by Jim Haynes
They were men who had many temptations thrown in their way, but kept honest and straight in their careers. Some of the happiest days of my working life have been spent in their society and as comrades the bulk of them were as true as steel.
We had our little differences occasionally and at times the arguments as to the merits of certain horses became heated, but all these disputes ended amicably and the discourse generally ended with, ‘Well, what’s yours, old man?’
Yes, those were the jolly days, and if any of my old comrades of the Press read this book, I trust that they will allow the writer to class himself as one of them still.
Jockeys
Australian jockeys have a different style and appearance to the English. They are, as a rule, neat in their dress and it is an exception to see a slovenly jockey.
Good jockeys are few and far between. Many men are able to ride a horse, but this does not constitute a good jockey. Race-riding is an art that few men, and hardly any boys, are proficient in.
At the present time, however, there are some fine riders on the turf in Australia. Such men as John Fielder, the Delaneys, the Goughs, the Cooks, Lewis, Kelso, Parker, Huxley, Harris and Dawes Park are all thoroughly reliable riders. Martin Gallagher is getting on in years, but his hand has lost none of its cunning.
A good yarn is told about Martin Gallagher. At Rosehill he rode a certain horse, and he was called upon to explain its running. The chairman had a horse running in this particular race.
‘You could have been much nearer to the winner,’ said the chairman.
‘Yes,’ said Martin, ‘but I could not have won.’
‘Why did you not ride your horse out?’ asked the chairman.
‘I got jammed in,’ said Martin with a smile, ‘one horse kept me in all down the straight; in fact, this horse was “shepherding” me all through the race.’
‘And whose horse was that?’ indignantly asked the chairman.
‘Yours, sir,’ was the quiet but very effective reply.
Nothing came of that inquiry.
Jockeys are often accused of pulling horses when they are not at fault. I am sorry to say, however, I have seen horses deliberately stopped.
In the majority of cases the men who instruct the jockeys how to ride races are to blame. If a jockey does not carry out the instructions he receives, he does not get many mounts.
An Australian jockey has not much chance of making a big fortune from riding fees alone; there are exceptions, but not many.
An attempt was made by Mister W.A. Long, one of the members of the AJC Committee, to reduce the jockeys’ fee for a losing mount to £1. I wrote strongly against this at the time, and so did others, and eventually the fee was fixed at £2 instead of £3. For a winning mount on the flat a jockey receives £5, and it is considerably more for hurdle and steeplechase riding.
When we consider the small number of mounts a jockey can get in a year, his income cannot be large. Thirty winning mounts is far above the average for a jockey in a season in Australia.
Jockeys are not allowed to bet, but they do bet, and heavily sometimes. It is a bad system, but it will never be avoided so long as a jockey cannot make a good income from riding fees alone. I have known jockeys standing to win large stakes on races. They have told me the amount on several occasions.
It is a pernicious practice for an owner to put a jockey up and give him orders not to win, and yet this is done by men who ought to know better.
I once asked a popular jockey why he did not decline to ride a horse when he was given orders not to win.
‘If I did I should never get another mount from him,’ he answered, naming a well-known owner. ‘Not only that, but he would influence other owners against me.’
Accidents will happen during races, but many could be avoided if mere lads who know no more how to ride a race than they know how to fly, were not put up in the saddle.
These youngsters have no fear because they are unaware of the danger. There are far too many of these apprentices riding in the colonies.
One of the worst accidents I saw was at Randwick, when Alec Robinson was killed by Mister Cooper’s Silvermine falling. Poor Robinson was literally smashed all to pieces, and was hardly recognisable when brought into the casualty room.
It is really wonderful how often riders escape. Tom Corrigan and Martin Bourke were killed, one a few days after the other. Corrigan, about the best steeplechase rider in the colonies, was killed by his horse Waiter falling in a steeplechase at Caulfield. A public subscription was raised for his widow, who got a good round sum. The little Irishman was one of the most jovial, goodhearted men I ever met.
Martin Bourke was killed while schooling a horse over hurdles at Flemington. Bourke was the most fearless rider, and the number of falls he had was remarkable. I think he had nearly every bone in his body broken at one time or another.
There are some fair amateur riders in Australia, but not so many as one would expect in such a country. There are hundreds of splendid horsemen in the colonies, and yet very few men capable of riding a decent race in the amateur ranks.
Jockeys have too much spare time on their hands, and this is not a good thing for anyone. I have repeatedly advocated the formation of a jockeys’ clubhouse at Randwick, or in the vicinity, where the lads could pass away their spare hours. In such a club they would be free from public house surroundings, and would have their billiards in peace and quietness. Most jockeys are fond of a game of billiards.
It does not look well to see jockeys hanging around the entrance of Tattersalls’ club and other places. Very few jockeys in Australia have retaining fees, and are constantly on the lookout for chance mounts.
For a big race leading jockeys will probably be engaged to ride for a stable, and certain jockeys may generally be depended upon to ride for certain owners or stables, but, as I said before, very few have retaining fees.
There is a vast difference in the way races are ridden in Australia to the old country. Waiting tactics are not often resorted to, and it is generally a hot pace the full distance. The severe 2 miles of the Melbourne Cup course is run at full speed, and there is not much chance of waiting on the road. This system of riding is in a great measure due to the time test. If a horse is timed to run 2 miles in say 3.29 or 3.30, then he has to do it in the race if possible. A slow-run race is an exception. I mean, as a rule the horses go at their top, but they may not be fast enough to make good time.
It would surprise many people to see the rate at which horses go over hurdles and steeplechase fences. In a hurdle race horses very often go as fast as they do on the flat. Steeplechasers are often ridden at a breakneck pace, which says more for the pluck than the judgement of the riders.
Tom Hales
When I first went to Australia Tom Hales was at the height of his fame as a jockey, but of late years he has almost given up riding and is rarely seen in the saddle. His record stands alone, and he has ridden more winners than any other jockey in the colonies. He has won nearly every race of importance on the Australian turf, and his classic wins are too numerous to mention.
As a rider of two-year-olds Hales may be placed on a par with that master of the art, Tom Cannon. Hales has a wonderful sympathy with the horse he rides, and he and his mount appear to understand each other thoroughly. In such races as the Derby, Hales’s judgement stands him in good stead, and his knowledge of pace was never better displayed than when he beat Carbine on Ensign in the Derby of 1888.
It was in this type of race for the late James White that Hales scored his biggest wins, and he rode scores of winners for the New-market stable.
Tom Hales, in my humble opinion, is one of the best men I ever saw ride a racehorse. He has marvellous hands, a clear, cool head, and is a wonderful judge of pace, a great finisher, and has a good seat. Above all, he is as honest as the day, and there has never been a whisper of suspicion against him during his long career in the saddle.
I have known Hales a long time, and his
modest and unassuming manner and thorough straightforwardness have always favourably impressed me. Many happy hours have I spent with him, both on the turf and off, more especially in his beautiful home,Acmeville, at Moonee Ponds, near Melbourne.
Acmeville is a charming residence, luxurious without being ostentatious. Tom Hales at home is the hospitable host and Mrs Hales, a daughter of South Australia’s most successful breeder of horses, is a model wife.
Unfortunately Tom Hales is a great sufferer from asthma and is anything but strong. His love of riding, however, is as keen as ever. The last time I was at Acmeville he returned with me to Melbourne in order to go on that night to Caulfield to ride one of his own horses at work next morning.
‘I never consider any trouble or inconvenience it may cause me, when there is work to be done,’ he said, when I asked him why he left his comfortable home to go out to Caulfield. ‘I have always made it a practice through life to be on the spot when I’m wanted. I have done this for the owners I have ridden for, now I am doing it for myself.’
Tom Hales is a wealthy man, and has acquired his money in an honest manner, and has worked very hard for it, I’m afraid to the detriment of his health.
He has a fine stud farm at Halesville, near Albury, in lovely country near the banks of the Murray, and there he is devoting much of his time to the breeding of bloodstock. He purchased Lochiel, the famous son of Prince Charlie, but was induced to part with him, and I think he has regretted the sale ever since.
Superstitions
The same superstitions exist as in the old land, and racing men are wont to regard certain signs and omens with an amount of awe not understandable to ordinary mortals.
I was seated in a tramcar one morning when a particular friend of mine stepped in and sat down. Suddenly, without a word of warning, he jumped up and rushed out again.
I looked under the seat to see if a dog had been secreted there, and had gone for his calves, but there was nothing to cause alarm in that direction.
Much to my surprise I saw him come in at the other side of the tram and quietly sit down.
‘What is the matter?’ I asked. ‘Too much whiskey last night?’
‘No,’ he replied, ‘it’s race day, you know, and I got in the wrong side of the tram. It’s unlucky.’
I suggested that getting out again and coming in the other side of the tram did not do away with the fact that he had originally made a mistake. He acknowledged this, but added that repairing the error might lessen the unlucky consequences of the action.
Another friend, who was a ‘chief ’ on one of the Orient Liners, invariably backed a horse whose name suggested something nautical or reminded him of the ship he was on. He backed a horse called Oroya one day, beause it was named after an Orient Liner, and the horse won.
Some men invariably back the first horse they see upon entering the paddock and others back the mount of the jockey whose colours they first come across.
Women at the races
Women punters abound on the racecourses and the same faces may be seen meeting after meeting. As a rule these punters are middle-aged or elderly women, though there are a few young ones to be found.
It is amusing to watch the tactics of these women. Their faces plainly show the fascination that gambling, not horse-racing, possesses for them. The flushed countenances and restless expression betoken a mind and a system strung to the highest pitch by the pernicious habit they have acquired and which has, alas, thoroughly mastered them.
With a purse clutched tightly in one hand, and either a satchel or umbrella in the other, they push and jostle in the crowded ring, and dart from one bookmaker to the other to see which horses are backed. There is no bashfulness about these dames of the turf and I am afraid some of them forfeit a good deal of what self-respect they have to obtain information.
Some bookmakers, to their credit be it said, have a strong objection to betting with women; and I know more than one man in the ring who declines to bet with them. Others are not so scrupulous, and accept money, no matter from what quarter it comes.
On many occasions I have seen these women, when the race is being run, sitting on a seat in a quiet part of the course, waiting for the winner’s number to be hoisted, and taking no interest in the race itself. All they think about is winning money, and for the sport they care very little.
There are thousands of ladies, however, at Flemington and Randwick, on Derby and Cup Days, who visit the racecourse out of pure love of the sport, combined with a natural feminine desire to be seen and to see others.
To the credit of the racecourse secretaries and officials, be it said that they use every endeavour to keep loose women off their courses, and in this they succeed admirably.
A racecourse demonstration
On racecourses in Australia the public are apt to express their opinions freely when anything suspicious takes place. I shall not forget in a hurry a scene that occurred at Eagle Farm, Brisbane, I think in 1887.
It was when Honest Ned won the Brisbane Cup.
At that time Mr C. Holmes was the starter at the club. There were some hot favourites in the race, such as Touchstone, who had won the Morton Handicap; Lord Headington, winner of the Derby on the first day of the meeting; Pirate, Theorist and several others.
Some heavy double event books were then open on the Moreton Handicap and Brisbane Cup.
Honest Ned, owned by Mr D’Arcy, was an outsider.
At the start there was a lot of delay, and at last the horses got off to what appeared to be a false start to the majority of the people. Some of the horses ran the course, and, of this lot, Honest Ned won.
Several of the horses, including most of the heavily backed ones, did not run but remained at the post. The jockeys of these horses declared—two of them to me personally—that the starter called them back.
No notice was taken of the race won by Honest Ned, and the people were waiting for the horses to go back to the post and start again. To the amazement and indignation of the crowd, a rumour quickly went round that it was a start, and Honest Ned had won. The stewards held an inquiry, and the race was given to Honest Ned, the outsider.
I have seen a few exhibitions of feeling on racecourses, but never one to equal that at Eagle Farm when this decision was given. The crowd rushed the grandstand enclosure and commenced to pull down the fencing. For a short time there was a riot, and some of the stewards were greatly perplexed as to what should be done.
The manager of the totalisator took the precaution to retreat with the money to a safe distance until the storm was over. I never saw a racecourse crowd more determined to show how they felt about a race. It was a deplorable blunder on somebody’s part, and it would have been better to have run the race over again, but as the starter stated it was a start, the stewards had no option, and awarded the race to Honest Ned.
I met Mr Holmes the morning after as we were crossing the Brisbane River in a ferry boat. He assured me he gave the word to go, and that he was very sorry such a start had taken place. I told him jockeys who remained at the post said he did not say ‘go’, and that they’ve heard him call out ‘come back’. To this the starter replied that they had made a mistake. It was a lucky race for the ringmen, as Honest Ned got them out of most of their double difficulties.
*This has long since changed to autumn.
Jim Bendrodt
DAVID HICKIE
WHILE BERNBOROUGH’S OWNER, Azzalin the Dazzlin’ Romano, advertised his famous nightspot Romano’s restaurant as the swishest eatery in Sydney during the 1930s and 1940s, his great competitor, the equally flash Jim Bendrodt, ran Prince’s restaurant on the opposite corner at Martin Place.
James Charles ‘Jim’ Bendrodt—lumberjack, radio announcer, sailor, soldier, actor, champion athlete, professional dancer and restaurateur— was one of Sydney’s most colourful entrepreneurs for 50 years, running dancing halls, skating rinks, nightspots and a string of racehorses.
Jim’s father was a Danish sea c
aptain who joined the Hudson Bay Company during its pioneering days around the remote coastal areas of Canada and ferried miners to the northern Arctic during the Yukon goldrushes.
Jim was born in 1896 and raised in the town of Victoria in British Columbia. As a teenager he learned to use his fists around the lumber camps of the Canadian backwoods, and boxed professionally. As a youngster he won titles at boxing, ice-skating and sculling, and played lacrosse at a high level as well as some semi-pro rugby.
Despite his obsession in later years to always appear among the best-dressed men in Sydney, with a red carnation in his buttonhole, he was also renowned for his ability to bounce even the toughest drunks from his nightspots.
In 1913, at age 17, Bendrodt had taken a job shovelling coal in the stokehold of a ship headed for Australia. He landed with a £5 note, one suit, one hat and a pair of boots. Within a fortnight of his arrival he was earning £30 a week as a roller-skating champ. He and partner George Irving performed a duo act described as ‘two daring young men with flying legs on roller-skates who entertained patrons of the Tivoli as they raced, tumbled and twisted to a climax like whirling dervishes’.
Bendrodt had held Canadian titles from 3-mile to 24-hour events and the roller-skating craze was just catching on in Sydney. Eventually he was matched against an imported US Champion named Echard in a 24-hour race billed as the ‘world championship’ at Sydney’s Exhibition Building. Bendrodt bet all his savings on himself but lost by a mere 40 yards.
When war broke out in 1914 he was the 198th man to enlist in the initial 1500-man force, which was given 11 days training and sent to annex German New Guinea. He was netting £200 a week from a dance hall, but within a fortnight he was a six-bob-a-day private on a troop ship in the Pacific.
A friend from those days later recalled:
Jim was a dandy—always the best dressed man in town, with that red carnation in his buttonhole. All Jim’s mob were shoddily dressed in woeful looking uniforms, made in a hurry for soldiers in a hurry. But not Jim; he’d had his uniform tailor-made, and was a picture of sartorial elegance as he sailed away.