Vinny plays host for the All-Ireland weekend to the Downings branch of his Donegal-born mother's clan. Their county's win lights up more than their hearts, writes RODDY L'ESTRANGE
IN THE midst of the madness, as the little house trembled to Rory Gallagher on full revs, Vinny Fitzpatrick slipped out to the tiny back garden and raised a large Irish whiskey into the chill night sky.
“Top of the world again Ma; top of the world. Tír Conaill abú,” he said softly, eyes shining in memory of Bridie Gavigan, who lost her heart to Finbarr Fitzpatrick but whose soul never left the shores of Sheepshaven Bay.
It was Sunday night, or rather Monday morning, as a corner of Dublin 3 rocked to the Donegal beat of All-Ireland glory.
And every Diver, Friel and Harkin, it seemed, had descended on Causeway Avenue, close by the Clontarf Bus Garage, where Vinny was hosting a celebration of “Sam”.
He had half-suspected the night would end up like this when his cousin, Wee Kevin, called on Wednesday to say the Downings branch of the Gavigan clan were descending on Dublin.
“We’ve no tickets; we’ve nowhere to stay, but we’re coming down for the craic. Sure, you couldn’t miss it,” said Wee Kevin, who was six foot four inches tall and hewn from Errigal quartzite.
Vinny being Vinny had insisted that Wee Kevin and his other cousins, some of them as far removed as the tip of the Inishowen Peninsula, could stay in the old Fitzpatrick family home for the weekend.
When Angie pointed out that the terraced house, recently vacated by Colonel Boyd, needed sprucing up, Vinny replied, “It will take more than a shake’n’vac to put the freshness back when this lot are done with the place.”
By Saturday lunch-time, the first sightings of the green and gold advance party, led by Wee Kevin, were spotted on the Clontarf seafront. By closing time in Foley’s, the numbers had swollen to over a dozen.
Among them were Hughie, Frankie and Tony, stalwarts of Downings Dreadnoughts; and a pair of striking redheads, Mairéad and Aisling, from the local camogie club. “A fine pair of chicks with sticks alright,” said Fran.
The opening night had been a wheeze, topped off by a raffle for two tickets for Hill 16, which Vinny secured through his small and imperfectly formed club, Dollymount Gaels.
Against the odds, the Gaels actually had a player good enough to make the Dublin minor panel, which entitled them to a dozen tickets on All-Ireland finals day, more than enough for Vinny to pull in a favour.
With Charlie St John Vernon cadging four Lower Cusack tickets from the Clontarf club, and Brennie wrangling two more for the Nally Stand through his AIB connections, there were nearly enough to go round.
The gesture had been well received by the denizens of Downings, particularly Mairéad, whose kiss of thanks for Vinny lingered a little too long to be neutral – not that Vinny noticed.
On Sunday morning, Vinny had steered the fuzzy heads of the Donegal dozen to “Christy’s Cafe” in Dollymount for the famed “All You Can Eat” breakfast for a tenner.
There he’d watched, with familial pride, Wee Kevin consume a six-egg omelette, smothered in beans, mushrooms and chips, topped off by a pot of tea and four slices of heavily buttered brown bread. After ushering the gang off on the 130, with advice to stop at Gaffney’s for a reviver, he’d repaired home for an afternoon’s feverish channel-hopping – there were two All-Ireland finals to follow, plus a Premier League footie-fest.
It was close to seven when Vinny tootled down to Foley’s for the post-match rendezvous, pleased that his Ma’s home county had captured Sam for a second time. (Twenty years previous, after the Dubs had blown an all-Ireland to Donegal, Vinny didn’t speak to his mother for two days, something he later regretted.)
But on this late September Sunday, there was a jaunty aspect in the step of the 54-year-old bus driver as he contemplated an evening of Sam, stories and song.
For the next five hours, the drink flowed like the gurgling nearby Naniken. The Donegal boys, and girls it must be said, played off scratch in the drinking stakes, and Vinny, no slouch himself in this department, needed to be on his mettle.
There was a respectful silence for the opening credits of The Sunday Game, a few boos for Joe Brolly, and then pandemonium as every point, every play, was repeated.
To Vinny, it seemed as if the Flight of the Earls had touched down in a corner of Clontarf; all about him glistered a sea of green and gold. A rollicking night was extended, via a carbo-loaded supper in the Capri chipper, into the small hours as the old Fitzpatrick family home opened its doors for a right knees-up.
At one point, Wee Kevin stepped on to a chair in the kitchen, his head almost touching the stained ceiling, and called for attention. “Are you listening in Falcarragh, Finn Valley, Rossnowlagh and The Rosses?” he thundered.
“Are you there, Altan and Clannad, Errigal and Enya? Did you hear the wild echoes of Jimmy McGuinness and his Galls blowing in Croke fields today?”
As the sons and daughters of Tír Conaill almost lifted the roof off the little house, Vinny felt a light tug on his arm.
He turned to see flame-haired Mairéad by his side. Her blazing emerald eyes reminded him of Maureen O’Hara and he checked himself; for he was a happily married man.
“Vinny, it’s been one hell of a day, and one hell of a night. I’m flagging. Do you know where a girl might put her head down for a few hours?” she said as she leaned in to Vinny for support. Pointing upstairs, Vinny said: “There is a box room out the back; it’s about your best bet. I’ll make sure there are no, er intruders.” Maireád held his gaze. “And what about you? Where will you rest your weary bones?” she said, running a forefinger suggestively down Vinny’s portly chest.
“Oh, I’ll be fine. I’ll tidy up a bit and see where I can crash out then. You go on up, Mairéad,” said Vinny, blushing.
It was time for some air out the back, where Vinny sipped whiskey on his Sweeney Todd.
As he doffed a metaphorical cap at shiny Jupiter in the northeast, he thought of his Ma, of the house in which he was born and bred for a half a century – but for Angie, he would have seen out his autumn years in the place as an ageing bachelor.
He waddled in to the front room, nudged a snoring Wee Kevin to one end of his favoured settee, which wasn’t easy, and took up the other.
It was some time later, he wasn’t sure exactly, when Vinny awoke. He rubbed his eyes and, at first, imagined that Mairéad, with her crimson curls, was dancing seductively in front of him. Only it wasn’t Mairéad; it was a blaze of a different kind.
Sitting bolt upright, Vinny could see flames licking the glass door into the kitchen and was aware of a strange crackling noise. His blood chilled; Causeway Avenue was on fire.
Vinny's Bismarck
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