Boru gets ready for another battle in Clontarf

AGAINST THE ODDS:THE MOBILISATION had begun early on Saturday morning, in some cases before dawn as a number of veterans had to travel a long way and many didn't drive or were too old to do so.

They were a rag-taggle crew. Some had survived the relentless battles of sporting chance unscathed; others bore the scars of the betting ring and the bookies’ shops, the broken homes, broken marriages.

Among them were bankers and buskers, architects and artisans, priests and publicans – the vice of gambling cast a wide net. They were converging on Boru Betting because Vinny Fitzpatrick had asked them to.

It followed an emergency summit at his home in Mount Prospect Avenue where Vinny spelt out to the lads the great peril facing Boru Betting. He spoke with clarity and kept his emotions in check, aware of his personal attachment.

He pointed out that Boru Betting had been part of all their grown-up lives; how it was inextricably woven into their gambling DNA.

They chuckled when he reminded them of the day Brennie’s Yankee clicked at Redcar and he’d won more than three grand. And cursed at the time a stoppage-time goal for Bury robbed Fran of an accumulator worth €1,200.

“This is part of who we are and no gormless gombeen in a swanky London office is going to take it away from us without a fight,” he thundered, jowls quivering. “The way I see it, lads, is that we either sit back and watch a piece of our lives being crushed underfoot, or make a stand. If Boru Betting is going down, she’s not going down on her own. Are youse with me?”

The roars of approval from Macker, Fran, Shanghai, Brennie and Kojak, was the confirmation Vinny needed. “Right, here’s the jackanory. Angie has told me some head honcho from Winstons is coming to the shop on Saturday.

“Angie has never met him and doesn’t know what he looks like but I suspect he’s bringing his charcoal and bible to apply the last rites.

“I reckon the only way we can get him to stall the ball is to ensure Boru Betting is jammers, like the old days. Let’s round up as many lads as possible. It’s a long shot, I know, but they’ve come in for us before.”

“Get on the phones and start networking. If anyone needs as lift, we’ll pick them up.

“I’ll look after the regulars. Just make sure everyone is there at 11 bells, armed for battle. It will be a long slog.”

As the day broke, so the warriors of wagers past converged on Clontarf for one last battle. Mostly they arrived on the 130 bus, some were dropped off, a few came by shank’s mare.

In many cases, they were elderly and stooped, a number wore suits, all carried a quiet dignity which Vinny found touching.

As they shuffled towards Boru Betting, Vinny was reminded of the Liam Clancy ballad: The Band Played Waltzing Matilda.

These were Vinny’s Suvla Bay heroes, these proud old men, “all twisted and torn”, were “forgotten heroes of a forgotten war” who were still answering “the call”.

Vinny knew “year after year their numbers (would) get fewer” and that “some day no one will march . . . at all”. The thought of it caused him to flick away a fat tear which had rolled down a fleshy cheek.

After greeting the returning comrades, Vinny briefly asked for the veterans’ attention. “Thanks for coming at short notice, lads. Youse all know why we’re here. This place has always meant a lot to us. Hopefully, it will for years to come.

“Bacon rolls are on the way. There’s fresh tea and coffee on tap all day or if you fancy something stronger, Foley’s next door serves a fine pint.”

“Enjoy the punting and as a gesture of their appreciation, Boru Betting are giving a free €20 voucher to everyone in the audience.”

By chance, Saturday was a cracking day for sport and for having a wager.

There was World Cup rugby, two St Leger race meetings, live Premier League soccer involving Liverpool and Manchester United. Golf heads had the Dutch Open and the Walker Cup.

As he worked the room, Vinny bumped into lads he hadn’t seen for years, Tony “Ratta” Tuohy, Shiner Scullion, Mixer Malone, and Carnegie Cadwalader, an insufferable snob known as “The Immaculate Deception”.

Vinny caught Angie’s eye and gave her the thumbs up. In return she blew her husband a kiss and a nervy smile. More than anyone, Angie was aware of the stakes.

As the sport unfolded, races merged into one another, no sooner had they passed the post at Curragh than they were loading at Chester. When the money was down, time became irrelevant.

To oversee quartermaster duties, Foley’s had sent in a spindly, sandy-haired, lounge boy called Nigel, who sported a Cockney accent.

“A student,” surmised Vinny, who kept the young fellow on his toes. “We must not run out of milk or sugar,” he barked.

As the day galloped on, Vinny assisted Nigel with transferring mountains of toasted ham and cheese sarnies from Foley’s – chiding him for forgetting the mustard.

Inside Boru Betting, things were heaving. Angie and her assistants were run off their feet. At one point, Vinny was detailed to take charge of a pay-out only counter.

From his perch, Vinny saw the years roll off the veterans; they were lighter on their feet, their eyes shining, faces glowing.

This was their battleground, a place where they could stand and fight their corner as well as the next man.

Betting was in their blood and Boru Betting was their temple of dreams; their wager of worship. Vinny loved them all. Like them, he would never grow old.

By half-time in the Bolton v United game, some of the elderly punters were beginning to flag; the free vouchers had vanished, and pockets were light, in some cases lighter than bargained for.

A handful of old salts were assessing a bail-out bet – some were even looking up the odds for the American football. There was still no sign of the “suit” from Winstons when Vinny heard a familiar noise.

It was the sound of glasses being clinked together. Who was about to make a speech? Suddenly, standing tall on a chair was Nigel, the Foley’s lounge boy. What on earth was he up to thought Vinny?

“Can you all hear me?” he said in an accent straight from the East End. “Could I have your attention for a minute? Thank you.

“My name is Nigel, Nigel Winston. My father owns the betting chain, Winstons, you may have heard of it.”

By now, you could have heard a pin drop and Vinny felt his blood turn ice-cold.

“I came here this morning with instructions to close this shop down but when the cabbie bringing me from the airport said Boru Betting was the best betting shop on this side of the city, it set me thinking.

“I stopped in next door for a coffee and the lounge boy filled me in on his job for the day. I persuaded him to take some time off with a nifty-fifty and came in for a butcher’s hook.

“I’ve been here for nearly eight hours, have observed what’s gone on and I’ve come to a decision,” continued Nigel.

The eerie hush could be heard all the way to Howth Head. Vinny felt his heart pounding; his armpits, typically, were moistening.

“This shop has shown to me what we’re missing, a connection with our public, the punters. I’m going to recommend to my father that Boru Betting . . . stays open.”

At that, dockets were flung in the air, pencils, biros, even a couple of trilbys too. Vinny plopped down on to his flabby knees, blessed himself, and blubbered tears of joy.

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Vinny’s Bismarck

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