As Mixer Mulrennan, stiff-backed like a Grenadier guard, led Eggo Bleu out on the racetrack at Leopardstown for his first public schooling, the members of The Hole In The Trousers Syndicate were agog with excitement.
Deep into his 57th year, Vinny Fitzpatrick felt like a street urchin left unattended in a sweet shop as he hopped nervously from one foot to the other. “Cheltenham, here we come,” he said leaning into Fran playfully.
It was a balmy Sunday evening, curiously so for October, and Eggo Bleu, a three-year-old upon which much was pinned, was preparing for his first public gallop since his purchase, for €14,000, by Vinny and his racing-daft pals in Foley’s.
Mixer barked out an order to the jockey and strode across to the running rail, trademark walking stick to hand.
“Gentleman,” he said, doffing his trilby to reveal a shock of jet-black hair which Vinny was sure was blackened. “As you know, this is Eggo Bleu’s first serious piece of work on a racetrack. He’s shown promise at home and I’ve entered him in a couple of three-year-old maiden hurdles next month.
“Today, he’ll do two circuits. I’ve instructed Skippy, my stable jockey, to do the first at half-pace with a couple of other horses for company, and the second at a steady three-quarter gallop, this time on his own to give him a proper feel of the track.
“Each time, he’ll jump over a couple of hurdles which should be of benefit.”
With a raise of his stick, Mixer signalled to Skippy he was ready and soon the future winner of the Champion Hurdle, Gold Cup and Grand National, had broken stride.
Flanked by a couple of tyros from an all-powerful Curragh yard, Eggo Bleu, named after the great Everton and Irish winger, Tommy Eglinton, took flight.
Field glasses
As the thunder of hooves receded, Vinny and the lads repaired to the lower steps of the grandstand for a better butcher's hook.
Vinny had his field glasses to hand and followed every stride of Eggo Bleu’s maiden racecourse run. “Go on my son,” he said aloud, to no one in particular.
After a successful, if uneventful, first lap, Vinny and Spider, a former jock who had cobbled the Foley’s syndicate together, ambled over to the far side of the racecourse for an alternative view. “He’ll jump two hurdles there and we can see how he takes to them,” said Spider.
By the rear of the Leopardstown Golf Centre, the two men, one large, one little, watched in silence as Eggo Bleu approached from their right. With a jab of Skippy’s irons, Eggo Bleu flew the first hurdle like Pegasus.
Landing, he picked up the pace as Skippy asked him to lengthen his stride approaching the next flight.
Eggo Bleu was moving at around 30 miles per hour, Vinny reckoned, when he suddenly lurched violently to his right, as if stung by a dart, and ejected a startled Skippy out of the saddle.
A disbelieving Vinny then watched in horror as Eggo Bleu, wide-eyed and whinnying, muscled through a gap in the entrance to the driving range and galloped off in the direction of Foxrock.
Aware of the damage a half ton of loose horseflesh could do to himself, and to others, on the open roads in leafy suburbia, Vinny felt his blood chill.
There was no time to lose. With a surprising turn of toe, Vinny and Spider dashed to a row of golf buggies tethered in the driving range car park.
This being Leopardstown, all had keys inside them and Vinny didn’t think twice as he gunned the ignition and jammed a fat trotter to the floor.
Thirty seconds later, Vinny and Spider were at a crossroads. They had three options. Vinny leaned out of the cabin and called out at a lady clutching a Pekinese to her chest. ‘Excuse me Ma’am, did you see a runaway horse?’ he barked.
The woman nodded, white-faced, and pointed up Torquay Road.
“He went that way, after giving my Petra a terrible fright, the beast,” she wailed.
Speed was something golf buggies were not designed for, especially not with a 16-stone burly bus driver behind the wheel.
As he trundled along the tree-lined boulevard, Vinny feared the worst for the noble steed, and for his dreams of Cheltenham glory.
Approaching a right turn, Vinny saw a cluster of folk pointing and peering down a side road called Golf Lane, which led towards Foxrock Golf Club. Clearly, Eggo Bleu had come this way.
Beating a path through, Vinny nosed the buggy into the centre of the road and braked. Golf Lane was a cul-de-sac which meant Eggo Bleu could be cornered, if he was still in one piece.
A few seconds later, Vinny and Spider had their answer as a sweat-flecked Eggo Bleu appeared 100 yards away at the gates of the golf club. He stamped his hooves, reared up and then galloped towards them at a fierce lick.
Snorting sweating
"Jaypurs tonight, hold on tight," cried out Vinny as Eggo Bleu sailed majestically over the hump-backed buggy before coming to a snorting, sweating stop a few yards away.
Instantly, Spider dashed across, gathered up the reins and patted a blowing Eggo Bleu on the neck. “What a lep that was,’ beamed the ex-jockey. “He’ll take to fences no problem, Vinny.”
As Vinny gathered his wits, and hoisted up his trousers, he approached Eggo Bleu with caution.
While mightily relieved their equine pride and joy was intact, he was mystified at the racecourse swerve and temper tantrum.
What had caused it?
Vinny noticed Eggo Bleu’s head was tilted slightly, like someone with a rick in their neck. He spied something white in the horse’s ear, which he thought was cotton buds to keep out the noise.
On closer inspection, it was a golf ball which had somehow lodged itself in Eggo’s large left lug. No wonder the horse had thrown a hissy fit.
Vinny patted Eggo Bleu, spoke softly to the coltish youngster, and gradually inched out the errant missile with a sausage-like finger.
With a deft flick, the ball popped out and Eggo Bleu immediately relaxed.
Vinny glanced at the ball. It was a Titleist Pro VI.
“You don’t find many of these in St Anne’s pitch and putt,” he said to himself, pocketing the ball with a smile.
