Angie’s text has Vinny rushing to son Oisín’s side

Just like the flow of stout from the taps in Foley’s, the conversation about the new Irish management team was in full flight when Vinny Fitzpatrick’s mobile phone beeped. After a bit, for Vinny regarded banter among pals as a priority, he fumbled for the phone and checked his message: it was from Angie and it read: “You around?”

On any normal night, Vinny would have high-tailed it from his perch in Foley’s bar and toddled home with a swiftness belying his gait. That his wife had kicked him out of their home in Mount Prospect Avenue a few weeks back, fed up with his sloth-like ways, should have added to his urgency.

Instead, he stayed put, caught Dial-A-Smile’s attention and ordered six pints. It was, he felt, time to play hard-ball. He was, truth be told, miffed that Angie had not been in touch on foot of his heroics in the Dublin Marathon. Not a dicky-bird, not even after the lads had cobbled together a photo montage of Vinny before, during and after his nine-hour feat, and delivered it, by hand, to Angie in Boru Betting.

Macker had even joked to Angie at how Vinny had “gone the extra mile to show his love for you” but had instantly beaten a hasty retreat at the slit-eyed stillness which followed.

As the sound of silence grew louder, Vinny sensed his wife, like Maggie Thatcher, was not for turning. He would have to come up with a new ruse to win back her affections.

For the moment, that would wait, at least until the lads had exhausted the debate on the pros and cons of the Martin O'Neill-Roy Keane managerial axis.

A new dawn
Spider predicted a new dawn for Irish football. "This will be bigger than Jack Charlton, Mick McCarthy and Trap put together."

Only Vinny offered a note of caution. “Lads, youse can’t turn water into wine. We only have so many half-decent players and some of the better ones, Robbie Keane, Richard Dunne and John O’Shea, are getting on.”

It was only after a toilet break, that he fished out his mobile and checked the message. This time, he froze. It was from Angie, again, and it read: “Oisín in Temple St. Now.”

Quickly, Vinny left the washroom, pausing briefly to gather his jacket and to polish off a freshly-pulled pint in five seconds flat. “Lads, the young fellah’s in hospital. Got to go,” he said. Hailing a cab on Clontarf Road, Vinny was in Temple Street within 15 minutes.

Noting the famous blue door, he presented himself at reception down the quiet alley and politely asked for information about his son. He gave the appearance of calm but inside his heart was hopping.

Oisín Finbarr Fitzpatrick, aged three, had arrived by ambulance three hours earlier in pain with suspected appendicitis. He had been seen by the triage nurse and was in the Dorset Ward on the second floor, on stand-by for emergency surgery.

As Vinny waddled off towards the stairs, the receptionist called after him. “I’m sorry sir, only one parent per child is permitted. You’ll have to wait.”

But nothing was going to apply the brakes on Vinny. Oisín was his life and blood, his chiseller, and he needed to see him right away. Dashing upstairs, Vinny followed the signs for the Dorset Ward.

There were eight beds, and in the far corner, nearest the window, curtains were pulled around the occupant. Vinny tugged lightly at the corner of a curtain, before poking his potato-shaped head around for a look-see.

A red-eyed Angie was at Oisín's bedside, clutching his pudgy hand in hers. Oisín was hooked up to an intravenous drip, his fleshy face was pale, eyes closed. A nurse, short and squat, was making notes on a clipboard at the end of the bed. She looked up and spied Vinny. "Excuse me, sir, can I help?"

'He's my husband'
Before Vinny could reply, Angie interjected. "It's alright sister, he's my husband. Could I have a word with him, please?" The nurse stiffened but nodded. "The doctor is on his way back. You've got five minutes," she sniffed.

Angie beckoned Vinny over to her side. He pulled up a chair and was given the lowdown. Oisín hadn’t eaten breakfast but had insisted on going to playschool only for Angie to receive a call that he was complaining of stomach pains.

She’d brought Oisín home, and watched him like a hawk. Bit by bit, the pains got worse, his temperature had shot up, and he began to break out in cold sweats.

“It was then I called for an ambulance to get him in here. They’ve established his appendix is inflamed and it’s touch and go if they operate. God Vinny, he’s only three,” whimpered Angie as she buried her head in her husband’s shoulder – it was the most intimate they had been for several weeks.

As Oisín stirred and moaned, the curtain was yanked back and a doctor, of Asian extraction, appeared. His name tag identified him as Dr Yourav.

“The next two hours are crucial. We don’t want to operate but we may have to. We will check the boy every 20 minutes. It is good that he sleeps. One more thing, I’m afraid only one of you may stay,” he said.

With that, Vinny took control. “Ange, you go home, now. You’re exhausted and you need to sleep. I’ll stay here and text you with any news. For once love, please do as I say.

“And don’t worry, Oisín is like his aul fellah, a scrapper. He’ll pull through.”

Against the odds, Angie took her husband’s advice and peeled herself away from the bedside. “Keep me informed, love,” she said tenderly before placing a light kiss on the forehead of her tubby husband, and tubby son.

The vigil lasted six hours, during which Vinny never left his son’s side. He dutifully texted the words “No News” to Angie every half hour.

At six thirty came the breakthrough he craved. “Mr Fitzpatrick,” beamed the nurse, “Oisín’s temperature is normal, and the swelling in the appendix area is down.”

With that Oisín opened his eyes. “Dads,” he said. “I’m starving. Can I have some toast and jam?”

As Vinny tearfully cradled his son, he sensed it wasn’t just Oisín who’d earned a reprieve.