AGAINST THE ODDS:Vinny finds it hard to concentrate on Irish Grand National form after Dublin's second-half capitulation to Cork
OVER A double poached egg and toast, layered with brown sauce, Vinny Fitzpatrick contemplated the sports pages of the Monday newspapers and felt a knot tighten in his capacious stomach.
Try as he might to study the Fairyhouse form for the Irish Grand National, or the English football tables, his eyes were repeatedly drawn to the coverage of the National Football League final and the dissection of Dublin’s implosion against Cork.
It didn’t make pretty reading; Vinny knew it wouldn’t. Then again, it hadn’t been pretty viewing either, not for the final 25 minutes or so, especially to a cluster of middle-aged men on Hill 16 as the boys in blue blew it.
To Vinny, the second-half capitulation reminded him of Rory McIlroy’s hari-kari on the back nine at Augusta.
The lads had been down this road of ruin before, against Cork last year in the All-Ireland semi-final, against Tyrone in 2008, and against Kerry umpteen times. It didn’t get any easier, even though it was the league rather than the championship.
As the lads waited for a 130 bus outside Gaffney’s in Fairview – the notion of spending a tenner on a taxi for the five-minute spin to Foley’s was an anathema to them – they tried to unscramble what they’d witnessed.
“Spineless, clueless, leaderless, a shambles,” wailed Brennie, who felt the hurt in his pocket after putting €20 on Dublin to be leading at both half-time and full-time at 3 to 1.
“This will set us back big-time. We never beat Kerry and now Cork have the hex us on. We’re goosed for another year,” observed Macker, as he sucked on a hand-rolled fag.
Fran felt it was boys against men in the second half. “Cork were half a foot taller all over the park. Every player we brought on was smaller than the one that went off. You won’t win ‘Sam’ with a team of midgets,” he thundered.
At that, the vertically challenged Shanghai Jimmy took umbrage. “What’s size got to do with it? Jayo Sherlock was our best footballer for more than a decade and he was knee-high to a grasshopper,” he rapped.
It required Vinny’s renowned diplomacy to prevent an unsightly ruction. “Steady on Shanghai. Here’s our bus now. Right lads, let’s be having you.”
On the run out to Clontarf, Vinny reflected on the Croker choker. What struck him as bizarre was the absence of a left-footed player on the park. Twice inside the final few minutes, Dublin were crying out for a citeog to pop the ball over the bar, instead Mossy Quinn made a mess of things with his right peg.
It would never have happened with Dollymount Gaels, he thought. When his old man, the late Finbarr Fitzpatrick, was running the team, he scoured the Northside for left-footers.
Vinny had been picked for a Loving Cup tie against Fingallians at 17, not because he was much use, but because he favoured the “sinistra” side. He’d scored three points, two from frees to the right of goal and had stayed in the team for a dozen years until ballooning weight, and his fragile nerve, got the better of him. Yet even now, a fat and frumpy 53, he felt he’d have easily pinged over the two late frees which Dublin fluffed.
It was for this oversight, that he reluctantly held Pat Gilroy, the Dublin manager, responsible. Gilroy couldn’t be faulted for the lack of Leviathans on the Dublin club scene, or the untimely injuries to key players during the final, including the recognised left-footed free-taker, Diarmuid Connolly.
But not having another leftie in the match-day panel was an oversight and one which probably cost Dublin their first NFL title in 12 years – it didn’t help that Conal Keaney, who could have done the job with his eyes closed, had rowed in with the hurlers.
Vinny couldn’t be too hard on Gilroy, who was a sound fellah from St Vincent’s and whose old man, the late Jack Gilroy, had been held in high esteem by the Fitzpatrick family.
It wasn’t widely known that during the late 50s and early 60s, a time when Vins were the Manchester United of the GAA scene, that ‘Giller’ was part of the all-star Vins team which played an annual friendly against Dollymount Gaels in a remote corner of St Anne’s Park. Vinny could recall his Da, who single-handedly kept the Gaels on the road for 30 years, getting all worked up about the game which took place every Easter Tuesday evening.
His old man used to cut the pitch, roll it and mark it out with lime. He hooked up the nets, washed the gear by hand, and brought buckets for the half-time collection – it was against the rules to charge an admission fee for a friendly.
Vins were the poster-boys of the Dublin scene, crammed with medal-laden county stars, in stark contrast to Dollymount Gaels, who struggled to get 15 bodies out most weekends and didn’t have a pot to pee in.
Yet, thanks to the big-hearted Giller, Vins rolled up each year in their dazzling white and blue gear, allowed the gormless Gaels a handful of points, and then dropped in to Foley’s for pots of tea and trays of sangers later. But for the fund-raising fixture, the Gaels would have run out of puff years ago so Vinny wasn’t going to put the boot in on young Giller.
The way he looked at it, the hype surrounding Dublin had now been punctured. They wouldn’t be hailed as the great white hope of the summer, as before. Instead, Cork, Kerry and the northern tribes hordes of Down and Tyrone would be on most folk’s short-lists.
As for the Dubs, forget about them the knockers would say, sure they are all fur coats and no knickers. And that, thought Vinny, might just suit Gilroy and co as they repaired to the privacy of Parnell Park to lick their wounds and prepare to fight another day.
Vinny’s Bismarck
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