AGAINST THE ODDS:CROSSING THE wooden bridge on the Bull Island before daybreak, the man could have been an early morning walker, yet his gait was lumbering which suggested not.

He may have been a swimmer, only he was without a gear bag. No one knew what he was up to but then no one could see him. It was before five o’clock, the sun was not due to rise for another half hour, and nothing was stirring on Dollymount this May Sunday morning.

At the entrance to Royal Dublin Golf Club, Vinny Fitzpatrick veered left of the clubhouse, looked furtively about him and then cut across the famed ‘Garden’, an out of bounds landmark which patrolled the right-hand side of the 18th hole.

Traversing the fairway, he tip-toed through gorse behind the 15th tee and shuffled on to the back of the 16th green where he stopped, panting slightly.

Standing in a hollow, looking down the fiercely sloping green, Vinny cast his mind back to the Carroll’s Irish Open of 1983.

That summer he had stood in the exact same spot, only feet away from the greatest golfer he had ever seen, Seve Ballesteros, whose sad, untimely, passing had prompted his Dollymount dawn patrol.

Most of Vinny’s sporting loves were teams, Everton, Bohs, the Dubs, only a handful were individuals; the late Jackie Jameson was one, Seve was another.

Like Vinny, they were all children of 1957; unlike him, they were gifted sportsmen.

Vinny had been fortunate to see ‘The Great Man’ of Dalymount play countless times for Bohs, but only ever got close to Seve when the Irish Open pitched tent in Dublin each summer.

Usually it was Portmarnock, which made it harder for Vinny to mitch off work. So when the Open came to Royal Dublin in 1983, he had been made up. He had arranged more cover than an Egyptian Mummy and hardly missed a shot, not any of Seve’s anyway.

Vinny had never admitted it to the lads but he was in complete and utter awe of Seve. In those days, it was a hanging matter in Foley’s to dare suggest that any fellah was handsome but Seve was, and dashingly so.

Not only did he look the part, he played a game which Vinny found mesmerising. Most pros were down the middle off the tee, on the green in regulation and holed out in two putts, not Seve. Like Vinny and other hackers, Seve hit the ball into car parks, bushes, trees and dunes; unlike Vinny and Co he could find a way out.

But it was the short-game which Vinny found most magnetic. For chipping, bunker-play and putting, Seve was sensational. Better than anyone else, including Tiger Woods, thought Vinny.

And on every shot, Seve wore his emotions on his silky Spanish sleeve, from the thundery scowl to the mega-watt smile, Seve’s expression told you how he felt.

And even now Vinny could vividly recall the Spaniard’s intensity at the back of the 16th green all those years ago. The summer of ’83 would never be forgotten by Vinny. It was the year of the Dubs, Lester won the Derby, and Seán Kelly wore yellow in the Tour de France, but most of all, it was the summer when Seve came to town, all swash and no buckle. Vinny had been enthralled, bunking off from a shift on the buses to follow the cavalier Spaniard’s opening round.

It seemed half of Dublin had the same idea as the galleries were 10 deep after Seve and Royal Dublin, for all its virtues, wasn’t blessed with towering dunes to aid viewing.

Even in his mid 20s, Vinny had never been Mr Nimble so he’d mapped out a route to enable him to see as much of Seve as possible, without undue hardship. After seeing Seve slash a tee shot out right on the 15th, Vinny had tootled over to the back of the 16th where he took his place on a grassy knoll behind the green.

The hole was a short par four and, unusually enough, was playing downwind that day so was comfortably in reach for a big hitter like Seve, if he hit a straight one. Of that, there was no guarantee.

In his mind’s eye, Vinny could recall seeing raven-haired Seve, a distant speck on the tee, wearing a bright red shirt. He could still hear the lasso-like crack at the delayed sound of the tee-shot.

The strike was pure and the ball cleared the praetorian bunkers guarding the green and skipped over the back down into a dingly dell. With the pin tucked into the back right-hand corner, Seve faced an impossible shot.

And the glowering grimace on his tanned features when he arrived, suggested even this recovery would prove beyond the master escapologist.

Seve had moved the galleries to the right, then to the left, he repeatedly coughed and he walked up to the pin and back countless times.

Vinny had felt a bump and run shot might work only there was a risk the ball would finish back where it started. Seve took out one club, had a swing, put it back and then took another. Eventually, he withdrew a lofted club, a wedge of some sort, and assumed what might be politely described as a toilet position, knees bent, bum far lower to the turf than is conventional.

Even now, 28 years on, Vinny could see the full swing, the shoulder turn, the fierce acceleration, the crisp contact and the arc of a ball as it steepled skywards.

The ball travelled higher than forward before plunging, like a gannet, and stopping exactly where it dropped, inches from the pin for a tap-in birdie. The greatness of the shot was acknowledged by roars of approval from the gallery, including Vinny, and by a clenched fist from Seve.

Seve went on to win the Irish Open that year, beating the pipe-smoking shorts-sporting Brian Barnes by a couple of shots. As he raised the winner’s trophy and beamed that famous Colgate smile, Vinny had wondered how important that outrageous up and down on the 16th had been?

On this Sunday morning, as he looked about him, Vinny was fairly sure he had a mark on the spot where Seve’s wedge had weaved its magic. He took out a brown wooden tee peg from his pocket, on which he’d carved a tiny ‘S’ on the head.

Kneeling, he planted the tee into the spongy linksy turf and said a little prayer, thanking Seve for enriching his own humdrum existence. In Vinny’s time, golf had its heroes, The Golden Bear, Watson, Faldo, The Great White Shark, The Big Easy, Lefty and Tiger, and Seve.

Seve. Seve. Seve. So few sportsmen were known by their first name. Seve was and always would be, world without end. Amen.

Vinny’s Bismarck

1pt Lay Antrim to beat Donegal in Ulster SFC (9/2, Paddy Power, liability 4.5 pts).

Bets of the Week

1pt each-way Adam Scott in The Players Championship (33/1, Betfair).

2pts Stoke City to win FA Cup outright (2/1, William Hill).