Llama United

by Scott Allen

  The llamas were led into the small changing rooms by Tim and Cairo with the help of a load of hay. Once in the changing rooms they all quickly realized that hiding in here for a few hours before the game was going to be a nightmare. The llama poo was already beginning to pile up on the floor, and you could hardly move without a llama head, neck or body getting in the way. So they led the llamas back to the relative comfort of the transportation van and waited until just before kick-off to run on to the playing field.

  Brocket Town were already on the pitch dressed in a full yellow kit, which was so bright it was actually hard to look at any of their players for longer than about ten seconds.

  ‘Right, this is it, llamas,’ bellowed McCloud, marching up and down inside the transportation van as he spoke. ‘This is the big moment. Go out there and give it your best, but most of all, win this for yourselves.’

  The llamas looked blankly at their Scottish boss. They had no idea what he was talking about.

  Then Frank opened the van doors and Tim, Cairo and McCloud bravely led the llamas around the side of the stand and on to the pitch, while Frank went and positioned himself just behind the rickety dugouts. There was a huge gasp from the crowd. Well, as loud a gasp as forty-five . . . no, forty-nine people can make. Four more people had popped in at the last minute as they were passing by on their way to the shops.

  Tim overcame his nerves and grinned from ear to ear. He’d been looking forward to this all summer and had been running this moment over and over in his mind for weeks. The plan was to appear as cool and casual as possible, as though managing a team of llamas was a normal everyday event.

  As soon the captain of Brocket Town saw the llamas, he stormed straight up to the referee, who was standing in the middle of the pitch with his mouth wide open.

  ‘What the Austrian coffee cake is this?’ the captain shouted. He worked as a mechanic during the week; the garage was next to a bakery.

  The referee took a little bit of time to compose himself and then muttered, ‘It looks like a team of llamas to me.’

  ‘We can’t play a team of llamas,’ yelled the Brocket Town captain, stamping his feet on the ground like a three-year-old. ‘It’s . . . not . . . fair!’

  ‘I’m not sure there is anything about it in the rules,’ said the referee with a frown.

  ‘I don’t care about the rules; we are not playing a team of llamas!’

  Now anyone who plays football knows that the worst thing you can ever say to a referee is ‘I don’t care about the rules’; it’s plain madness. Spurred on by the captain’s flagrant disregard for everything he stood for, the ref snapped: ‘Well, I can tell you what the rules do say: if you don’t play the game, you forfeit the match.’

  Realizing the referee was serious, the disgruntled captain stomped off towards his team. The crowd of forty-nine started to boo and hiss; they wanted to see the llamas play.

  ‘Hello ref, how are you diddle-ing today?’ said Cairo casually as he passed him to tie Motorway to one of the nets and decorate her mini-palace. The referee opened and closed his mouth a few times but no words came out, his mind had gone to mush.

  ‘We OK to get going in a bit?’ Tim asked eagerly. ‘It is their debut after all, and some of them are a bit nervous.’ He pointed at a huge pile of poo that had appeared next to Bill.

  ‘Er . . . er . . . yes, I suppose so,’ said the ref, checking his watch. ‘I’m just waiting for the other team to decide if they’re playing or not.’

  The Brocket Town captain made his way back to the centre circle. ‘OK, OK – we’ll play the game. It should be fairly easy to beat a team of llamas anyway.’

  Some of you might be thinking, hey why is the captain making all the decisions? Unusually, as well as being a mechanic, he’s also the player-manager and the club owner. Which made him rather big-headed and impossible to substitute.

  The referee blew his whistle to start the game and Brocket Town kicked off. They played the ball around among themselves for a few seconds, then, boringly, all the way back to the keeper. The crowd booed. The keeper passed it to the left back, who jogged with the ball all the way up to the halfway line where he was promptly tackled by Cruncher, who then cantered towards the Brocket goal, unchallenged, and slammed the ball past the keeper from twenty yards out.

  1 – 0 to Llama United in the first minute!

  The Brocket team were so stunned they looked like a team of statues. A team of statues that were pointing in disbelief with their mouths open wide.

  Tim suddenly forgot his ‘play it cool’ plan, leaped as high as he could and punched the air. Cairo did exactly the same. McCloud didn’t move; he just tapped his watch and muttered, ‘Long way to go yet, boys.’

  The game continued like this for nearly the whole first half. Brocket Town were so shocked they could hardly cross the halfway line, and every time they did they were tackled, which usually resulted in one of the llamas having a shot from varying angles and distances. Luckily for Brocket Town, their keeper was one of the few players actually having a good game. He made twenty-seven saves and only let in six.

  Yes, it was Llama United 6 – 0 Brocket Town at half-time.

  Brocket hadn’t had a single shot on goal. Ludo and Motorway were so bored they’d eaten all the grass in the goalmouth by the time the referee blew his whistle for the break.

  Llama United stayed on the pitch during half-time. A proud Tim and Cairo wandered among them, giving them water from a couple of buckets, but they didn’t really need it as they had hardly run about at all. Meanwhile there was an almighty noise coming from the Brocket Town changing room; they were having a huge row and probably a massive punch-up.

  When the second half started, Brocket Town had clearly changed their tactics, expecting the llamas to have a bad goalkeeper. This meant they started shooting from long range. I mean really, really long range . . . as in from-their-own-half range. It didn’t do them much good – most of the shots either didn’t have the power to reach the Llama United goal or lacked accuracy and the balls would go high and wide. The few balls that did reach Ludo were just nodded away with his head or tapped to the side with his foot. A man in the crowd starting singing ‘England’s number one, England’s, England’s number one!’ but nobody else joined in.

  When the final whistle came the score was 17 – 0. The Brocket Town keeper had hurt his hand and bashed his head in the half-time punch-up, so didn’t have as good a second half. It was a total trouncing. Goal Machine scored seven, the Duke five, Cruncher two, and one each for Dasher, Lightning and Brian, who powered home a towering header from a corner. Cruncher even created his own special kind of goal celebration. He’d strut over to the corner flag and take a huge bite out of it. Although maybe it wasn’t a celebration; perhaps he was just hungry.

  Tim, Cairo and McCloud danced wildly across the pitch, weaving in and out of the llamas and the beaten Brocket Town players, who were covering their faces in embarrassment. The llamas didn’t celebrate; they just stood about munching grass. It was particularly tasty at the White Horse ground.

  The forty-nine people in the crowd couldn’t believe what they’d just witnessed; well, apart for Molly, Beetroot, Monica and Fiona, who were all cheering wildly. Most of the rest of the crowd had watched the first half in stunned silence, as though they were sitting in the middle of a dream. But by the second half a few people had taken their phones out and were taking pictures and videos and posting them online. The secret was out – Llama United were going to become famous . . . very quickly.

  ‘Don’t get carried away, laddie,’ cautioned McCloud to Tim in the van on the way back to the farm. ‘That will be the worst team we face, plus we had the added shock factor. As soon as everyone else in the Cup finds out there is a brilliant team of football-playing llamas in the game, it’s going to get a lot trickier. The other teams will have their tactics ready. From now on we need to train harder than ever before.’

  22

  PIRTSMOUTH V LLAMA UNITEDr />
  The grainy videos and pictures of Llama United smashing Brocket Town in the first qualifying round went viral, and had been viewed all over the world by the end of the weekend. It was phenomenal. Monica’s new website had thousands of hits and the local media started ringing the farm demanding interviews.

  As you and I don’t have the time to go through every qualifying match individually, I will show you the local sport headlines from the next few games. You can add music if you want, like TV shows do when they’re rounding things up. Not hip-hop, though . . . I still don’t know what that is.

  They weren’t actually on fire; this is just lazy football-headline writing, and actually means ‘played really well’.

  Llama United were unstoppable, and the mixture of amateur and semi-professional teams from the lower leagues that they were drawn against couldn’t handle them. They were smashed by the rampaging llamas. Not one team managed to score a goal, and all of them let in ten or more. It was just too easy. Goal Machine and the Duke were a lethal partnership up front, Dasher and Lightning gave full backs nightmares, Smasher and Cruncher were a formidable midfield duo, and Bob’s hair continued to look amazing. The defence and Ludo had so little to do, you sometimes forgot they were actually on the pitch.

  Tim, Cairo and McCloud were becoming quite the experienced management team. It looked like they’d been doing this for years. Back at the farm Beetroot and Molly had started producing Llama United scarves and a range of kits to sell to the fans. Beetroot’s cardio workouts managed to make Dasher and Lightning even faster, and Smasher as strong as a tank. Frank continued to spend his time anxiously scribbling sums in his little black notepad, but did manage to afford to buy a beekeeper’s hat and six bees, who all escaped. Monica also taught Fiona that lemon sherbet shouldn’t be added to lasagne.

  In November, the draw for the first round of the Cup was announced; this is when League teams are entered into the competition for the first time. Llama United were drawn against League Two side Pirtsmouth, a team who’d won the Cup twice in their history. Even though they were a bit down on their luck, they still had a huge fanbase and some very experienced players. What was different this time was that Pirtsmouth were drawn at home. It would be Llama United’s first match away from the relative familiarity of the White Horse Stadium.

  McCloud was worried, but then again he had worried about every single round so far. Tim was much more confident . . . until the llama transportation vehicle pulled into the car park of Pirtsmouth’s ground after a long five-hour drive. ‘Wow, this ground is huge,’ he said with a gulp. His tummy did a nervous flip.

  It was the biggest ground he’d ever seen, with four huge stands, massive floodlights, turnstiles, bars, an army of food vans and a throng of people wandering about before the match started. It was going to a big game, not just for Llama United but for Pirtsmouth too. The national media had turned out in force because this was the kind of ground that could handle large numbers of journalists and TV camera crews.

  Everyone wanted to see Llama United win; everyone, that is, except for the Pirtsmouth fans. A defeat to a team of llamas would be totally humiliating for a professional football team.

  ‘Bah,’ McCloud scoffed. ‘This ground is tiny – it only holds about twenty thousand people. Some grounds can take sixty, seventy or even eighty thousand spectators. In the World Cup I played in front of over one hundred thousand people in Mexico City. Scored three goals . . . two of the best you’ll ever see in your life.’

  Frank, who was driving the transporter, let out a huge sigh. Over the last few months it had been exhausting trying to keep up with McCloud’s raft of footballing stories and anecdotes. The old picture Monica had found online clearly showed that McCloud had played at least one international game. But wow, he really did bang on about how brilliant he had been. Frank was sick of it, so he turned up the radio to listen to the commentators talk about today’s match instead:

  ‘Let’s go to Frittan Park now, where the surprise package of the Cup, Llama United, get to test themselves against a professional team for the first time. Dave Dunk is there for us,’ rambled the first man.

  ‘That’s right, Mark. Llama United have certainly been the big story of the Cup this year. Eleven actual llamas and a sheep, managed by an old man and two kids, have literally stunned the world of football with their mix of skill and ruthlessness in front of goal. This afternoon we’ll find out whether the farmyard amateurs have enough in them to beat the professionals from the coast. This is Man versus Beast, on a football field, and it’s here live from three p.m. on Radio Shouty. Back to you Mark.’

  The crowd was really loud as Tim, Cairo and McCloud led the llamas on to the pitch in their purple-striped kit. Tim could hardly hear himself think.

  ‘Jimminy Christmas,’ shouted Cairo over the din. ‘It’s so loud . . . look at Motorway, she loves it.’

  Motorway was in her element. She pranced across the lush green turf, acknowledging the crowd on all sides of the ground, and took her position in the net.

  ‘The llamas seem to be OK with the noise too,’ hollered Tim. ‘The back four are nearly asleep.’

  ‘They are true pros,’ said Cairo proudly.

  ‘I think they’ll get a game today, laddies,’ said McCloud. ‘This will be a real test – a proper team, proper footballers.’

  It was a sea of blue in all four stands, apart from one tiny patch of purple, where the Llama United supporters sat. Yes, Llama United now had a few hardcore away supporters who had managed to get tickets for the game. This was especially hard because Llama United didn’t have a ticket office. Unsurprisingly, Frank had no idea how to run an actual football club, so all the important jobs that are usually done behind the scenes weren’t being done. Don’t ask me what these important jobs are – I have no idea. Anyway, back to the supporters. So few, I’ve actually got time to name them all.

  Alongside Molly, Beetroot, Monica and Fiona, who made sure they were at every match wearing embarrassing stripy face paint, there was Pete and his son, Tiny Pete. They lived next door to the White Horse Stadium and were regulars at matches; however, watching a team that actually won games was a huge novelty for them. Tiny Pete had made himself a really good Llama United flag that said: ‘C’MON YOU LLAMAS!’ This would be impressive if Tiny Pete was between the ages of five and fifteen, but Tiny Pete was thirty-seven. To be honest the flag was a bit wonky. Don’t tell Tiny Pete though; he would get ever so upset if he knew I’d been blabbing about it behind his back.

  Next came Steve, Kev and Warren, who I can only describe as three idiots. The kind of idiots you see at most football grounds. They all had the same haircut and wore the same clothes. Their language was disgraceful and not something I can repeat here.

  Finally, there was Tracey – a short woman who wore the same light-blue anorak wherever she went, whether it was the middle of summer or deepest winter. She had large glasses and long ear lobes that nearly touched her shoulders. Tracey also always wore a greasy red baseball cap that said ‘Sea Leopards’ across the front of it. I can only assume this is a very small American sports team of some kind.

  So that’s Llama United’s current group of travelling supporters. Five men and five women who had to put up with loads of abuse from the Pirtsmouth fans before the game had even started. Unsurprisingly, only Steve, Kev and Warren fired back with a volley of rude words while Beetroot covered Fiona’s ears, and Molly, Monica, Tracey, Pete and Tiny Pete tried to ignore it by reading the programme.

  The abuse from the Pirtsmouth fans didn’t last for long after kick-off. They went totally silent when, in the first two minutes, Llama United scored! It was a beautiful move. Dasher dribbled round three Pirtsmouth players, then lifted a delightful chip down the wing to the onrushing Cruncher, who whacked in a first time cross to the Duke. He swivelled and nodded the ball towards Goal Machine, who thrashed the ball into the back of the net from six yards out. The keeper was rooted to the spot. Liquid football!

  �
��U-NI-TED, U-NI-TED, U-NI-TED,’ came a soft chant from the ten Llama United fans. You’d think they would have come up with something more original by now, although to be fair the word ‘llama’ is quite hard to work into a good football song.

  Tim and Cairo did a two-handed high-five. They’d been doing this after every goal since the second match and it had now become a ritual. However, with all the goals Llama United had scored it was starting to hurt.

  The Pirtsmouth captain stormed across to his defence and keeper and shouted at all of them, pointing at various areas of the pitch where he believed they should have been able to stop that attack. It seemed to do the trick, as Pirtsmouth were much improved after they had conceded so early. They had several useful attempts on the Llama United goal, but Ludo was equal to all of them. However, the llamas were not used to a team actually having some shots at goal, and it seemed to spook them a little.

  At half-time the score was just 1 – 0. As usual, Tim and Cairo went out on to the pitch to feed and water the llamas. Tim patted a few of them on the neck and offered them some soft encouraging words, especially to the defence; this was new territory for them.

  ‘It’s OK, Bob. You’ve got the measure of the winger, you can handle him. Stay strong out there, Brian, like a rock. Head up.’

  He left his final words for Ludo, who stopped his grass munching and gave Tim a steely glare.

  ‘Good job, Ludo. There will be more shots coming. Do your best. Keep that ball away from Motorway,’ he whispered in his ear. Ludo responded with his customary tiny nod. Did Ludo really understand him?

  No, he didn’t – he’s a llama.

  Unlike Tim, McCloud seemed to be unhappy with the llamas efforts so far. He stomped across the pitch with his arms folded, which looked really odd.