The Bare Bum Gang and the Football Face-Off (6 page)

Jamie complained about being the goalkeeper, but he didn't want to lend his gloves to anyone else, so he was stuck with the job. During the penalty practice he didn't let in a single goal, which sounds like he must have been a good choice for goalie until you find out it was really because every penalty missed the target completely, except for mine, which dribbled to a stop before it reached the line.

‘Let's just hope it doesn't go to penalties,' said The Moan, and we all agreed.

Later that evening, after tea, there was a knock at the door. We have a bell, but about two years ago it got stuck while it was ringing and it rang for two days before the battery ran out, and it hasn't worked since. I was watching a DVD called
Great Footballing Bloopers
, all about funny things that had gone wrong during football games. I had a notebook and a pencil and I was making notes about things not to do, like blasting the ball into your own net, jumping into the crowd to kick spectators who had said mean things about you, head-butting other players
right in front of the ref, etc., etc.

‘It's for you, Ludo,' said Mum.

I went to the back door. It was a boy I didn't really know called Carl.

‘Can I be in your team for the big match on Saturday?' he said.

This was rather strange, because Carl, although he lived on the new estate, quite often hung around with Dockery. He was big and lanky and he was one of the best players in the school team. His hair was always hanging over the side of his face, so you could only ever see one eye. That made him look a bit shifty, but I always thought you shouldn't judge people by how they look. You have to take into account other things, like whether or not they smell of smoky bacon, and also how nice they are.

‘What do you want to be in our team for?' I asked back. ‘We're probably going to get marmalized, you know.'

‘I can't stand Dockery,' he said. His one visible eye wasn't looking at my face but at the middle of my chest. ‘He's always boasting about things. He never shuts up about how great he is and how he's got every single decent toy that's ever been invented. Whatever you get for your birthday or Christmas, he always says, “Yeah, I've got that already.” And he never lets you play with them.'

‘That's true,' I said. ‘OK then. We're having our last practice session tomorrow.'

‘You should call it a training session, not a practice session,' said Carl. ‘Calling it a practice session makes it sound stupid, like you're practising the violin or something.'

I didn't really like the way he said that, sort of sneering. But he was probably right. ‘Training session' did definitely sound a bit more sporty. And I didn't want to put him off. With Carl on our side we actually had a small chance of not getting massacred.

‘OK, come tomorrow after school for the
training
session.'

I did my best to avoid Dockery the next day at school. At morning break I saw him and his gang playing football in the playground. They were kicking the ball around to each other. They weren't that good, just big and strong, and they could kick the ball really hard. You could hear the ball hit the brick wall at the end of the playground with a
WHHHAAAANNNG
noise that made your head hum.

The funny thing is that there were only six of them, including Dockery. I wondered who their seventh player was.

At lunch time Dockery saw me in the dining hall (which was just the school gym at lunch time) and sort of smirked at me, which I didn't like, although being smirked at is much better than being bashed. I don't think he was very worried about losing the bet.

The Bare Bum Gang thing still raised its ugly head now and then, but, as Noah pointed out, in a couple of years nobody would remember it, and in a hundred years we'd all be dead anyway, which was a funny way of cheering us up. I think he gets some of his ideas from his dad, who is quite often depressed, which means sad when you're a grown-up.

Jennifer didn't even bother talking to us any more, which suited me. But I still noticed how good she was at cartwheels. I thought about trying one myself, but I was worried it might turn into a disaster, with me in a heap on the floor. That's the thing about cartwheels – you don't
even have the faintest idea whether or not you can do them until you try. And when you try there's a very good chance that you're going to look stupid. It's amazing they ever got invented, really.

In the afternoon Miss Bridges asked me if anything was wrong. I said I had a lot on my mind, which made her smile. I wish Miss Bridges was going to be our teacher next year as well, and not that horrible old bulldog, Miss Parks.

We met up before tea for the last practice – I mean
training
session before the big match. I thought it was better to meet before tea, because the last time we were all a bit full, and that slows you down.

Carl was there waiting for us, and he had his own ball, the same kind they use in the Premiership. He was doing keepy-uppy. It looked like he could go on doing it for as long as he liked. My record for keepy-uppy is three.

Trixie wasn't there to begin with, so we
didn't do as much running round the pitch as usual. Instead we did more skills-based training. We practised passing the ball and dribbling, and then we had a rest and drank some water while I had a think about tactics and positions and other important things.

Carl didn't really join in with any of this, because he was already brilliant at the things we were practising. He mainly watched us and sometimes made a suggestion. I felt a bit funny with him watching us like that. It made me more useless than ever, and Jamie and The Moan weren't much better.
Carl laughed at Jamie's gloves, and I thought he was going to go home, but he didn't.

I was pleased with Oliver and Luke, who were really excellent at passing and dribbling. I decided to put them in midfield, where they could do most of the work. Carl would play up front, and the rest of us would be the defence, as all we were really good at was getting in the way, and that might be quite useful if we were getting in the way of their attackers.

‘We're going to be playing three-two-one,' I said when I'd worked it all out.

‘Eh?' said Jamie.

‘The Christmas-tree formation. Three at the back – that's me, The Moan and Noah – two in midfield that's Luke and Oliver – and one up front – that's Carl.'

‘What about me?' said Jamie. ‘Why don't I get mentioned?'

‘I don't know why, but they never count the goalie when they talk about the formation.'

‘Well, I don't care. Unless you include me I'm not playing.'

I heard Carl sniggering at this.

‘Fine, we'll be playing one-three-two-one. It's still sort of a Christmas tree, but now Jamie is the wooden bit at the bottom.'

‘The trunk,' said Noah.

‘More like the pot,' said Carl, and sniggered again underneath his floppy fringe.

And that's how our final practice – I mean
training
session ended. Not brilliant, but not a disaster yet, either.

Oh, I forgot, it
did
end in disaster. Because Trixie finally discovered us then (she'd probably been having a nap), and came pelting out and chased us all off the pitch, except for Carl, whom she ignored. The Moan fell down, and Trixie started snapping all around him. She'd never actually caught anyone before, and she was very excited. She looked like a wolf suddenly shrunk down to miniature size.

‘Play dead,' shouted Jamie.

‘No, that's for when you get attacked by bears,' said Noah. ‘Get up and run for it!'

‘No, play dead. They don't eat dead things.'

‘Don't be stupid,' I said. ‘They eat dog food, and that's dead.'

But then Trixie got bored with attacking The Moan and, after a final growl and a quick woof, she went back home. It was probably the best day of her little doggy life.