Closure of main stand does not bode well for future.

Byline: BRUCE MILLINGTON

I'VE never understood optimists, with their ridiculous positive outlook on life and staunch belief that tomorrow will be a brighter day. That way of thinking is just asking for trouble.

Far better to expect the worst and then be pleasantly surprised when things don't turn out to be quite so bad.

Then again, it must be nice to scribble out a yankee and then do some online househunting immediately afterwards on account of the fact that the bet is likely to oblige and life will shortly be getting a few notches better.

The optimists of the week award goes not to the Liverpool fans who still maintain, in the face of increasingly strong evidence to the contrary, that Rafa Benitez is the man to lead them to domestic domination, but to those who equate the announcement that Wimbledon dog track is to close its main stand and scrap Tuesday fixtures with good news.

Two meetings a week and everybody over to the cheap side? Lovely, they say. Bring it on. If it means there's still a track in ten years' time then all well and good.

I wish I could see it that way, but I can't. Last week's announcement by the GRA just smacks of one step closer to oblivion in my eyes and that scares and depresses me.

Greyhound racing's long and inexorable decline has been heart-breaking to watch. We've all witnessed it but none of us has been able to arrest it. It's like coastal erosion.

One by one, London's legendary tracks have been closed, leaving just Wimbledon, and now the poor old place is about to have a major amputation, with the big grandstand closing, and the market being deemed to have an appetite for just two meetings a week.

That's a mere 26 races a week, giving an opportunity for just 156 graders to do their thing, and that's if there are no opens.

Funnily enough, when I was first bitten by the greyhound bug, 25 years ago, the main complaint of the old boys who reckoned the game was not what it was back then (first rule of greyhound racing: the game's not as good as it was and seemingly never has been unless you are about 114 years old) was that with more than two meetings a week it was impossible to attend every meeting and keep abreast of all the form.

So maybe, if you want a straw at which to clutch, you could argue that by reverting to two meetings a week Wimbledon might just attract all those who bemoaned the increase to thrice-weekly fixtures and more. Unlikely, if truth be told.

Instead, owners, trainers and a few hardened punters will relocate to the spruced up Mick The Miller stand to rub shoulders with those who like the idea of a night out with a bit of a difference, wowed by offers of entry, racecard, fast food, a pint and a tote bet for a few quid.

So why don't people like me, who dab our eyes as the sport decays, not do our bit by going more often? My excuse is simple: as a betting medium live greyhound racing stinks.

There is a peculiar paradox about going to the dogs. For the aforementioned customer who wants to go with a few mates, drink some lager and maybe dabble in some very low-risk betting, he's getting terrific value. He can enter the premises, study form, eat and drink for relative peanuts.

Hell, there's even the 1p meal deal to get stuck into (which is something into which I must look closer by the way, given the appealing prospect of feeding my entire family for 28 pence per week).

FOR those whose primary intention for attending is to bet, though, it's a totally different story. You are lucky to find a show of betting that adds up to less than 130 per cent these days, which is simply woeful, and the sky-high tote retentions just make my blood boil.

If you put up a few orders on Betfair earlier in the day or take advantage of the competitive off-course overrounds on Sky nights, you could probably then tolerate going along to see the action live but, er, it's on telly anyway so where's the incentive to prise yourself off the sofa unless you live within a short drive? Greyhound racing is a wonderful, proper sport. The dogs themselves are admirably reliable in the consistent way they hold their form, it's a beautifully idiosyncratic game with its own beguiling lexicon, and it attracts some epic characters.

It is a crying shame that, without the government funding that has helped it to thrive in Ireland, the sport has found it such tough going in recent times.

I hope that the optimists are on the money where Wimbledon is concerned. It's going to be good, they insist. The track's owners are going to invest in new facilities, they remind the doubters.

That's true to a point but the figure I've heard that's being pumped into bringing the current cheap side up to scratch is pounds 400,000, which is roughly only about 11 times what my next door neighbours are spending on a loft conversion, so don't expect Meydan when the brave new world arrives.

If you ask me what I'd expect to see if I drove down Plough Lane in 2019, my money would be on houses. It's said the site is difficult to build on for a variety of reasons. But if they can construct the Palm in Dubai, I'd say there's a decent chance they can tosh up some residential property on the site of Wimbledon greyhound stadium.

I hope I'm utterly and embarrassingly wrong. I hope this is an inspired call by the GRA and that in two decades' time, never mind one, these fine creatures will still be captivating the paying public and the marvellous sport of greyhound racing will have a foothold not just in London but right across Britain too.

But if greyhound racing is to avoid going the same was as falconry, archery and jousting, someone needs to come up with a solution quickly.

CAPTION(S):

Puppy Derby finals night fails to attract punters to the main stand at Wimbledon - a structure that is soon to be closed