‘Good for him,’ said Mr Brainfright.
‘Yeah,’ said Jack. ‘Good for him and bad for us. He was thrown out of the World Wrestling Federation . . . for attacking a referee.’
‘That’s not very nice,’ said Jenny, shocked at the thought of anyone being attacked, let alone a referee.
Clive jumped to his feet. ‘It’s not true! It was a set-up! The referee was attacking him!’
‘Whatever,’ said Jack. ‘The point is that he doesn’t play by the rules.’
‘I’m going to tell my brother you said that,’ said Clive, ‘and I can tell you now, he’s not going to like it. He’s a big wrestling fan. Mr Constrictor is his hero. Mine too. They called him The Boa because he would squeeze his opponents so hard they couldn’t breathe.’
‘That’s definitely not very nice,’ said Jenny.
‘I’ll tell you what else is definitely not nice,’ I said to Mr Brainfright. ‘You know how most schools have an anti-bullying program? Well, at Northwest West Academy Mr Constrictor has set up a pro-bullying program to teach them how to bully more effectively. And their mascot is a pit bull terrier—called Chomp!’
‘Someone in a pit-bull-terrier suit, you mean?’ said Mr Brainfright.
‘No!’ said Jenny. ‘A real pit bull terrier. It belongs to Mr Constrictor. And it’s really mean!’ Then she clapped her hand over her mouth. She hated saying anything bad about anyone, even a dog.
‘She’s right,’ said Jack. ‘It’s the biggest, meanest, scariest dog you ever saw. Its teeth are really sharp and it’s always growling and barking and—’
‘Jack,’ I said, looking across at Newton, who was staring at Jack with his mouth open, ‘that’s enough. You’re upsetting Newton.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Mr Brainfright. ‘It sounds like you’re really up against it, aren’t you? But don’t give up hope! Talent and skill will eventually triumph over brawn.’
‘But that’s just the thing,’ said Jenny. ‘We don’t have any talent. Or skill.’
‘I don’t believe that for a moment,’ said Mr Brainfright.
‘It’s true!’ said Jack. ‘Just ask Mr Grunt. He’ll tell you how bad we are. He says we’re the worst school he’s ever coached!’
‘Oh, come now,’ said Mr Brainfright, chuckling. ‘I’m sure he doesn’t really say that.’
‘He does!’ said Newton. ‘He says we’re hopeless!’
Mr Brainfright stopped smiling. ‘Let me get this straight,’ he said. ‘Mr Grunt, your sports teacher, told you that you were hopeless?’
‘Yes,’ said Newton. ‘He tells us all the time. And he should know—he was in the Olympics.’
Mr Brainfright stroked his chin. ‘Is that a fact?’
‘Yes,’ said Gretel. ‘It’s pretty much all he talks about . . . besides telling us how hopeless we are.’
‘Interesting,’ said Mr Brainfright. ‘Very interesting. When do you next have a sports class with Mr Grunt?’
‘After lunch,’ said David.
‘Good,’ said Mr Brainfright. ‘I might come down and watch.’
5
Mr Grunt
That afternoon we sat on the oval while Mr Grunt paced up and down in front of us with a clipboard in one hand, a stopwatch in the other, and a whistle around his neck.
Mr Grunt glared at us, raised the whistle to his lips, and blew it.
Loudly.
‘Now listen up, you bunch of no-hopers!’ he growled, his eyes bugging out like golf balls. ‘Today we are going to work on the triple jump. It should be easy enough—even for a bunch of losers like you, 5B. You hop, you step, and you jump. Is that clear?’
We all nodded—except for Jack, who looked at me with his eyes all bugged out like Mr Grunt’s.
Even though I was a little scared of Mr Grunt, I couldn’t help laughing. Unfortunately, Mr Grunt caught me.
‘Has something I said amused you, McThrottle?’ he said, his eyes bulging out even further.
‘No, sir,’ I said.
‘Then what’s so funny?’ he demanded.
‘Nothing, sir!’ I said, desperately trying to control myself.
‘You’re right about that!’ said Mr Grunt. ‘There’s nothing funny about the triple jump! And there’s nothing funny about the Northwest interschool athletics competition, which, in case you’ve forgotten, is RAPIDLY APPROACHING!’
Mr Grunt yelled the last two words at the top of his voice, which certainly helped to wipe the smile off my face.
His breath was terrible.
It was so bad, in fact, that I was worried I was going to pass out, and I probably would have if Mr Brainfright hadn’t appeared at that moment, distracting Mr Grunt.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Grunt,’ Mr Brainfright said cheerfully.
Mr Grunt eyed Mr Brainfright suspiciously. ‘Yes?’ he said. ‘Can I help you?’
‘No, no,’ said Mr Brainfright. ‘I just thought I’d come down and see how the class is shaping up for the big competition.’
Mr Grunt’s eyes retracted back into his head and narrowed. ‘You may watch, Brainfright, but I’m warning you right now—don’t interfere! I’m using cutting-edge training techniques here. I was in the Olympics, you know!’
‘Yes, so I’ve heard,’ said Mr Brainfright. ‘That’s exactly why I was hoping you might let me observe—I’m always interested in seeing a master at work in his or her chosen field.’
Mr Grunt puffed out his chest. ‘I was just teaching them about the triple jump.’
‘Ah, yes, the triple jump,’ said Mr Brainfright. ‘It used to be called the hop, step and jump when I was at school.’
‘Yes, I’m well aware of that,’ said Mr Grunt quickly. ‘It’s true that it involves a hop, a step and a jump—but in order to reduce confusion they renamed it the triple jump.’
Jack put his hand up. ‘Excuse me, Mr Grunt,’ he called out.
‘What is it, Japes?’ said Mr Grunt impatiently. He didn’t like being interrupted.
‘Why is it called a triple jump when there’s only one actual jump in it?’
Mr Grunt stared at Jack, his eyes beginning to bug out again. ‘Japes,’ he said, ‘you are a complete idiot!’
I glanced at Mr Brainfright, who was looking quite shocked. ‘Mr Grunt,’ he said, ‘I really must protest. I can’t see how calling a student a complete idiot is a cutting-edge training technique.’
‘It’s also against the school rules,’ said David, holding up the school handbook. ‘It says here that—’
‘Shut it, Worthy,’ said Mr Grunt. ‘I’m not interested in your stupid book. I’m interested in results.’ Then he turned to Mr Brainfright. ‘Who’s the expert here, Brainfright? You or me?’
‘You, of course,’ said Mr Brainfright.
‘Darn right I am,’ snapped Mr Grunt. ‘And I’ll thank you to remember it and keep your own mouth shut too!’
We had never heard a teacher speak like that to another teacher. And neither, obviously, had Mr Brainfright, who was so taken aback that he just nodded . . . with his mouth shut.
Mr Grunt blew his whistle loudly.
‘Japes!’ he barked. ‘Since you know so much about the triple jump, you can go first!’
Jack shrugged, got up, and walked to the white line in front of the sandpit. Then he took a deep breath, furrowed his brow, and leaned forward.
‘Stop wasting time and do it!’ yelled Mr Grunt.
‘Yes, sir!’ said Jack.
He ran.
At the white line he stopped running, and with his arms bent and hands floppy in front of him, he did three bouncy jumps. Like a rabbit.
Everybody laughed. Even Mr Brainfright.
The only person who didn’t laugh was Mr Grunt. ‘You are a complete waste of space, Japes,’ he barked. ‘Fifty laps of the oval! Get going!’
‘Did I do something wrong?’ said Jack.
‘No, but I will if you don’t get going right now!’ said Mr Grunt, advancing towards him.
Jack ran.
6
The handbook toss
‘Excuse me, Mr Grunt,’ said David, ‘but was that a threat? Because in the school handbook it says that teachers are not allowed to threaten students.’
‘Does it really?’ said Mr Grunt, walking across to David.
‘It certainly does.’ David held up the handbook. ‘It says so right here—section three, sub-paragraph two!’
‘How interesting,’ said Mr Grunt. ‘May I see that?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said David, handing the book to Mr Grunt. ‘Section three, sub-paragraph two . . .’
Mr Grunt took the book and hurled it clear across the oval. ‘No reading in sports class! Do I make myself clear?’
‘Yes, sir,’ gulped David.
‘Good,’ said Mr Grunt. ‘Then let’s get on with it, shall we?’
David, clearly stunned, nodded.
The only person who looked more stunned than David was Mr Brainfright. Although no great fan of rule books himself, he always spoke very gently to us. Unless he was shouting, of course, but even then, he managed to shout very gently.
Mr Grunt looked at us.
We all tried our best to make ourselves invisible. Newton, who was shaking like a leaf, was the least successful.
‘Hooton!’ said Mr Grunt.
‘Don’t worry, Newton,’ I whispered. ‘Just a hop, a step and a jump, and you’ll be fine.’
Newton nodded, trying to take in my words. ‘A jump . . . a hop . . . a step . . . No, hang on—a hop, a jump and a step? Or was it a hop, a jump, another hop, and a step?’
Mr Grunt blasted his whistle twice. ‘Hop to it!’ he yelled. ‘We don’t have all day.’
Newton ran to the starting line, but he didn’t hop.
Or step.
Or jump.
He just kept on running.
And running.
And running.
Clear across the oval and back to the changing rooms.
Mr Grunt watched him, then turned to us. ‘Well, he’s a wash-out at triple jump,’ he said, ‘but the boy can run, I’ll give him that.’
‘Should I go and see if he’s all right?’ I said, hoping that it would get me out of having to demonstrate my own complete lack of skill at the triple jump.
Mr Grunt had other ideas, though.
‘And miss out on your chance to impress us all with your triple jump, McThrottle?’ he said with a mean glint in his bulging eyes. ‘I don’t think so. Off you go.’
‘But . . .’ I protested.
‘Do it!’ barked Mr Grunt. ‘Or do you want to join your friend Jack?’
I looked across at Jack. He was only on his third lap and he was already stumbling and holding his stomach. I decided the triple jump option looked pretty good.
7
A stumble, a trip and a fall
Mr Grunt blew his whistle. ‘On your mark, McThrottle,’ he said. ‘Ready, set, go!’
I didn’t need any further encouragement; I went.
I took a run-up and attempted a triple jump.
I was doing okay, too, but somehow, in mid-air, between the hop and the step, or perhaps the step and the jump—I couldn’t be sure—I lost my balance and ended up sprawled face-first in the sand.
‘Hopeless!’ yelled Mr Grunt. ‘Absolutely hopeless! It’s called the triple jump, remember? There’s a hop, a step and a jump, not a stumble, a trip and a fall!’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Grunt,’ I said, ‘but I—’
Before I could finish, Mr Grunt blew his whistle.
‘Don’t give me excuses, McThrottle!’ he yelled. ‘I don’t want excuses! I want results! Show me a man who’s good at making excuses and I’ll show you a LOSER!’
‘But Mr Grunt,’ I said, ‘I—’
Mr Grunt blew his whistle again. ‘What are you, McThrottle?’ he said. ‘A winner or a loser?’
I took a deep breath. ‘I’m a winner, sir.’
‘No you’re not,’ said Mr Grunt. ‘Take a look at yourself, McThrottle! You’re lying face-down in the sandpit, crying for your mummy . . .’
‘I’m not crying,’ I said, getting to my knees and blinking as hard as I could. ‘I’ve got sand in my eyes and it’s making them water!’
‘Awwww,’ said Mr Grunt. ‘Poor liddle baby . . . Has poor liddle Henry-wenry got sand in his eyes?’
‘Now, just a moment!’ said Mr Brainfright, emerging from his shocked silence. ‘I may not know as much as you but—’
‘Exactly!’ said Mr Grunt. ‘NOBODY knows as much as me!’ He pushed past Mr Brainfright on his way to the starting line. ‘Get out of my way. I’m going to show you no-hopers how it’s done. Look and learn!’
I got up out of the sand as Mr Grunt crouched down into the starting position. I walked over to where the rest of the class were standing.
‘Don’t listen to him, Henry,’ whispered Jenny. ‘I thought your jump was excellent.’
‘Thanks,’ I said.
‘No talking!’ yelled Mr Grunt. ‘I’m trying to concentrate!’
Mr Grunt blew his whistle twice and then took off. He hopped, stepped, jumped and, most impressive of all, landed on his feet.
He turned to us with his hands on his hips. ‘Well?’ he said.
We stared back at him.
‘Well?’ he said again. ‘I would have thought that at least deserves a round of applause.’
We all applauded.
We were too scared not to.
Then Mr Grunt jumped again.
And again.
And again.
Half an hour later our hands were sore from clapping.
‘I think they’ve got the hang of it now, Mr Grunt,’ said Mr Brainfright.
‘I’ll tell you when they’ve got the hang of it!’ said Mr Grunt, walking back to the starting line yet again.
I looked at Jack, who was still doing laps of the oval.
He was bent over, panting, looking like every step was going to be his last.
If only he knew how lucky he was.
8
Debriefing
Back in class, Mr Brainfright stood at the front of the room, shaking his head.
‘See what we mean?’ said Gretel. ‘We’re useless!’
‘And Mr Grunt is like that all the time?’ said Mr Brainfright.
‘It depends on how badly we perform,’ said Gretel. ‘Today he was in a pretty good mood.’
‘That’s a good mood?’ said Mr Brainfright. ‘I can hardly believe it! In all my years of teaching I have never . . . well . . . never mind. We must deal with the problem at hand.’
‘How to improve our triple jump?’ said Jenny.
‘No,’ said Mr Brainfright.
‘Northwest West Academy?’ suggested David.
‘No,’ said Mr Brainfright.
‘Mr C-C-Constrictor?’ stammered Newton. He was even scared to say the name.
‘Wrong again,’ said Mr Brainfright.
Newton shrugged. ‘It figures. I’m always messing up.’
‘That’s the problem!’ said Mr Brainfright.
Newton looked shocked.
So did Jenny. ‘You think Newton messing up is the problem?’ she said.
‘No, no, no,’ said Mr Brainfright. ‘It’s what Newton said: “I’m always messing up.” Mr Grunt seems to be doing his level best to convince you all that you’re losers. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you that a good dose of self-esteem and positive thinking wouldn’t fix.’
‘I don’t think that’s the problem,’ said Fiona. ‘Personally, I have very high self-esteem. Northwest West Academy are simply unbeatable—that’s the problem!’
‘No, Fiona,’ said Mr Brainfright. ‘Even you could do with a morale boost. Tell me, what is the Northwest Southeast Central School mascot?’
‘We don’t have one,’ I said.
‘You don’t?’ said Mr Brainfright, brightening. ‘Well, don’t worry—I’ve got just the thing!’
‘What is it?’ I asked.
&nbs
p; Mr Brainfright winked. ‘Top secret,’ he said, tapping the side of his nose. ‘I’ll bring it in tomorrow.’
At that moment Jack staggered into the classroom, looking like death after his fifty laps.
‘Did I miss anything?’ he said.
‘No,’ said Mr Brainfright, unable to contain his excitement. ‘Not yet!’
9
Big, yellow and banana-shaped
We sat in class the next morning waiting for Mr Brainfright to arrive.
Clive Durkin was flicking spitballs.
Jack was drawing a cartoon featuring a giant spitball that looked a lot like Clive.
Newton was looking worried.
Jenny was kneeling beside his desk, comforting him.
Gina and Penny were plaiting the colourful manes of their toy horses.
Suddenly, the door of the classroom burst open.
‘YIKES!’ yelled Newton.
Coming through the doorway was a banana.
A big, yellow, dancing banana.
I know that sounds crazy, but I don’t know how else to describe it.
It was big.
It was yellow.
It was banana-shaped.
And it was dancing.
It was definitely a big, yellow, dancing banana.
We all sat there and stared (except for Newton, who dived under his desk). It’s not every day that a big yellow dancing banana comes into your classroom. But before David could get his handbook out to check whether big yellow dancing bananas were permitted in the school, the banana launched into a series of backflips, somersaults and cartwheels.
It cartwheeled three times across the front of the classroom, along the row of desks beside the windows, across the back of the classroom, up the other side, across the front again—and then went straight out the window!
Everyone sat there staring.
‘Did a big yellow dancing banana just cartwheel around the classroom and fall out the window?’ said Jack, rubbing his eyes.
‘I think so,’ I said.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘For a moment there I thought I was seeing things.’
‘I’m scared,’ whimpered Newton from underneath his desk.
Mascot Madness! Page 2
