It was one of those Sundays in Foley’s pub when the craic was mighty and the gargle galloped along at a ferocious lick.
For the crew of middle-aged men, clustered by the telly in a corner of the bar, the animated chat was of the Cheltenham Festival, the Euro 2016 draw and the matchplay golf in the States.
Wagers were struck, predictions declared, positions taken and there, in the front row of the scrum, lapping it up, was Vinny Fitzpatrick.
Ahead of the Lenten vigil, which jumped around each year from Billy to Jack, it was always thus in Foley’s.
This year, the lads had agreed to skip a trip to the races at Cheltenham. Instead, the target was an autumn trek to Germany for the Republic of Ireland's Euro 2016 qualifier against the mighty Mannschaft.
"Be great if it was played in Munich, to coincide with the Oktoberfest. Sure, we might never come home," grinned Brennie. Opinion on the Euro draw had been split. "Germany will blitzkrieg everyone and Poland will come second. The Scots and ourselves will cancel each other out. Our only prayer is the play-offs," asserted Fran.
Brennie, typically, was upbeat. "The Poles always freeze when they play Germany while the Scots are worse off than us for half-decent players. If Robbie Keane stays fit, we'll come second."
Sprinter Sacre
The Cheltenham debate had centred on the breaking news that Sprinter Sacre would miss the Champion Chase. The lads regarded the two-mile chaser as the finest of all time, better than Moscow Flyer, which was saying something, and Kojak, usually cussed, had empathy for Nicky Henderson. "Without Binocular, Simonsig and Sprinter Sacre, it leaves the week wide open for Willie Mullins to wreak havoc."
At that, Vinny nodded sagely for he was a slavish disciple to the genius of Mullins, whom he expected to gallop away with four of the first five races at the Festival with Vatour, Champagne Fever, the incomparable Hurricane Fly, and Quevega.
He had invested €100 on Mullins at 4/6 to be top trainer – the odds were now 4/11 – and felt it was the greatest certainty of the week.
By the time Victor Dubisson ran out of golfing miracles in the Arizona desert long after midnight, the pre-Lenten lash had run its course.
Vinny and Macker nipped into the Capri chipper for a takeaway after which Vinny gave his old friend a beery bear-hug and tottered off in the direction of home.
On nights like this, when he was jarred, Vinny preferred to hug the rail along the Clontarf Road for support, like Davy Russell at Cheltenham.
To drift out wide, in search of better ground, was to encourage kerb trouble, or worse. As he shoveled a fistful of vinegary chips into his gob, Vinny was vaguely conscious of a figure approaching on the same side of the path, from the direction of the bus garage.
Collision seemed imminent
Instinctively, he leaned in tight towards the railings. A head-on collision seemed imminent but the last second, the nocturnal interloper moved a fraction out.
Like the Titanic and the mighty iceberg in the North Atlantic, there was a fierce coming together, shoulder to shoulder and Vinny, despite his bulk, was half-spun around by the force of the impact.
“Here, leave it out,” he called out as his bag of large curried chips was knocked from his grasp. The rambler marched on, head hidden under a woolen hat.
Cursing, Vinny bend down to recover his greasy provisions, some of which had spilled on to the pavement. Undeterred, he scooped up a few chips and popped them back into the steaming brown bag. After wiping some splattered curry off his anorak, he chuntered on, turning left onto Conquer Hill Road. A few minutes later, he had crossed the Kincora Road and Seafield Road junctions, and was close to home on Mount Prospect Avenue.
By now, Vinny had carefully licked all the salt, vinegar and curry goo from his fingers and was contemplating a wee dram to top off the night, when he heard steps behind him.
“Hey you,” said a raspy voice in a thick Dublin accent.
Vinny turned to see a tall, skinny, figure approaching. Instantly, he recognised the man under the dark cap as his earlier accoster; his felt his blood chill. “You know what,” hissed the man through broken teeth. “I think you’ve got a face that would take a punch.”
Before Vinny could respond, the blow came in a blur from left-field. It caught Vinny firmly on the chops, just above the jaw-line and he sank like a sack of spuds.
As he struggled to get up, his head spinning, he was kicked hard in the lower stomach – it was like deflating a balloon as his wind left him.
Vinny became aware of a second set of steps, and then the boots started flying in. This time, he couldn’t get up.
The kicking was fierce. Vinny tried to protect his huge head which meant leaving his chest, tummy and groin exposed.
At one point he moved a hand to cover his lower parts, and shipped a hefty hit above his eyebrow. After that, he blacked out. After a bit, Vinny came around. He sat up on the path and then threw up noisily and messily. The barf did the trick as he gingerly hauled himself upright, albeit unsteadily, and pointed himself in the direction of home, barely 200 yards away.
Approaching the porch, he felt inside his pockets. His keys were gone; so were his ‘phone and wallet. He’d been mugged. There was nothing for it but to ring the doorbell.
After a bit, Angie opened the inner door, initially in fury, but then in alarm as she bore witness to her husband, bloodied and clearly bewildered. “What in God’s name has happened?”
Vinny leaned an arm on his wife’s slender shoulders for support. “First fence faller, love, first fence faller.” With that, he collapsed heavily on to the wooden floor.
