“It was only a matter of time before it occurred, I suppose.
“Eddie Earl?” The lad addresses me from across the court. “Are you Ross O’Carroll-Kelly?”.
Eddie Earl is challenging me and Réaltín in the Leinster Padel Championship quarter-finals along with his sister, Sophie.
Being mistaken for someone else, I reply, “I’m afraid you’re confusing me with someone else. My name is Gregor – Gregor Steggles.”
Honor has a delicate touch as she gently rubs on the graffiti, kind of like putting makeup on an old relative.
Ross O’Carroll-Kelly, or so you believe. ‘Sorcha said, “I did not require a Cosmopolitan which is a quarter-century old to inform me that I chose wrong in marriage.’
He asserts, “Don’t claim that I would not recognise Ross O’Carroll-Kelly. You tormented me throughout high school. Don’t you recall making me chase after your balls in the torrential rain while you practised your kicking? You even compelled me to take your geography Leaving Certificate exam.
I later found out he failed, unbeknownst to me he didn’t even take the subject.
“Mate, I assure you. I’m not the person you remember. My name is Gregor Steggles.”
“How about your other friends? Christian, Oisinn, and JP? I caught JP on The Late Late Show exhibiting his invention of a vertical bed.”
Réaltín steps in and asks, “Are we here to reminisce or to play padel?”
Eddie and Sophie give me a look as if questioning Réaltín’s attitude.
“Fair game,” Eddie concedes. “Good luck, Ross.”
“I am Gregor,” I clarify.
“Alright, Ross,” he retorts.
Feeling frustrated, I reply, “What are you implying by that?” I feel an urge to leap over the net and bop him on the head with my racquet.
They prove surprisingly formidable. Sophie, it turns out, was a fantastic tennis player, possibly even ranked number one in Ireland. They seize the first set, leaving Réaltín disconcerted.”
She asserts, “Your game is below par.” Responding, “I’m not feeling it yet,” I retort.
“What could you possibly not be feeling?” I query.
“I slipped something extra in your protein shake,” she confesses.
“Extra what?” I challenge.
“‘nough whinging, stand tall,” she scoffs.
Just as these words leave her mouth, I start to feel peculiar. I’m scorching hot and my body feels jittery.
When it’s my turn to serve, I throw the ball straight at Eddie, who dodges it as though a tram is lunging at him.
I taunt him, “Enjoyed that? Here’s another one for you.”
I make another excellent serve, and Eddie apprehensively says, “Bloody hell, Ross, are you well?”
“What’s that even supposed to mean?” I snap, feeling a sudden urge to leap over the net and smash his head with my racquet.
“Honestly, you’re incredibly belligerent,” he discloses, taken aback.
“Don’t heed him. He’s trying to psych you out,” Réaltín advises.
The bloke responds, “I do love a competitive match, but that serve – ”
Whack! I land another ace. He dodges it like it’s a bullet – pure Matrix-style.
“Let’s have a match already instead of being utter pushovers!” I hear myself bellow.
Eddie and Sophie exchange glances, clueless about my volatile energy but unable to stop it. My performance is so explosive in the second set that Réaltín can barely touch the ball, but we finish victorious with a score of 6-2.
A beaming Réaltín wonders, “Perhaps I gave you a tad too much?”
As we start the third set, I slip but miraculously spring back up, scoring another point. This is when Eddie and Sophie give me a sympathetic look, as if they’re picking up after their dog.
“Ross–” Eddie started.
“I’m thinking, ‘Well, let’s carry on eh?’
”Ross -“‘
‘What, there isn’t a timer in this match? There ought to be one.’
‘Ross, seems you’ve damaged your fingers.’
I glance at my hand and well, yes – he’s spot on. My little and ring fingers on my left hand jut out in strange directions, though it’s oddly painless.
‘They’re displaced,’ points out Eddie.
Réaltín announces, ‘Gregor, I’ll quickly snap them back into place.’
Indeed, Sophie and him have crossed over to our side of the court.
‘What, are you a medic?’ questions Réaltín.
‘I’m an orthopaedic surgeon – and so is my sibling. Ross, you must visit A&E.’ is his reply.
‘It’s Gregor, actually. I feel tip-top,’ I reply, utterly unbothered. I genuinely don’t feel a thing.
‘Really, Ross,’ Sophie interjects, ‘you could be in shock. You need to be in casualty.’
‘He’s just playing mind games, Ross,’ Réaltín pipes up.
‘It’s not gamesmanship,’ Eddie insists. ‘You’re not seriously considering playing on, are you?’
‘My left hand is hardly a worry. I play with my right hand. We’ll get to the hospital after we’ve handed you your backside on a plate.’
Notably, Eddie and Sophie share a worrisome glance.
‘If it’s playing the match you’re concerned about Ross,’ Eddie proposes, ‘we’ll hold it at one set for each team. We can discuss a new date after you’ve taken care of that hand.’
‘Let me have a peek at your hand,’ asks Réaltín.
Upon seeing it, Sophie exclaims, ‘Dear lord, you can’t actually be considering resuming the game?’
‘I’m about to reset them,’ Réaltín responds quickly.
At this, Eddie objects, ‘You’re not authorized to do so. You could cause permanent harm.’
“However, it’s too late. Réaltín gently guides my fingers back into place, while Eddie and Sophie turn their faces away, seemingly repulsed. Intriguingly, I should be writhing in agony but I experience nothing.
There I stand, coaxing everyone, “Let’s move on, Eddie, it’s your turn to serve.”
Eddie, however, retorts disappointingly, “Apologies, Ross. I’m unsure of what’s going on with you, but I can’t continue.”
With a triumphant smirk, Réaltín comments, “This leads to our victory then. It’s a default win. We’ve advanced into the semi-finals.”
“What a generous reward!” Sophie sneers, trailing after her brother off the court, “If it holds that much significance for you.”
Oddly enough, I sense no elation in our win. The only feeling plaguing me is, I suppose, the frustration of not having the satisfaction of clinching the victory myself. I’m buzzing with this unspent restless vigour, not knowing where to channel it.
“You ought to visit the Emergency room. You’re likely to experience excruciating pain in an hour or two,” advises Réaltín.
With unwavering determination, I counter, “Cross the net to the other side. I still need to play.”