AGAINST THE ODDS:The 'Vera Lynns' go down well as Vinny and his old clippie mucker reminisce

WATCHING THE “Big Easy” putt these days wasn’t easy any more; it was painful. There was a time when Ernie Els had a velvet putting stroke, now he looked as if was afflicted with St Vitus’ dance whenever he stood over a putt.

The nearer Ernie got to the hole in the final round of the Bay Hill Invitational, where he needed a strong finish to climb into the world’s top 50 and qualify for the Masters, the worse his twitches were.

“Even my shakes aren’t a patch on poor ’ol Ernie’s,” grinned Shanghai Jimmy as he carefully worked both hands around his pint and emptied the glass.

Vinny Fitzpatrick smiled at the joke Shanghai played on himself but inside he was increasingly concerned that the oldest member of their wrecking crew was creaky at the hinges.

Shanghai was officially off the buses on sick leave but everyone knew he wouldn’t be coming back, not when he couldn’t be sure of holding the steering wheel or engaging a gear. At 62, Shanghai was at the end of the road.

His twitch had spread from his hands; now the feet and head of the veteran clippie regularly convulsed.

The jerks could be disguised with alcohol and in this regard, Shanghai was a scratch handicapper but the remedy was only short-term; Shanghai was struggling and Vinny felt something had to be done.

When Macker headed out the back of Foley’s for his customary hand-rolled ciggie, Vinny went with him.

Outside, it was cool and the night sky above Dublin was all a-twinkle. Vinny gazed upwards. To the west, Venus was a luminous glow, a few degrees north of Jupiter, while adjacent to both planets was the crescent of the new moon.

Looking closer, Vinny could just make out the outline of the remainder of the moon. “Look, Macker, it’s the old moon in the young moon’s face. Earthshine.”

Macker squinted his Lee Van Cleef-like eyes upwards. “You know, Vinny, you missed your vocation. You should have been Ireland’s answer to Patrick Moore.”

Vinny smiled and said nothing. Macker, he knew, was more knowledgeable about the night sky than any of the lads.

(He had even told Vinny about Earthshine, where sunlight reflected from the earth to the night side of the new moon makes the entire orb of the moon dimly visible.)

“It’s another old moon I’m worried about, Shanghai. He needs help. What do you think?” said Vinny.

Macker sucked deep on his fag, inhaled, and blasted two puffs hard out of his thin nostrils. “You’re right, he does but pride can be a terrible thing and he won’t take kindly to anyone pointing him towards Bones Brogan.

“Why don’t you head back to his gaffe tonight, and come at him from left-field over a small one? Get him to open up.”

The thought of traipsing out to Shanghai’s apartment in Baldoyle, where the veteran clippie lived on his own, wasn’t exactly Vinny’s idea of a perfect night-cap but he knew he had to get his old friend to open up.

Back inside the lounge, the debate was revving up on whether Ernie should get an invite to the Masters. Shanghai was adamant that only players who earned the right to play should be there. “Ernie had his shot and he blew it. End of story.

“You can’t be sentimental in a hard-nosed professional sport like golf. If Els gets an invite, then what about the lads ahead of him in the world rankings that don’t get one?’

But Brennie wasn’t so sure. “The green jacket boys have invited young Ishikawa, who has contributed nothing to Masters history and is outside the top 50 in the rankings, so they should invite Ernie, who’s been in the thick of the back nine action on Sunday for many years.

“You talk about sentiment, Shanghai, but no event has more schmaltz than the Masters, with ceremonial starters and wrinkly ex-champions playing in their dotage.

“Give Ernie a wild card and if he does well, watch him blubber when it’s over. The jackets will love it; so will the TV networks.”

Shanghai was about to offer a rejoin when Vinny caught his eye. “Shanghai, you still got that bottle of Bombay gin in your pad? I’m off in the morning, if you fancy a late one.”

On the short taxi spin home, in between mouthfuls of the Capri’s finest vinegary chips, Shanghai allowed himself a chuckle. “You know, Vinny. Brennie had a point about Ernie but sometimes you have to keep the whipper-snappers in their place.”

Vinny stole a look at his old friend with his unkempt snowy hair, permanent stubble, lived-in clothes. Shanghai had the cut of a man who lived on his own, which he had since his wife passed away almost 10 years ago.

Shanghai had a grown-up son, who worked in London and kept in touch infrequently; otherwise he was alone, apart from the lads, and Foley’s. Vinny felt sure he’d have ended up like Shanghai if he hadn’t met Angie and a part of him felt blessed.

Shanghai’s apartment reminded Vinny of his old family home in Causeway Avenue; it could do with a make-over but it had the basic ingredients for any ageing widower; a fridge full of beer, a comfy sofa and Sky Sports on the telly.

As Shanghai fixed two large “Vera Lynns” Vinny flicked on the box. “That was very said about poor ’ol Jocky Wilson, wasn’t it?”

At that, Shanghai appeared in the doorway, slightly distraught. “Don’t tell me Jocky’s snuffed it? What a character. I once threw against him in an exhibition years ago in The Three Arrows Pub in Stoneybatter.”

Vinny was intrigued. “Go on,” he said.

“It must be 30 years ago. Jocky had just become world champion and he was box office. We paid a tenner in to watch him take on Dublin’s finest and he blew everyone away. In the interval, my name was called out in a draw and the next I knew I was on stage with the great man.

“It was a three-dart challenge, a Shanghai, with a nifty fifty if you could match or beat Jocky. He went first and threw single 20, double 20, treble 20. He was so good then he could have thrown the arrows over his shoulder if he wanted.

“I was bricking myself but somehow I threw a double twenty; then squeezed the single. The last was do-or-die.

“You think I’ve got the jigs now, you should have seen me then. I don’t know how I did it but I flighted her perfect into the treble. Jocky gave me a big hug and I’ve been Shanghai ever since.”

For the next two hours, the old friends reminisced about their times together with “The Pocketeers”, Foley’s snooker troupe, the golf society, the Banana Cup wins, and losses.

Vinny waited for the moment to bring up the subject of Shanghai’s health but he found himself becoming fuzzy with jar and nostalgia.

By three o’clock, the two men were sitting on the floor of the TV room, shoulders turned into one another. As Shanghai’s hoary head leaned on his, Vinny thought again of Earthshine and of “the old moon in the young moon’s face”.

It was dawn when Vinny woke, a bitter taste in his mouth; gin had that effect on him. He had a crick in his neck from where he and Shanghai had nodded off, shoulder to shoulder.

“C’mon, Shanghai, let’s be having you,” he said.

Only Shanghai didn’t hear him; Shanghai was dead.

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