AGAINST THE ODDS:AS 'BARNEY'S Bus' crawled up Knockmaroon Hill in the lowest of gears, Vinny Fitzpatrick half-expected the 'so-say' to stall at any minute.
“Even Lance Armstrong wouldn’t need a jab in his backside to pass us out,” he thought as the wheezing rattletrap breasted the famous Chapelizod climb.
It was Sunday morning and the jalopy was clogged with the shining faces of Dollymount Gaels U-13s finest, ahead of the Division Six Shield football final.
To the nippers of ‘Dollyer’, the occasion was akin to an All-Ireland even if they couldn’t get their heads around it. As tousle-haired Tommy Talbot, piped up: “How come we’re in a final? We’re not very good and we’ve lost every game.”
The Gaels were the castaways nobody wanted, the leftovers spurned the neighbouring GAA giants, Clontarf, Raheny and Naomh Barróg after the summer trials. There were mostly poor players, some with a poor attitude too, yet Vinny had a begrudging respect for the cheeky chisellers.
They always turned up, took their hammering on the chin, and came back for more. As the bus snorted its way into the car park of Castle Kickhams, Vinny’s jaw dropped. There were four or five pitches; including a full-size all-weather one under floodlights; there were walls for slapping sliotars against, and a spanking club house.
A huge car park gleamed with shiny Mercs, Beamers and SUVs, while the name ‘Castle Kickhams’ was hewn into a lovely shrubbery feature inside the gates.
The moneyed feel to the place made Vinny green with envy. As he unloaded the gear from the boot of the bus, the blast of a nearby horn caught his attention. He looked up and his blood chilled. Lugs O’Leary, his old nemesis, was standing alongside a scruffy Ford transit, grinning from ear to ear. “Well, well, if it isn’t “Heffo” Fitzpatrick himself. You’ve been some help this year I have to say. My young fella, Liam, says you talk through your backside, but sure I’ve known that for years. Get your wobbly ass over here for a minute. I want to show you something.”
With a mix of fear and curiosity, Vinny approached the van just as Lugs flung open the rear doors and reappeared with two of the largest canine creatures Vinny had ever seen.
They were big, jet-black, salivating monsters. “Meet Abbott and Costello,”grinned Lugs through broken teeth. “Two dogs who love a good laugh, at least they do with me!
“Here Vinny, hold the lads for a minute. I’ve some tops I want to give out before the final.”
Vinny’s arms were almost pulled from their sockets as he reluctantly took hold of the mighty mastiffs. “Lugs, we’re okay for gear,” he said, puffing slightly. “The “Dollyer” sponsored us a set at the start of the year.”
Lugs glared at Vinny. “I know that, but wait till you see these. They’ll put the fear up those fancy dans,” he said jerking a thumb at the pitch where Castle Kickhams, who seemed to have about 30 players, were warming up.
After another root around in the van, Lugs hauled out a sack, from which he took out a tee-shirt. It was ruby red and emblazoned in white with the words: ‘Kick ‘Em Where It Hurts.’
“Like it?” grinned Lugs. “I thought with all the fuss over Rio Ferdinand that I’d twist the ‘Kick It Out’ theme slightly. Nobby Stokes did them up for me. What you think?’
As Vinny groped for an answer, Lugs continued. “You see, Vinny, a lot of sport is played in the head. Our lads just need a little lift. Your niceties about ‘playing the game, not getting involved in anything nasty and shaking hands’ when you’ve been caned, is a load of tripe. Let’s try something different. Let’s put doubt into the minds of the opponents. Fear works in many ways. I’ve seen it.”
Vinny watched as Lugs handed out the tee-shirts, which were grabbed, especially by Lugs Beag, a 12-year-old demon who took after his old man. “Let’s kick Kickhams,” shouted Lugs Beag. To Vinny’s horror, the others all joined in and a chorus of “Let’s kick Kickhams” sailed across the Liffey Valley as the Gaels prepared for battle.
Approaching half-time, it was clear the psychological ploy hadn’t worked. Kickhams were four goals ahead and the only kicking the Gaels had managed were wides.
Vinny was preparing a team talk of gentle encouragement when Lugs’ shadow loomed over him. “Here, take Abbott and Costello for a dander while I stoke up the troops. Take this with you, it’ll keep them busy,” he said thrusting an orange-sized rubber ball into Vinny’s mitt.
Vinny shrugged. The game was already up and nothing Lugs could say would change the outcome. As he was crossing one of the many fine playing fields, Vinny heard an angry voice cry out. “Hey, you there, with the dogs, get off the pitch.”
He turned to see a tall tracksuited figure striding towards him. “We have signs all over the park that dogs are not allowed. Can’t you lot read?”
Vinny was about to apologise but checked himself. Instead he looked at his interrogator.
“What do you mean ‘you lot’?” he said in a menacing tone. Mr Tracksuit backed off a little, as the dogs moved a bit closer. “I meant your lot, not you,” he stammered.
Vinny didn’t lose eye contact. “Your lot, is it now? When you’re in a hole, it’s best to stop digging, haven’t you heard?”
The Kickhams clubman put his hands up. “I didn’t mean any offence. It’s just that we put a lot of work into this club and dogs are not allowed. They’ll have to go.”
There was a silence as Vinny looked at Abbot and Costello. “D’ye hear that lads? Clearly, this bit of grass is different to the bit youse walk on in St Anne’s.”
With that, he took out the orange ball from his pocket. The dogs went wild, bucking and straining and howling. Vinny threw the ball beyond the head of the Kickhams clubman and let the hounds off the leash.
As the bowlers sped past Mr Tracksuit man, the ball disappeared into the shrubbery by the car park where the canine giants ripped, bit and tore all about them looking for it.
It took several minutes before they reappeared, tails wagging. One of them had the orange ball between salivating fangs.
Behind them lay a churned-up mess. The shrub border was ruined and where once was ‘Castle Kickhams’ was now ‘astle Kick.’ Vinny paused. He was taken back to the 1968 FA Cup final, the first in colour on the telly, where his beloved Everton lost 1-0 to West Brom in extra-time. Jeff Astle scored the winner that day with a right-footer into the top corner. Astle, Kick. ‘Would you Adam and Eve that?’ he said aloud. He knew no one would.
Bets of the week
2pts Ajax to beat Manchester City in Champions League (4/1, Boylesports)
1pt (each-way) Louis Oosthuizen in BMW Masters (20/1, Bet365)
Vinny's Bismarck
1pt (lay) New England Patriots to win Super Bowl (7/1, general, liability 7pts
