AGAINST THE ODDS:AS THE dream died and Dublin players collapsed to their knees on the final whistle, Vinny Fitzpatrick slumped forward on the sofa, held his potato-shaped head in his meaty hands and fought back the tears. "Why do you torment us like this God, why?" he whimpered.
He stared at the television, trying to comprehend what he had witnessed. Tried, and failed. He was still numb as RTÉ’s three wise men, Spillane, O’Rourke and Brolly, also struggled to comprehend Dublin’s utterly unnecessary and implausible implosion.
It was grotesque, unbelievable, bizarre and unprecedented. Gubu, GAA-style.
His mind remained blank, until anchorman Michael Lyster made an “in fairness” remark. At that, Vinny’s tectonic plates of anger, rarely exposed, shifted. “Fairness, me backside,” he roared. “There was nothing fair about that. We had it and we blew it.”
Vinny’s blue blood was boiling. There was only so much self-punishment a man could suffer, after all, and Dublin’s defeat was testing his levels of alcoholic temperance and dietary control.
With Angie and the twins at her sister’s mobile home in Wexford for a couple of days, Vinny could have taken a familiar road that Sunday morning: a road to The Hill with the lads via Gaffney’s and a feed of pints. Instead, he had taken the one less travelled.
He’d woken early, made some porridge and, after Mass in St Gabriel’s, had taken a long stroll along the seafront, followed by a lunch of poached eggs, grilled tomato, brown bread and a pot of tea.
All along, his mind had been consumed about the game, nothing else. He thought how far the team had progressed under Pat Gilroy, following a shambolic start to the Leinster Championship, and compared it to Pádraig Harrington making the cut in the British Open after shooting 82 in the first round.
He thought of dynamic Bernard Brogan, the Didier Drogba of Gaelic football, and what damage his power and pace could inflict on the Rebels. He thought too of Kerry and Tyrone’s absence and how the All-Ireland was wide open. Most of all, he thought Dublin would beat Cork in the semi-final because Dublin always beat Cork, like they did in 1983 and 1995 when they went on to lift Sam. The stars, he felt, were aligned in a sky of blue.
Only Dublin hadn’t won, or drawn, they’d lost. And as RTÉ began to analyse where it went wrong, from the needless penalty concession, to the marshmallow frees, the onset of fatigue, Vinny’s veneer cracked.
“I need a drink,” he gasped.
Foley’s was around the corner but he wasn’t ready for that yet. It was time to lie low, to find a bolt-hole where no one knew him, that way he could deny to Angie that he had fallen off the wagon. He could even deny it to himself. “Sure a pint or two won’t do any harm,” he thought.
Instead, Vinny walked up Sybil Hill to the Howth Road. Before long, he was on the northbound platform at Killester station where the information board told him there was a Dart to Malahide in 11 minutes. “Perfect,” he thought.
He knew Malahide from numerous visits behind the wheel of the 42 and 32A bus and had seen this once sleepy fishing village turn into a thriving town populated by well-to-do businessmen and yummy-mummies.
Gibney’s bar was his destination: a long-established, family-run premises with a reputation for a fair pint. He pushed open the door and slipped into a dimness he not only recognised but instantly embraced.
It was almost six weeks since his last jar but it felt like six minutes as he lowered the drawbridge and polished off the stout in jig time, taking care, as all serious drinkers did, to order a refill before emptying his glass.
Guilt was not his companion, rather rage and sheer dismay as he reflected on Dublin’s defeat. And the more he drank, the harder it was to take. This loss, he knew, would take a lot longer to get over than the others. There was fear, too. At 52, he might never get to see Dublin play in another All-Ireland.
Around him, in the milieu of Dublin jerseys, he heard the inquests begin. Why didn’t Gilroy take off Ross McConnell earlier? Was there no Plan B? Never mind, they’ll be better for the experience next time, won’t they?
At that suggestion, Vinny checked himself. As far as he was concerned, this learning curve for the Dubs was nonsensical guff.
In any sport, when you were in a position to win, you must seize it, because you never knew if the chance would come around again.
After Ciarán Whelan made his debut for Dublin in 1996, everyone patted him on the back after losing to Meath and said “don’t worry son, you’ll play in half a dozen All-Ireland finals”. In 14 seasons, the great midfielder never got to one.
Jean van de Velde blew the Open at Carnoustie and never had another crack at glory. When a teenage Sergio Garcia chased home Tiger Woods in the US PGA in Medinah, everyone predicted a lorry-load of Majors for the Spaniard. It didn’t happen.
True, Dublin might be better next year, but so too might Kerry and Tyrone, even Cork. On this day, Dublin had a date with their first All-Ireland final in 15 years only to screw it up in the final minutes. And that hurt Vinny so hard the loss felt like a bereavement.
Vinny had squeezed into a booth by the door, from where he could see the telly and the sign for the toilet, which reminded him it was time for a pee. On his return, he heard a rasping voice by his ear.
“I didn’t expect to see you here, Vinny.”
He turned to find Julia, his Weight Watchers leader, staring at him intently. Julia, tanned and willowy, was dressed for a night out, with figure-hugging jeans and a white top with a plunging neck-line. She was in her early 40s, didn’t wear a wedding ring and was a living example that Weight Watchers could be good for you.
Vinny gulped. “Oh, hi Julia. Can I get you anything? A drink, I mean,” he said, chubby cheeks blushing.
“Well, that depends,” said Julia, looking around the bar. “Are you on your lonesome?”
“I am actually. The wife’s away with the kids, so I thought I’d just have a mini-break-out, you know. We all have needs, Julia, and mine’s a pint of plain,” blurted Vinny by now the colour of a ripe tomato. He was in a hole yet had kept on digging.
“Yes, Vinny. We do all have needs,” purred Julia. “I’d love to join you. Mine’s a white wine, as much as the glass will hold.”
As Vinny stood at the bar, armpits soggy with sweat, he thought of the open goal staring him in the face and how many fellahs wouldn’t need a second invitation to score.
He also thought of how the Dublin footballers had snatched defeat from the jaws of victory. As he carried the drinks towards a smiling Julia, Vinny knew what he had to do.
Vinny’s Bismarck
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