Johnny Ball Read online

  There were good things and bad things about playing for the Tissbury Primary team. The good thing was that Billy wasn’t in charge of everything! Tissbury Primary had their own proper football coach. Well, sort of, and that’s where the bad things began…

  “RIGHT, TROOPS,” Mr Mann boomed, rolling up the sleeves of his tracksuit to show his seriously huge and hairy arms. It was the first time I had ever seen him up close. Everything about Mr Mann was massive:

  the loud voice,

  the enormous egghead,

  the bulging biceps,

  the thunder thighs

  and the great big belly.

  He looked like he might pop at any moment, like one of those balloon animals that clowns make at birthday parties.

  “LET’S GET STARTED! I WANT YOU TO LEAVE EVERYTHING ON THE PITCH TODAY!”

  What – even our football kit?

  Uh-oh, we had a problem. It turned out that Mr Mann only spoke the language of silly football people.

  Why can’t football people just say normal things that make sense? That’s one of the things I like most about Tabia. She’s a super-awesome footballer who scores loads of goals, but you won’t catch her calling them “HOWLERS” and “SCREAMERS”, as if the ball can talk.

  We didn’t practise any passing, or dribbling, or shooting or tackling. No, Mr Mann just threw some bibs at us and then watched as we played a big match. His instructions were so confusing:

  Man on what? Man on the pitch? Man on the moon?

  That was a lot of different things to do and not do to “it”!

  The game was more like a talent show than a team sport. One by one, the players showed off as many skills as they could before someone else stole the ball.

  I’ll be honest with you. It wasn’t the best game of football I’ve ever played either. In fact, it was one of the worst. It was almost as bad as that time I missed a super-easy shot for the Tissbury Tiger Cubs. Sorry, I promise I’ll stop mentioning that match…

  There was a lot of punting and not much passing, but Mr Mann didn’t seem to mind. In fact, the only time he clapped was when Billy HOOFed! it all the way from one end of the pitch to the other. CLANK!

  Really, was that the game plan? After that, the Year 6 kids just kicked it long to each other, while us Year 5s scrambled around trying to get near the ball. It was more like tennis than football!

  I’d barely had a touch all game. How was I meant to prove Billy wrong and show that I could kick a ball? Playing in the County Cup had always been my dream, but I could feel it slipping further and further away. I had to do something before it reached outer space!

  I wasn’t the only one who wasn’t enjoying the trial. Tabia was on my team and her frown was so deep you could drown in it.

  “At this rate, I won’t even make the bench!” she moaned during the drinks break. “Scott isn’t falling for any of my MAD SKILLZ. It’s like that LIZARD-LIPS can read my mind or something. I don’t know what to do, Johnny. I need to score! Help, I need one of your football ideas!”

  Oh wait, I haven’t told you about those yet, have I? Sorry! I might not have great football SKILLZ, but I do have great football IDEAS. When I’m watching football, I sometimes have these moments when it’s like a light bulb flicks on in my brain. When that happens, it only means one thing: a great football idea! At school, I usually keep them to myself, especially if Billy’s around, but Tabia was my best friend and she needed one NOW. So, I searched and searched my football brain, until at last…

  TING! LIGHT-BULB MOMENT!

  “Scott’s a good defender, but he’s got a really sweet tooth. Try this,” I said and then I whispered my idea to her.

  Scott was a long way away, but still, if you’ve got a really clever plan, you should always whisper it, just in case. It makes the whole thing way more exciting.

  “Cool, thanks, it’s worth a try!” Tabia said as we ran back onto the field.

  I don’t mean to boast like Billy, but that idea was my greatest football idea EVER! The next time Tabia got the ball, she showed off her MAD SKILLZ as usual – stepover 1, stepover 2, stepover 3, stepover 4 – but again, her fancy feet weren’t fooling Scott. It was time for the masterplan.

  “Look!” She pointed off the pitch. “What’s Mr Flake’s ice-cream van doing here? It’s October!”

  “Where?” Scott replied, turning his head like those meerkats on TV.

  NUTMEG!

  Tabia tapped the ball through his legs and scored top bins. GOOOOOOOOAAAAAAALLLL!

  Usually, when one of us does something great (like acing one of Miss Patel’s spelling tests, or doing a really long, loud burp), Tabia and I celebrate with our special secret handshake (no, I can’t describe it – it’s SECRET). We’d spent hours making it super awesome, but it could wait until after the team trial. Instead, Tabia just looked at me and gave me a quick thumbs up that said:

  JOHNNY BALL, YOU’RE A FOOTBALL GENIUS!

  I gave a quick thumbs up back and that made Billy even angrier than the goal had. Not only was his team losing, but my team was also winning.

  “What are you smiling about?” he snarled at me. He looked like a big sweaty bull dressed in football kit. “Who do you think you are, Johnny – your brother? Ha, as if! Just watch it, or I’ll give another BALL a good kicking!”

  I thought that was just a stupid threat, but no. Before I could react, Billy HOOFed! the ball as hard as he could. CLANK! It was hurtling towards me at top speed, and not towards my right foot, or my left foot. It was about to hit me right in the … face.

  “Owwwww!” I cried out as I lay sprawled on the grass. It felt like I’d been hit by a bus, not a ball. My ears were ringing.

  “Whoops! Sorry,” Billy shouted without even trying to hide his big grin. “I was just doing what Mr Mann told me to do – showing that BALL who’s boss!”

  Brilliant, my team trial was over, and that meant so was my dream of playing in the County Cup. And just as I had thought, it was all because of Billy. Nooooooo! There would be no party, no pride, no glory, no winners’ medal, no glittering trophy, NO NOTHING!

  I trudged off to get an ice pack from the school office and then went straight home before Billy the Bully could make any more jokes. I was so upset that I didn’t kick a single stone along the way. It felt like my football career was over.

  My football family were going to be so disappointed. In fact, maybe I just wouldn’t tell them. It wasn’t on the calendar, so hopefully they’d have just forgotten…

  The next day, we had to wait until lunchtime before Mr Mann put up the list outside his office. Of the sixteen boys and girls at the trial, only eight would get to play in the County Cup team.

  We were all really nervous, even Tabia. I went with her to see who had made the squad:

  “Never mind!” I muttered.

  “Phew!” Tabia whispered. She was feeling bad about tricking him like that.

  “Phew!” She shouted this time.

  Surprise, surprise – my name wasn’t there. Why had I even bothered going to the trial? Johnny Ball in the County Cup – who had I been kidding? What a waste of time!

  “Congrats, can we go and eat now?” I asked impatiently.

  My stomach was growling like there was a grizzly bear trapped inside me. I started to walk towards the lunch hall.

  “Johnny, wait!” Tabia cried out. “Look, read the bottom bit!”

  Below the eight names, Mr Mann had added an extra line. His handwriting was horrible, but I could still just about read the four words – four words that totally changed my life:

  “You can thank me later, FISH-FART!” Tabia grinned.

  I was so shocked and confused that I asked all the questions at once. “Why, when, how, what did you do?”

  “Well, at the end of the trial, Mr Mann came over to speak to me.”

  “What did he say?”

  Tabia blew herself up like a big balloon. It was actually a really good impression of Mr Mann! “WHAT A NUTMEG, EH? THAT’
S THE SMART THINKING I’M LOOKING FOR IN MY TEAM!”

  “And what did you say?”

  “Actually, it was Johnny’s idea.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “JOHNNY WHO?”

  Boy, this was going to take a while. “And what did you say?”

  “Johnny Ball. He’s a football genius.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “OH, BALLY JUNIOR! I REMEMBER HIS BROTHER, BALLY SENIOR – A HELLUVA PLAYER HE WAS! WELL, WELL, WELL, FOOTBALL MUST RUN IN THE FAMILY…”

  I could feel hope fizzing up inside of me like when you put a mint in a Coke bottle. Maybe my County Cup dream wasn’t over, after all. This could be my chance to become a football genius – even if it had been an accident.

  “Thanks, Tabs, you’re the best best friend EVER! COUNTY CUP HERE WE COME!”

  Johnny Ball: Assistant Manager – it sounded super cool, but what did it mean? What did an assistant manager actually do? I’m pretty sure Tissbury Primary hadn’t had one for previous County Cups. EVER. What had I got myself into?

  At first, I made the mistake of listening to people at school.

  “Great, Johnny will be washing our dirty, stinking kits every week!” I heard Alex C shouting from the other side of the lunch hall.

  Most of the time, Alex C just repeated Billy’s jokes like a human-sized parrot, but sometimes he tried to make people laugh by himself. Billy didn’t look that impressed, mainly because he hadn’t thought of it himself. Now, he had to think of something funnier…

  “Yeah, and we could do with a BALL BOY too!” Billy yelled and, of course, everyone laughed.

  Everyone except me. No way was I signing up for running around after Billy! I thought Tabia might have some better ideas, but hers were just as bad.

  “Maybe the assistant manager drives the team bus?” she suggested.

  “What? I can’t drive a bus – I’m only nine years old!”

  “Yeah, that could be a problem,” she said, slowly slurping her slimy custard. “OK, maybe the assistant manager puts out the cones and hands out the water bottles. You’re old enough to do that, right?”

  “Yes, but that sounds SUPER BORING!”

  “Well, sorr-y, MONKEY-MOUTH!”

  No, they were all wrong, I decided. As a football player, I was good, but not that good. Now that I had accidentally become a football (assistant) manager, I was going to be great! I would use all my football genius ideas to make my family proud of me. I was going to lead Tissbury Primary to County Cup glory and become “THE NEXT PAUL PORTERFIELD”!

  Paul Porterfield started out as the Tissbury Town assistant manager and now he’s the manager, and probably the best manager in the whole wide world. It isn’t just my dad who says that, I promise! Thanks to him, our local team has won almost as many trophies as Daniel.

  In fact, I was hoping that my big brother might be able to answer my question. And it was a good chance to talk to him. When we were younger, Daniel and I used to do everything together, but now that he was in Year 9, he didn’t have time to hang out with me so much. Actually, he didn’t have time to hang out with me AT ALL. But if there was one thing that could get Daniel talking, it was football.

  After school that day, I waited ages for my brother to get home so I could ask him all about assistant managers. When he finally arrived, he stormed straight upstairs, without even taking his earphones out.

  “Nice to see you too, Daniel!” I said out loud, but only because I knew that he couldn’t hear me.

  I counted to 50 and then decided to be brave.

  “Hello?” I called out, knocking on his bedroom door. These days, my brother has rules.

  “Yeah, what’s up?” he called back.

  That was the sign that it was safe to enter. In the sunlight, Daniel’s room sparkled like a pirate’s treasure chest. There were trophies everywhere: gold, silver, bronze, big, medium, small, tournament cups, league titles, Player of the Year awards. If Daniel hadn’t been a pretty good brother once upon a time, I would REALLY hate his talented football guts.

  Once he’d kicked a few football magazines off the bed, there was space for me to sit down and share my news.

  “Hey, I didn’t make the school team…”

  “That’s savage – sorry, bro.”

  “But I’m the assistant manager instead.”

  “That’s swipe – classy, bro.”

  I didn’t really understand my brother’s new cool-kid talk, but, of course, I pretended I did.

  “Yeah, classy, bro. Anyway, WHAT DOES AN ASSISTANT MANAGER DO?”

  “No clue,” Daniel said, with his new cool-kid shrug. “Whatever you want, I guess.”

  I tried to copy Daniel’s cool-kid shrug, but I think it looked more like a bad dad dance. Luckily, he ignored it and kept talking.

  “Is Macho Mann still the manager? That’s what we used to call him – he’s so hench it’s unreal, you know what I mean? The guy knows nothing about football, though – NOTHING! You know your stuff, bro, so maybs you could teach him a thing or two.”

  “Yeah, cool, maybs,” I said as a smile spread across my face.

  Suddenly, I couldn’t wait to be the assistant manager – even if I didn’t know what one did. I was so excited that I made a TRULY TERRIBLE MISTAKE: I told my parents.

  “Assistant manager, eh?” Dad smiled. It was such big news that he even paused the football on TV. “Well done, son! Back when I was playing for the Tissbury Tigers, we didn’t have an assistant manager. It was just Derek Dodds and five old footballs that were as heavy as hippos. I’m sure that’s why I broke my right ankle… Did I ever tell you the story of how it happened?”

  Oh no, not again! “Yes, Dad. Thanks, Dad!” I said quickly.

  “Come here, my little brain-box. I’m so proud of you!” Mum screamed, hugging me so tightly that I could barely breathe. But as long as she didn’t – oh no, there it was – THE DOUBLE CHEEK PINCH!

  “Mum, stop! WHAT DOES AN ASSISTANT MANAGER DO?”

  Apparently, she was too proud to even hear me. “We’ll need to get you a smart new coat!”

  “No, thanks. What does an assistant manager do?”

  No answer. When Mum was in super-embarrassing mode, she was unstoppable. “You’re right, a tracksuit would be better. I could even sew “JNB” on it for you. You’ll look adorable!”

  “No way! Please, Mum, WHAT DOES AN ASSISTANT MANAGER DO?”

  “Well, you’ll definitely need a clipboard,” she decided.

  “Mum!”

  “I’ve got it – a pocket notebook!”

  “Mum!”

  “Every top coach has a pocket notebook so they can write down their ideas.”

  “MUM!”

  “Yes, darling?”

  “WHAT.DOES.AN.ASSISTANT.MANAGER.DO?”

  “Err, umm, well, they, err, umm, assist the, err, umm, manager. They help with, err, umm, you know…!”

  No, I didn’t know – that was the problem! There was only one person left to ask: Grandpa George. He knew lots and lots about football. When Dad wasn’t around to hear her, Mum said that’s who Daniel got his football skills from.

  Grandpa George lives around the corner from our house, so I went over to visit him.

  “What can I do for my favourite little follyflop?” Grandpa George shouted loudly, wrapping me in his really, really long arms. Imagine an octopus, but with two arms instead of eight. That’s Grandpa George.

  Oh, I should warn you – Grandpa George uses lots of weird, long words, which are EITHER so old that no one else remembers them, OR totally made up. I’m still not sure which.

  “Assistant manager! Well, let me see … yes, yes, I was an assistant manager once upon a time, back when I was a young yabadoo. Malcolm McCleary – he was the manager and he could be a mean magubbin when he wanted to be. If the team was playing badly, he would shout himself shift-eyed!”

  “What did you do, Grandpa?”

  “Well, if McCleary was blowing a r
eal blusty, I stayed out of his way!”

  “No, I meant – what did you do as the assistant manager?”

  “Well, I did whatever I could to help my team. I took the training sessions, I picked the players and I tried to keep everyone hippy hoppy happy. All the important thingymanoodles!”

  “Did you like being an assistant manager, Grandpa?”

  “Oh yes, they were the best bobby-dazzlers of my life!” he shouted so loudly that the teacups started to shake.

  At last, I had an answer to my question. And being an assistant manager sounded super fun!

  Suddenly, Grandpa George’s face froze in a great big grin. TING! Yes, that’s where I got my light-bulb moments from. Daniel got the football skills and I got the football brains! Slowly, Grandpa George got up from his chair and went into his bedroom.

  CRASH! BANG! RATTLE!

  “Is everything all right, Grandpa?” I asked.

  “Yes, just looking for something!”

  Eventually, Grandpa George returned with a very long scarf in his hand. It had grey and orange stripes and it looked – and smelled – REALLY OLD.

  “Found it!” Grandpa George said, shouting again. “My lucky scarf. When I wore this beauty, we won every malodding match!”

  And with that, he handed the scarf to me. It was mine now. Wow, I didn’t know what to say. Luckily, I went for, “Thanks, Grandpa!”, instead of, “I think this needs a wash!”

  What was I waiting for? I was now all set to become “Johnny Ball: Assistant Manager”, “THE NEXT PAUL PORTERFIELD” and the future number one football genius in the whole wide world.

  When I came downstairs for breakfast on the day of my first training session, there were two things waiting for me:

  1. Grandpa George’s scarf, smelling clean and looking longer than ever.

  2. My very own pocket notebook.

  “Thanks, Mum!” I said as I munched on my cereal.