Down a quiet dirt road, deep in Sydney’s west, sits a clubhouse. The exterior is nondescript – a big shed clad with corrugated iron. But inside lies a cave of wonders, a treasure trove of trophies and honour rolls and scoreboards scrawled in chalk, with cages galore in every corner. It is a holy space devoted to one divine being: the pigeon.
The walls are covered top to bottom in them, frame after frame of pictures bearing champions of the past eight decades since the Blacktown Racing Pigeon Club was founded. As ever, though, some stars shine brighter than the rest, and on a plaque mounted above the office are three of the very best.
