Looking for a hand, but not the backhand

AGAINST THE ODDS:IT WAS around midnight on a balmy Saturday when Vinny Fitzpatrick, a confirmed bachelor, arrived at a life-changing decision - he would ask Angie to marry him, writes Roddy L'Estrange.

He was sitting in Angie's king-sized back garden in Clontarf at the time, his belly full of spare ribs, sausages and stout, staring at the stars and thinking of the poet Robert Frost when he reached this cataclysmic verdict.

At 50, Vinny's life had arrived at a crossroads, from where he could see two paths diverge into a yellow wood. He knew he could not travel both and be one traveller.

He could stay on the path he was familiar with, that of betting, beers and bachelorhood, or he could take the one less worn, which needed wear, and be with Angie instead.

It would, in all probability, mean an end to the thrice-weekly sojourns in Foley's, the famed Capri fish 'n' chip suppers, and the wintry Saturday afternoons ensconced in Boru Betting with Shanghai Jimmy and the lads.

More than that, it would mean sharing his life with someone else, something he'd never done before and which, he freely admitted, scared him more than a little.

He was used to pottering about his modest mid-terrace house behind the bus garage, doing his own thing.

If he wanted to, he could wear the same socks (or jocks) for two or three days in a row; could leave dirty dishes stacked in the sink; forgo his weekly bath, and wait until the washing basket was overflowing before filling a black sack and traipsing down to the Bubbles On The Bull launderette, where Fran always gave him a deal.

If he forgot to put out the bins on Wednesday mornings, so what? He could always wait until the next week and turn a blind nose to the smell, even in high summer.

He could pick his nose, scratch his backside and even break wind without having to worry about being reprimanded.

And when he felt that recurring tingle in his fingertips and toes, Vinny didn't have to think twice about immersing himself in a gambling cocoon and tapping the keys of his lap-top furiously as he emptied the reserves of his Betfair and Paddy Power accounts.

All these aspects of his personal life would have to change if Angie - and it was a considerable if - consented to Vinny's proposal.

Vinny was comfortable in his own roly-poly skin and set in his ways, but Angie had jolted him from his humdrum world and introduced him to dazzling, previously unexplored, horizons.

She was a glamorous, intelligent, successful woman, with a shrewd head for business and, against the odds, a soft centre for Vinny.

Pulling the ring on another can of stout, Vinny looked up at the heavens where he could make out The Plough, the North Star and there, away to the south, was Jupiter - the fourth brightest object in the sky.

There was a time, back in his days as a cub scout camping out on the Bull Island, when Vinny could recognise all the signs of the zodiac in the northern skies and the various constellations, but not any more.

He reflected on the evening's entertainment, a barbecue for Angie's tennis club pals. She was a member of Seafield Lawn Tennis club, the name of which Vinny found amusing as there wasn't a blade of grass on the courts.

The humid Clontarf air had been thick with the smell of charcoal and grilling meats, the clink of glass and excited babble of the coming mixed doubles championship.

Angie had met her ex-husband, Big Fat Ron, at a tennis disco in the late 1970s, and became a member soon after.

With BFR, they'd won the mixed doubles several times in the 1980s and 1990s, but nowadays Angie was more a social member than an active one.

As the wine flowed and Angie became a little tipsy, talk of her playing again in the club championships gathered momentum.

Soon, Angie was recreating her drop shots and serving technique on the patio as the Seafield LTC ladies, a sophisticated crew, giggled excitedly about her return.

There was talk of fixing her up to partner Simon, a dashing left-hander, who was a high-flying accountant in the city.

Or Cyril, a bank manager in Raheny, who'd long had the hots for Angie and was called "Nice One", not in memory of Cyril Knowles, the former Spurs full back, but because it was what he said whenever his partner played a good shot.

"No, no. If I'm going to play at all, it will be with Vinny," said Angie. "It's about time we got off our backsides and had a bit of exercise. Well, Vinny are you up for it?"

Vinny, who'd been sneakily watching highlights of the British Senior Open on the telly, had replied, without a thought, "Count me in Angie."

Soon, Angie was planning dawn jogs, morning knock-ups, fitness programmes and a strict diet ahead of the championship.

"The garden can be converted into a court. It'll be ideal for practice. Vinny will mow it, won't you love?"

Vinny could feel his stomachs sink and quickly excused himself to the depths of the garden for a drink and a think.

It was there that he arrived at the ground-breaking conclusion that he would ask for Angie's hand, and he didn't mean forehand either.

He couldn't run away every time she suggested doing something that made him squirm. Being with someone was about compromise, he thought to himself.

As he waddled back up to the house - he was, after all, an overnight guest - Vinny spied a shooting star crashing beyond Howth Head.

It was the sign he was looking for. "If you don't shoot for the stars, Fitzpatrick, you won't reach the moon."

Like Caesar crossing the Rubicon, the die had been cast and Vinny wasn't about to turn back.

He coughed, pulled back his shoulders, patted down his sweep-over and pushed open the back door.

It was time to pop the question.

Bets of the Week

2pts ew Oslot in Galway Plate (11/2 Ladbrokes)

1pt ew Bernhard Langer in US Senior Open (8/1, Stan James)

Vinny's Bismarck

4pts lay Tyrone to beat Mayo (4/6 Boylesports, liability 3pts)