by Scott Allen
Frank let out a huge wail, as though he just learned that bacon sandwiches had been banned by the government. ‘That’s going to be more money, isn’t it? Professional players are really expensive, aren’t they?’ He reached for his little black notepad and began scribbling in it. ‘If this doesn’t work, we’ll all be eating hay next week!’
34
THE CURSE OF RAY CLICK
Now, who really wants to read about the contract wranglings of footballers? OK, let me just count: one, two, three, four and five. That’s not enough to go into great detail, and this would have ended up being the most boring chapter ever. Let’s skip ahead.
Frank was right, Ray Click would be expecting a big chunk of money to play: £5,000 a week, plus £7,500 for a clean sheet, £4,500 as a win bonus and £10,000 as a goal bonus – which was an odd request for a goalkeeper. Me, I would have been lucky to get a bag of humbugs and a stiff handshake when I played.
All this money would take a huge bite out of Frank’s repayments to the bank. The Gravy family were already stretched to breaking point with the vet’s daily fees before having to pay for a professional footballer. The small amount of money they’d earned from ticket sales and merchandise was pouring away like fruit juice down Fiona’s greedy throat.
If the spending carried on like this they would lose the farm straight after the Cup final, if they even got that far. Frank’s little black notepad was now overflowing with maths, and not the good kind of maths. Instead it was full of subtraction and division sums. It was so full he had to buy another notepad, which cost him even more money.
When Frank wasn’t watching, Tim sneakily wrote a positive motivational note on the inside cover:
The llamas are great. We are going to win the Cup and everything will be all right.
Oh, and I’d like a new games console for my birthday please.
Love Tim x
Before the semi-final at Old Trifford, Llama United received some mixed news from the vet. Ludo would make a full recovery from the biscuit poisoning, which was brilliant, but he wouldn’t be fit for the semi-final. Tim’s initial delight that Ludo was going to be back to his best was quickly replaced by butterflies in his stomach when he thought about whether Ray Click would be a good enough keeper to get them into the final. He could tell McCloud, Frank and Cairo were all worrying about the same thing. On the way to Old Trifford, hardly anyone spoke for the whole three-hour journey. Well, Cairo farted a few times, but I don’t think that counts as talking.
Ray Click’s agent had told them that the keeper would be waiting for them at the ground and wouldn’t need any practice before the match.
As Tim and Cairo began warming up with the llamas, they noticed a man strutting up and down the middle of the pitch. He was tall and broad and was confidently walking around like he owned the place. Tim and Cairo eyed him suspiciously. He was dressed in expensive baggy jeans, thick black boots and a red basketball top, which showed off his muscular, tattoo-covered arms. He arrogantly swaggered across to Tim and Cairo and stood in front of them with his hands buried deep into his pockets.
‘S’up,’ the man said nonchalantly, as though he didn’t have a care in the world.
Tim and Cairo didn’t reply. They were transfixed by the man’s tattoos. Apart from his face, every inch of him was coated in weird and wonderful ink. Dragons, skulls, serpents, flames, wildcats, birds and, unusually, fruit with legs prowled across his body and all the way up to under his chin.
‘Cool, aren’t they?’ said the man. ‘Cost me loads of money. But it doesn’t matter ’coz I’ve got loads of money.’ He waggled his hands in the air. His fingers had all manner of ugly, jewel-encrusted rings on them, while on his wrist he wore a chunky gold watch and various thick gold bracelets. ‘These are very expensive also,’ he said smugly, raising his jeans slightly to show the top of his gold plated boots.
Tim took an instant dislike to this show-off. Whoever he was, Tim knew that bragging about wealth wasn’t a nice quality in a person.
‘Is that . . . um . . . is that a magpie?’ asked Cairo pointing at the nape of the man’s neck.
‘It sure is, boy,’ the man said, grinning at Cairo with teeth so white that Cairo had to shield his eyes. ‘That’s my most recent tattoo. Right smart ain’t it?’
Cairo frowned at the magpie. It was a truly hideous piece of artwork. Its fat black-and-white body was tattooed across the man’s neck with its wings stretching across his shoulders. Clamped in its beak was a diamond necklace. Another horrible display of the man’s obvious wealth.
‘He’s a cheeky one, that magpie. ‘’E’s only gone and nicked someone’s jewels,’ said the man, laughing as though this was a good thing.
Cairo pursed his lips. Tim could tell he didn’t like him either. ‘Isn’t one magpie supposed to be unlucky?’ asked Cairo. ‘You know, one for sorrow and all that.’
‘Nah,’ said the man confidently. ‘That’s a robin. Those nasty red-breasted things that pinch Christmas puddings when you’re not looking.’
‘Nope,’ said Cairo, standing his ground. ‘I’m sure it’s a single magpie that’s unlucky, right Tim?’
Tim hadn’t a clue which birds were lucky and which were unlucky, but he backed up his mate all the same. ‘Oh yes, very unlucky. Football is full of superstitions . . . magpies especially.’
The man shrugged and sucked his teeth. ‘I’m supposed to be meeting someone called McCloud,’ he said, changing the subject. ‘Down here is he?’ He pointed towards the tunnel and swaggered off.
Tim and Cairo stood open-mouthed as they watched the tattooed man walk away. The bad news was sinking in – this unpleasant fellow was Ray Click, their new and very expensive goalkeeper.
Something odd happened as Ray Click got to the edge of the pitch; he suddenly tripped over his own feet and crashed to the ground. With a look of surprise he got up, dusted himself down and then walked straight into the edge of the tunnel, banging his head. He shrugged to himself, touched the top of his head to check he wasn’t bleeding and eventually disappeared off down the tunnel.
‘Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear,’ said Cairo. ‘He’s cursed!’
‘Cursed?’ replied Tim. ‘What do you mean?’
‘That magpie,’ said Cairo anxiously. ‘It’s made him unlucky.’
‘Don’t be stupid, Cairo. That’s just an old wives’ tale.’
Cairo gave his best friend an incredibly serious look. ‘Mark my words, Tim. This is a bad omen. A very bad omen. Ray Click should go nowhere near this football pitch.’
35
THE NEW KEEPER
There were just forty-five minutes left until kick-off. Tim could hear the roar of the crowd from above as he sat nervously under the stands, trying to eat the last few bites of the chocolate bar he had started an hour ago. He knew his dad had managed to sell at least a thousand tickets to Llama United fans, which wasn’t that many but was still pretty impressive for just one very badly organized salesperson. Gunnerall fans had managed to snaffle the rest of the tickets, so the ground would once again be made up of a sea of people who wanted to see Llama United lose.
McCloud had told the media that Ludo had been injured during training and wouldn’t be playing. This had made a lot of people very upset because Ludo had a cult following. Some of the Llama United fans had even created ‘GET WELL SOON LUDO’ flags to wave during the match.
McCloud was initially delighted to see Ray Click, but after a few seconds of conversation realized what an unpleasant man he was. Rather worryingly, when McCloud tried to shake Ray Click’s hand the goalkeeper missed it. Then when Click went to sit on the bench he also missed that and fell on the floor. I’m just going to call him Click now because I don’t like him either.
‘Take him outside for a warm-up,’ Cairo whispered to McCloud, as they watched Click struggling to get his feet into a pair of socks. ‘I’ve got a funny feeling that something’s not right.’
McCloud folded his arms and nodded. He too knew someth
ing was up. ‘We’re going for a warm-up, Click,’ he bellowed. ‘Follow me.’
‘Yeah, whatever,’ replied Click, picking up his gloves and then dropping them. He followed McCloud out of the changing room, banging into the door as he went.
McCloud and Click returned five minutes later. McCloud’s face was grey; all the colour had drained from it. Click looked exactly the same as he had before . . . badly tattooed and arrogant.
‘Would you step inside here, Click,’ said McCloud, opening the door to the large store cupboard in the corner of the room. ‘Just need a quick chat.’
As soon as Click stepped inside the cupboard, McCloud slammed the door behind him and locked it from the outside. He turned to Tim and Cairo. ‘Boys, that’s the worst goalkeeper I’ve ever seen in my life. I’ve seen a one-day-old baby with more skill than Ray Click. He’s totally lost any ability he ever had!’
‘It’s the curse of the magpie,’ whispered Cairo to Tim.
Ray Click starting banging on the inside of the cupboard door and shouting about his wages for the match. Everyone ignored him.
‘Right, we’re in big trouble now, laddies,’ said McCloud, pointing dramatically at the huge clock that hung above the changing-room door. ‘Who’s going to play in goal in a game that kicks off in under twenty minutes?’
Tim looked around the room. Click was locked in the cupboard; an incredibly expensive failure. Then there was Cairo; the worst football player he had ever met. And finally McCloud; an old man who struggled to bend down, let alone leap across a goalmouth and punch away a ball. Hang on, why were they both looking at him?
‘Why are you staring at me?’ he asked.
‘’Coz you’re Tim Gravy and you’re great,’ replied Cairo with a cheeky smile.
Tim was confused. Then McCloud came over and put his arm round his shoulder, which McCloud never did . . . ever. Tim was even more confused.
‘So, laddie,’ began McCloud. ‘Your friend Cairo is right. You are great.’
‘Why are you both saying I’m great?’ asked Tim suspiciously.
‘Because you are,’ shouted Cairo, throwing his arms into the air. ‘Actually, you are one of the greatest, ever.’
‘Greatest ever what? I’m not great at anything,’ said Tim slowly . . . Then he twigged. McCloud was holding up a green number one jersey. ‘Oh no, I can’t . . . I can’t go in goal in the semi-final of the Cup!’
Cairo and McCloud were both grinning at him and slowly crowding around him with the jersey. So, it seemed, were the llamas.
‘I can’t go in goal! I just can’t. I’m just a kid!’ said Tim, his voice breaking in terror. He could feel the room getting smaller and smaller, then . . . ‘BBBBBBBBBBBLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLEEEEEEEEUUUUURGGGGGHHHHHHHH!’
He puked all over the floor and fainted in a heap.
When Tim came round a few minutes later, he was wearing the green number one jersey, shorts, socks, boots and a brand-new pair of bright white goalkeeper’s gloves.
He still felt sick and the room was spinning. Cairo was splashing flecks of water on to his face, while McCloud was lacing up his boots for him.
‘Where am I?’ asked Tim groggily.
‘Ah, glad you’re awake. You’re in the same place you were ten minutes ago, old pal,’ replied McCloud. ‘You’re about to be the first eleven-year-old to play in a Cup semi-final.’
‘BBLLLLLUUUURRRRGGGGHHHHHHH!’ Tim was sick again, but this time he didn’t pass out.
‘I’ve already changed the team sheet and handed it into the ref ’s office and it has been accepted,’ said McCloud without a hint of emotion. ‘I’ve also made you captain. This is the kind of pressure you should thrive on.’
‘BBLLLLLUUURRRRRGGGGHHHHHHH!’ went Tim again.
As a former professional footballer McCloud was used to pre-match nerves and all the stuff that goes with it. It wasn’t anything new to him; it was normal, as was a player being sick before a match. He stepped over the mess on the floor, left the changing room and headed towards the dugout.
Tim dragged himself to his feet so he could look in the mirror. He was totally green; not just his jersey but also his skin. Cairo handed him a bottle of water to sip on.
‘C’mon, Tim, you can do this,’ his friend said encouragingly. ‘I know it’s a big game, but you’ve always been a great keeper when we’ve played together. Plus, you’ll have the best back four in the country in front of you.’
‘But I’m not that good,’ wailed Tim. ‘I’m just average, like I am at everything!’
‘What are you talking about?’ said Cairo in surprise. ‘You are brilliant at loads of things. You’ve trained a team of llamas to play football, you’ve helped keep your dad’s farm running, you’ve helped build websites, solved loads of problems, and you’ve been the best friend ever. You are definitely not average.’
Brian, Bill, Bob and Barcelona were standing proudly alongside their new keeper, looking determined and focused. Tim could feel some confidence filling his boots.
‘Just pretend we are out in the field having a kick-about. It doesn’t matter if Gunnerall score – Llama United will score more,’ added Cairo.
Tim knew Cairo was trying his hardest to make him feel better, and it was working. Perhaps he wasn’t that average after all. Playing in goal in a Cup semi-final was a massive job for a professional, let alone an eleven-year-old boy, but maybe he was just the kind of eleven-year-old who could pull it off?
He didn’t have much more time to think about it as a loud bell rang in the corridor. It was time for the Cup semi-final to start.
36
GUNNERALL V LLAMA UNITED
The Gunnerall coaching staff were grinning from ear to ear when they saw Tim take to the field with the ten llamas. They had clearly had a hand in Ludo’s poisoning with the deadly moisture-sapping biscuits, and their plan had worked. They now got to play against an inexperienced eleven-year-old instead of a phenomenally talented llama keeper. It should be a cakewalk. (I don’t think that cakes can actually walk. This is just another lazy football phrase.)
The crowd and the media inside the ground were totally baffled by the arrival of Tim in the Llama United goal. They were expecting the cursed Ray Click. The standard roar of the crowd had been replaced by thousands of whispers as fans discussed the new keeper. Beetroot screamed with shock at seeing her only son wander on to the huge, lush green pitch dressed like a goalkeeper. Monica burst into applause and shouted ‘Go on Tim!’ at the top of her voice. Fiona didn’t look up; she was in the middle of a huge hot dog, and ketchup had dripped all the way down her top. Frank was still in the food queue . . . he’d forgotten Fiona’s drink.
Tim’s stomach was churning over and over, but luckily for him he didn’t have anything else to sick up. He walked towards the goal and took his place between the sticks, running through a routine he had seen hundreds of other goalkeepers do before a match. Tap the side of the posts with the studs on the bottom of his boots, do some jumps, and then do some bobbing and weaving to warm himself up. He tried his hardest to block out the supporters that were just feet away from him in the stand behind the goal. They were all Gunnerall fan, and everything he could hear from them was totally unpleasant. But he would just have to put up with it for forty-five minutes before he could get to the relative safety of the other end of the pitch where the Llama United fans were sitting. There was a bigger patch of purple behind the goal than ever before. Beetroot and Molly had worked really hard on the merchandise, and it looked like a few hundred of the Llama United fans were wearing things that they’d made. This gave Frank some lovely adding sums for his new little black notepad.
A low steady clap started to build from the middle of the Llama United fans. Monica was standing on her seat, leading the fans around her. The clap got steadily louder and louder and quicker and quicker until it became deafening. Quite a din from a group of fans who were totally outnumbered by Gunnerall supporters. Even though he was at the o
ther end of the pitch, Tim suddenly felt a few inches taller.
‘C’mon, you can do this,’ he muttered, giving himself a couple of whacks in the chest with his fist.
The ref blew the whistle, and Gunnerall got the game underway. They liked to play a European style of football with a well-executed, tidy, short passing build-up from the defence, through the midfield and then on to the three goal-hungry strikers. However, it was Llama United’s high-tempo pressing game that seemed to be reaping the rewards today.
In the first fifteen minutes, Cruncher, Smasher and the Duke had good chances to put Llama United into an early lead, but Gunnerall’s defence and goalkeeper looked like they meant business and snuffed out the threats.
Tim felt pretty comfortable. He hadn’t touched the ball, and all of the action was at the other end of the pitch. It was hard to tell exactly what was going on, but seeing the llamas perform so well made him feel much more confident.
But in the blink of an eye, Gunnerall suddenly took the lead. Their left-winger cut inside Llama United’s Bill and zipped a beautiful slide-rule pass into the path of an onrushing striker, who slammed the ball past Tim and into the back of the net. Even if Ludo was fully fit, he wouldn’t have stood a chance stopping that effort. 1 – 0 Gunnerall. Tim’s first touch of the ball was picking it out the back of the net. All the confidence drained out of him; what a terrible start. The horrible sick feeling returned.
Llama United huffed and puffed throughout the rest of the half but couldn’t break down the brilliant Gunnerall defence. This is what Gunnerall specialized in: taking a one-nil lead and then strangling the life out of the rest of the game. Gunnerall hardly left their half and, apart from the goal, Tim hadn’t been troubled once. He paced up and down the edge of his area praying that his team would get back into the match.
In the changing room at half-time McCloud and Cairo were very encouraging and tried their hardest to gee up their team. They were playing well – it was just that luck wasn’t on their side today. Goal Machine was being marked out of the match by one of the best defenders in the world and he looked exhausted.
