AGAINST THE ODDS:Our hero finds it surreal, and a mite scary, to think that someone he never knew existed until a few days ago shared his mannerisms, if not, thankfully, his looks, writes RODDY L'ESTRANGE
IF PROOF were needed of the pedigree of the young lady sitting beside Vinny Fitzpatrick in the lounge at his home in Mount Prospect Avenue, it arrived the moment Yaya Toure threaded the ball between the matchstick legs of Edwin van der Sar on Saturday.
Instantly, Niamh, an ardent Manchester City supporter, was on her feet, punching the air, shrieking. “Yes, Yaya. Yes, Yaya. Yes, yes, yes!” Vinny shot a sideways glance, noted the shining eyes, the clenched fist, the flecks of saliva shooting from her mouth and saw a mirror image of himself whenever Everton scored.
It was surreal, and a mite scary, to think that someone he never knew existed until a few days ago shared his mannerisms, if not, thankfully, his looks.
In bloodstock parlance, it was clear Niamh had inherited less of the sire and more of the dam. You couldn’t tell if her head was as large as her old man’s, such was her luxurious dark mane, but her nose stopped short of being bulbous, and was even turned up a tad.
While Vinny had blubbery lips, Niamh’s were full and ruby red. She also had bumps in the right places, unlike her father whose bumps were in the wrong places, notably his belly and super-sized backside.
Although biased, Vinny felt Niamh wouldn’t have looked out of place in a Liz Taylor identity parade.
Over a pot of tea and a plate of hot cross buns in Kitty’s Kitchen in Killester, Vinny had been held spellbound as Niamh brought him back in time to reveal a chapter of his life he had all but forgotten.
Her mother’s name was Fionnuala, a tall and slender native of Tulsk in Roscommon, with whom Vinny had a one-night dalliance in a Belgrave Road bed-sit in the winter of 1982.
Vinny reddened as the memories tip-toed back. He had been almost 25 and lightly-raced in terms of the birds and the bees, so much so that he was still a maiden.
There had been a session in The Lancer pub, to celebrate Fran’s graduation from Rathmines College of Commerce, followed by a party where Vinny had lost his way, and his innocence.
The way Niamh told it, her mother, who was very much alive, had been wowed by Vinny’s rendition of a Gene Pitney song, which he parodied as “24 hours from Tulsk”.
Vats of snakebite – a cider and lager combination – had tickled the senses and before you could say “whoa, boa”, Vinny and Fionnuala had disappeared into the jungle of the back room where they had coiled up until the morning.
Vinny vaguely recollected disentangling himself from Fionnuala at dawn and catching a bus into town and then a 30 home. He remembered arriving in Causeway Avenue minutes before his Ma came down for a morning cuppa.
He had never seen Fionnuala again, and was unaware that soon after she left for Manchester, where she got a job at the Royal Children’s Hospital and, several months later, gave birth to a baby girl on September 16th, 1983.
When Niamh was one, her mother had married Harry Hadfield, a middle-aged banker from well-to-do Knutsford, who treated Niamh like royalty. In turn, a hat-trick of Hadfields arrived: Henry, Hedley and Howard, now 25, 23 and 21.
Niamh, who was single and worked as a sports reporter for the Manchester Evening News, had grown up with a love for Manchester City and a fascination for the birth father she had never met.
“When Harry died a few months ago, Mam took me aside. She said that having lost one father, it was time I found the other,” explained Niamh.
“She recalled your family was from Clontarf and you worked on the buses. It wasn’t much to go on, but you were easier to find than a winner on the all-weather at Wolverhampton.
“By the way, are you finished with that hot cross bun?”
Vinny had taken warmly to Niamh, notwithstanding her support for City which was evident on Saturday where she roared the money-bags Blues brothers to victory against Man United in the FA Cup, having backed City to win 1-0 at 11 to 2.
That evening, over spaghetti and meat balls, she and Angie got along like a house on fire; even Emma the Goth grunted her approval, while the twins, Oisín and Aoife, pulled their step-sister’s dark tresses and smiled for photos.
It was time for the litmus test of acceptance: the lads, and Foley’s pub. It was almost four on Sunday and the Dublin hurlers were flailing into Cork on one telly, while the FA Cup semi-final was kicking off on the other, when Vinny and Niamh joined the company of five middle-aged, decidedly curious, men.
“You trying to tell us this fine young filly is your daughter? Give us a break,” bawled Fran.
Macker, Brennie, Shanghai and grumpy Kojak all pulled Vinny’s little fat legs and the slagging only stopped when Niamh knocked a pint of porter in a couple of swallows and ordered a round for the lads.
“She is a chip off old potato head alright,” grinned Brennie.
Bolton versus Stoke wasn’t quite a Barca-Real classico, but Vinny had a soft spot for Stoke since Terry Conroy flew the Irish flag in the Potteries in the 70s and, with four Irish lads in the team, was hoping they’d win.
Niamh was just keen to suss out which club City would be playing in the Cup final on May 14th. “I’ll be there with my working hat on,” she smiled.
When Matthew Etherington rifled home the first Stoke goal, Vinny and Niamh each raised a right fist at exactly the same time, and the same way, right to left, rather than outstretched. They glanced at one another and giggled. When Robert Huth made it 2-0, Niamh let out a shriek which suggested to Vinny there was a little extra riding on the outcome.
There was. As soon as Kenwyne Jones glided home a third, Niamh was exultant.“ You beauty, Kenwyne. Come on Stoke. Sock it to them.”
Vinny cocked an inquiring eye at his daughter. “Have we a financial interest then?”
“Damn sure, we do. I’ve 20 quid on Stoke to win by three goals or more at 33 to 1.”
Vinny sat upright. For the next hour he followed every pass, every ball. He urged Stoke forward and cursed any time Bolton threatened. As it turned out, there was little need for anxiety. Stoke tacked on two more goals and won in a canter.
At the final whistle, he turned to Niamh and they embraced warmly, father to daughter, punter to punter. “Right lads, the drinks are on me for the rest of the night,” said Niamh as she straightened up and headed for the bar.
At that, Fran leaned across to his old friend. “You know something about that daughter of yours, Vinny? Her blood is worth bottling.”
Vinny didn’t reply because he couldn’t. Quelling back tears, he reached for his pint. At that moment, his life had never felt so fulfilled.
Vinny's Bismarck
1pt Lay Cork to beat Dublin by 1 to 3 pts in NFL final (3/1, Paddy Power, liability 3pts).
Bets of the week
1pt Sunderland to be relegated from Premier League (19/1, Betfair).
1pt each-way Jim Furyk in The Heritage (16/1, William Hill).
