TRAVEL SUPPLEMENTS from the weekend newspapers lay scattered across the main bedroom in Mount Prospect Avenue, their contents filling Vinny Fitzpatrick with dread. Donkey trekking in Spain was a definite non-runner, hill-walking in the Scottish Highlands left him breathless just thinking about it, while anything promising sun, sand and sangria was utterly repellent.
A five-day train journey from London to Constantinople caught the eye, given his love of the iron horse, but he knew Angie wouldn’t entertain an overnight trip from Budapest to Bucharest on a bone-shaking rattler.
Vinny had been woken on Sunday by a warm embrace from Angie, who’d planted a kiss on his forehead and a tray on his lap, complete with fresh orange juice, a bowl of Alpen, tea, toast and the papers.
“That’s for the father-to-be,” smiled Angie, adding, “Right love, I’m off for a shower. You see what takes your fancy and get ready to drop everything, as we’re taking a break after the Irish Derby next Sunday.” She then disappeared into the en-suite, slipping off her robe as she did so.
The holiday chat had, predictably, been one-sided. As soon as Angie talked herself into going somewhere, she talked herself out of it. One minute, they were staying in Ireland, the next they weren’t.
Blackpool, Biarritz, Berlin and Bratislava were all mentioned only to be discarded. Angie was sweet on a five-star hotel in one breath; then preferred Mrs Murphy’s guesthouse the next.
As the morning dragged, Vinny played his joker card.
“Ange, Macker’s brother has a place near Dingle. Why don’t I see if it’s available? We can do the Blaskets, see Fungi, even walk a bit up Mount Brandon,” he said.
Angie paused, scrunching her brow in concentration like when she was counting the takings after a busy stint in Boru Betting.
“Right, Kerry it is. You talk to Macker. I’m off to Blanch’ to meet Debs for lunch. Want to come?” said Angie.
The thought of traipsing around a giant shopping centre with two yakkety-yak females, albeit damned attractive ones, was anathema to Vinny.
“I’ll catch you later, love,” he said, making for the hall door.
The midsummer sun was well past the yardarm as Vinny arrived outside Foley’s. He had intended to carry on to the turn for Royal Dublin GC and back, but his shirt was sticking to his back and his tongue to the roof of his mouth.
Taking his chance, Vinny slipped quietly into his customary refuge. Looking around, he spied on old geezer, known as Boris, sitting alone in front of a chess board in the corner and nodded in his direction.
Boris was one half of Boris and Bobby, named after grand masters Boris Spassky and Bobby Fischer, who had been coming to Foley’s on Sundays for years.
They rarely engaged in chit chat, preferring to sit entranced in front of a large bottle of red lemonade, which they used sparingly to water down a large whiskey intake. Occasionally, Vinny would play the role of onlooker and, even more occasionally, would be asked his opinion on the Sicilian Defence or the Latvian Gambit.
As a kid, he had played chess in the summer street leagues and was a star of the Causeway Castles who beat the Bull Bishops 4-1 in the 1970 Cup final.
He remembered the organiser, Tam Moncur, a short-fused Scot with a most bulbous nose, urging Vinny to keep up chess because “you have the expert’s profile; a relaxed temperament, you play left-handed and were born in mid-winter”.
By 16, Vinny had exchanged his love of the knight for a different set of horsemen, but on this Sunday something stirred inside as he asked Boris, “Where’s Bobby today then?”
“He’s gone off and got sick, hasn’t he?” growled Boris, a barrel-chested character with a monk’s tonsure.
Vinny sat down opposite Boris. “If you like, I’ll play,” he said.
Boris looked up. “Alright, on one condition. You like a bet. Let’s have a fiver on it,” he said.
Nothing concentrated Vinny’s mind more than a wager. The pieces in place, Vinny, who was white, began with an opening attack known as Scholar’s Mate, which he had learnt when he was seven. After playing the king’s pawn, he swept his queen out to the right, then switched his king’s bishop out left before pouncing with the queen for checkmate. Four moves, one fiver. Easy.
Boris looked up and scowled. “I didn’t take you for a simpleton,” he growled. “That move went out of the game 30 years ago.”
“No, it didn’t,” thought Vinny as he rearranged the pieces for the next game. “Doubles or quits, Boris?” he suggested with a grin.
Game two was tight. Vinny was down a pawn when he got caught in an undiscovered check, lost his queen and his position became impossible. Facing defeat, he resigned.
“Right,” said Boris. “Now that we understand each other, let’s have a deciding game, with a decisive bet. Shall we say €50?”
Vinny didn’t flinch. The bigger the bet, the better his application. “You’re on, Boris.”
By now, Macker had arrived and was sitting at an adjacent table, observing his old friend with a mix of curiosity and admiration. Gone were the stooped shoulders, the lazy gaze and relaxed demeanour, replaced by a ramrod posture, piercing stare and study of attentiveness.
Such was Vinny’s focus, his pint of Guinness remained untouched. Boris was a fine player, careful and cagey, who worked an opening through patience. In contrast, Vinny was more aggressive, flamboyant, always prepared to take a risk, even if he emerged bloodied from the exchanges.
Into the middle game of a cut- and-thrust duel, Vinny was a knight down but his position was advanced and he had Boris rattled. It was time to make the ultimate play; he sacrificed his bishop to draw out Boris’s king. A thin smile played across Boris’s lips as he captured the bishop. Too late, he realised he’d been drawn out of cover.
Instantly, Vinny went for the jugular with his remaining knight, bishop and queen. Two moves later, a double-check followed and Boris was beaten.
Swishing his hand angrily across the board, Boris knocked the pieces for six. “Beginners’ luck,” he snorted.
As Boris’s nifty-50 was being put to good use behind the bar, Vinny supped a deep draught and observed, “You know, life is kind of like chess in that we often have positions to gain and adversaries to deal with.”
Looking at his watch, he gulped down his pint. “Crikey, if I’m not back for dinner, I’ll have an adversary to deal with who I can never beat,” said Vinny, rising from his seat. “Catch you later, Macker.”
Bets of the week
2ptsThe Lions to beat South Africa in second Test (12/5, Paddy Power)
1ptAndy Schleck to win Tour de France (43/5, Betfair)
Vinny's Bismarck
1pt Lay Westmeath to beat Dublin in Leinster SFC (9/2, Boylesports, liability 4/5 pts)
