AGAINST THE ODDS:THE SPONGE was cold, wet and surprisingly firm as it caught Vinny Fitzpatrick flush in his fleshy chops. Gasping for air, he could hear giggles from the direction of the throwers, writes RODDY L'ESTRANGE
Seconds later, another water-laden missile flew through the air but this was off target and spared Vinny a wetting. The relief was only temporary, as the next few minutes, he knew, would be a test of his patience and temperament.
It was a sunny Sunday afternoon in a quiet corner of St Anne’s Park on Dublin’s northside, not far from the playground and famed Rose Garden.
The occasion was Lá na gClub day in the GAA, and Dollymount Gaels, small and imperfectly formed, weren’t going to be left behind as part of the 125th anniversary celebrations.
In Dublin’s fair city, Dollymount Gaels were the equivalent of the English League’s Accrington Stanley – they had been around for ages and had won diddly squat.
In 1953, powered by a youthful Finbarr Fitzpatrick at centre-back, they had reached the semi-finals of the junior football championship. But most of their existence was played out on the sport’s subterranean radar.
More than once, the Gaels had gone close to folding, but they survived, thanks mostly to cast-offs from neighbouring clubs, Clontarf and Raheny – and, famously, from the settling of the mighty McDonnell clan in Dollymount, all 10 of them, in the mid 1960s.
Vinny’s connection with the Gaels ended as a 16-year-old when he was caught in the tender parts by a flashing hurl in deepest Fingal.
But on Sunday he was back, helping out at the behest of Emma, Angie’s daughter, who was a mainstay of the club’s only camogie team. “C’mon, Vinny,” she’d pleaded. “You’ll enjoy it and you’ll probably run into some of the lads you played with.”
The thought of seeing Lugs O'Leary and Stormin' Norman Malone filled Vinny with dread. "When those guys hurled, they made the Seven Samurailook like kittens," he thought.
Aware of his need to stay on-side with Emma, who had become far more civil since learning of Angie’s pregnancy, Vinny reported for duty after half-eleven mass, with the other volunteers, to help set things up.
The pitch was marked out for a variety of events, including a puc fada, wellie throwing, hurling and football skills competitions, tug-o-war and egg and spoon races.
Alongside was a wheel of fortune, bric-a-brac, hook-a-duck for the little ones and various stalls selling hot dogs, sandwiches, home-made cakes, crisps and drinks, all donated by friends of the Gaels.
Vinny had suggested looking after the hot dogs but instead had been ushered over to the “sponge ur mentor” booth where “kids”, many in their late teens, had gathered. “Some of the mentors haven’t shown yet, can you stand in for a bit”? asked Emma.
As he squeezed his large, potato-shaped head through the hole of a wooden hoarding, Vinny likened himself to a villain in the Middle Ages being placed in stocks on the village green ahead of punishment.
“Remember, they can’t dismember you; it’s only water and it won’t hurt,” he said to himself as he watched the tyros dip the sponges in a tub of water and take aim. What followed was 20 minutes of water torture, and not of the drip-drip Chinese variety either. A couple of the throwers had good arms and a steady aim and Vinny’s face was soon a dripping, empurpled mess.
He felt like Ricky Hatton against Manny Pacquiao as he took hit after hit, but he bore his pain, without any grin.
It took a while, and four hot dogs – all smothered in mustard and ketchup – later before Vinny had recovered sufficiently for his next party-piece. Again, he was roped in, quite literally.
“Here, Fitzpatrick, you’re just in time for the tug-o-war,” said a voice he recognised as the fearsome Lugs. “Get on the end of this, plant your legs in the turf and wait for my signal.”
The next thing he knew, Vinny had a hairy rope coiled around his belly and he was leaning back, like he’d seen on TV.
In front of him was Lugs, whose famous ears, with flapping lobes, where larger than ever; like those of a donkey, thought Vinny with a half-smile – which soon vanished when Lugs turned to him.
“Right, Fitzpatrick. This is the story,” said Lugs, his eyes burning with a competitive fire. “It’s the over-35s against the under-35s and we’re not going to let those whipper snappers beat us, right?
“You’ve got the ballast to hold the rope steady. When I say heave, you give it everything you’ve got, okay?”
Another voice called out. “Take the strain lads. On the count of three, now. One, two, three. Pull!”
Instantly Vinny felt the rope rip around his midriff like a saw. He let out a yelp and was afraid to look down as he half expected to see blood seeping through his t-shirt.
His hands felt like they had been branded with a hot iron, his feet were like a pair of runaway pneumatic drills as he scrabbled for purchase in the hard soil of St Anne’s, while right down his spinal cord the stabs of pain were relentless.
With sweat pouring from every pore, especially in the armpit area, Vinny was gasping for breath when Lugs barked: “From the back, give it everything. Pull, Fitzpatrick, pull for your life!”
There was one almighty heave and then a release, like a whiplash, as Lugs and the remainder of the over-35s pullers careered backwards in a heap, pinning Vinny to the turf.
Wracked with hurt, sucking in air greedily, Vinny was vaguely aware of bodies lying around him, of cheering and back-slapping.
He lay flat on his back for several minutes looking skywards through glazed eyes before the sun was blocked out by the shape of a head he knew instantly: Lugs O’Leary.
“Hey Fitzpatrick,” he bellowed, “you didn’t do too badly for a fellow in your shape, but I can’t believe you didn’t ask for a pair of gloves – look at your hands. But then you never were the sharpest tool in the box,” he said with a smirk before turning away.
Vinny knew what he’d do if the sharpest tool suddenly materialised in his grasp.
“And you wouldn’t be called Lugs O’Leary any more,” he thought as he clambered unsteadily to his feet.
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