I had my nightmare again last night, the one where I have a one-night stand with Taylor Swift and then I ghost the girl and she ends up writing 15 or 16 songs about me and they’re on the radio constantly. And – yeah, no – I woke up screaming.
I ask Réaltín – and not for the first time either – what’s in those famous energy drinks she’s been giving me and she goes, “You don’t need to know what’s in them. You just need to know that they work.”
“At the same time,” I go, “I would like to know?”
But she’s like, “Just get your head in the focking game, will you?”
Sorcha is standing at the island with a boning knife in one hand and an espresso in the other, grinning at us like a serial killer
The old dear goes, ‘I don’t want my vital work on the campaign Move Funderland to the Northside to die with me’
‘I remember Past Ross thinking, you need to stort being nicer to Future Ross. He’s a genuinely good bloke’
‘Sorcha, I’m wondering is climate justice maybe a bit above Santa’s pay grade?’
We’re about to play Deng Chao and Yang Lina in the final of the Leinster Padel Championships and the girl is no mood for conversation. Not that she ever is?
She goes, “Do your focking job.”
There’s a surprise waiting for me when we reach the court. Sorcha has turned up to watch. And not only Sorcha, but also Honor and my old man and the goys – we’re talking JP, Oisinn, Fionn and Christian. They give me a humungous cheer, then the goys launch into a rendition of our old school anthem, Castlerock Uber Alles, followed by a chorus of, “If I had the wings of a sparrow, if I had the orse of a crow, I’d fly over Terenure College – ” and, well, you can probably guess the rest.
It’s a genuine goosebumps moment and Réaltín ends up having to tell me again to focus – “cop the fock on to yourself” – because it’s the kind of thing that could end up going to my head if I let it.
[ ‘If you play that match, Ross, our marriage is over’Opens in new window ]
That’s when Deng Chao and Yang Lina walk out and my jaw hits the floor.
I’m there, “They must be, like, 20 years younger than us.”
Réaltín goes, “Forget about them and concentrate on your own game,” which turns out to be good advice because we’re under the cosh from the very stort. They break our serve in the first game and it’s only Réaltín who keeps us in the match by breaking them back and taking the first set to a tie-break.
Réaltín, I think I’m having a hort attack. I need to know what’s in those drinks you’ve been giving me
— Ross
“Who’s that dickhead performing the running commentary?” she goes.
I’m there, “That’s my old man.”
Yeah, no, he’s going, “Ross O’Carroll-Kelly!” in his big foghorn voice. “Aka Kicker! The king of Leinster rugby and now the king of Leinster –. What’s this game called again, Honor?”
She’s like, “God, he’s annoying.”
I’m there, “You’re preaching to the choir, Réaltín.”
We win the first set thanks to an unbelievable backhand shot from her, but we’re both wiped from the effort and Deng Chao and Yang Lina’s youth storts to tell in the second set, which they win 6-2.
[ ‘You are not having a hort attack! I’m not allowing it!’Opens in new window ]
Sorcha shouts, “Come on, Ross! Try and win it!” which is what she used to shout when I was playing rugby. The goys are chanting, “Ledge-und! Ledge-und! Ledge-und!” while Honor is going, “This is, like, seriously boring? When is it going to be over?”
The answer, I suspect, is soon enough, because at 3-3 in the final set, I stort to feel seriously ropey – we’re talking shallow breath and palpitations in my chest – and I end up asking for a timeout.
“A timeout?” Réaltín goes, as we go into a little huddle. “You’re making us look weak.”
I’m there, “Réaltín, I think I’m having a hort attack. I need to know what’s in those drinks you’ve been giving me.”
She’s like, “You don’t need to know.”
I’m there, “Réaltín, I’m about 10 seconds away from walking off this court to ask my wife to phone an ambulance for me – ”
She goes, “It’s cold consommé.”
I’m like, “Excuse me?”
“That’s what you’ve been drinking.”
“Cold consommé with what? I’m guessing cocaine or something.”
My return volley hits him full-force, right in the unpublishables, and he hits the deck like a Welsh scrum
She goes, “Ross, it’s just a placebo. Look, I heard you banging on about your exploits on the rugby pitch and how your coach had you on a doping programme and I thought, ‘He thinks he can’t win unless he’s on something.’”
“So it’s just, like – ?”
“Thin soup. Cold.”
“But what about my hort? The thing is beating like a focking snare drum here.”
“Is it really that long since you won something that you’ve forgotten what adrenaline feels like?”
I’m like, “Adrenaline?” and the penny finally drops. “I’m pumped. That’s all this is.”
She’s there, “Now can we beat these two saps and go home?”
We go back to work. Réaltín storts with the sledging – “You should be ashamed of yourselves! We’re old enough to be your parents and we’ve taken you to three sets!” – and that’s when the mistakes stort to creep into their game.
Twice, Deng swings his racket and hits thin air, while I’m suddenly re-energised, buzzing around the court, high on the – like she said – adrenaline of knowing that victory is, like, this close.
“You suck!” Réaltín shouts at them across the net when I’m serving for the match – she really is the most terrifying person I’ve ever met – and I can see in Deng’s eyes that he’s beaten.
I hit the ball and it comes at him like a bullet. He manages to send it back to me, but I’ve chorged the net, and my return volley hits him full-force, right in the unpublishables, and he hits the deck like a Welsh scrum.
There’s, like, cheers from my family and friends and more chants of “Ledge-und!”
I go to hug Réaltín but she holds up a staying hand and goes, “We don’t have that kind of relationship,” which is fair enough.
We’re presented with the trophy, which Réaltín says I can keep. She goes, “I get no pleasure out of winning. The most I ever feel is relief that I haven’t lost.”
We look at each other and she sort of, like, smiles. And I know I’ll never see her again. There’s no need.
Sorcha throws her orms around me and goes, “Oh my God! You were amazing!”
By that stage, Réaltín is already walking away with her husband, Bradan, and beneath the chants of, “Ledge-und! Ledge-und! Ledge-und!” I’m almost sure I hear her go, “Yeah, I told him it was just cold consommé – and he seemed to believe me.”
