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Shot, Boom, Score!

Page 6

by Justin Brown


  They had four wickets left and I needed three more. I got two in the next over! We only had two more wickets to get, and the Tigers were short by heaps of runs.We were going to be champions and I was going to get the wickets I needed!

  But then things went bad. Real bad. Normally the Terminator can’t even hit the ball, but today he smashed everything. I couldn’t believe Coach let McGarvy keep bowling. All I know is McGarvy bowled pies on purpose so that I wouldn’t get any more wickets. The Terminator smashed one so far it hit Dad’s thermos flask on the full. Lucky the lid was on.

  Suddenly the Tigers needed just ten runs off four overs. I looked at Coach. He was waving his arms around like someone drowning.

  ‘Line and length!’ he yelled.

  ‘We’re trying!’ said Hughesy.

  ‘Not hard enough!’ said Coach. ‘I’m currently watching a team snatching defeat from the jaws of victory!’

  ‘Huh?’ said Jonesy.

  ‘You’re choking!’

  Coach’s angry face must have worked because Scott Honeyford got a wicket with his next ball. Everyone cheered.

  This was good and bad at the same time. Good because it meant we only had one more wicket to get.

  But bad because I needed that wicket!

  The Terminator was still hanging around like a dog by a rubbish bin. The Tigers needed eight runs off one over with one wicket left. I had the ball, and gave my hat to Slow Death.

  ‘How many more wickets do you need for your stupid little competition?’ asked McGarvy.

  ‘Why should I tell you?’ I asked.

  ‘Be like that,’ said McGarvy. ‘Where do you want me to field? Square leg?’

  That really made me mad. He was at square leg when the Wall hit him that easy-peasy catch that he dropped.

  ‘If you’re going to win the game you’ll have to bowl them out, because my hands are feeling very slippery again today.’ McGarvy walked off.

  Sometimes I wish McGarvy was a cricket ball, which would also be the only time I wouldn’t care if one of my balls got hit for the world’s biggest six.

  Coach started yelling from the boundary. ‘Fast game’s a good game! Get on with it! Set your field, let’s get this show on the road!’

  Dad wasn’t reading his newspaper anymore. He was standing – and Claire was next to him! This was the first time she had ever come to a match! But somehow I don’t think she was there to watch my game. Instead, she was watching Hardman Hugh Honeyford, the captain of the first fifteen, who was watching Scott.

  I had six balls to get the Terminator out. The Tigers needed eight runs to win. Even I know that’s only two fours.

  Two shots.

  My first ball was a leg spinner. The Terminator swung like crazy but missed it! Five balls left. Eight runs needed.

  I tried to bowl a slider next, but it fell out of my hand like a big slippery piece of soap and the Terminator hit it so far he should have been allowed twelve instead of six.

  ‘Wow!’ said McGarvy, standing at cover. ‘That’s a big one.’

  ‘Keep your trap shut,’ said Hughesy from mid-off.

  He came up to me when we got the ball back from the bushes. It was all scuffed. There was no shine left. Suddenly I didn’t feel like the best bowler in my team. I felt like a piece of chewing gum on the bottom of McGarvy’s shoe. Hughesy punched me on the arm.

  ‘Ow!’ I said. ‘What was that for?’

  ‘Okay, so the Terminator only needs two more runs. But you only need one wicket! And he can’t bat, remember? He’s fluked everything so far.’ He punched my other arm. ‘You can do it!’

  I pictured myself being interviewed by the TV reporter at the MCG or Old Trafford, and that must have helped because the Terminator missed my next three balls.

  There was one ball left. The Tigers needed two runs. All I needed was one more like the last three and I was halfway to the GameBox V3.

  I looked into the Terminator’s eyes, then at his feet where I wanted the ball to land. I took a deep breath and ran in. But the ball slipped out of my hand again!

  At first I thought I’d given the Terminator what Coach calls a Christmas present, because it’s so easy to hit. The Terminator’s eyes lit up and he smashed it, but then all it did was go up, up, up!

  I looked to see who was under it.

  Oh no! McGarvy!

  Then out of the corner of my eye I saw Hughesy run to where the ball was going to land. McGarvy pretended not to see the ball, but Hughesy rugby-tackled him and caught it millimetres from the ground!

  The Terminator threw his bat at the wickets and bails went flying. We all cheered. But McGarvy wasn’t happy. He got up and punched Hughesy. Then Coach ran onto the pitch and grabbed McGarvy.

  I stood there with my mouth open. Hughesy had done it! Coach called us into a huddle.

  McGarvy and Hughesy huffed and puffed and stood right away from each other. Coach pointed at them. ‘I don’t know what was happening out there between you two. But we’ll sort that out later.’

  ‘I’ll sort him out later,’ muttered McGarvy.

  ‘Yeah?’ said Hughesy. ‘Can’t catch the ball, how can you catch me?’

  ‘Quit it!’ said Coach. ‘I said, we’ll get to that later. In the meantime, congratulations to Toby, who bowled us to victory. And just as well, because I was getting ready to disown the lot of you. Now let’s go and get some hot chips!’

  ‘GameBox V3, here we come!’ said Jonesy from behind me.

  Dad put me in a headlock and squeezed me tight. I looked at Claire.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I asked.

  ‘I thought you might want some support.’ Claire twirled her hair, giggled and looked sideways at Hardman Hugh Honeyford.

  ‘Um . . . thanks,’ I said.

  As soon as we got home after having hot chips, I went and had the longest shower ever. I was so happy that I smiled like a clown at the thought of McGarvy’s face when I got the winning wicket.

  But then I remembered something else.

  ‘Oh no!’ I yelled.

  When I came out of the bathroom Mum was laughing. ‘I wondered when you’d realise,’ she said. ‘You’d better call Sam and tell him he’s won the Dirty Trophy. Again.’

  ‘Oh, man!’ I said.

  ‘Did you crack your knuckles today?’

  ‘Nope,’ I said.

  ‘Good.’ She smiled. ‘Looks as if we’re having pizza tonight.’

  One of my two favourite TV shows was about to start. I was so tired. From the couch I saw Dad cross out the wickets column on the fridge with the red marker.

  ‘Halfway there, kid,’ he said. ‘Bring on the rugby season.’

  This was the best day!

  Shot!

  26th JUNE

  Rugby season is here! I’m fullback and my magic move is the up-and-under – I kick the ball really high, sprint down the field and hope the other team drops it. Then I pick it up like a seagull looking for rubbish at the beach and score. Coach says my up-and-under is the best in the business.

  But wait till he sees my new bullet pass!

  I like rugby because you get to do things that you can’t do in cricket, like go for flying tackles. I never used to be able to tackle the big guys, but now I’m stronger.

  I know this because I’ve been practising on Claire. Last week I got into huge trouble because she flew into Mum’s expensive new lampshade that Dad got for their wedding anniversary. Dad said I should practise on Jonesy or Hughesy, not on my sister when she’s on the phone minding her own business.

  I’ve got brand-new rugby boots. They’re black with orange stripes and so light it feels as if I’m running on a cloud. I just hope I’m faster than lightning, because I need ten tries. My boots dry extra quick, which means I don’t have to put newspaper in them after a rainy Saturday. For the first season ever Hughesy is also wearing boots, mostly because Coach told him he’d better put something on his feet if he wants to be an All Black.

  Our team is called
the Rattlesnakes, and our first game was against the Panthers. Coach says they play filthy rugby, but now I’ve learnt to tackle I don’t have anything to worry about. Apart from a guy everyone calls Supermarket.

  He’s called Supermarket because he’s the size of a supermarket. No one else I know has pockets in their rugby shorts, but Supermarket does. Mostly to put food in. He eats during the game and after the game. At half-time he eats leftover chicken. After the match, he shakes hands in between putting his fist into his bag of salt-and-vinegar chips.

  When Supermarket tackles you it’s like being hit by a building wearing rugby boots.That’s when Coach says things about pain just being weakness leaving your body, which is easy to say if you’ve never been tackled by Supermarket.

  If we win the toss, we normally kick into the wind because that means the wind will be behind us in the second half. It’s kind of like eating all your vegetables before your crispy chicken – it’s even exciting to eat cabbage when you know there’s a crunchy drumstick and chips afterwards. The first half is always hard if you’re kicking into the wind, but the second half feels as if Supermarket and his whole family are pushing you to the tryline. The worst thing that can happen is if the wind changes and you have to run into the wind in both halves. As Coach would say, that’s a bad day at the office. Today we lost the toss and the Panthers wanted to run into the wind. That meant that we had to score lots of points in the first half, because the second half was going to suck.

  Hughesy is our hooker. He throws the ball in at line-outs and is the boss of the scrum. Hookers never score tries. If Hughesy was doing the GameBox V3 Challenge he wouldn’t get very far. Jonesy is our centre. He’s really fast but hates tackling. Any time someone like Supermarket runs towards him, Jonesy throws the ball away as if it’s a dead possum.

  Coach called a team meeting before kickoff. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘What kind of rugby do the Panthers play?’

  ‘Filthy rugby!’ we all said.

  ‘So what do we need to do?’

  ‘Play really filthy!’ said Hughesy.

  ‘Wash your mouth out,’ said Coach, stepping on Hughesy’s foot.‘Here’s what we need to do to beat those grovelling little losers. Keep the pressure on close to the line. Strip the ball from the mauls. Most importantly, tackle first and tackle hard.’

  ‘What if it’s Supermarket?’ Jonesy asked, rubbing his arms.

  ‘What if what’s Supermarket?’

  ‘Do we have to tackle him as well?’

  ‘Jonesy,’ said Coach. ‘If you can’t handle a punch, stay at home in front of the heater and play ping-pong in your slippers.’

  Jonesy looked as though he actually wanted to stay at home in front of the heater and play ping-pong in his slippers.

  ‘Now,’ said Coach. ‘We’re one player short today. McGarvy is sick.’

  For the first time ever, I wanted to hug Coach! It was a new season. I had new boots. And Malcolm McGarvy wasn’t playing.

  Shot!

  The whistle went and Hughesy charged down the field like a bulldozer. We followed him as if our pants were on fire.

  The Panthers couldn’t keep up, which doesn’t make sense because the panthers on Animal Planet can run faster than almost anything. But we knew they’d get better. And if they didn’t get better they’d get filthy. And I don’t mean so dirty that your parents make you wash your own shorts after a game. I mean illegal things like late tackles, eye-gouging and nose-punching when the ref is checking messages on his phone.

  It started to rain and the ball was like a piece of soap, but our forwards somehow got it and passed back to me. I did my famous up-and-under and thought I would catch it no problem, but Supermarket finally stopped eating and ran straight for me.

  I jumped up and caught the ball, then threw my new bullet pass to Jonesy, who flicked the ball back to me. Supermarket tried to turn quickly, but he tripped over his shoelace and fell like a fridge. I ran straight past him and scored the first try of the season.

  At half-time it was 10–5 to us. That’s the good news. The bad news is that then we had to run into the wind and Supermarket, who was fullback.

  We were all sore, but Coach said that always happens in the first game back. Joe Draper’s mum got out the Motion Lotion and oranges. Jonesy said he needed an ice-pack because Supermarket had run over his foot.

  ‘Pain is just weakness leaving your body,’ said Coach.

  ‘That still doesn’t help my foot,’ whispered Jonesy.

  ‘Don’t forget these guys are losing, which means only one thing. They’re going to start playing what kind of rugby?’

  ‘Filthy rugby!’ we yelled.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Coach. ‘Stick to your guns, stick to the rules and stick it to those no-brained no-hopers! Don’t forget about the surprise trip for a certain team in our grade at the end of the season!’

  ‘Where to?’ I asked.

  ‘You’ll find out,’ replied Coach. ‘Now get out there and smash ’em.’

  Coach was right. In the second half the Panthers turned into the Cheaters, and I don’t mean Cheetahs! They tripped us up when we didn’t have the ball and stripped it away when it was ours. Then Hughesy punched their halfback when he thought the referee wasn’t looking. Guess what? The referee was looking and Hughesy had to sit next to Coach, who looked like Mum when she’s stuck on a crossword.

  We got lots of possession, but it was too windy for our passes to go straight. Then out of nowhere Jonesy grabbed a loose ball and made one of his trademark charges to get over for a try. We were 17–5 ahead with fifteen minutes to go.

  It should have been time for chips and fizzy, but then Supermarket turned into Superman and scored two tries in two minutes! Everyone started biting their nails.

  It was 17–15 to us.

  Luckily the Panthers’ kicker was as about as good as a blind man with no arms and no legs, and they missed their conversion. The clock was ticking.

  All we had to do was hold onto the ball, which someone should have told Supermarket because next time someone passed to him he dropped a really simple catch. Mum would have said he was getting too big for his boots. Supermarket looked down at the ball as if he’d dropped his grandma’s favourite dinner plate. He didn’t even try to pick it up! I swooped on it like an eagle and ran over for the world’s easiest try. And because I wasn’t a blind man with no arms and no legs I kicked the conversion right between the posts. And then the ref blew the whistle.

  22–15.

  Remember the cricket season when it took ages for me to get all those wickets? And McGarvy the goober tried to ruin everything? Well, things have changed!

  ‘Keep going at this rate,’ Dad said, ‘and you’ll have that GameBox V3 in no time.’

  ‘Hope so!’ I replied.

  ‘You’re in a purple patch,’ said Dad.

  This was the best start to a rugby season since forever!

  3rd JULY

  When we arrived at the ground to play the Condors, Jonesy heard their captain say they were going to tear us apart, which was funny because it took thirty seconds to score our first try. Each team only had fourteen players, so we played with seven forwards and seven backs.

  And Malcolm McGarvy didn’t show up again!

  This was like Christmas and my birthday all rolled into one. We started the way we did against the Panthers. Three tries in ten minutes, one for me. I also kicked two conversions. The Condors got a few tries, but mostly because we couldn’t be bothered tackling or getting our shorts dirty.

  We were never going to lose.

  At half-time we were 35–10 ahead and I had two tries! In the second half we scored six more tries and won the game 72–20. Our top scorer was Joe Draper, who got 27 points.

  Four tries from two games! It could be my new boots or my new bullet pass. Who cares? Our team is on fire. Coach says we’re playing top-drawer stuff. Mum says not to get too big for my boots, but what does she know? She’s never played rugby in her life. All I kn
ow is our team is the best.

  No one can beat us. We’re awesome!

  I hope McGarvy never comes to another game, because when he’s not there I play like Sonny Bill Williams. Dad is right. I’ll have that GameBox V3 in no time.

  Shot!

  6th JULY

  I bet most people would save their pet kitten or their parents’ wedding photos if their house was on fire. If it was our house, Dad would probably save his fishing rods and Mum would save her dictionary because she can’t live without long words. Claire would save something dumb like lip gloss and Max would save Wabby, the toy rabbit he sucks that smells worse than my rugby boots on a Saturday morning.

  If it was me, I would save my collection of All Blacks toys, my framed David Beckham team shirt, my ceramic mould of Michael Jordan’s shoe, my 2008 Cricket World Cup coin and my complete set of 2010 FIFA World Cup bubblegum cards. If I had time, like if the fire was only in the kitchen, I’d also save my stats book for the TV reporter who’s going to need it when I’m interviewed at Lords or Old Trafford. But if the fire was everywhere and I couldn’t get to my bedroom I’d save my remote-controlled fart machine, which I now keep under Claire’s bed just in case.

  I’m only saying all this because in class today Mrs Martin-Edge told us that we had to write two hundred words about what we would save if our house was on fire and why. ‘Ha!’ I whispered to Jonesy. ‘Not my homework book!’

  We both laughed, but then remembered Mrs Martin-Edge has hearing like an NRL ref. ‘Stop being so smart, Gilligan-Flannigan,’ she said. ‘Why not try something new? How about you actually complete your homework this time?’

  ‘Yes, Miss,’ I said.

  ‘And what do you say?’ she asked.

  ‘Sorry, Miss,’ I said.

  ‘You’re mumbling, I can’t hear you!’

  ‘I said, sorry, Miss.’

  When Mrs Martin-Edge turned around to write a whole lot of French words on the whiteboard, McGarvy leaned across the aisle.

 

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