AGAINST THE ODDS:Ol' Bones Brogan's suspicions are proved correct as Vinny faces up to some grim news and another stark warning to change his ways

SITTING IN the blue room on the ground floor of Beaumont Hospital, Vinny Fitzpatrick was, to put it bluntly, bricking himself.

This was worse than waiting for the Leaving Cert back in Joey’s, Fairview, in 1976 – and those results hadn’t gone so well, he recalled.

It helped having Angie by his flabby side, holding a moistened paw for support.

Angie was more than Vinny’s wife; she was his rock, his Ireland’s Eye. Her presence, he knew, would provide strength for the trials which, almost certainly, lay ahead.

It was a muggy morning and all was strangely serene at the usually over-crowded hospital on Dublin’s northside.

The nurse, Brenda, who’d met them at reception, joked that fewer people seemed to take ill on bank holidays than on most other days of the year.

“The only time it’s quieter is between Christmas Day and New Year. Makes you wonder,” smiled Brenda, who informed them their doctor would be along presently.

“Dr Hume will run through all the results. He’ll have spoken to your physician, Dr Brogan. All will be made clear – and don’t worry,” she added.

Briefly Vinny allowed himself a smile at the notion of his old friend, Bones Brogan, being referred to as a physician.

But soon the anxiety returned and his breathing came quicker than he would have liked.

The blue room was bright, furnished with soft chairs, oil paintings and a water dispenser. Where better to hear bad tidings, thought Vinny.

Turning to the morning papers for a distraction, Vinny spied the date, Monday, August 1st. It was a rare day, he thought, when the bank holiday coincided with the first day of August.

Officially, today marked the first day of autumn, something which Vinny found rather bizarre.

He knew that August, without fail, was the second-hottest month of the year in Ireland and should, by rights, be afforded summer status. No leaves would fall for another six weeks, at least.

Vinny was considering writing a letter to the paper of record to initiate a campaign for a change to the Irish seasons, when there was a knock on the door and Dr MacDara Hume, complete with entourage, swept in.

Tall, robed, white-haired and wearing half-rimmed glasses. A ringer for Albus Dumbledore, thought Vinny, a fan of the Harry Potter films.

“Ah Vincent, good to see you, good to see you,” he said offering a handshake of tungsten. “Now, now, what have we here, what have we here?” he said, opening a folder that was thrust in his arms by one of his staff.

“Right, Vincent Finbarr Fitzpatrick, aged 53 of Clontarf. Overweight, I see, bordering on the obese, I see.

“Medical history not good, I see, stroke and heart attack last year, I see. A bus driver, I see, sedentary occupation, not good either, I see. Hmm, I see.”

A polite sort, Vinny tilted his potato-shaped head to an angle and coughed politely. “Doc, the suspense is driving me mad. What’s the jackanory here?”

Dr Hume did a brief double-take. “Ah, yes the tests. Right. They confirmed what we thought old boy, which I suspect is no great shock to you. After all, prostate cancer is not uncommon in Irish men over 50s; not with your profile; no, not at all.”

At the almost causal mention of the C word, Vinny stiffened and cursed inwardly.

He had been praying all weekend that the battery of tests he’d undergone would show nothing more than a kidney infection, something to be cleared with a few antibiotics. He’d even got his head around forgoing a jar in Foley’s for three or four days – a terrible penance.

But deep down he knew he was probably kidding himself. He hadn’t been summoned to Beaumont on Friday for a biopsy just because he’d a cold in his kidneys.

A camera hadn’t been inserted – with extreme discomfort it must be said – into his most private of parts, for the sake of merely having a nose around. It was done to confirm the suspicions of ol’ Bones Brogan.

And what had the tests discovered? The Kerry dancer, that’s what. The ghastly two-syllable word no one wants to hear, and so often the calling card of the grim reaper.

As Dr Hume droned on about blood samples, PSA levels and various forms of therapy, Vinny drifted into the ether.

He felt himself flush, hot one moment, cold the next. He wanted to be stoic, to stare down the angel of dark, but instead of a stiff upper lip he displayed a wobbly lower one.

At 53, he wasn’t ready for this. What about Angie and the twins? His pregnant daughter, Niamh? The lads? Foley’s? The Dubs and Everton? Arthur’s Day on September 22nd?

But then cancer didn’t play to a regulatory tune. It didn’t wait until you were 75 or 80 before tapping on the shoulder and whispering “time gentlemen, please”.

It struck indiscriminately, the young and old, the fit and the fat, teetotallers and drunkards.

“Are you listening to the doctor?” hissed Angie.

Vinny regrouped and focused in on Dr Dumbledore Hume in front of him.

“Your Gleason Score is vital as it grades the tumour pattern,” he intoned.

“On a score of two to 10, low is good, high is bad. You’re six, I see, which is fair to middling, fair to middling.

“Your age is in your favour, I see, your health history and your weight is not. If I were a betting man – and I’m not – I’d give you a 70-30 chance, but only if you apply yourself.

“I’ll suggest a course of radiotherapy, to start within a fortnight. Until then, take it easy. Do I make myself clear?”

Vinny blinked and nodded. He wanted to speak, to say thanks, but the words got caught up in his throat.

Instead, he wiped a snuffly nose in his sleeve and thrust a meaty mitt towards Dr Hume.

Outside the hospital, the sun was blazing and Dubliners would be soon heading for the beach; Dollymount would be jammers.

Vinny’s head was in a swirl but he couldn’t let his fear show. He turned to Angie and grinned. “Seventy-thirty eh? What odds I’ll be standing above ground this time next year love?”

Angie allowed a single tear tip-toe over a chiselled cheekbone. “I’ve never bet against you before darling and I’m certainly not going to start now. Go mbeirmid beo ar an am seo arís,” she said throwing her arms around Vinny.

“I’ll drink to that,” quipped her portly husband.

Bets of the week

2pts win Manchester City to beat Manchester United in Community Shield (21/10, Paddy Power)

1pt e-w Dustin Johnson in WGC Invitational (20/1 bet365)

Vinny's Bismarck

2pts Lay Tyrone to beat Dublin in All-Ireland SFC (6/4, Boylesports, liability 3pts)