by Scott Allen
‘I could be the assistant manager, Dad,’ said Tim, determined not to give up. ‘Perhaps I could get a real football manager to help out. There are loads of managers out there with no jobs.’
Frank laughed. ‘I don’t think a professional manager would want to come all the way down here to train a load of llamas. Maybe we should start smaller . . . with someone who knows about football but lives near the farm?’
Tim grinned and did a small celebratory fist pump under the table. He knew Frank was on board with the idea now, even though he hadn’t said it out loud yet.
‘What about the team in the village?’ suggested Monica. ‘They could help out. They aren’t very good though.’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Tim. ‘Our llamas are so good I reckon a monkey could manage them and they’d still beat a team of humans. It would be an amazing match.’
‘Get a monkey manager,’ shouted Fiona. ‘I want a monkey manager.’ She leaped up on her chair and started hopping about, making unusual screeching noises.
‘That doesn’t sound anything like a monkey,’ said Beetroot calmly. ‘Will you get down off your chair, Fiona?’
‘I’m a monkey and I’m going to be the manager of the greatest football team ever!’ Fiona hooted, hopping across to another chair and waving her arms about. ‘Screech, screech! Whack the ball in the goal. Screech, screech! Cross it on my noggin . . .’
‘Oh dear,’ said Beetroot. ‘I heard monkey football managers don’t like ice cream for pudding. If only there was a polite little girl here who sat still; maybe she could have it instead.’
Fiona sat back down straight away and put on her best angelic look. The Secret Rule Book of Being a Mum is much more useful than the Dad one.
Frank stroked his bushy beard again. He liked seeing Tim happy. He was worried that moving to the farm and starting a new school had hit Tim the hardest, but the llamas had really perked him up. What harm could it do if he said yes? The chances of anyone actually agreeing to train the llamas were slim to none – but at least they could try, couldn’t they?
Tim, Cairo, Monica and even Beetroot were now sitting expectantly waiting to see what Frank would say next.
‘OK, let’s find out the address of the local football team and go down there in the morning,’ he announced. ‘I think there’s a chance we can get this idea to work. You’ll still have to look after the llama poo though, Tim.’
Tim jumped up and started to do a little celebratory dance, then stopped. He really hated shovelling llama poo.
14
MEETING McCLOUD
On the other side of the village sat the home of the local football team, White Horse FC, which was named after the pub on the opposite side of the road. The pub was called the Red Lion . . . ha, ha, only kidding. It had one stand that held about a hundred people, which was unimaginatively called the White Horse Stand. Behind one goal was a huge quarry, which was full of footballs. The other two sides of the ground were just fields and a few houses. It was a typical ground, in a typical village . . . well, apart from the pond.
White Horse FC were not very good. Their top striker was fifty-five years old. I say top striker; he scored just four goals last season, and only two the season before. The other striker had scored just once in his entire life. He only had one nostril that worked properly, although this didn’t make him any worse at football.
The two centre midfielders had been sent off ten times each this season – twice for fighting each other. The four defenders were brothers who loved swimming in the village pond, which had made them so stupid they kept forgetting what position they were playing in. It wasn’t uncommon to find White Horse FC playing with three left backs during a match.
The majority of White Horse FC’s victories came from own goals or the other team forgetting to turn up. Let’s just say the standard of the league was really bad.
Tim, Frank and Cairo went down to the club an hour before White Horse FC were due to kick off one of their final games of the season, against top-of-the-table Wallop Town.
On the way, Tim and Cairo babbled excitedly about how the White Horse team would be thrilled to find out about their team of llamas. Even Frank found it hard not to join in with their enthusiasm.
Cairo had done some snooping on his phone to discover more about the White Horse manager, Steve Wharton, who he thought would be the best person to talk to about the llamas. He looked fairly young, with a neat, dark goatee beard, and always wore a baseball cap. Even in a picture of him celebrating with the players in a huge dirty bath, he was wearing a baseball cap. I’ll tell you a secret: Steve was embarrassed about his bald patch, which is why he always wore a hat. Don’t tell him I said that though; he’s got a bit of a temper on him.
The trio found Steve Wharton sitting on a stool in the small team bar at the back of the White Horse Stand. He had his head in his hands. This was fairly common for Steve; he was an exceptionally grumpy man.
Tim felt all the enthusiasm drain out of him. Still, he was determined to do what was best for the llamas and the farm. He plucked up all the courage he could muster, marched up to the miserable-looking football manager and tried to win him round. ‘We’re from the farm on the other side of the village,’ he said, his voice going a bit squeaky at the end. ‘We’ve got something that you might want to come and see. It’s amazing.’
Steve lifted his head out of his hands and stared at Tim with an uninterested expression. ‘Go on.’
‘We’ve got some llamas that are really good at football,’ Tim continued nervously. ‘Perhaps they could help out this football team?’
‘They are probably the best footballers you are ever likely to see,’ added Cairo with a manic grin.
Steve smiled weakly, as though he’d just met three of the biggest nutters in the world and didn’t want to do anything that might startle them. Very slowly, he stood up and started to back away towards the changing rooms. It wasn’t really Steve’s fault; finding out about a team of football-playing llamas is not something you encounter every day. ‘That’s really great to hear,’ he said, nodding thoughtfully. ‘But I’ve got a very important match in a bit and I need to get my team ready.’ Then he legged it through the door.
‘Oh dear, that didn’t go very well, did it?’ said a disappointed Frank. ‘He must think we are barking mad.’ He looked accusingly at Cairo, who was wearing a kilt for some reason.
Cairo wasn’t barking mad, but he was a lazy dresser who wore the first thing he picked out of the cupboard each morning. This particular cupboard belonged to his Scottish uncle.
Tim was just about to suggest they chase after Steve when a sharp cough came from the corner of the room. Leaning on the bar was an old man in a cloth cap sawing away at a pineapple with a knife and fork.
‘He’s eating a pineapple with a knife and fork,’ whispered Frank to Tim and Cairo through the corner of his mouth.
‘Aye, that’s the best way to do it, laddie. Ask anyone who lives near a pineapple tree,’ said the man firmly, who despite being old could clearly hear perfectly well.
Tim, Cairo and Frank didn’t know anyone who lived near a pineapple tree. Nobody lives near a pineapple tree; they don’t grow on trees.
‘So what’s this I hear about llamas that can play football?’ asked the man, stuffing some of the sharp green pineapple leaves into his mouth.
‘He’s eating the leaves,’ whispered Frank through gritted teeth to the boys.
‘We HAVE got llamas that can play football!’ cried Tim, ignoring his dad.
‘The greatest footballers ever,’ added Cairo.
The old man stopped chewing and his face became stern. ‘Llamas you say . . . them things like camels?’
‘They are part of the camel family, but they aren’t camels,’ said Cairo authoritatively.
‘Good. I hates them camels,’ grumbled the old man. ‘Camels took my wife away from me.’
You would expect that he would go on to tell a long and rambling story about his wife and some came
ls, but he just stopped and took a large bite out of the rind of the pineapple instead. He swallowed with a grimace.
‘These llamas are the best football-playing animals ever!’ enthused Tim. ‘You’d be amazed if you saw them.’
‘Interesting,’ said the old man. ‘OK, I’ll come and see these llamas.’
Tim was excited that someone wanted to see his llamas, but wasn’t sure that a strange old man would be of any help. ‘I’m sorry, but who actually are you?’ he asked.
The old man looked slightly taken aback by an eleven-year-old challenging his credentials.
‘Well, sonny,’ bristled the old man, ‘let’s just say I know a lot about football.’ He threw a heavy medal on to the bar.
Tim picked it up and inspected it. ‘Look, Dad! It’s a World Cup winners’ medal.’
‘That’s right sonny, I won the World Cup with Scotland, way back a long time ago.’
‘Eh . . . that’s not right,’ interrupted Frank. ‘Scotland has never won the World Cup.’
‘Haven’t they, laddie?’ growled the old man. ‘You clearly haven’t been playing proper attention then, have yeh?’
‘No . . .’ replied Frank, frowning. ‘I’m sure Scotland has never won the World Cup.’
‘Dad, will you drop it,’ hissed Tim. ‘He knows about football and has a World Cup winners’ medal – that’s good enough for me.’
‘Well done, son,’ said the old man to Tim. ‘Now let’s go and see these llamas. You can call me McCloud by the way . . . car this way is it?’ He left the bar and went outside.
Tim, Cairo and Frank stood in the empty clubhouse for a few minutes trying to soak up what had just happened.
‘I think he’s a bit bonkers,’ said Frank quietly. ‘We’ll have to tell him that we’re not interested in his help.’
‘Why not?’ asked Tim defiantly. ‘I can’t see anyone else offering to help us around here.’
‘Plus he’s got a World Cup medal,’ added Cairo, who didn’t really know what that was.
‘That doesn’t mean anything,’ replied Frank with a sigh. ‘He could have got that from a car-boot sale.’
‘Well, I want to give him a try,’ demanded Tim.
‘Does the job for me,’ added Cairo, sticking his thumbs up.
Frank stroked his beard and had a little think . . . which was a complete waste of time, as Tim and Cairo had already left the room to follow McCloud.
15
McCLOUD’S VERDICT
After five hours of watching the llamas pass, dribble, shoot, head, tackle and volley in the rain, McCloud returned to the farmhouse to pass his judgement. He was dripping wet and had a very stern look on his face. Tim could feel his heart fluttering as he waited for the verdict.
‘What you have here is llamas . . . who can play football,’ the old man said, taking a swig of cold tea from a mug Fiona had recently used as a paint pot. Luckily McCloud didn’t notice.
‘We know that,’ said Tim, finding it hard not to feel exasperated. He had been expecting a less obvious statement.
‘Ah, but what you don’t know is, these llamas already have all the skills you’d expect of top international players. Like they’ve been taught everything overnight by the football gods, and we all know how strange the football gods can be, don’t we?’
Tim, his dad and Cairo all nodded, indulging McCloud, but truth be told they hadn’t a clue what he was banging on about.
‘Any idea how they got so good?’ asked McCloud.
‘They are very rare llamas from the Andes; they are naturally good at it,’ replied Tim, trying to keep his face as straight as he could.
Thankfully McCloud brushed off this feeble explanation as though it was completely normal. He believed that the world’s best footballers are blessed with ability from birth, so it could easily happen to a llama. Plus, he’d never heard of the Andes.
‘Of course, they’ve got no idea about tactics and formations,’ he continued, ‘but I can teach them that.’
‘How would you do that?’ asked Cairo. ‘They are llamas after all. I’m a human and I don’t know anything about tactics.’
‘It’s all about man-management and discipline,’ McCloud snapped. ‘Knowing when to give them the old hairdryer and when to put the old arm round the shoulder.’
Cairo was going to ask what the ‘old hairdryer’ was but thought better of it. What it really means is shouting at someone so hard that their hair is blown back like a hairdryer. Nasty.
‘But these are llamas – not professional footballers. You can’t apply the same rules to them, surely?’ added Tim.
‘That’s true, laddie, but to be honest some of the footballers I’ve worked with in my fifty years in the game have no more common sense or brain power than some of these llamas.
If I can train them, then I can train anything – whether it be a hippo, an anaconda, a Bengal tiger or a llama. Why, I’ve even heard about a tennis coach in Tibet who got some yaks to the Australian Open final. It’s all about man-management, or in this case llama-management.’
Frank shot Tim an alarmed look. The kind of look you give someone when you realize you have actually let someone completely mad into your kitchen. Surely no yak had ever reached a tennis final. McCloud didn’t notice. He was already drawing formations and complicated diagrams on the back of one of Fiona’s paintings, with arrows going this way and that. He was muttering, occasionally chuckling and then getting angry with himself. It was a little unsettling.
Frank decided he wanted this strange old man out of his house; he was clearly a few sandwiches short of a picnic. ‘Shall we take you back to the football club, McCloud?’ he suggested. ‘It is getting rather late.’
‘Aye, let’s do that,’ replied McCloud, putting the finishing touches to an unusual 2-6-2 tactic. ‘There’s a lot of work to be done here, mark my words. I’ll give you a call when I’ve worked out a plan. I’ve got great hopes for these lads . . . I mean llamas.’
‘Great, that’s just great,’ said Frank, pretending he believed everything McCloud was saying. As he shuffled him out of the door, Frank desperately hoped this would be the last time he ever saw the strange old Scotsman.
Sadly for Frank, he was wrong.
Tim and Cairo were waiting anxiously in the kitchen when Frank got back home from dropping off McCloud.
‘Hi, Dad, how did it go?’
‘I dropped him off, and he said he’d ring when he’s got everything sorted,’ said Frank with a sigh. ‘He’s clearly a fruitcake who thinks he knows everything about football.’
‘For a moment I really thought he could help us make these llamas into a brilliant football team,’ said Tim sadly, resting his chin on the table. ‘But then he started talking about the yaks.’
‘And doing all that mad tactic scribbling,’ added Cairo.
‘Yes, that was a bit of a worry,’ replied Frank. ‘There is no doubt the llamas are brilliant footballers, but to be honest they just charge about doing all their stuff. It would take some of the best animal trainers in the world years to get them to understand how to actually play the game.’
‘So what do we do with the llamas then?’ replied Tim, letting out a big sigh.
‘Dunno,’ said Frank shrugging. ‘But we really need them to start making some money, as soon as possible.’
They sat in silence for a few minutes before Cairo piped up. ‘Why don’t we make the llamas, like, an attraction?’ he said. ‘You know, we’d charge people a pound or something to watch the llamas kick a football about?’
‘Yeah, I suppose that’s a pretty good idea,’ said Frank unenthusiastically. ‘But it’s not going to make enough money to keep the farm going.’ He pulled his black notepad out of his pocket and looked at it sadly.
Tim gritted his teeth and imagined throwing the notepad on a fire. What a disappointment the day had turned out to be.
‘Ahem, ahem,’ came a voice from the doorway. It was Monica holding her laptop, and she had a wry smile on h
er face. ‘Don’t you lot ever check anything on the internet? Look at this . . .’ She turned the screen round and revealed a very blurry black-and-white picture of a man in a dark jersey diving full length to head a ball into the back of a net. Around him were loads of other players in white kits trying to stop it going in. Everyone in the picture looked about fifty years old. Their shorts were very short, they had huge sideburns and moustaches, and all of them had really badly styled hair.
Underneath the picture was a caption:
McCloud heads the winner against West Germany.
‘I think you need to give McCloud a chance,’ said Monica. ‘He might be a bit eccentric, but he’ll know more about football than the rest of you put together.’
Tim, Cairo and Frank studied the picture closely. You could just about make out McCloud’s nose. Personally I never came across the fellow, or played against him. Our careers never really overlapped. This is why I haven’t been very helpful up to this point, for which I can only apologize. Without Monica I also would have presumed he was an imposter.
‘Wow, that’s pretty impressive,’ said Tim, putting his eyeball as close to the picture as possible.
‘I know,’ replied Cairo in awe. ‘Especially as I’ve never heard of West Germany.’
16
A CALL IN THE NIGHT
Somehow, despite the amazing discovery of the football-playing llamas, the Gravy family managed to get on with their normal lives over the next few days. Tim, Fiona and Monica went back to school. Beetroot started volunteering in a charity shop, while also managing to fit in a punishing fitness regime. Frank continued to scribble angrily in his little black notepad, especially after he bought fresh hay and feed for the llamas. He was still struggling with Fiona’s princess castle and had only reached chapter two of his beekeeping book. Tim toiled away shovelling llama poo into bags that nobody really wanted to buy.
