For Andy Booth, Huddersfield Town legend
The Team
Megan “Meggo” Fawcett GOAL
Petra “Wardy” Ward DEFENCE
Lucy “Goose” Skidmore DEFENCE
Dylan “Dyl” “Psycho 1” McNeil LEFT WING
Holly “Hols” “Wonder” Woolcock DEFENCE
Veronika “Nika” Kozak MIDFIELD
Jenny-Jane “JJ” or “Hoggy” Bayliss MIDFIELD
Gemma “Hursty” or “Mod” Hurst MIDFIELD
Eve “Akka” Akboh STRIKER
Tabinda “Tabby” or “Tabs” Shah STRIKER/MIDFIELD
Daisy “Dayz” or “Psycho 2” McNeil RIGHT WING
Amy “Minto” or “Lil Posh” Minter VARIOUS
Official name: Parrs Under 11s, also known as the Parsnips
Ground: Lornton FC, Low Road, Lornton
Capacity: 500
Affiliated to: the Nettie Honeyball Women’s League junior division
Sponsors: Sweet Peas Garden Centre, Mowborough
Club colours: red and white; red shirts with white sleeves, white shorts, red socks with white trim
Coach: Hannah Preston
Assistant coach: Katie Regan
Star Player
Holly “Wonder” Woolcock
Age: 10
Birthday: 29 January
School: Saddlebridge C of E Primary
Position in team: defence
Likes: football, watching Leicester City (the Foxes) with my dad
Dislikes: feeling left out sometimes when we train, because I’m the only one in the Parrs Under 11s who goes to my school and everyone else seems to know each other
Supports: Leicester City and Leicester City Women’s
Favourite player(s) on team: Gemma is so talented and Megan is a great goalie and Lucy is good in defence with me
Best football moment: when Hannah gave me the nickname Wonderwall because she said the opposition found it so hard to get past me.
Match preparation: I make sure I warm up properly.
Have you got a lucky mascot or a ritual you have to do before or after a match? I like a hug from my dad.
What do you do in your spare time? Follow the Foxes.
Favourite book(s): anything by Roald Dahl
Favourite band(s): Westlife (or any boy bands)
Favourite film(s): Happy Feet
Favourite TV programme(s): Blue Peter
Pre-match Interview
Hello! My name is Holly Woolcock and I’m a defender for the Parrs Under 11s. When I begin my part it’s almost the end of our first season with only two matches remaining. We’re mid-table, which isn’t bad, though Dad reckons we could be higher if we fielded our strongest side every time instead of all this “anyone-who-turns-up-gets-a-go malarkey” as he calls it. As you’ll find out, my dad can be quite opinionated when it comes to football.
There’s going to be a presentation evening after the last match of the season. Most football clubs have a presentation evening, when players are rewarded for their contributions to the team for that season, and the Parrs senior team included us in theirs. We all thought this was so cool, being invited along and treated the same as them. Even the categories for the awards were the same.
So here goes. Just sit down, relax and read on…
Love,
Holly xxx
P.S. I’ve included the league table as it stands at the beginning of my bit (see next page).
The Nettie Honeyball Women’s Football League junior division
Table of Contents
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
Final Whistle
1
We had just finished the six-a-side match at the end of training when Hannah, our coach, asked us to gather round. “Right, gang, we’re now going to do something so totally crazy and awesome you won’t stop talking about it for weeks,” she announced.
We waited. Long seconds passed and the tension became too much for Dylan, who grabbed hold of Daisy, her twin. “What?” Dylan asked. “What?”
“I thought we could…” Hannah began, then paused again.
“What?” Dylan repeated. “What?”
“… warm down!”
Everyone groaned and Dylan smacked her forehead in disappointment. “That’s not crazy or awesome! That’s what we always do!”
“Got your attention, though, didn’t I?” Hannah grinned. “OK, girls, spread out along the touchline.”
I pushed my sticky fringe off my face and sighed. I didn’t need to warm down. I was already warm. In fact, I was boiling hot. And exhausted. And starving hungry.
“OK, one lot of high-step skips forward, then one backwards,” Hannah ordered. “Nice and steady and controlled…”
I tried, I really did. I kept my head straight and my eyes forward, but the far side of the pitch seemed miles away. I hadn’t even a smidgen of energy left, and the others soon pulled ahead.
Hannah noticed and fell back in step with me. “Come on, Hols! You can do it. Warming down’s really important for your muscles.”
“I know!” I mumbled.
“Keep your knees high, to get the full range of movement in your hips.”
“Mm.”
“Like this,” she said and demonstrated.
I nodded and swallowed hard, wishing she’d pick on the others instead, the ones without the tummy that bulged over their waistbands when they doubled over.
“OK?” Hannah said.
Taking a deep breath I summoned a pea-sized portion of will-power from somewhere.
“That’s more like it!” Hannah complimented as we reached the touchline together. “And back!”
I high-skipped backwards, faster this time to get it over and done with, and I ended up back at the start at the same time as everyone else, but my heart was racing like mad and I knew my face would be redder than a pillar box.
“Carioca!” Katie, our assistant coach, then called from the other end of the line.
Carioca? Phew! This one was just funny walking, like apes trying not to step in a cowpat. I managed that one without bursting any major organs.
“Last one now! Small skips!” Hannah directed.
Even better. Small skips were easy. My heart managed to slow down to a gallop, and Hannah grinned and put her thumb up to show she was pleased with me.
“Brilliant work, everyone!” she said as we gathered by the touchline. “Help collect all the stuff, then meet back in the changing rooms.”
By the time we had cleared away, my breathing had returned to normal and I felt warm instead of hot. I was still sooooooo hungry, though! I tried not to think about the Galaxy bar tucked in my bag – my treat ready for when we had finished. I was tempted to open it as we crossed the field, but nobody else was eating and I wasn’t going to be the only one. They’d probably think I was being a greedy-guts, especially as I was already the tubbiest on the team.
In the changing rooms, Hannah began giving out sheets of paper. I perched on the edge of the bench next to Lucy and Nika.
“Won’t keep you a tick; I just want to go through some stuff before you all shoot off,” Hannah began. “First of all, I presume you’re all available for Saturday against Lutton Ash Angels?”
“As long as they’re not as dirty as last time,” Megan declared. “Otherwise, no.”
Everyone knew this was a fib. Megan would turn up whoever the opposition was – angels … werewolves … vampires. “Don’t worry,” Hannah told her; “
I’ve asked one of our officials from the senior league to ref this one. They won’t mess with Bev Bywater.”
“Nobody messes with Bev Bywater,” Katie added.
“Good,” Megan said, as if that settled it.
“Right, these letters are about the presentation evening,” Hannah continued.
“I thought you’d given us those last week,” Lucy said. She glanced at me as if to say “She did, didn’t she?” and I nodded. Saturday 3 May from seven o’clock onwards. There’d be speeches followed by a buffet and a disco. Venue: the function room above the clubhouse. Not that I’d be going, but I’d remembered because it was the day of the last match of the season.
“Hang on, Miss Impatient,” Hannah told Lucy. “That letter home was just the basics. This chap is the nitty-gritty. As you’ll see when you read it out loud.”
“Me? Do I have to?”
“Yep … but I know you’re a Man U supporter so just shout if you get stuck on any long words!”
“Cheek!” Lucy squawked and stood up.
I budged up closer to Nika. She’s pretty good at speaking English, but I know she finds understanding written information hard sometimes.
“‘Girls,’” Lucy began, putting on a fake posh voice, “‘it is now time to vote for whoever you think is our player of the season…’” Lucy stopped. “Oh!” she said as the words sank in.
“Yes.” Hannah laughed. “‘Oh.’ That’s what we do at presentation evenings. We give out awards. As you were, Skidmore.”
“‘Your vote for the Players’ Player should be for the player you think has given most to the team this season. The player we would miss most if they weren’t able to play. You might think that skill or bravery or turning up each week is most important – that’s for you to decide. Everyone nominates a first, second and third choice.’”
Hannah’s eyes roved round the room. “The one thing I don’t want you to do is vote for your best friend…”
She paused to let that sink in, but there was no need as far as I was concerned. My best friend was called Lauren O’Brien and she’d rather saw both her legs off than play football.
“… so if I were you I’d keep your vote a secret. Then nobody’s going to be worried about offending anyone.”
“I am not highly good at keeping secrets.” Dylan sighed.
“Try really hard.” Hannah smiled.
I turned to Nika. “Did you get all that?” I asked her.
“Yes.” She nodded, flashing me a grin. “Best players – one-two-three.”
Hannah checked her watch, then clapped her hands together. “All right, gang, buzz off home. The senior team will be arriving any sec. You don’t want them trampling over your feet. I need your votes in by next Tuesday at training. OK?”
“OK,” we chorused.
2
Dad was waiting in the car park, and I sighed with relief. If it had been Tracie, my stepmum, it would have taken ages to escape. She’s a lunchtime supervisor at Mowborough Primary, where three-quarters of the team go, and they swarm round her like she’s some sort of celebrity who’s turned up for a film première. “Hi, Mrs Woolcock!” “Loving that top, Mrs Woolcock!” “Did Aisha find her swimming stuff in the end, Mrs Woolcock?” It’s not that I’m jealous – truly I’m not – it’s just that after training all I want to do is get in the car and eat chocolate.
With Dad, I could do just that.
“Good practice?” he asked, switching on the engine as I snuggled down in the passenger seat and burrowed in my bag for the Galaxy. Just touching it made my stomach leap with joy. Mmm. Yummy, creamy chocolate. I tore away the foil wrapper and took a huge bite. “Yeah. Really good,” I mumbled.
“I suppose you spent all your time SAQ-ing.”
I nodded. In case you don’t know, SAQ stands for speed, ability and quickness training. It involves exercises, drills and circuits to make us faster and more co-ordinated. We do spend most of our practice time on them, but Dad is not a big fan.
“SAQ! You ought to be playing proper matches, never mind S-A-bloomin’-Q-ing,” he muttered, his face reddening as he yanked his seatbelt downwards. I know I’ve got puppy fat, but my dad’s tummy is well massive. It always takes him at least three attempts to get the strap over and in.
“Well done!” I said as it finally clicked into place.
He grunted, then spied my Galaxy. “Ooh, let’s have a bite!”
I knew all too well what would happen if I did. I’d be staring at an empty wrapper and two crumbs if I was lucky. Maybe even a blood-filled stump where I’d once had a finger! Instead I broke off a square and passed it across to him.
“Sure you can spare it?” he complained.
“I’m starving,” I said. “I haven’t eaten since lunch.”
“Why haven’t you eaten? Tracie said she’d made a lovely salad for us. You could have had that before you came out.”
“I know,” I admitted; “but I can’t eat before training. Everyone knows you can’t train on a full stomach.”
“A bit of salad wouldn’t fill you,” he said, and slowly reversed out of the car park.
We drove out of Lornton and headed along the Mowborough Road. We then had to go through the town centre and out again to Saddlebridge, the village where we live. It usually takes about half an hour, and in that time we catch up on each other’s news. When I say news, I mean football news, our favourite subject.
As we approached the outskirts of Mowborough, I mentioned the voting sheet Hannah had given us for Players’ Player.
“Oh, well, you know who’ll get that, don’t you,” he said instantly.
“Who?”
“Hursty.”
“Why? Why not Megan? She started the team. Or Lucy. Lucy’s really strong at the back.”
“Hmm. Goose is all right and Meggo’s decent enough in goal, but it’s Hursty that’s got the edge – that innate talent,” Dad said.
I grinned. I loved the way Dad took our discussions seriously, using the same phrases he’d use for Leicester City, the team we both support. And he always referred to us by our nicknames. He never called Lucy “Lucy”, only “Goose”. In fact, I think he was the only one who called her that!
“You can see it a mile off,” he continued. “Cracking little player, she is.”
“Thanks for not thinking I might get it, by the way, Dad,” I said, licking my finger and dipping it into the empty Galaxy wrapper in case there were any stray flakes of chocolate still lurking about. “I mean, I’m only your precious daughter.”
“You are my precious daughter, but it’s always the forwards who get the glory, Princess. Check out FIFA’s Players of the Year from the past.”
“Such as?”
“Ronaldo, Zidane, Ronaldinho, Shevchenko…”
“What about in women’s?” I challenged.
“Prinz, Hamm, Marta … the same. All forwards.”
I nodded. My dad knows so much. “And then there’s the other reason I won’t get it,” I told him.
“What’s that?”
I patted my tummy and grinned. “Fat kids don’t win sports trophies!”
He winced. “Don’t call yourself that, love.”
“Why not? It’s true!”
“You’re not fat. You’ve got big bones, like me.”
“Big bones covered in chocolate!” I said, and we both laughed.
As we neared the market square, Dad pulled the visor down and squinted into the watery evening sun. “I’m just thinking…”
“Uh-huh.”
“Tracie’s out tonight…”
“Uh-huh.”
“So do you fancy a Chinese?”
“From the Lucky Dragon?”
“Where else?”
“And can I have sweet-and-sour chicken with special fried rice and those sesame triangle things?”
“Course. Just don’t tell Tracie, eh? If she asks, that salad she left for us was delicious.”
“And scrumptious.”
“And so tasty.”
“Award-winning, in fact.”
Twenty minutes later we took our two carrier bags full of foil cartons across to the small play area opposite. We sat on a bench, munching away. Chocolate and Chinese in one night. Bliss!
3
Next morning I was up by half-past six. Not because I wanted to be, but because the birds in the wild cherry tree outside my bedroom window were making such a racket. Springtime’s well annoying.
I washed and dressed as quietly as I could and tiptoed downstairs. The kitchen was empty. A side plate speckled with toast crumbs and a half-finished pot of cold tea on the table told me that Dad had already left for work. I knew Tracie wasn’t up yet, which meant I could start thinking about who to choose as my Players’ Player of the Season.
Deep down I agreed with Dad: Gemma probably would get the award – but that didn’t mean I was just going to stick any old names down. You need to think through decisions like this. Mull over them properly. I found the sheet of paper Hannah had given us, then grabbed the notebook from next to the phone and strode into the kitchen.
“Right,” I whispered, drawing rough lines down the notebook. “What was it we had to look for?” Skill. Bravery. Turning up. The one you would miss most and the one who has given most. OK, that meant five columns. Six, if you counted one for names. I’d give each player a mark out of ten per column, I decided; then whoever got the most marks altogether would get my first vote, second would get second place and third would get third place. Sorted.
I’d just started to write all the names down the left-hand side when I heard creaking footsteps above me. Tracie was up. Hurriedly I tore the sheet off the notebook, folded it in half and slid it and the letter between the table-mats. Keep it secret, Hannah had said. That meant from everybody.
I walked over to my schoolbag and searched for my lunchbox. I’d just emptied the balled-up clingfilm and squished carton of apple juice into the bin when Tracie came in. “Morning,” I said.
Who Ate All the Pies? Page 1
