AGAINST THE ODDS:THE CALL from Fran on Friday night was as unexpected as it was blunt. 'Vinny, I've got tickets for the match tomorrow, and I've booked two tickets on a morning flight to Heathrow. Are ye with me?' Vinny Fitzpatrick did a quick double take. He was down to play golf at Deer Park the next morning with 'The Beach Boys' society from the Pebble Beach pub but his back was acting up, and he knew he'd have the yips with the putter.
‘Count me in,’ he said.
‘Right,’ replied Fran. ‘See you at nine. Pack your toothbrush in your pocket as we’re not back till Sunday lunch-time.’
Dublin Airport was quieter than Vinny expected on Saturday morning. Most of the rugby supporters had travelled to Cardiff the day before and for the first time he wondered if he and Fran were cutting things a bit fine.
‘Not at all,’ insisted Fran. ‘Look, we’ll be at Paddington by one o’clock and it’s only two hours and a bit by train from there to Cardiff. As they say, relax and enjoy the flight.’ Now, relaxing in a tiny cylinder of steel at 33,000 feet wasn’t something Vinny did easily. Dutch courage was invariably required to ward off the sweaty palms, hyperventilation and knot of fear in his stomach.
He was contemplating an early pint when he arrived at security control where a pleasant young lady, with a beguiling Northern Ireland accent, asked him to take everything out of his pockets, place it in a tray and to move forward through the metal detector machine. It beeped.
He was requested to remove his belt and try for a second time. The machine beeped again.
Vinny was then frisked by his new friend from the North, who had the unfortunate task of running her hands under his armpits, which had started to moisten.
‘You seem clean,’ she said. ‘Take off your shoes and try again.’ Vinny was starting to get vexed stares from those unfortunate enough to be in line behind him. He thought he heard someone mutter ‘get on with it Shrek’ as he struggled to open his laces, almost toppling over in the process.
By now, his feet were slippy with sweat and he knew he was leaving a damp imprint of his size 11s on the floor as he passed through for a third time. There was silence.
‘Glory be,’ he said, gathering up his mobile ‘phone, coins, belt and a packet of polo mints (sugar-free), before joining Fran, who had watched the performance with a mix of amusement and anxiety.
‘C’mon. We’d better get a wriggle on as our departure gate is in Pier D. It’s a bit of a hike,’ he said.
Some 10 minutes later, for Vinny was not the fleetest of foot, they arrived at the departure lounge for the Heathrow flight. ‘We must be half-way to Forrest Little golf club by now,’ he panted. ‘That walk is a joke. I need a drink.’ Alas, in the faraway land of Pier D, alcohol was not being served, much to Vinny’s angst. He ordered a tea, which was served far too hot and had just started to peel off the foil on a tiny container of milk – not easy with pudgy fingers — when the flight was called.
Some three hours later, Vinny and Fran were on board a Great Western Railway train from Paddington bound for Bristol. Time was their enemy and even Fran accepted things were getting a little tight.
‘We have to change at Bristol Temple Meads for a Cardiff connection. We’ve got 15 minutes to make it. If we do, we’ll be laughing,’ he said.
Vinny desperately wanted to make the game. As a kid he’d heard his dad, Finbarr, talk movingly of the legendary Jackie Kyle and the Irish Grand Slam team of ’48.
He’d always followed the fortunes of the Irish rugby team and had grown up marvelling at the exploits of the giants in green such as Willie John McBride, Tom Kiernan and his idol, Cameron Michael Henderson Gibson of NIFC and Ireland.
They had carried the oval ball torch through the decades and now it was in the hands of today’s heroes, O’Driscoll, O’Connell and O’Gara. To be there in Cardiff on this momentous day would mean so much.
Heading west, the train stopped at Reading, home of a fine Irish soccer colony, then Swindon, where they could see the lights of the County Ground from the station.
A signal fault at Bristol Parkway held them up for several minutes and as the train glided to a halt at Temple Meads, Fran was on his feet, ready to land running. ‘Vinny, get your backside in gear. We’ve got to leg it,’ he said.
Temple Meads, the first train station designed by engineer Isambard Kingdom Brunel, is a quirky throwback to Victorian days, with platforms numbered 1 to 15 but number 2 is not signalled for passenger trains and number 14 does not exist.
For all its platforms, it only has eight tracks and even Harry Potter would find it difficult to plot a way around.
For a couple of disorientated Irishmen, in a dash, its puzzling layout proved impossible to solve. When Fran and Vinny felt they had boarded a Cardiff-bound train on platform 7, they were in fact on a Birmingham-bound train from platform 8.
Not that they noticed, not even when they pulled into Bristol Parkway a few minutes later. It wasn’t until the train stopped at Gloucester that they sensed their bearings were all wrong.
‘We’re going to miss the game. What will we do?’ moaned Fran.
Vinny shrugged. ‘Sure what can we do? It’ll take us an hour to get back to Bristol, another 45 minutes to get to Cardiff. We’re goosed. Let’s get off at the next stop, and take our bearings.’ The next stop was Cheltenham Spa, where a fortnight earlier tens of thousands of racegoers had crammed its two platforms on the way to and from the National Hunt Festival.
This late Saturday afternoon, it was deserted and silent, save for two middle-aged Irishmen wearing incongruous green rugby jerseys.
Exiting the station, Vinny spied a large pub on a corner site called ‘The Betfair Arms.’ ‘Fran, old friend,’ he said. ‘It’s time for a pint and a bet. I wonder what odds they’ll give us on Ireland to win by less than five points,’ he said smiling, as he crossed the road with a discernible lightness of foot.
1pt Lay Lewis Hamilton to win World Drivers’ Championship
(4/1, general, liability 4pts)
2pts Arsenal to win Champions League (8/1, Boylesports)
1pt e.w. Peter Hanson in Open de Andalucia (28/1, Paddy Power)
