AGAINST THE ODDS:ASSESSING THE parade ring of parents from his perch in the shade of a chestnut tree, where he sipped the finest of home-made lemonade, Vinny Fitzpatrick made some mental observations.

Most of the runners were fillies; one was a mare in foal, while the sires, of which there were only a few, were sleek, slim and far too coltish for his liking.

As Vinny ran his heavy tongue around the ice cubes in his glass, sucking noisily as he did, he had a sinking feeling about the jolly japes about to unfold at the annual sports day in Clever Clogs crèche.

Events which involved any form of physical exertion were not his cup of tea, especially after the embarrassment of the Balscadden Biathlon which he had yet to live down.

(The lads in Foley’s were calling him Caughoo after the Irish-trained Grand National winner of 1947 which it was claimed, incorrectly, he had only gone around Aintree once). But Angie, who was busy preparing Boru Betting for the top hat and tails of Ascot, had insisted he turn up, put up and shut up.

“This is not about you, it’s about doing it for the kids,” she’d reminded him over breakfast that morning when Vinny let on about his dodgy back.

The note brought back by Oisín and Aoife from Dolly Arbuthnot, who had overseen Clontarf’s most celebrated crèche since the year dot, had included a three-legged race, a sack race, and an egg and spoon race, for kids and adults.

“Far too much activity”, thought Vinny as he donned over-sized summer shorts and waddled off for Seafield Road West. Clever Clogs was on the ground floor of a large Edwardian pile. A big selling point was a huge back garden which reached out to the grounds of Scoil Uí Chonaill GAA club. Next door was Clontarf GAA club, another huge gaffe, with a car park to the front and an all-weather floodlit facility out back.

Compared to Dollymount Gaels, who didn’t have a pot to pee in, Clontarf and Scoil Uí Conaill were Gaelic leviathans. “We’re a bit like Tranmere in the shadow of Liverpool and Everton”, thought Vinny disconsolately. On this Tuesday morning, Clever Clogs was a riot of noise as children ran amok, including Vinny’s own brood, now 18 months old.

Aoife was already the spit of her mother, sallow-skinned, slender and raven-haired but Oisín, God bless him, was a ringer for his old man. He was squat, short, with slightly piggy eyes and a burgeoning beetle-brow.

“I don’t care what you look like, son, you’re mine”, thought Vinny proudly as he watched Oisín being shoved off a Bob The Builder tractor by a boy with sticky-out ears who could only have been bred by one man, Lugs O’Leary – the most fearsome character on the Northside.

Lugs had a son about 10 or 11, Lugs Beag as Vinny called him, but he hadn’t known about this latest addition, whom he instantly nicknamed Lugs Lite.

And right on cue, Lugs Large, a one-time colleague in arms for Dollymount Gaels, marched menacingly across the Arbuthnot arboretum to join Vinny.

“Well, well, if it isn’t ’ol Reg Varney himself?” snarled Lugs through a mouth of broken teeth, the product of a vicious junior hurling final in Ballyboughal – Vinny had cowered in the dug-out as flailing blood, snot and bone filled the north Dublin sky.

“Alright, Lugs?” said Vinny as calmly as possible. “I didn’t know you had a nipper here.” Lugs pointed at Lugs Lite who had just pulled a little girl off a trike by the hair.

“That’s my daughter’s young fella, Fiachra. Not yet two but a right character, and a fair sportsman too, like his granddad,” beamed Lugs.

The first events on the race card were for the kids, which proved a benefit for Lugs Lite, although Vinny felt there should have been a stewards’ inquiry into the 50-yard dash as Lugs Lite clearly shunted a fair-haired boy into a bush.

Soon, the kids were herded inside to see a movie while the adults flexed their muscles ahead of the sack race.

Vinny was sure there wouldn’t be one big enough to go around his ample girth but Dolly Arbuthnot, a former Girl Guide leader, had come prepared. “I always have an extra large one for the super-sized parents,” she chirped.

Vinny lowered himself into the sack, and tried his best to find the corners with his flabby trotters. He felt he had a fair purchase but was caught unawares when Dolly blew the whistle for the start.

Frantically grabbing the sides of the sack, Vinny tried despairingly to get on the wheel of Lugs who was hopping up the garden like a demented pogo stick.

Hopelessly tailed off, Vinny was within a few yards of the line when he collapsed, face-down, on the newly-cut grass.

As he lay there, panting, the sun became obscured by a cloud in the shape of Lugs. “Fitzpatrick, on your feet, you’re with me in the three-legged race. No screw-ups, right?” Shortly, seven pairs were lined up like Jake The Peg at one end of the garden.

“This is about rhythm, not pace. You match my stride and I’ll match yours. Make a mess of it, and you’ll be going home with bruises on both cheeks of your backside. Do I make myself clear?” They cut an unlikely pair; Lugs, six foot-plus and built like a Sherman tank; and Vinny, half a foot shorter and twice as wide. As Lugs seized Vinny by a roundy shoulder, Vinny wrapped a fleshy arm about Lugs’ wrought iron midriff.

At the shrill of Dolly’s pea, they took off. The giant gait of Lugs forced Vinny almost to run and he struggled to keep in step. By half-way they were third but the gap was closing on the youthful colts and a pair of yummy mummies.

At the line, the six bodies and 12 legs crossed together in a blur and Dolly, after much deliberation, declared a dead-heat, much to Lugs’ disgust.

That left the egg and spoon race, for which the nippers re-appeared to act as cheerleaders. Vinny lined up as far away from Lugs as possible. There were 14 runners, four colts and 10 fillies, and all were given a splendid dessert spoon upon which was placed an egg. “Ballyfree,” cooed Dolly. “And free range too.’ As the race unfolded, Lugs opened up a lead, together with a long-legged blonde lady. The honours appeared to lie between them but a collision near the finishing line led to broken eggs and egos.

It left the way open for a portly 53-year-old to come through on the outside as a shock winner, to the delight of Oisín and Aoife who raced over to congratulate him.

As he covertly smuggled a piece of blue-tack from the concave side of the spoon, Vinny Fitzpatrick allowed himself a smile. “Who’s a clever clogs now?” he thought.

Bets of the week: 

1pt each-way Pádraig Harrington to be top British and Irish player in US Open (18/1, William Hill)

1pt each-way Gary Woodland in US Open (100/1, Coral)

Vinny's Bismarck:1pt Lay Clare to beat Tipperary in Munster SHC (8/1 Paddy Power, liability 8pts)