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Making Allowances
Chapter 3, Part 2
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Crack!!! “Yaaaggghhhh!!!” Cracking, splitting, swishing, swooshing sounds. “Gooooo onnnn!!” Like gods they flew through the air, brilliant colours
flashing through space, before delicately landing and continuing on their
thundering way. Then silence again. Open-mouthed in wondrous awe of this
spectacle, I looked up at my father. “Can you do that Dad?” I asked. He just smiled and winked. That was it. From then on, if I had the chance to go
with Dad, or one of my uncles, or Granddad, to a meeting, I would be there. It was not long, however, before the pattern of the
next seven or eight years began to establish itself. I went with Granddad to our
local point-to-point meeting that same year. Full of hope and great excitement,
we arrived in plenty of time to see the first race, traditionally the Members’
Race, in which Dad was riding for Granddad’s best friend, a local farmer. It was to prove a baptism of fire. Having walked three
miles across the fields to get onto the course, we decided to watch the race
from the field between the third and twelfth fences on the oval circuit. From
this vantage point we could also see them land over the tenth and eleventh
fences on one side and take off over the fourth, an open ditch on the other. My heart was bursting with pride as I watched Dad sail
over the third fence, well up with the leaders. My joy then turned to horror as
I saw the rear end of dad’s horse jolt up into the air as it negotiated the
ditch, ejecting Dad like a stone from a catapult. I gasped and looked at
Granddad. He caught up my hand in his spade-like fist. “Come on my boy.” We hurried to the fence in time to see a prone figure
being stretchered into the waiting ambulance; it was a sight I would never
forget, and learn to deal with, but that first time, as a small boy, I reacted
as any other child. “Dad!” I squeaked, turning then to the Ambulance
Man, “That’s my Dad!!” “You’d best come in then”, the Ambulance Man
said, lifting me into the back of the vehicle, “before we take him away.” There he was, that stupid sod, smiling a gaping grin,
without his two false teeth. “Hello Champ.” I started to cry. “Don’t cry”, he said calmly, “I’m not
hurt.” “But they’re going to take you to hospital.” I
protested. “That’s OK,” smiled Dad, “they always do
that,” as if it were as normal as having your hair cut. “You wait and see, I’ll be back home tonight before
you go to bed, and we’ll finish putting those football stickers in the book.
Go on with Granddad now, there’s a good boy.” I looked back into the wagon as Granddad lifted me
down. He was smiling and waving, as the Ambulance Man strapped him up. He had broken his collarbone, but sure enough, he was
back home by eight o’clock and, with his good arm, helped me with my sticker
book, as he had promised. A boy could not have felt more loved by his father,
and I loved him so much too. The heartbreak was only just beginning. The next year, he broke his jaw and dislocated his
shoulder, the following year, his wrist, the next year a couple of ribs and some
fingers, and so it went on. He loved racing, and was miserable, like a child
without their favourite toy when he was injured and had to sit it out. As I grew older I began to find it harder to comprehend
why he kept going back for more, but even as a boy, I could appreciate the sense
of freedom and release that comes from sport. As a child, though, it was a
diversion rather than a passion. There is a big difference. I would, as a man, learn the true value passion, of
being able to dream. As a teenager, I could not see what was driving him to do
these things. Mum could not, because she was not a participant, and thus were
the answers hidden from her. Whether Granddad did, I could not say. Dad, despite the accumulation of injuries, continued to
renew his jockey’s licence and stage confounding recoveries, probably to the
point at which we took it for granted that he would bounce back. On the day that he discharged himself from hospital,
Mum called me into her bedroom. She showed me the skull-cap that Dad had worn in
the race. It was split in half.
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If you would like to contact Richie, please email him at: richie@baylands.fsnet.co.uk
© Copyright Richie Phillips. No unauthorised reproduction allowed. |
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