Greyhound racing is one of my only two continuous passions since puberty. The other, to save you guessing, is the boys in claret and blue.

I know where my love of the Hammers comes from, longstanding family roots in Limehouse means I was born into it, but why I should have become addicted to the dogs is more of a puzzle. My late father was a regular punter, but confined his activities purely to horses. In fact I am pretty certain he never attended a greyhound meeting in his life and the racing interest of his boyhood concerned pigeons. My mother always enjoys a night at the dogs, but can spend a whole meeting and still invest less than £2 total. Her father was a fearsome teetotal God-fearing Yorkshireman, so certainly no clues there either.

What I do remember is the person who got me into it the game. His name was Len Evans and he lived down the road from me. Precisely how I ended up on the bus from Hornchurch to Romford station one Saturday night I can’t recall, but that journey genuinely changed my life.

Len stood with a group of four or five regulars bang opposite the wining line. One, John I think his name was, bet almost exclusively on the distance in a photograph and his judgement was feared. Another was apparently the brother of Alf Ramsey. He never made a fuss about it, and the distinct facial resemblance was sufficient to put me off ever asking him whether it was a wind-up. Soon, Saturday nights became a regular occasion, even though I was only 13 or 14 at the time. Sure, one attraction was being able to get a bet on, at six foot I passed for eighteen in a half light, especially with my Crombie in Winter, but there was more to it. I loved the noise, the frenetic action, the build up and the mandatory inquests. I grew to almost revere the giant IF sign erected by the management on the grandstand and their penchant for playing jazz favourites over the tannoy between each and every heat. As far as I was concerned, a night at the dogs truly was the dogs bollocks!

Readers might be surprised, and perhaps even a little annoyed, that we have got so far into the column without an explicit mention of the star of the show, the greyhound. Truth be told, even though I adore the breed, the pull of greyhound racing has always been partly about the whole theatre of the occasion for me. The strokes, the ‘faces’ and even the minor walk on parts such as the burst of music to herald the parade and the relentless whine of the hare cable. A better understanding of the unique qualities of the breed at the centre of the spectacle only properly developed later.

There are three lasting memories of my rarely financially requited teenage love affair with London Road; one human and two canine, however. The former concerns the introduction of an energetic and vocal addition to the bookmaking ranks of a layer going by the name of Barry Dennis. In those days, the London evening paper did full formcards for evening meetings – yes really – complete with a betting show. To the amazement of punters and probably his colleagues too, this daredevil used to ‘open up’ to this printed tissue accompanied by a full bloodied cry of “come on you cowards”. I can’t remember exactly how long the ritual lasted, but I do recall the hullabaloo after a particularly shrewd trainer had taken one right through the grades from A7-A4. The lighting must have been particularly poor that night because the paper forecast of 9-2 for its A3 debut somehow became transposed on the board as 9-4! Within 6 months the hound in question was a regular racer, and winner, on the open race scene.

That aside, it was inevitably and properly two greyhounds that shaped my formative education and left an indelible impression to this day. The first was the great Dolores Rocket. If I recall, the superstar status of the dog was already confirmed before it attempted the genuine test that was the Essex Vase. In its semi final it had scorched round at close on 36 seconds, I have 36.16 in my head, on an unfavourable surface. Come the final, the debate was primarily over whether it would do the clock. Victory was inevitable. Except when the boxes opened; far from being out clear it was sandwiched – either in 3 or 4 – between two equally determined opponents and destined to be badly squeezed out of it if not actually on the floor. I was stood close to the first bend, and I saw the expression of greatness that only the very best of the breed can achieve. Presumably by instinct, and in less time than it takes to type this description, Dolores Rocket checked his pace and glided effortlessly round the outside as the two in front made inevitable contact at precisely the spot where he should have been too. I can picture it, and better still feel it, even now.

The other memory also concerns the Essex Vase and a get-out-and-go sprinter by the name of Cowpark Yank. Trained by Terry Duggan I believe, a combination of his genius and the spirit of the dog combined to see it somehow retain its blinding early and stretch out round after round, culminating in a thrilling victory in the final, cheered on by a vocal contingent who had it big ante post. Although decades apart, and with a running style literally separated by the width of the circuit, I can only compare the feeling to watching Eye On the Veto. Every time the bunny approached the boxes, you feared, knew even, that this was the time it would ‘miss’ it. Except, of course, seconds later they duly smashed out. Two true champions, two shrewd handlers! One unique sport.

Next time: Manchester memories. My first ‘leg’ as an owner. My unwitting part in a gamble that made the press.