Once upon a time, in a land of treeless plains and great stony deserts, there lived a rather nondescript fellow who was saddled with the name of Bruce. I guess for some, it’s not much of a monicka, but his parents must have loved him dearly, and trusted in his intestinal fortitude, for their faith in him was manifest, when it came to their belief in his abilities to peacefully carry the burden of his name, all the way to his grave. Bruce is not dead by the way, in fact he’s a middle aged and rather well to do gentleman, in the Australian racing scene. But enough of what he’s become, this story is more about the travails of his long and dangerous escapades, that have delivered him to where he is today. Bruce used to be a bookmaker. He initially plied his trade in the Sydney interstate, betting ring. For those unaccustomed with the make up of on-course bookmaking in Australia, the interstate ring is a separate piece of turf on the local course, that caters to the punter who wants to throw away his money on an interstate race. This precinct is generally considered the second class ring. If a bookmaker wants to move from here into the main ring, where most of the major action takes place, he has to show that he has balls. Bruce must have been born with gonads the size of boulders. Our little potboiler begins early in the 1980s, before Bruce had yet to expose the full magnificence of his stones. One day while fielding in the Rosehill interstate ring, a mountain of a man, with a brooding presence, pulled up in front of a bookie and asked for $40,000 on a 1-2 favourite in a hurdle race in Melbourne, the bookmaker declined, so the Big Fella moved on the next man on a stand, who just happened to be our hero. Bruce took the bet and kept the money. Little did he know though, that by accepting that wager, he’d brought a ticket to one of wildest and most terrifying rides of his life. The Big Fella was a force of nature in his own right. He’d been addicted to the punt even as a child. While still in his early teens, he’d managed to run up a five thousand pound (pre decimal) debt to an illegal bookmaker, a feat that rightly made his father livid. Dad paid the bill, but when a new car in those days cost less than a thousand pounds, it’s not hard to see why father spilled his lollies. But the Big Fella was more than just an inveterate gambler, he was a man with immense talent when it came to amassing large sums of money. Upon the death of his powerful father, he’d inherited a 110 million dollar empire, which he then turned into a 7 billion dollar juggernaut, through some breathtakingly, audacious financial decisions. That initial $40,000 losing bet set in train a betting duel that would in the end, over a five year period, see bets soar into multiples of a million. The love of the punt in the Big Fella, was such that on one occasion at a major casino in Las Vagas, he demanded that the entire ground floor be emptied, then using multiple black jack tables, played every hand at $US250,000 per bet. In forty minutes he won $US28,000,000. Things didn’t always go his way though, for on another occasion, he dropped all that and more. But this tale isn’t about just the Big Fella, it’s also about Bruce. He's the real hero here. His pockets were not endlessly deep like those of the Big Fella, if he stood on the proverbial punting land mine and lost a foot, he couldn’t buy another, not even a cheap plastic one from Asia. He had to have his wits about him. As anyone who loves a bet would know, sometimes betting limits are hard to keep under control. And if a source of money seems endless, then chasing lost cash really isn’t an issue. The problem for people like the Big Fella, is not so much about finding the revenue, but finding someone to accept the ever increasing amounts that need to find a home. Bruce made it his business to take in as many of the little waifs as possible. Over time, and through mutual consent, the bets grew in magnitude until they reached the million mark. And in the process, Bruce managed to build the proverbial orphanage for the vast sums that came his way. The Big Fella, although losing, was happy because he’d found an outlet for his passion, and Bruce of course was deliriously happy: he was now working a rich vein. But nothing in life lasts forever, and so it was with this drawn out, brutal exchange. It was always destined to come to a sudden and bloody end, and when it did so in the Autumn of 1987, it left a gaping wound that went deep, and bled like a stuck pig. It was Golden Slipper day and as anyone would expect of an obscenely wealthy, race loving person, the Big Fella just happened to have a horse in the big one. Unbeaten in three races to date, Christmas Tree was considered as big a chance as anything else in the race, and his owner decided to throw his considerable weight behind it. Of course Bruce was there to answer the call. $2,000,000 passed hands. Christmas Tree, ridden by the great Mick Dittman came with a whirlwind run when it was all over. That two million down the toilet brought his loses for the day to cool $7,000,000. On the surface, Bruce barely turned a hair, but deep inside, he must have been fairly pissing himself with laughter. A couple of weeks later, it was Sydney Cup day, the final day of the Autumn Carnival, and the Big Fella was into it again. By now the battle bills had risen to $5,000,000 per race, and it was Bruce who held the whip hand. Come the running of the Cup, the Big Fella had girded his loins. Crack three year old Myocard became his weapon of choice. A $3,000,000 injection saw the colt’s price tumble into odds on. As a result of this massive hit, the Big Fella’s own conveyance, Major Driver blew in the market from 4-1 out to 7-1, sending alarm bells ringing throughout officialdom. Into the straight proper, and it quickly became apparent that the heavily backed Myocard, was in for a hammering, and another seven figure amount was about to be flushed. To add insult to injury, the punter’s horse Major Driver managed to snatch the Group One event. To say that the Big Fella was rope-able would be a gross understatement. It’s hard to imagine that any other winning owner of a Black Type event, would have cloaked his feelings in such utter fury. It took them ten minutes to coax him out of the grandstand for the presentation. This was the final nail in the Big Fella’s coffin, he’d had enough. He stormed into the betting ring and confronted Bruce. Over the several weeks that the Carnival had run, our intrepid fielder had managed to clip the behemoth for a massive $28,000,000. A figure later confirmed by the AJC betting supervisors. Upon pulling up in front of the bookmaker he demanded that the limit be raised to $10,000,000 per bet. As there were only a few races left for the day, and not being a man to shirk the load, Bruce acceded to the request. It was a mistake he’d regret the rest of his life ….. the Big Fella hit three straight winners. In no time flat, Bruce had gone from being up $28,000,000 over the Carnival, to $2,000,000 in the hole. He’d seen a light at the end of the tunnel, but sadly for Bruce, it wasn’t sunlight he saw, it was an on rushing train. Two days later, he handed in his fielding licience.
Marvellous stuff Cyc I'd heard there is all manner of skullduggery happening in those interstate rings
Nah mate, we have bigger piles of dross in Oz, than the stuff I posted here. Besides, I'd rather think of my stuff as turgid.
Nice one, Cyclonic! Before I opened the Article, I thought I was going to read about an Australian Jack and the Beanstalk. I'm sure many people will be dubious about the huge monies involved- but not yours truly. I remember that, in the sixties, an Aussie gambler/bookie came over to Royal Ascot and, after taking about £20,000 in bets on the first day, duly went back to Aussie. He thought the wagers were 'chicken feed' and said that he had taken a single bet ,back home, of 2 million to win- which had duly obliged for the punter. I can't remember his name, but maybe you can enlighten me. Reading your story, I don't know whether I empathise more with one than the other; probably slightly more with the Big Fella. Lovely read!
No, I don't disbelieve it, Cyclonic- just the opposite. It makes me smile when I think of the days when I thought my five bob each way was a big bet!
I have no doubt about you not doubting me Tam. But it doesn't worry me if others are too lazy to check things out before shooting off their mouths. I wasn't having a dig at you mate. It's all to easy to come unstuck if we stick bullshit up here. The above piece, from what I gather is pretty close to the truth. But in these kind of stories, different sources can offer up slightly different angles, so when it comes to essays such as these, it's best to try and take as much of the middle ground as possible. But the huge sums have been attested to by any number of sources, including a Royal Commission.
Another great read cyc... I suppose as in any story things can get stretched but i dont mind one jot when i read something like this. Its the story that gets you first, and always should do... Based on fact or fiction, its just a great read...
Ta Red. Sometimes I wonder if it's worth while, but I love writing, so I just make places like this carry my load. There will always be folk who won't like the stuff, but luckily a few don't mind it. I don't mind that people find my style of writing rubbish, we all have our likes and dislikes, but when putting pieces like this together, the massive sums are the real story. So to make up the numbers would be silly, when it could be so easily shot down in this age of information. Anyone, anywhere, can easily check the facts. When the gent above described the story as dross, I sort of took it as a criticism of the style, and not the veracity of the story. But when Tam ( a good man if ever there was ) hinted at the possibility that others might question the facts. Then I felt a bit peeved. Anyway down to the beach. Later mate.
Evening cyc just got in from work , don't worry about idiots , myself and many others enjoy your stories, if fictional or non fictional they are all entertaining to read with your style of writing ,don't let some little upstart frig around with you. Looking forward to another saga from the "cyclonic sagas"
Cyclonic, as far as I am concerned, ultimately it does not matter what people think. You have chosen to express yourself, and communication is arguably man's greatest gift. I must admit I have wondered on more than one occasion whether things that I write have arisen out of a crude self interest, but they give me pleasure. Yes, we should want our words to be appreciated- if only by a few; that may be a weakness in human beings but we all have a innate need to be wanted. I have to speak as I find- if your words disappeared from this forum, then it would be far poorer for it. So carry on scribing, whether the words are good, average, or bad- most of them are very good (I know some of mine are questionable at times). Here's to you
Islander, I'm up early and having a cup of tea and a browse. It's a trend since I retired, but I'll go back to bed soon- and then, in a few hours, go and knock that silly little white ball around the golf course to relieve my aggressions. Pathetic really! There's about a couple of dozen of OAPs who meet on the first tee and, whether the golf is good or bad, we all take the p-ss out of one another- and have a good laugh.
