STANDING ON the 10th tee at Portmarnock Links on Tuesday morning, the odds were stacked against the final three-ball winning as much as a drumstick between them, never mind a hamper, in the Foley’s Golf Society Christmas Outing.

“I’d say we’re about as far back as Everton in the Premier League,” observed Vinny Fitzpatrick as he flicked a blob of cold snot from his nose. “What are the scores on the doors Brennie?” he asked.

As he worked in National Irish Bank in Killester, one of those infuriating cash-less banks, Brennie was entrusted with totting up the points even though he knew that Vinny and Fran, with their betting brains, could calculate far quicker.

“We’ve 27 points. We’re goosed unless we go bananas on the back nine,” he said.

The competition format was a waltzing rumble, in which one stableford score counted on the first hole; two on the second and three on the third. On the fourth, it was back to one score and so on. One, two three; one two, three.

Vinny hadn’t intended to play, not with Angie ‘so close to calving’ as Fran coarsely put it, but against his better judgement he’d reported for duty. There had been one condition: he had brought his mobile in case of an emergency.

It meant several minutes of foostering on the first tee as he tried to switch the ring tone to vibrate, eventually turning to Fran, who was good at these things, for assistance.

While Brennie and Fran, tidy 12-handicappers, were keen at having a crack at the hampers for the leading team, Vinny, a streaky 24-handicapper, had warned the lads not to expect much.

For nine holes, Vinny the bus driver was very much a passenger as he hooked, sliced, duffed and yipped his way around the links. He had double shots on three holes and didn’t score on any of them.

On another day, the dormant competitor in Vinny, which lay concealed under layers of fat, would have surfaced but on this fine morning, Vinny didn’t give a fig. Unlike his golf ball, his life was in the right place.

He had a beautiful wife, was about to become a first-time father at 51, and had a clutch of loyal friends who shared his passion for gambling and Guinness. What more could a man want? As he half-heartedly looked for his ball in the deep rough left of the 10th fairway, he thought of Tiger Woods, another man who had it all in life.

Not only was Tiger the best golfer in the planet, and the wealthiest, he was also married to a Scandic stunner, much to Vinny’s approval – it wasn’t widely known he had a thing for Viking women.

Yet it wasn’t sufficient for Tiger to be adored by millions, be worth millions, have a one-in-a-million missus, and two little Woodies. He wanted more.

As he shuffled through the whins and gorse, Vinny found a ball, a shiny new Pro V1, marked with a big blue five in front of the number. “That’ll do grand,” he thought as he signalled across to Brennie and Fran to play on without him.

Vinny was fascinated at how Tiger played golf, at the way he stalked his opponents before blowing them away by a combination of his golfing prowess and sheer psychological presence.

(That his ledger showed a substantial profit from backing Woods in majors, and selected tournaments, was not the sole reason Vinny held Tiger in high regard but it helped.) He was also intrigued at the moral judgments being passed on Tiger for his indiscretions – one headline in a paper had caught his eye ‘Tiger or Cheetah?’ There were columns devoted to Tiger shattering his role model image for golfers, for sportsmen and women, and even for his race.

That Tiger, for all his difficulties, was now a bigger box office draw than before seemed to have been lost as the commentators tut-tutted about his behaviour.

Whenever Tiger next hit a golf ball in anger, whether it was at a municipal pitch and putt course or at Augusta, Vinny predicted record crowds and all-time high TV viewing figures.

Tiger may not be as wholesome as some people wanted him to be but he wouldn’t be the first superstar to stray down the path of temptation. He felt sorry for the missus but a part of him couldn’t wait to see Tiger back on the prowl for a major again.

On the green, he hooked up with the lads and found Brennie staring down a 20-footer for birdie, which he rattled into the cup. “A four-pointer!” he cried. “The charge is on.” At the next, a short hole, Brennie and Fran made pars as Vinny eventually emerged from a bunker half-blinded by sand with his ball to hand.

He was still thinking of Tiger, and how badly the whole kerfuffle had been managed by a man with more handlers than Barack Obama, when he caught his tee shot flush off the 12th. It left him with a mid-iron to the green. Three shots later, improbably, he’d recorded his first par of the round.

“Ye’d two shots there Vinny, ye boy ye,” shrieked Brennie. “Nine points lads. We’re on a roll.”

For the next hour, Vinny didn’t think of Tiger Woods; instead he played like him, if that was possible for a hacker.

Pars followed on the 13th and 14th, where he was the only one with a shot. A bogey five at the 15th where he again had two shots meant that, by Brennie’s calculations, the team had racked up an incredible 32 points in six holes.

By now, Vinny had left Angie, Tiger, and Uncle Tom Cobley to one side. He could feel his heart beat that bit quicker as the competitive juices stirred.

For the first time that day, he looked at the card of the course, noting his last double shot was to come on the final hole.

On the 16th, he cursed inwardly at leaving a par putt short but on the next, a tough par three to a raised green, Vinny smoked a five-wood on to the surface and made par.

With Brennie down for four, the lads needed six points down the last for a 72-point total.

“With our back nine, that could win,” observed Fran.

On the 18th, a demanding par four, Vinny smashed his tee shot sure and straight, gleefully snatched up his tee and grinned: “Put your ace of hearts on that lads.” The other lads were safely in play down the left and Brennie had just made a quip about writing a speech when Vinny felt a throb in his groin area and heard a strange sound: it was his mobile phone.

After some fiddling, for he was wearing weather-proof trousers, he took it out. He had a message, from Angie.

With a mixture of apprehension, he opened his inbox which read: ‘Gone to Rotunda, for real this time love. See you there ASAP.’

He looked across at the lads, who were assessing their approach shots, then glanced down at his lucky Pro V1 ball which glowed a lonely white.

He thought of Angie on her way to the Rotunda, and he thought too of the hamper dangling tantalisingly in front of him. At that moment, Vinny Fitzpatrick backed himself to do the right thing.

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