AGAINST THE ODDS:The drama unfolds in Vinny's favourite tavern as his daughter requires some emergency help
AS HIS heavily-pregnant daughter gave a forensic analysis of Ireland’s opponents in the Euro finals in Foley’s on Sunday afternoon, Vinny glanced around at the lads; they were all spellbound.
It wasn’t Niamh’s resemblance to Natalie Wood that had them in thrall, rather her ice-cold reasoning as to why Giovanni Trapattoni and Co should be backed at 5 to 1 to finish in the top two in Group C.
“Spain are a good team, not a great one, certainly not like the swashbuckling lot when they won the World Cup, sure they lost to England the other day,” insisted Niamh.
“Fernando Torres is a shadow of the player he was, Carles Puyol is slower than Vinny while David Silva will go to the finals after playing 60 games for City. I wouldn’t be surprised if he runs out of juice.
“Italy are not only slow starters, they are the most superstitious nation around. Ireland have the hex on them and even (Cesare) Prandelli, their coach, was praying to avoid Trap; well he’s got him.
“Croatia haven’t delivered in a tournament since coming third in the World Cup in ’98. At fives, Ireland are a value bet to go through. I’m already on for a pony.”
As the lads considered this convincing argument, Niamh got unsteadily to her feet, aided by Vinny’s brawny forearm, and flushed slightly
“Thanks, Vinny,” she panted. “Back in a minute. Will you get us a packet of those prawn-cracker flavoured crisps? Actually, two packets. Ta.”
With that, she waddled towards the sole ladies’ toilet in Foley’s which was hidden in a tiny recess between the lounge and bar.
Watching her, Vinny was bursting with parental pride. The daughter he didn’t even know existed at the start of the old year was about to embrace the new one as a first-time parent.
Getting to know her had been enriching and he marvelled at the way Niamh, who worked for the Manchester Evening News, had carved out a successful career in the male-dominated world of sports journalism.
He had grown to love her dearly and, while he pined for the years they never shared, he understood why her mother, Fionnuala, had to hotfoot it to Manchester almost 28 years ago after a one-night dalliance in Rathmines with a rather drunk bus driver.
Fionnuala, who had also raised three sons, Henry, Hedley and Harold with the late Harry Hadfield, was on speaking terms with Vinny and had invited him and Angie over to Manchester in January to be part of the “arrival” celebrations.
Niamh’s due date was New Year’s Day but a little part of Vinny was secretly hoping that she’d be a day early so the chiseller – his first grandchild – would share his birthday of December 31st.
Vinny knew he was being selfish and all that really mattered was that Niamh and the baby came through with flying colours.
The nipper would probably grow up to be a Manchester City fan like her mother and father, Roberto, an ex-pro who played for Bury, Accrington and Morecambe and was now working for the PFA, the players’ union.
Vinny knew that couldn’t be helped. “We all have a cross to bear in life,” he thought to himself.
This would be the last time he’d see Niamh before the due date as her doctor had advised her not to fly in the final four weeks of pregnancy. It made these hours all the more precious.
As the lads were debating the merit of Niamh’s Euro argument, not all agreed with her analysis. “We’ll be home before the postcards,” muttered Kojak, the kill-joy.
Brennie went further. “Form is temporary, class is permanent. There is no way our cloggers can mix it with the ball players of Croatia and Italy, never mind Spain. I’ll give 6 to 1 we don’t get through.”
As Fran, Macker and Shanghai Jimmy all reached into their pockets to avail of Brennie’s offer, Vinny felt a tap on his arm.
Turning, he recognised Nina, a fragrant woman in her forties who hung out with Boris, Foley’s resident-chess expert, at the top end of the bar.
“Read this right away,” she said, thrusting a note into Vinny’s fleshy paw.
Intrigued, Vinny unravelled the note which looked like a couple of sheets of rolled up toilet paper. “In the toilet, need you NOW”.
Vinny looked at Nancy, who was pointing urgently towards the ladies’ loo with one hand, and rubbing her stomach with the other. “Murgatroyd,” muttered Vinny.
“Lads,” he said with a noticeable cough. “We have a situation here. Can youse give us a hand? It’s Niamh. She’s in trouble.”
Soon the six friends were at the door of the ladies – a place they had never darkened bar the night Vinny fell in, worse for wear. They were not unlike the seven dwarfs checking out who was upstairs in their cottage.
“Perhaps we should knock?” said Fran. “What if someone else is in there?” whispered Brennie. “Do we need a code to get in?” queried Kojak.
As he waited for his friends to take action, Vinny seized the moment. “Excuse me ladies,” he said loudly, shoving the door open and marching across the Rubicon. Niamh was resting against the wash-hand basins in a state of undress and discomfort. “Vinny, thank God. My waters have broken and the contractions have started. The baby is coming.”
Vinny put an arm around his daughter and tried to think clearly. “Lads, we need hot towels and clean water, I mean clean towels and hot water,” he said, his voice shaking.
“Brennie and Kojak, you get Dial-A-Smile behind the bar to shift his backside; Shanghai, man the door and direct all traffic to the men’s toilet. Fran, Macker, you help me in here.”
For the next 45 minutes, the six friends worked as one unit. They were no experts, but they knew how to rally around a cause worth fighting for.
There were people more skilled, more practised at the art of delivering babies but the lads made up for it in passion, self-belief and surprisingly strong organisational qualities.
If Trap had been watching, he’d have noted the shared workload for the collective good; he’d have seen the sweat fly from the brow of the fat man, heard the agonised shouts of the lady in possession as she gave her all.
This was not about the show; it was about the result.
Close to six bells, after blood, sweat and unmentionable things, the phenomenon of Foley’s happened – the piercing scream from Niamh even drowned out the Angelus bells from the church next door.
Some time later, the new mother sipped on a cup of hot sweet tea and held her dark-haired infant son, wrapped in a cluster of bar towels, to her bosom. Around her, six middle-aged men stared and still their wonder grew. It was Macker who broke the silence.
“To baby Vincent,” he said, raising a pint glass. “To baby Vincent,” replied the lads, raising theirs. It was all too much for the first-time granddad who blubbed great big salty tears of joy.
Bets of the week
1pt win:Rory McIlroy to win Race To Dubai (13/1, Unibet)
2ptseach-way: Divers in December Gold Cup (9/1, Coral, William Hill)
Vinny's Bismark
2pt:Lay Napoli to beat Villarreal in Champions League (4/6, Totesport, liability 3pts)
