Vinny's Bismarck:AS VINNY Fitzpatrick looked out of Beaumont Hospital to the former home of Arthur Guinness next door, the thought occurred that the lads in Foley's would have had no problem remembering how old he'd have been if he'd popped his clogs.

After all, 52 was one of those numbers that stood for things the lads could associate with; the number of weeks in the year, the number of cards in a standard pack of cards, the number on the shirt of Arsenal striker Nicklas Bendter.

It was also, as far as he could recall, the number of white keys on a piano and an untouchable number in mathematics, but he was too tired to try to work out what that meant. From his wheelchair, Vinny could see into Uncle Arthur’s old residence, now a convalescent home. He wondered how his Aunt Annie, a sprightly octogenarian, was getting on – probably a damn sight better than her nephew.

It was a glorious Sunday morning, perfect for a stroll on the links of Corballis where he imagined the wrecking crew of Foley’s Golf Society – the Soiled and Ancient, as Fran called them – would be indulging in various acts of slicing, shanking, hoiking and hooking.

The lads had phoned Angie to see if they could call in to the hospital after their golf. Vinny had nodded his approval, for the simple reason that his speech was nothing more than a slur, his tongue refusing to respond to signals from the brain, much to his annoyance and embarrassment.

This would be the first time Vinny had seen the lads in over three weeks, during which he’d been to the brink of the abyss and somehow clawed his way back.

Vinny wasn’t out of the red zone completely, but the lights were no longer flashing and the avuncular Doctor Singh, his attending physician, believed he was over the worst.

“Over the worst? That’s a bit rich,” thought Vinny. After all, here he was with one tube stuck up his nose through which he was fed and another attached somewhere lower down to take care of personal matters he couldn’t take care of himself.

He had an intravenous drip attached to his right arm, which he could feel, and nothing at all on his left arm, where he couldn’t feel a thing.If there was a consolation, and each day he tried to find a positive in his predicament, it was that he was right-handed for everything important; throwing darts, medium pace bowling, changing channels on the remote and holding his pint.

He rarely needed his left hand, except to drive the bus, something he wasn’t going to be doing for a long while, if ever again.

Down the centre of his chest he bore an enormous scar, which marked where he had undergone heart surgery.

He was still on a morphine drip for the pain, which arrived in spasms and then eased off – a bit like the 16A bus, two or three hits at a time and then nothing for ages, he thought wryly.

The lads coming in to see their old friend would not recognise the Vinny Fitzpatrick they had last shared a jar with. That morning, Vinny had seen himself in the mirror of the bathroom and almost had a relapse.

His thin strands of hair stuck out wildly all over his pink scalp; his eyes were sunk deep into hollow sockets; his skin was ash-grey under flecks of silvery stubble, and below his neck hung great folds of scrawny soft tissue. It was like he had too much skin and not enough body to wear it.

“I look like death warmed up,” he thought.

Since then, he had been given a much-needed make-over.

His nurse, a no-nonsense African lady called Sylvia from Sierra Leone, had overseen a bed-wash, concentrating on the underarms, back of the neck and feet, three areas Vinny suspected required most attention.

Angie had assisted with the make-over. She’d trimmed Vinny’s hair, shaved him, had clipped away furiously at his large, yellowing toe-nails – at one point scattering shrapnel around the ward – and, for a little touch, had wrapped a scarf under his chin to cover the pelican-like flap.

“You almost look presentable,” she said, pecking a kiss on Vinny’s freshly-scrubbed cheek.

As she fluffed his pillows, Vinny realised how fortunate he was to have someone who cared so much about him. That Angie was a dinger, who turned heads in Foley’s whenever she sashayed in, was a bonus for which he was forever grateful.

But what mattered most was she was there for him. From their first date on Valentine’s night two years ago, she had never lost faith, even though, God knows, he had given her good reason to. That she now had three dependants on her hands, two of them four-month-old twins, all unable to look after themselves, caused him distress, and he could feel a lump rise in his throat when Sylvia burst into the ward to announce his visitors.

“Must have been a 14-hole competition,” Vinny thought.

He wondered if all five of the lads would come in. Macker, Fran and Brennie were certainties, Shanghai Jimmy less so as he would be fearful of being detained by some inquisitive doc over his shakes. Kojak, for all his bulk and bluster, was squeamish about hospitals and would probably find a reason to go missing.

The door opened and Vinny’s guests arrived. Safe to say, they were not who he expected. Dapper, silver-haired Mister Khan smiled as he, and his four sons, made for Vinny’s bedside.

“Mister Fitzpatrick, so good to see you,” said Mister Khan, whose cricket-loving family were renting Vinny’s old home in Causeway Avenue.

“We were so worried, Mister Fitzpatrick. We knew there was a problem when you did not ring to make a joke about the Pakistan players getting banned as you are the only man in Dublin we know who follows cricket like we do.”

Now, Vinny was aware he’d missed many sporting events in the past three weeks. Angie had filled him in on Cheltenham, Everton, Bohs, the Dubs and the Irish rugby team, but the crisis in Pakistan cricket had not been top of her newsy list – nor should it have been. Mister Khan continued.

“Mister Fitzpatrick, you have been so kind to us since we came to Ireland that we had to show you a token of our gratitude. We all remember the debate we had about the finest Pakistan cricketer and you made a convincing case for Zaheer Abbas.

“When we heard your situation I contacted my friends in the Pakistan Cricket Board and told them that Zaheer’s number one supporter in Dublin was unwell and they had to do something. They sent us a ball, hit for six by Zaheer in his final Test century in Lahore in 1984. Salim, give it here.”

With that, Khan pressed the battered, badly cut, wine-coloured ball into Vinny’s good hand. “We want to see you hit this ball for six with us this summer Mister Fitzpatrick. So please, please, get well.”

Vinny moved his mouth to speak, but couldn’t find the words. Instead, he felt the tears run down his cheeks.

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