The Trophy of Champions

by Cameron Stelzer

  Much to the dismay of the Pie Rats, the crowd began bounce-passing the ball from spectator to spectator in an attempt to move it closer to the cats’ goal. In response, Granny Rat ordered her team into a defensive formation in the back half of the field. The Captain went to centre, Ruby and Horace moved to left and right fullback positions and Whisker joined Fred in the goal box as a shadow keeper.

  The restructure proved invaluable. As the game wore on, the cats’ master striker, Prowler, having fully recovered from the tranquiliser darts, subbed on for Siamese Sally and took a monumental shot at goal. Fred managed to get a finger-touch on the ball as it headed towards the lower right corner and Whisker’s tail did the rest. Like an anaconda suffocating its prey, his tail coiled around the rubber ball, and with a deathly tight grip, jerked it to a halt.

  The crowd booed. Prowler hissed. Whisker said a silent thank you to his tail and flicked the ball over the heads of the attackers. As it bounced towards a deserted wing on the far side of the field, Whisker noticed Granny Rat gesturing frantically and pointing to the cats’ goal box.

  ‘I think the old bat want us to mount an attack,’ Horace whispered.

  ‘But we can’t risk leaving our defences open,’ Whisker shot back. ‘Not with the cats and the crowd breathing down our necks.’

  ‘The crowd is no longer our concern,’ the Captain shouted, sprinting after the ball. ‘Take a look.’

  Whisker’s eyes flashed to the crowd. A sea of tiny bodies wearing maroon blazers were pushing past the Cat Fish supporters towards the front row. They squeezed between the legs of startled onlookers and scrambled over shoulders like an army of ants.

  Everywhere Whisker looked he saw ecstatic students: hamsters, Guinea pigs, gerbils and dozens of mice. In the midst of the mayhem stood the most unlikely ringleader: Mr Tribble, the timid history teacher-turned holiday adventurer.

  ‘Greetings, fellow Pie Rats,’ Mr Tribble beamed, almost losing his spectacles. ‘Better early than late, I say. My students are under strict orders to remember their best Oakbridge manners – and then to behave in the exact opposite way!’

  By the time the bouncing ball had reached the sideline, Emmie and Eaton had clambered onto the heads of the two closest spectators and covered their eyes with their paws. Mr Tribble scooped up the ball from their feet and hurled it to the Captain.

  The Captain charged past, catching the ball on the fly, and centred up for his shot at goal. Furious Fur stood alone in the goal box, but the rest of the cats were closing fast.

  ‘Go, Uncle Black Rat!’ Emmie squeaked from the sidelines.

  ‘Let ‘em have it!’ Eaton added, heartily.

  The Captain dropped the ball onto his foot and, with a mighty kick, sent the ball spinning towards the left corner of the goal. A moment later, Sabre crashed down on top of him with bone-crushing impact.

  The Captain hit the ground head first and Furious Fur made a desperate lunge for the ball. Stretching out his shaggy paws, he clipped the side of the speeding object, deflecting it wide of the goal post.

  The Cat Fish supporters let out a roar of delight. The Captain remained motionless on the ground.

  A whistle rang out and the referee called for a halt in play. The entire Pie Rat crew rushed over to the Captain. Ruby reached him first and dropped to her knees by his side.

  ‘He’s got a pulse,’ she said, touching his neck. ‘Uncle, can you hear me?’

  The Captain didn’t stir.

  ‘It appears he’s suffered a nasty concussion,’ the referee said, leaning over. ‘I’m afraid he’ll have to be stretchered off at once.’

  ‘And what about our penalty?’ Ruby said, glaring up at Sabre. ‘My Uncle was tackled after he got the shot away.’

  ‘I assure you, the tackle and the kick were simultaneous.’ Sabre hissed indignantly. ‘Ask the referee.’

  The referee hesitated for a moment and Sabre gave him a deathly-cold stare.

  ‘N-no,’ the rabbit gulped, suddenly looking ill. ‘There will be no penalty. The game will resume with a centre bounce when the injured player has left the field.’

  ‘You can’t be serious!’ Ruby exploded. ‘This is a –’

  ‘I’ve made my decision,’ the referee said, hopping away. ‘There’s no more to be said.’

  ‘Arrrgh!’ Ruby fumed, stepping after him.

  ‘Come on, Ruby,’ Whisker said, grabbing her arm. ‘We haven’t lost yet.’

  ‘But we’re about to,’ Ruby hissed, pushing him away. ‘Haven’t you seen the time?’

  Whisker glanced across at the clock – and gasped. The time read ten fifty-five. With all the action and excitement of the second half, he had totally lost track of the time. There was less than five minutes left to play and the scores were still locked at nil-all.

  ‘The last thing we want is a penalty shootout,’ Ruby said as Rat Bait and Papa Niko loaded the Captain’s unconscious body onto a stretcher. ‘The cats are the masters of set shots. You saw their game against the marmosets. All six shots soared straight through the goal.’

  ‘And we just lost our best striker,’ Pete sniffled, hobbling onto the field. He pointed to his red pencil leg. ‘A roundhouse kick is one thing, but I’m not much chop when the ball is lying stationary on the ground. Heavens, I’d be hard pressed attempting the run-up.’

  Ruby raised two clenched fists in front of her. ‘I hate to admit it but I’m much better with my paws.’

  ‘I’ll second that,’ Horace said, holding up his racket attachment. ‘When it comes to kicking, I’ve got two left feet – and I’m right footed.’

  ‘I get it! I get it!’ Whisker groaned in frustration. ‘We’re all useless at penalty shootouts.’

  ‘You’re not, Whisker,’ Fred rumbled. ‘I’ve seen you kick. You’re almost as good as Frankie Belorio.’

  ‘Hardly,’ Whisker muttered. ‘Frankie’s got speed, accuracy and a killer strike – not to mention the best set plays in the world. And all I’ve got is-is …’

  Of course! With a gasp of realisation, Whisker turned his back on his teammates and sprinted for the sideline.

  ‘Hey!’ Horace called after him. ‘Where are you going?’

  Whisker was in too much of a hurry to respond. He reached the reserve bench to see the hands of the grandfather clock ticking over to ten fifty-seven.

  Just enough time, he thought, frantically opening his brown drawstring bag. He pulled out a single item, stuffed it into his pocket and darted back onto the field.

  ‘Everythin’ alright?’ Rat Bait asked, passing Whisker with the stretcher.

  ‘Fine,’ Whisker called over his shoulder, ‘although I could do with some more time.’

  ‘Aye,’ Rat Bait said knowingly, ‘that can be arranged.’ With a sly wink to Papa Niko, he slowed his walk to a snail’s pace and said in a loud voice, ‘It’s safer for our patient if we take the long route ‘round the puddles.’

  Whisker reached his four teammates in the centre of the field and pulled out a crumpled, white napkin.

  ‘Frankie’s signature?’ Horace said, puzzled.

  ‘No,’ Whisker said, reversing the napkin and spreading it on a muddy patch of ground. ‘Something much better.’

  Horace peered down at the collection of circles and squiggles covering the material. His eyes grew wide. ‘Shiver me britches! It’s Frankie’s Double Decoy – Centre Steal.’

  ‘Shush,’ Pete hissed, glancing behind him to the watching Cat Fish crew. ‘A decoy’s not a decoy if you give the blasted thing away.’

  Ruby turned to Whisker and frowned. ‘If that kindergarten scribble can get us out of this mess, then I’m in. But you’d better get explaining – and fast.’

  ‘Alright,’ Whisker said. ‘Listen up. Frankie’s plan will only work with a few modifications …’

  Eleven Strokes

  As the Captain’s body was lowered onto the reserve bench, the grandfather clock ticked over to ten fifty-nine. With sixty seconds left to play, it was now or never for the
Pie Rats.

  In a positional change that had the Cat Fish baffled, Fred took Ruby’s place in the centre circle, with Whisker crouching directly behind him. Horace stood a short way back, his entire right arm concealed under his canvas shirt. Ruby occupied Fred’s usual position in the goal box, but was slowly creeping away from the posts. Pete waited up-field, to the left of the cats’ goal, looking utterly terrified.

  With the shrill of the whistle, the referee slammed the ball onto a dry patch of earth.

  The crowd roared with excitement and Prowler made a mighty leap into the air. Facing him, Fred did the exact opposite. He hunched his huge, powerful shoulders and stooped down before the ball had even left the ground.

  The rubber object exploded upwards, rising high above the competitors. As Prowler extended his paws for an easy catch, Whisker made his move. He sprang onto the mountainous shoulders of Fred and, in one perfectly executed move, the giant straightened his back, catapulting Whisker upwards like an exploding cannon ball.

  Whisker plucked the object from Prowler’s fingertips and somersaulted over his head. He hit the ground running and dummied to Ruby, sprinting along the left wing.

  Master Meow took the bait and bounded after her, his glass eye hampering his vision. Whisker wasted no time in throwing the ball back to Horace.

  With his right arm still tucked out of sight, Horace caught the ball with his left paw and took off down the centre of the field. Ahead of him, Fred ran as a blocker and shoulder-charged Prowler before he knew what was happening. The dazed cat stumbled backwards, opening up a clear path for the two rats.

  As they stampeded past Whisker, Horace stepped clumsily to one side, clipping Whisker’s shoulder. With a startled ‘YELP!’ Whisker tripped forward, splashing into a shallow puddle and Horace’s right arm sprang out from under his shirt.

  Steadying his stumpy legs, Horace continued running, leaving Whisker flailing in the water.

  ‘Get the pipsqueak!’ Sabre bellowed, tearing after Horace. ‘He’s got the ball.’

  Baring her fangs, Cleopatra darted off the right wing in pursuit of the rats.

  With the attention focused on his teammates, Whisker scrambled out of the puddle, hooked his tail behind him and raced down the deserted right side of the field.

  The Cat Fish supporters closest to Whisker tried desperately to grab Sabre’s attention, but their voices were overpowered by a deafening chant of ‘HORACE! HORACE!’ from the Oakbridge students.

  Spurred on by the sound of his own name, Horace increased his strides to a pace that would match any rodent. Unluckily for Horace, his pursuers were cats.

  From the safety of his own wing, Whisker saw Cleopatra and Sabre pounce in unison. Horace’s tiny body was thrown forward, knocking Fred’s legs from under him. Fred landed on Horace and the two of them crumpled to the ground. A moment later, Meow’s hefty frame barged Ruby over the sideline and she disappeared into the frenzied crowd.

  The loss of his teammates did nothing to slow Whisker’s pace. Without faltering, he continued his wide, sweeping run in the direction of the cat’s goal.

  There was a howl of rage from the middle of the field as Sabre, wrestling the two rats for the ball, suddenly found himself clutching Horace’s racket attachment. Covered by a mud-soaked napkin, its circular head had been disguised to look like a brown, rubber Death Ball.

  Sabre’s hazel eyes burned with rage. He threw the racket at the dazed rats and locked eyes with Whisker.

  ‘After the apprentice,’ he shouted, slashing his claws through the air. ‘He’s got the real ball!’

  Whisker felt a shot of terror race through his ball-carrying tail. The double decoy had just been discovered and the entire Cat Fish death squad was now after him.

  Cleopatra was on his trail in an instant. Furious Fur, his fur standing on end, bounded from the goal in an attempt to cut Whisker off. Behind him, Whisker heard the sound of hurried footsteps and knew that Prowler had recovered from his knock.

  GONG –

  The grandfather clock began to chime.

  Eleven strokes, Whisker gasped.

  GONG –

  He looked up to see he was still out of shooting range, even if tail shots were permitted.

  GONG –

  Gripped by panic, all he could do was run.

  GONG –

  The clock sounded its fourth chime. Maintaining his steady course, Whisker urged himself forward.

  GONG –

  The cats drew closer, their claws extended mercilessly.

  GONG –

  Furious Fur rose up like a shaggy, white monster, preparing to strike.

  GONG –

  The seventh chime of the clock announced to Whisker that time was almost up. Now was his moment to act.

  GONG –

  Using the last of his strength, he swung his tail in a wide arc and launched the ball high into the air.

  GONG –

  The cats skidded to a halt, their eyes raised to the heavens as the ball soared over their heads and across the field to the one player they had dismissed without a thought: Pete.

  GONG –

  The bony runt of a rat twirled unmarked on his pencil leg and, with his trademark roundhouse kick, sent the ball rocketing through the open mouth of the goal.

  Whisker never heard the eleventh chime of the clock. The ear-splitting roar of the rent-a-crowd drowned out every other sound.

  Somewhere in the chaotic celebrations a full-time whistle was blown and Chatterbeak announced the Pie Rats as ‘one-nil champions of Death Ball.’

  The reception the Pie Rats received befitted a ten-nil performance. As the snarling, protesting cats followed the referee off the field, Pete was thrust onto Fred’s shoulders and the bedazzled rat blew kisses to his adoring Athena. Horace held his broken racket attachment aloft like it was the real Trophy of Champions and Whisker found himself being smothered in hugs by Hera and Aphrodite. The two sisters appeared to have forgiven him for his past indiscretions and sang his praises for orchestrating the set play of the century: The Double Decoy – Centre Steal with Roundhouse Twist.

  ‘Frankie and Pete, Frankie and Pete,’ Whisker kept repeating as he squirmed away to the reserve bench. ‘They’re the real heroes.’

  Hoping Ruby hadn’t seen the sisters’ gushing display of affection, Whisker was relieved to spot her on the far side of the field, fending off her own admirers: half a dozen love-struck hamsters all begging for a kiss. With a less-than-subtle response of, ‘You’ll get a boot up your backsides, you smelly little brats!’ Ruby stomped over to the Captain, still lying rigid on the bench.

  Granny Rat and the Hermit stood calmly by his side, apparently unfazed by their son’s current state of inactivity. Smudge perched on the Captain’s chest like a miniature sentinel, guarding his master.

  ‘He’ll be right as rain, come tomorrow,’ Granny Rat said, giving the Captain an affectionate pat on the cheek.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ the Hermit agreed, ‘ready for the Sea Race.’

  ‘What about the Stealth Raid?’ Whisker asked in a whisper. ‘Don’t we have to pull that off tonight?’

  ‘I’m sure you can manage without him,’ Granny Rat said reassuringly. ‘My nimble-footed husband has already loaded the cut-outs onto the Apple Pie, and the cart of pasties is hiding in the bushes near the fishing jetty in readiness for tonight’s delivery. As far as I’m aware, no one suspects a thing. All you have to do is wait until dusk and then proceed with the plan. Touch the trophy and the championship is yours.’

  There was a loud wheezing sound as Rat Bait staggered up to the small group, looking extremely rattled. All heads turned to him in surprise.

  ‘We may have – a wee problem –’ he panted.

  While he tried to catch his breath, he pointed to the far bank of the dam, where Gustave stood in discussion with five of his sons.

  ‘I saw several o’ Gustave’s lads arrivin’ at the end o’ the game,’ he puffed. ‘Their arms were overflowin’ with s
upplies an’ they were all talkin’ at once ‘bout the Blue Claw.’

  ‘The Blue Claw,’ Ruby gasped, grabbing a scissor sword from under the bench. ‘Are they here?’

  ‘Not ‘ere,’ Rat Bait said, with a shake of his head, ‘but they’ve been spotted in Two Shillin’s Cove, raidin’ shops an’ searchin’ for a wanted felon o’ some description. It’s only a matter o’ time before they extend their search up the hill. From what I could gather, the rabbits grabbed all the supplies they could carry an’ raced back to the farm. The dock delivery’s been cancelled an’ I’d bet a parlour of pasties Gustave’s about to make a big announcement.’

  ‘Announcement?’ Whisker said in confusion. ‘What kind of announcement?’

  Rat Bait pointed to the cloudless sky. ‘It’s a fine day for a sailin’ race, don’t ye think?’

  Rat Bait’s prediction was spot on. Within minutes, Baron Gustave moved to the centre of the dam and boomed into his bullhorn. ‘Due to unforeseen circumstances, ze Sea Race vill commence at twelve o’clock today.’

  There was a roar of support from the Cat Fish supporters, glad to have something to finally cheer about.

  As Whisker studied the faces in the crowd, an intense feeling of panic spread through his body. He counted six of Gustave’s sons scattered around the dam. He could hear the marmosets and the Penguin Pirates jabbering away behind him, but Sabre and his carnivorous crew were nowhere in sight.

  The Velvet Wave, Whisker thought in horror. With half the guards missing and the farm in a frenzy, it’s the perfect time to mount a raid.

  Growing more anxious by the moment, he paused to reflect on the turn of events. The Pie Rats and Cat Fish were currently tied on two competition points. The cats had two Death Ball victories while the rats had three, edging them ahead for the first time during the games.