It’s here — as in, like, the big day? Honor has reached the final of the Joshua Pim Shield and it’s the most excitement Glenageary has seen since Google accidentally called it Glasthule in the course of mapping the area and 14 per cent was wiped off local property values overnight.
The tennis club is rammers. They’ve actually had to put up, like, temporary seating to accommodate all of the people who want to watch Honor O’Carroll-Kelly — the girl who sledged her way through six rounds of the competition — finally get her comeuppance in the final of the ladies’ singles.
Although, I have to say, I think the crowd are going to go home disappointed. Yeah, no, she’s playing Villette Casey, who — with the greatest “widdle in the wordled”, as my son Ronan would say — is an unseeded outsider and as old as Glenageary itself.
“The focking state of her,” Honor goes, fixing the grey-haired old lady with a look.
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I’m like, “That’s the spirit, Honor,” because I love her attitude. “Despise your opponent, Father Fehily used to say. It makes it easier to crush them into the ground.”
The entire family has turned out to support her — we’re talking my old pair, we’re even talking Sorcha’s rents, although the two of them have faces on them.
“I do hope we won’t be seeing a repeat of your behaviour in the earlier rounds,” Sorcha’s old dear goes — because, yeah, no, she’s an actual member of the club? “I was absolutely mortified listening to the stories of your carry-on over the past few weeks.”
I’m like, “Since when are you qualified to give my daughter coaching advice?”
Sorcha’s like, “Ross!”
Her old dear goes, “It’s better to lose playing fairly than to win in an unsportsmanlike way.”
“Then it’s no wonder you’ve won fock-all in all your years playing tennis,” I go.
Her husband decides to throw his two yo-yos into the mix then. He’s like, “How dare you speak to my wife like that!”
I’m there, “I’m just telling her — you and her — to keep your ample-sized hooters out of my daughter’s beeswax. She’s on the verge of actually winning something here. The last thing she needs is her head filled with all that ‘the important thing is taking port’ horse shit.”
My old pair arrive over then. The old dear has had a Bloody Mary or two for breakfast judging by the tomato juice moustache on her upper lip.
“Well, dorling,” she goes, talking to Honor, “did you find out anything about this woman?”
Honor’s like, “Her cat just died. Chairman Meeow. He got run over by a cor on Ballinclea Road.”
“Excellent!” the old man goes, rubbing his two hands together. “EXCELLENT!”
Sorcha’s like, “Honor, you’re not seriously going to use that, are you?”
“Of course she’s going to use it,” my old dear goes.
The old man’s there, “Despise your enemy. It makes it easier to crush them into the ground. A very wise man once said that — eh, Kicker?”
I can see Sorcha’s old pair just staring at us, obviously wondering how their daughter got mixed up with this family of animals, albeit animals who are proven winners.
Anyway, I’m happy to see that, throughout this entire back-and-forth, Honor manages to maintain her focus. When her name is called, the crowd storts booing while she walks out on to the court with the resting bitch face that is the default expression of all teenage girls in this port of the world.
“Our daughter is completely devoid of human feeling,” I go — although it’s obvious from Sorcha’s face that she doesn’t think this is necessarily a good thing?
Villette Casey walks out then to a huge round of applause. She’s, like, 70 if she’s a day old and she’s getting the big-time sympathy vote from the crowd.
I go, “Take that negative energy, Honor, and use it to your advantage.”
Which, I’m proud to say, is exactly what she does do? As Villette goes to serve at the stort of the first set, Honor shouts, “How’s Chairman Meeow?”
Poor Villette ends up not even swinging her racquet. The ball falls to the ground like a dropped jelly and there’s, like, gasps from the crowd, followed by mutters of — yeah, no — disgust? Hey, if the people of Glenageary can’t recognise and appreciate someone with a big-match temperament, then maybe Google did the right thing trying to wipe them off the face of the planet.
This Villette one regathers herself and is just about to serve again. Honor goes, “I heard he met a sad end on Ballinclea Road,” and there’s more shocked reactions from the crowd.
But that’s when the most amazing thing happens.
“You know,” Villette goes, “I saw a photograph of you as a baby yesterday. Didn’t you have beautiful eyes!”
I swear to God, Honor just freezes.
“Fock,” I go.
“So beautiful,” Villette goes, “that one kept looking at the other!”
Then she serves an ace. The crowd cheers. Honor doesn’t move a muscle.
Yeah, no, I’m going to tell you one of our dorkest family secrets now. Honor had an operation to correct — I’m not sure what the actual medical phrase is? — but a honky eye when she was, like, five years old. No one — and I mean no one — outside of our family knows about it and Honor has forbidden it from ever being mentioned.
I turn around to Sorcha and I’m there, “I thought Honor told you to burn all of her baby photographs?”
She goes, “I did burn all of her baby photographs.”
I’m like, “Then how did this woman find out about it?”
“You had lovely blue eyes,” Villette goes, bouncing the ball and getting ready to serve again. “One ‘blue’ east and one ‘blue’ west.”
She hits the ball and it flashes past Honor, who again doesn’t move. The crowd roars its approval.
Honor looks up at Sorcha with the universal expression for, “Okay, what the actual fock?”
Sorcha suddenly turns her head and stares at her old dear. She goes, “Oh! My God! Mom, you didn’t!”
“Villette is an old friend of mine,” the woman goes. “And I didn’t want to see her humiliated.”
Villette — who I’m really storting to warm to, by the way? — is suddenly serving for the first game. “Blue eyes,” she storts singing, “baby’s got blue eyes,” and then she hits another winner.
All I can do is look at Honor and shrug. She’s been outplayed by a player — and when has there ever been any shame in that?
