Just as everything seems to be rosy . . .

AS LOUIS Saha inadvertently sent a looping header beyond Petr Cech into the Chelsea goal on Saturday afternoon, a thick-set middle-aged man, with thinning hair and ruddy complexion, jumped to his feet in Foley’s pub in Clontarf and unleashed a guttural roar.

While Vinny Fitzpatrick celebrated a fortuitous Everton equaliser at Stamford Bridge, his five drinking companions shook their heads and smiled. “Can you believe it?” said Macker. “The way your week is going Vinny, you’ll probably win the Lottery tonight.”

Vinny was flying high and it wasn’t because he’d put a tenner on Everton at 9 to 2 to draw; nor that he had a score on Poquelin, the mount of master horseman Ruby Walsh, at 6 to 1, to win the Boylesports Gold Cup at Cheltenham.

It wasn’t because he was holed up in his favourite hostelry in the company of his mates skulling Uncle Arthur’s finest whilst watching his beloved Everton on the box either. No, it was because three weeks shy of his 52nd birthday, Vincent Finbarr Fitzpatrick, against the odds, had become a parent, a dad, a father, an old man – in his case, exceptionally old.

At an age when most parents were worried about the teenage kicks their kids were getting or, worse, had just been told they were to become grandparents, Vinny’s predictable life had been turned on its head, not once but twice.

He had arrived at the Rotunda Hospital the previous Tuesday afternoon in a state of flux direct from Portmarnock Links where, half an hour earlier, he had finished out the 18th hole at a pace which belied his bulk, holing out for a five which had subsequently proved significant.

The golf forgotten, Vinny was panting hard at reception as he’d sought information about the well-being of his wife. Directed to the labour ward, he found Angie sitting up in bed reading a Cecelia Ahern novel, looking radiant and plump.

“Your timing, like your driving, is spot on darling. Bob Rainsford has been in and the countdown has begun. He says the goose, or rather geese, are cooked,” said Angie, patting her gigantic tummy gently.

What followed was torture for Vinny. Every so often, Angie would tense up, moan out loud, and a nurse would appear by her side. Then, she’d calm down again, read a page or two, even nodding off at one point.

Vinny felt utterly helpless. So he did what most expectant fathers did; he held Angie’s hand, made small talk, soothed her, and paced up and down the ward.

He also repeatedly looked out the window, unhappily noting the cluster of buses backed up on the west side of Parnell Square. “There should be an inspector to clear that lot,” he thought.

At one point, Vinny felt his capacious stomach growl but decided against nipping out for a fresh cod and large single to the famed Kingfisher restaurant across the road lest something happen while he was away.

Around half past 10, Doctor Bob, whom Vinny disliked, reappeared, looking grave. “Angie dear, I don’t think these goslings want to come out on their own. Given your age, I suggest we do a Caesarian and help them fly,” he said.

Angie looked across at her husband, eyes watering and nodded. “Anything to get it over with,” she said through gritted teeth. Soon, Angie was wheeled into the delivery room with Vinny told to remain outside, where he sat nervously on a chair, staring at a clock on the wall.

“So this is what it all comes down to,” he thought to himself. “It’s a life-changing situation Vinny and it’s all out of your hands. You’re powerless, just like Ireland were in Cardiff when Wales had that last kick at goal to win.”

But now, as the end game approached, negative thoughts crossed his mind and, for the first time in a long while, he prayed like he meant it. Shortly before midnight, he heard a cry inside the delivery suite; then there was silence. One half of him wanted to shove open the door but another part was scared stiff so he remained glued to the chair.

As Tuesday dawned into Wednesday, a second cry was heard. Soon after, he heard a third; it was Angie.

By now, Vinny was at his wits’ end. His heart was hopping and his shirt was stuck to his back with sweat. Then, the door to the delivery suite burst open and a matronly nurse emerged carrying two tiny snow-white bundles.

“Are you Mister Fitzpatrick?” she said sternly. “Yes”, came the croaked reply. “Would you like to hold your son and daughter?” she said, thrusting her parcels out to Vinny who took them, with some reluctance, in his pop-eye arms.

Looking down, Vinny spied two tiny heads, one with a mop of tight black curls, the other fine and fair. Both looked up at him out of clear blue eyes. As tears coursed down his flabby cheeks, Vinny turned to the nurse and said: “which is which?” “Can’t you tell?” sniffed the nurse. “The one with the dark hair is your son, born at 11.57; the little blonde is your daughter, who arrived two minutes after midnight. Both are well, and so is their mother. Congratulations.”

Vinny had to pass back the twins to the nurse after a few minutes and had a few emotional moments alone with Angie before being told she had to rest and he had to leave.

He’d then walked home to Clontarf, his head a jumble of emotions – he couldn’t get over the mind-numbing fact that he had just become a father of two little Fitzpatricks.

Three days on, as he rolled out of Foley’s late on Saturday evening, flanked by Macker and Fran, and headed for the Capri, Vinny still felt like the luckiest man in the world. Guys like him, ordinary Joe Soaps, didn’t get a chance in life like this. He certainly didn’t deserve Angie but somehow he’d ended up with her, an event which mystified him. He was no oil painting, looked older than his years, had little money and didn’t have the, ahem, drive of Tiger Woods.

Angie and the kids were due home on Monday and ahead of him, stretching out in the distance like the run-in at Aintree, were soiled nappies, wipes, and sleepless nights. He’d be 56 before the kids went to primary school, 64 before they left and would probably be driving one of the great buses in the sky by the time they were old enough to go to college. Yet, having cradled his infant son and daughter in his arms, Vinny vowed to make every second count, and to cross each hurdle as they came.

As he dipped a fleshy paw into his curried chips, and turned into Mount Prospect Avenue, he allowed himself a chuckle. “Vinny, you’re a Bengal lancer who struck it lucky.” Vinny never saw the car mounting the pavement behind him. By the time he heard the horn blare, the brakes screech and half-turned, it was too late to avoid a collision later described by witnesses as sickening.

Bets of the Week

2pts Lay Manchester City to beat Spurs in Premier League (9/4 general, liability 4.5pts)

1pt each-way Richard Sterne to win South African Open (16/1, Ladbrokes).

2pts South Africa to beat England 2/1 in Test series (9/2, Boylesports)