AGAINST THE ODDS:CLUTCHING the wooden handle of the limp orange and yellow coloured flag, Vinny Fitzpatrick felt a rare sense of importance; he was officiating at a proper football match for the very first time.

He had been instructed by the referee – a grumpy sort who arrived on a bike – to signal for throw-ins, nothing else, not offsides or free-kicks but even so it meant his input would count.

Vinny had never reffed a game before but that didn’t stop him from berating match officials, especially at Dalymount Park – his next visit was on Sunday week for the FAI Cup semi-final – and watching Everton on the telly.

Vinny regarded referees as playground bullies while linesman were mostly myopic muppets – it was time to put his terrace theory to the test.

On this soggy Saturday, Vinny found himself in the dark recesses of Fingal, out by Dublin Airport in Baskin Lane, a place he never previously visited as it was off the Dublin Bus routes.

When Brennie had popped into Foley’s, Vinny had just polished off four superb pints while watching Everton lose at home to Liverpool in a derby marred by an appalling decision from the referee, Martin Atkinson, to send off Jack Rodwell.

Vinny was chuntering to himself about sporting injustice when Brennie appeared by his elbow.

“Vinny, I thought I’d find you here,” he panted. “We’re so short of bodies today that I have to pick myself. I need someone on the line to keep an eye on things. Can you give us a dig out?”

In his spare time, Brennie looked after Clontarf Casuals, a disparate group of old salts and young bucks who plied their trade in the lower reaches of the United Churches Football League.

In the 1960s and early 1970s, the Casuals were strictly of the Protestant persuasion but a dearth of numbers had forced them to open their doors to all-comers, right-footers and left-footers alike.

They used to have two half-decent teams but, approaching their 50th year in the junior ranks, only had one, a raggle-taggle crew who played on a bumpy pitch in St Anne’s.

But for Brennie, the club would have folded years ago but somehow they trundled along, fulfilling fixtures, and trawling for players at short notice on Saturdays, often in Foley’s.

“It’s a nightmare as we’re playing the league leaders, Kinsealy Celtic, but what can you do?” wailed Brennie as they sped up Vernon Avenue.

Kinsealy Celtic played on a grassy pitch off a narrow road linking the Malahide Road with Clonshaugh; it lay directly in the flight-path of the airport, a Rory Delap throw-in from the runway.

Inside a musty, darkened, dressingroom which carried a faint whiff of urine, Vinny observed Brennie’s pre-match routine which, fair to say, was well removed from any ever delivered by Giovanni Trapattoni.

“Lads, we’re down to the bare bones today, so grab any jersey you want. It’s €3 subs and don’t tell me youse left it in the car.”

The “lads” were a motley crew, thought Vinny. Several were tipping towards their 40s while some were straight out of school, never mind college. Two of the team were smartly dressed and carried an air of quiet authority – “bangers from the ’Joy,’ ” whispered Brennie as he laced his boots.

“Right, listen up. I want no pussy-footing around in the back today, no Chinese football. Take one touch and hoof it; if you can’t take a touch, hoof it anyway.

“There’s no point in working on corners and free-kicks close to goal ’cos we won’t get any. I don’t want anyone feigning injury as we’ve no substitutes. This is about getting stuck in and fighting for one another.

“Remember, no one is ever casual playing for the Casuals,” said Brennie, his voice rising.

As the studs clattered on the way out of the dressingroom, Vinny felt for his old friend. At 44, Brennie was the youngest and most voluble member of the Foley’s wrecking crew. He was as sound as a pound even though his reputation in the Bank of Ireland, where he worked, was under scrutiny after an unspecified amount of customers’ cash was found to be “resting” in an account no one knew about, bar Brennie.

He’d somehow avoided the sack on the strength of 20 years’ impeccable service but his prospects for promotion were gone and he would be forever tightly marked by his superiors.

On this rain-lashed afternoon, it was Brennie who was doing the marking, raking his studs down the shin of a whipper-snapper inside five minutes.

“Sorry ref, I got there as fast as I could,” he said apologetically as he escaped a caution.

As the game unfolded, it was clear the Casuals were up against it. Even at this filter-feeder level of football, a few decent players drifted around with effect.

One of them, a greybeard with a svelte touch was dragging the Casuals defence ragged. Not even the young guns from the “Joy” could clap him in arms but the Casuals had one thing going for them – a quality goalkeeper.

Vinny didn’t know much about Dave “Diggy” Dignam except that Brennie was convinced he was the best goalkeeper in the whole UCFL, not just Division 3C. “When Diggy plays, we always have a chance of getting a draw; without him, we’re banjaxed.”

As he shuffled along the line, raising his flag intermittently for throw-ins, Vinny could see what Brennie meant. Diggy was the Neville Southall of this division, a class act in a team lacking quality, if not heart. Time and again, he rescued the Casuals with his athleticism, courage and reflexes. At half-time, the game was scoreless and Diggy dragged heartily on a fag under a tree while a mud-spattered Brennie exorted the troops.

“We have them rattled, lads. Ten more minutes of defiance and they’ll crack,” he trilled.

As the second half progressed, Diggy seemed to get bigger and the goal smaller. It was like the time the Republic of Ireland played little Liechtenstein and had 40 pops on goal but still couldn’t score – Vinny trusted that wouldn’t be the case in Andorra on Friday.

And then, into stoppage time as the Casuals back four did their impression of the Arsenal defence, arms-raised in appeal for offside, a ball was played over the top, close to Vinny’s side of the pitch. Incredibly, the referee waved play on, allowing the Kinsealy winger a free run down the line. With three players up in support even Diggy wouldn’t dodge this bullet.

Instinctively, for he knew no other way, Vinny stuck out one of his tree-trunk legs, felling the winger in mid-flight, sending him so high that the pilot of a descending plane reported the incident to air traffic control.

It was much later, after the furore which almost led to the game’s abandonment, that Vinny and Brennie enjoyed a chuckle over a pint in Foley’s.

“To my two heroes today, Diggy and Vinny” laughed Brennie, raising a glass.

Vinny shrugged his roundy shoulders and smiled. Like the rugby lads in New Zealand he knew there were some days where you just had to take one for the team.

Bets of the week

2pts: Andorra (+ 2 goals) to draw with Republic of Ireland (11/4, Paddy Power)

1pt:each-way Jose Manuel Lara in Madrid Masters (66/1, Victor Chandler)

Vinny's Bismarck

1pt:Roy Keane to be next Nottingham Forest manager (7/1, general, liability 7pts)