Roddy L’Estrange: Vinny crestfallen as thick gorse ends Harry’s game

At the call of ‘fore’ from the sixth tee box, Vinny Fitzpatrick instinctively covered his large head and instinctively turned his backside to the direction of the shout.

Hunkering down in his shorts, he heard a whoosh as a ball landed nearby in the thick gorse. Instantly, he feared the worst.

“Jaypurs, that’s Harrington’s drive,” he said to Brennie, crouching beside him. “C’mon, let’s give a dig out. We gotta find this ball.”

It was Monday afternoon in St Andrews and Vinny was about to find himself caught up in the defining moment of Pádraig Harrington’s Open championship challenge.

It had been a snap decision to march on Fife.

As Harrington and the young Greystones amateur, Paul Dunne, roared into contention on the sacred turf on Sunday afternoon, Brennie piped up over a pint in Foleys, "You know, it's only a tenner admission there tomorrow, lads."

It prompted a scouring of ferry times which confirmed there was a Stena sailing from Belfast to Cairnryan at 7.30 in the morning, followed by a three-hour drive coast to coast.

“We’d be on the tee for 1.0,” noted Vinny.

“Who’s up for it?”

Four hands were raised, Vinny, Brennie, Big Dave and Charlie Vernon, who insisted he’d drive his monster Merc.

Some 24 hours later, the pals bestrode the crumpled links, giddy with excitement, along with with Greystones crew they’d met on the boat over.

Here they all were, at the 144th Open, at the Home of Golf – or Home Alone of Golf, reckoned Brennie who pointed out that Dunne and Jordan Spieth were mere kids.

They’d crashed through the turnstiles, slightly later than planned, just as suave starter Ivor Robson was calling Zach Johnson to the tee.

Spitting rain

“Not so sure about Ivor’s Hampstead Heath. Wonder does he smoke?” observed Brennie.

Vinny had noticed Johnson’s sunglasses.

“It’s almost dark, it’s spitting rain. How can they help him see where he’s going? I can’t fancy him wearing those shades.”

By the time Harrington’s ball plunged into gorse on the sixth hole, Johnson was enjoying 20-20 vision on the greens as one of a cluster of co-leaders which included the bould Harrington.

The lads were like kids in a candy store as Harrington birdied the first, second and fifth, where he missed an eagle putt by inches.

As they scrambled for a vantage point on a links ill-designed for spectators, Vinny was picturing an open top bus parade down O’Connell Street for ‘Ireland’s greatest ever sportsman’ should he win, when they heard the distress call from the tee.

A few moments later, Harrington arrived on the scene, taller than he looked on the telly, thought Vinny.

As the Dub joined spotters and volunteers poking about glumly in the gorse, Vinny couldn’t help himself. “C’mon lads, we’re going in.”

Within seconds, the Foley’s fourball were thrashing in the thistles in an effort to locate Harrington’s ball.

Vinny got stuck in, ignoring the pin-pricks of pain, for he had a financial incentive having placed a tenner on Harrington at 300/1 on Friday night.

The bushes were thick and nigh impenetrable but not overly broad. If the ball was found, Vinny reckoned, a two club-length penalty drop might be enough to give Harry a shot from the fairway.

As he buried himself low into the barbs, Vinny spotted a ball. “Gotcha,” he said aloud.

Rode shotgun

He was desperate to see a Titleist logo but instead could just make out the word ‘Penfold’ and a heart logo. “Blimey O’Reilly,” he thought. “You’ve been here a while.”

It wasn’t long before the five minutes were up, taking with it Harrington’s chance of a third Open, as the double-bogey did for him.

Not that Vinny and the lads gave up on their hero. They rode shotgun as his match entered the part of the course known as ‘The Loop’, which Vinny reckoned were the quirkiest of holes.

They ran from the seventh to the 11th, embracing three short par fours, and a couple of one-shotters.

It was here where players traditionally built their score, but also where punters were seriously short-changed.

As the seventh fairway bisected the 11th, players had to give way to each other, prompting delays.

“Why don’t they reverse those two greens? It would simplify the lay-out and make it easier to get around too,” observed Vinny.

On the 11th, where Harrington found the dance floor with a fine tee shot, there was no access for spectators from the tee.

Instead, they were funnelled back down the seventh to wait at one of the few crossings points on the links. While held there, they heard a throaty roar from 150 yards away– as Harrington defiantly holed for a two.

“This is no course to watch golf,” muttered Vinny, whose love affair with St Andrews was starting to erode.

The homeward hike to the Auld Grey Toon was gruelling. Viewing points were poor on the flattish turf, and Harrington struggled with his game.

They thought of dropping back to spur on young Dunne until they bumped into a chap with a Greystones GC sweater on who only had glum tidings, so they stuck with Harrington.

A hacker

The former champ covered the last two holes in 11 shots, which Vinny reckoned was about par for a hacker like himself, from the forward tees.

After Harrington doffed his cap and acknowledged the generosity of the galleries, the gentleman of Irish golf signed balls for the scoreboard carrier, marker and referee with his match.

As he did, a ball was lobbed in from nearby. It was a dimpled ball, clearly worse for the wear of lying underneath a clump of gorse, since the time of Bobby Jones.

As the wind died down, a Dublin voice called out. “Sorry, I couldn’t find your Titleist, Pádraig.”