AGAINST THE ODDS:AS HE gimped into Foley's on Monday evening, tilted to starboard on the crutch he was leaning on for support, Vinny Fitzpatrick was disconcerted, and with a Fair City reason.
“A line has been crossed, lads, and it’s time to take a stand,” he said aloud as he planted his ample bulk on a high-backed stool close by the telly in his customary corner.
His three companions, Macker, Fran and Brennie, broke away from perusing the Racing Post to acknowledge their old friend’s disquiet. They knew it was not like Vinny to arrive in a flap for an off-the-cuff pint, even less so when his much-loved Everton were live on the box.
Yet, here he was, clearly agitated. What could it be, the lads wondered?
“Go on,” encouraged Macker, “spill the beans.” “Guiney’s are goosed,” spluttered Vinny. “Is nothing sacred any more?”
As he quaffed the evening’s first porter, Vinny told how the Six-One News had delivered the grave report that Guiney’s shop on Talbot Street was to be wound up, after more than 40 years of trading.
As he kept his emotions in check, Vinny explained how he’d been in Guiney’s with his late Ma, Bridie, on opening day in April ’71 to buy his first pair of long trousers.
“I was 13 and the only kid in Joey’s still wearing shorts but me Ma felt it was time to move with the times,” he recalled. “I was dragged in there screaming but you know, I fell in love with the place.
“It was a pokey, musty, maze of twisting corridors, stacked shelves and squeaky wooden floors that reeked of polish.
“I’ve never got trousers anywhere else since, you know. Guiney’s have never let me down,” he said, patting his 42-inch midriff.
Only Guiney’s were gone now, joining other iconic Dublin department stores in the great Shopping Mall in the sky, like Switzer’s, Frawley’s and McBirney’s
“Romantic Dublin shops are dead and gone, they’re with Hector Grey’s, in the bloody grave,” lamented Vinny.
“You know, I’m tempted to organise a Save Our Shops march to the GPO before it’s too late and all we are left with are fast food outlets.”
As Vinny sipped in sullen silence, Macker broke the ice.
“Tell you what, Vinny,” he said. “I was looking at the odds for the Everton versus Newcastle game. Four to seven is the best you can get on Everton winning. I’ll give you four to six. Would that make you feel better?”
From somewhere deep inside his brown brogues, Vinny felt a tiny twinge, registering no more than a tickle.
But bit by bit, his toes began to tingle; then the sensation spread to his fat fingers.
It was, he knew, time for a bet and there was no finer team to provide a pick-me-up than the boys in blue, especially when there was value about.
“Four to six, you say Macker? That’s reasonable enough. Alright then, I’ll have €60 with you to win 40, if that’s okay.”
Macker nodded. “Anyone else for the Goodison train before she leaves the station?” he asked.
Brennie and Fran were soon on board for €30 each. “As the saying goes, it matters more when there’s money on it,” said a grinning Brennie.
By half-time, Vinny’s mood had lightened. Everton were a goal up and a toothless Newcastle were cruising for a bruising.
“We’ll win this doing handstands,” he thought to himself as he waddled to the bar and ordered another round, noting his wonky ankle was firmly on the mend.
What followed was sheer, unrelenting, torture. In the next 45 minutes, Everton had not one, but two, perfectly fair goals disallowed by a myopic linesman, much to Vinny’s rising anger.
And then, to cap it all, Newcastle burgled a 90th minute equaliser to leave Vinny apoplectic with rage, and €60 out of pocket.
“I know we have the benefit of TV replays but this is an absolute joke,” he thundered as the inquest began.
“For the first goal, there was no offside, while three blind mice could see the ball was miles over the line for the second goal
“What’s the point in having linesmen if they can’t do their job? And what’s the point in teams trying to get the ball to cross the line of goal when there are no guarantees the goal will stand?
“It’s time for football to embrace goal-line technology before some club or association starts issuing writs. Because it will happen, I’m telling you,” he warned.
“If Everton miss out on a Champions League place by two points this season, the goal that never was tonight could be worth €30 million to the club. How will that sit with the bean-counters and the legal eagles eh?”
Brennie and Fran were reading from the same fire and brimstone hymn-sheet, having felt the sting in their pockets too.
“Technology works in tennis with Hawk-Eye, surely it can work in football too?” bristled Brennie.
“Why not allow teams two challenges per game if they think a ball has crossed the line. It will only take a couple of seconds for a ruling so there will hardly be any interruption to the flow. What’s wrong with getting things right?”
Fran was equally forthright. “I’m sick of Sepp Blatter spouting on about Fair Play and Respect projects. There is nothing fair about a goal being ruled out when it should stand. Without goals, there is no football.”
Vinny nodded approvingly. The lads weren’t just talking through lighter wallets. Too often these days, human error was queering the sporting pitch.
He felt it was time to arrange an alternative march, to be called Save Our Sport, from Dalymount Park to the FAI’s headquarters in Abbotstown.
It was time to draft a petition for change – he would ask his old team-mates in Clontarf Casuals to get the ball rolling with a few signatures – which would be marked for the attention of the bungling Blatter.
Just as an unknown Belgian footballer Jean Marc Bosman changed the face of the transfer market, so a little-known bus driver would be at the forefront of the protest for sporting justice.
He had just made a a mental note to ask Angie to help with a letter when Macker returned from the bar with a grimace. Considering he’d pocketed €120 in bets from the lads, there was no need for the laconic taxi driver to be so morose.
“I’m afraid they’ve stopped serving,” he said.
“They’ve what!’ erupted Vinny as he turned towards the bar, where he spied Dial-A-Smile’s familiar towel draped across the taps.
Vinny looked at his watch. It was 11.33pm, three minutes after closing time. Three lousy minutes. Not for the first time today, a line had been crossed.
Bets of the week
1pt each-way Louis Oosthuizen to win Tour Championship (28/1, Betfred)
2pts Peter Sagan to win World Road Race Championship (9/2, Ladbrokes)
Vinny’s Bismarck
2pts Lay Mayo to beat Donegal in All-Ireland SFC Final (5/2, Paddy Power, liability five points)
