For Vinny Fitzpatrick, match play was golf's supreme challenge. Not for him, the relentless grind of strokes, or the convoluted scoring system conjured up by Dr Frank Stableford, a Boer War vet, who wore bow ties and drove a yellow Rolls-Royce.

Nothing could beat man against man in the arena according to Vinny, who felt it brought out the best in his play, if the worst in his nature. He was known to fling the occasional club into the whins and use coarse language when putts lipped out.

Even so, Vinny stumped up a tenner for the Soiled And Ancient Society’s annual match play event, which was played for a trophy known as The Potty. It was capacious, two-tone in colour, and resembled a gigantic cup, complete with handle.

For 40 years, Vinny had striven to get his pudgy fingers on The Potty but kept getting caught short. One year, when dormie two in the semi-final at Deer Park against the late Shanghai Jimmy, he stood on the teeth of a rake which caused him to forfeit the match, and almost a precious part of his anatomy.

Maybe this year would be different for the burly busman. After a bye in the first round, Vinny edged out Two-Mile Boris in a dour struggle on hilly Howth where Vinny’s foozled chip on the home hole for a six was a clincher. When Brennie was stricken by a dose of the trots at ‘Royal’ Sillogue, vanishing into the bushes on the 15th, never to return, Vinny was suddenly thrust into the final.

Shifty sourpuss

His opponent was Dial-A-Smile, the slothful head barman in Foley’s who remained a shifty sourpuss despite widespread rumours of a huge Lottery win. Dialler was a canny 14 handicap who’d once broken 80 at Royal Dublin.

The final was fixed for Monday evening at the splendid Portmarnock Links, next door to the fabled Portmarnock GC.

He sought final inspiration from the Seniors Open at Sunningdale where his contemporaries, Bernhard Langer, Ian Woosnam, Sandy Lyle and Nick Faldo were in action.

Langer still looked implausibly lean, lithe and long-haired, just like he was at the ’Marnock all those years ago when he shot a 269 to win the Irish Open by 10 strokes.

“I reckon there’s a portrait of Langer at home, grey-haired, whiskered and pot-bellied,” thought Vinny as golf’s ‘Dorian Gray’ fell a roll short to a little-known Yank, Marco Dawson. That a Leviathan-like Langer could lose had fuelled faith within Vinny.

“Why can’t I win? I’ve only got one guy to beat,” he thought as he laced up battered golf shoes and wandered to the tee, pencil bag under his oxter.

Dial-A-Smile had all the gear, a powered caddy, and flashy blue and a white Callaway tour bag. He also boasted dazzling woods and irons to match, not to mention a GPS gizmo on his phone to measure yardage.

In contrast, Vinny made do with his battered pencil bag and seven assorted clubs, including a back-up broom-handled putter, should his Fred Smyth blade misbehave.

In receipt of 11 shots, Vinny studied the card of the course, not to see where he was getting shots but rather where he wasn’t.

The prognosis was gloomy as he was playing Dialler level on the 2nd, 3rd, 6th, 9th, 11th, 13th and 14th, by which time the match would probably be over, he reckoned.

The match evolved as Vinny feared. After failing to win the first, where he hit his approach into the burn, he lost the second and third to par. Dialler was drilling the ball like the late Scottish ace Ronnie Shade – whose initials RDBM earned the nickname, Right Down the Bloody Middle.

Fighting a hook, Vinny was four down after eight but somehow stole the short ninth where his ribbed recovery from the dunes on the left, rapped the pin and finished stone dead for a par.

The back nine was a topsy-turvy affair but when Dial-A-Smile drained a downhiller for par on the 14th, he was three up and in control.

And then, against the odds, Dialler got jiggy. He found gorse on the 15th, sliced wildly into the munchies on the next, and lost both holes.

On the 17th tee, measuring 171 yards uphill, Vinny w. Alas, he tugged his drive left. “‘Murgatroyd,” he said aloud.

In reply, Dial-A-Smile, smashed a four-iron straight and true, if a little too powerfully, as his ball ran through the raised green. Vinny duly breasted a hillock, spied his ball lying favourably and played a fine niblick recovery to within 10 paces of the hole. At that, he trotted a few yards further on towards the 18th tee to lay his pencil bag on the turf.

As he bent down for his putter, he spied Dial-A-Smile rooting about in the hollow behind the green, some 30 yards away to his right. “That’s not an easy up and down,” he mused.

And then, it happened. Dial-A-Smile stole a glance up towards the green – there was no one there – reached in to his pocket and placed a second ball in an advantageous lie. “I have it okay,” he called out. “Keep an eye on this.”

Stunned, Vinny retreated the way he had come. A few moments later, he arrived on the green just as a ball flopped up from the hollow, coming to rest a yard from the cup.

Vinny heard himself say “good shot” then three-putted in a trance t lose the hole, and the match.

“Good game, Vinny. Well played,” said Dial-A-Smile reaching out a hand. “Wait till the lads hear about our titanic duel.” A stunned Vinny shared the same thought. This match was headed for extra holes.