AGAINST THE ODDS:Vinny needed something special on the 18th at Royal Dublin in Foley's President's Prize

SQUINTING, Vinny Fitzpatrick studied the wrecking crew scattered across the second hole at Royal Dublin. Two members of the fourball were staring forlornly into a ditch on the left; the other two were ambling among hillocks to the right. In the middle of the fairway, in splendid isolation, was an empty buggy. “This,” he thought to himself, “is going to be the round from hell.”

The President’s Prize was the final shot at old glory, just like the USPGA, for the soiled and ancient members of Foley’s Golf Society where the average age was high and the handicap higher.

Usually, the hackers chased the coveted title – and the velvet jacket which was presented to the winner – at places like Howth, Deer Park or St Anne’s, courses less stuffy, and less celebrated than the legendary links of ‘Royaler’.

But this year was unique, following the election of Charles St John Vernon as society president. Of old Clontarf stock, Charlie was a long-standing member of Royal Dublin, who carried enough clout among the Dollymount blazers to sway a two-hour slot for Foley’s finest on Monday morning.

Charlie had negotiated a €60 fee, which included competition entry, followed by a barbecue and two throat-loosening pints.

While the tariff was comfortably above what the lads were used to paying for society golf, there were days like this when the boat had to be pushed out.

For Vinny, the outing carried special significance. For starters, he’d had never won the President’s Prize in 34 attempts dating back to 1977 when he’d chased home his old man, Finbarr, in Corballis.

The joke then was that Vinny would win a gansey full of President’s Prizes but it had never happened; in fact he’d never come close again. This year was special for another reason; it might be his last. The on-set of prostate cancer had applied the brakes to Vinny’s largely care-free existence.

He was now on an extensive course of radiation treatment – five a week, for five weeks – and had been up at dawn that morning to ensure he was first in to the new cancer unit at Beaumont Hospital.

The treatment was relatively painless apart from leaving a reddening mark and Vinny wouldn’t know the results until the middle of September.

The reaction of family and friends to his news had been predictable. Angie bawled her eyes out, so too did her daughter Emma, while the lads wrapped him in bear-hugs and the finest pints – that he was still allowed alcohol, in moderation, was a blessing.

Vinny hadn’t got his head around the possible consequences, and tried not to think about them. On this gloriously sunny day, he was shutting out negative medical thoughts and concentrating, like never before, on landing an elusive prize.

It helped he was playing with Fran and Macker, two of his oldest friends, who knew how much victory would mean for him.

Fran, as ever, was immaculately turned out; his dazzling white designer slacks and Tiger-red shirt creased to an inch of their lives. “Fran you may look a pro; it’s just a pity you can’t play like one,” observed Macker.

Using an iron off the tee, for safety, Fran repeatedly found trouble and by the time he finally reached for the driver on the 10th tee, he had amassed just six Stableford points.

In contrast, Macker and Vinny were in the thick of the action, totting 19 points each on the easier outward nine.

“We’ll need something similar on the back, which won’t be easy into the wind,” observed Macker.

On the tough 10th Macker caught his pitch heavy and his ball found the hazard.

Seething like a simmering volcano, he stumped over to the next tee where he rolled a cigarette in silence.

Here, Vinny creamed a rescue shot from the rough and looked in horror as a snowy head suddenly appeared above a dune barely 100 yards in front of him. “Fore,” he screamed. Another fist was brandished and Vinny knew the wrecking crew would never call them through.

As another delay followed at the short 12th, Vinny studied his scorecard. He’d 23 points in the bag with seven holes to play. He calculated that another 14 points might be enough. If he could squeeze a 15th, the jacket, and Old Glory, could be his.

As the end game unfolded, Vinny somehow stayed on track. Despite a double-bogey on the 12th, he holed a raker for a five on the 13th, blanked the long 14th but bounced back with a bogey and par on the next two holes.

Standing on the 17th, he had 32 points. With two holes to play, two fives would give him 38 points and with it, victory.

By now, Vinny was feeling tired, a side effect of the radiation. His little chubby legs were wobbly and his senses were becoming dulled.

Somehow, his agricultural swing held up on the penultimate tee shot as he found the fairway.

A sliced second left Vinny short-sided and forced him to chip for the fat of the glassy green which led to three putts. He now had 34 points and needed something special up the 18th.

The ‘Garden’ hole is one of Irish golf’s most treacherous finales, a penal par four which requires a carry over out of bounds to reach the green in two.

A five is a good score, a six acceptable; Vinny was chasing a four.

Macker and Fran muttered “good luck” as Vinny waddled on to the tee box, placing his Top Flite carefully on a peg. The drive flew low and straight, running out for 30 yards after landing on the bone-hard fairway before glowing a lonely white in the distance.

As he approached his ball, Vinny calculated the odds. He could take a seven-iron and go straight up the fairway to where it turned sharp right, or he could play a risk and reward shot over the famed ‘Garden.’

Playing safe would lead to a five, or six; while going for broke could mean either a four or failure. A five might win the prize, a six wouldn’t.

He thought of an expression his old man used to say about God “hating cowards and skinny women” and reached for his trusty Slazenger spoon.

The 53-year-old studied the fairway, noted the breeze blowing off his right and puffed his chubby cheeks.

The swing was secure, the strike solid and the ball sped off high in the direction of the green.

“Brilliant shot Vinny,” Fran said. But Vinny wasn’t so sure. The wind had suddenly increased and his ball was hanging rather than burrowing forward. As it plopped down, on line with the pin, Vinny wasn’t sure if it had made it safely.

Second later, he knew it hadn’t. From the side of the green, a member of the appalling wrecking crew gestured downwards with his thumbs – the ball had fallen short. Vinny’s shoulders slumped. He glumly reloaded and topped his fourth shot out of bounds.

As Vinny shuffled disconsolately across the ‘Garden’, Fran clapped a consoling arm around him and said: “It could be worse Vinny, nobody died.”

An embarrassing silence followed as the two friends walked on towards the green.

Bets of the week

2pts win: Shamrock Rovers to beat Partizan Belgrade in first leg of Europa League (7/2, William Hill).

2pts ew: Bapak Chinta in Nunthorpe Stakes (11/2, Victor Chandler).

Vinny's Bismarck

1pt Lay: Mayo to beat Kerry in All-Ireland SFC semi-final (7/2, Paddy Power, liability 3.5pts).