AGAINST THE ODDS: AS HE opened the Father's Day cards placed neatly on the kitchen table, between the Sunday papers and a breakfast of orange juice, boiled egg, tea and toast, Vinny Fitzpatrick felt kind of sorry for the Romanians.
Since Father’s Day celebrations had begun in the United States in 1910, at the behest of the daughter of a Civil War veteran who raised six kids on his own, Romania had steadfastly ignored honouring fathers and fatherhood.
Around the world, Father’s Day was celebrated, usually, although not exclusively, on the third Sunday of June as a day when dads, like him, were given a lie-in and full planning permission for an evening in the pub – which happily coincided with the final round of the US Open.
“Heaven,” thought Vinny.
But in Romania, the ninth largest country in Europe with the sixth largest population, 100 years of Father’s Day salutations came and went until, finally, last year when the government gave up and Romania became the last European state to honour dads.
“A bit late for a lot of aul fellahs,” thought Vinny as he sliced his toast into little soldiers, which he then buttered and dipped lovingly into his gooey egg.
He was touched by the efforts of his 18-month old son and daughter to scrawl the word “Daddy” and their jagged xxx’s. Each card included three lottery scratch cards which Vinny took care at erasing with a twenty cent coin. A return of €4 and a free ticket was fair enough, he felt.
Angie’s card was a splendid glossy affair, adorned with a suggestive note which implied he was on to a winner later if he arrived home reasonably sober, and also two €50 notes.
The cash was just the job for a trip to McGuirk’s shop in Howth as Vinny needed a driver to replace his old Slazenger persimmon which had splintered spectacularly on the 16th tee at St Anne’s the previous Monday.
The Boru Betting-sponsored outing of Foley’s Golf Society was always well-supported, in part because of the novel prize put up by Angie, who ran Boru Betting for Winstons, the giant UK-based betting retailers.
Every stableford point scored meant a free euro bet on the US Open and Vinny, having signed for the full 26 points, had invested his “winnings” on Sergio Garcia at 20 to 1 to finish in the top five at Congressional.
Heading into the final round, the Spaniard was handily placed near the front of chasing pack, if miles behind runaway leader Rory McIlroy, who had been the pick of Macker (28 points) and Brennie (22 points) for the US Open at odds of 18 to 1. Both were sure to collect.
As he read glowing reports of Wee Mac, Vinny tried to get his head around how the island of Ireland, and the province of Ulster, could supply successive winners of the US Open.
Vinny liked the cut of McIlroy’s jib, the mighty swoosh through his swing, his quick play, and jaunty walk. He was only knee-high to a grasshopper but he hit the ball miles and was as tough as tungsten too, as not many 22-year-olds could have survived his Masters misery to blitz the field in the US Open.
Rory was a credit to his family and Vinny couldn’t begin to imagine the sense of pride his father, Gerry, must be feeling towards his only son. It made all the hours of sacrifice, of scrubbing toilets, of cleaning out dressingrooms and pulling pints to fund Rory’s sporting education, so worthwhile.
Vinny thought back to his own old man, Finbarr, and a lump rose in his throat. Finbarr had worked unstintingly to put bread on the table and clothes on the back of Vinny and his two sisters in their artisan cottage on Causeway Avenue. He used to do an early morning milk run before heading off for a shift on the buses to ensure there was a little extra to go around – enough for new football boots for Vinny, piano lessons for his sisters, his Ma’s Lough Derg pilgrimage and the annual family holiday in Curracloe.
As his eyes began to glass over, Vinny was startled to hear the home phone ring, as almost all phone contact these days was done via mobiles.
“I’ll get it,” he called out to no one in particular, as he shuffled to the hall. “Hello,” he said cheerily, picking up the receiver. “Hi, er, Dad. It’s me, Niamh. Happy Father’s Day,” said a voice straight from the Rovers Return.
Vinny’s fat face lit up like a neon light. It was only two months since he had found out about his 27-year-old daughter, the long odds end product of a one-night Dublin dalliance, who now lived in Manchester, where she worked as a football reporter.
“Niamh, how very kind of you to call,” he said before gushing on. “No it’s better than, that, it’s brilliant. How are you keeping? Will you be coming over soon? What about your lot then, eh? FA Cup winners and ready to knock United off their perch, I’ll bet.”
Vinny would have kept burbling on for longer but for Niamh’s interjection. “Vinny, Dad, Vinny, will you put a sock in it for a minute?” she said her voice rising.
Vinny did as he was told. “Sorry Niamh, I was losing the run of myself there,” he said.
There was a brief silence before Niamh continued. “I’ll be over soon, don’t worry, before the new season kicks off and I’ll have my boyfriend, Roberto, with me. We have some news.”
Vinny recoiled slightly as he waited for Niamh to continue. He suspected what was coming; his beautiful daughter was getting married and he, Vincent Finbarr Fitzpatrick of Clontarf, Dublin, would have the great honour of giving her away.
“Yes, Niamh, what is it?” he said quietly, trying to sound casual. “You know the way you love being a dad,” said Niamh. “Well, what would you think about being a granddad?”
“Before you say anything, we’d hoped to tell you in person but I can’t get across for another fortnight at the earliest and I couldn’t wail until then. I hope you’re happy for me and Angie is too. Are you Dad? Are you?”
Vinny’s head was spinning, and he was brought back two years to when Angie told him she was pregnant. Then he was 51, now he was 53, from a father to a grandfather in a couple of years – you’d have got some odds on that, he thought. “Vinny, are you still there?” asked Niamh anxiously.
“I am Niamh, I am. That’s fantastic news, flippin’ fantastic. I’m as happy as a dog with two tails,” he said in a half-choked voice. “Thanks, I was hoping you’d say that,” said Niamh. “Oh, just one other thing, if it’s a boy, we’d like to call him Vincent, with your permission, of course.”
At that, tears flowed down Vinny’s ruddy cheeks, one of which attached itself to a blob of peppery egg stuck to his stubbly chin.
Bets of the Week
2pts Roger Federer to win Wimbledon (9/4, Coral)
2pts Carlton House to win Irish Derby (13/8, Boylesports)
Vinny's Bismarck
2pts Lay Kildare to beat Dublin Leinster SFC (9/4, Paddy Power, liability 4.5 pts)
