A Brief Moment in Time and the Post-Cup Hangover
She Listened with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes and modest grace;
And she forgave me that I gazed
Too fondly on her face!
-Samuel Coleridge, "Love"
It's not too often Coleridge comes to mind these days, but when the mighty Makybe Diva was being led around not ten minutes after the finest moment in the history of Australian sport, doused in glory and grand in exhaustion, those words rang straight and true. She had just lifted herself to the thermospheric heights of Phar Lap and achieved what no horse had ever done or will ever do again. Makybe Diva had won Australia's race for the third time, lifting and uniting Australia in admiration and adoration. She had achieved greatness, yet as Australia gazed fondly in awe, her modesty in victory shone like the North Star.
Battle hardened punters, steeled by bat trots and weary from excess, stood and cried. The Banshee's howl could not have drawn such emotion.
Women, cranked on champagne and eye shadow, yelled and cared.
And small children, liberated and carefree, understood.
They understood that history was upon them, upon us, that the Grand Scriptures of Time had just been added too. That a moment of such monumental significance and immeasurable beauty was unfolding and unravelling, perfectly, like a virgin wedding train. Australia had stopped- as it always does- to pay homage to tradition. They stayed, together and free, to salute The Diva-splendid and noble, beautiful and majestic- and salute a moment for eternal remembrance. Those are words filled with hyperbole and grandiosity, but they are justified and true.
Makybe Diva's gallant victory- like The Dismissal and the America's Cup- will live forever in Australia, not only in racing circles, but as a shining light in Australian folklore. To win Australia's race three times. It defies belief. The feat is mythical in its proportions. And because of it, she will live forever and grow in stature and her feats will be questioned because it cannot be comprehended how they could be achieved. You are a cold blooded fool cranked on hate and filled with bile if you couldn't appreciate the magnificence and ethereal beauty of Makybe Diva's third Cup triumph. Nobody will forget where they were-the smell of your neighbour's perfume or the feel of your face or the same look of joy that greeted your dad and your son- when she hit the front and looked the winner. "Go on girl; go on, you can do it". That was quite a high.
And there is nothing like that natural high that comes from being swept along in the jetstream of history, lucid and euphoric as moments that will be remembered and exaggerated in greatness now and forever grace your eyes and fill your heart. Nothing compares to getting wired on a moment of legend. No batch of chemicals can ever take you to those grand heights. But what goes up must come down, as the wise-heads say…
The come down is not pleasant. Not from those heights and not at such a reckless speed. Twisted and jaded and sore, you realise you have reached the high watermark. The Cup is over. And then of course…the hangover.
After the Cup I feel like I'm caught in the white wash. The races seem meaningless and without point. The Great Goal had been scored. A feeling of hollowness and melancholy sets in when I play the horses post-Cup. I am frazzled and tired and can't maintain concentration. Those hard earned Carnival wins being frittered and mauled like an unused coaster. The Form, it hurts to read like a first glance at Burroughs. And we all, inevitably, lose. Those in the throes of a Cup-hangover always do. They don't care any more. That Cup adrenalin that kept them kicking has seeped away like beer in the sun.
Those in the mire of a Cup-hangover aren't fun to be around. They are often seen wandering the streets at night, muttering like Mormons, trying to feel decent again. But it rarely works. You just have to sleep it off and hope for the best. But, it can get messy…
"Bring your won entrails" the old timers warn. Well, maybe. They tend to be more right than wrong when it comes to these matters.
When the Carnival is done and all the deals have gone down, I just pick up and get out of town like a bird on the cusp of winter. I crank Tim Rogers and head for the Gippsland. Solitude and good cheese. I suck back the spring air and read nothing but Rolling Stone back issues. And when the weekend comes around, the NFL is the only game in town. A cheap hotel room, a bottle of whiskey and hours of pigskin action. I dig pro-football, but never as much as this weekend. It's like going for The Cure. I launch myself into a cathartic betting frenzy, thinking nothing of horses and Cups and Ken Callendar. And when it's all done and the QB takes a knee to finish off Monday Night Football, I have calmed down and can reintegrate into society on some form of humane level.
But this is a personal cure and it won't suit everyone. Cures rarely do.
I cannot overemphasise the importance of fighting through the post-Cup hangover. The bookies pockets will be lined with gold if we don't. And that is bad news for everyone.
Just do what you have to do to sharpen back up, lose that feeling of monotony and sadness. And when you've freshened up and you feel the want to start playing the horses, you know you're ready. Then, the bookies better have easy access to plenty of cash because come the Villiers, the crunch will be back on and we'll be on the twisted road to another Cup.
Tedeschi's Tips
Seattle (-4.0) v Arizona: Seattle are the most under-rated side in the NFL and if you keep backing them giving away small starts, you should come out ahead because they can score points and blow inferior teams (like Arizona) off the park. They can pass and run and this week, that'll definitely make the nut.
