Lad Lowry is Vinny's idea of an oil painting

AGAINST THE ODDS:Most of these young golf pros seemed more interested in lowering their cholesterol levels than a pint, and the only morning sessions took place in the gym, rather than the clubhouse bar.

AS THE young Irishman traded blows with some of the world’s finest golfers on a glorious Sunday beside the Arabian Gulf, Vinny Fitzpatrick’s appreciation of a callow youth he didn’t know, and would probably never meet, grew stronger.Great things had been expected of this prodigy who, since joining the paid ranks, had turned heads and influenced people.

Even Pádraig Harrington, the flag-bearer of excellence on the fairways, had identified him as one to watch out for. Vinny could understand why.

But it wasn’t the crushing, 300-yard drives that appealed most, the air-mailed approach shots, the aggressive putting, the distinctive cut of his jib.

Nor was it that he had crossed into the paid ranks on a wave of euphoria after a glittering amateur career.

No, what appealed most to Vinny was the excess poundage across the midriff, the chubby cheeks, and the suggestion he could casually point a 50 with a wet ball into a gusting wind.

For Shane Lowry, unlike Rory McIlroy, was designed for comfort, not speed, and Vinny, who’d rolled off a similar assembly line, approved of the Offaly native’s nonconformity to a tee.

These days, as far as Vinny could see, most professional golfers were carved from granite and spent more time pumping irons than hitting them.

They seemed more interested in lowering their cholesterol levels than a pint, and the only morning sessions took place in the gym, rather than the clubhouse bar.

Vinny had read somewhere that BMI was now all the rage, which was apparently to do with losing weight and nothing to do with an English airline.

As the final round unfolded in Abu Dhabi, far too many flat bellies were popping up on the Sky Sports coverage for Vinny’s liking.

Camillo Villegas, Alvaro Quiros and Ian Poulter all looked like stick insects, albeit wiry ones.

None of them carried a spare ounce of flesh, but Vinny bet they did carry bananas, cereal bars and isotonic drinks in their bag. “You can’t beat a bottle of Lucozade and an ’aul Mars bar,” he thought.

For Vinny, being fit for golf was about being able to place the ball on the tee after a night on the tear without toppling over.

Alright, these guys needed to play four rounds a week, which required a certain level of stamina, he supposed, but he felt there was no need to carry on like George Atlas wannabes.

“I blame Tiger Woods for this fitness fascination,” he said to himself as the chiselled Teutonic figure of Martin Kaymer smashed a drive half-way to Dubai. “And look where it got him.”

Golf hadn’t always been like this, of course, reflected Vinny.

Walter Hagen, the first superstar of the game, wasn’t svelte around the middle and partied long and hard between buying a round and playing one.

Jack Nicklaus hadn’t let “Fat Jack” taunts stop him winning majors, while Craig “The Walrus” Stadler waddled his way to victory in Augusta.

Colin Montgomerie was Europe’s outstanding golfer for a decade, even if he gave the impression he owned shares in McDonald’s, while John Daly hadn’t been the same golfer since he’d had surgery to remove most of his stomach.

And Darren Clarke filled out a pair of trousers better than most, but that hadn’t prevented him from winning two World Golf Championship events and back-boning a clutch of Ryder Cup wins.

Carrying a few pounds and excelling in sport wasn’t exclusive to golf, observed Vinny. WG Grace and Babe Ruth, heroic figures in cricket and baseball, weren’t exactly sylph-like, while Vinny recalled Tommy Lawrence, the fine Liverpool goalkeeper of the 1960s, was known as “The Flying Pig”.

As for Jimmy Keaveney, Vinny’s all-time favourite Dublin footballer, his paunch was like a large dart board and his team-mates knew that if they put the ball anywhere near Jimmy’s tum, it stuck.

When Séamus Darby jumped for joy after his late goal for Offaly denied Kerry a fifth straight All-Ireland, his Ned Kelly jumped with him.

Patting his own pot belly, which hadn’t come cheap, Vinny tried to contemplate what his life would be like without it.

He didn’t give much thought towards the considerable physical effort, the dietary U-turn and massive lifestyle makeover which would be required to lighten the lumpy load about his middle.

Instead, he tried to imagine himself waking up one morning with an ironing-board under his chin. Would Angie think more of him if there was less to go around?

He had seen in the papers the other day where Denis Waterman’s daughter, whose name escaped him, had shed three stone and then walked out on her partner.

If he put the “fit” into Fitzpatrick and became a 13-stone stripling instead of a 17-stone leviathan, was there a risk he’d do the same on Angie?

Would he suddenly find himself wearing open-necked shirts and supping expensive pints in Larry’s on the Howth Road among the trendy rugby set? God, he hoped not.

No, for the sake of his psychological well-being, Vinny’s “darby” was staying where it was, flopping out sloppily over the belt of his trousers.

It was, he reasoned, far better for Angie to have him big and round and loving every pound, than skinny and bony and living on her ownie – never mind the chisellers.

Over in Abu Dhabi, Vinny continued to root for Lowry as he flew the flag for Ordinary Joes, whose numbers on the European Tour were declining, in their duel with the Gym Rats.

As the lithe McIlroy moved jauntily down the fairways, Vinny observed an aspect of the boy wonder’s physique he couldn’t warm to – namely, the untamed mop of dark curls spreading out from under his cap like Triffids.

Sporting a more sensible short, back and sides, Lowry kept about his business in a quietly determined way, giving Vinny the impression he could have been playing for a tenner with his mates at Esker Hills, or even guesting in a Foley’s society outing at St Anne’s.

The burly broth of a lad was never close enough to win, but when he slotted a raker on the final green for a birdie to clinch fourth place outright, Vinny punched a fleshy fist skywards.

Having placed a modest each-way stipend on the Clara man at 50 to 1 the previous morning, Vinny was thinking as much through his wallet as his capacious stomach.

“Give me Shane Lowry over LS Lowry any day,” he chuckled, reaching for a heavily-buttered sausage sarnie smothered in brown sauce.

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Vinny’s Bismarck

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