Roddy L’Estrange: Struggling Vinny suffers rough justice

Vinny Fitzpatrick always got a big buzz from the year-ending turkey shoot outing of the Soiled and Ancient Golf Society. He loved the scramble format, the tradition of wearing red attire, the naming of teams, and the bottle of plonk for everyone in the audience afterwards.

For their 2015 finale, the dishonourable company of golfers attached to Foley’s pub had descended on Rush, a nine-hole gem in deepest Fingal.

It was a short links, which suited Vinny, but tight off the tee, which didn’t, as he was liable to spray things about if off his game. On this day, as part of The Three Stooges team, he was. Left-right, left-right, his play was akin to a soldier’s march and he knew he was putting a strain on his playing partners.

Not that Big Dave, a six-handicapper who hit the ball miles, or Timmy Two-Shots, a 24-handicapper renowned for making his second shots count in stableford play, complained.

Both were genial chaps, who chivvied Vinny along, despite his hacking, which would have done Lizzie Borden proud.

It helped that the scoring was steady. Through nine holes, the team were level par, due to the heroics of Big Dave, who reckoned with their handicap of five shots The Three Stooges had a squeak of the overall prize.

“If we can get to one under par lads, that should do it,” said the strapping fireman from Kilbarrack.

Crammed with wine

This year, thanks to Dolan’s of Clontarf, there was a hamper each for the winning team, crammed with wine, spirits, crackers, cheese, biscuits, cake and vouchers for a turkey and ham. “Anyone winning one of those, will risk losing their amateur status from the R&A,” joked Vinny before teeing off.

Leaving the ninth, Vinny spied the large baskets, bedecked in green and red, in the bay window overlooking the green.

The Three Stooges were going well, in spite of his efforts. But he knew he’d have to get a wriggle on as three of his drives had to be used; so far, he hadn’t managed to put one in play.

In difficult conditions, the trio battled on. Vinny was reminded of the heroic march made by Tom Crean and Bill Lashly in the Antarctic over 100 years ago when they were held back by Teddy Evans, who was ill. Yet they refused to leave him behind.

On this day, he was Evans, unable to put his shoulder to the scramble wheel. Even on the greens, where he was usually so sure, his putting was awry.

As Big Dave and Timmy Two-Shots heroically chalked up par after par, Vinny sulked in silence under his Noddy cap. He knew there were far more important things going on in his life, such as Angie’s fight for health, but for these few hours in north Dublin, Vinny was wrapped up in his own trivial misery.

With three holes to go, there was no place for Vinny to hide; his drives had to be played, wherever they finished.

The 16th was a longish par four by Rush standards, but was playing downwind and Big Dave came up with a plan. “Vinny, it’s a drive and an eight iron for me. Why don’t you play a short iron off the tee and I’ll take care of the rest?”

In silence, Vinny did as he was bid, teeing the ball that bit higher and duly pulling a short iron from his pencil bag.

His swing was clunky but he somehow made sufficient contact to direct the ball a hundred yards or so down the fairway where it glowed a lonely white. “That’s my boy,” beamed Big Dave. “I’ll knock her on from there.” Which he did, with a fine brassie approach.

When Timmy Two-Shots drained a 20-footer, the team were one under par. “Two more holes, and we’re there,” chirped Big Dave.

The 17th at Rush is a par three played from an elevated tee to a sloping green protected by bunkers. As the wind whistled in from the west, Vinny aimed right, caught his six iron flush and then watched anxiously as his ball held up on the breeze and plonked in to a trap.

As he mumbled apologies, Big Dave clapped his shovel hands together and said breezily, “No problems Vinny, I’ll knock her close from there.”

Curly putt

True to his word, he stitched his recovery to six feet and coolly knocked in a curly putt for par. It left one hole standing between The Three Stooges and hamper heaven: the 265-yard par four 18th.

By now, the wind was gusting strong, hard off the right, the rain was slanting down, and the final drive was tougher than normal, for an out of form 22-handicapper.

In silence, Vinny drew his Wilson driver from its slender scabbard. “God hates cowards and skinny women,” he muttered as he placed an old Penfold on a wooden tee.

What happened was later described by Big Dave as “one of those things that can happen to a bishop”, and by Timmy Two-Shots “as a series of unfortunate events”.

In retrospect, Vinny should have just touched the ball with his club and let Big Dave play the second shot from the teeing area. At worst, the lads would have made a five, and still won the hamper.

As it was, they ended up with a bottle each of Blue Nun and a glass of sympathy from their fellow hackers, who always took greater interest in tales of destruction than tales of derring-do.

Vinny’s first tee shot had careered out of bounds on the road which bisects the 18th and 16th holes, bouncing all the way to the car park, where it was later found in the captain’s space.

His reload disappeared left over whins in the direction of Lambay Island, while his third splashed into a wee pond.

From there, The Three Stooges took a penalty drop, played up towards the green, where they holed out for an inglorious nine.

As Vinny slunk away, feeling lower than a serpent’s belly, Timmy Two Shots put a consoling arm around him. “Don’t worry Vinny, it’s not like anyone has died.”

No one had. Vinny thought of Angie, and vowed to himself, that no one would either. Not on his watch.