You Can’t Knock A Man Who Dares to Dream
A man has got to dream, boy. It comes with the territory. Willy Loman said that in “Death of a Salesman” and though he wasn’t talking about the racing game, he easily could have been. Willy Loman understood that humanity’s most important commodity is hope. Without it, we have nothing. Nothing to strive for, nothing to work towards, nothing to get us out of bed in the morning. Hope is the difference between living and existing.
Ross McDonald dared to dream. He dared to believe that his champion galloper Weekend Hussler was the next Kingston Town, the equivalent of Tulloch, a modern day Carbine. He had the faith that his horse could do anything asked of it and dreamt than when The Great and Complete History of the Australian Turf was written, he would be the trainer of the greatest galloper Australia has ever known.
That dream was dashed on Saturday and although Weekend Hussler’s Caulfield Cup defeat left many, McDonald included, with a heavy heart, his tale was no tragedy. The tragedy would have been if McDonald hadn’t dared to lay it all on the line and chase the pot of gold.
A number of seasons back a Lloyd Williams horse called Reset raced five times for five wins including group one victories in the Cadbury Guineas and the Futurity. He was dually retired, a potential champion sent off to stud for reasons of money and business. Ross McDonald wasn’t going to go down the same gutless path.
Weekend Hussler has certainly bought out the optimistic best in the hardened trainer. The racing game is a tough one and when you have been in it as long as McDonald, you know the road is littered with bones. He has seen plenty of false dawns.
The brilliance of Weekend Hussler, however, broke down the protective layers that often insulate a modern day racehorse trainer and bought to McDonald the shining brilliance of possibility.
As a three year old, Weekend Hussler had the world at his hooves in winning nine of his eleven starts. He looked like a true champion in the making. His Caulfield Guineas victory was as dominant as any ever recorded. His ability to drop back two furlongs and claim the Ascot Vale Stakes three weeks later stamped him as a galloper of great versatility. His efforts in claiming the Oakleigh and Newmarket against the older gallopers fixed him as a star. Group one wins in the Randwick Guineas and the George Ryder further enhanced his reputation, proving he could win the reverse way of going and on wet ground. In his first season of racing he had claimed six group one races, winning them in both Melbourne and Sydney, on the wet and dry, from 1100 metres to 1600 metres, against his own age and the older horses. He was a virtual unanimous decision for horse of the year with his race ratings suggesting he was the best horse of his age in the world.
Anything seemed possible for Ross McDonald and Weekend Hussler. Even the most unsentimental of souls who inhabit the Australian turf were starting to buy into the prospect that Weekend Hussler was something special and that they had better pay close heed because perhaps the next champion had arrived. The cynics had opened their minds to the buoyancy of possibility.
After such an incredible year it was not surprising that McDonald set the bar high for the spring, opting to make a run at historical greatness. Weekend Hussler, despite not racing beyond a mile and despite being bred to race no longer, was set for the Cox Plate, the Caulfield Cup and the Melbourne Cup. He was set on a path not completed since the mighty Rain Lover had run the gauntlet back in 1954 when the world was consumed by the threat of communism, television was in its infancy and The Don had only just retired.
Ross McDonald cast logic, sense and the odds to one side. Dreams aren’t about the tangible and they aren’t about reason and they aren’t about playing the percentages. Dreams are about letting go, allowing yourself to chase something grand, something magnificent, something beautiful, something historic. Ross McDonald wanted it all and who could blame him. He had an exciting galloper and wanted to see how far it could go just like a fighter wants to see how hard he can hit and just like a pilot wants to see how fast he can fly. It is about breaking barriers and pushing forward, the essence that drove Chuck Yeager and Magellan and Tim Leary and Napolean and Andy Green and all men with ambition and hope and self-belief.
Prior to Saturday’s Caulfield Cup, there were two schools of thought regarding Weekend Hussler and Ross McDonald. The first relied on the notion of the champion, that a horse good as The Hussler will have no problem with the mile-and-a-half and even if he is not a true stayer, class alone will get him home. This was the popular way of thinking, the belief of the people. They pointed to his three wins this preparation that culminated in a solid Underwood win over nine furlongs, rejecting his Turnbull effort as a true reflection of his staying ability by claiming the wide run and the jockey’s kindness rendered the test null and void. The second school pointed to his breeding and his Turnbull run and declared that despite his brilliance he could not see out a Caulfield Cup run or any run over a mile-and-a-half. He should have been saved for one effort in the Cox Plate. McDonald is a fool for aiming so high.
When they hit the turn in the Cup, two furlongs to race, Weekend Hussler pulled out and was asked to give. Cheers rang out, fingers were crossed, silent prayers were made to any number of deities. He was willed on by nearly every man and woman on course and nearly every race fan in the country. We all yearn for a champion and we all need a hero. Even those who declared him no chance stood hoping they were wrong.
When Weekend Hussler could find nothing and a Godolphin roughie who few knew and even less cared about, a collective groan rang out around Caulfield and around Australia. At that moment the dream died. Weekend Hussler was to be no more than a super horse. He would never attain the mantle of undisputed champion. To reach that level in this country, the minimum requirement is a Melbourne Cup or a Cox Plate or a Caulfield Cup. His legacy will always be tarnished by the caveat that he could not stay and could not win a Big One. We all knew it as we saw the mighty son of Hussonet whacking away up the straight.
The Hussler will now spend the remainder of the spring in a paddock. He will not run in a Cox Plate that he has been favoured in since markets opened. He will not be at Flemington on the first Tuesday in November. He will return to the track sometime in 2009 and will become one of Australia’s great sprinter-milers. International traverses await and he has the quality to match it with the best in the world up to a mile. He will not be found wanting in terms of class, brilliance or wins.
He will, however, never claim one of the Big Three.
Ross McDonald may have made some mistakes. He may have overestimated the capabilities of his horse. He may have pushed on in the face of evidence that suggested he shouldn’t. He perhaps should have gone straight to the Cox Plate and not pursued the Caulfield Cup. There are many things, with hindsight, McDonald should of or would have done differently. Hindsight, however, is a rather dull way to determine what is right and what is wrong.
The way we should look at Weekend Hussler’s spring campaign of 2008 is through the prism of hope. He attempted something glorious and fell short. It was a noble ambition and we should always recall the tale in its entirety rather than allow the conclusion to rest alone because it was the grandiosity of The Hussler’s journey that was more important than how the story ended. It was a tale of unfettered hope, optimism and one hell of a horse and the fact he couldn’t climb Everest does not mean he is a loser. Context is crucial and we must always remember that the tracks throughout the spring of 2008 were filled because we all started to believe in The Hussler.
The turf is a cruel mistress. Many dreams are found to be nothing more than delusions, hopes of grandeur dashed by the brutal realities of the game. The beauty, however, is that racing remains a place to dream despite the collapse of so many romantic visions, where a man may just strike it rich and win big and find glory and fame and riches and satisfaction. This is how the turf has always been and this is how it will always be. Big dreams lead to big deeds and it is the big deeds that we all remember. Ross McDonald dreamt big. He may have failed to grab those distant stars he so desperately craved but in no way can he or his grand galloper be considered a failure. He is a dreamer, just like the rest of us, the personification of the turf spirit that gets trainers up before each dawn and owners opening their wallets at each sale and punters studying the form each morning. Ross McDonald had the courage to dream big and that makes him a winner. Without him or his like, racing would not capture the hearts and minds of a nation like it does.