Réaltín is quiet. Too quiet.
I’m there, “How are you feeling? Is everything okay?”
She goes, “I’m trying to do my visualisation exercises,” and – oh my God – it’s, like, mind blown.
I’m there, “They were a massive, massive thing for me when I played rugby at schools level. I’m not sure if you were a fan of mine back in the day. As I was shaping up to take a kick, I’d always picture the desired outcome in my, I suppose, head? So what are you visualising – as in, what pacifically?”
‘When they see the copper, the triplets think it’s about them gobbing on the cauliflower and turmeric latte crowd - which I’m not even sure is a crime’
‘We’ve no idea what caused the fire. And we’re sticking to that story’
‘People in the crowd are staring at Honor like she’s a cold sore on debs night’
‘The thought of booking a table for one at Shanahan’s on the Green got me through my prison sentence’
She’s like, “I’m visualising playing with someone who doesn’t feel the need to fill every silence with gibberish.”
Yeah, no, she’s hord work, my new padel portner. There was no smile when I picked her up at the Glenageary roundabout. And when I offered her a high-five, she left me hanging, which would be a red-cord offence in normal circs, but I’m not going to lie to you – the girl fascinates me. She’s like a female me, if you can, again, visualise such a thing?
“Before we get out of this car,” she goes, “I want us to get certain things straight. You and I are not going to be friends. You will never, under any circumstances, contact me on my mobile, at my home or at my place of work. You may message me on WhatsApp but never about anything other than padel.”
I’m there, “But if a friendship does develop–”
She goes, “A friendship will not develop. I didn’t pick you as a partner because I liked you. I chose you because when Bradan and I played against you and your wife, I could see how much it hurt you to lose.”
“No more stories,” she goes, “about your rugby days. I’m bored by them already.”
Takes all sorts, I suppose
I’m there, “I’m just not used to it. So what’s the name of this couple we’re playing against today?”
“The Cannons,” she goes. “Matthew and Alva.”
Yeah, no, we’ve entered in the Leinster Championships, in the mixed doubles section, although we’re playing under, like, assumed names so that our respective spouses don’t find out.
“Matthew and Alva Cannon,” I go. “They don’t sound like they’re going to be any great shakes.”
“She played badminton for Ireland,” she goes, “and he’s been a member of Malahide Lawn Tennis Club for over 40 years.”
“Someone’s done their research.”
“Winning is important to me. Is this definitely the place?”
Yeah, no, I’ve pulled into some random cor pork in the middle of – believe it or not – Skerries.
I’m there, “According to the satnav, yeah. God, I played rugby out here once or twice and I could tell you some–”
“No more stories,” she goes, “about your rugby days. I’m bored by them already.”
Takes all sorts, I suppose.
“Are we here to play,” Réaltín goes, “or to make friends?” and the dude looks at me as if to say, “There’s someone for everyone – but I’d rather you than me, mate”
Long story short, we head into the place, get changed into our clobber and then we meet out on the court for a bit of a practice hit. After five or 10 minutes, our opponents arrive, a couple in their – being honest – maybe early 60s, who are all smiles.
“Gregor Steggles!” the dude goes – and I have to admit I end up looking around me, having forgotten my own – I want to say – pseudo name? Fortunately, he doesn’t seem to cop it. He goes, “Matthew Cannon,” stretching his hand out to me. “And this is my wife, Alva. And you must be Susan?”
Réaltín just grunts at him without even looking in his basic direction.
“Are we here to play,” she goes, “or to make friends?” and the dude looks at me as if to say, “There’s someone for everyone – but I’d rather you than me, mate.”
The match storts. It’s, like, nip and tuck for most of the first set. Matthew and Alva can really move for two people of their – and I hope this doesn’t sound ageist – but age? Matthew works the baseline while Alva pings around the court, hitting everything that comes within reach of her.
There’s one point where Matthew serves and I go to return it with my backhand, but I somehow slip just at the decisive moment, snotting myself in the process, and Matthew goes, “Bad luck, Gregor!” being decent about it. “Do you want to play that point again?”
I’m about to go, “Yeah, no, definitely,” when Réaltín suddenly cuts in.
She’s like, “No, we don’t. Take your point. We don’t need your focking sympathy,” and then she goes, “He’s trying to get inside your head, Gregor,” which the dude definitely wasn’t?
“Fine,” Matthew goes – then he goes to serve for the first set.
Réaltín goes, “Bad luck, Matthew,” in a definitely sorcastic way. “Do you want to play that point again?” and I can see Matthew and Alva looking at each other as if to say, “This person is a psychopath”
We manage to win the point, then – out of the corner of her mouth – Réaltín goes, “Okay, now we unleash our A game on them.”
And I don’t know how to tell the girl that this is my A game? We win the next point and the next and the next – all Réaltín and fock-all to do with me – so that suddenly we’re the ones serving for the set. I win the decisive point with a beautiful lob, which Matthew tries to reach but ends up running straight into the wall.
Réaltín goes, “Bad luck, Matthew,” in a definitely sorcastic way. “Do you want to play that point again?” and I can see Matthew and Alva looking at each other as if to say, “This person is a psychopath.”
After that, it’s no longer a match. Something clicks between me and Réaltín. I’m reluctant to say this, because it’s a big, big claim to make, but we have an intuitive understanding of each other that only great lovers, or an out-half and his inside-centre, could fully understand.
When the ball crosses the net, neither of us has to shout, “Mine!” or “Yours!” because we know instinctively where each of us should be at the right moment in time.
Plus there’s also the fact that Matthew and Alva have had their enjoyment ruined and genuinely don’t want to be there any more.
The match-winning point ends up being a dainty little shot by me that just about clears the net and that Matthew doesn’t even bother his orse moving for. I walk to the net to shake hands with him and his wife, but Réaltín walks straight off the court, shouting, “Eat shit, losers!”
“She, em, really likes to win,” Alva goes – except she means it in a bad way.
When I get back to the cor, Réaltín is standing next to it, with a look of fury on her face.
She goes, “Don’t you ever – and I mean ever – slip like that again.”
