I’d never have forgiven myself if I hadn’t watched the rip-roaring event in Flemington Racecourse on an outdoor TV set in a Vietnamese-run cafe in Darling Harbour (everybody’s gaze was glued to television yesterday afternoon, in offices where all work had stopped, in living rooms, and in "Cup" parties everywhere – even in Chinese restaurants or Thai food emporia in Chinatown).
When the race was over, my jaundiced eye spotted mournful faces everywhere – mingled with furtive shrugs of admiration for the "surprise" winner of that most celebrated of all racing events. For literally out of nowhere, although he had "drawn the extreme outside barrier" (as they doublespeak in Oz when hedging their bets), a New Zealand gelding named Brew – an 18 to one shot sanamagan – with diminutive 20-year-old jockey Kerrin McEvoy whispering him on to the finish line as the crowd surged to its feet in a roar that reverberated with amazement, admiration and disbelief – thundered to triumph by more than a length and a half!
Oh, what a race it was! Next, beaten squarely but gallant came another unseeded yet grand horse, Yippyio (a favorite for the race three years ago until struck down by "travel sickness", but now, obviously, magnificently recovered). Third was Second Coming, a winner of the Victoria Derby in 1997, but only runner-up in the Auckland Cup in New Zealand. Once again, most of the "punters" (as they call bettors in this land Down Under) didn’t see Second "coming" at all. Woe for them.
Indeed, none of the favorites even placed significantly. When Brew made his marvelous surge to the fore, they were left far behind eating mud. Where, oh where, the anguished losing punters moaned, had the most-talked about Freemason, Far Cry, Diatribe, Arctic Owl, and a sentimental favorite Coco Cobanna (owned by a winsome lady) gone wrong? They hadn’t gone wrong. Brew, a stunner from New Zealand (where most Derby winners emanate – incidentally well-bred by Sir Tristam out of Japan Cup winning mare Horlicks), simply outran the entire field bringing glory to his trainer Mike Moroney, who modestly said afterwards that Brew had done all the work.
Foster’s Beer, the sponsor of the Derby, couldn’t have been more pleased – after all, how often does a nag named Brew, in an upset win, clinch the Foster’s-underwritten Cup? Betya, though. From the pursed-lip looks of the Foster’s executives ringing the award ceremony, all of them had put their money on the wrong horses.
Off-track betting operations are called TABs. Just to show how much of a betting country Australia is, prisoners in the New South Wales (NSW) were only four days ago placed under tougher restrictions on their "outgoing" telephone calls when Department of Correctional Services officials discovered to their horror that inmates were operating TAB phone betting accounts from jail!
Opposition spokesman Andrew Humpherson called for an investigation when it was found out that a convicted murderer in the nearby state of Victoria manipulated the system in which inmates can call ten "approved people" who then forward their calls to another number – in this case to harass his wife who had miraculously survived after the convict had shot her in the head.
"If the government is allowing criminals to gamble or threaten their victims by telephone," Humpherson complained, what’s happening to Australia? "Now in Victoria whenever a "high-risk" prisoner places a call through a "nominated number", the recipient of the call hears a recorded message warning the recipient that the call "is from a prisoner" and that they can refuse the call.
I wonder how the system works in promiscuous Philippines where, even inside the national penitentiary, there’s still said to be a thriving business in shabu. Even in maximum security, can convict "Dial a Drug"?
On Cable News Network (CNN), "political analyst" Alex Magno was quoted as predicting Erap might be out in a week. Gee whiz. Perhaps somebody can predict whether it’s George W. Bush or Al Gore who’ll win today’s US election.
As for me, I subscribe to what the late Manila Times columnist Teodoro "Doroy" Valencia (who subsequently violated his own commandment) used to warn me about: "Max, never predict anything unless you know it already happened!"
Just look at yesterday’s fantastic Melbourne Cup. Those who made predictions, the pundits, experts, and the oracles of Flemington and the Victoria Racing Club, had to wash down their prophesies with a . . . well, bitter Brew. On second thought, that marvelous gelding Brew’s pulse-pounding gallop to the Finish Line wasn’t bitter; it was a terrific reminder that when anyone has heart no feat is impossible – and that horse had heart. And his jockey, too. Kerrin McEvoy’s three uncles are winning jockeys in their own right, but none of them ever experienced the pinnacle of honor of riding to victory in the Melbourne Cup, the "holy grail" of racing, to risk a sacrilegious remark. In his happiest hour, Kerrin thanked Mom and Dad – and his horse! After all, he hails from a polite little town in South Australia.
I’m always happy to be in Australia, which Donald Horne (one of my favorite analysts on his own split-level nation) once sarcastically called in his classic book, The Lucky Country. That volume, written more than three decades ago, was my bible on Australia – and much of what Horne said, though superseded and overwhelmed by more recent events (like the wave of Asian immigration), still rings true. In a recent preface to a reprint of the book, Horne complained that most Australians (including many who had never read his book) picked up on his title, The Lucky Country, to mistakenly believe it had been said in praise of Australia and Australians. The phrase was erroneously adopted as an upbeat message – he groused – that, truly, Australia is a Lucky Country.
Horne, a much-respected scholar and professor, was right to complain. But possibly he was also wrong. For Australia is, in my estimation, not only lucky but blessed, for all its hedonism and runaway sex, with the homespun virtues that clash with its free-and-easy character.
Last Sunday, we went to nearby St. Mary’s Cathedral and attended one of the most moving High Masses, in a packed church, I have ever experienced. His Eminence, Cardinal Clancy, officiated at that Mass, and in his sermon uttered not a single word about politics – there was an air of reverence bordering on awe hovering over all the congregation. And the boys’ choir: How touchingly they all sang, every voice ringing true, the Latin cadences so familiar to my youth tugging at every chord of fond memory. Truly there is no musical instrument on earth as vibrant as the human voice.
After the Mass, we had occasion to greet the Cardinal as he crossed the courtyard. Introducing ourselves as coming from the Philippines, I asked the Cardinal what he thought of what was happening to Estrada.
He looked at me in surprise: "Estrada who?"
Late yesterday afternoon, even as dark and glowering clouds overhung the blue of the sky already deepening into dusk, I saw for the first time in my life a perfect rainbow.
It was an immense arch, blue-green, yellow and reddish pink, which disappeared into the distant waters of – forgive my geographical ignorance – I think the Pacific and lingered on brilliantly for more than 20 minutes. At the end of that rainbow, I mused in both optimism and superstition, must surely be our beloved country, Unhappy Philippines. I trust the rainbow is a token that our long night of confusion, contention and self-doubt may soon brighten into Dawn.
That’s better, though it may sound foolish, than believing that at the end of a rainbow there’s a "pot of gold." Gold we’ve got aplenty. What we need are faith and hope.
And a bit more charity.