Events to mark the Flann O'Brien centenary reached a climax recently when my greyhound syndicate met to name the new dog, writes Frank McNally
After a few pints, the consensus formed that it would be a fine thing to call him after that mythical part of Kerry, Corkadoragha, where The Poor Mouth was set. But how to spell this? We didn't have the book, and the papers had to be in next morning. So we rendered it phonetically, from memory. And it was with some horror that we later realised we had named the hound, not after a fictional valley in the Kerry Gaeltacht, but after a theatre company in Cork.
The dog opened at Harolds Cross the other night, for what was expected to be a short run. Optimism was not high. Syndicate profits for the first quarter were nil, same as every other quarter to date. But a new dog has nothing if not potential, and the dizzying prospect of a win that might pay his food and medical expenses until next week haunted us like the impossible dream.
Writing 60 years ago, O'Brien said there were two ways to leave Shelbourne Park. If you had more money in your pocket than when you went in, you would find it a "wide clean fine place", with "magnificent, well-appointed stands", and "grass of an unusually green hue". Attendants in "spotless white coats" would be "retrieving benign-faced hounds from an innocent after-race frolic". He added: "All around you handsome men and women will be walking with quiet dignity to their gleaming cars. They will be dressed in cool expensive linens and will carry in their faces the mark of clean living. A cool breeze will temper the genial evening."
If you leave your money with the bookmakers, however, "thunderous clouds will be massed above the ramshackle stands" and the picture is changed utterly: "You will be appalled at the dreariness of your surroundings. Loathsome dogs, their faces lined with vice, will leer at you in mockery. Your demoniacal fellow-degenerates, slinking out beside you, will look suspiciously like drug addicts. Every one of them will have lost his entire week's wages notwithstanding the fact that he has a wife and seven children to support, each of whom is suffering from an incurable disease."
The meeting at Harolds Cross took place under clear skies, although a chill breeze tugged at the race guide in your hands, warning that conditions might change. As our race approached, I checked out the opposition's form. But since they were all novices, there were no race stats: just a few trial runs. Beyond that, there was nothing to go on except breeding, and the kennel's record.
It is my belief that the man who writes the form summaries for greyhound meetings is one of Ireland's most underrated poets. His work is clearly influenced by the Japanese Haiku tradition, with its formal structure of three lines, 17 syllables and themes invoking nature or the seasons.
The greyhound form summary is slightly more flexible, although the writer usually accords each dog three lines, which will also sometimes comprise exactly 17 syllables. A typical summary reads: "Early-paced performer. Always in charge last time. Can play big part here." But the two-line format is also well established, as in this classic example, the theme of which is the need for the dog to break well from traps: "Useful sort when putting best foot forward. Needs a slick exit this time. Chances."
The form-guide writer sometimes invokes nature, if obliquely ("Failed to set the world alight in trials. Can only do better. Don't rule out"). But as that last sentence hints, the abiding principle of the greyhound haiku is that it must be non-committal. Even the greatest racing certainty can never be endorsed in terms stronger than: "The one to beat". By corollary, a no-hoper must never be completely disregarded. If a dog has
only three legs, the poet will hint gently at his weakness ("Needs to put best foot forward this time").
Given that our race was composed of neophytes, the writer was more non-committal than usual. Worryingly, he resorted to the two-line form to describe the syndicate's dog, not so much for artistic reasons - it seemed - as because he had little to say. The poem read: "Another with no race experience to speak of. Market the best guide to claims."
This was a euphemism for the possibility that the hound's connections, if confident, would seek to invest with the bookmakers, thereby shortening the price. But the connections in this case were clueless, and as surprised as anyone when the dog opened a hot favourite. God knows why. Maybe the bookies reasoned that doggie men who would risk street credibility by naming their greyhound after a theatre company must in reality be ruthless betting sharks trying to disguise a coup. Whatever the reason, the dog lived up to the bookies' billing, and - to our astonishment - won.
The show is expected to transfer to Shelbourne soon. Not that there's anything wrong with Harolds Cross.
It occurred me on leaving that the stand there is both magnificent and well-appointed, and the grass unusually green. Patrons were strikingly well dressed. And for some reason, Japanese-style poetry was springing fully formed into my mind, invoking nature and the seasons. Dogs barked playfully. Birds sang. A cool breeze tempered the genial evening.