There were 6,357 fans at Gresty Road on Saturday afternoon, one of whom, a burly chap in his 50s sitting in the old Railtrack Stand, had no emotional attachment to the outcome of the League One game between strugglers Crewe Alexandra and Port Vale.

Instead, Vinny Fitzpatrick’s focus was on the well-dressed folk sitting in the director’s box below to his left. Eyes narrowed, he was scouring the swanky seats for a dark-haired fiend with a Colgate smile, and a penchant for evil.

Vinny’s fleshy nose, which had never let him down, told him Roberto ‘The Rat’ was close by, wearing a snazzy designer suit and looking a million dollars – a street angel, house devil, if ever there was one. As a players’ agent, with a handful of Crewe men on his books, Roberto had an obligation to be on hand, to press the flesh – not to burn it.

For Vinny, the day’s mission was about seeking revenge for the physical and psychological hurt done to his daughter Niamh by the reprobate Roberto. All he needed was a 30-second window to strike, and he was prepared to be patient for the moment to present itself.

So far, the day had been a doddle. He’d caught an early flight from Dublin to Manchester where he’d mingled with a bunch of Irish Evertonians on their way to West Bromwich on the rattler.

Alighting at Crewe, he advised a bet on a 2-0 away win with Lukaku to score any time. “Get on lads, it’s a sure thing,“ he said.

Crewe was an historic railway station, serviced by trains from the great cites of Manchester, Liverpool, London, Birmingham and Glasgow. No fewer than 23 trains an hour hurtled through Crewe each day and Vinny, who loved the iron-horse, dallied over an ice cream by one of the busier platforms as the snorting steeds of the track paused for a breather.

As he slurped, Vinny was reminded of the old gag about which football club had the biggest dressing rooms in the English League? Crewe. Why? Because everyone changes at Crewe.

Soon it was time to make, er, tracks and Vinny headed for the nearby Royal Hotel, where he was ushered into the bar reserved for home supporters – he’d taken care to wear a well-worn Kartel red tee shirt to pass for a Crewe man.

Clear head

There, Vinny indulged in a couple of drafts of the local brew, The Fox’s Hat, and a large Chicken Balti pie. He was tempted to knock back a third but checked himself for he wanted a clear head, and a steady hand.

Half an hour before kick-off, he unglued himself for the one-minute walk to Gresty Road where he purchased a programme, had a pee, and was shown to his seat, high in the main stand.

The game, in fairness, was a dinger. As Port Vale hailed from Burslem in nearby Stoke, they had a decent travelling support, who filled most of the enclosures opposite, bizarrely named the Ice Cream Van Stand. The tackles were as spicy as Vinny's Balti pie and all three goals, two of them to Crewe, came in the first half. He reckoned Bohs, even with Jackie Jameson at his peak, would have been tanked.

Vinny allowed the crowd disperse before making his way to the players’ entrance where a handful of youthful fans were armed with autograph books.

Fair play to them, thought Vinny. With the giants of Manchester and Liverpool only 40 minutes away, it took a leap of faith to stand by a wee club like Crewe. Then again, Vinny was immersed in Dollymount Gaels, small and imperfectly formed.

There was no sign of Roberto but Vinny suspected he was smooching in the Players’ Lounge, pressing his business card into unsuspecting palms and working the room in search of new clients.

As a former player and ex-PFA rep, his credentials were as immaculate as the chic suits he favoured on match days.

It was close to six o’clock when Vinny finally clocked his prey, holding the door open for a Crewe player, gear bag over his shoulder, to come through. As the player stopped for the autograph hunters, and Roberto stood back, Vinny made his move.

For a beefy man, he could move like a cat. “Hey, Roberto. What’s the story?” he said cheerily.

Roberto turned. Briefly, his eyes tightened, then they relaxed and the showman took over. “Vincenzo, my friend. What brings you to this beautiful place today?” he said.

Vinny opened his arms and shrugged. “We were a ticket short for the Everton game at West Brom. There was a draw on the train, I missed out, so I jumped off at Crewe. Had to feed my footie fix, you know.”

“I thought you might be here so I took a chance on hanging around. Can you spare a minute?”

Roberto smiled his winning smile. “Of course. Just let me finish with the kid here,” he said pointing to the callow Crewe youth. “He is going to be a star, you know.”

Vinny bided his time before walking with Roberto and his client to the car park reserved for officials, players and guests.

Mood turned

As a shiny C Class Mercedes screeched away – Vinny was startled that anyone in League One could afford such fancy wheels – the mood turned.

“So Vinny, why are you really here? Has that bitch Niamh been making up stories about me again?” challenged Roberto.

Vinny felt anger course through him, yet he kept calm, aware that if it came to a scrap, he wouldn’t last three rounds with his chiselled adversary.

“She’s fine. She asked me to pass on a message, in private,” said Vinny, beckoning Roberto to listen.

As the Italian bent down, Vinny shot his hand into the man’s groin, grasped what he was looking for and held hard. Roberto squealed in pain and lashed out at Vinny with a right hook but the punch missed the target, allowing the busman’s grip to tighten like a vice.

“One move, one word and I’ll have your goolies for garters. Understand,” he hissed.

Roberto stiffened in pain, and shock. “Right, listen and listen good. Niamh wants you out of the house by next Saturday. You’re not to contact her, and she’ll decide if and when you can see young Vinny.

“If you don’t play by her rules, the photos of your handiwork, which I have copied, will be emailed to the gardaí in Dublin, the Greater Manchester Police, the English FA, Fifa, Uefa and the PFA. Do I make myself clear?”

As a grimacing Roberto nodded, Vinny stared at him with a controlled fury. “Right, let’s twist again, like we did last summer,” he said softly.

With that, Vinny gave his hand-held cargo a final wrench. “And that’s a little extra from me, for free,” he said before releasing his grip.

As Roberto lay groaning on the tarmac, Vinny headed back for the Royal Hotel. It was time for another sup of Fox’s Hat and a handful of Nobbie’s Nuts.