AGAINST THE ODDS:Plans to watch the final day drama of the Ryder Cup in his local are scuppered by an outbreak of measles at the twins' nursery

WHEN Vinny’s mobile rang, he was tempted to ignore it, until he saw the caller ID; it was Angie. Instantly, he brushed off the crumbs of toast and flecks of scrambled egg from his lap and switched his attention from the unfolding drama of the Ryder Cup to the needs of his better half.

“Hi, love, everything okay?” he said as casually as he dared, knowing Angie rarely called during work hours. Something must be amiss.

“The creche were on. One of the kids may have measles and they are advising everyone to get checked out. Can you get the twins to Dr Brogan? I’ve made an appointment for one o’clock. Catch you later.”

With that, she hung up to leave a jaw-dropped Vinny staring at the telly in a trance.

“This can’t be happening,” he thought. It was Monday morning and Vinny’s carefully hatched plan to gorge himself on a smorgasbord of Ryder Cup singles had begun to unravel.

He was due in Foley’s for a light luncheon and a quiet pint with Macker and Fran to see out the longest Ryder Cup in history.

They had joked the night before it would all be over before Liveline began but it didn’t look that way now, not the way the Yankee tail was wagging. Heck, even Tiger was baring his claws.

It was shaping up for a nerve-jangling end-game, the first since Brookline in 1999 and Vinny was desperate to follow every shot, ideally from the dark recesses of his favourite Clontarf hostelry.

Only that pleasure had been denied him and there was nothing he could do. Having just returned to the bosom of his wife, figuratively if not literally, after a week in cold storage in his old family home, he was committed to behaving himself.

He’d stayed in on Friday and Saturday, had put the kids to bed both nights and had even sat through The X-Factor with Angie, pretending an interest in the antics of wannabe stars and the inflated egos of the judges.

Angie cooed over Simon Cowell; she liked his shiny teeth, close-cropped hair, tanned, chiselled, features and smart one-liners. She felt he was dishy. Fishy more like it, felt Vinny who was appalled his wife could fall for Cowell’s guff.

For all that, Vinny was in no position to antagonise his better half. He was on probation for a fortnight and determined not to screw it up. So far, he hadn’t dirtied his bib but there was plenty of time to make a horlicks of things. Monday was one of them.

After his wife’s call, Vinny looked at his watch. It was just past noon. His razor-sharp brain did some calculations.

Assuming the Americans plugged away and one or two tight matches went for them, he reckoned it could be half two before Europe put the deal to bed.

There was even the remote possibility that the tail-end Charlies of Graeme McDowell and Hunter Mahan could hold the destination of the cup in their sweaty palms coming down the stretch.

“If Bones Brogan gives the kids the all-clear, I should be back by two o’clock, in good time for the last volley of shots,” he thought to himself.

After texting Macker and Fran of his change in plan, he drove around to the TLC creche behind St Gabriel’s Church, where he found a gaggle of fretting mothers.

The measles outbreak was all the rage and a thought hit Vinny that he wasn’t the only parent scooping up their kids and heading for the nearest doctor.

Oisín and Aoife were 10 months now, old enough to stand while holding on to something. They could say Mama and Dada and bawl if a toy was taken away from them.

They ate all around them, slept for Ireland and were as regular in their bowel movements as their old man. They each looked a picture of health, to Vinny’s relief.

The waiting room in Bones Brogan’s place was jammers but Vinny didn’t mind. He was on the tee at 1pm, thanks to Angie, so there was no panic.

As he squeezed in to a seat that was too small for him and let the twins join in with the other nippers in a play area in one corner, his phone beeped with a text. It was Macker.

“Dustin and Stricker win. Europe lead by one”. A little after one, another text arrived. “Poults win. Europe by two”. He nodded approvingly. The Arsenal-loving dandy had more spunk in him than those light-weights in red and white at weekends, he felt.

At 1.20pm, by which time the twins still hadn’t been seen to, his phone went off again. “Rory halved with Cink. 11-9. Warming up”. Vinny was warming up too. He marched up to the receptionist’s frosted window, harrumphed and knocked loudly.

A bolt slid back and a bespectacled iron-haired lady, of considerable tonnage, looked up at him impassively. “Yes?” she asked.

“I was due to see Dr Brogan at 1pm. It’s nearly half past now. Can you speed things up a little?” he said. The receptionist nodded. “Can we speed things up?” she said rhetorically. “The thing is sir,” she said, spitting out the title, “We’re extremely busy, as you can see. You’ve heard there may be an occurrence of measles in Clontarf, as has every other parent. The doctor is run off his feet trying to attend to everyone. He would appreciate your patience, as would I,” she said, slamming the window shut.

A chastened Vinny returned to his seat, glumly aware his Ryder Cup plans were out of bounds. His only contact was by text, and Macker didn’t let him down.

“Donald beat Furyk. Europe by three,” was followed after a bit by “Mig the magnificent. Europe 13-9. Raising a pint to the great man”.

Then, the tone of the texts changed. Fisher sank, Tiger completed an Italian job and Lefty finally got it right. At 13-12 to Europe, Vinny was rocking back and forward on the seat, groaning, which prompted one lady to reach over and ask was he alright?

When news of Harrington’s loss arrived in tandem with Rickie Fowler’s half, Vinny was in a state.

“All down to G-Mac. One up, three to play”, texted Macker.

Vinny began pacing up and down the waiting room, clenching and unclenching his fists, breathing hard, his brow glistening. This was worse than the Rotunda, he thought.

Such was his peculiar conduct the lady who’d enquired after his health earlier, knocked on the receptionist’s window and pointed to the bald, overweight man in his 50s. “I think the doctor should take a look at him,” she said.

Soon Vinny, together with his kids, were ushered through to see Bones. It didn’t take long, about 20 minutes for Oisín and Aoife to get the all-clear. “Keep them home for a day or two, they’ll be fine,” said Bones.

It was now gone 3.20pm and Vinny was strapping his kids in their car-seats when another text arrived. “G-Mac wins 2 and 1. Ryder Cup is ours”.

Vinny let out a whoop of joy and began punching the air. He was so euphoric he hardly noticed his phone ring. It was Angie again. ‘Well, how did it go?’ she asked.

“We bloody well won love, by a point. Can you believe it?” he roared in reply.

“I didn’t mean the golf, I meant the kids. You did take them to the doctor’s?” said Angie stonily.

Vinny stopped for a moment and then, against the odds, he burst out laughing.

Bets of the week

2pts - Ireland to draw wtih Russia (9/4, general).
1pteach way - Matteo Mannassero in Alfred Dunhill Links Ch'ship (66/1, Extract)

Vinny's Bismark

1pt– Lay Munster to win Heineken Cup (9/1, Paddy Power, liability 9pts),