I Remember 1973

For Christmas 1973, I received a green sports jersey and a pair of white shorts, a white they'd never be again. We lived in Kilmallock and those were the colours of our county, Limerick. My younger brother was far from as fortunate and less than enamoured with his red and white of Cork, our neighbouring county and foe, just a few miles up the road. I'd also got a book, an annual of the sporting year. It was hardback, thick and as big as me. I was six and, by now, had a more than passing interest in horseracing–for reasons which will become clearer–so I had skipped straight by the cricketing achievements of Rachel Heyhoe-Flint and on to the relevant category.

I don't recall the number of column inches devoted to Red Rum (Ire) (Quorum {GB}) and whether, or not, Irish Oaks victress Dahlia (Vaguely Noble {Ire}) or dual Classic-winning French heroine Allez France (Sea-Bird {Fr}) were saluted. No, the horseracing section was dominated by image after image of Secretariat (Bold Ruler). It was of little consequence what was written, I was in awe. In hindsight, it was probably that hypnotic Belmont photo. I'd become familiar with the two star fillies one year on, but a full appreciation, save those images, of the “tremendous machine” had to come later.

It had been the best summer ever, apart from that one time I fell off jumping my first pole. Introduced to the madness of hurling in June, the addiction had fully set in by the time of Munster's senior championship at the end of July. In a repeat of the high-scoring 1971 final and on what remains the hottest day of my life, Limerick faced the blue-and-gold of Tipperary and avenged the one-point defeat of two years earlier by the same margin in another dramatic encounter. London's exiles were brushed aside next up in the All-Ireland semi-final before a 33-year hoodoo was finally broken when Kilkenny were soundly defeated on the first Sunday in September. There was a six-year-old, somewhere in Limerick and awake all night, ticketless for that final and it'd be another 45 years before the next such celebration.

Earlier, and specifically on the last day of March, we lived in Newmarket, England. Ireland beckoned a matter of weeks later. It had been a normal year through the lens of a child. Ireland and the UK were now members of the EEC (later to become the European Union), President Nixon had been sworn in for a second term, the war in Vietnam was over and Miami's Dolphins registered the NFL's first and only perfect season. Shenanigans in Chile were yet to come and England, champions just seven years earlier, would fail to qualify for soccer's World Cup final stages. That Saturday morning seemed par for the course, but the routine was broken, and how.

“It's the Grand National today and you each have to pick four horses,” instructed Mum or, possibly, Dad. Each selection was lumbered with “five pence, each-way,” Spanish Steps (GB) (Flush Royal {Fr}) and Black Secret (GB) (Black Tarquin) were two I remember choosing, but what was all this about? It's not as though the racing hadn't ever been on television in the house yet I was unaware of its existence until now. I'd joined some kind of club, it seemed.

The television coverage started early and was extensive. There may well have been colour and pageantry, but colour was a luxury so we experienced everything in glorious monochrome. The build-up came and went, approximately 100 horses–by my count–milled around, swung their heads a bit and definitely hadn't started. I'd been fooled once before when the field, officially numbering 38, went to post. Then, in an instant, they were off and a cavalry charge was under way. Each fence huge and each looking like a wall. There were camera shots from every angle, the runners streamed over impossible obstacles with tumbles along the way, but I had no idea how Spanish Steps and Black Secret were faring. Instead, frontrunner Grey Sombrero (GB) (Eudaemon {Fr}) became the focus of attention and, being grey, was easy to spot in black-and-white. He was to depart at The Chair and thereafter the stage was set. “Why had the others let Crisp (Aus) (Rose Argent {GB}) go so far clear?” I queried. The young mind began to wander. Would he get to as far as a whole fence ahead? He so nearly did, but it didn't matter now. I was hooked. As a 7-year-old, I'd remember Red Rum's relentless pursuit. I'd remember him being carried to the winner's enclosure on a sea of bodies the year before (video). I'd remember where to invest my five pence, each-way please. That Secretariat? He must have been some horse. Yeah, I remember 1973.

   To read I Remember 1999 by Tom Frary, please click here.