FROM THE Alfie Byrne Road to the Bull Island turn was three kilometres, a handy 15-minute jog, a seven-minute cycle or, for Rory McIlroy, a mere 10 whacks of his driver.
For Vinny Fitzpatrick on this chill Bank Holiday Monday morning, it seemed longer, especially as he was on foot, one of which was giving him gyp, though not as much as before.
Indeed, the past week had seen an improbable if wholly welcome improvement in the general wellbeing of the 52-year-old.
For starters, he was no longer dependent on a crutch to get around and had taken to using a black-handled blackthorn walking stick which Angie had bought. If he wasn’t quite up to the speed of the late Olympian walker Don Thomson, he was at least trundling about on his own pudgy pins.
Also, and this was the most encouraging part, the feeling in his left hand was definitely returning: his fingers had uncurled themselves from their frozen state and were beginning to pay their way again. The previous night, he’d been able to change channels with the remote control – not that he did much flicking after coming across the glory of young Rory in faraway Quail Hollow.
It was, he felt, the finest effort by any Irish sportsman this year, surpassing even AP McCoy’s Grand National win, and compensated for the Heineken Cup losses of Leinster and Munster. Having backed both French clubs to win, Vinny had shed few tears.
Not that the weekend had been without sorrow. The sudden loss of Gerry Ryan had shaken Vinny to the core.
Growing up, Vinny had been a Radio One head, weaned on Uncle Gaybo, while more recently he’d tune in to Pat Kenny. Rarely, if ever, did he tweak the FM dial from 89.1 to 91.5 to listen to gobby Gerry.
And yet he was deeply saddened to hear of the shock jock’s untimely passing. Ryan was part of the Clontarf community, just as Vinny was, even if they hailed from opposite ends of the Clontarf Road. Ryan had gone to St Paul’s, Vinny to Joey’s. Their paths had crossed, unknowingly, twice daily as they completed their schooling in the same year.
Ryan was a bright student who dabbled at being a solicitor and went on to become a national institution; Vinny scraped his Leaving Cert and went on the buses.
As he shuffled past the junction of Castle Avenue, Vinny could just make out the ivy-clad Ryan home. He paused, blessed himself, said a quick prayer and continued on his walk.
Approaching Foley’s, Vinny spied the spire of St John’s Church. It was where Gerry Ryan’s funeral Mass would be said and where Vinny’s twins, Oisín and Aoife, would be baptised on Saturday week.
The blessing had been put back due to Vinny’s health, but was now rescheduled, with Angie planning a mother and father of a party on Mount Prospect Avenue for Oisín Finbarr and Aoife Jane Fitzpatrick. Such was Angie’s anticipation of the event, Vinny hadn’t dared complain about the 2.30pm kick-off for the ceremony, making a mental note to remind the priest to run through proceedings quickly so he could be back home in time for the FA Cup final kick-off.
As he wrestled with the complexities of birth, baptism and bereavement, Vinny paused for his next scheduled breather, directly opposite Foley’s public house.
It had been his home from home for over 30 years, a haven of stability in an ever-changing world. Over the past two months, he had darkened its doors just once, for less than an hour. Would he ever go back? He thought of the ailing Bobby Jones returning to St Andrews in 1958 when the dour Scots made him a freeman of the Auld Grey Toon, permitting the great golfer to catch rabbits, take divots and dry one’s washing upon the first and last fairways of the Old Course.
He recalled a line from Jones in his acceptance speech, how “I could take out of my life everything except my experiences at St Andrews, and I would still have had a rich and full life”. Vinny felt like that about Foley’s and knew, deep down, he would be back soon, catching pints, taking fistfuls of crisps and airing everyone’s washing in the back corner of the lounge.
Leaning on his blackthorn, and breathing that bit harder, Vinny toddled on towards the bus garage, where he paused for a third time.
A week ago he was certain he’d seen the end of its grim forecourt, with its shiny pools of oil, the permanent whiff of diesel, the roar of the engines. But he had been knocked for six by the offer from Socket Twomey to help implement a new service which would see bus stops fitted with “real time” schedules.
In future, all bus stops would have screens to inform customers the number of the next bus and whether there were delays.
The garage selected for the pilot scheme was Clontarf and Socket had offered Vinny the chance to be part of it. “With buses converging in Fairview from the Malahide Road, Howth Road and Clontarf Road, it won’t be easy, but no one knows our routes better than you Vinny,” smiled Socket. “Why do we need a computer to process the information when we have you?”
The role meant working more regular hours, which delighted Angie, and while he would miss the Nitelink overtime, Vinny knew it was a small price to pay to continue on the Dublin Bus payroll. With that, he clenched and unclenched his left fist on his blackthorn, felt his fingertips fizz, turned into Conquer Hill and began for home.
Bets of the Week
2pts Spurs to beat Manchester City
(14/5, Stan James)
1pt e/w Rhys Davies in Italian Open
(22/1, Extrabet)
Vinny’s Bismarck
1pt Lay Tiger Woods to win Players Championship (7/1, William Hill, liabiliity 7pts)
