ON THE weekend Scorpio entered Sagittarius, Vinny Fitzpatrick declared open season on the bookmaking industry. For several weeks, he’d been flitting around the edges, with a little flutter here, an on-line punt there; now it was time to load up with both barrels.
The gambler in his soul, the little devil on his shoulder and that familiar tingle in his fingers and toes, had all combined to give Vinny a craving to have a bet, and a substantial one at that.
That his choice of battlefield, Boru Betting in Clontarf, was managed by his elegant wife Angie was largely irrelevant to Vinny. All was fair in love and war, after all.
Anyway, Angie wouldn’t be around to pass harsh judgment, or hand over the cash, whatever the sporting gods decided.
Heavily pregnant with twins, who were due on December 13th, Vinny had left her at home on Saturday lunchtime watching a DVD of An Affair To Remember with a box of Kleenex on her lap, and several packets of Snax to hand, as he waddled off to place his bets.
Puffing slightly, which was as much to do with being out of breath as with anticipation, Vinny pushed open the door to Boru Betting, made for a quiet corner, acknowledged a few “heads”, and fumbled for a handful of slips to scribble down his bets.
In anticipation of a long afternoon in his den in front of the goggle box, Vinny opted for a scattergun approach to his investments, covering racing, football and rugby.
He was convinced Imperial Commander (10 to 1) in the Betfair Chase and Albertas Run (7 to 1) at Ascot were over-priced. Trusting his instincts, he invested €50 each-way on the double and had a €20 saver on Diamond Harry (9 to 2) in a handicap hurdle at Haydock.
Aware that Chelsea v Wolves was live on Setanta, he punted a nifty-fifty at even money that Chelsea would score three goals or more, despite the absence of Didier Drogba and Frank Lampard.
He couldn’t see Fiji knocking Ireland out of kilter in the rugby and had a ton (€100) on Declan Kidney’s crew to win, starting with a minus 22-point handicap. As a finale, he put another score on Ipswich and Sheffield United to draw at 5 to 2 in the tea-time game on Sky Sports.
With almost 300 lids riding on the afternoon’s events, Vinny was mightily tempted to skip across the road into Foley’s for a stiffener but, for once, he did the right thing and returned home where Angie was purring on the couch, and Deborah Kerr was waiting fretfully at the top of the Empire State building.
Kissing Angie’s brow lightly, he fixed himself a super-sized toasted sarnie and mug of sweet tea before shuffling upstairs to the den for an eagerly-awaited sportsfest armed with The Irish Times, Racing Post and remote control, he’d just settled into his “Herr Flick” role when, all of a sudden, he heard Angie cry from downstairs. “Vinny, get down here right away.”
The urgency in Angie’s tone told Vinny something was amiss. It was. Angie was breathing hard, her fact contorted in pain, her hands clutching her over-sized stomach. “Vinny, the contractions have started. Get the keys to the car. We’re going to the Rotunda,” she panted.
Vinny found himself rocking on his feet. One part of him was being pulled back upstairs where the runners and riders for the 2.05 at Ascot were down at the start. Another was wondering whether it would be better to call for the local doctor, while in a little corner of his mind, the fear of the unknown was taking hold. Was this the day his life was about to change? “Are you sure we need to go to hospital? Er, maybe we should get a second opinion first?” he suggested timidly.
Angie glared at her husband. “The car. Now, Vincent,” she hissed. When Vinny became Vincent, he knew strict obedience was called for. He helped his wife up, ushered her carefully to the car only to almost undo the good work by nearly capsizing on her as he fumbled with the seat belt to her Volkswagen Golf.
“Just leave it, will you? Now drive, carefully. It’s something you’re supposed to be bloody good at,” grimaced Angie.
The three-mile drive from Clontarf to Parnell Square was one Vinny had done thousands of times in his career as a bus driver; he knew the road backwards, the traffic lights, the tricky junctions.
Yet, this Saturday, he drove like a learner on speed. He missed a gear change at Fairview, stalled on the North Strand hill and forgot to indicate right past The Five Lamps.
After pulling up at the Rotunda in a slot reserved for ambulances, he had just gone around to open the passenger door when a security guard emerged through the front doors and told him to shift. “But I’ve a pregnant wife with me and she’s in labour,” pleaded Vinny. “I don’t care if she’s in Fianna Fáil. You can’t park here,” barked the jobsworth.
By the time, Vinny found a space the north side of Parnell Square, Angie had suffered another bout of contractions. “That’s 15 minutes since the last one. They’re getting quicker. Oh God,” she moaned.
For a bit, Vinny had a vision of twins being ushered into life in the Garden of Remembrance but soon Angie felt strong enough to walk to the hospital only to suffer another contraction at the entrance, which forced her to double up again. “That one came after 10 minutes,” she panted.
This time, the security jobsworth came to Angie’s aid, ushering her into the emergency room where, after a quick examination, she was taken on a wheelchair to the pre-natal ward.
“Now, Angie, we need to monitor the heartbeat of the babies, just to be sure they’re alright,” explained a caring nurse who turned to Vinny and said: “Would you leave us for a moment? We’ll call you if anything happens, don’t worry.”
Vinny sat outside on a chair, head in his hands, heart racing. His world was completely upside down and he was powerless to do anything.
After an hour, which seemed a lifetime to Vinny, the nurse reappeared. “Nothing to be alarmed about Mister Fitzpatrick. It was our old friend, Braxton Hicks up to his tricks.” “Branston who?” said Vinny, somewhat confused. “Braxton Hicks, the man who discovered false labour,” explained the nurse. “Your wife still has a few weeks to go. Because she’s what we refer to a as a ‘mature mother’, we’re going to keep her in overnight.”
Vinny peeked inside the door where Angie was sleeping. He squeezed her hand and told the nurse he’d be back first thing.
Outside the Rotunda, darkness had fallen. Vinny looked at his watch; it was almost five. He’d be home in 20 minutes and down in Foley’s at half-past. “I need a pint,” he thought to himself . “I also need to check on a bet or two.” With that, his fingertips prickled.
Bets of the Week
Lay Ireland to beat South Africa (Evens, general, liability 2pts)
2pts Bordeaux to beat Juventus in Champions League (15/8, Bet365); 1pt each-way Italy to win World Cup of Golf (16/1, Skybet)
