Johnny Ball Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1 The Balls: A Football Family

  Chapter 2 Billy the Bully

  Chapter 3 “Can he Kick it? Yes, he Can!”

  Chapter 4 The County Cup Team Trial

  Chapter 5 What Does an Assistant Manager do?

  Chapter 6 The First Training Session

  Chapter 7 “Sicky” Saves the Day!

  Chapter 8 The Legend of Lenny Lomas

  Chapter 9 Koyo Kicks the Flame-Rock!

  Chapter 10 No One Likes a Ball Grog!

  Chapter 11 Nice Moves, Disco Ball!

  Chapter 12 “Just” the Assistant Manager?

  Chapter 13 Who’s Afraid of a Penalty Kick?

  Chapter 14 A Football Idea to Forget

  Chapter 15 Attack of the Comedy Keeper!

  Chapter 16 Johnny Ball: Manager

  Chapter 17 Billy’s Boots

  Chapter 18 A Scary Scouting Adventure

  Chapter 19 Tissbury’s Trojan Tabia

  Chapter 20 Diving’s for … Dingbats!

  Chapter 21 Johnny Plays Ball!

  About the Author

  Copyright

  If I had to pick three words to describe my family, I’d go for:

  1. FOOTBALL

  2. FOOTBALL

  and…

  3. FOOTBALL.

  “What else is there?” my dad likes to say. He also likes to say that if he hadn’t broken his right ankle playing for Tissbury Town when he was younger, he would have been a football superstar. “I’d have won the World Cup for sure!” he says often. I used to think this was a joke, but he never laughs when he says it.

  Whenever Dad talks about his right ankle, Mum rolls her eyes and stops listening. She does that when I tell her my most horrible jokes too.

  “Why was Tigger in the toilet?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Because he was looking for Pooh!”

  “Urgh, DISGUSTING!”

  Mum used to be the captain of Tissbury Town Ladies, but she never boasts about being so good.

  Tissbury Town is our local football club. We go to watch their games every weekend at the Railway Road Stadium. My older brother, Daniel, already plays for their youth team, the Tissbury Tigers Under-15s. He’s a speedy striker and, according to Dad, one of the best young players that our town has ever seen. I think Dad might be right about that one, for once.

  And what about me? Well, I was named after two Tissbury Town legends:

  But don’t worry about all that – just call me Johnny. Nice to meet you!

  Luckily, I love football just as much as my mum, dad and brother do. I love football for lots and lots of reasons: the action, the excitement, even the offside rule. When a bunch of people kick a ball around a pitch, you just never know what’s going to happen next, do you?

  I love reading about football,

  I love looking at pictures of football,

  I love collecting stickers about football,

  I love talking about football,

  I love listening to other people talk about football (even my dad!),

  I love watching football

  and I love playing football.

  If I didn’t, life would be really hard in my family! Who would I talk to?

  You’re probably thinking, “Great, so what’s your problem?”

  Well, unfortunately, I’M NOT THAT GOOD AT FOOTBALL. There, I’ve said it!

  I’m not saying I’m terrible at football. No, I’m a whole lot better than some kids I know – not naming names *COUGH* Sammy Sharples *COUGH* – but I’m never going to be the next Johnny “The Rocket” Jeffries, or the next Daniel “The Cannon” Ball. Sadly, the fact that I really love football isn’t enough to give me special powers on the pitch.

  I’ll tell you a secret: it used to get me down a little. But now things have changed. My whole world has changed, and that’s why I’m telling you my story. Trust me – it’s a story worth hearing!

  Right, that’s enough of a warm-up. It’s time for kick-off…

  It all started on a super-normal Monday morning. I was just doing what I always do: kicking a stone to school and pretending I was “The Rocket”. Suddenly, I heard a big, bellowing voice behind me.

  Uh-oh! I didn’t even need to turn around. I already knew who it was: Billy, or “Billy the Bully” as I usually call him. Billy Newland has been making my life a misery ever since I started nursery. He’s in the year above me now, but back then, when we had to play together, he used to steal my toys and kick my sandcastles. Now that he can walk and talk (well, sort of…), he’s even more of a bully.

  What did he want this time? I tried my best to ignore him, but that never works with Billy. When he has something to bellow, he doesn’t stop until everyone hears it.

  “Oi, Johnny, I’m talking to you!”

  “S-sorry, I, err, didn’t hear you.” (Yeah, I’m a rubbish liar.)

  “Whatever, I wanted to ask you something. What’s your middle name?”

  As Billy said it, he nudged Alex C next to him, the stupidest of his sidekicks. Billy always has to have an audience.

  Double uh-oh! How did he know my secret? You see, I don’t mind the Johnny – there are millions of boys called Johnny – but Nigel? How many boys do you know with that name? I bet I know the answer: ZERO! No one needed to know about the Nigel, and especially not Billy. Someone must have told him – but who? Daniel? Tabia? They were the only two who knew my secret.

  “It’s err…”

  Think, Johnny, think! When I’m watching football, I have lots of great ideas (I’ll tell you more about them later), but when I’m walking to school on a Monday morning? Not so much.

  “…N-Neil.”

  “Really? Because I heard your middle name was Johnny ‘CAN’T KICK THE’ Ball!”

  “No, it isn’t!” I wanted to shout back but, of course, I didn’t. I was just super relieved that he didn’t know about the Nigel.

  “Good one, mate!” Alex C grunted like a pig with its snout still in the trough.

  As if that was even funny. Billy thinks he’s the funniest person on Planet Earth, but he’s really not. He tells the same jokes so many times that they’re not just old, they’re as ANCIENT as the pyramids of Egypt!

  The worst part is that everyone in the Tissbury Primary School playground laughs at my name every time. They don’t do it because it’s funny. They do it because they’re too scared not to. Billy is the biggest kid in Year 6 and he makes sure everyone knows it.

  It’s the same with football. Billy walks around our school playground like he owns it, wearing the latest Tissbury Town kit and a pair of gleaming gold boots. But he doesn’t even own the ball – it’s Mo’s!

  Anyway, every lunchtime, Billy is:

  the referee,

  the captain,

  the coach

  and the penalty-taker.

  It’s like there’s a school rule that says:

  BILLY NEWLAND MUST NEVER LOSE A FOOTBALL MATCH.

  And he isn’t just annoying in the playground; no, even on my morning walk to school, Billy was there, making my life a misery.

  Once they’d eventually stopped laughing at that terrible joke, I thought they would just barge straight past and leave me alone. That’s what Billy usually does. But, no, he wasn’t finished yet.

  “Oi, Johnny, you’re not coming to the County Cup team trial tomorrow, are you?” he bellowed, even though I was standing right beside him. “Don’t bother; you’ll NEVER make it! Shame you didn’t get your brother’s skills!”

  And with that, Billy and Alex C FINALLY swaggered off to school, snorting and snuffling like farmyard beasts.

  Let me explain. In Years 5 and 6, the Tissbury Primary football team becomes a REALLY BIG DEAL. The Under-11s C
ounty Cup is all anyone talks about. Who should be in the team, who should be out of the team, who should be captain … it goes on and on and on. Imagine the World Cup, but just for our local area. Actually, forget the word “just” – the County Cup is SUPER HUGE!

  Every year, our school gets really excited, but we’ve only won the Cup twice in the last twenty years. And even that was only because Daniel scored all of Tissbury Primary’s goals.

  Now that I was in Year 5, it was my chance to follow in my brother’s brilliant stud marks. Winning the County Cup was a moment that I had dreamed about for years. When I closed my eyes at night, I could picture the party, the pride, the glory, the winners’ medal and, of course, that glittering trophy…

  But now that Billy was in Year 6, did that mean he would be captain of the Tissbury Primary team? If so, he was right; I would NEVER make it.

  According to Billy, he’s the best player ever. That’s because he thinks football is all about power. His left foot is fiercer than a mighty pirate cannon. Billy “The Blaster” Newland – that’s the nickname that he gave himself in Year 4. It didn’t really catch on, though, despite him having it written on the back of his Tissbury Town shirt.

  If Billy really HOOFs! the ball, it flies all the way from one end of the pitch to the other. It’s best to get out of the way, unless you want to be in loads of pain and have a big, red, football-shaped tattoo. He’s such a kicking king that the ball makes a special sound when he kicks it: CLANK!

  Forget footwork or tactics. If you can’t boot the ball really far, Billy thinks you’re rubbish at football.

  Well, who cares what he thinks? brave me argued with the less brave me inside my brain as I walked through the playground. Billy knows nothing about PROPER football! If I want to get on the Tissbury Primary team and win the County Cup, then that’s what I’m going to do. I’m not going to let anyone stop me, especially not a big bully like him.

  At the trials, I was just going to have to show him by playing the best football of my life.

  As you can tell, I’m not Billy’s number one fan. The thing that annoys me most is that he’s a big fat liar. I CAN KICK THE BALL!

  When I was seven, I even scored a hat-trick for the Tissbury Tiger Cubs. Yeah, take that, Billy the Bully!

  The problem was that, two years later, that was still my most glorious football achievement. I try my hardest on the pitch but I’m not:

  the tallest,

  or the strongest,

  or the quickest,

  or the bravest.

  I’m good, but I’m just not Johnny “The Rocket” Jeffries good, or Daniel “The Cannon” Ball good either.

  To make things worse, my football career was at a dead end. I was now too old to play for the Tiger Cubs and not quite good enough to be selected for the Tigers Under-11s. So, what was I supposed to do now? Other than going to see Tissbury Town play at the Railway Road Stadium, weekends were suddenly super boring. Either I went along with Mum and Dad to watch Daniel being brilliant at what I wished I could do, or I sat at home feeling sorry for myself. That’s like choosing between eating brains or eyes for breakfast. Yuck!

  “We can’t be superstars at everything, cutie-pie!” Mum told me pretty much every Saturday morning as Daniel left for practice, with a sad “I wish I could give you some of my skills” smile.

  Sometimes, I felt like I was letting my football family down. After all, over the years, they’d done everything they could to help me become a better player.

  It started when I was four years old. One day, I was watching TV on a Saturday morning when Dad walked in with a football tucked under his arm.

  “Right, son, it’s time to start your training!” he said, like a soldier about to set out on a very important mission. I was super excited.

  In the back garden, Dad dropped the ball down and swung his leg slowly to show me how to kick it.

  “Like THIS – owwwww, my ankle!”

  It was my turn next, my big football debut. I clenched my fists, shut my eyes and swung my little right leg as hard as I could. BANG!

  I opened my eyes, expecting to see the ball shooting through the air at the speed of light. But instead, it was inching across the grass at the speed of a snail!

  “Not bad,” was all Dad said. Not bad, but not that good either. He kept trying to teach me, but I didn’t really get much better.

  Then once I turned six, I started playing for the Tiger Cubs. After the high of that one-and-only hat-trick I’ve already told you about, I quickly came crashing back down to earth. I missed a super-easy shot in the next match and shuffled through the front door looking like the saddest saddo in Sadville. That’s when I discovered that Mum was a much better football coach than Dad.

  “Never mind, poppet,” she said, taking a football off the shelf (yes, in our house, we have a whole shelf just for footballs). “With a bit more practice, we’ll have you scoring again in no time!”

  “Ready?” Mum called, already outside in the garden. Apparently, that practice had to begin straight away. She crossed the ball in, and I kicked it past the imaginary keeper (oh yeah, we have a goal in our back garden too).

  “Good, that’s better!” Mum clapped. “See, you can do it – calm and steady scores the goal!” She had an encouraging phrase for everything.

  Sure, but that was just a tap-in into an empty net. What about when there was actually someone there to save it? After a few more goals, Mum went inside to grab her keeper gloves (different shelf, obviously).

  “Give me your best shot, buddy!” she shouted, putting on her awful American accent. She even pointed her fingers like they were cowboy guns. Super embarrassing!

  But I was ready for this. I clenched my fists, swung my leg as hard as I could, and BANG!

  I expected to see the ball sailing towards the top corner of the net. But instead, it went sailing over the fence and we heard it PLOP down into Mrs Taylor’s pond.

  “Sorry!” Mum and I both yelled, running back inside before she could shout at us. Sadly, that was the end of our garden games. Even Mum is scared of Mrs Taylor, you see.

  Over the years, Daniel and I have kicked so many balls over Mrs Taylor’s fence and not a single one has ever come back. We’re too frightened to look, but her garden must be like a football graveyard by now!

  Anyway, speaking of my big brother, he helped me a lot too. Until Daniel left Tissbury Primary, we used to go to Parsley Park together for a kick-around almost every weekend. And during that summer holiday before he started at Tissbury High, we went there every single day. One day, he came up with a fun new game for us to play.

  He called it “Rainbow”. It started with short passes to each other, but soon they were getting longer and longer and higher and higher, until we were almost at opposite sides of the park. The Ball Brothers were putting on a real football show!

  I was having so much fun that I wasn’t even thinking any more. It was just one touch to control and then BANG!

  The ball was supposed to land at Daniel’s feet, just like all my other passes. But instead, the ball zoomed through the air, over Daniel’s head, and bounced right off a dog’s nose! He wasn’t a cute little puppy either; he was the biggest, meanest dog I’d ever seen, and he was off the lead.

  “Grrrrrrrrrrrr!” Long strings of drool were hanging from his mouth. He eyed me up like I was his next meal, before tearing into the ball.

  “Oi!” his owner added. He looked a lot like his dog.

  “Sorry!” I shouted.

  Daniel refused to play football with me in public after that. As I said earlier, I’m good at football, but I’m not THAT good.

  I guess that’s why the County Cup team trial meant so much to me. It wouldn’t be easy, but I had to try. This was my big chance to find a new team, and hopefully make my family proud. I was a Ball, after all. So, if I was going to be a superstar at something, it had to be football!

  Mum had added “JOHNNY’S TEAM TRIAL!!!” on the family football calendar months ag
o, but I’d cleverly covered it up with a Tissbury Town sticker. I didn’t need the extra pressure of a “Good Luck!” and a “Go do us proud!”. All I wanted was the “Well Done!” once it was all over and I had (hopefully) made the team. So, I just ate my breakfast quietly, like it was another normal Tuesday…

  I really didn’t want to bump into Billy again, so I walked to school with Tabia instead. She lives one street away and she’s the best kind of best friend: funny, smart and as brave as a lion and a bull combined. Even Billy is a bit scared of Tabs! That’s mainly because she’s really good at nasty name battles. It’s one of our favourite things to do.

  “So, are you ready for the team trial today, NOODLE-NECK?”

  “Of course, FERRET-FACE!”

  “You’d better be, BOGEY-BRAIN!”

  Tabs was the winner … again.

  “OK, but seriously,” she said. “Are you feeling nervous?”

  “Not really,” I lied. The truth was it felt like frogs were fighting a pirate war in my tummy.

  I was so desperate to do well in the trial, but I couldn’t tell Tabs that, could I?

  Instead, I said, “Billy reckons I’ve got no chance.”

  Tabia rolled her eyes. “Who cares what he thinks? You’ve got to believe in yourself, SEA-SQUIRT! Trust me, you and I are going to win the County Cup together. You’ll see!”

  It was easy for her to say that; Tabia is one of the best footballers in Tissbury. She’s got MAD SKILLZ. At first, the boys didn’t let her play with them, but eventually they gave in. They probably regret that now because she runs rings around all of them! Billy always picks her for his team.

  People in Tissbury think she’ll even play for England one day. “Girl’s got game!” my mum likes to say in her awful American accent. I’ve told her to stop so many times, but she’s unstoppable. Sometimes, Tabia comes round for kick-abouts in our garden, but not with me, with my mum instead! How embarrassing is that?

  Anyway, let’s get to the main event. That day, the clock in our classroom seemed to move in slow motion, but eventually the school day ended, and sixteen boys and girls raced out onto the pitch to get warmed up for the trial.