Llama United

by Scott Allen

  The llamas continued to amaze the Gravy family with their skill, with Ludo standing to one side, watching but not getting involved. The llamas’ coats were slowly getting healthier with all the fresh air and good food, and Frank had even started hoping that maybe they could start selling their wool before Christmas. McCloud seemed to have disappeared.

  Until one night the phone rang . . .

  Now, I’m not great with phones, as the nearest one to me when I was growing up was in a phone box at the bottom of the road, and I always hated those new-fangled mobile things. But even I know that a call at 2.46 a.m. is usually somebody with bad news.

  ‘Frank Gravy?’ came the muffled voiced at the other end.

  ‘Er, yes,’ said Frank wincing. He was waiting for bad news.

  ‘It’s McCloud.’

  ‘Oh . . .’ said Frank in confusion. ‘Hello.’

  ‘I’ve got some very, very, very good news,’ said McCloud sternly, making it sound as if he was about to reveal the worst piece of news ever.

  ‘Is this news so important that you have to tell me about it at two forty-six in the morning?’

  ‘Oh aye, this is very, very, very good news . . . and it’s actually five to three; your watch must be wrong.’

  Frank sighed. ‘OK, McCloud, what’s the very, very, very good news then?’

  There was a long pause from the other end of the phone. ‘We’ve been accepted to play in next season’s Cup competition.’

  ‘McCloud, I really don’t care what happens to your football club, especially not at three in the morning!’ started Frank.

  ‘Not White Horse FC – those idiots can hardly lace up their boots!’ interrupted McCloud. ‘I’m talking about your llamas . . . I mean our llamas. Our llamas are going to be playing in the Cup next season. What do you think about that? I told you I’d sort something out.’

  There was no reply.

  ‘Gravy . . . Gravy . . . Gravy? What do you think about that?’ shouted McCloud.

  But there was still no reply, because Frank had put the phone down and gone back to bed thinking that McCloud must have eaten a really hot curry that had melted his brain.

  But McCloud didn’t stop ringing and ringing and ringing and ringing. Frank tried to ignore the calls, but eventually they had woken the entire family, which made him as unpopular as cold broccoli for breakfast. It was Tim who finally braved getting out of his nice, cosy, warm bed to pick up the phone.

  ‘What are you playing at, man?’ McCloud hooted down the phone. ‘We’ve been entered into the best cup competition in the entire world. We haven’t got time for you to be horsing about like this. We’ve got to start training immediately! We’ve only got three months before it starts.’

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Tim. ‘Did you say we’ve been entered into the best cup competition in the world? Really the best cup in the world? The World Cup?’

  ‘Oh, it’s you, son.’ McCloud’s voice immediately calmed down. ‘Well, not the World Cup, but it’s the best domestic club knockout cup competition in the world. I’ve pulled a few strings and Llama United will be in the qualifying rounds. I’ve got an official letter from the Cup’s governing body right here in my hand.’

  ‘Wow, that’s amazing . . . Hang on, did you say Llama United?’

  ‘Aye, Llama United, that’s what they’re called.’

  ‘Oh. Um . . . is there any way of changing it? Llama United is a bit boring.’

  ‘It’s not a pop group, sonny, and I couldn’t call them Hippopotamus Albion or Bobcat Rovers, could I? It can’t be changed now, it’s official. The main thing is we are in the Cup.’

  ‘Yes, yes, sorry, that is amazing.’ Tim paused, allowing the clever part of his brain to wake up and ask a question. ‘Why have they let a team of llamas enter the Cup?’

  McCloud went quiet for a bit. ‘Well, I didn’t actually tell them they were a team made up of llamas. We’ll worry about that on the day of the first match. Right then, it’s late and we need some rest. Big day tomorrow, first day of training. Pick me up at nine a.m. sharp,’ ordered McCloud, and with that he put the phone down.

  Tim crept into his parents’ bedroom and flicked the lights on and off again about ten times, until his dad opened his eyes.

  ‘What is it now?’ Frank said eventually.

  ‘That was McCloud. We are definitely going to play in the Cup. It’s official; he’s got the paperwork and everything,’ said Tim, hopping up and down as though he was on springs. ‘Oh and you’ve got to pick McCloud up for training at nine a.m.’

  Frank desperately tried to think of reasons as to why this was a terrible idea – but Tim seemed so excited . . . he was so tired . . . and his pillow was so soft . . . that somehow he found himself growling, ‘OK!’

  ‘You’re the best, Dad!’ cried Tim, before running out of the room.

  Frank pulled the duvet over his head. He was desperate to go back to sleep, he’d been dreaming about making some award-winning honey – but now all he could think about was the fact that he’d just agreed to let a mad old Scottish man train his llamas for a football cup. He groaned. His pillow was really soft though.

  Tim returned to his room, frantically texted Cairo the good news, changed into his football training kit and boots and sat down on the edge of his bed to wait until 9 a.m., which was in about six hours’ time. He didn’t care; who needed sleep when there was football training to do?

  17

  TRAINING BEGINS

  McCloud was waiting for Frank in the White Horse FC car park at 9 a.m. sharp. He was dressed from head to toe in an immaculate navy-blue velvet tracksuit. It had thin white piping down the shoulders, arms and legs, and a small bright-yellow badge with a red lion in the middle. On the back of the tracksuit, emblazoned in bold white writing, was the word SCOTLAND. He carried a brown briefcase-type thing in his left hand and a huge bag of football equipment in the other, crammed with cones, balls and flags. He checked his watch as Frank pulled into the car park and tutted.

  ‘Yer four seconds late,’ he grumbled as he got into Frank’s car. ‘I’ll let you off this time, but don’t let it happen again.’

  ‘Again?’ said Frank, stunned by the way McCloud was talking to him. He was starting to feel like the family butler. ‘Am I going to have to pick you up every day until training is over?’

  ‘Aye, that you will, sonny,’ McCloud replied. ‘But learn this one thing: training is never over. You have to eat, sleep and breathe football. If you are not thinking about it all the time, shame on you.’ He wagged his finger aggressively at Frank, who tried to ignore it.

  They drove in silence for a few minutes until Tim suddenly popped up in the back behind the driver’s seat.

  ‘Hullo,’ he said breezily, which caused Frank to swerve on to the other side of the road.

  ‘Why aren’t you at school?’ barked Frank as he pulled the car back into the correct lane of traffic.

  ‘I’m the assistant manager. I can’t miss the first day of training. School can wait.’

  ‘It most certainly can’t,’ said Frank. He looked at Tim, who had his bottom lip out and was looking at him with his best begging eyes. ‘OK, OK . . . you can do training today and at weekends, but you must be back at school from tomorrow.’

  ‘What about afternoons?’

  McCloud laughed. ‘Afternoons? Afternoons! These llamas are going to be professional footballers . . . they don’t need to train in the afternoons. They’ll get all the training they need in the mornings and a few hours over the weekends.’

  Tim slumped back in his seat in a huge sulk. They were his llamas and it was his idea to get them playing football. Now he wasn’t allowed to help them train and he’d still have to go to that rotten school.

  Frank dropped McCloud and Tim by the field and drove off to buy some more fresh hay and feed. He was also going to secretly look at beehives for the award-winning honey he hadn’t made yet. Well, you’ve got to have dreams, haven’t you?

  McCloud st
ormed into the field and blew a small black whistle three times, then shouted words that Tim couldn’t understand at the llamas.

  The llamas stopped what they were doing, which was a mixture of chewing grass and some very short range passing, and looked at the Scottish coach.

  ‘Right then, LLAMA UNITED,’ McCloud bellowed. ‘Get yourselves round me quickly.’ He clapped his hands over his head three times.

  One of the grey llamas snorted. The rest went back to munching on the grass. Only Ludo continued to stare at McCloud.

  ‘HO! LLAMA UNITED, TO ME,’ McCloud bellowed again.

  The llamas still didn’t move. Tim shrugged at McCloud, but he wasn’t looking.

  ‘LLAMAS TO ME, RIGHT NOOOWWWW!’ McCloud really shouted this one, and his face went all purple.

  Some of the llamas took a step back. Others started to huddle together, glancing suspiciously in McCloud’s direction.

  ‘Right, I’ll show them who’s boss,’ muttered McCloud under his breath, and he sprinted towards the llama closest to him.

  Tim had never seen a man as old as McCloud sprint. The bottom half of his body was a whir of legs, while the top half remained perfectly still with his arms firmly planted by his sides. Tim covered his mouth so McCloud wouldn’t see him laughing.

  McCloud reached the closest llama and grabbed its hindquarters in an effort to turn it round to face the middle of the field. But the llama was having none of it and kicked out its back legs, sending McCloud crashing to the floor. McCloud wasn’t a man who gave up easily. He tried again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again, but each time with the same result – he was kicked, butted or knocked unceremoniously to the ground. His lovely navy-blue velvet tracksuit was covered in mud.

  ‘Hey, assistant manager,’ he barked at Tim as he picked himself up off the floor. ‘You get these llamas to come to the middle of the field so I can train them.’

  ‘But I don’t know how!’ said Tim.

  ‘Just try, laddie,’ cried McCloud, puffing and wheezing. ‘I’m out of ideas.’

  Tim gingerly approached the nearest group of llamas. He thought talking to them nicely would probably work best. ‘Ahem, excuse me llamas. Would you mind following me to the middle of the field so we can train you to play in the Cup?’

  The llamas looked at Tim briefly through bemused eyes, then once again returned to their grass chomping.

  Tim tried snapping his fingers, clapping his hands, waving his arms and making shoo-shooing noises, but nothing seemed to register even a glimmer of interest with the llamas. He really needed Cairo’s help for this; he’d know what to do.

  In frustration Tim booted a ball high into the air and towards the middle of the field. The llamas looked up from their incessant chomping and followed the path of the ball with their eyes. As the ball landed and bounced, every single one of them except Ludo broke into a canter and charged after the ball, which also happened to mean they were running towards McCloud, who was lying flat on his back after his last llama-induced tumble. The old Scotsman just had time to see the ball bounce casually past him before ten llamas charged over him, knocking him unconscious.

  When McCloud came around, Tim was standing over him flapping a towel at his face . . . he’d seen people do this in films when someone had been knocked out.

  ‘It’s the ball, McCloud!’ he cried as he flapped. ‘The ball! They are only really bothered about the ball. That’s how we can train them.’

  ‘Aye, lad,’ replied McCloud groggily. ‘That’s all the greats cared about, the ball and nothing else. I think we might have to start training them in the afternoons, after school, so you and your little friend can help me. What do you think?’

  ‘Yes please!’ cried Tim, his heart fluttering with excitement. ‘Cairo would love to help, he knows everything about llamas.’

  ‘We could get your mother involved too,’ McCloud added, squelching in the mud as he tried and failed to sit up, ‘as a fitness trainer. She seems to spend a lot of time doing press-ups and squat thrusts. Perhaps she could create a routine that will make the lads fitter? They’ll need to be at peak physical fitness to compete at the top level.’

  Tim nodded eagerly. Leaving McCloud to pull himself out of the mud, he ran off to find Beetroot. She would be thrilled that she would finally have something to train, even if it was a herd of llamas. For the first time in a long time, Tim felt that something was finally going his way.

  Tim and McCloud spent the rest of the day working non-stop with the llamas. Shooting drills, passing drills, cone routines, dead balls, sprints, tactical positions, the list of stuff they needed to practise was endless.

  Cairo appeared at mid-afternoon to offer some friendly support and advice on llama care. He also brought a large pair of nail clippers with him.

  ‘I think this why they are puncturing so many balls,’ he explained to Tim. ‘Nobody has clipped their toenails for ages. They’ll be like daggers by now. You’ll need to come and help me though.’

  Tim looked down at one of the llama’s feet. Cairo was right, their toenails did look incredibly long and sharp. He was glad he had such a resourceful friend. It would save them a small fortune in burst footballs, something that would also make his dad happy.

  Tim escorted the first pair of llamas towards Cairo and his clippers, using a mixture of hay, the ball, some friendly strokes and the odd pat as a lure. They seemed fairly happy to be separated from the rest of the herd, almost skipping along by Tim’s side. He was really getting used to being around the llamas now. They didn’t flinch when he touched them and occasionally they’d give him a playful nudge with their heads.

  ‘Who are these two fine ladies then?’ enquired Cairo giving the small sandy-coloured pair with little white socks a friendly pat on the neck.

  ‘Er, ladies?’ said Tim in confusion. ‘I thought all of them were boys.’

  ‘Nah, you’ve definitely got some girl llamas here,’ said Cairo, readying his clippers.

  ‘Ah, I was going to call them Dasher and Lightning, because they are the fastest and best crossers we have, but they aren’t really girls’ names, are they? We should change them.’

  ‘Just because they are girls it doesn’t mean you have to change their names. They are perfect names, even if they do sound a little bit like Father Christmas’s reindeer.’

  ‘I didn’t know girls could be this good at football,’ said Tim thoughtfully.

  ‘Well, I don’t know anything about football,’ said Cairo, bending down to inspect Dasher’s front nails. ‘But if someone is a good footballer, it doesn’t matter if they are girl or a boy. As long as they help the team win matches, who cares?’

  Cairo carefully trimmed Dasher and Lightning’s toenails while stroking and humming to them in a reassuring manner. ‘This is going to take ages,’ he said, when he’d finished. ‘Why don’t you write me down a list of the llamas’ names, what they look like, positions and what they are like, so I can go round and tidy them all up. Then you can get back to training.’

  ‘Why do you need to know their positions and what they are like?’ asked Tim.

  ‘I want to learn more about them. They all have their own personalities, just like people. You’d be surprised how different they can be.’

  ‘Suppose so,’ said Tim, taking out a scrap of paper and a pen. He began drawing up a team sheet.

  I’ve copied it out for you below, and corrected all the bad spelling, as Tim’s a terrybull speller.

  DEFENDERS

  BRIAN

  Grey, large black patch on body. Biggest and cleverest defender. Best at heading. He’s the leader at the back and takes himself very seriously. Gets angry if others make a mistake.

  BILL

  Grey, four black patches on body. Second biggest defender, but not as clever as Brian. Bit clumsy, which makes him a bit of a fouler . . . probably does most of the biggest poos.

  BOB

  Grey all over, no patches. Doesn’t seem to be that co
nfident, always stays close to Brian. Brilliant dribbler. Likes looking at his own reflection in the water trough, because he has such an amazing haircut.

  BARCELONA

  Grey all over, with black ears and chin. Runs with his tongue hanging out. Excellent at slide tackles. Really enjoys himself when playing, seems really cheerful.

  MIDFIELDERS

  DASHER

  Sandy coloured all over, four white socks, small, fast and really good at crossing. Loves to run at defenders and beat them for skill.

  LIGHTNING

  Sandy coloured all over, two white socks on front feet, small, fast and really good at crossing. Green eyes. Great positional awareness, always seems to arrive at exactly the right place at the right time.

  CRUNCHER

  White with a black flash across his nose. Strong tackler, good at passing, tricky feet. Will eat anything.

  SMASHER

  White, no flash across his nose. Strong tackler, good passer, powerful shot. The tough, silent, defensive midfielder of the team. Bit of a beard.

  STRIKERS

  THE DUKE

  Brown and white, incredibly tall, powerful neck, great at headers. Always holds his head high like he’s posh. Has a high opinion of himself.

  GOAL MACHINE

  Totally white with a light grey flash across his nose, ugly teeth sticking out over his bottom lip. Sparkly eyes a bit too close together. Best shooter in the team; the one who’ll score all the goals.

  When Cairo had finished he returned to Tim and threw him a bag full of llama toenails. ‘Looks like Cairo’s Nail Salon is closed for another day,’ he said, letting out a puff of air as though he’d been working a twenty-hour shift in a Victorian pottery factory.

  ‘Thanks Cairo, they all look really smart,’ said Tim, having an idea. ‘Hey, why don’t you be our first-team physio?’