This was published 5 months ago
Opinion
As a nepo-baby, I had all-areas access … at the greyhound track
Billy Cantwell
Deputy opinion editorI must confess, I was not burdened by the ethical conundrums associated with the sport of greyhound racing when I got my first job at the age of 13. I probably wasn’t aware there were any.
I was turnstile operator at the Thursday night meeting at what was known in my hometown of Navan (30 miles from Dublin) simply as “the track”.
The dog track attracted an eclectic cast of characters.Credit: Andrew Taylor/Fairfax Media
What qualified me for this particular position was not that I could promptly calculate the change from a £5 note for the admission prices of a family of four with one child under 12 (although I probably could). The key qualification was my name. Cantwells were conspicuous at “the track”. My late dad Willie was the racing manager and for reasons that were never entirely clear to me, various other members of the extended family were involved in its operations.
So when the vacancy arose – due to my older brother’s departure – I happily accepted the position. This is what being a nepo-baby looked like in our house.
I have nothing but fond memories of it. The turnstile itself was beautifully old school. A pedal at my right foot released the mechanism, which allowed the clunking metal stile to rotate 90 degrees admitting the punters in single file. On really busy nights, we’d open the other one.
Schoolmates, local scallywags and a variety of cousins would rock up, inevitably seeking free admission and often getting it. I couldn’t but feel at home. From my turnstile hut I could hear my dad making various announcements over the PA system.
Once the races began, the noise level went up a notch.
The Johnny Cantwell Memorial Trophy (named after my grand uncle) is presented to the winning connections of Gullian Lad by John Cantwell, my dad’s first cousin. in 1978. My late father, who was racing manager, is pictured right.Credit:
The “hare”, a barely convincing stuffed toy attached to a cable which encircled the track, was operated from a small building 50 yards beyond the finish line. A ruddy-faced bloke who was often, I deduced, the worse for drink, was in charge of it. A bell would alert him to the fact that it was time for the hare to be set in motion.
I recall a posse of concerned men in wellies racing to the control box one night after, despite the bell ringing for some time, the hare remained stubbornly motionless with the hounds already salivating in their traps ready to race. Evidently, they found the hare-man happily snoozing after one snifter too many. On another occasion, pandemonium ensued when he failed to stop the hare, sending the dogs into a frenzy as the repurposed teddy took off endlessly around the track.
After the third race, the turnstile would close and I was free to join the mates and cousins I’d let in earlier, who would be busy drinking Club Orange, eating Tayto crisps and ogling at “the track’s” eclectic cast of characters.
There was the fearsome Dinny Bray, who lived up to his name and could be always heard above the hubub.
Navan greyhound track. I don’t remember it looking quite this bleak.Credit:
Then there was The Major, a wiry, dapper man with a maroon face who could usually be found at the bar. When the races began and fellow patrons would temporarily abandon their drinks to watch the action, The Major would help himself to a discreet sip from various neglected glasses.
The top trainers were often discussed in hushed tones as if they possessed special powers. Dog whisperers. I particularly recall the preciously named Mick Sylver, who had a whiff of celebrity about him, not least because he could rock a fedora. His dogs were easily identified as they all had the prefix “It’s a” in their names. It’s A Bitch was a crowd favourite.
My uncle Mickey – my mother’s brother and my godfather – was also a small-time trainer. When one of his dogs would run, carrying the burden of our hopes and shillings, there was an extra frisson of excitement for the clan.
The bookies – all men – would arrive in their posh cars and sheepskin coats smelling of Old Spice and cigar smoke. After claiming their “pitch”, they would bellow the odds in accents that stretched from Dublin to Belfast. “Five to four the field!” “Three to one bar one!”
Despite my tender age, I’d have a modest punt. Everyone did. One of my uncles was a bookie but as kids, we were only allowed to gamble at the “tote”, where local women would cheerfully distribute betting tickets from contraptions that looked like half sewing machine, half stapler.
“20p each way number 5, is it Billy?” Mrs Reilly might say.
“Yes, that’s right.”
“There you go love, good luck. How’s your mother?”
“Grand, thanks.”
My nepo-baby status granted me all areas-access. I could hang out in the judges box from which my dad, judiciously, would announce race results using a Buddy Holly microphone. These were the best seats in the house. Adjacent to the judges’ box was a darkroom where photo-finishes would be processed. There was an unmistakeable thrill to be able to glimpse the photo seconds before the result was shared with the hoi polloi. It was my first taste of sitting on a scoop.
I could also access “the office”, which was handy because my mother often helped out there.
A framed picture of the legendary Irish greyhound Mick The Miller graced the wall. Mick The Miller was like a canine Phar Lap, afforded extra reverence because he had won top grade races, not just in Dublin, but in England too.
The office contained the only phone at the track from where the media – OK, one particularly whiffy reporter in an anorak – would call in the results for the following day’s paper. I recall my mum performing a deep clean on the phone handset when the solitary hack departed after completing his tasks after the last race.
My dad eventually moved on, the crowds dwindled, and the track struggled to survive the recession-hit 80s. It had run its race.
The venue was eventually closed down and the site sold off. A LIDL supermarket now occupies the place where my little turnstile hut probably stood. I’ll bet some local youngsters are starting their working life at its beeping check-outs.
Billy Cantwell is deputy opinion editor for the Sydney Morning Herald.
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