AGAINST THE ODDS:FOR A motivational speech for the troops, Vinny Fitzpatrick had opted for an unpretentious delivery. Ice and calm, he felt, would make more sense than fire and brimstone, especially for a cluster of eight-year-olds playing their first organised game of hurling for Dollymount Gaels.
The Gaels, small and imperfectly formed, had framed a large chunk of Vinny’s life as his late father, Finbarr, had been a founder member of the club.
(Finbarr’s distinguished service record ended aged 48 in a pool of blood, broken fingers and smashed hurls in darkest Fingal – Vinny had driven his old man to the Mater to be patched up).
The Gaels had no juvenile section, which explained why they had never won as much as a tea-cup, but the opening of Irish school Scoil Eoin on Dollymount Avenue gave them an underage conveyor belt on their doorstep.
Most of the talented kids were snapped up by Clontarf, the GAA behemoth of Dublin 3, but the less competent youngsters filtered down to Vernon St Gabriel’s, and their fiercest rivals, the Gaels.
“It was incredible,” recalled Seán “Socks”O’Callaghan, the long-serving Gaels secretary, whose z-shaped nose was evidence of trench warfare with Vinny’s aul fella. “We got word in January there were a few kids knocking about without a club. So we dropped a few leaflets in to Scoil Eoin and the next Saturday morning we had over 20 kids on our pitch at St Anne’s.
“It’s gone from there and we’re good to go on Sunday against Gabriel’s. The committee felt you might come down and launch the ship, so to speak, given your family connection with the club.”
Vinny had been chuffed and his heart skipped now as he saw the tots, all togged out in the blood and bandages red and white of the little club he loved.
The nippers were calling to one another in the native Gaelic tongue and he could hear shouts of “anseo” and “ansin” sail across the chill wind.
This rattled Vinny slightly as his cupla focal of encouragement were “as Béarla”. “Never mind, I’ll wing it,” he thought to himself.
The corner pitch which the Gaels hired from the “Corpo” was, as usual, in rag order, all dusty craters and grassy corners.
Socks O’Callaghan approached Vinny with a team-list. “The manager will have the boys over to you in a minute. You know him well. It’s, er, Lugs O’Leary.”
Vinny’s blood froze. Lugs had been the scourge of his life for over 40 years. He was a craggy, ill-tempered Goliath with a mouthful of broken teeth and a giant pair of jug handles clamped either side of scarred skull.
The only thing Lugs despised more than Vinny was Vernon St Gabriel’s, a well-run club which initially had drawn members from the long-standing Protestant community in leafy Clontarf.
As he scanned the team sheets, Vinny noticed a cluster of Seáns and Pádraigs for the Gales, along with two Ruaidhrís, a Riobárd, an Uinseann and a Pilib.
Vernon St Gabriel’s might have been more ecumenical these days but the presence of two Ians, a Craig, Gordon and a Nigel indicated a link to the club’s roots.
Vinny was shaken from his daydream by a familiar gravelly voice. “Well, well, if it isn’t Flab Vinny himself? What chipper have you crawled out from?” bawled Lugs.
“Alright, Lugs. I see you never lost your manners, especially in front of children,” replied Vinny in a rare show of courage.
Lugs stiffened slightly and bit his lip. “Right lads, listen up, an old colleague of mine, Vincent Fitzpatrick, has come to say a few words of encouragement.”
Vinny smiled and politely asked the youngsters if it was okay to speak in English. The kids replied “ceart go leor” in unison and smiled at the awkwardness of the 54-year-old adult in front of them.
As Vinny reached into his pocket and took out his hand-written notes, he heard an audible “Janey Mack” from Lugs. Undeterred, he cleared his throat.
“Lads, sport is not about winning, it’s about taking part. That’s the Olympic ideal and it’s one you should never forget,” he said.
He went on about how proud he was to see the first underage team representing the Gaels in many years and was sure they would give a good account of themselves. “Remember, friendships made on the field of play stand the test of time,” he said, signing off.
Vinny knew it wasn’t quite the Gettysburg Address but was pleased with how it went until Lugs muscled him out of it. “Lads, forget that claptrap. Get stuck in and don’t let the bastards grind you down,” he thundered.
“Any man I see backing off a tackle, I’ll clip you around the backside with me hurl and take you off. Do youse understand?” he barked.
The Gaels’ gaeilgoirs went as white as a sheet, although one young lad, with familiar sticky out ears, spoke up. “You heard what the man said, lads. Let’s go for it.”
“Good on you, Liam,” said Lugs, turning to Vinny, “my young nephew, a grand kid.”
As the match unfolded the Gaels surprised Vinny, who was standing as umpire at one end of the pitch.
One or two of them were skilful players, while Liam made up for his lack of talent with a ferociously competitive approach – he cracked his hurl against the shins of his opponent when the referee wasn’t looking, prompting cries of protest from the parents on the line.
Scoring was tight and, with a minute or so to go, the sides were level at two points each when Gabriel’s broke downfield. The sliotar was fielded by Craig, easily their best player, who turned and lofted a shot towards the posts.
It was a high, dropping, ball coming out of the sun and Vinny had to raise a flabby hand to shield his eyes as the sliotar bore down. At the vital moment, he was briefly blinded and couldn’t be certain if the shot had gone inside or outside the posts.
On the other side of the goal, the Gabriel’s umpire signalled for a point, but Vinny had an inkling the shot may have been drifting wide at the last second. Unsure what call to make, he beckoned for the referee.
“I think it was wide but I’m not sure,” he said to the spotty teenager in charge of the game. “I was in a bad position. You umpires will have to agree,” said the ref.
The Gabriel’s umpire, a narky sort, was adamant the score was good and stood his ground as players, parents and Lugs approached. The spotlight turned to Vinny. “I’m sorry, I can’t make the call because I couldn’t see for sure,” he said apologetically.
The referee shrugged. “The point stands. Gabriel’s win by three points to two,” he said.
At that, Lugs’ face darkened. “You’re a cheat,” he bellowed, jabbing his hurl at the chest of the Gabriel’s man. “Anyone could see that was wide. But I’d expect nothing more from your ilk. You’ve had it in for us for years.”
With that Lugs swung the hurl back, like a golfer, and brought it down hard in the direction of the Gabriel’s umpire. The flailing ash would have made contact but Vinny Fitzpatrick, sensing danger, flung himself between hurl and ball. After that, it all went blank.
Vinny's Bismark
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