AGAINST THE ODDS:A glorious Sunday afternoon darkens as goals fly in at Croker and Bloemfontein

APPROACHING SIX o’clock on a sultry Sunday evening, there were few Dublin supporters left on Hill 16. To the right of the goalposts, about 15 rows back, six middle-aged men, wearing an assortment of Arnotts tops, leaned wearily against a crash-barrier.

Below, to their collective disinterest, Louth and Westmeath were engaged in Leinster championship combat.

Usually this Clontarf crew were not short of an opinion or two, especially when pints were swilling around in their stomachs. But on this unprecedented day their thoughts were jumbled and silence was their companion.

Eventually, one of them spoke. It was Brennie, the youngest.

“Why did it have to be Meath?” he said softly.

Around him there were nods of agreement by the bowed heads, one of which, that of Vinny Fitzpatrick, was as red as a Cox’s pippin after two hours under a broiling sun.

It was bad enough Dublin had been hammered out of the gate, bad enough they conceded five goals for the first time since the 1978 All-Ireland final, and bad enough bumbling Pat Gilroy was making Pillar Caffrey seem like Inspector Morse.

What made it unbearable was that the scimitar had been plunged in to the exposed Dublin underbelly by the reviled Royals.

Losing to Kerry was tolerable, but losing to the pesky neighbours was not. It never had been, long before cocky Colm O’Rourke came on the scene.

Yet, the infidels from next door had pillaged the pride of Dublin’s Gaelic blue-bloods like never before. It was worse than the four-game saga of 1991 when Kevin Foley smuggled a last-gasp goal in front of The Hill.

Vinny tried to make sense of it all. Tried, and failed. “Where did it all go wrong?” he wondered, especially when the day had begun to such a perfect pitch.

On the second-longest Sunday of the year, an azure sky had greeted Foley’s elite commando corps as they gathered at the foot of Vernon Avenue for a 130 bus just after one o’clock – Vinny felt it was a good omen.

The mood had been light, almost giddy, in anticipation as these true blue Dubs mingled with fans, many half their age, enroute for a pre-Croker soiree.

Their destination, The Temple on Dorset Street, was heaving, but the lads were past masters at creating wriggle room and had crammed into the snug where the pints, and sweat, flowed in equal measure.

On days like this, it was always excusable to squeeze into a retro Dublin jersey, Wrangler jeans and sneakers. All you needed was a hefty breakfast fry-up in your belly, a few €50 notes in one pocket, and ID in another lest you got lost. Nothing else was required, only stamina.

Vinny lapped it up, like he lapped the splendid pints, making a mental note to consider The Temple as a possible haven for the Arthur’s Day renewal on September 23rd.

He was in his element, among friends, talking sport and thankful to be standing and feeling the Mae West again.

As a bonus, there was a repeat of the Dublin v Cork semi-final classic of 1983 on the telly.

“Hard to believe, ‘Sam’ has been with us only once since then, all of 27 years ago,” thought Vinny with a resigned shake of his potato-shaped head.

As 3pm approached, the talk switched to the World Cup and Vinny’s antennae twitched. England versus Germany was soccer’s equivalent of Dublin against Meath only without the safety net of the back-door.

With a modest €20 riding on England to win the World Cup at 7 to 1, Vinny rowed in behind the men in red, even if most of the pub were goose-stepping to a Teutonic tune.

There were roars of approval as Germany scored once, then twice; a few grumbles when England pulled one back and giggles when Frank Lampard’s perfectly good goal was ruled out.

“That’s one in the eye for Sepp Blatter,” thought Vinny, who was miffed, if only slightly, at the damage inflicted on his ante-post England wager by the myopic officials.

Soon, it was on to Croker where the lads took their usual pitch on Hill 16, nodding at fellow Dubs of similar girth and vintage who they saw every championship summer, and never in between.

By half-time Dublin and Meath were level, but the buzz on the famous mound of terrace was all about events in Bloemfontein: England had crashed out 4-1.

“Four goals! Can you Adam and Eve that?” asked Macker. “How could a team of England’s quality concede four goals? It just doesn’t happen at that level.”

While Vinny was amazed, he was even more dumbfounded to hear Fabio Capello had put on Emile Heskey after the fourth German goal was scored.

“If ever a man was looking to get the sack and a big fat pay-off, Capello went the right away about it with that substitution,” he thought.

Some 40 minutes later, the lads stood in a trance, struggling to grapple with the concession of another four goals, only this time by the spongy Dubs defence. That the final act was an exquisite, soccer-type finish only poured acid into the wound.

As they trundled down Clonliffe Road towards Fairview, the inquest began. Macker gave Gilroy both barrels; Fran questioned the shadowy influence of Mickey Whelan, while Shanghai Jimmy pointed out that “all moves ended with the Brogans”.

Asked to elaborate, he explained that whenever Alan or Bernard got possession, the move either petered out or a score resulted, but nothing else happened in between because “no one else ever receives the ball”.

Hitting Gaffney’s for a breather, they regrouped. Their mood was grim, not helped by a pint that was not as cool as they liked – but the day was a belter.

Despite the alluring presence in canary yellow of weather girl Jean Byrne on the telly, the lads were in need of a lift.

It arrived, courtesy of Brennie.

“Ye know, I was just thinking: what’s the difference between Stephen Cluxton and a Dublin taxi driver?”

There was a brief stillness before Vinny replied. “Go on, enlighten us,” he said.

“The taxi driver only lets in four,” sniggered Brennie.

Bets of the Week

2pt Germany to beat Argentina in World Cup (5/2, Ladbrokes)

1pt Yen Hsun Lu to beat Novak Djokovic at Wimbledon (5/1, Ladbrokes)

Vinny's Bismarck

1pt Lay Tiger Woods to win ATT National (4/1, general, liability 4pts)