Kerryman proves a godsend to Vinny

AGAINST THE ODDS:

STANDING ON the pavement outside Phelan’s confectionery shop on St James’ Avenue a little after three o’clock on Sunday afternoon, Vinny Fitzpatrick felt a prickle of apprehension feeding down his curvy spine.

It wasn’t that he was concerned about the outcome of the All-Ireland final; in contrast he had an unshakeable belief that this would be Anna Livia’s day of deliverance and had placed €50 on Dublin at 6 to 4 to end 16 years of hurt. But as the seconds counted down towards throw-in, and throngs of supporters good-naturedly made their way into Croke Park, Vinny’s anxiety stemmed from the absence of a match ticket in his pocket.

He couldn’t believe it had come down to this; that a veteran of every All-Ireland final involving Dublin since 1958, should be stewing over a ticket. But he was, and for that there was no one to blame but himself.

While Macker, Fran and Brennie had cosied up to contacts in Clontarf, Raheny and St Vincent’s to source as many ticket trails as possible, Vinny had gazed down from his perch in Foley’s with disdain.

“Dollymount Gaels will look after their own, just as they have always done,” he snorted.

Only this time the Gaels didn’t deliver, simply because they weren’t able to.

With one of the smallest adult memberships of Dublin’s 100 GAA clubs, the Gaels had received just eight tickets for the final.

Enraged, Vinny had fired off a snotty email to the Dublin County Board, pointing out how members of the Gaels had given freely of their time to sell match programmes at Croker for many years. “And this is the thanks we get. It’s a thundering disgrace,” he wrote.

(In response, the Board mentioned how the Gaels no longer provided the service due to a recurring discrepancy between the amount of programmes sold and cash returned. This, they insisted, was nothing to do with the number of tickets given to the club).

Despite the tiny allocation to the Gaels, Vinny had been sure his number would come up in the club draw, which was held the previous Friday night in Foley’s.

Failing that, his family’s distinguished service record – his late father Finbarr was a founder member – would, he felt, be sufficient for a ticket on the “QT”.

Against the odds, he missed out in the draw, unlike the loathsome Lugs O’Leary, while only two tickets were held back, one for the club chairman, Barney Byrnes, and the other for secretary Teasy Gannon.

Vinny was at the door of despair on Sunday morning when Macker rang out of the blue to say he’d chased down a ticket.

“I dropped a fellow off in Swords last night. He said Fingallians was awash with them and he’d be at Phelan’s at three with a Hill 16 ticket. He seemed a reliable sort,” said Macker.

At 3.20pm on Sunday, Vinny had drastically revised his opinion of Macker’s “reliable” fellow.

He could hear the roars inside the ground, could sense the anticipation as fans, some of them hurrying to make the throw-in, flowed past in a river of blue. And here he was, quite literally, outside the sweet shop.

He was about to curse Fingallians and the horse they rode in on, when he was aware of a presence beside him. A sandy-haired chap in his 20s, wearing a Kerry jersey, was on a mobile and shouting so loudly that Vinny could hear. “I’m at this Phelan’s place and there’s no sign of Jacko. I can’t get him on the phone, he’s probably stuck in some pub near Heuston Station. It’s his loss. Look, I’ve got to go. Call you later.”

Alerted, Vinny instantly grabbed the Kerryman by the arm. “Excuse me, if you have a ticket, I’ll take it off your hands. Here’s €80,” he said thrusting out a wad of blue.

“Done,” said the Kerryman, “as long you don’t mind being in among the Kerry people,” he said, shaking Vinny’s hand.

“Son,” replied Vinny, “I’d sit with the devil himself if it meant seeing this game.”

Hours later, as he revelled in the company of his friends in Foley’s, sculling pints, Vinny tried to make sense of the madness of it all. Of how Dublin won a game they should have lost, of how gracious the Kerry folk around him in the Upper Cusack were at the final whistle.

(Had he been at the wrong end at Old Trafford, Anfield or Stamford Bridge, he’d probably have got a thumping for wildly celebrating Kevin McManamon’s goal, never mind Stephen Cluxton’s game-winning point.)

Of how Cluxton, the Dubs’ longest-serving player, came the longest way to end the longest wait with the injury-time clincher – of which Vinny had a gun-barrel view.

Of how Cluxton, McManamon and Alan Brogan, inexplicably, didn’t make the RTÉ short-list for the Man of the Match.

Of the good-natured mayhem on the way out of Croker, all the way from Clonliffe Road to Clontarf where every pub spilled over in a frothy throng of stout, smiles and song. It was like Euro ’88 and Italia ’90 re-visited, with a blue vibe.

But mostly Vinny thought of just how close he came to missing out on the most dramatic day in the history of the Dubs, one which prompted Brennie to text “this is the greatest moment of my life”.

For Vinny this was the day when the chains of sporting slavery were loosened, when Gilroy the Great Emancipator unlocked the doors to football freedom.

That 16 summers had passed between Sam coming home frightened Vinny. In another 16 years he’d be 69, if he was still around, which he doubted.

This was the moment to live and drink for as Arthur’s Day arrived early in the Fair City, and few Dubs consumed as heartily on Sunday evening as Vincent Finbarr Fitzpatrick.

It was the next morning, as he shuffled about the kitchen, cautiously fixing himself sweet milky tea and hot buttered toast that Vinny heard of Ginger McCain’s passing.

The news stopped him in his tracks. McCain was “Mr Grand National”, the trainer of triple Aintree winner Red Rum, and later Amberleigh House.

It was “Rummy” who held a special place in Vinny’s heart. He’d backed him five years straight in the National, as boy and man, and had cleaned up.

In 1977, he’d doubled “Rummy” up with the Dubs and won 200 quid in old money, enough to buy his first motorbike, a Honda 50.

Now McCain, an irascible old salt whose horse saved the great race, was gone. Gone but not forgotten, like Red Rum, or murder spelt backwards, as Vinny liked to remind his friends.

McCain got away with murder for years with his crusty comments; the Dubs, if truth be told, probably got away with murder on Sunday too. And who could honestly begrudge them their day in the sun?

Bets of the week

1pt each-way Gary Woodland in Tour Championship (30/1, Stan James)

2pts Spurs to finish in top four of Premier League (15/8, Totesport)

Vinny's Bismarck

2pts Lay Ireland to reach semi-finals of the Rugby World Cup (1/2, Sporting Bet, liability 3pts)