The four vice-captains, none of whom would break 120 from the back tees at Gleneagles, were revved up for their Ryder Cup call to arms. Included among them was a rotund rookie, Vinny Fitzpatrick.
Like Paul McGinley’s men, this fourball had a job to do for their team leader, in their case, the stricken Charlie St John Vernon. There would, they agreed, be a text update for Charlie after each hole of combat, detailing the outcome and the overall match standing.
Furthermore, there would be a summary of who was playing the best golf, and the worst, after every third hole. And at the conclusion of each session, they would meet Charlie by The Pumphouse behind the first green.
There, they’d assess the state of the match, and their respective balance sheets. It was a rum show for Charlie to be hit by a severe bout of sciatica on the eve of battle, but he’d borne his setback with customary stiff-lipped fortitude.
Charlie’s back had seized up as the lads were loading luggage into his seven-seater Picasso on Monday. Such was Charlie’s discomfort that he had to be laid out sideways on the back row, whimpering, for the 120-mile trip to Larne.
Dosed up with painkillers on the ferry crossing to Troon, Charlie refused to capsize. “Men, Europe needs us, and Master McGinley needs us too,” he said through gritted teeth and a large whiskey.
Their lair was a 18th century gate lodge on an estate in Auchterarder, close by the golf course, where Charlie had called in an old favour from a second cousin.
Cosy pub
The lodgings, a 10-minute walk from a cosy pub, The Wee Dram, were perfectly adequate as the lads would be gone by first light and back after dusk.
“Chaps, you map out the terrain. I’ll see you here later,”said a stoic Charlie when the five-man party arrived at Gleneagles at Tuesday in time for afternoon practice. As he sat down gingerly on a shooting stick by The Pumphouse, Charlie quipped: “I’ll be fine in a couple of days, just you see. Come Sunday, I’ll be the first man over the top.”
As Brennie and Macker went looking for Yanks, Vinny and Fran fanned out to find a European fourball. They were actually in threes, and for more than an hour, Vinny trotted contentedly after Graeme McDowell, Henrik Stenson and Victor Dubuisson.The burly bus driver was as happy as a sand boy.
Vinny had never been to a Ryder Cup before, not even in 2006, when he’d held court in Foley’s and followed every shot from the K Club on the telly. He knew he should have stirred himself, and it rankled so much that it had been his suggestion they have a Gleneagles get-together.
‘We’ve an Irish captain for the first time and an Irish world number one too. When will this double ever come up again?’ he’d argued many weeks back.
Tickets were sourced from the European Tour, pricey ones too, but the ferry was cheap, the accommodation buckshee and Charlie only asked for the price of his diesel, leaving change for gargle, and a gamble.
For Vinny, there was something symbolic in their number: five. The first books he read as a kid were The Five Find Outers, where he was enthralled by Frederick Algernon Trotville, the problem solver known as Fatty, because of his initials and bulk.
Then, there was the Scooby Doo gang – Vinny had a secret crush on Daphne – and The Dave Clark Five, the first band he followed, while Vinny also had a long fascination of the ill-fated five-man Polar Party under Scott in 1912. “Five is good” he thought. “Five fingers, five toes, five senses and, for the Ryder Cup angle, five sessions of play.”
Jaunty stride
The Tuesday reconnaissance had been just that, a chance to familiarize each other with the lay-out of the land, and to identify the best vantage points. Later, over a not so wee dram in The Wee Dram, it was agreed the back of the short fourth hole was promising, as it also afforded views of the fifth tee and was adjacent to the sixth green, another one-shotter, and seventh tee.
Such positioning would have to wait until Sunday’s singles, however, as the lads were on call for Captain Charlie for the first two days’ action.
So far, Paul McGinley hadn’t missed a jaunty stride but his legacy, as captain, would be determined by the 12 guys in the arena. If one or two underperformed, Wee Rory perhaps, or even Wide-Eye Poulter, McGinley’s goose would be casseroled through no fault of his own.
It was strange, considered Vinny, over a very fine Glenmorangie, how McGinley could control everything until the first ball was struck at dawn on Friday.
At that, there was a clink of glass on glass. Charlie Vernon, stiff-backed and wincing, called for order.
“Gentlemen, it is time, to cast our Ryder Cup vote. I require 20 pounds per head for this winner-take all-wager,” he rasped. ‘We must all predict the match outcome and the person who correctly identifies the winning team, and is closest to the final score, will be deemed the winner.”
There was a monastic silence as the middle-aged quintet, made their calls.
One by one, they placed their forecasts, accompanied by a score each, into a fine crystal cut glass. Charlie then shook the glass slightly and withdrew the first Ryder Cup prediction.
As he unravelled the paper, he nodded at Vinny to act as recorder.
“Myself,” said Charlie. “Europe 15-13.” As Charlie continued, the prophecies read: Europe 16-12 (Macker), Europe 14 ½ -13 ½ (Brennie) and Europe 16 ½-11 ½ (Fran).
“That leaves you, Vinny,” said Charlie as he reached for the final slip. “Humph,” he intoned, raising a quizzical brow. “Vinny’s call is 15-13 . . . to the United States.”
