AGAINST THE ODDS:The Pocketeers take on the Cosmos for the Black Ball Trophy, one of snooker's greatest rivalries. But can they upset the formbook, asks RODDY L'ESTRANGE

THE TAP on the shoulder, when it came from Charlie St John Vernon, was not entirely unexpected but Vinny Fitzpatrick still felt the hurt as it meant an end to 33 years’ service for The Pocketeers, a motley crew of snooker players attached to Foley’s pub.

For all the progress made after his stroke, Vinny’s touch on the green baize had gone to pot. His eye was still sharp but the mutton hands no longer had the mastery of the cue. These days, his game was more Henry Higgins than John Higgins.

A three-frame trial against Shanghai Jimmy in Clontarf GAA club on Sunday evening, where Charlie was a member and the pint was excellent, confirmed Vinny’s exclusion from the Pocketeers for the Black Ball Trophy.

Vinny’s highest break had been 16; he was repeatedly out of position and conceded countless fouls. At one point, he missed a red by miles and, groaning, allowed his heavy head rest on his old Peradon cue.

Despite having mild Parkinson’s which sometimes caused his own cue to behave like a rattlesnake, Shanghai was in the team; Vinny was out. This year, he would be a non-playing substitute, a Shanghai prop, nothing more.

The Pocketeers had once been a thriving northside troupe who played money matches against the likes of the Coolock Cuemen, the Baldoyle Breakers, Santry’s 147 Club and the famed Cosmo Crew from Fairview.

Alas, their sporting trade was now a memory apart from one glorious tradition, the annual challenge against the Cosmo for the Black Ball Trophy.

It took place on the Monday afternoon of the May Bank holiday to coincide with the final of the World Snooker Championships in Sheffield, the last session of which was watched in Gaffney’s pub over mounds of sandwiches and fine pints.

There had been some long nights in Gaffney’s over the years, notably 1985 when Dennis Taylor and Steve Davis played out the most dramatic finish to a world final and the place went berserk when the final black was sunk – it was some time later when the last pint of black followed it.

For years, Vinny had been an unorthodox, if effective, member of The Pocketeers.

He wasn’t a flashy potter – his highest break was 66, which he felt was appropriate as it marked the year Everton won the FA Cup – but his safety play was sound, his nerve steady.

The Black Ball Trophy had been played for since 1962 and consisted of three doubles and six single matches. All games were the best of five frames. On his debut in the late ’70s, Vinny had been paired with his old man, Finbarr, and they’d swept the boards in a famous 7-2 win.

Of late, however, the Cosmo Crew had become so dominant there was even talk of allowing potters from the Dollymount Inn and The Schooner prop up The Pocketeers, a bit like the European golfers joining forces with Britain and Ireland in the Ryder Cup.

The Foley’s old guard were adamant it wouldn’t happen but Vinny knew they were snookered. After this year’s Black Ball Trophy, the game would be up.

Alighting the 130 at Edge’s Corner in Fairview, Vinny felt slightly out of place with his fellow Pocketeers, all armed with cue cases and false optimism. “This is going to be a hiding,” he thought.

With its peeling wallpaper, hard benches and muggy, murky, interior, the Cosmo was a world apart from The Crucible; the standard was too but the Black Ball Trophy was a coveted prize and Charlie Vernon was desperate to bring it back to Foley’s.

“I fancy us big-time in a tight match, lads. They are used to whipping our backsides, they won’t have the bottle for a battle. Keep the heads down, hands steady and treat your cue like a lady, with care,” he said in the pre-match huddle in the toilet.

“By the way, if we win this, all the drinks, and I mean all, are on me,” said Charlie, who could afford such extravagance as his family owned half of Clontarf.

For the doubles, Shanghai was teamed with Brennie; it was an ill-fitting partnership. Shanghai was cautious, Brennie played at a breakneck pace and they didn’t connect.

They were walloped 2-0 by two spiky-haired fellahs in smart waistcoats half their age and Shanghai managed just three single reds.

Sneaking out for a fag before the singles, he confided in Vinny. “Me nerves are in rag order Vinny. I’m as jumpy as a pogo stick.”

Vinny studied the slight build and rheumy eyes of his old friend, now nudging 60. “Listen up Shanghai. You’re a Pocketeer on merit, not out of sympathy so stop feeling sorry for yourself.

“I’ve seen your long pots, your safety and your break-building. Forget about the doubles, it doesn’t suit your style. Lock yourself into a cocoon and stay there for the next hour. Remember, to a brave heart nothing is impossible.”

Shanghai’s opponent looked like he was still in school but the boy could play and had already notched up a couple of century breaks. Vinny felt for his old friend. The match score was 2-1 to Cosmo which meant The Pocketeers needed four of the six singles to win. In racing terms, they were 33 to 1, double carpet.

But then, a strange thing happened as the six games unfolded. The Pocketeers began to live up to their nickname; balls were dropped and momentum generated.

Each successful pot heralded a “go on you good thing” roar from Charlie Vernon, which was tut-tutted by the Cosmo captain.

Shanghai got an early break when his opponent, who looked like Judd Trump, left a red on the lip. With the balls open and the black lying handy, the veteran clippie rattled off four reds and four blacks for a useful 32.

On his next visit, he picked off two more reds and two pinks, before playing a snooker. Ten minutes later, the frame was over and Shanghai, eyes shining wildly, was one up.

Across the tables, incredibly, all six Pocketeers won their first frame; Charlie Vernon was marching up and down the line, pumping his fist and thumping his players on the back; he nearly knocked Shanghai for six.

An hour later, the picture had crystallised. Five games were finished, three of them won by The Pocketeers and the match score was level, 4-4; the outcome hinged on Shanghai who was locked in a low-scoring duel with Twin of Trump in a tight decisive frame.

With the colours on their spots, the final red would be decisive. Twin of Trump took a punt into the top corner but left it teasingly close to the edge. A fine cut was on, if Shanghai had the courage to take it on.

He did. Slowly, Shanghai eyed up the angle. He took careful aim before pausing to wipe a bead of sweat from his brow.

Settling down, he drew back his boney right arm and released the cue. There was a slight shudder, almost imperceptible and contact was a fraction skinny. The red ball hit the jaws, wavered and stayed on the lip.

Shanghai couldn’t believe it. He tilted his snowy-head to one side and glanced over at Vinny. “So much for a brave heart eh?”

Vinny felt a lump rise in his throat; he had never known his old friend be any braver.

Vinny's Bismarck

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