A tribute to Andrew "Max" McGarry

I’m penning this tribute through my friends at Irishracing after my beloved dad died in December in Plymouth (UK). Andrew ‘Max’ McGarry was a lifelong Irish racing fan, not a jockey, not a trainer, not even a part owner… simply the lesser celebrated punter.

For as long as I can remember, every weekend, there was a phone call from Dublin from his dear uncle Joe Byrne (my Great Uncle). During which they’d discuss the weekend's selections. Dad would often add Uncle Joe's tips to his “avoid” list, which in hindsight was a successful and very responsible betting strategy. All the while he’d come up with his own doomed inventory of possible bets for that day.

And when Uncle Joe passed, I guess I was able to do my part and regularly sit on the other end of a phone call adding my Dad's selections to my avoid list.

I’m writing this tribute as a reminder that there was and is still love in this game. Odds might be shrinking, and races are thinning, but there are still fans who adore the sport for its beauty, the banter and of course the betting.

Dad was very much a giver to the sport. Actually, he gave quite a lot to the bookies over the years, so he was naturally a bookmaker's best mate. Now, this is not a tale of problem gambling (we have a duty to disclose that in this era), their bets were cents & euros, pennies & pounds. This is simply a story of love, loss, and on the odd occasion, luck.

Max was an optimistic punter, a wild lucky 15 was preferred to a short odds-on favourite tipped from a 3 runner race. Dad didn’t care for the obvious, he like so many went long, often too long. He loved a multiple as much as the bookmakers love a multiple punter. The placepots, scoop 6, yankees, you name it, he did it.

These were lottery bets, and one of the most fascinating phenomena of the sport, why do it? Why do we risk a reasonable wager each week on bets that are very unlikely to return anything? Sometimes the stakes are 5 even 10 times more than what the average person would spend on a lotto each week. But there in lies the beauty of the sport. Lotto is all about a very brief amount of hope that can pass within seconds. Sports betting and specifically Racing gets you sat bolt upright on the edge of your seat yelling at a Telly shouting out a funny name of a horse that you’ve backed in one particular race. Sadly for Max, and like many of us, his luck on the races was equal to his luck on the lotto!

But he came into his own around about the time of his Birthday each year on April 13th, when the Irish or even the British Grand National might fall on that day. Two wonderful stories of legend sum up my dad's attachment to the sport and they both miraculously happened on his birthday.

On April 13th 2009, he had a red hot tip for the Irish Grand National. And it had all the hallmarks of a potential winner. A great name, which for many is all the omens we need in a Grand National selection. Wichita Lineman, a favoured Glen Campbell song! It was one of the bookie’s favourites, Jonjo O’Neill trained, JP McManus owned, and with that combo, at that time, it meant only one thing - AP McCoy was on board.

Dad tipped this horse up for weeks in every pub, in every corner, in every conversation. On one occasion, a very long antepost £50/ew betting slip got flashed around a busy bar. That was a big bet for a casual punter in 2009. This was the big payday we all dreamed about.

I’ll recount the FULL race report, which, as we know, is generally an extensive post-race summary detailing how it ran:

“Fell First, Dead”

Connections weren’t quite sure what happened that day. Naturally, everyone felt grief and sorrow for what happened to the poor horse, and we feel somewhat emotionally bound to the tragedy of that event. But it comically summed up Dad's punting career, and is a legend retold many times over in Plymouth.

Now with a name like Max (his commonly used nickname), he was duty-bound to bet on all max horses. Take it to the Max, The Max I am, Uncle Max, Sir Maxi, there are literally hundreds of them, all loved and loathed for their part in Dad’s chequered betting record.

Even on the day he died, between pronouncing him dead and ringing the undertakers, my friend Keith McLaren found time to pick out a double. Maxiboy & Maximising. The timing and significance of those names on that day were enough to fill our hearts with one more go at glory. We lumped on, as Dad would say!! Of course, they both lost! Even with extended places on both selections, we couldn’t catch a break. It was typical; what else were we to expect?

Jumping back to his birthday, this time it’s 2024! Max had had cancer on and off for 5 years and had been in poor health for a little while longer. But on April 13th 2024, it was Aintree Grand National day.

I normally ring Dad in the morning for the tips, and we fill our heads with 5 or even 10 selections that will inevitably let us down!

But this time, there was no phone call! I didn’t need any tips; I didn’t need any outside influence.

There was a clear favourite, Willie Mullins trained, JP McManus owned and on board was 7 times Irish Champion Jockey Paul Townend. The stars were aligned once again, and all the clues pointed towards a win, except for one thing: the name. I Am Maximus.

Was this horse doomed from day one? Was the Max folklore really going to come back and bite us on the backside once again? Dad would have to back it and that would normally be the nail in the coffin (pardon the pun).

I waited, I waited and waited and waited until about 4 minutes before the race when the prices started to wobble and the gut started to churn with anticipation. I had one thought in my mind. What would Dad do?

I flipped out my phone, clicked onto one of the many betting apps I use and did what I thought dad would do £50e/w

It only went and Flipin won!

How… how did this miracle happen? Connections were teary, I was teary. Dad's curse was lifted and Max had finally won the big one. So I made that phone call!

He was sitting in a pub in Plymouth, and I could hear yelling and cheering; whoops of "get in", "you beauty Maximus". It was absolute chaos, all shouting Dad’s name.

We had a very short conversation; he couldn’t hear me over the noise, and it was hard to make out exactly what he was saying apart from 5 words that beautifully sum up the moment and the miracle: “I didn’t do it Mart” - he was too sick to get to the bookies, but had enough in him to sit in the pub and see the entire room finally land one of Max’s winners!

If you believe in luck, then this is the story you tell the non-believers. Had Max done that bet that day, it might have been a totally different phone call. One a little more familiar compared to what we actually had that day. JP and Willie, you’re welcome! All the best from Max McGarry

My Dad died on Friday, 19th December 04:07 am. He loved Ireland, he loved Irish racing and I hope it loved him back.

By Martin McGarry