AGAINST THE ODDS:VINNY FITZPATRICK unglued himself from his perch in Foley's, for it was a warm May evening and he was wearing baggy shorts, before clearing his throat.
“So, tell me lads, where were ye all this time 10 years ago?”
Around him, there were blank faces and mild confusion. Fran, Macker, Brennie and Kojak looked at one another and shrugged their shoulders.
“Ten years ago? I can’t remember where I was 10 days ago,” said Brennie.
A knowing smile crossed Vinny’s pudgy features. He thought it would be like this.
“You know the way folk of a certain age knew where they were when they heard JFK was shot – my old man was hanging up the jerseys for Dollymount Gaels when it came through on the wireless – well, we should all know what we were doing at this time in 2002,” he continued.
“Think about it. It was just before the last major football tournament involving the Republic. Do ye remember Saipan?”
The lads nodded knowingly. “Do I remember? Will I ever forget?” said Fran. “Janey Mack, that was an extraordinary time. We nearly came to blows down here on more than one occasion.”
Macker concurred. “We were split down the middle into the two camps, Pro-Mick and Pro-Roy. And it wasn’t just us, it was the whole pub, the whole country.
“Even now, Boris and Basil, the chess chaps from the lounge, don’t talk civilly to one another. Plenty of check, but not a whole lot of mate, eh? Thank God we’ve all moved on from then,” he said downing his glass.
There was a silence before Vinny lobbed in the pipe-bomb.
“Yeah, we have. We are all grown-up enough now to recognise” – and he paused for effect – “that Mick was quite right to send the nasty little Rebel rouser home.”
There was a silence, not for long, but enough to suggest to Vinny that there was a reply coming down the tracks.
There were two Man United heads in the five-ball, Brennie and Kojak and neither, he suspected, would take his comments lightly. He was right.
Brennie placed his glass down carefully on the counter and stood up to his full five-foot four-inches. With his Beetle-style hair and glasses, he was not unlike Bernie Ecclestone.
“You might think that Vinny, but I will never forgive that eejit McCarthy for denying our only world-class player the chance to play in the World Cup finals. I blamed him for the cock-up then and I blame him now.”
In a shrill voice, Brennie continued. “You know, if I had a bacon-slicer, I’d shove it up his big Barnsley backside. Instead of managing the situation in Saipan, McCarthy was guilty of mismanagement and it cost us our chance of winning the bloody tournament.”
The gloves were off and Fran quickly waded in on the side of the McCarthyites. “Get off your hobby horse, Brennie. Keane was a time- bomb waiting to explode and we were better off without him.
“McCarthy did what all good generals do – he showed bottle and stood up to an act of insubordination.”
Kojak wasn’t having any of it. He was surly on a good day, and this wasn’t one of them.
“Up yours Fran, and the horse you rode in on. Keane was our only world-class player who brought Man United standards into the Irish junior set-up.
“If the FAI had any balls, McCarthy should have been fired and Keane appointed player-manager. Then, we would have seen the true measure of the Irish team.”
But Fran wasn’t backing down. “That’s garbage. Which team finished stronger in all their World Cup games? We did, thanks to the preparation in Saipan.
“The players were motivated by what happened, and it showed in the way they played for the team, and the manager.”
The raised voices caught the attention of other Tuesday night regulars, who spoke in whispered tones and stole glances at the corner where the Foley’s lifers were ensconced.
Vinny caught Dial-A-Smile’s flinty attention and ordered five pints but still no one stirred.
Eventually, Macker broke the silence and squinted at Vinny through Lee Van Cleef eyes.
“Vinny, you are bang out of order. I don’t know what your motive is but you seem intent on raking over old wounds. Wounds that took a long time to heal, not just here but all over Ireland.”
Vinny studied his sandals, noting his hairy toes, and said nothing. He knew Macker was right, that he was stirring things, but he felt a giddiness inside that he couldn’t control.
Perhaps it was the thought of heading over to the Euro finals that was causing him to be so flighty. He was 54 but acting like a 24-year-old. He wondered was he becoming hormonal?
“You’re right Macker. I should let sitting dogs lie. Here, let me get the drinks in.”
With that, he stood up and waddled to the counter, where he carefully placed five perfect pints on a tray along with five bags of salted nuts – none of your healthy dry-roasted stuff.
On his return, he offered the pints around. “May I propose a toast to friendship?” he asked innocently. “To Trap, the lads and to a great trip.”
The response was unanimous. “To Trap, the lads and a great trip,” replied his mates.
As they sat down, Vinny smacked his lips and raised a flabby hand for silence.
“As for Keano, he is still in denial over Saipan.
“Sure he said the other week that he told Mick where to go, not the other way around. He’s rewriting history to suit himself, and not for the first time either.”
It was the cue for bedlam. Pints were spilled, glasses broken, nuts scattered and beer mats were flung about like frisbies.
At one point, the smallest guy, Brennie, clambered atop the back of the big fat guy, Vinny, and tried to slap him about the ears.
From behind the bar counter, Dial-A-Smile was reminded of Puss In Boots getting stuck into Shrek in the movie, and all because the lads wouldn’t let something lie that happened 10 years ago.
Later, as he mopped up the last of the debris, Dial-A-Smile thought wryly to himself. “Is it any wonder it took so long for peace to break out on this little island of ours?”
Vinny’s Bismarck
1pt Lay Ireland to win the Eurovision (20/1 general, liability 20 pts)
Bets of the week
1pt each-way Ben Curtis in BMW PGA Championship (30/1, Sportingbet)
1pt Darron Gibson to be first goalscorer in Republic of Ireland v Bosnia-Herzegovina (16/1, Coral)
