Johnny Ball Read online

  After a few more minutes, there was a KNOCK! at my door. I didn’t say, “Come in!” but it slowly swung open anyway, and a head peered around…

  Phew! It wasn’t my evil brother; it was Mum. She came and sat next to me on the bed.

  “How are you doing, dumpling?” she asked, ruffling my hair until I shook her hand away.

  “Mum, am I really just the ‘assistant manager’?”

  “No, not at all, angel! I’m sorry, Daniel shouldn’t have said that. He didn’t mean it, really! We’re all very proud of you. And I’ve been to your matches. Your team needs you!”

  “Really?”

  “Really! What would they do without you? Lose every match, that’s what! You’re the brains behind their success, and you can’t give up now. You’ve gotta do what you’ve gotta do!”

  For that last line, Mum put on her awful American accent, of course. She might be super embarrassing sometimes, but she was always right. I couldn’t give up now, not when we were only one game away from the County Cup Final. On his own, Mr Mann would ruin EVERYTHING!

  No, I decided, Daniel would just have to get used to the idea that his little brother was Johnny Ball: Assistant Manager, “THE NEXT PAUL PORTERFIELD”, and the future number one football genius in the whole wide world.

  “What’s on your mind, kiddo?” Dad asked me the next day as we took our seats at Railway Road Stadium for Tissbury Town vs Hawthorne Heath. Daniel was still sulking, so it was just the two of us at the game.

  I guess I must have had my thinking face on.

  I told Dad the truth. “Penalties.”

  What if our semi-final ended in a draw and went to a penalty shoot-out? Four scary spot kicks in a row – to Gabby, that would be worse than Halloween! She would probably run away, leaving an open goal behind her. No, I couldn’t let that happen…

  “A penalty kick?!” was Dad’s reply when I explained. He was so shocked that he nearly spat out his pre-game Bovril. “Who’s afraid of a penalty kick? When I was playing for the Tissbury Tigers, I used to love a good shoot-out! Derek Dodds always knew that he could trust me to take the first one but then—”

  “Yes, Dad; thanks, Dad,” I said quickly before he could tell his right ankle story AGAIN. “But how can I show Gabby that penalty shoot-outs aren’t so scary?”

  “Well, Nigel could help you with that.”

  “Nigel?” I asked. Whenever I heard that name, I froze as still as a snowman. “Nigel who?”

  “Nigel who?” Dad repeated like an angry parrot, actually spitting out his Bovril this time. Luckily, the seat in front was still empty. “How many Nigels do you know, son? I’m talking about Nigel Andrews, of course – old ‘Hard Hands’!”

  “Nigel who?” you’re probably still thinking. Don’t worry, a lot has happened since the start of this story, hasn’t it? So, let me remind you: Nigel “Hard Hands” Andrews was Tissbury Town’s Number One until he was 43 years old. He was so good in goal that he didn’t even wear gloves. He was also so good that my parents decided to give me that middle name, but as I’ve already said, no one needs to know about the “Nigel”.

  “What a keeper he was!” Dad declared, doing his “happy memory” face. “He would still do a better job than this clown with finger-cushions,” he said, pointing down at Tissbury’s new Number One. “I only ever saw ‘Hard Hands’ let in one penalty, and that was because he was playing with three broken fingers … all on the same hand!”

  “That’s great, but Gabby is already a good keeper, Dad. She makes lots of penalty saves in training. She just gets really spooked out in real matches.”

  “Well, ‘Hard Hands’ could help you with that too. The pressure was his favourite part of the job! In shoot-outs, he liked to play a fun game with the penalty-takers. He called it: ‘WHAT DO I HAVE TO DO TO MAKE YOU MISS?’ Sometimes, he scuttled across his goal from side to side like a crab; sometimes, he crawled across the grass, OINKING like a pig. Once, he even hung from the crossbar by his fingers like a monkey and saved the penalty with his foot!”

  “Wow, do you think there would be videos of ‘Hard Hands’ online?” I asked. If Dad remembered him, he must be ancient!

  “There must be something! We’ll have a look when we get home…”

  It turned out to be a super-fun day. First, we watched Tissbury thrash Hawthorne 5–1 (“The Rocket” scored a hat-trick!) and then Dad let me stay up REALLY late so we could watch every single “Hard Hands” video we could find.

  “Thanks, Dad, you were right: he was AMAZING!”

  Not only did I have my next great football idea, but for the first time ever, I felt proud of my middle name. Even Nigels could be football heroes! I decided right then that when I became “THE NEXT PAUL PORTERFIELD”, the future number one football genius in the whole wide world, I would go by the name “Johnny N. Ball” (one step at a time!).

  I couldn’t wait to show Gabby all the videos of “Hard Hands”, but WHEN and HOW? It was soon time for my second little white lie of the season.

  “What can I do for you, Mr Ball?” Mrs Locke, the school secretary asked, looking down her long, posh nose at us. It was so long that we must have looked really small and far away, like light at the end of a tunnel.

  “Miss Patel said that Gabby and I could use the computer room after school to look up some information for our homework. We’re working on a project … in pairs … about the environment.”

  “I seeeeeeeee,” Mrs Locke replied really slowly. Were the words travelling all the way down her long nose?

  It was a pretty good lie, but was it good enough to get past Mrs Locke? She guarded that computer room like it was a dragon’s lair, so I decided to add a little extra detail.

  “We’re working on a campaign, you see. It’s all about getting children to keep the school nice and clean.”

  “Oh, how excellent!” Mrs Locke said, handing over her precious computer room key straight away.

  Phew, we were in! On the way to the computer room, I told Gabby about my plan. “Trust me, this is going to completely change the way you feel about penalties!”

  “Penalties!”

  Oh dear, just hearing the word made Gabby’s legs wobble like jelly all over again. I could tell that this was going to be my toughest assistant manager mission yet.

  “Sorry, I’ll just call it ‘The P Word’ next time, I promise!” I said, quickly starting the video.

  After a few minutes, I pressed pause on “Hard Hands”.

  “Look how much fun he’s having!” I said to Gabby. “See, spot kicks aren’t so scary for him, are they? That’s because he turned penalty shoot-outs into an exciting game called: ‘WHAT DO I HAVE TO DO TO MAKE YOU MISS?’ Keep watching – this next one’s my favourite!”

  As “Hard Hands” hung from the crossbar by his fingers, I looked over at Gabby. She was grinning like a turtle on a tyre swing.

  “So, what do you think?” I asked her at the end. “Are you ready to play the game?”

  Gabby shrugged. “Why not? I’ll give it a go!”

  The next day at training, the Tissbury players lined up ready for a practice penalty shoot-out.

  On one team: Tabia, Mo, Alex C and Scott,

  and on the other team: Billy, Alex W, Izzy and—

  “BALLY JUNIOR!” Mr Mann boomed. “GET INVOLVED!”

  I was expecting to hear jokes about balls, but there was nothing, not even a snort or a giggle.

  “Cool, I can do this,” I told myself. It was no big deal; I was only joining in with my team’s training session. I just had to stay calm.

  Gabby was thinking the same thing on her goal line. Eight opponents taking eight penalties – how horrible could it be? It was time for her to play: “WHAT DO I HAVE TO DO TO MAKE YOU MISS?”

  At first, the answer to that question was “Try harder!” Once the ball was on the penalty spot, Gabby’s fears seemed to come flooding back.

  As Tabia stepped up, Gabby scuttled across her goal like a crab, but she was so nervo
us that she bumped straight into the post.

  OUCH – GOAL! 1–0.

  “Johnny, you get the BALL rolling for us!” Billy bellowed, pushing me forward.

  As I ran up, Gabby tried to hang off the crossbar, but she was shaking so much that her fingers slipped, and she landed on her bum. I felt really bad for her, but at the same time, it gave me a great chance to score. Can I kick it? Yes, I can!

  OUCH – GOAL! 1–1.

  “Taxi for Gabby!” Billy bellowed and, of course, everyone else laughed. Now that he had their attention, he turned on me. Our brief moment of “friendship” was over. “Oi, Johnny, you call that coaching? You’ve made things worse!”

  First Daniel and now Billy – why was everyone always so mean?

  Mo was feeling much better now … GOAL! 2–1.

  Alex W kicked it for Koyo … GOAL! 2–2.

  After four penalties, Gabby hadn’t saved a single one. My plan wasn’t working at all. It was like watching a goalie horror show. But then I realized where she was going wrong.

  “TIME OUT!” I shouted, making the “T” with my hands like I’d seen cool coaches do on TV.

  “You don’t have to copy all the Hard Hands moves EXACTLY,” I told Gabby. “You can do whatever YOU want, as long as you make them miss, OK?”

  “Oh, OK!” she replied, looking a little less afraid.

  Alex C ran up and … Gabby started doing the can-can dance!

  Right knee up, right leg KICK!

  Left knee up, left leg KICK!

  Alex C looked so confused, until Gabby somehow kicked herself in the face.

  OUCH – GOAL! 3–2.

  Izzy then had the easiest penalty of all. Gabby couldn’t see a thing because she’d somehow poked herself in the eye with her big goalie-glove finger.

  OUCH – GOAL! 3–3.

  Billy wasn’t the only one who was angry now; Mr Mann was about to explode. His big body was expanding with rage.

  “BALLY JUNIOR, WHAT IS GOING ON? YOU’VE TURNED OUR KEEPER INTO A CIRCUS ACT!”

  Uh-oh, if I didn’t do something quickly, Mr Mann was going to kick me off the team and my coaching career would be over.

  “I’m hopeless!” Gabby moaned, with only one eye open, like a pirate. “I might as well just stand here with both of my eyes closed. I’ve got more chance of catching a cold than a football!”

  That’s a good one! I thought. I’d never realized it before, but Gabby was actually really funny (way funnier than Billy, that’s for sure)…

  TING! LIGHT-BULB MOMENT – perfect timing! I quickly ran over and whispered my next great football idea to her.

  The grin was back. “Cool, thanks, it’s worth a try. I’ve got a whole joke book full of them!”

  As Scott put the ball down on the penalty spot, Gabby looked up at him and said loudly, “Which football team loves ice cream more than you?”

  “I dunno, who is it?”

  Scott was laughing so hard that he could barely kick the ball. SAVED! As Gabby got up, she gave me a big goalie-glove thumbs up. Our plan was working!

  It was time for the final penalty and Billy swaggered forward to take it. He had demanded to go last, just so that he could get all the glory. If he scored, we’d win the shoot-out.

  “There’s no point trying your rubbish jokes on me,” Billy bellowed. “I know every joke … EVER!”

  Surely, Gabby would need a different plan to beat him? Billy only ever laughed at his own jokes anyway! But no, she wasn’t giving up.

  “Which football team should you never eat in a sandwich?”

  Billy rolled his eyes like he’d heard it a million times before, but I could tell that he was only pretending to know it. He was curious. More curious than usual, anyway.

  “It’s LIVERpool, isn’t it?” he guessed confidently.

  Gabby shook her head.

  “LEEKS United?”

  Gabby shook her head again.

  With each wrong answer, Billy grew more and more frustrated until finally, he’d had enough. “Whatever,” he muttered angrily and then HOOFed! the ball high over the crossbar.

  CLANK! He MISSED!

  Gabby threw her arms up triumphantly as Billy stormed off to collect the ball. She wasn’t scared any more!

  “So…” I started to say.

  “So what?”

  “You didn’t finish your joke – which football team should you never eat in a sandwich?”

  “Oh yeah, I forgot – OLD-HAM Athletic!”

  As a wise man I call Dad once said, “A penalty kick? Who’s afraid of a penalty kick?”

  TISSBURY PRIMARY VS UPTON ACADEMY (PART I)

  So, was that the end of Gabby’s penalty panics? Did she go on to save the day for Tissbury? Not so fast – you’ll have to keep reading if you want to find out!

  For the first time, I woke up on game day feeling pretty good. We had made it to the County Cup semi-finals and the whole school was talking about us. We could hold our heads up high like heroes, even if Upton Academy crushed us like a can of lemonade.

  There was one other important reason for my good mood: WE WERE GOING ON A ROAD TRIP!

  That’s right, Tissbury Primary were playing their first away game and that meant we would travel together, like a proper football team, like Tissbury Town. It also meant that Mum couldn’t come to support us, so it was going to be far quieter too!

  OK, so our school bus didn’t have comfy seats and fancy gadgets, but, hey, who cares about that, right?* What mattered was: WE WERE GOING ON A ROAD TRIP!

  *Wrong! Actually, it turned out that everyone cared about that apart from me.

  “Sir, do we have to take the bus?” Billy groaned. “That thing looks like it’s from Ancient Greece! It doesn’t have WiFi, it doesn’t have a TV screen and it’ll probably break down anyway.”

  “Billy’s right,” said Tabia, for the first time ever. “If we arrive in that WONKY-WAGON, the Upton Academy kids are going to laugh their heads off. That school’s so posh that I heard they’ve got their own private plane!”

  “Last time I went in that bus, I threw up EVERYWHERE!” Mo warned.

  UGHHHHH!

  But even that wasn’t enough to change Mr Mann’s mind.

  “RIGHT, TROOPS, THAT’S ENOUGH OF YOUR UNGRATEFUL WHINING,” he boomed. “WHAT DO YOU THINK THIS IS – A HOLIDAY? WELL, YOU’RE WRONG – THIS IS WAR! WE’RE LEAVING AT THIRTEEN HUNDRED HOURS ON THE DOT. IF ANYONE’S LATE, THEY’LL BE LEFT BEHIND!”

  “Thirteen hundred hours?” we all wondered; well, all except Scott.

  “That’s one o’clock,” he explained to us. “My dad’s in the army, and he says that’s how they tell the time there. Twelve plus one, twelve plus two, twelve plus three—”

  “OK, OK. We get it. STOP!” Billy shouted at Scott before it turned into another super-boring Maths lesson.

  At 12.59 and 57 seconds, it was all-aboard the old school bus! Yes, apparently “timekeeper” was another one of my assistant manager jobs. Thankfully, however, Tabia had been wrong about the “driving the team bus” part.

  That was Mr Mann’s job and he took it very seriously. A little too seriously, if you ask me.

  HONK! HONK!

  “GET OUTTA THE WAY, YOU IDIOT!”

  HONK! HONK!

  “THE WAY YOU DRIVE, IT’D BE QUICKER TO WALK!”

  HONK! HONK!

  “GET A MOVE ON, YOU TWERP!”

  Mr Mann’s enormous egghead got redder and redder, until it looked like it might actually BOIL!

  The journey was especially bad for me because I was sitting in the front seat. So, I had Mr Mann booming in one ear and the players moaning in the other.

  “ARE WE THERE YET?”

  “HOW MUCH LONGER?”

  And at the same time, I was trying to find a song on the radio that everyone liked. Yes, apparently “DJ” was one of my assistant manager jobs too.

  “BOOO, change it, Johnny – I hate that one!”

  “Find ‘Mr Funk Skunk’!”

&n
bsp; “YAWN, boring – next!”

  So, after all my excitement about GOING ON A ROAD TRIP, I was actually pretty glad when it was over. We made it through the Upton Academy gates with ZERO bus breakdowns and ZERO puking players. Success! Now, we just had to win a football match against one of the best school teams around. Easy!

  “Legit” – that had been Daniel’s one cool-kid-word reply when I asked him about Upton Academy. I didn’t know what “legit” meant, but he’d nodded his head seriously, so I knew they must be really good. Oh well, what was the worst that could happen…?

  Hailstones, no hailBOULDERS!

  It had been raining all day, but just as we were about to get off the bus, the sky suddenly started sending down hailstones bigger than Koyo’s flame-rocks, bigger even than Mr Mann’s and Billy’s heads put together!

  I know there are lots of things worse than hailstones (dog farts, brain freeze, the plague, empty ice-cream tubs…) but it’s still pretty bad, especially when your team is about to play a football match.

  “LET’S GO, TROOPS – IT’S JUST A BIT OF RAIN!” Mr Mann boomed as the hailboulders pounded against the school bus roof. I know it sounds stupid, but it really felt like we were UNDER ATTACK! How could we stop Mr Mann from opening that door?

  TING! MINI LIGHT-BULB MOMENT!

  “Sir, do you think Blether United can win the league this season?”

  That kept us on the bus for another fifteen minutes, but eventually, we had to make a run for the Upton Academy changing rooms.

  Ready? 3, 2, 1, GO!

  I’d never seen Billy move so fast, not even for the free burgers at the school summer barbecue.

  As you can tell, we weren’t exactly happy about the weather. But Upton Academy were FURIOUS!

  “Look at the pitch,” their coach wailed, as if it was a beautiful masterpiece that he had spent years painting. “It’s a disaster!”

  All of his clothes had the Upton school badge and the initials “PLT” on them – his trousers, his tracksuit top, his coat, even his hat (no, I didn’t check his underpants). I know I can’t really talk, with my “JNB” pocket notebook, but COME ON! Our players didn’t even have the Tissbury school badge on their kits!