AGAINST THE ODDS:AS THE hall door slammed and Angie's heels clicked nosily across the cobble lock driveway, Vinny Fitzpatrick was relieved he wasn't working for Boru Betting that morning, because the office manager was like a brier. And with fair reason, writes RODDY L'ESTRANGE
Vinny’s better half had spent the morning on the phone to the Irish Bookmakers Association demanding action against the anarchic law which prohibits betting shops to open on Easter Sunday.
From his wheelchair perch in the front room, where he sat armed with the Racing Post and remote control ahead of the day’s action at Fairyhouse, Vinny had listened intently to his wife make a convincing argument for reform.
“We had five race meetings yesterday, Fairyhouse, Cork, Towcester, Plumpton and Musselburgh. That’s 36 races and we couldn’t lay a bet because of a stupid, 80-year-old rule. It is nonsense!” ranted Angie.
“If the Limerick publicans can get an alcohol ban on Good Friday lifted because there happens to be a rugby match on, why can’t we get our shops open on Easter Sunday when there is racing year in, year out?” she thundered.
Vinny, who had felt the sharp edge of his wife’s tongue, could understand where Angie was coming from. It seemed daft a law passed in 1931 still held sway almost four score years later.
Vinny had a theory that the government of the time felt they had to do something ahead of the Eucharistic Congress in Dublin the following year, and taking a stand against the perils of gambling of a Sunday had made political sense. Those were the days when the State was chained to the demands of the Church.
Angie had called on the IBA to organise a protest march, with the support of the horseracing industry, to Leinster House the week after Punchestown, and Vinny was making a mental note to be there, when, all of a sudden, he heard a gentle tapping on the window.
He looked around to see his old friend from Boru Betting, The Reverend, complete with trademark dark bowler, cloak, cane and conniving smile.
The two went back a long way, having first crossed paths 30 years ago in Grumpy Gilmartin’s pokey, smoky bookies.
The Reverend, who was always dressed immaculately, didn’t drink, smoke or curse and was unmarried. Vinny knew little about him apart from the fact he worked in insurance in town. What the two had in common was a love for the thrill of the chase, or hurdle, or flat. AWhen Vinny had pledged to give up gambling one Lent, he covertly arranged to meet The Reverend in St Anne’s to place his bets, knowing the bet would be struck.
Most Saturday afternoons from late September to early May, they shared a pitch in Boru Betting, where they engaged in conversation at a level only the committed gambler would understand. Win or lose, The Reverend rarely displayed his emotions, unlike Vinny who roared like a bull when the horse he was on won and swore like a street urchin when his fancy tipped over or trailed in last.
Reaching up to open the hall door, he ushered The Reverend in. “Padre, my old pal, good to see you,” said Vinny, offering a firm right hand. (His left had improved to the extent that he could hold a newspaper between his thumb and forefinger, but there was a long way to go.)
The Reverend swept in like Sherlock Holmes on the trail of Professor Moriarty.
“Vincent, the pleasure, I can assure you, is all mine. I see you are on the mend, good. Now, time is our enemy. The first race at Yarmouth is off at 1.45 and I intend to be in position well in advance. I take it you’ve done your homework?”
Vinny muttered about not being prepared, at which The Reverend tut-tutted and tapped his long nose. “Right then, saddle up. You’ve got 20 minutes to make your selections.”
Vinny grappled with the Racing Post, found the Fairyhouse card and furrowed his brow in concentration. The Irish Grand National looked a trappy business where any one of a dozen horses could win. It was a poor race, lacking the quality of previous years. Arkle, Flyingbolt, Brown Lad, even Desert Orchid could give this lot two stone and still win in a canter.
It was best to look elsewhere for inspiration. As he glanced down the card, one name jumped out: Ruby Walsh. The top jock had a couple of stand-out rides for Willie Mullins, another for the canny Tony Martin and one for Paul Nolan.
Vinny scrabbled out his bets: €20 win double on Cousin Vinny and Psycho and two €20 wins on Mourad and Shuil Aris. That left him with a score for the National.
Bearing in mind the state of the ground, he felt it would be won by a bottom weight, possibly a novice, almost certainly a long short. He identified two which fitted the bill: Bluesea Cracker and Leanne, and put a fiver each way on both. God, he felt good.
The Reverend watched as his friend scribbled out his bets and then fumbled for his wallet. “It’s that long since I had to put my hand in my pocket,” grinned Vinny. The handover done, The Reverend wished Vinny all the best as he departed, tapping his cane and holding one hand behind his back in that strange way of his.
Turning on At The Races, Vinny noted he had half an hour before the off at Fairyhouse and reminded himself it was time for his medication and a bit of lunch – Angie had left out a chicken salad.
It was warm inside the house, as the central heating was still on, and Vinny felt snug and relaxed as he settled down for an afternoon in front of the box. The runners had just entered the parade ring at Fairyhouse for the first race when he nodded off and began to snore.
Bets of the week
1pteach-way Ernie Els in US Masters (14/1, Ladbrokes)
1pteach-way Vic Venturi in Grand National (20/1, William Hill)
Vinny’s Bismarck
1ptLay Tiger Woods to miss cut at Augusta (9/2, Bet365, liability 4.5pts)
