Vinny Fitzpatrick was leaning on the goalpost in the corner of St Anne's when a certain little lady walked by.
“Oh me, oh my,” he thought to himself before signalling a wide as a rare Dollymount Gaels attack ended in frustration. On this windswept Saturday on Dublin’s northside, Vinny had much on his mind, including a potential new courtship, the Grand National at Aintree, and his umpiring duties at the camogie Féile.
To mark the Gaels’ first involvement in the prestigious under-14 tournament, the club had been asked to host the Division 6 group, for players of modest quality, if sky-high enthusiasm. It was a ground-breaking gig for the Gaels, and every stop had been pulled, every sarnie buttered, to ensure things ran smoothly for the visit of St Vincent’s, St Sylvester’s, Erin’s Isle, and St Monica’s.
Neighbours Clontarf had generously allowed the Gaels the use of their fine changing facilities in St Anne’s, and their even finer pitch for Sunday’s final.
In the lee of a coppice, under a wide canopy, there was a large scoreboard with the day’s fixtures, a tray of sliced oranges and burka boilers for tea and coffee. To one side, a cheery Lugs O’Leary was stoking up scorched burgers and hot dogs at €2.50 a pop, while the club’s rúnaí, Philo Bean Uí Cathain, was barking out orders via a mega-phone.
“The throw-in for Erin’s Isle against Monica’s on pitch 29 is in five minutes. Would all players and mentors take their positions, please?”
Staging Féile was a bit like the Grand National, or the Masters, thought Vinny. It was about being patient, trusting the props were in place, yet being aware that not everything will go your way in running.
Biting northerly
As umpire, Vinny took his role seriously, from flapping his arms for a wide, to raising his finger for a score – he wanted the referees to trust him. The biting northerly meant Vinny had one busy half, and one where he was unoccupied.
For that he was grateful there was much to mull over, not least the arrival into his life of someone interested in his company, maybe more.
That someone had just walked past him, winking covertly. Vinny knew her first as Jenny Stanhope, who grew up in the boxy apartments on Mount Prospect Avenue and was known in the club as "Jenny From The Block".
Only Stanhope wasn’t her second name now, for 25 years ago, she’d married none other than Lugs O’Leary, borne him three children, one of which, Lil, was playing for the Gaels.
Now Lugs, apart from being the meanest, fiercest, critter in Clontarf, had an abiding loathing of Vinny, whom he bullied relentlessly, from the time of their schooldays in Joey’s. “Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all of the world, and Jenny had to walk into mine,” thought Vinny as the Gaels defenders found themselves under siege once more.
Lugs would have his guts for garters if he found out. Then again, thought Vinny, Lugs wasn't exactly squeaky Barry Scott clean.
After the initial shock of seeing Jenny at Fairyhouse, they had arranged to meet in Malahide, away from prying eyes. In the Stuart Hotel, where the lunch was terrific value, Jenny explained how Lugs had worn her down, with his overpowering personality, snide remarks and an increasing dereliction of duties as husband and father.
Playing away
She had suspected for some time Lugs was playing away from home with Philo – as did Vinny, who had stumbled upon their wanton whispers in St Gabriel’s. For all that, the final straw, explained Jenny, had been their silver wedding anniversary when Lugs had “treated” Jenny to a night at Shelbourne Park.
“We sat at a table with six people I’d never met and Lugs went on and on about what a great wife I was. I asked myself ‘If I’m that great, why are we here?’ I decided I wanted some excitement in my life.
“At a Holy Faith reunion last month, one of the girls mentioned the dating agency. I logged on for the craic, and a couple of nights later, you popped up.
“Everyone in the club knew Angie had given you the heave-ho, and as I always had a bit of a thing for you, I thought ‘why not?’ ”
As they surreptitiously held hands under the table, Vinny felt a pull towards this bird-like figure beside him, pert and trim at 50, with streaks of silver in her short dark hair. She was feistier than Angie, if less glamorous perhaps, but he admired her pluck, and envied it too.
They had agreed to let Féile weekend takes its course before deciding whether to leap into the unknown. By now it was close to 3.0, an hour and quarter until the off at Aintree, which Vinny expected to witness in Foley’s, pint to hand – he had already placed three each-way tenners on Many Clouds, Alvarado and Cause Of Causes.
Hammered In their three games, the Gaels had been whipped by a cumulative total of 64 points; their finale was against Monica’s, who’d also been hammered. For the wooden spoon, both teams went at it as if they were playing for the O’Duffy Cup. They were level at half-time, and full-time at 3-2 to 2-5, after which the mentors besieged the referee to play “next score the winner”, which provoked Aintree alarm for Vinny.
For nine minutes, about the time it took to race the National, neither team could conjure an opening. And then, out of nowhere, the sliothar was plucked from the air by Lil O’Leary who slipped it on the end of her hurl, soloed 50 yards and then buried a shot to the back of the net. It was the cue for bedlam. At the far end, Vinny’s fatty heart danced and he punched the air in joy.
At that, a massive forearm grabbed him around the neck. “That’s my girl,” roared Lugs O’Leary. “We’re some team, the O’Learys. I’m on cloud nine.”
As he disentangled himself from Lugs’ grip, Vinny thought of a different Cloud, number two, at Aintree. It was time to get a wriggle on.
