There were four of them, all female, and each one was dressed in a blonde wig, green jersey, white shorts, black leggings and flat shoes. They were unified by their age profile – a tad more than mid-40s – and their alcohol levels – by now a tad more than mid-strength.
"Allez Roche," cried Angie as the landing party half-stumbled into Mount Prospect Avenue, to the amusement of Vinny Fitzpatrick, in his role of Carlton the doorman.
“Ah, the ladies who lunch,” he beamed. “You are all most welcome. I’ve left out nibbles and some refreshments, in the front room.”
The Fab Four giggled their way past Vinny, clearly enlivened by the effects of a fine repast at Les Ms, the chic restaurant off Vernon Avenue. Jackie, an old adversary of Vinny, paused briefly in the hall. “My my, d’Artagnan, you look ruggedly handsome, even if there is now less of you about,” she said, sliding an arm suggestively around Vinny’s waist, which was now down to 40 from 42.
It had been Angie's idea to have a late liquid luncheon on Monday, and dress up as cheerleaders for Stephanie Roche in her Fifa goal of the year quest.
“We never get to shout for one of our own. It’s always about Ronaldo or Messi or Agüero. That’s all I ever hear of in Boru Betting. Well, it’s time we all marched in step, with Steph,” she cried.
Angie had rounded up three of her old school friends from Santa Sabina – Jackie, Pamela and Carol – for the afternoon’s fun and games.
Flirtatious filly
Only Jackie was on her first marriage, which Vinny found hard to comprehend as she was the most flirtatious filly of the fourball. A tall, curvy, ash-blonde, for some reason, Angie had always enjoyed teasing Vinny. He sensed there may be trouble ahead.
After much windy waffle, – more Balloon than Ballon d’Or – Roche fell short to a classy Colombian.
It revived memories for Vinny of the 80s when Roche, the cyclist, battled with Lucho Herrera and Fabio Parra, two great Colombian climbers.
“Well, Fifa made a right ‘Hames’ of that,” said a scornful Jackie, who once had a brief spell with Raheny United. “Technically, Stephanie’s goal was miles ahead. I don’t like these secret ballots, where you rely on the public vote. How could we compete with 40 million Colombians?
“Why not leave it to a panel of qualified judges, such as a sexy striker from the 80s, 90s and the noughties?
“They’d know what they were looking for in front of goal. I always did,” she added, casting a raised eyebrow in the direction of Vinny, who had appeared with olive and feta top-ups in each hand.
As the drink flowed like the nearby Naniken, the giggling girls repaired to the back garden to try to recreate the Roche wonder goal. Vinny was cast in the role of video analyst, lighting operator and props supervisor, as he fished out the kiddies’-sized goal Oisin got from Santa.
“It’s a simple one-two-three,” advised Vinny. “Right-foot touch, left-foot flick, left-foot volley into the top corner. Right, lights, camera . . . action”
Initially, the attempts were for the cutting room floor. Pamela fell backwards into the bushes, Angie had a couple of fresh air shots, while Carol miscued the ball into the garden next door .
And then Jackie sauntered up to the plate. “Right, ball boy,” she said to Vinny. “Toss us your best.”
Ignoring the innuendo, Vinny lobbed in his Jabulani, a replica of the ball used in the 2010 World Cup finals.
Hooked it over
With her first touch, Jackie flicked the ball up; with her second, she hooked it over her head. Turning, she caught the ball flush with her left peg and sent the ball fizzing down the garden at pace.
It sailed over the mini-goal and would have careered into the grounds of St Gabriel’s church but for the hawthorn hedgerow at the end of the garden.
There was a silence as shock and awe reverberated around Dublin 3, broken by an elated Jackie. “What about that then, girls? Way to go, Jackie-O.”
Wild-eyed and elated, Jackie raced down the garden before pausing to mimic the bow-and-arrow stance favoured by Robbie Keane.
As her pals cheered her on, Jackie went further. She wrenched off her Irish jersey, and slung it around her head before flinging it into the starry sky.
And then, came down the coup de grâce as Jackie wriggled out of her Under Armour and stood, half-naked, in the January chill. She then placed her arms on her hips, Ronaldo-like, and posed with her back to the lights from the kitchen. All that could be seen was her shapely back, and her rising breath.
Heart was hopping
As her friends chanted, “Way to go, Jackie O”, Vinny struggled to keep his camcorder arm steady. Inside, his heart was hopping.
After a minute or so, Jackie grabbed her tops, got dressed in the shadows and strutted back up the garden, clutching the Jabulani under her arm.
“If you’re gonna score in style, you might as well celebrate in style too.”
As she high-fived her friends, she shot a glance at Vinny. “Were you impressed with what you saw, Cecil B De Mille?”
Even in the half-dark, Vinny felt himself flush. “Caught it all, Jackie. Don’t worry,” he said tapping the camcorder. “We have it for posteriority, as they say.”
Several hours later, when the house was silent, Vinny plugged in the kettle and fished for a bikkie to dunk into his tea.
Suddenly, he heard his phone beep with a text. Who could it be at this late hour? It was Jackie O. “Hi Vinny. You might check that video is ok before you turn in. J.”
Vinny sniffed loudly. What did that Jezebel think she was playing at, he wondered?
Just because she pulled off a fluke goal and strutted about his garden, she seemed to think she could exert some control over him. Pshaw.
Vinny was most happily married and his potato-shaped head wasn’t for turning, no siree, not after his experience with the tricky Tabatha Tregoning.
At that, Vinny spied his laptop and camcorder on the breakfast bar. Suddenly, his resolve crumbled like the goldgrain he’d just dipped into his cuppah.
