Is An Own Goal Bad?

by Helena Pielichaty

“That’s good?” I said, as it seemed expected.

  “Good? It’s brilliant!” Petra laughed. “It means one of the best two teams will have to knock the other out to reach the final. We could go all the way in our group!”

  “Oh! I’ll tell all this to Dylan!”

  Megan nodded. “You do that.”

  “I shall.”

  There was a short silence. “I’d do it now, before you forget,” Megan urged.

  “I shall. Erm … you know the printing thing?”

  “Uh-huh?”

  “Do you need a computer for that?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s just we don’t have one at home.” (We don’t have a TV, either, but when you tell people that they think you’re weird, and I was already in deep mud so I just left it at no computer for now.)

  Megan shrugged. “No worries. I’ll do it at lunchtime for you.”

  Megan was being kind again! No wonder she’s our captain.

  I returned to the classroom without a giant’s foot on my chest. Not even a giant’s toe. I was so happy that I wouldn’t have cared if Miss Parkinson had yelled her head off at me – but she was already yelling at Callum Kirton so I was able to sneak back to my seat. Callum Kirton is the most naughty boy in our class. Dylan loves him and says she’s going to marry him after she has travelled the world in a hot-air balloon.

  At lunchtime, just as she’d promised, Megan gave me the report, the table and even a new fixture list.

  Here is the match report:

  NETTIE HONEYBALL CUP

  Group A

  Parrs U11s (Parsnips) 3 Greenbow United Girls 1

  Saturday 27 October

  What an awesome way to start our cup run! Defending in the first half were Lucy Skidmore and Holly Woolcock. Both were brilliant at keeping a determined Greenbow at bay. Gemma had a couple of shots on target and was unlucky not to score, but she set up two for super-striker Eve Akboh.

  In the second half Greenbow put us under pressure. They came out all guns blazing and deserved their goal, which came ten minutes into the half from a sharply headed cross. By now the match had a real buzz about it and Greenbow almost equalized in a classic goalmouth scramble, but life-saver Holly cleared off the line. Nika then broke free and took the ball forward, passing unselfishly to Tabinda, who powered home goal number three. Well done, Tabinda!

  Parsnip of the Match went to Gemma Hurst for being outstanding (again).

  Hannah Preston (coach)

  Next cup match: Saturday 15 December at HOME against Lutton Ash; 10.30 KO

  “Oh,” I said when I read it, “so Gemma won the golden globey?”

  “The what?”

  “The Parsnip of the Match.”

  “Yes – she played a blinder.”

  “That’s good,” I said, swallowing hard, “that’s very good.”

  “Check out who’s top of the table!” Megan said, tapping the second sheet.

  This was the second sheet:

  “Us!” I grinned.

  “It won’t last, but it’s nice to be top for even a little while. Furnston haven’t played yet, that’s why they don’t have any points,” Megan explained. “We all miss a go. Actually, it’s our turn to miss next. We don’t play a cup match again until December the fifteenth.”

  “December the fifteenth! That’s a long time away.”

  “Yep. So you’ve nothing to do until then.”

  “No,” I said, feeling a bit sad about that, “unless you want me to write up about one of the league matches…”

  “No, you’re fine,” Megan said quickly. “Just concentrate on the cup.”

  “Okey-dokey,” I said. “I’ll do that … we both will. Cross my heart hope to die put a needle in my eye.”

  “No needles needed – just be there.”

  “That’s a promise, captain,” I told her and saluted.

  3

  The report of the Nettie Honeyball Cup football match between the Parrs Under 11s and Lutton Ash Angels as told by Miss Dylan McNeil

  This next bit begins once upon a time on the morning of Saturday 15 December. I was trying to have a deep slumber because it was only nine days to Christmas and I knew I wouldn’t be getting much slumber soon what with Yuletide excitement. Only the phone was ringing and ringing and my slumber was disappearing and disappearing. “That’s fine, I’ll go,” I muttered to Daisy.

  As I may have mentioned last time, person reading this, answering the phone is not easy when you live in a windmill and your bedroom is on the top floor and the phone is on the bottom floor. It is even harder at Christmas-time when it is freezing cold and your beloved mother has wrapped tinsel round all the spiral-staircase handrails.

  This time when I reached the kitchen the phone had stopped – but only because Daisy had answered it. “Yes, Grandma,” she was saying, “I know. Thank you.”

  “Huh? I thought you were in bed!” I told Daisy when she hung up.

  “I thought you were going to wake me up for the match!” she told me as she dashed past.

  Of course it was all go, go, go after that! We must not miss the second match of the cup run. We must not! I ran back up the stairs and shouted into my mum and dad’s room, “Wake up! Football!” and then I ran to my brothers’ room and shouted, “Wake up! Football!” but when I ran to our bedroom I didn’t shout anything to Daisy. I didn’t need to because she was already up. Not only that – she was out of her jimjameroos and in her kit. “Crikey!” I said. “That was quick!”

  “Hurry up!” Daisy said, shooing my cat Pickle off my bed and pulling my kit out from beneath her. “We mustn’t be late. I promised Megan.”

  “Did you cross your heart and hope to die?”

  “Yep.”

  “Gosh! Let’s go, then!”

  At least this time we were playing at Lornton, which is only two villages and a wiggly bit away.

  “Who are we up against this morn?” I asked, eating toast and pulling my hoodie on at the same time, as we walked to the van.

  “Lutton Ash Angels,” she said.

  I stopped dead, right there and then, on the frosty pathway. “Angels?”

  “Not real angels,” Daisy said and pushed me into Declan, who was climbing into Chutney.

  “Watch it!” he growled.

  Mum yawned and closed the door, then climbed onto the front passenger seat next to Dad. “I can’t believe we’re doing this. It’s madness,” she said. “Why can’t football just be played in summer?”

  “Please hurry, Dad,” Daisy said. “It’s ten o’clock. The match starts at half-past.”

  “We’re playing angels,” I told him.

  “OK, OK, don’t rush me. I don’t like being rushed,” Dad said, and started the engine. “Rushing makes me stressed.”

  “It’s not helping Chutney much either,” Declan said.

  It was true. Chutney wasn’t sounding tip-top. More tip-bottom.

  “Yep. She’s struggling,” Dad said, turning the key again. “Oh dear. I’ve flooded the engine now.”

  “Oh no!” Daisy exclaimed.

  “Here we go,” Darwin muttered and got out his knitting.

  “We’ll just have to sit and wait a while,” Dad said.

  “Why now?” Daisy moaned. “Why can’t she conk out on school days instead?”

  “I can guarantee she will.” Mum laughed and ruffled Daisy’s hair.

  “I know! I’ll go and get a clippyboard and pen to write the match description down!” I said and clattered back into the house. I couldn’t find a clippyboard but I found an old ringo-binder of Declan’s under Sedge’s basket and used that.

  Did Daisy congratulate me on my fine thinking when I returned to the steamed-up van? No, she did not, person reading this. She did not!

  After about ten minutes Dad tried again, but still Chutney would not start. She is not a wet-and-damp-morning-liking kind of vehicle.

  “Everybody out! The old girl needs a push,” Dad said. After we’d all got out and given
Chutney a big push down the slope, she roared into action. When I say roared, I mean chugged.

  “Megan’s not going to be kind about us being late again like she was before,” Daisy skulked as we pulled into Lornton FC’s ground.

  “But we missed the last game altogether. We’re here for loads of it this time,” I said.

  Daisy tapped her watch three times with her nibbly nail. “Dylan, it’s nearly half-time.”

  “Well, if the matches were the same length as in the men’s game it wouldn’t matter so much,” Dad argued. I could tell from his tone he was getting as fed up with his daughter moaning as I was.

  “An hour’s long enough, thank you,” Mum told him, “and if Megan says anything to either of you, just tell her what happened. We can’t help it if the car won’t start. That’s life.”

  “Exactly,” I said.

  The match was in full bellow, with girls running everywhere. The angels were wearing white tops with dark blue shorts and blue and white stripy socks, which I thought was a delightful choice. I went to stand with Daisy and Eve. “Hello, Eve,” I said. “How are you?”

  “Cold,” she replied and began jumping up and down on the spot.

  “I’ll write that down,” I said.

  Daisy sighed. “You’re supposed to be writing down what happens on the field.”

  “I know.”

  “Turn round, then!”

  Person reading this, I have to tell you I was getting highly flip-flapped about being bossed around by my sister. After all, I am three and a half minutes older than her and she has no right to be grating on my gums.

  I turned round very, very slowly, as if in a dream or a mime. Eve gave me an odd little look but I didn’t care. On the field there was much shouting, a highly lot of it coming from Hannah. “Move to the ball a bit more, Nika!” “Who’s on number 15?” “Lovely pass, JJ! Keep going!”

  I had just written the word “Move” when Tabinda came racing towards us.

  “Uh-oh, this doesn’t look good,” Eve said, and jumped aside just as Tabinda doubled over and was sick.

  “Do you think I should describe that?” I asked Daisy.

  Daisy shook her head. “Mrs Enid Blyton would never describe puke,” she said in a wise manner.

  “True. I’ll miss that bit out.”

  Luckily then the stoppy-starter blew her whistle and it was break time, so Tabinda’s mum and dad could take her home and I could mingle with my teamies and catch up on the latest news. They all seemed quite skulky and were doing a heap of complaining. “Did you see that one with the dark hair? She fouls all the time!” Gemma said.

  “The ref’s not even doing anything. Their striker keeps standing on my foot every time I try to throw the ball out!” Megan added.

  “Ignore it,” Hannah told everybody. “You have to rise above it in matches like this. We’re two–one up and there’s no reason you can’t make that more if you just keep doing what you’re doing. OK, get ready, er … Dyl. I want you on for Tabs.”

  “I can’t,” I said. “I’m writing.”

  “I’ll do the writing,” Daisy said – and snatched the ringo-binder right out of my hand!

  “No, I need you too, Dayz. The field’s very muddy; it’s heavy on everybody’s legs. I want to swap you in and out.”

  There was nothing for it but for us both to remove our cagoules, fleeces, outer polo-neck jumpers and gloves.

  “Nice and quick,” Hannah urged. “I want you left midfield.”

  “OK, boss,” I said and stuck my thumbs up at her.

  I have to be honest. When people say things like “left midfield” I get a bit confused. I’m not splendid at left and right or mid or field – so I used my common sense and went to find a space no one else was using, like Miss Parkinson tells us to do in PE. This time I chose a spot quite close to the corner stick, but Megan called out, “No, Dylan, not there. Over there – alongside Hursty.” So I darted like a young guppy over to Gemma Hursty and said, “Hello, partner,” and she sighed and said, “Move further along the line, Dylan.”

  Inside my head I thought, well, I don’t know where I’m supposed to be, but outside my head I kept quiet because I didn’t want Gemma to know that.

  Instead I stared at the girl on the opposite side of the white line. I have to admit I was disappointed. She did not look like an angel. Her face was not endearing in the least. In fact, number 5 was what my friend Ellie would call a bit of an Ugly Betty.

  The whistle blew and it was our turn with the ball in the middle, and Gemma Hursty passed it to Jenny-Jane and Jenny-Jane did her churny face as she ran, and I had to smile as I ran alongside her because her churny face always makes me smile. Jenny-Jane kicked the ball back to Gemma, even though I was free and available – but that didn’t matter because Gemma Hursty ran and ran, dodging and swerving and echoing round the angels until she was near the goalhouse. She then kicked the ball to Nika, who turned and skiddled it past their ball-stopper girl and into the net.

  “Goal!” I yelled, and ran like an aeroplane, which is the way I have chosen to celebrate when we score. I zoomed straight over to Daisy for a high five and then zoomed back to my place next to the number 5 angel. “Wasn’t that a highly elegant goal?” I asked her.

  She pulled a face at me and muttered under her breath two words that my beloved parents have told me I must never use and even my future husband, Callum Kirton, only uses sparingly.

  “If you use those words again I shall report you to the stoppy-starter,” I told her in a firm manner.

  I am not going to tell you what happened during the rest of the match, person reading this, because it will spoil it for you when you read my splendid and excellent report. Let’s just say we were victorious.

  4

  In which Daisy McNeil describes how Dylan suffers a set-back and Daisy learns a lot

  “Why won’t you let me see it?” I said to Dylan the Monday after the match.

  I hurried after her as she marched into the dining room.

  “Because,” Dylan said, clutching the report to her chest.

  “Because what?”

  “Because blot.”

  We reached the Year Four table. Megan was sitting with Petra and Tabinda. Megan was eating a tuna-and-salad sandwich, and Petra was scraping the inside of a raspberry-yoghurt pot, and Tabinda was shaking a carton of apple juice and seeing if there was anything left.

  “Hello, teamies,” Dylan announced.

  The three of them looked up at us. “Hello, twins,” Megan said.

  “I bring you gold, frankincense and lemonade,” Dylan said and threw down her report. It landed in Petra’s sandwich box.

  “Nice wrapping,” Petra said, handing the brown envelope covered in red glitter and tinsel cuttings back to Dylan.

  “No, it’s for Meganini – it’s the match report,” Dylan told her.

  Megan scowled. “But you only came for the second half.”

  “Don’t worry, I covered the first half using my imagination,” Dylan said. “Pages one to six. No probs.”

  Petra put her hand over her mouth and looked quickly away. I thought she was going to laugh, but she didn’t. Instead she began to clear away all the lunch stuff. “We’ll leave you to it, Megs,” she said.

  “Thanks, ex-friends,” Megan replied.

  “It’s a mighty piece of writing,” Dylan told Megan. “Even Miss Parkinson would give it three stickers, probably.”

  Megan took a deep breath and slowly pulled the sheets out of the envelope. I leaned forward, trying to peer over Dylan’s shoulder, but she elbowed me out of the way. Charming.

  Our captain began to read. As she read, her face turned more and more puzzled. She got as far as the bottom of the first page, then stopped. “Sorry, Dyl, but there’s no way,” she said.

  I took a step back in case Dylan did one of her fainting moves, but she stayed upright. “No way what?” she asked.

  “No way we can use that.”

  “Which bit?”


  “Any bit.”

  “Any? Gosh! Pray why?”

  Megan chewed at her lip. “Look, I’m not trying to be mean or anything. I can tell you’ve tried hard, but it’s really difficult to read and it’s too … it’s too … um … confusing.”

  My heart sank then. I had guessed it would be! This was why I’d wanted Dylan to show the report to me first. My spelling’s not highly great but Dylan’s is dreadful. She spells Dylan D-y-l-n and Daisy D-a-s-e. And that’s before we get onto the made-up words. Mr Glasshouse had wanted Mum and Dad to let Dylan be assessed, but Mum had told him “No way” because she didn’t want her labelled like a packet of cheese. “It’s all schools seem to do these days,” Mum said; “run tests and tick boxes so they’ve got something to show the inspectors. Well, their statistics won’t include my children!” She got in quite a tizz about it, and said if it wasn’t for the fact she needs to paint she’d educate us at home.

  “Confusing? Is it? Where?” Dylan asked Megan, snatching the report out of her hands.

  “Read a bit out loud to me and I’ll tell you,” Megan said.

  “My pleasure,” Dylan replied and, taking a deep breath, she began. “ ‘Well, today, the Parsnips had perfect conditions of rain and churny grass. It was highly glorious. The first thing I noticed was that the lady stoppy-starter had a kind face but lard-laden legs. The second thing I noticed was that the Lutton Ash Angels passed in a speedy way like a moth caught in the sunscreen of a bus driver’s window. One of the angels (who wasn’t a real angel, by the way) kicked the ball towards the netty-box. Petra, playing at stopper-back, tried to kick it out but she skiddled on the mud and another angel flumped it with her foot straight past Megan, our brave ball-stopper…’ ”

  “Stop!” Megan called out, holding her head.

  “But I’ve only read a slither,” Dylan protested.

  Megan shook her head. “Dyl, it won’t do! You have to use proper words for things. The referee’s a referee, not a … what did you put?”

  “A stoppy-starter.”

  “A stoppy-starter. Exactly. And I’m not a ball-stopper, I’m a goalkeeper or ‘keeper’. Proper words.”