A simple choice - the Eurovision or a Race Night

IF GREYHOUND racing was lotto on legs, Vinny Fitzpatrick felt a Race Night was not only more unpredictable, it was bordering on the illogical. “It’s like trying to pick your nose wearing boxing gloves. There’s no sense in it,” he muttered to himself as he made his way to the bar at Clontarf Lawn Tennis Club.

As far as Vinny was concerned, in any sporting wager there had to be an element of grey matter involved: a chance to assess the contenders and to factor in variables, not least value for money.

Being armed with as much information as possible was vital to the whole operation.

Yet, on a dreaded Race Night, the only knowledge in a punter’s possession was that each race consisted of eight runners, one of whom would win.

There was nothing else to work on: no betting, no form, no low-down on the trainer, jockey, state of the ground, the course, the distance. Zilch.

It was, he felt, a licence to print money and, for those gullible enough to put on a bet, a one-way ticket to penury.

As he waited for his order to arrive, Vinny glanced at the race card.

There were 10 races, each sponsored to the tune of €200, including the Foley’s Fillies Mile, he noted. “That shower wouldn’t throw as much as a fiver the way of Dollymount Gaels yet they stump up two ton for the well-heeled tennis crowd. Typical,” he thought.

As he stacked the drinks on a tray, Vinny’s hangdog expression was even more mournful than usual. He didn’t want to be there, but Angie, a Clontarf LTC member since childhood, had insisted on supporting the fund-raiser to upgrade the courts.

“Emma is old enough to mind the twins and we can have a night out and catch up on the tennis gossip. We might even make a few bob,” she’d said.

Aware that his brownie points ration was low and cholesterol levels high after his chocolate-fest, Vinny had done his best to feign eagerness – and given the alternative was staying in for the dreaded Eurovision, it hadn’t been too difficult.

Angie had bought five horses for a tenner each and had named them in honour of her family. Her own nag was Angie’s Ashes in race one, Fab Vinny was Vinny’s in race two, Goth Any Change was Emma’s in race four, Aoife’s runner was Bright Eyes in race five and Back In The Saddle Again was owned by Oisín in race eight.

At the table, Vinny exchanged small chat with Angie’s pals. There was Jeff, toned and tanned with a GI haircut – that he used to go out with Angie irritated Vinny intensely.

His attractive wife, Jackie, was the vixen of Vernon Avenue, with whom Vinny had crossed paths before, at Scrabble, poker and, most recently, when she’d nursed him one afternoon after his illness.

The Farquarhsons, Bill and Bertha, long-time tennis chums of Angie, completed the six-ball. They were in their late 50s, easy-going in the way people who have no financial worries are – Bill had worked for Smurfit and made a bundle.

“Well, Vinny, what do you fancy?” said Jackie suggestively. “After all, you’re the expert when it comes to being in the saddle.”

Vinny reddened and coughed, as he usually did whenever Jackie switched into innuendo mode.

“I’m afraid I’m of little help tonight. This is random racing and you might as well stick a pin in the card as apply any logic,” he said.

Jackie seized the opening. “Vinny, you can stick your pin into my race card whenever you like,” she said with a throaty laugh.

“Jackie, you’re such a tease,” tut-tutted Bertha, who was bird-like, nutty brown and reminded Vinny of Miss Marple.

At that, the MC called everyone to attention. He explained that before each race an expert would provide a form guide. “That’ll help us, won’t it Bill?” said Bertha.

Vinny groaned inwardly. He hadn’t the heart to point out that the information was bogus. With that, he reached for his pint.

Two hours and nine races later, the mood at the table was one of contrasts. Four of Angie’s five horses had won, the exception being Fab Vinny. Her owner’s prize was €40 per race and she’d also backed her runners, for a laugh. She was up around €250.

Bertha and Bill had diligently followed the “tipster”, who had come up with four winners and they were comfortably in front, against the odds.

Jeff and Jackie had backed number one in the first race, two in the second, and so on. Nine bets, not one winner. Jeff was becoming surly, Jackie’s cutting remarks infrequent – they desperately wanted a winner.

The last race was the auction race, where the MC invited folks to form syndicates to buy a horse. Vinny stirred. He’d kept track of the numbers of the horse that had won each race – 4, 1, 7, 3, 4, 5, 2, 6, 7. Number eight, he noted, had yet to win.

On the law of probability, it had to stand a better chance than numbers four or seven, which had won twice. He lobbed in his tuppence worth. “I’d hold out for number eight,” he said, before explaining why.

Angie suggested they each put €20 into the kitty, but Bill and Bertha weren’t so sure with Bertha pointing out that the expert had said number four was a course specialist.

“Bertha, yer man is talking through his hat. It’s not relevant. In simple mathematic terms, it’s more likely that number eight will win,” snorted Vinny.

As the auction unfolded, number four was the cheapest at €75, to Vinny’s satisfaction, with number seven the next inexpensive at €80.

Predictably, the bidding was competitive for number eight and Vinny’s table were locked in combat with a gang of young lads by the bar.

“We can’t go higher than €120, Vinny. We’ve set a limit remember,” implored Angie.

But Vinny wasn’t listening. As the bids went up, so he crocked his pudgy index finger. €125, €130, €135, €140. “Stop it, Vinny,” cried Angie but Vinny wasn’t for turning.

Eventually the auction was over and Vinny had bought number eight for €160. “I’ll put in the extra €40, don’t worry,” he said, panting slightly.

There was just time for a last bet and Vinny, his fingers and toes tingling as they always did when there was money on it, put €20 on number eight to win.

The race was on a dirt track from somewhere in the States. Vinny spied number eight stumble as it emerged from the stalls, and never saw it again.

His theory blown out of the water, Vinny became aware of Bertha screaming beside him. “C’mon number four!” It couldn’t win, could it? It did, at 10 to 1 and everyone at the table had backed it, bar Vinny.

On the walk home, his tummy groaning with Guinness, Vinny’s sense of exasperation began to subside. “At least you had a fair few winners tonight love, so we came out ahead,” he said slipping his arm around Angie.

“That’s right, I did, and I gave it all to the club,” replied his wife.

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