AGAINST THE ODDS: AFTER STRETCHING his putty calves, and swinging his arms wildly to ensure a steady blood flow, Vinny Fitzpatrick felt as ready as he was going to be.
The coastal walk from Portmarnock to Malahide was a winding two miles and marked the first steps in the rehabilitation, both mental and physical, of the portly Dublin Bus driver. Vinny’s scars were healing but the burn marks on his soul were going to take that bit longer following the fire in Causeway Avenue.
He had moped about at home for long enough when Angie, running out of patience, produced the branding iron after a late breakfast and prodded her husband’s amble hide. “Go for a good walk, love. It’s great for clearing the mind. And if you don’t come back in better form, I’ll send you out for another one.”
Taking the hint, Vinny had dug out a tracksuit, which had seen better days, and a pair of battered runners, which had a faint whiff of mouldy cheese. He knew his wife was right. She invariably was. He didn’t enjoy being Mr Misery Guts and needed to get back into his familiar routine of work, family and Foley’s – God, how he missed the place. It was time to unclutter the grey cells, to break free from the chains of depression. All long journeys started with a small step and he was about to take his.
Some 45 minutes later, Vinny hopped off the 32B bus at the Portmarnock terminus and ambled across the road to the Martello Tower for his warm-up. As he did so, countless joggers and walkers, went by. Some were on their own, others in pairs. The wind was fresh off the sea as he let the brake down and eased himself into the flow of human traffic. It didn’t bother him that he was passed out almost immediately, for he was in no great rush.
Briefly, he thought about writing to Fingal County Council to suggest they put in a slow lane on the walkway. He was familiar with the walk, from his days as a nipper when he and Fran used to cycle out from Clontarf in the summer. The little pier at High Rock, a place for ‘accomplished swimmers’ only, was still there; as were the sandy steps down to the lovely beach at Low Rock.
Gannon Park, in contrast, was relatively new to Vinny. It was the home of Malahide United but more famous as the training ground of the Republic of Ireland football team. The Boys in Green were playing later that night, in the faraway Faroe Islands, and Vinny pondered on what Giovanni Trapattoni was going through. After the 6-1 loss to Germany, the little Italian was on the back foot, with the media calling for his snowy head. Even his great protectors on the RTÉ panel were unable to make a case for Trap’s defence.
The word on the street was the FAI had run out of patience and Trap would be gone by the end of the week, no matter what happened in far-off Torshavn. To shaft Trapattoni would be an act of treachery, thought Vinny, and a typically Irish decision. “We love to build our heroes up, only to knock them down again,” he thought.
It was only a few months since Trapattoni was hailed as the greatest Irish football figure since Jack Charlton and now the blood-thirsty mob wanted to strip him of his dignity, and his job, over one lousy result.
Vinny didn’t buy into it. Trapattoni, to his mind, was a near miracle worker. He’d brought organisation, structure and self-belief into a squad and had delivered what the FAI hired him to do by qualifying for a major final. The Italian’s record in qualifying games was staggering. He’d lost just three games out of 24, to France, Russia and Germany and none at all away from home. No other Irish manager had a CV like that, not John Giles, Eoin Hand, Mick McCarthy or even Jack Charlton.
Not only that, Trap was working with players of modest talents – there were no world-class stars like Liam Brady, Paul McGrath or Roy Keane in the ranks. Vinny shook his head as he recalled the night in Hampden Park under Charlton where there was so much quality in the squad that McGrath and Ronnie Whelan filled in as full-backs.
Those days were long gone, due to the influx of players from Eastern Europe, Africa and South America into the Premier League. While as many Irish lads as before were still going over the Irish Sea, most of them were earning a crust at Championship level, or the SPL. Trapattoni was making do with the workmanlike tools given to him.
The Germany game had been grim but few folk pointed out that of the five pillars of the side Trap inherited, only one of them, John O’Shea, played on Friday. Shay Given and Damien Duff had retired; Richard Dunne and Robbie Keane were missing, along with Glenn Whelan, who reminded Vinny of tigerish Tony Grealish, so useful was the unsung midfielder to the cause.
Trapattoni had gone to battle armed with little more than a peashooter against the German Panzer divisions, crammed with Champions League stars. Could people not see this? Could someone not speak out on his behalf?
By now, Vinny had passed the entrance to the old golf links at Malahide and was closing in on the Grand Hotel where he and Angie had their first date on Valentine’s Day, 2008, about the time Trapattoni’s name was linked with the Irish manager’s job. His brow was glistening with sweat but there was a purpose in his step as he marched steadily on to the tennis courts in Malahide, which marked the end of the walk.
He checked his watch; it was a quarter to one. There was something he wanted to do; something he had never done before. He took out his mobile phone and made a call to an 1850 number stencilled inside his head. “Hello, my name is Vinny,” he said when it answered. “I’m from Clontarf. I’d like to talk to Joe.”
Bets of the Week
2pts Norwich to beat Arsenal in Premier League (11/2, Paddy Power)
1pt (each-way) Michael Thompson in McGladrey Classic (33/1, Boylesports)
Vinny's Bismarck
1pt (lay) Connacht to beat Harlequins in Heineken Cup (3/1, Bet365, liability 3pts)
