AGAINST THE ODDS:Cricket-loving tenant occupies the crease as captain Fitzpatrick and his Foley's Taverners' XI go in search of the Vernon Shield

IT WAS late on Sunday evening, and also late in the innings, when Vinny Fitzpatrick beckoned in the direction of the slightly-built, silver-haired gent in his mid 50s. “Time to pad up, don’t you think?” he said.

The man nodded and slipped quietly into the dressingroom, armed with a Gunn Moore gear bag, from which the handle of a bat, a Kookaburra, if Vinny wasn’t mistaken, could be seen.

Around the pavilion at Clontarf cricket grounds in Castle Avenue, the subtle gesture from Vinny went largely unnoticed, even though it would soon assume significance.

Vinny knew he was stretching the rules by inviting Hussain Khan to play for Foley’s Taverners’ XI in the annual four-pub cricket challenge for the Vernon Shield; the other three were the Dollymount House, the Schooner and the Beach Roamer.

For starters, the dapper Lahore native didn’t drink alcohol and secondly, had only darkened the doors of Foley’s pub for the first time that Sunday lunch-time, and that for a cup of tea.

But as non-playing skipper of the Foley’s XI, Vinny’s hand had been forced by the late withdrawal of Simon “Sledger” Shuttleworth.

Sledger, who once opened for Clontarf Thirds, could play a bit but his real value was his non-stop chattering and border-line banter which irritated opponents.

Sadly, Sledger had been dragged away by his wife at short notice to view a mobile home in Wexford.

Worse followed when Macker, a useful spin bowler, called to say he had a fare to bring a couple of golfers to Adare Manor for the JP McManus Pro-Am.

That left Vinny with just 10 fit players, and another, himself, who wasn’t. He needed support and knew just who to turn to.

Hussain Khan and his four sons had been renting Vinny’s old family home in Causeway Avenue since the turn of the year and were shortly due to return to Pakistan – to Vinny’s disquiet as he suspected he’d never again find such model tenants.

Khan had been agreeable to Vinny’s 11th hour request and even suggested his sons, all capable cricketers, could come along if needed. Vinny had been tempted but felt he had a better chance of slipping one “ringer” under the radar rather than half a team.

The Vernon Shield was a prize worth winning, if only for bragging rights.

It was played for on the first Sunday of July by four pubs close to the old Vernon family home of Clontarf Castle, which overlooked the grounds of Clontarf CC where, 10 days earlier, thousands had thronged to see Australia play Ireland. On this balmy evening, there wasn’t a sinner to be seen.

As another wicket fell, the prospect of Foley’s XI returning in glory for late night pints seemed remote. Chasing a target of 105 to win, they were 60 for six wickets after 15 overs.

With five overs left, they needed nearly nine runs an over to win. Vinny knew the cause was forlorn unless cricket-loving Hussain Khan could conjure up a miracle.

Under Taverners’ rules, bowlers were only allowed two overs apiece, while batsmen could score 25 before retiring – theoretically it was possible to get to 24 and hit a six, a feat never achieved in Vinny’s time.

A little later, there was a strangled “howzat” from the middle and Vinny groaned. Foley’s were 66 for 7 and heading for defeat. “Hussain, you’re in. Good luck,” he said.

As he watched Khan stride purposefully to the wicket, lightly swishing the willow and loosening his shoulders on his way, it struck Vinny that so many truly great batsmen, Bradman, Border, Gavaskar, Lara, Tendulkar, were also short in stature.

Vinny looked down at the scorecard. There were 26 balls to be bowled and Foley’s needed 39 runs to win. They had three wickets left and the lads from “The Dollyer” were buzzing in the field. “Not even Imran Khan could save us,” he thought.

But Khan had other ideas. His first delivery was casually swept through mid-wicket for four; off his second, he played an exquisite square cut for another boundary.

Neither ball was struck particularly hard but rather with a firmness and placement that suggested Khan knew what he was about. “Hey, Vinny? Where’d yer man come from?” sniggered Shanghai Jimmy, who was down to bat at 11.

“Say nothing, Shanghai,” whispered Vinny.

Ball by ball, Khan nursed Foley’s back into the match. By the fall of the eighth wicket, Foley’s were up to 82, by the time the ninth man was bowled, they were on 96.

There was one over left; nine runs were needed as Shanghai Jimmy, the oldest member of the side, toddled to the crease.

Facing “Demon” Dave O’Reilly from “The Dollyer”, Shanghai padded up his first delivery only to hear Khan cry “run”. Frantically, Shanghai scrambled towards the far end, making his ground by inches, before crashing to the turf.

Signalling to the pavilion, Shanghai was clearly in pain. Vinny unstuck himself from his seat and waddled out to the middle. “What’s the story?” he asked.

“I pulled me hammer going for the single Vinny. I can’t move. I’ll need a runner,” panted Shanghai. After consultation with the captain of “The Dollyer”, who agreed to the request, Vinny found himself a few minutes later, holding a bat and standing parallel to Shanghai at square leg. From the other end, he heard Khan. “Vincent, listen to my call,” he said.

There were five balls left, eight runs required. They had a fighting chance. Khan drove the next delivery towards long off and shouted. “Run, Vincent, run.” The first leg of the operation was okay but when Vinny turned for the second, he realised he was out of gas.

It was only 22 yards back but for a corpulent 53-year-old who only broke into a brisk walk when it was time for last orders it seemed like the distance from the last fence to the winning post in the Grand National.

From the corner of one eye, Vinny spied the fielder swooping on the ball, gannet-like, out near the boundary. He knew if the throw was accurate, he was a goner. He put his head down, tried to inject power from his flabby legs and reached out despairingly with his bat.

Vinny was probably two yards out of his ground as the ball fizzed towards the stumps – it missed by inches.

Moments later, he arrived at the crease, snorting loudly like a rampaging rhino on the hoof, grinning from ear to ear; sweat dripping off his nose. He was not out, just.

Three balls remained, six runs were wanted and Khan was on strike. Perfect.

From the far end, Vinny nodded approvingly as the next ball was smashed out of the ground in the direction of the Clontarf Castle ramparts. “Howzat?” he smiled to himself.

Bets of the week

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Vinny's Bismarck

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