AGAINST THE ODDS:The five amigos are gathered under the telly in Foley's on Sunday night, but it's not the same without their old mate Vinny Fitzpatrick, writes RODDY L'ESTRANGE

TO THE casual observer in Foley’s pub in Clontarf, the scene in the lounge on Sunday night must have looked a little odd. To the regulars and to bar staff, it was poignant, almost tender. Gathered under the television, five men, all on the back nine of life, sat quietly in an L-shaped corner of the long-established public house. In front of them, was a stool upon which rested a pint of Uncle Arthur’s finest.

It wasn’t the first pint to find itself in that position that night, nor would it be the last. For when a round of drinks was ordered, six pints were called for, even though only five were supped. Every 20 minutes or so, Sinéad, the bar girl who worked most Sundays, would arrive with a tray of drinks, remove the untouched pint on the stool and carefully replace it with a “freshie”.

Then, the men in the corner would raise a solemn glass in the direction of the solitary pint. One of them would say a few words and then there was silence.

From his pitch behind the taps, Dial-A-Smile, the slow-moving, cussed barman, couldn’t help looking at the extraordinary ritual as it unfolded.

For all his sourness and unflinching rigidity to observing last orders, even Dial-A-Smile was affected by the emotions being shown for Vinny Fitzpatrick. At one point, he actually found himself welling up and duly took it out on a new apprentice barman, berating him for leaving a couple of empty glasses on the counter.

Had things been different between him and the lads, he’d have gone over and offered words of comfort, even a complimentary jar, but he couldn’t, not after all the years of bellicose bile he’d dished in their direction.

There was golf from Florida on the box that night and usually the lads, society hackers all, would have a small bet on the outcome, such as the total number of shots a group would take on a certain hole, or the winning score, that sort of thing.

They particularly liked it when there was an Irishman in the running but, on this night, they couldn’t care less. If Pádraig Harrington was going head to head with Tiger Woods down the stretch, it still wouldn’t have made any odds. When Match of the Day, was about to start, Dial-A-Smile didn’t dare to switch channels, even though Everton were on, fresh from a 5-1 drubbing of Hull City. How Vinny would have loved that, thought Dial-A-Smile.

The big fellah would have been holding court, quietly extolling the virtues of a proper football club, a proper manager, and, of course, the club with the longest of links to Ireland, not like those Johnny-come-lately lads Liverpool or Manchester United.

Dial-A-Smile thought back to when he’d first met Vinny. It would have been around when he pulled his first pint in Foley’s in the summer of 1977.

Thinking hard, he put it close to the famous Dublin v Kerry All-Ireland semi-final because he recalled Finbarr Fitzpatrick arriving in from Croker, spearheading a raucous battalion of Heffo’s Army, including his chubby son in ill-fitting flares.

Old Mister Foley, a cantankerous curmudgeon, had worked the floor then, and he’d had a right set-to with Vinny’s Da about the noise levels and how they were upsetting the customers. Finbarr had stood his ground and said he’d take himself and his friends to the Dollymount Inn for the rest of the night, and other nights too, if they weren’t served.

Old Foley, who put profit over principle any day, had caved in.

That night, the last man standing had been young Vinny Fitzpatrick, recalled Dial-A-Smile.

Even now, almost 33 years on, he could still see Vinny hoisting his old man, who was as thin as a bird, over his shoulder, like a fireman, and carrying him off in the direction of the Capri chipper.

Dial-A-Smile hadn’t made an effort to befriend Vinny that night, not even when he’d been slipped a pound for serving a round 10 minutes after closing.

It had been a rare act of civility by the barman, though one he had never dared repeat as Old Mister Foley had not only demanded the money for himself, but had docked the same amount off his wages.

It left Dial-A-Smile with a grudge against the Fitzpatrick family, one he quietly maintained to such an extent that he hadn’t even paid his respects when Finbarr had passed away a few years back.

From his pitch behind the taps, Dial-A-Smile glanced over to the corner where five heads were bent low. One of them was talking; Macker, the thin, reedy, fellow with the squinty Lee Van Cleef eyes. Looking at them, clustered around a pint, a childhood memory stirred deep inside Dial-A-Smile. He thought of the Seven Dwarfs flanking the glass coffin of Snow White, stricken with grief.

Only Vinny Fitzpatrick was about as opposite to Snow White as you could imagine and the only time he’d have anything to with apples was if they came served in a chilled pint bottle of cider.

It was exactly 11 bells. Dial-A-Smile made his trademark noticeable cough and started to drape towels over the taps. The regulars were used to his little ways and if they felt irritated, well they could always sod off to the Schooner or the Dollymount Inn if they wanted too. He couldn’t give two figs.

He was at the till pretending to count the takings when he heard a voice behind him. “Norman (for that was Dial-A-Smile’s real name), six pints please.” He turned. It was Macker.

“Gone 11, Macker, you know the house rules,” replied Dial-A-Smile curtly.

“I know the rules you live by alright you cold fish,” hissed Macker. “Consider this, if the roles were reversed, and you were in need of a pint or a glass of water, right now, Vinny would do it for you, and you know that, don’t you?”

As Macker made back for the corner, Dial-A-Smile waited till he was almost there and then called out: “Macker, will I throw in a few crisps with those pints?”

There was a silence in Foley’s. The five lads in the corner, turned and stared at Dial-A-Smile, the lounge lizards who lived by the counter did the same, even the hard chaws near the front door.

Under the telly, Macker blew out his cheeks. “I never thought I’d live to see the day that gombeen did anything decent for us. What Vinny would have given to see that?”

But Vinny wasn’t there, not this night, and maybe not any other night either. At that moment, a few miles away in the coronary care unit of Beaumont Hospital, the 52-year-old was lying unconscious in intensive care, with his wife Angie by his side.

Information was sketchy. All the lads knew was there had been a series of heart attacks, a brain hemorrhage of some sort, and maybe a stroke. They were told Vinny urgently needed corrective open heart-surgery but that doctors were afraid to operate because he was so weak. Yet without the emergency treatment, there could only be one outcome, upon which none of them was prepared to bet.

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1pt Lay AC Milan to beat Manchester United in Champions League (4/1, general, liability 4pts)