Stuff Happens, Tom

by Pat Flynn

  Contents

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Pat Flynn had stuff happen to him at school too.

  The time he remembers best was when he kicked a soccer ball through a window. Unfortunately, the window was closed at the time. Pat walked – very slowly – to the principal’s office.

  If I had a time machine I’d go back to that day. Me and Zac slugging it out. The crowd oohing and ahhing when we flashed a forehand winner or chased down a backspin drop shot. Both of us hitting the ball like we hated it: grunting and giving everything we’ve got, because in tennis there are two players but only one winner.

  I so wanted the winner’s trophy.

  It was sitting on a little table beside the court and I’d sneak a glance between games. It was huge, bigger than anything I’d already won by a long shot. But it wasn’t just the size that impressed me. It was the words written on the gold plaque stuck on the white marble base:

  I remember heaps about that day. The sun was so hot I wore a black sweatband around my right wrist so my grip wouldn’t get slippery. It was open day at the club so the place was buzzing – sausages sizzling on the barbie beside the clubhouse, dozens of little kids playing mini-tennis on courts five and six, and quite a few people watching us. Like me, Zac Zepharis is a member of Monvale Tennis Club, and the coach here says that we’re the two best juniors to train at the club for a long time.

  Zac is also fun to watch because he wears his heart on his sleeve. ‘Surely not?!’ he yelled after he fluffed a backhand volley to hand me the first set.

  Zac likes to yell.

  I prefer a quiet fist pump.

  One set down, one to go.

  Although Zac crushes me in the power department, I’m steadier. My plan was to keep the ball deep in the court and force him into mistakes on the third or fourth shot of the rally.

  ‘I am so angry right now!’ Zac yelled when I broke his serve early in the second set.

  Another fist pump by me. My plan was working.

  Up 3–1, I knew if I could hold serve here, Zac would sink further and further down and the trophy would soon be mine.

  But he wasn’t quite finished yet. On the first point, Zac hit a great backhand return, which I only just managed to reach and hit back. He cranked a forehand into the opposite corner, but I dug that out too – floating the ball high over the net, giving me time to recover to the middle with some quick crossover steps. Zac was waiting for the ball, and his shoulders and hips untwisted like a corkscrew as he powered a forehand up the line.

  I bolted to the right. On the dead run I flicked my wrist and somehow hit the ball on the perfect part of my racquet strings – the sweet spot. The ball flew crosscourt and past Zac’s outstretched racquet for a winner. It was the best shot of my life!

  I celebrated before it even landed.

  ‘Olé!’ That’s Spanish for ‘awesome’. Rafael Nadal yells it all the time.

  The crowd clapped and screamed. Well, one person screamed. My little sister, Ellie. ‘Way to go, Tom!’

  Zac yelled, too, of course. ‘This guy moves like the Joker!’

  I smiled into my hands. He was talking about Novak Djokovic, the fastest player in the world, not the evil clown from Batman. It was a huge compliment.

  After two Zac errors gave me a 40–0 lead, I stole a look at the trophy that would soon be mine. On top of it was a small silver man about to serve, which gave me an idea.

  It was ace time!

  I tossed the ball up slightly in front of my right shoulder, and my knees bent and then straightened as my racquet accelerated upwards to meet the little yellow globe. There was a ping off the strings as the ball flew off like a guided missile, going exactly where I aimed. Zac lunged, but couldn’t touch it, and I started walking to my chair to sip my energy drink and enjoy a 4–1 lead.

  Then Zac yelled, ‘Fault!’

  I stopped mid stride and snuck a glance at the line. It had felt good off the racquet. Looked good, too. I considered asking Zac if he was sure, but decided not to. He might be a hothead, but Zac wasn’t a cheat. Besides, it was his call.

  Never mind, I’d ace him again. He certainly wouldn’t expect me to try it on the second serve.

  I went hard down the middle. Again.

  ‘Double-fault!’

  De ja poo! This one was close, too, but definitely out.

  I heard a groan from the crowd. I’m pretty sure it was Ellie.

  Although a double-fault is never good, I wasn’t too worried. I was still up 40–15. After collecting the balls, I went straight to the baseline to serve again.

  Another double-fault. Another groan. It may have been Dad this time.

  Far out! I thought. Hit the serve in the box, Tom.

  At 40–30, my first serve banged into the middle of the net. This wasn’t good. All of a sudden my stomach felt like it had swallowed a tennis ball. I told myself not to be so uptight, but it didn’t help. When I tossed the ball up to hit my second serve, my left arm jerked and sent the ball flying away to the right.

  ‘Sorry, mate,’ I said to Zac as I let the ball land on the blue plexicushion court.

  I threw the ball up again and this time the toss went so far forward I would’ve fallen flat on my face if I’d tried to hit it.

  What’s going on? I thought. One minute my serve is fine, and the next I can’t even toss the ball up straight! This was getting embarrassing.

  After a deep breath, I tried again. This toss was a little better so I hit it. Right into the net for another double-fault.

  It was my turn to yell. ‘Why is this happening to me?’

  Thoughts started rushing through my head. What’s wrong with my ball toss? What if I never get another serve in again? What if I give up my lead and lose to Zac? That would be a tragedy.

  Stop! I walked to the back of the court and gave myself a pep talk while I buried my face in the Wimbledon towel that Uncle Ray had given me for my tenth birthday. ‘Calm down, Tom. You can do this. You can.’

  It must have worked a little because I got the next serve in. Finally. But Zac’s confidence was up now and he hit the return for a crosscourt winner.

  My mind started racing again. Maybe I really will lose? If I did, I knew Dad wouldn’t let me forget it. He’s a pretty good dad, but he doesn’t like losing. ‘You need the killer instinct, Tom!’ he always tells me.

  I mustn’t be a natural-born killer because – down break point – I did more bad ball tosses and another double-fault.

  ‘No!’ I screamed.

  ‘Yes!’ yelled Zac in excitement.

  It was 3–2 instead of 4–1, and he was back from the dead.

  As for me, well, I was dead. Panic set in and my lead melted away like an icy pole. Down match point, I buried a second serve into the bottom of the net.

  As Zac raised his arms in victory, the crowd clapped.

  They clapped again a few minutes later as I accepted the runners-up cup from the club president, Col. Two minutes after that, I chucked the cup into the toilet bin, hiding it under a heap of paper towels.

  That night my mum came into my room and said, ‘Tom, where’s the cup you won today? I want to put some flowers in it.’

  ‘Umm. I lost it.’

  She gave me a death stare.

  The match was months ago and I’ve replayed it in my head lots of times since. It always ends the same – crooked ball tosses, double-faults and me blinking away tears after the match.

  If I had a time mach
ine I’d go back to that day, serve an ace, win the match, get the trophy and stare at it happily every night.

  But what are the chances of finding one of those?

  You know what school’s like. There are popular kids and nerds and athletic freaks like Michael Quinlan who can swim faster than a fish. And then there’s me – Tom Connors – a year five student with an average amount of brains and an average amount of mates.

  Even so, I like it here at Monvale Primary. I like playing handball at lunchtime, I like my best friend, Luke, and I even like my teacher, Miss Hobbie.

  Today, she stood at the front of the classroom wearing a colourful dress and a toe ring. Her long, blonde hair flowed freely down her back, and she spoke how she usually does – in a way that makes every word sound important.

  ‘Boys and girls, we’re going to start a new unit called The Power of the Mind.’

  I wasn’t sure about this. I’m interested in the mind, but I didn’t think mine was very powerful.

  Miss Hobbie continued. ‘If you could have something you really wanted, what would it be? I’m not talking about a thing like a million dollars, but a skill or a quality or maybe even a feeling. When you think you know what you want, write it down.’

  I didn’t even have to think. I wrote, I want to serve like Nick Kyrgios instead of Tom Connors who is a loser that can’t even toss the ball up straight.

  That was easy. I looked around and most kids were still thinking. After a while I got bored and looked over at Luke, but for once he was concentrating on his work – brow furrowed.

  I glanced at the kid on the other side of me, Michael Quinlan. He’d finished writing so I snuck a peek.

  I would bomb the hill on my Sector Nine skateboard.

  That’s random. I thought his wish would involve an Olympic medal or racing a dolphin.

  ‘Okay,’ said Miss Hobbie after a bit. ‘Now I want you to write down how you’ll know when you’ve got that skill or quality. What is something you can do to test it?’

  Hmm. This was a little trickier, but I finally came up with something. Hitting good serves against Zac in front of a big crowd.

  Ever since he beat me, Zac’s got better while I’ve got worse. He’s won two more tournaments while the best I’ve done is reach a quarterfinal. And it’s all because of that stupid day and my stupid serve. If I was to play him right now he’d kill me.

  I felt a tap on my arm. It was Luke, showing me what he’d written. Giving a speech and not feeling pee run down my leg.

  In year one, Luke peed his pants during show and tell, and ever since he’s been terrible at public speaking. I couldn’t help it. I laughed. A bit too loud.

  Miss Hobbie shot me a laser-like look.

  ‘Sorry, Miss,’ I mumbled.

  She gave me a nod to let me know I was forgiven. Did I mention she’s a really nice teacher?

  She spoke to the class. ‘What if I told you that I could show you a way of getting what you want?’

  Luke put his hand up. ‘I’d say you were lying, Miss.’

  The class chuckled.

  ‘I’m not,’ said Miss Hobbie, putting her hand over her heart. ‘Teacher’s honour.’

  Josie Yang raised her hand. ‘How are you going to do it, Miss? You’re not a witch, are you?’

  Another chuckle.

  ‘No,’ said Miss Hobbie. ‘Although it is a little like magic.’ She smiled mysteriously. ‘Who wants me to show you how?’

  Like our hands were tied to the same piece of string, every kid in 5H raised their arms.

  ‘Well, what are we waiting for?’ asked Miss Hobbie. ‘Let’s go outside and make it happen.’

  Miss Hobbie takes us outside a lot. The kids in 5J and 5L get jealous because the only time they leave the classroom is when Mr Atherton takes them to the E. B. Watson oval for PE.

  Zac’s in Ms Lucas’s class, and, because he hates sitting down, he suggested that we swap classes. ‘We could tell Principal Davies that you’re allergic to trees,’ he said while we were stretching after tennis training.

  ‘Let me think about that for a few seconds.’ I pulled my right elbow across my body and felt a nice pull in my triceps. Zac looked on hopefully. I paused, then said, ‘No way!’

  We went to Miss Hobbie’s favourite spot – under the large fig tree near the multipurpose court. It’s the only big tree in the school, and I like it because while I’m relaxing in the shade I can imagine myself playing tennis on the court.

  ‘We’re going to do an experiment,’ said Miss Hobbie. ‘First, I want you to find a partner.’

  Luke and I looked at each other and grinned. Working together was a no-brainer.

  After Miss Hobbie explained what we had to do, we went onto the multipurpose court carrying a metal bucket, a soft red ball, a measuring tape and a piece of chalk. We put the bucket on the green concrete and measured three metres away from it, then I drew a chalk line.

  ‘It’s a bit crooked,’ Luke said.

  ‘So is your nose.’ It wasn’t my best comeback line but, hey, I gave it a shot.

  Miss Hobbie told us our final instructions. ‘Your goal is to land the ball in the bucket. Each person will have ten shots. Make sure you stand behind the line.’

  ‘I’m going first,’ said Luke.

  ‘Hope you miss,’ I replied.

  Luke mustn’t have listened to me because he got eight out of ten. He said he would have gotten ten if it wasn’t for the crooked chalk line.

  When it was my turn, I found it hard to concentrate because Luke kept pulling faces at me, making me laugh. I only got four out of ten.

  ‘I’m four hundred per cent better than you,’ said Luke.

  I would’ve liked to argue, but I hadn’t really got the hang of percentages yet.

  Miss Hobbie blew her whistle to get our attention. ‘Leave the balls and buckets on the court and sit back under the tree.’

  I flopped down under the fig branches and sighed. It was nice to be in the shade.

  Miss Hobbie explained the next part of the experiment. ‘In a few minutes we’re going to try tossing the balls into the buckets again, but first I’m going to teach you a technique that should improve your score.’

  ‘That won’t be hard for you,’ Luke whispered to me.

  I ignored him.

  ‘It’s called imagery,’ continued Miss Hobbie, ‘and it’s when you go through an activity in your mind without actually doing it. As you imagine yourself doing the skill, your brain teaches your muscles how to do it better. Almost every famous athlete in the world practises imagery. Have you ever tried it, Michael?’

  Michael’s head snapped up. He was probably thinking about bombing the hill on his skateboard. Eventually he said, ‘Yeah. My coach gets me to imagine swimming the perfect race over and over again. It works.’

  ‘See?’ said Miss Hobbie. ‘I want you to find a comfortable spot, close your eyes, and I’ll take you through a short relaxation exercise. After that I want you to keep your eyes closed while I tell you what to do.’

  We’d done the relaxation activity with Miss Hobbie a few times before. She tells us to tense and then relax different parts of our bodies – like our legs, arms and stomach. Once I snuck a peek at Luke tensing up his face and he looked like a bulldog.

  During the relaxation I felt really calm, and was almost asleep when I heard Luke yell, ‘Oww! A bull ant just bit me on the butt!’

  After the whole class – except for Luke – had a laugh, Miss Hobbie made us calm down again. Then she told us how to do the imagery.

  ‘Picture yourself standing behind the line with the ball in your hand. You feel calm and confident as you look at the bucket. Take your arm back smoothly and let the ball slide out of your fingers, then watch it arc through the air and drop perfectly into the middle of the bucket. Picture ten throws just like this.’

  I found it pretty easy to do. Probably because I just tried throwing the balls into the bucket, and also because I have a good imagination. In year fou
r my report card said my imagination was a bit too good, especially during maths.

  ‘Now open your eyes,’ said Miss Hobbie.

  I had to blink a few times to get used to the sunlight, but I felt refreshed and focused – kind of how I used to feel when I played a tennis match. Before my match against Zac changed all of that.

  Luke and I went back out on the court. ‘My butt’s still stinging,’ he whined.

  ‘Forget about it,’ I said. ‘Just do what you imagined.’

  ‘All I imagined was stomping on that ant.’

  I chuckled, and kept chuckling as Luke missed his first five throws. He ended up getting three out ten.

  ‘Imagery stinks,’ said Luke.

  ‘But you didn’t even do it!’

  ‘That’s because I knew it wouldn’t work. You’ll find out.’

  I picked up the ball and stood behind the line. Forgetting about Luke’s bad attitude, I tried to imagine the ball dropping into the bucket. On my first shot, that’s exactly what happened.

  ‘Good shot, Tom!’ said Miss Hobbie. She gave me a smile and my face felt warm. I didn’t even know she was watching.

  I went through the same routine again, and again, and again. Each time the ball landed perfectly into the middle of the bucket. By the time I got eight in a row, a few kids had gathered around.

  ‘TC’s going for a perfect score everybody!’ yelled Luke after I sunk number nine. He had a lot more confidence in me now.

  More people wandered over. Talk about pressure.

  I took a deep breath and felt surprisingly calm. It was like the imagery had given me a shot of belief. In my mind, I’d already stood here and done it before.

  Before my last throw, Luke couldn’t resist saying something. ‘Whatever you do, Tom Cat, don’t miss.’

  I didn’t feel quite so good after that. The word ‘miss’ seemed to stick in my head. As I let the ball go it didn’t feel as smooth as the other throws, but at least it was going to be close. The ball glided through the air and kids were silent as they waited to see whether or not I could get a perfect ten. I slightly under-tossed it, and the ball hit the front lip of the bucket and bounced into the air. I could hear people groan as they realised it didn’t go in. Instead, the ball dropped onto the back lip of the bucket, bounced up into the air again, then landed inside.