Emmalie Balnaves-Gale
COMM 2051
Just a Day at the Races
The dark leather tongue flies at 760 mph before connecting with the soft, lush skin that surrounds his
big, bold frame, sending a wave of pain like a flame to skin through the veteran’s body. The shock sends
his hooves down with greater force, indenting a long trail into the beaten grass that lies beneath him. At
connection, a loud crack carries beyond the track to join the mix of abusive enthusiasm and nervous
concentration that fills the crowd. For the veteran, the shot of pain indicates the approaching end, but an
end not reached before continuing repetition of the whips cruel tip torturing his skin. Upon his back and
hovering above his withers sits the 52 kg’s of man dressed in an outrageously vivacious display of the
rainbow threaded onto material. In honor of medieval Italy, the jockey sports silk and is covered entirely
in the symbolic design of his owner. Together they represent the hope of pathetic gambling addicts
masquerading as businessmen and the worthless ‘all in’ attitudes of men married to the races and
pushing 0.10.
His pinky finger gives him away as it twitches uncontrollably from within the pocket of his suit. He sits
alone within the comfort of the black leather recliner situated before the greatest view of the race,
though to both sides of him sit other men whom appear just as controlled and confident as he. The finest
beer imported straight from Dusseldorf sits ice-cold in a glass beside him, though his anxiety has
momentarily paralyzed him from shifting away from the window as the horses round the corner to begin
the final stretch. His eyes glued to number eight as he watches the veteran horse carry his jockey into
first place on the home run. Those four muscular, never-ending legs gallop to the pace of his heartbeat
and as a mere drop of perspiration brushes the right corner of his brow, he wishes he were the one in
control of the whip. His wife and two children hovered within his head as their future lay upon the broad
shoulders of the veteran. He felt his desperation increase at the thought of his $500,000 cheque which he
had handed over to the sweaty 16-year-old behind the betting station who’s greedy eyes were
surrounded by the face of cruel puberty. Fear encircles the luxurious room fit for those privileged
enough to be granted membership and each impulsive gambler stands frozen before the transparent glass
as the horses stampede down the race track.
Her angelic giggle softly touches the eardrums of those around her as she rolls in the grass, her hand
latching onto her brothers as they tumble. As they come to a halt, she lay peacefully watching the clouds
pass above her to reveal a clear blue sky. Her eyes shift to the sun and she is instantly blinded before
forcing her eyelids shut to see the flashes of gold before a pitch-black background. The tiny fist of her
twin brother thumps into her bicep muscle and she turns to watch his legs flee to the sanctuary of their
mothers lap. In preparation, their mother has bribed her eldest son to escort the twins away to the
excitement of the amusement rides as she settles into her seat with her glass of red to watch the big race
begin its decent uninterrupted. As she rounds the corner, the young girl is delighted at the sight of each
1
Emmalie Balnaves-Gale
COMM 2051
flashing light, all glowing a different shade. The rides appear to reach the sky and her heart skips a beat
as she spots the greatest ride of them all, The Hangover. Her brother quivers beside her as he watches
her eyes light up and he begins to prepare himself for her pleas. She tugs at him repeatedly before he
succumbs at the fear of watching his sister be flung 30 feet into the air without sitting beside her. Their
eldest brother fled the scene at the sound of increasing rumble from the crowd indicating the horses
approaching the finish line. Alone, the mere eight-year-old twins approach the large man behind the
chained off entrance and, with the exchange of tickets, the pair ascended towards the ride before
plunging their miniscule frames upon the firm, glittery seats. The controller forces the padded metal
bars down onto their chests until they fell like bibs, lightly touching their laps. Rapid music pounded
through their ears as the brother faced the euphoric expression of his sister before the ride jerked and
begun to swing back and forth, building momentum.
The right side of his scull collides with the solid mound of dirt below him and with a thud the woman
who knocked him scurries to his side to assure his revival. Dazed, he pulls himself to his feet and slurs
word to the woman, as she stands rigid in shock. He stumbles away, protecting his Bundaberg can as he
goes, leaving behind the lady in beige stilettos and the etiquette fascinator to be comforted by her fellow
prototypes. The crowd of people spins before him and he aggressively barges his way through the
crowd, separating a path to the view of the finish line. He clings to the railing and focuses intensely on
spotting the approaching horses, despite the domineering yelps of those pressing against both of his
deltoids. His companions were out of sight and he struggled to pinpoint the last place he had
accompanied them. A sharp elbow dug forcefully into the space between his shoulder blades and he felt
his blood begin to boil. Like clockwork, he flung his body into a 180, building force, and swung his fist
at full speed into the cheekbone of the face who the elbow belonged to. The rum delayed the realization
and just as he saw the hour-glass figure fall to the floor, clutching her chocolate brown curls as she
went, he was thrown backwards into the railing and felt knuckles crash into his nose. The blows
continued until, just before he saw darkness, the crowd, unintentionally, convened by shoving their way
towards the barrier for a first-rate look at the grand horses as they rounded the final corner and aimed
for the finish line.
She watches her girlfriend like a hawk as they dodge the crowd to clear a passage to their unit in the
grandstand. Her girlfriend stands two inches shorter than she does and as she follows her trial, she
admires the sharp, well cut make of the Ben Sherman suit her girlfriend wears so well. Their hands
intertwine as they progress up the filth-infested stairway; her girlfriend’s mates observe them as they
approach. She dreads what she is about to witness, everything she values and everything she fights
against is encompassed in this event of cruelty. Though she is dedicated and is eased by the happiness
that glows from within her girlfriend as her friends embrace her before they welcome the couple to
drinks and a seat. She clears their chairs of the foil packages and salt sachets, and turns to see the
thousands of heads consumed by the race and intensify their support as the race nears its end. She is
2
Emmalie Balnaves-Gale
COMM 2051
glad for the distance as she barely glimpses the horses trudging along the back straight. She feels her
girlfriend grasp her hand and lightly squeeze to show her support. She looks up to the clear blue sky and
tries to appreciate the glowing atmosphere. In the distance she watches the dodgy amusement rides spin
it’s customers in every which way, creating a sense of euphoria. Beside them, she makes out the overkill
of colourful graphics, which indicate the pride and joy of the fattest country on the globe: the hot chips
and dagwood dogs. To the left of the rides are the betting stalls with the hundreds of foolish gamblers
lining up to farewell their savings and leave them to the fate of their chosen horse. She twitches in anger
just watching them swarm the tellers, increasing the pressure on the beautiful yet abused creatures
galloping down the hill with every bet. They are the reason she furiously sits behind the intoxicated
teenagers veining interest in the horses who are continually contained and drilled daily in training. She
feels a rush of sickness, as the entire racecourse is on its feet to view these great creatures fight for first.
The veteran flies along, a head in front of his fellow racers. He carries his massive body along at full
speed supported by his jockey’s weapon of encouragement. The screeches from the crowd echo around
the veteran and his rider as they approach the final hurdles of the race. With a final lash to his shoulder
and a yank at the mane upon his crest, the veteran leaped to pass over the two-metre hurdle. Watching, a
member held his pinky firmly in his fist, a set of twins hung upside down, a young man regained
consciousness and turned his head toward the horse, and a girlfriend squeezed her partners hand harder
than she ever had before. And then, in a blink, the veteran suffered a blow from the inside as his aorta
ruptured. The veteran fell, catapulting into the solid ground, sending dust soaring. The jockey flew
ahead of his horse and tumbled in shock. At that moment, a member sent his glass smashing into the
ground along with his future that fell with it, a set of twins wailed as they flew, a young man threw his
guts up at the sight, and a girlfriend froze, watching her lover crumble. The veteran was gone, his body
had rolled at great speed and now lay motionless in front of a terrorised crowd who stood robotic against
the fence, eyes glued to the horses tortured body before them. The jockey opens his eyes to the
realisation of failure before he desperately pulls himself towards his horse in great fear of what he may
find. He desperately prods at the unmoved veteran before being discarded by officials to allow the
veterinarian to tend to the horse. Life-long moments passed before the veterinarian subtly indicated
death to the officials and they begun removing the veteran from the grounds.
The veteran was dead; he was taken by the cruel demands of the sport he grew up being forced to
compete in, like many horses before him. He would never move again, let alone race, though to his
owner he is simply another statistic, one in dire need of replacement. That day left scars for many: a
member would never afford to bet again, a pair of twins would never again set foot near a racecourse, an
alcohol dependant 22-year-old man would forever keep one lone image from that day, a couple would
organise a state-wide protest against jump racing in South Australia, and a crowd stood witness to the
final steps of the great Java Star.
3