7 Nov--Chasing Yeats

Yesterday the headlines shouted for the head of Saddam Hussein, his guilty neck fuzzied underneath a salt-and-pepper beard. Talk of death was virulent, and it spread city-wide.

But that was yesterday. Today is the Melbourne Cup, so Australia and New Zealand promptly brush aside world politics to focus on more the more pressing issue of what horse to bet on. The favourite is a horse from Ireland named Yeats. Besides being number one in the world, it also has the status of being the first horse whose name was fitting, if not poignant. The other contenders include Poprock, from Japan, Mandela, from New Zealand, and Headturner, from Australia. There are more, of course, but the only one on Jamie's mind is Yeats.

"I'm off to the TAB," he says to Kate, the Web team leader, as he throws on his rain jacket. Although the race is in Melbourne, it is broadcast as a prime-time event in New Zealand.

"Better hurry," she says without looking up from her computer, "Race starts in 20 minutes. Who's your pick?"

"Yeats." Jamie replies, and he only knew there was a horse named Yeats because an hour ago someone asked him for $2.00 to go into an office sweepstakes. When he saw the Irish poet's name on the list, he figured this was as good a time as any to begin a gambling habit.

Outside, rain drizzled onto the city streets making cars sound louder and people walk faster. Many of the pubs in the city centre has betting tables inside them, and he walked into the first one displaying the blue TAB sign in its window. He had withdrawn $40 from the ATM on his way down, and he reached for his wallet as he approached the table.

"I'd like to put--" but he was cut off mid sentence.

"You gotta fill out a form, mate." The man said in a gruff, irritated tone. He pointed to a pile of orange and white cards. Jamie picked one up and stepped aside to let others make their bets. The betting form was completely foreign to him, and the longer he looked at it, the stranger it became. There were boxes at the top that numbered to 20, denomination and percentage boxes. and a series of columns and arrows that may could have brought Douglas Adams back to life by their sheer absurdity.

After a few minutes, Jamie realised his brain had stopped trying to figure the race form out. It was instead thinking about how nice it would be to learn a musical instrument. Jamie looked at the clock. The race began in less than five minutes. He turned to the man standing at his right who had just ordered a pint of lager.

"Hey, can you give me a hand with this?" He asked, trying to sound less than pathetic, but not succeeding very well.

"Just ask Joe, there." He pointed to the man behind the table; the man who had told him to get a race form in the first place.

"Ah, thanks." Jamie didn't feel like approaching Joe again, so he approached a group of younger guys for help.

"Na, mate. No use. Race is gonna start. It'd take too long." One of them said. Jamie felt a pang of defeat. At this point, he was sure Yeats was going to win--or at least place. The $40 in his pocket felt heavy and wilted, a limp version of what it could be. He looked over to Joe behind the betting table. He was waving people away. It was too late.

Jamie smiled politely, and headed for the door. The bar was hot, and he was still in his jacket. He could feel beads of sweat gathering on the tip of his nose. He stepped outside, and the cool spring air was instant relief. There were a group of men smoking by the door. One of them was bemoaning the fact he hadn't arrived in time to place a bet. And then Jamie had an idea.

"Who's your horse?" Jamie asked.

"Poprock I've got an inside tip." Right, Jamie thought. Just like all the rest.

"Wanna bet? I'll put $40 on Yeats coming in ahead of your horse." Jamie said, feeling he had nothing to lose, but not completely understanding that, in fact, he had exactly $40 to lose.

"Deal. $40 to the winner." They shook. There were witnesses. And everyone piled inside to watch the race play out on the television.

The horses pounded and so did Jamie's chest--Yeats was in front. Very, very in front. And then something funny happened. Yeats slowed down, or at least it seemed to Jamie he did. A group of four horses were closing the gap--5 metres, 3 metres. Jamie finally heard the announcer's voice say the name "Poprock," and Jamie noticed the horse chasing Yeats. And in seconds it was the horse Yeats was chasing. Then there were two horses ahead of Yeats--he was a gonner. Jamie recalled the epitaph on the Irish poet's grave: Cast a cold Eye/On life/On death/Horseman, pass by. Before long, Jamie realised he had just thrown away his money.

Or had he?

He was standing at the back of the crowd, and all in the crowd had their backs to him. He glanced at the race on the TV. It would be over in seconds. Run, he though. Run.

But he couldn't move. A moment later, the race was over, and people were either howling with glee or cursing their luck. He tapped his betting partner on the shoulder, and held out the money.

"Oh, mate, I thought you were kidding. Nah, keep your money. I've been to every other TAB in town placing the same bet, I just didn't make it to this one. Sweet Jesus, mate. I'm loaded! Wanna drink?"

Jamie thought, what a stupid question.