Someone, somewhere is bagging Black Caviar.
Can you believe that? The best horse we’ll see in our lifetime, and the Village Idiot wants to have a crack at her.
It would seem that the rest of us have been fooled all along. Those 17 consecutive wins weren’t the real deal.
According to the lunatic fringe, the mighty mare isn’t beating anything. The competition is ordinary. Therefore, Moody’s flying machine isn’t the awesome animal we’ve declared.
Proof once again, that one doesn’t need a long neck to be a goose.
It irks me no end when people go out of their way to find fault with a champion.
Un-Australian, that’s what it is. These same fools would declare Alfie Langer too small, and Dipper too big.
The clowns without wigs, who announce to their mates that Doug Walters wasn’t fit enough, and Harry Kewell only cares about the cash.
Spend long enough with them, and they’d probably tell you Mother Teresa needed to work on her wardrobe.
I don’t get it. Why not just sit back and enjoy the freakish talents of the great ones?
True sports fans don’t need to bring champions down. They simply marvel at the performance.
Today, Black Caviar tries something different. An extra 200 metres. Her first attempt at 1400 metres.
She will win again. No doubt about that. In my humble opinion, she’ll be even better over this distance. An extra furlong to break their hearts.
Peter Moody thinks so. He’s always believed she’d be stronger as the trip increased. Luke Nolen too.
That enormous, soul-destroying stride. She’ll swallow them up again, soon after they straighten. Their lungs will be screaming for air. She’ll be cruising.
These dimwits who subscribe to the argument that she’s beating second-raters, weren’t at Doomben when she won the BTC Cup last year. The day she crushed Hay List, again.
At his best, he’s a world-class sprinter. If she wasn’t around, he’d have a mantlepiece full of trophies.
That afternoon at Doomben, for the briefest of seconds, Glen Boss thought he might have pinched it. Hay List was flying in front. Maybe this would be the day.
It wasn’t. In the space of a few strides, the Mighty Mare caught up, drew level, went past, and exploded away. Seriously, just a few strides.
There were 20,000 race fans jammed into the course that day. Screaming her name. I’m here to tell you that not one of them thought Black Caviar was beating nothing.
We were all just happy to be there. In the presence of something so special. The rank and file of the racing game get a buzz from such events. They have no time to look for negatives that don’t exist.
I didn’t see Phar Lap or Tulloch. Wish I had. To be in the stand at Flemington watching Big Red winning the Cup must surely have been the greatest thrill the sport has produced.
I have no need to compare them with our current superstar. Good fun in the pub and on talkback radio, but I don’t need the answer.
Peter Moody’s Superhorse has already given me my greatest experience in racing. The day she created history in Brisbane.
She provides that joy for so many people, wherever she runs. They don’t care about winnings. It’s about golden memories. And smiles.
You and I, we’ll see other great ones before we head to the Great Spelling paddock in the sky. But nothing like her.
Enjoy what she does this afternoon. Turn your back on anyone who dares to doubt her. And take it all in. This journey we’re on won’t last forever.
