Vinny sticks to decorum despite night on the tiles

AGAINST THE ODDS:BY VINNY Fitzpatrick's reckoning, it must have been over 40 years since he'd last been inside the Church Hall in Raheny village. "I was a cub scout then. All short trousers, sheep shank knots and lots of dib, dib, dib," he said to himself with a chuckle as pushed open the old oak door and went inside.

Monday was “Scrabble Club” night, a ritual which Angie lived for as she was addicted to the board game.

Each week, she lovingly took out her tiles, dusted them off and counted them one by one to ensure there were 100 present and correct.

She always wiped her board clean, checked the game clock was working, and made sure there was a plentiful supply of pencils and tracking sheets to cross off tiles as they are played.

Some Sundays, Angie took off to places such as Castleknock, Churchtown and Blackrock for tournaments with fellow wordsmiths, mostly in musty, venerable, parish halls like the one in Raheny.

She had an official Irish ranking of 38; a personal high score of 446 and had once begun a game with a record score of 126 for the word “bezique”.

Vinny’s vocabulary, as he was acutely aware, was infinitely inadequate compared to Angie’s; his cerebral dexterity less pronounced, which explained why he had declined overtures to play against her at home, even when offered a generous handicap.

Even so, Vinny was proud of Angie’s achievements on the board. “Not many fellahs have a better half who knows what “pavane”, “yaff” and “falaj” mean,” he’d bragged to the lads in Foley’s one night.

On this bitterly cold Monday, the postponement of Bradford and Darlington meant Vinny had a free evening which he decided to pass at Angie’s club night.

“At half-nine, we break for tea and biscuits. Pop in then and I’ll introduce you to the members,” Angie had said earlier.

As Vinny made his way gingerly into the hall, a wooden floorboard creaked loudly under his bulk. “Shush,” hissed a voice from nearby.

Vinny mumbled an apology and shuffled over to a table where steam rose from a giant burco water boiler and there were plates full of biscuits, including three of old favourites, kimberley, mikado and coconut cream.

He was about to wrap a fleshy paw around a couple of kimberleys when a voice called out “Time. Stop playing everyone.” Soon, Angie was by his side, making introductions over hot steaming cups of tea.

Most of the members were wrinklies; the majority of them were female, although there was one foppish-looking youthful dandy, wearing a purple waistcoat, who bucked the trend.

“Vinny, meet Jasper. He’s our Ronaldo, a star player, and an absolute darling,” cooed Angie fluttering her eyelashes like an impressionable debutante.

From what Vinny could gather, Jasper, who was a lecturer in natural history in DCU, was having a successful evening.

He’d won three games, helped by a double word score with the word “quagga” which, “as everyone knows,” he said haughtily “is a South African wild ass.”

“More like a wise ass to me,” Vinny thought to himself.

He was preparing to make his excuses when Angie caught him by the arm. “Vinny, one of our members, Mrs Smillie has just arrived late. As we’re all fixed up already, would you mind playing a game or two with her? Thanks love,” she said.

Before you could say “triple word score” Vinny was sitting at a table opposite a stern-faced lady of mature years, a blue-rinse bouffant and steel-rimmed spectacles. “Smillie by name, not by nature,” he thought to himself.

“Young man,” said Mrs Smillie. “I take it you are familiar with Scrabble procedure. I see you have no clock so it’s just as well I brought a spare. We have 30 minutes each to make all our moves. As I’m a lady, I’ll go first. Let’s play.”

What followed was mostly a blur for Vinny. He was soon behind on the clock, and on the scoreboard.

Mrs Smillie seized an early 50-point bonus for adding the word “captain” on to an “s” which Vinny had left exposed.

His situation soon worsened soon when he tagged “worth” on to a “y” without realising he had the letters “u” and “n” in his rack.

Late on, with the clock against him, he was rushed into further errors. “Game over,” said Mrs Smillie. “313 to 96 for me,” she said triumphantly. “Shall we play again?”

For the rematch, Vinny concentrated hard. He played quicker and found his first instinct was usually the best. Armed with two “y” tiles, he conjured up the word “pygmy” on a triple word score for 48, which elicited a grunt from his opponent.

The scores were tight as the end game heightened. With time almost up, Vinny had four tiles in front of him, “p” “i” “e” and an “s”. There was an uncovered “n” staring him in the face and all Vinny could think of was a word, a word he dared not speak, which could slot in there and win him the game.

He looked at his priggish opponent, a lady of high morals he thought. She would be shocked if he dared place the tiles down in the order that had just come to mind.

Yes, he would win but at what cost? Angie was sure to hear about it and would probably be black-balled from the club.

He glanced at his game clock. He had 30 seconds left. It was now or never. With shaking fingers, he placed the counters gingerly on the board.

“There,” he said. “Snipe. Er, my game I think Mrs Smillie,” he added, offering his hand to his opponent with a smile.

Later, over a nightcap at home in Mount Prospect Avenue, Vinny and Angie reflected on the evening.

Angie was ecstatic, having jolted Jasper 378 to 364 in the game of the night. “I caught him with chirre, which means to chirp like a cricket. It silenced him, I can tell you,” she said.

“And what about you, winning a game against surly Sheila Smillie? She’s a right battle-axe that one. I always knew you had it in you, love.”

Vinny smiled to himself as he fixed up a hot toddy apiece. It had certainly been some night on the tiles.

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