The pilgrimage began in mid-afternoon on a September day of veiled heat. It was a route Vinny Fitzpatrick knew like the back of his hairy hand, along the Clontarf Road, past Blackbanks, Kilbarrack and then right at Sutton Cross, where the road climbed.

There were five travellers, all men, all middle-aged, and all slightly shook after the previous day’s journey into night which ended in a blur of stout, Sam and smiles.

Vinny, who had fallen off the surfboard after 14 pints of Uncle Arthur’s’ finest, didn’t trust himself to drive so Charlie St John Vernon was behind the wheel of his station wagon.

Fran, Macker and Brennie completed the quintet, who were setting out to fulfil a drink-fuelled promise made the night before when the All-Ireland final celebrations were in full swing in Foley’s.

The group were a lot less vocal than they had been 12 hours earlier when the celebrations came to a greasy end outside The Capri and the six-mile journey towards Howth went by in silence.

It allowed Vinny time to reflect on a roller-coaster ride at Croker. It hadn't been a great game, at times it was barely a good one, but the goal of any team in an All-Ireland final is to get the job done, which Dublin did. If their football was more plain porter than champagne sparkle for some, so be it.

Red and green
Arriving on Hill 16 at a quarter to three, Vinny was astonished to see a patchwork quilt of red and green speckling the citadel of the Dubs. He had nothing against Mayo folk but to see thousands of their number on the Dubs' prized patch was akin to Everton fans invading The Kop.

What made Vinny’s blood boil was so many decent skin Dubs, lads who trekked to icy Aughrim in January for the O’Byrne Cup, couldn’t get a ticket for the Hill. It was adding insult to injury.

The game passed by in a blur, memorable mostly for the “Hands of Brogan”, who scored two fine goals with his mitts, and for the heroic defiance in the final minutes when Dublin, with only 13 fit players on the park, dug deeper than the Liffey basin to protect their lead.

When it was over, when the Mayo hordes had scarpered before the presentation, Vinny and the lads had linked arms and turned their back on the pitch, like the Lech Poznan supporters. They paid homage to the man portrayed on a giant flag at the rear of the Hill, a man whose spirit and vision forged the template for Dublin's rebirth as a football force in the 1970s – Kevin Heffernan.

On Vinny's cue, they roared: "Oh, the Jacks are back, the Jacks are back, let the Railway End go barmy, for Hill 16 has never seen, the likes of Heffo's Army."

It was a cleansing moment so good they did it again, this time with plenty of back-up.

Vinny worshipped Heffo, who had been referred in the match programme as the Dubs’ Da Vinci, which Vinny felt was fitting.

Heffernan was comparable to the Tuscan titan in his genius, of which was written "the scope and depths of his interest were without precedent, and his mind and personality seem to us superhuman, the man himself mysterious and remote".

Superhuman
Heffo was both "superhuman" and "mysterious" and Vinny had held him in the highest esteem, from the great jutting jaw, to the slightly off-centre nose, shock of white hair, and sneaky fag.

He had only met the great man once, when his father Finbarr made a beeline for Heffo leaving Parnell Park one night in the early 1980s and had pumped his hand warmly – Finbarr never forgot the time St Vincent’s, then the greatest club in the land, rolled up in St Anne’s Park in the late 1950s for a challenge against Dollymount Gaels.

(Challenge had been an inappropriate description as Vins won by a landslide and fiery Finbarr had got sent off for clocking a fella but the game raised nearly a grand in old money and kept the Gaels alive).

Growing up, Heffo held a higher status in the Fitzpatrick Causeway Avenue than Dev, the Pope and Archbishop McQuaid all rolled into one.

For Vinny, this All-Ireland win, of all wins, was for Heffo, who had departed for the great Elysian Fields earlier in the year but whose legacy would forever echo through Dublin’s streets, broad and narrow.

Heffo’s heritage had prompted the sombre journey from Clontarf to St Fintan’s Cemetery on Monday afternoon after Vinny had tossed in the suggestion at some point the night before. It had seemed like a good idea and now, as heads cleared, it seemed even better.

At Carrickbrack Road, Charlie pulled in outside St Fintan’s Cemetery and the lads alighted before making their way into the sacred grounds.

Vinny had been in St Fintan’s many times before, specifically to tend to the graves of his beloved parents, Finbarr and Bridie, and he had also been present last January when Heffo was laid to rest, although he had kept his distance.

At Heffo’s grave, the five men turned towards the city. Shielding their eyes from the burnishing sun, they could make out the shimmering Croker in all its glory. Vinny coughed and asked for a moment’s silence.

“Heffo, this one was for you. Everyone, from the boys in blue on the park, to the Hill 16 diehards, owes you a debt that can never be repaid. Thanks to you, The Jacks are back.”

There was a tear in Vinny’s eye as he blessed himself. As the lads headed back to the car, Vinny dawdled slightly, aware he was in a special place, at a special time.

He heard Fran tell him to get a wriggle on and was shaken from his daydream. As he stepped up apace, his eye caught another headstone which caused him to apply the brakes. It was that of Phil Lynott, another hero of Vinny’s youth.

As he paused, he glanced over at Heffo’s last resting place. Thought of events at Croker the day before raced back and he allowed himself a wry smile. “The boys are certainly back in town,” he said to himself.