AGAINST THE ODDS:Vinny Fitzpatrick has his first swim in a year as he does his bit so the Dollymount Gaels don't get blown away, writes RODDY L'ESTRANGE
OF THE 2,500 clubs affiliated to the GAA celebrating Lá na gClub on Sunday, Vinny Fitzpatrick felt it was safe to assume that few were following the example of Dollymount Gaels.
For this small and imperfectly-formed club of renegades and rapscallions in the furthest corner of Dublin 3 felt they would mark the occasion with a quick dip in the briny. It was a tenner a head, the proceeds to go towards new hurls.
The decision had been taken, on a drunken whim, in the Dollymount Inn and all members, including Vinny, had received texts to meet at the wooden bridge on Bull Island at noon on Sunday, complete with togs and towel.
Vinny, who continued to pay his annual subscription of €75 even though he hadn’t played for the Gaels for years, had often remarked to Angie that his old man Finbarr would be spinning in his grave if he could see the state of the club he propped up in the junior championship for two decades.
While local rivals Clontarf and Raheny had their swanky clubhouses, pristine pitches and massive memberships, the Gaels remained the poor relations in this corner of Dublin’s northside. The Gaels’ base was the Dollymount Inn, where they ran a weekly Lotto, which Vinny suspected merely covered the costs of the committee’s pints, while they played on a pitch in St Anne’s which resembled an upturned egg carton. They fielded two teams, one football, one hurling, which each operated in the bottom rung of the Dublin Leagues. Sometimes they fulfilled fixtures, often they didn’t. How the Gaels hadn’t been blown away by now was a mystery.
As a comparison, Vinny felt the Gaels were not unlike Queen’s Park in Glasgow, who survived in the shadow of the leviathans, Celtic and Rangers; or Bury in Manchester.
There had been a time when Vinny followed their results in the evening paper but he had moved on and only infrequently did he bump into any of his old team-mates. When he asked how the club was going, the answer was invariably the same, “from bad to worse.” And yet, the lure of the Gaels had never fully left Vinny. It couldn’t as the club was in his blood, just as it had been in his father’s. Hadn’t he had his lip split, and his nether regions flaked for the good of the Gaels?
It explained why Vinny parked himself at the Bull Island at noon on Sunday, complete with battered Gola bag, and Angie’s words of encouragement to spur him on. “It’s time you got your backside into gear and worked your muscles. The sea will do you a world of good. What’s the worst that can happen? You’ll drown?” she’d said over breakfast.
There were about 12 denizens ready for the deep, all male, including two old sparring partners from Vinny’s junior hurling days, Lugs O’Leary and Stormin’ Norman Malone, lads who made the Kray twins seem like kittens. Neither had a tooth in their head they could call their own, while their misshaped noses, which resembled clothes hangars, were evidence of the scars of battle.
Lugs was a bully who ruled by terror and intimidation. This morning was no different.
“Well, would you look what the tide has swept up? It’s Fearless Fitzpatrick himself. I heard you had a bit of bother. But you look all right to me, apart from your gimp.”
Vinny nodded in the direction of Lugs but said nothing. The way to get around the big galoot was with actions, not words.
After a walk across the bridge past the entrance to the Royal Dublin golf club, the Gaels arrived at a row of steps cut into the rocks, from where you could dive into the deep of Dublin Bay. The club secretary, Tony “Shorty” Long, outlined what the swim was about. To make it interesting there would be a relay race, he said, out to the orange buoy which bobbed 50 yards out in choppy waters, and back.
“The first pair home gets their tenner back, plus a tenner bonus,” he said.
The draw paired Vinny with Stormin’ Norman, while Lugs landed the secretary. “Right,” growled Stormin’. “I’ll take care of Lugs; you get Shorty. I want this tenner, Fitzpatrick,” he snapped.
In the whole of his health, he’d have fancied his chances of holding his own but for his first swim in a year, and given his health condition, Vinny was up against it. A gentle swim was one thing, doing a Mark Spitz impression was quite another.
Shorty called the starters to attention. “On the count of three, you go,” he said. With that, Lugs dived into the water. It was the cue for the others to follow, crying “cheat” as they did. Vinny followed the progress of Stormin’ and took heart to see him make up ground on Lugs.
At the buoy, they came together and Vinny saw Stormin’ briefly go under. Soon, he was back and thrashing for the rocks. Steering a course wide of Lugs, he arrived back first, blood running from his nose. “Go, Fitzpatrick, go,” he screamed.
Vinny dived in and almost had a seizure as the coldness of the water shot through him. Emerging spluttering, he spied the buoy in the distance, put his head down, and began to work his arms.
His strokes were steady and sure, just as they had been when he’d learnt to swim in the Clontarf Baths as a nipper. Like riding a bike, there were some things you never forgot.
As he turned at the buoy and made for home, Vinny was about 15 yards clear of his rival, Shorty. The rest were nowhere. Feeling confident, he pushed on. Soon, the glistening steps beckoned. Vinny could hear Stormin’ shouting him home; the prize was theirs.
He was within touching distance when the cramp hit. Like a crossbow, it speared into his right calf. Screaming in agony, Vinny came to an abrupt halt. He tried to stretch his leg out to release the pain but it only made things worse. As Shorty splashed past, Vinny cried out for help. For a bit, he was able to tread water but he could feel himself struggling to stay afloat as the remainder of the field passed him by.
Just as he began to go under, Vinny felt strong arms under his shoulders. Soon, he was hoisted on to the steps, where he lay panting like a beached whale, whimpering in anguish.
“You owe me, Fitzpatrick,” hissed Stormin’ Norman. “And I don’t mean a lousy tenner either. I want the last laugh on Lugs, don’t you ever forget that.” With that, he was gone, leaving Vinny, alone and in suffering. This was one Lá na gClub he wouldn’t forget in a hurry.
Bets of the week
2pts Fulham to win Europa League final (11/4, Betfred)
1pt Portsmouth to beat Chelsea in FA Cup final (16/1, Portsmouth)
Vinny’s Bismarck
2pt Lay Munster to beat Leinster in Magners League (6/4, Paddy Power, liability 3pts)
