is out, pointing to the brandy. A sponge was produced and a little brandy was gently eased into the bitch’s open mouth, along with a very thick gluey substance. What it was, was a secret known only to Michael, but I can say that his father was given a drop before he died and it did him no harm. The next two hours were to be crucial.
Then, as if by magic, the first born seemed to slide from the bitch; as it lay there tears welled up in the trainer’s eyes. Look at that Siobhan, only God himself could produce such a beauty. He certainly was massive and as black as coal. The next arrival a bitch half the size but a similar stamp, also black. The mother was now shot and was offering no help and hardly any contractions. The remaining puppy a medium sized dog was not black, in fact it was blue.
In racing folk law there are those who believe that a blue dog or bitch is a coward and not only that, they carry no luck. In this case however, this pup had no way of testing the theory as it was still born. So what had started as a happy night had ended with two pups alive and a very ill mother. The only upturn was that they had one of the most beautiful puppies that they had ever seen.
The next two days were a blur to both Michael and his wife and the brandy was topped up with reserves. There was then an amazing change in fortune. The landlord of the pub arrived at the cottage firstly asking about their health and then a bomb shell dropped. Michael, I have received a note from a greyhound owner the other side of the hill. He has had a litter and the mother has died. He was wondering if your bitch could foster his litter. Within minutes Michael had jacked his donkey up and was on his way.
On arrival Michael didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Calling them greyhound pups was a travesty, more like Staffordshire Bull terriers he thought. There was some sort of paperwork to prove that they were genuine greyhounds. In the circumstances time was of the essence. The return trip was completed in a record time for a donkey and now was the crunch. The bitch was still in a poor state but was feeding her two pups well. There was no time to spare.
The cardboard box with the five cross-breeds was empted in front of the fire and placed alongside their new stepmother, brother and sister. The bitch was amazing and with the interlopers scratching and biting her teats she never complained once and unbelievably they were accepted. hat was in itself a miracle.
Michael was in a bit of a quandary, his weekly wage had now increased to £100 a week but how were the new puppies to be sold off as a litter if the owner turned up? The next few weeks were both crucial and interesting. They were now scavenging in and around the cottage.
In fact they were running wild and that is not what Michael wanted. Within two months Michael was feeding his special two, cows milk and best brown bread with beef. The others, who had now taken more of a greyhound look about them, were not favoured and after a few more weeks they were returned to their rightful owner.
The cheques had been arriving on time from the UK in exchange for a little note explaining the well-being of the litter, but even in the letters Michael could not stop himself from bragging about the Big Dog, and in fact it was a relief not having to discuss any of the others. So exciting had he made him sound that the owner indicated that he must come over and see him along with the rest of the lovely litter.
Here was a problem, he was being paid for seven pups and only had two. Come the 7th month no cheque had arrived, that’s funny thought Michael. A month later it was followed by a letter from a solicitor, acting on behalf of the owner: Dear Sir, I am sorry to tell you that Mr Hainsley Goode is no longer in a position to complete the contract that he has with you, regarding the rearing of his puppies by Top Smile and Faithful Hope. He wishes to offer you the chance to take over as owner of the pups he will also pay you an amount of £700 in full settlement. The bitch is to be returned by sea, instructions to follow.
Michael held his breath, he saw this as a wonderful get out and he was to be the owner of two beautiful greyhounds, one a giant and a possible champion. To say that he was relieved when he bade farewell to Top Smile on her return journey was an understatement. Now I can start dreaming of the next 12 months and the rearing of a possible champ.
The time seemed to be flying; the two pups, now named Corrib and Rachael, were blossoming into great looking greyhounds. In fact it appeared that the bitch was gaining the most with the 'Big Dog’ becoming rather leggy. Every morning the pair would run across the small holding and off towards the river; sometimes they would be gone for days on end, coming home blooded and bruised after playing rough kids games. What they got up to we will never know.
Still only 12 months old, they would drink out of the Corrib, from which the dog had been named, coursing the big hares that ran amok in the fields and mountains close by. Not once did Michael show concern as to his dogs wellbeing; they were like kids, playing rough and tumble games and sometimes kids get hurt. The times that the trainer spent massaging their warwounds were innumerable. Even the odd cut had to be stitched with Michael looking to his little magical box for the tools of his trade.
The pair had also begun to show considerable skill in coursing right in front of the cottage; Rachael, seemed have a few yards start on her big brother. On the run up, she could turn with great skill however once Corrib picked up he would go by with ease. Rachael had the beating of Corrib but once he settled down his massive reach gave him that real advantage.
One morning a hare seemed to show contempt to the pups by running across their path. It was a large fast hare and both Michael and his wife had great fun watching its audacity. This appeared to go on each morning with this mad hare seeming to enjoy the chase, although you could see that the greyhounds were beginning to improve their techniques.
This particular day Michael was out fetching provisions when Rachael saw this hare quickly on a run up. She was clear of her brother who was as usual slow into a stride.
The hare was running towards a very big gorse bush that ran alongside the lane leading to the cottage. Rachael was closing the hare down, the hare jinking from side to side making up its mind to go left or right. With the bitch closing, the hare was right into the hedge, it had only one thing it could do and that was to take the hedge on.
Twenty feet at least, the hare cleared it not disturbing a twig. The bitch was now in trouble, she couldn’t contemplate jumping such an obstacle and with no room for left or right she ploughed straight through, and into the lane. At that very moment, Michael in his old cart was returning from the post office come pub come corner shop.
The crunch was sickening. The bitch hit the front wheels of the cart and then lay still.
Standing over the bitch was her brother and within a few more seconds Michael joined the sorry sight. She was DEAD.
Michael picked her off the road carefully making certain that her lifeless body was damaged no more and laid her in the cart. Not one word was spoken and, until a screech from Siobhan was heard all over Galway Bay, no one would have known that an accident had occurred. She was buried at the back of the cottage. All through the coming month the bleak cottage seemed even bleaker. Even the dog who was usually first out in the morning off towards the river was now moping in and around the cottage door.
Someone had to take a hand and it could only be Michael. Come on Corrib it’s time for school. He had spent a little time on a lead and Corrib was beginning to be more domesticated. If he was to be a racing greyhound there were disciplines and tests that he would need to pass. Now was the time for him to see a mechanical lure. The nearest stadium was out of donkey cart range so the landlord and his van would be needed.
It was a lovely morning at the track. Michael had spoken to the manager and hare controller; they understood that this was a very important test and one that could either make or break a puppy. Standing in front of the traps, Michael undid the lead, and held Corrib by his chest with his back legs slightly raised. As soon as the mechanical hare began the dog jumped into the air almost knocked Michael over.
He then began to look behind him towards the bend; the operator had been made to understand that it was only a little baby although rather large, so the hare wasn’t travelling at its full speed. As it passed the traps Michael lowered Corrib into the ground and removed the lead. Corrib hit the floor running within a few yards he had taken both the operator and Michael by surprise. He was on to the hare at once showing tremendous aptitude; he wanted a kill. He didn’t know it was a rugby ball.
The operator attempted to speed up but found it was too late. Lucky for Corrib his first lunge missed and it gave the lure a chance to pick up speed. Corrib also picked up, however and with the hare now flying round the bend he was coursing it like a natural.
That was a tremendous test, and one that made Michael even more excited. The jump from playing in a field to chasing a hare round a track was successful; the next test would have to be the traps, a further worry. That wouldn’t happen today it was time to get back home and let the boy grow a little more.
A bad winter is never nice; a bad winter overlooking the Atlantic Ocean can be very bad even with a gulf stream to protect you. This winter was particularly bad. The continuous rain turned the ground to a typical bog; the following frost made it solid ice. Michael had no chance of doing his yearly good deeds so his meagre wage had dried up. It was impossible for his wife to carry out her little side lines of smartening up the dead. The ground so hard even the undertakers trade had died; no diggers everything was at a standstill. Even Corrib hadn’t been more than a few feet from the cottage.
The £700 that Michael had received for the rearing of the seven pups was long since gone. But he could still dream. Just you wait Siobhan this will be our year.
The wife was content to read the poems of W.B.Yeats. She had never ever questioned Michael. She knew what it was like to have plenty and what it was like to have nothing. All her loved ones going back to the Potato Famine had ‘surviving starvation’ as a key expertise, although the winners were the ones that sailed straight on over the Atlantic to America. So being locked into a cottage for a possible four months was nothing new.
Michael, on the other hand, knew bad times and good and was always saying there are only two, so you are only one away from the other. He never spoke about those good times 15 years ago, and why he had subsequently been reduced to such a Spartan existence.
The first sign of the thaw came late in March, and all the dreams were ready, willing and able to be enacted. By April they could get about and Michael was told of a puppy event for maiden dogs over 15 months. However it wasn’t a registered greyhound track, it was a ‘flap’, (an unregistered track) not too far away in Galway City.
Corrib had not received any training in the traps, this was a major problem. They knew that he chased anything that moved, he was fit and well and had great speed, but if he wouldn’t or disliked being boxed into traps then the whole plan was defeated.
He would have to take a giant chance. He would enter the race anyway and use the period until the date, to coach him in the traps.
It was good to see the landlord again and to be told that he would take him and Corrib into Galway was a bonus. At first it did look as if Corrib would be too big for the traps, but even at 80lb there was sufficient room. The first time the traps opened Corrib just walked out, saw the hare 100 yards up the straight and then flew. Not the greatest way to feature in a 350 yard sprint but encouraging. The second time he came out a little better, but what was exciting was his speed up the straight. The race was set for April the 20th and Michael knew that he needed a stake to make it all worth while.
He had nothing whatsoever, not even the entrance fee for the event.
It was £40 to enter, had 12 Runners, two heats and the first three in the heats go into the final. The race was a winner-take-all and the 1st prize was £300. But the prize money wasn’t the aim. The betting market was one of the biggest in a notoriously strong area for greyhound bookies and the flaps were no exception; bets of £1000 to £5000 were not unknown. Michael had to take the biggest chance in his life and the truth of why he had disappeared for 15 years was about to be divulged.
Fifteen years ago Michael was a top trainer with many top greyhounds; he was funded by a leading Irish bookmaker and they’d had much success. However, during one major event all the dogs in Michael’s care were doped and a great deal of the anti-post wagers were lost. However one dog seemed immune to whatever had been used to dope the dogs and made it through to a major final, winning at great odds.
And this gave the bookmaker a major loss.
Michael thought that it was the bookmaker who had been involved in the chicanery and the bookmaker thought that Michael himself was the planner of a massive coup.
This was a man you could not trifle with, hence the disappearance to the far flung outback of the West and the Atlantic Coast. Michael knew that it would be impossible to carry out a betting coup without this man getting to know, so Michael had no alternative than to meet up with him again and suffer the consequences.
A week before the race a meeting was set to attend the bookmaker’s head office and the journey into Dublin took place.
On arrival, Michael was called in to see David O’Connell. Apprehensive, he walked into a very plush office and waited. In walked a lad, no older than 25, You wish to see me? Michael was no fool and even if he was it was clear that the lad was either a son or grandson of the ˜Dreaded One’.
My name is Michael Flyne I have come to see your Dad. David senior died 5 years ago, I am his son. But I do know who you are; in fact I have instruction to kill you on sight. What do you want?
Well it is not to be killed.
The boy began to laugh. The old man hated your guts and on his death bed asked me to make it a life long duty to hunt you down and find out how and why you conned him. But before that what have you come here for?
I have a dog running in a puppy event in Galway. It is a certainty and I need funding. Michael answered. Well, Dad did say you were one of the finest trainers in Ireland so you better carry on talking. Over the next few days David, his new partner, was taking all the prices that were being traded in and around Galway.
The event was an annual one with much interest; some of the best puppies had been entered in a much bigger and prestigious race than Michael had thought. Even though it was a flap it was a stepping stone to try their dogs out under fire. They never met again until the night of the race.
The dogs would be running in fictitious names, not those registered by the Irish Greyhound Board. Michael had found the entrance fee one way or the other and managed to convince the non-gambling landlord to take him to the track.
Corrib was to be ‘Clifdon’ for the event, a small village not far from their cottage.
In the first event Clifdon was drawn in trap one, not the best for a dog so large; the run up to the first bend was no more than 150 yards, and it was a very tight bend.
However, Michael was not concerned, he had every confidence in Corrib sorry, Clifdon.
There was a very large crowd for the event and it had attracted some of the biggest trainers in the land.
Michael kept well away from the centre of things, with Siobhan acting as kennel maid.
It seemed to be an age before the announcement ‘dogs to the kennel’, this was a viewing area much needed at a flap; here many good judges used there skilful eyes to pick the real greyhounds from family pets.
Michael was very impressed with the competitors, a great group of puppies.
Some he thought looked hard as nuts; they had obviously been running in similar events and would have a massive advantage over his pure novice.
A stroll to the betting ring and ‘The Big Dog’ was on offer at 8/1, a tremendous price, and Michael was itching to get stuck in, however it was not his call.
He assumed that his bookmaker partner knew what to do.
Michael noticed a little bookmaker on the end of the line betting on who would win the Cup itself, and Corrib was 25/1.
He just couldn’t help himself, he turned to the landlord and asked him if he had any punts on him.
Yes I have £50, the landlord confirmed.
Go to that bookmaker and ask him for £50 punts at 25/1 Clifdon.
The landlord had never placed a wager before not even in the Derry National.
Michael was relieved the bookmaker never even turned a hair.
£1250 to £50 Clifdon you have wager docket number 137.
Even the landlord was sweating now.
Siobhan had the dog parading in front of a packed grandstand.
Michael had picked out trap 2, as a very good looking greyhound, and at odds of 4/5 others thought the same.
The dogs were taken to the traps and ‘The Big Dog’ entered without a fuss.
‘Hare is on the move’ came the announcement.
This particular hare was a rattler so called because of the noise it made.
Not many dogs failed to chase this and, as it was an outside hare, Michael reasoned that they would all move middle to wide being novices.
As the traps flew open all seemed to get a flyer even ‘The Big Dog’was only just off the pace. As they approached the first and only bend the Favourite moved over inside and not only took our hero’s ground it also savaged him pushing him on to the rails. Losing ground Corrib was forced to check out behind the field. With only 100 yards to go, he rallied and shot past them all except the Favourite; 2nd, beaten by a length.
The landlord was white.Michael had that sort of smile made famous by the Cheshire Cat.
Dashing over to the runners he had the dog off Siobhan, into the vet for examination, and then into the landlord’s van within minutes. Only he and the dog were allowed in there, and with his little box of potions and liniments he would skilfully set to work.
The hands of God would be needed, there was less than one hour before the final and Corrib had been through a very hard race.
Michael spent almost an hour massaging Corrib, who had been asleep for most of the time. There was no chance of any pulled tendons or shoulders, he was ready to run for his life.
The draw for the final had not been good in fact the same trap positions as in the heat; Corrib (Clifdon) in trap 1 again, the Favourite in trap 2. What Michael didn't know was that his dog was still at 8/1 even though he had run a blinder; the Fav was priced at 4/7. They obviously thought that the anti-post Fav had too much speed to be overturned. But Michael had Corrib looking a picture; the heat had not taken anything out of him whatsoever.
This was to be the defining moment in Michael’s and Siobhan’s lives; they doubted that they would have a better chance to get back on the rails again. All the dogs were in their traps and the hare was on the move. Michael and the landlord were standing at the bend. The trainer knew that this would be the crucial area for his dog, to win it or blow it. ‘They're OFF’.
The Fav was once again out first with ‘The Big Dog’ on its inside. Trap 2 had left a little space if he wished to go through along the rails, but he was still half a length behind. As they approached the bend, the Fav from trap two did the same move as in the heat, moving over towards trap 1. He was about to lean in when Corrib checked, but instead of going backwards he was on the outside of the Fav within a few yards.
It was a movement that had the experts in the grandstand screaming with delight.
The Fav was still moving towards the rails as Corrib flew past on his outside leaving him for dead. It was all over in a few strides; winner trap 1.
The crowd erupted; there were hundreds of well wishers patting the dog and Siobhan on their backs. The landlord was sitting on the floor whispering, have we won anything? Michael was as quiet as a lamb. He was back, but this time he would not let it slip.
David the bookmaker took Michael on one side and said, Come and see me Monday, we have a settlement to make, both in money and a full explanation. I can then let my father rest in peace. Michael didn’t like the sound of that but it would have to wait till Monday.
Taking the docket off the landlord, Michael drew his £1300 punts giving his friend £300. They all entered the car park and squeezed into the van, this was going to be a long night.
The weekend seemed to go through in a blur. The pub hadn’t been so busy since some Grand National winner 50 years ago had been paraded in the bar. Michael’s brother wanted to know what price he had been given although he hadn’t had a bet.
There would be a new suit for Michael and a dress and hat for Siobhan. The trip to Dublin to see David O’Connell was by taxi and train. Siobhan was impressed with the bookmaker’s office. He didn’t seem to be that well off 15 years ago she commented.
As they walked into the office coffee was served in the best bone china; things were looking okay.
Right Michael, are you happy for Siobhan to be present? David asked. This didn’t seem so good.
No, I agree, after coffee Siobhan can go and do a little shopping, she has always loved The Fair City. Fifteen minutes later Siobhan had gone to spend another £50 punts and David and Michael were on their own.
Right Michael, I backed the dog to win £5000, to win the heat, losing £500; to win £8000 in the final at 10/1; and £10000 anti-post at long odds before the event; a profit of £17,500. I have decided that your entitlement is £5,000 punts on the condition that you satisfy me that you were not party to the betting losses my father endured 15 years ago. The chair is yours Michael, please explain what occurred.
Michael was dumfounded not only did his father screw him, the son was now about to do the same. Michael had no alternative than tell the boy what had happened.
As you may or may not know, 15 years ago your father and I were the most successful greyhound punters in Ireland. For over five years we led the rings winning the majority of premier races, with some of the best dogs seen at that time or since.
I had a knack of finding and training good dogs. Your father was a very good, bold and brave gambler.
All the dogs were mine; I refused to allow any partnership other than in the gambling book. After the years of success, all of a sudden over night the worm unexpectedly turned. Dogs that we had backed antipost were found to be lame. Dogs actually running in finals were also found to be lame; we faced a run of over four months without a winner.
I called a vet in and it was found that the majority of my dogs had been doped. Two people had close contact to the plans of the stable and that was me and your dad.
Although I had fallen into a very dodgy position, never believing that what was going on actually was. The final crunch came in the final of the Waterford Crystal, a 48 dog event over a distance of 800 yards. There was one dog that I had kept well away from the others and I had backed it to win enough to write off my tremendous losses.
This was a dog that I kept secret from your father, as far as I was concerned he wasn’t acting in my interest. Every time that dog won its heat it got bigger in price.
Even on the final night instead of it being a firm Favourite it was 12/1, but more sinister was the fact that one of the runners was as low as 2/5 and that dog was your father’s.
The stink was enough to be smelt in mainland England. There was nothing I could do and your father had even stopped talking to me, a sure sign in my mind I was being shafted. In the final our dog was in trap 6 and the Fav in trap 5. The weather was atrocious, with rain coming down in buckets.
I was leading my dog up and your dad’s was led by an old friend of mine, from years ago. Both dogs were brindle and were very much alike, similar weight. As the dogs were going out they were clothed in raincoats, dark in colour with no trap numbers on them. Under the raincoats we had swapped the racing coats. There was trap 5; under the raincoat of your father’s dog was trap 6.
As the dogs were walking over to the traps on the far side of the track, well away from the grand stand, we carried out the cunning switch. As I took the raincoat off it revealed trap 5 and the loose strings were tightened without any question; so my dog was now running in trap 5. We did the same with the Fav with its coat being covered with trap 6. So what had occurred was the Fav was now running in trap 6 box as a 12/1 chance. My dog, that I had found since was doped, was in trap 5 as a 5/2 on chance.
As soon as the race was over all the coats were removed allowing the winner’s Waterford Crystal to be placed on its back. I had won the race with the heaviest doped dog in the history of that black art.
David was dumfounded. What a stroke.
He passed the cheque for £5000 towards Michael but Michael wasn’t finished.
David you are only young you have none of the baggage that your father carried with him and certainly none of mine. It took your father many years to create the finance that he did and good luck to him, it was however at the cost of his integrity. You on the other hand are fresh, your integrity is untarnished. It would be a sorry affair for you to lose that integrity or part of it to help your father with his.
David looked towards Michael and after a while took the original cheque back and replaced it with one for £10,000. I hope we can do more business Michael.
Yes I think we have a champion and there is no reason why you can’t handle the commissions, Michael replied.
Michael assessed the finances: £300 prize money, £1000 cash from the private punt and £10,000 from David; £13,300, less expenses. Siobhan I think we will have to take Corrib to England.
There was a definite long and audible pause. Don’t forget until now the dog doesn’t exist, no records of any of his runs, we now must take the official route. I didn’t mention it, but after the race on Saturday I was offered £5,000 to sell him.
More pauses. I don’t know what to do, we have always said that it would be nice to spend the last few years in the sun. Spain perhaps, what do you think?
Siobhan was very quiet, she looked sad. I know we have nothing except Saturday’s winnings but without Corrib we have lost our final dream. Siobhan had always been given her right of speech.
In another time, if Michael and Siobhan had been TV fans, this was like getting to £8,000 on ‘Who Wants To Be a Millionaire’ and taking the money.
Well just give it a little thought. I will take Corrib for his first official trial in Galway in a few days.
The dog had come through his exertions as if he had not had a run; he was bouncing all over the place. He had begun hare coursing again, this time catching many of them for Siobhan and the new cooking pot that she had bought from her latest visit to town.
Michael on the other hand was acting more protective towards the dog.
They had taken their chances letting him run loose all over the place, even up the flint sided mountain which at any minute could have severed a tendon or toe; he also hadn’t forgotten poor Rachael, his sister. The dog was now a very important financial asset for their future, one that they would have to protect. A nice little shed was purchased, second hand but sturdy. Corrib didn’t like being penned in but he would have to get used to it if he was to be sent on his boarding school trips to the UK.
A message was received from his friend at the pub, the landlord. Michael I have spoken to a greyhound trainer from London asking if I know of any good pups for sale. He said that he had heard on the greyhound grape vine that there were some very good puppies running around local farms. Michael smiled, You can’t keep any secrets, in the greyhound game. Did you make a note of his number?
A few weeks later Michael telephoned the English trainer and arranged to take Corrib over for a look around. They would put them up. You go on your own Michael, Siobhan said. His wife didn’t seem keen on parading their pride and joy in some shop window; a typical mother losing her son to a boarding school.
The arrangements were made for the trip and Michael and Corrib were off. Twelve hours later they were standing in front of a ‘Buckingham Palace’ of the greyhound world. Michael had been over before but had never seen anything like this.
The class was mind boggling. There must have been 100 pristine kennels spaced around a courtyard, all double units with magnificent grass runs; in the air the smell was of disinfectant, clean and sweet. The golden straw in the kennels was 3 ft high.
A few inmates were playing up and chewing at the fences but the majority were sitting or lying on the grass in the sun. Michael had never seen such an idyllic picture of contentment. Every inmate looked a champion. Kennel girls were all over the place.
Good morning you must be Michael, you won’t remember me but I remember you winning all the big races in Ireland a decade ago, the trainer announced.
15 years. Yes, I did have a little success. Michael was playing down his good name within the sport.
Put the dog in this end kennel and we will go into the kitchen for a drink.
I’ve booked you into the local hotel for a few days. Just let the dog rest and then we can give him a few spins round our track. After a few cups of tea Michael was taken to the track. The word ‘track’ didn’t do it justice it was as good a running service as Michael had ever seen in any part of Ireland or England. It was magnificent, wide, wonderful long straights, fabulous banked bends, and sanded; that in itself was fairly new at the time. I don’t think we should test Corrib too much, just a spin in the morning.
Having settled his dog down Michael spent his first night in the Red Hart, a local pub come hotel, nothing like the one back over the sea, this was to be his new home for the next few days. Sitting on his bed, he couldn’t sleep; How good was Corrib? He mulled it over comparing him at this stage with the great ones from the past: Kylmore Abbey, Shannon Grasses, Celtic Cross, Benedict Girl, all champions but could they have done what Corrib did in his first final? The acceleration he showed that night was something else. He managed to get some kip about 5am but was up at 7.30am for the arranged meeting with the Englishman.
Morning Michael, I’ve had the dog cleaned out and he is just strolling around until you are ready. I think a little spin, 400 yards if that’s ok with you? If you don’t mind could we make it a two dog trial? I have a little bitch that we think highly of; she could do with a blow out. No doubt the Englishman was impatient as it wasn’t his dog.He didn’t wish to waste much time in finding out if the tales that had filtered through from the Emerald Isle were exaggerated or not.
Corrib was placed in a wide berth. The nice looking bitch, who Michael discovered was 2 years 6 months old and a winning top grader at Wimbledon, was to be in trap 1, well away from Corrib. If Michael had known the ability of the English trialist he would have taken his dog out, the age difference was not a fair test. The hare was on the move, a very quiet ‘Magee’ inside runner.
That was also a first for Corrib, no loud rattle this was more of a whistle. As they started the very experienced bitch, was off; a pure sprinter with bags of ability.
At the first bend she was five lengths clear, and the English trainer was showing a clearly detectable smirk. As they got in the back straight Corrib had passed her and was drawing away. The trainer was now looking into space like a rabbit about to be run over by a juggernaught.
Calling over to the girl in charge Take the bitch back and have the vet look her over it could be her wrist is playing up again. Michael had to smile, Nice bitch, a little sarcastically. Well two can play at that game.
Even the placid Michael had pride. That was a nice trial Michael I think you have a fair dog there. Sometimes, jealousy can be hidden, not in this case, he was finding it difficult to not actually be sick. This evening I’m having a little party for you. A few owners have indicated that they wish to meet you. Will that be okay? Michael thought, this will be interesting.
The trainer’s house was something that made Michael question himself, What sort of game am I in? Living in a dilapidated slate hut, in the bleakest part of a bleak area and I am supposed to be good at my trade. Here I now stand on a carpet that covers my shoes. This is your dog’s previous owner, Michael. He had expected to be shocked, but had forgotten all about the previous owner. He had wondered what had become of him; it appeared that he was now financially sound again after a little hiccup in shares.
Hello, how are you? I’m fine!
Michael, I would like to congratulate you on the way you have reared this dog, you were certainly right in the glowing reports you sent me. I have no complaints as to your honesty just a pity how things turned out. It was also a pity that my financial plight caused me to renege on our contract but I will not forget how kind you were to let me wriggle out of the deal. Michael was shocked, what a gent. I saw the trial and won’t exaggerate when I say I have never been so envious of a fellow owner. If you ever decide to sell the dog and the other pups I will pay whatever you ask. Don’t forget we still have the MOTHER and that’s a bonus. The party went on for a while and Michael was trying to get away from his old client but with great difficulty. Michael, have you given any thought to my offer? I will offer you £10,000 for the dog and £1000 each for the other six. Michael was wishing that he could get back on the ferry and out of sight but the £10,000 was a serious offer and he hadn’t spoken to any other owners who he assumed were here and would also be interested.
The rest of the party was spent small talking about how good everyone else’s puppies were, even a few illegal side bets were offered up. Michael was wishing he had David his Irish bookmaker with him; he would have taken them all on there and then on the trainer’s track but he realised that it was just the brandy, vodka and scotch talking.
With no new offers, a plan was set in operation for Corrib to remain in the care of Hainsley Goode, the original owner. It was established that he owned the whole set up and the trainer was just running the place. It was agreed that Corrib would remain to acclimatise. He wouldn’t run again until he was 18 months, and an opportunity would be found for him when Michael would be back in the country.
Siobhan wouldn’t take the news very well but she would bow to Michael’s decision.
So back in Ireland, Michael had plenty of time to plan his own future. For some time now the weather on the east of Ireland had been affecting the health of his wife, although she never complained. Years before, a relation, a doctor, had hinted that she really needed a few months a year in the sun if she was going to make old bones.
That was before their financial slide. Should they go for the gloves and take one more chance on the dog for increasing their little nest egg; as Michael knew, he would never have a better chance again, and the nest egg wouldn’t last very long anyway.
If he could get another£25,000 they could go to Spain and live in a little cottage not unlike the one they had but with better weather. He could still do a few odd jobs and who knows, after a while Siobhan’s expertise may be needed. And not only that, he mustn’t forget that there is supposed to be six other Top Smile/Faithful Hope puppies about ready to be registered.
When he arrived home Siobhan didn’t look well so there was a great opportunity to bring the subject straight to the boil. I intend to sell the dog, Michael announced.
You do what you think best Michael. No one knows better than you as to the best road to take. This didn’t sound right. Look dear, I think that I am in a strong position to increase our finances enough for us to retire and get you into a better climate.
Siobhan did have a sister in the east of Spain so she seemed to warm to the outline concept.
The next few months were quite busy with Michael mending the roofs and windows following some heavy winds, and Siobhan was still offering her beauty therapy for the departed.
Soon the time came for Michael to continue his relationship with Corrib. As soon as they met it was clear that the dog had missed him but also that he had grown out of his skin; a giant when he left him, he was now a Goliath. Beauty is always in the eye of the beholder but in this case everyone agreed, even the kennel girls, who had nothing to do with him, had fallen in love. Not only was he large, he was gentle.
As soon as Michael arrived a party of guests were arranged for the meet. Hainsley, his wife, three kids, all teenagers, and two granddads; they were not there to meet an old Irish trainer with more skeletons in his cupboard than a Galway church yard, no, they thought that they were about become owners of a champ and his many brothers and sisters. Hainsley took Michael to one side after dinner, and asked him what he had decided about the sale. Michael had given it months of thought and did not beat about the bush. Firstly, tell me have you entered Corrib in a race yet?
Yes, he is in a puppy classic at Wembley in four weeks time. We have been working him while you have been away and he is as fit as a fiddle. Well in that case, I will sell him to you for £18,000 with the proviso that if he wins this I will receive a further £10,000. The hardnosed businessmen with fingers in more pies than Sweeney Todd never blinked an eye. You have a deal. I will draw up the documents at once. Will you stay over until the race? If so you can stay in the house with us and supervise the puppy.
The next few weeks were brilliant and Michael kept asking himself where did it all go wrong? What a difference from training in Ireland to England. The next day Michael was up with the lark and was told that Corrib had been entered to run in a little open race at Hall Green in the Midlands as a pipe opener for the big race. It’s a lovely track but nothing ever wins first time round so don’t be concerned if he doesn’t; it will be sure to consolidate its market price for the big one.The trip to Birmingham was not by donkey cart but in a Daimler. No sitting behind a leaking grand stand but the owner’s box.
Looking at the racecard it was clear that Corrib was an also ran, I’m not here to explain the three trial lines in the card. Not spectacular runs and Michael never told me about them. So it was certain that at that moment nothing had leaked back from Galway to Brum. Hainsley consulted with Michael about his private betting arrangements. He said that he had already got on to win the Wembley race at 20/1 so he would just be watching this evening. Michael told him that he would still back him to win for old times sake. The market seemed quite strong, and right in front of their eyes, the 20/1 collapsed; there seemed to be Irishmen from everywhere.
Every time it dropped Hainsley took another queer look at Michael who was smiling, 9/2 from 20/1. What’s going on here? Not far from Galway to Birmingham by plane I guess, and anyway those who were there to see Corrib win that flap would never let 20/1 go a begging. Everyone seemed to be looking at the racecard for guidance just a few little trial lines but no real race. How could they be backing this? The noise as Corrib led all the way, only a few spots off the course record, was deafening and Ainsley who collected the £400 prize plus £1500 trophy was very pleased that he was already on at large prices for the Wembley Puppy Derby. Even he had misjudged the dog’s class.
Michael had collected a further £3000 for the Michael and Siobhan Irish Fund. There were Just three weeks to go before the outcome of their future was determined. Michael paid a visit back home with the £3000 punts to keep Siobhan up to date with developments. He even picked up a Sporting Life where the anti-post betting for the forthcoming Puppy Classic was in print. A trip to Dublin with instructions for David, his own commission agent; Michael wasn’t concerned that any further plunge would affect the market as Hainsley had been clear that he was already on. The trip back to England was full of stress.
Although only April, it had been a mini-summer all over Europe with no rain in a month and the ground was solid. Wembley was grass at the time and firm was something that Corrib had never encountered. In Ireland it was always soft if not heavy but the saying ‘good dogs don’t touch the floor’ came to mind and with a broad smile, don’t worry Michael he told himself. This race was a right betting heat; except for two at 4/1 there was at least six at 8/1 and Corrib was one of those. The dog was certainly acclimatised and looked great. Two heats and a final over a week seemed okay giving ‘The Big Dog’ time to recover.
Wembley was a great track and a record crowd was expected. By now it was established that Corrib had began to drift a little wide a habit that he had also shown at Hall Green. So he was graded accordingly.
The first heat went according to plan; Corrib was slowish away and took a middle-to-wide route before powering home round the last bend, winning in the best time of the night. Here was one very special dog and a possible bargain even at £18,000. The following week he hit the box flying, led at the first and won drawing away in a record time for a puppy.
The two Inch header on the back page of the Life was there for everyone to see, as good as his father FAITHFUL HOPE. That evening Michael spent talking to Corrib in his kennel, it was heart rending; he was massaging him and trying to explain why they would never meet again. Well not in this life.
I doubt the dog understood but Michael did and the tears were drenching his shirt.
The next morning Michael left the big house and never looked back.
His wife needed him and he was no longer part of the greyhound game.
The next six months for Michael and Siobhan were life changing. The £55,000 punts, including David’s contribution was a sizeable float, certainly enough to get a start in Spain. They were used to isolation and part-time work; a cottage at £5,000 with just few jobs needing doing, and great seasonal work in the fruit industry, meant they were set for life.
No newspapers or radio, they could just sit together in a little pub, Siobhan reading her W B Yeats and Michael discussing world politics; but never greyhounds. Back in England the going had become firm. It was decided that Corrib would have a very easy six months. He won at Manchester at 2/9 and at Wimbledon at 1/12.
Bar for that he was taking it very easy and ready for a real tilt at glory the following year One day Corrib was taken to the home track for a little solo two bend spin.
He had barely set off when CRACK, the noise could have been heard in Murcia, in the south of Spain. Only 15 yards from the traps and all alone Corrib lay still, panting.
The first to his side was his regular kennel girl. If no one had heard the snap they certainly heard Sarah.
Within a few minutes there were several workers and a vet who was on the premises looking at the injured and lame dogs that had run that weekend. Pick him up gently and take him to my office, said the vet. That in itself was not as easy as one would imagine, it took two grown men to pick him up. The vet’s prognosis was clear, I doubt I will be able to save him, fetch Mr Goode. Three hours had passed with Corrib heavily sedated when his owner arrived. He has a serious break to the near wrist.
The tendons have also snapped. I doubt he will race again. Do you wish for me to put him to sleep? What if he did not have to race again? asked the owner. Well I could save him to be a pet.
At that very moment in Spain Michael had a minor heart tremor. Nothing serious and a spell in bed righted the problem. Stay off the whisky man and you will be ok was the report in Spanish.
Luckily Mr Goode was a multi-millionaire again so the loss of a dog, however good, wasn’t the end of the world for him. He sent most of the old and injured to the rescue centre where a few of his old dogs were found homes. He was a great owner and a lovely man but old or retired injured dogs, however loyal to him, were a different thing.
He hadn’t become so wealthy by being a softy. Not one of his many old champs was there, and he was now discussing Corrib as a piece of scrap iron from an old fridge that his mother-in-law gave him before he made it big. Only days before it was this dog will bring me glory. Keep the dog comfy, carry out the appropriate work and then we will decide what we do with him. It would be months before Corrib could put his foot to the floor and his future was in the hands of a greyhound rescue centre.
Over the next few days Corrib’s future was in the balance. The tendons failed to knit and the break was not clean; even Mr Goode had financial constraints on his injured greyhounds. Within three months Corrib was taken to a rescue centre at Wildsley, Derbyshire. There must have been eight greyhounds amongst the 35 dogs. Where size and beauty was an advantage for the first two years of Corrib’s life, anything bigger than a whippet was now a massive disadvantage.
In fact on arrival he was placed in the also ran’s number 35 kennel; the one where the kids are fed up with looking by the time they get there. The smell was not very nice either. In the first five kennels were a little Westmorland, two Jack Russells, a dubious Chiwawa, and a half-bred whippet. Even when they did get as far as Corrib, it was, What’s that Mum? A St Bernard I think Britney.
Can Grandad have that one? No, not in his flat, it’s too big. Three weeks flew by from the allotted four. Corrib was obviously in pain his wrist had never recovered fully.
The last week an old women managed to get as far as 35, that in itself was a miracle for Mrs West had the same problem as Corrib; an operation that had gone wrong. Would that dog be ok? I think it may be too large for you my dear. They have to be walked every day you know. Hates cats. It was if the girl secretary didn’t wish to get rid of him.
No, I have a boy next door who will walk him and I have no cats, only a stray who keeps raking my flower beds. Well they won’t in future, will they? They both laughed.
Could I give that dog a home? I feel he needs some luck, look at the poor thing. Corrib was never a fool of a dog and was licking the old aged pensioner’s hand for all he was worth.
Where do you live dear? I have a little farm house in a few acres of land, all fenced in.
I tell you what, I will allow Corrib to stay with you for a week and then we will see how you are getting on together. Every day Corrib enjoyed being stroked just like Michael used to, but this time much softer. Great food and just some noisy TV programme about London to put up with. He could sleep all day and didn’t even have to go for a walk on his dodgy wrist. At the end of the week the rescue centre came along and was happy to confirm the adoption.
What the old lady had failed to say was that her sons had told her to get a dog to protect her from an ASBO family that had moved into the village. After about a month both the old lady and her pet were wakened in the middle of the night. Someone was in the house.
Fay West was down in a matter of minutes, there in the corner was a youth at least 6ft tall, he had broken the back door, and was in the lounge. The next minute he had the old lady by the throat. Where is the money? Where is the money? the youth screamed. Before she had chance to respond she was knocked to the ground. The next second the kitchen door flew open, Corrib was between the women and youth.
The dog was on his hind legs.
He must have seemed 8ft to the youth who cried out like a baby; falling down he crashed into the corner of the TV cutting his head open. The old woman was on the telephone at once and in a very short period of time the Police had arrived. All parties made statements, Mrs West’s was that the youth broke into her house and pushed her to the floor threatening her and claiming money. The youth admitted that he broke into the house but claimed he was attacked by a vicious dog that savaged his face requiring 15 stitches to the wound.
The case was of a technical matter, the youth with no previous offences and pleading guilty received a small fine. A report was made against the dog and Corrib was returned back to the rescue centre, the report stating that the old woman was not in a position to control such a large, vicious animal. Once again Corrib received four weeks lease of life. Once again he got box 35.
However he did have a visitor every day, Mrs West wasn’t going to forget him. What’s more she asked question after question, actually taking all the children past the little puppies with a come and look at this lovely dog. Come away Britney, was the stern reply.
On the morning of the final day Mrs West wanted to know what time the vet would arrive. Oh no, we have a farmer who comes for the big dogs that we can’t house, he comes at 4.30. By 3pm Mrs West was gently crying like only a 70 year old can.
Hello Corrib. The old woman turned around sharply. The dog, which had spent the last eight weeks just licking the old lady’s hand, was now passing his swollen wrist through the bars into Michael’s hand. I’ve never seen him do that before, does he know you? Yes said Michael,he knows me alright, I’lll soon get that right.
Michael had come over to Ireland for his old pal the landlord’s funeral, and whilst there popped in to see his bookie in Dublin. I’m sorry about the dog. That great dog of yours broke its leg. Michael had dashed over to England to hear the full story.
You can come back with me I will soon have that wrist right.
(Copied from the Betfair Greyhound Forum)
Recent Comments