AGAINST THE ODDS:Approaching Clontarf Bus Depot after nearly six months on sick leave Vinny gets some news from his lodgers the Khans

AS HE stood in front of the mirror, wearing underpants and a string vest that had seen better days, Vinny Fitzpatrick considered the doctors who’d urged him to lose weight.

“They’d be tut-tutting about not a lot been done and how much more there was to do,” he thought to himself with a smile.

Vinny’s beer belly was its old flabby self; his love handles protruded as before and his jowly features had returned. He was ruddy-cheeked, double-chinned and overweight. “Excellent,” he said to himself.

It had taken several months for Vinny to return to his fighting weight of 17 stone. But he was back now, waddling in all his gut-busting glory.

Following the stroke in March, and subsequent heart scare in July, the weight had dropped off quicker than the price of bank shares. At one point, he looked like a survivor of Belsen and the scrawny image had unnerved him.

Vinny had no desire to live until he was 85 looking like a stick insect, nibbling five portions of fruit and vegetables a day, bored out of his tree.

He’d much rather slurp five pints a day, throw in the odd bag of crisps and peanuts, and take his chances on life’s spinning wheel.

Gary Player may look great for someone in his mid-70s but Vinny felt, deep down, he was probably miserable. So what if Player lived on raisins, did 1,000 press-ups before breakfast, and could hold his bladder for 14 hours? “If you haven’t experienced the bliss of battered onion rings and curried chips after a feed of pints, you haven’t lived Gary me ol’ mucker,” thought Vinny to himself.

Anyway, because of the couple of health shocks, which had forced him to chill out for a bit, Vinny reckoned the odds against him suffering another hit were high.

So high that if he was offered another 10 years of the good life, the gargle and the craic, at even money right now, he’d have but his house on it. He reckoned he was probably good for the thick end of another score, which should be enough to see the twins, Oisin and Aoife, out the door.

Right now, he was 52, porky and proud.

He was also late for his return to work and needed to get a wriggle on. It was time to get dressed, grub up, and get going.

It was almost six months since Vinny last clocked in for duty at Clontarf Bus Depot, and a lot of gargle had flowed under the bridge of the Naniken river which flowed through nearby St Anne’s Park, since then.

He thought of the little brook which rises between Santry and Ballymun and flows to the sea via Beaumont, Artane and Raheny and reckoned that most of, if not all, the Clontarf routes crossed the gurgling Naniken at some part of their journey.

As he walked to work, Vinny was kitted out in his standard Dublin Bus suit, which still fitted snugly, over which he wore a raincoat.

His potato-shaped head was bare as he liked to feel of the spatter of rain across his scalp even though it meant the loose strands of what little hair he had were blowing, tendril-like, in the wind.

(The lads in Foley’s slagged Vinny mercilessly over his Bobby Charlton comb-over, and the way he tried to pat it down, but it didn’t bother him.) Approaching the garage from Conquer Hill Road, he walked past the turn for Causeway Avenue, site of the old Fitzpatrick family home, where he had lived for 50 years.

Out of nostalgia, he glanced towards the little terraced house at the end of the cobbled street. The thought crossed his mind it was time he dropped in to see his Lahore lodgers, the Khan clan, when he heard a shout from a dapper figure standing by the front door of his old home.

“Mister Fitzpatrick, Mister Fitzpatrick. Wait a moment.” It was Hussain Khan, whom Vinny liked hugely, as much for his innate manners and decency, as for his capacity to play a match-winning role for Foley’s Taverners’ XI earlier that summer. That he paid the rent on time was a bonus.

As Khan advanced up Causeway Avenue, he let rip with an ear-splitting wolf whistle that would have done Giovanni Trapattoni proud.

Soon the Hussains’ sons, all four of them, appeared, all running from the direction of the bus garage around the corner. They all smiled at Vinny and pumped his hand.

“We didn’t want to miss you Vincent,” said Khan senior. “We heard you were going back to work today and had to see you before we go. The boys were at the gates of the garage, while I watched out for you here.” Vinny blinked. “Before you go? What do you mean Hussain? Is there a problem with the house? If it’s the rent I’ll knock €100 off it a month, if you like.” Hussain Khan smiled. “No, no. That will not be necessary, but thank you for your kindness.

“As you know, we agreed initially to stay for six months and then extended that to a year. But now we must go back to Lahore a few weeks early. We are leaving next Monday. You see, we are all so upset about this terrible business with the Pakistan cricket team. My eldest son, Ahmed, has started up a website called Play It Straight For Pakistan and has been overwhelmed by the support he has got.

“We are needed in Lahore, where we feel we can do something. We must do something,” he added, tears welling in his brown eyes. Vinny had followed the unfolding scandal over alleged betting scams involving the Pakistan cricketers in Britain and could only guess how it must be hurting the ramrod-straight Khan family.

“Before we go, Vincent, we want to give you a present, as thank you for providing a roof over our heads,” said Hussain.

“Especially one with Sky Sports so we could follow the cricket,” chirped Ahmed.

With that, the youngest Khan, Amir, came forward, with a cricket bat. Not just any bat, Vinny noticed, but a gleaming top of the range bat from Gray-Nicolls.

“This bat was used by Mohammad Yousuf when he played for Lahore City before he ever played Test cricket and became Cricketer of the Year.

“I have taken good care of it and would like you to have it; we all would,” said Khan.

As he was handled the precious willow, Vinny was speechless. This was like getting a driver used by Tom Watson, or one of Seve’s old wedges, or a putter wielded by Tiger. He shook hands one more with the four Khan siblings, and hugged Hussein. “Thank you so much,” he said, his voice creaking with emotion.

With that, he waved goodbye and carried on towards the bus depot.

Seconds later, Vinny Fitzpatrick trotted across the forecourt, brandishing his new weapon as he imagined crisp cover drives and punchy square cuts. It was, truth be told, an improbable sight.

Vinny's Bismarck

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