None of us had ever been involved in a betting coup before, so you can imagine we were a little nervous. We tried our best to blend in with the crowd, but for a 12-member syndicate in Harold's Cross on a Monday night, that was easier said than done. It would have been easier for the crowd to blend in with us.
To be sure, there were plenty of fun punters upstairs in the heated lounge, tripping back and forth between the bar and the tote counters, with their grubby little £1 reverse forecasts. Down on the terraces, though, where the real gamblers squared up to the on-course bookmakers, the attendance was thinner than a greyhound's lunch. This was far from the glamour of Shelbourne Park on a Saturday night, and not even the certainty of our dog's impending victory could lift a slight sense of gloom.
The stone-cold terraces underneath us were uncluttered with the cheerful litter of betting slips; while overhead, charcoal clouds raced across an inky-black sky, chased by a March wind that had even the electric hare shivering in its metal track. It was the sort of night where you had to use a lot of adjectives just to keep warm.
The early races passed quickly, quick as the one-line judgements in the race card that brutally summed up each greyhound's life - for example: "Showed early promise when winning at Clonmel, has questions to answer in this company."
Barely five minutes before our race, the bookies were still talking among themselves, their boards blankly indifferent to the merits of the six dogs about to run. But huddling in twos and threes, the syndicate sensed that behind this casual display, the more experienced players were troubled.
The smell of strange money must be a sixth sense in the bookmaking profession, and you could see that the more seasoned nostrils were twitching direction. Was convincing show of nonchalance that they took up stations and made their opening offers. Three-to-one the field, we noted through 12 pairs of narrowed eyes. The eyes were inwardly smiling, but we held our hand a little while longer, until the stadium announcer said: "Three minutes to bet."
Then, like crocodiles slipping into the water after a long-awaited error of judgment by a tourist, the syndicate made its move. The operation went smoothly, the tick-tack men rendered redundant by the carefully synchronised strike. And in the immediate aftermath, the scene might have been the New York Stock Exchange reacting to the Asian crisis. Boards were wiped as jitters set in among traders; no more bets were being taken on our dog, while new, longer odds were screamed about the others; some of the more desperate bookies threw themselves off their ledges.
No of course they didn't. Our betting coup was received with complete indifference by everybody: the bookies didn't touch their boards, and our dog was still on offer at an embarrassing 3-1. The market had taken our best shot and yawned.
Doggie men are different from the rest of us, and not just because they use the word "bitch" in polite conversation. Suddenly, out of the faceless crowd, there was a flurry of late betting activity, and our greyhound's price was cut a point on all boards, making it favourite. The real money had gone in, and it wasn't even ours.
It certainly wasn't mine. Unseen by the syndicate members, I hadn't joined the main betting thrust. And although caution had already cut my potential winnings by a third, some inner sense still held me back, the money growing sweaty in my palm.
Maybe it was a feeling that, although the dog was well drawn in trap one, he might veer slightly off the rails at the first bend or something, clipping the legs of the greyhound outside and careering like a pinball into one of the backmarkers, leaving himself in an impossible position down the back straight. Whatever it was - and sheer gutlessness can't be ruled out - I halved my stake and finally took the 2-1 that was now the best on offer.
Out on the track, meanwhile, the greyhounds were finishing their pre-race parade. They might have been fashion models - way too thin and wearing coats ordinary dogs wouldn't be caught dead in, even if they could fit.
But they weren't bothered by that, or anything else. Some of the older ones were regulars on the circuit, and joshed each other about their chances as they were loaded into traps. The syndicate's dog stood aloof, meanwhile, looking mean. Looking like a winner, we thought.
Then the bell rang, and the hare scuttled into life, and the 30 seconds it took to lose all our money were at least eventful. Uncannily, although well-drawn in trap one, our greyhound veered slightly off the rails at the first bend, clipping the legs of the dog outside and careering like a pinball into one of the backmarkers. Left in a impossible position, he ran fiercely down the back straight, overtaking all but the eventual winner. And he was still closing with every stride when the line beat him.
He had been the best in the race, we knew, and had run gallantly; but there are no prizes for second place. In the lottery that is the first bend of a greyhound race, our dog's number just hadn't come up. There were a few more betting slips on the ground now, and the terraces didn't look quite so cold. But we left the stadium in a philosophical mood, wondering what the race card would say about our lives, or what we might have achieved but for setbacks at the first bend. Harold's Cross on a Monday night does that to you.
I Tell a lie - we got £20.