Mascot Madness!

by Andy Griffiths

  The official, apparently as scared as everybody else, accidentally fired his pistol.

  The decathlon had officially started!

  The crowd roared again as I raced down the track, Chomp hot on my heels.

  There was no time to wave or clown around, though. I was running for my life. I didn’t have to imagine there was a wild beast after me, either, as in Mr Brainfright’s visualisation sessions—there really was a wild beast after me!

  As I crossed the finishing line, the crowd roared once more.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ shouted Flip. ‘We have just witnessed the fastest-ever hundred-metre sprint in the history of this competition! Unbelievable running from Henry McThrottle, in this, the first event of the decathlon. Closely followed by Chomp, from Northwest West Academy. And they’re not going to stop there! They’re heading towards the long-jump pit, the second event in the decathlon! Looks like they’re going for a double-header! Two events for the price of one!’

  Flip was right. We were headed towards the long-jump pit. But I wasn’t the slightest bit interested in breaking running records or going for a double-header.

  I just wanted to get away from Chomp!

  I raced towards the long-jump pit.

  Chomp was panting hard. I turned around, but I couldn’t see him. Then I looked down. He was right on my tail!

  There was no time to think.

  I jumped.

  The crowd roared.

  ‘What a magnificent jump!’ yelled Flip. ‘Longer than a spaghettified pipecleaner!’

  But it wasn’t long enough to get away from Chomp.

  The crowd roared again.

  ‘Another magnificent jump!’ shouted Flip. ‘I’ve never seen a dog jump like that! Or a banana, for that matter!’

  ‘That’s my boy, Chomp!’ yelled Mr Constrictor from the other side of the field. ‘Kill!’

  I was pretty sure ordering your mascot to kill the opposing team’s mascot was against the rules in the school handbook, but as Chomp had swallowed it, and as I was running for my life, it wasn’t exactly possible to check.

  I looked around me.

  I was heading towards the shot-put circle.

  There was a pile of the heavy metal shot-put balls in the middle.

  I sprinted for them, trying to put as much distance between me and Chomp as possible. I reached the balls, leaped over them, and turned to face Chomp.

  I picked one up and lobbed it at him. It shot out of my hand with the speed and power of a cannonball.

  Chomp darted left.

  I launched another one.

  Chomp darted right, straightened, and then sprang through the air straight at me.

  There was no time left.

  I had to do this, and do it right.

  I picked up the third and final ball, focused, then hurled it with all my strength right at Chomp’s open slavering mouth.

  Chomp just swallowed it whole, as if it were no more than a tasty snack.

  ‘Look at that!’ called Flip. ‘Not only are we seeing the world’s fastest decathlon out here today, but we’re seeing some world-class shot-putting and shot-put swallowing! That dog is hungrier than a barrel full of water buffalo!’

  I kept running.

  So did Chomp, although he was slightly slower than before, thanks to the added weight of the shot-put ball in his stomach.

  I ran towards the high jump.

  Chomp ran after me.

  I jumped.

  Chomp jumped—not as high as me, but high enough to clear the bar.

  The crowd roared. Both schools were going wild in support of their mascots.

  ‘It’s mascot madness out there today!’ shouted Flip. ‘Absolute mascot madness!’

  I hit the track and ran around the outside, waving my arms, pleading for somebody to help me.

  But everybody just waved their arms back, thinking I was mascotting.

  If only they could have seen my face, they would have seen the truth.

  But all they could see was the big smiling face of the banana.

  57

  Death-cathlon part 2

  The rest of the chase is pretty much a blur.

  But somehow, as I ran for my life and Chomp ran after me, we not only managed to complete each one of the decathlon’s ten events in the correct order, but we also broke each of the pre-existing records for each event.

  We smashed the four-hundred-metre record.

  We blew the hurdling record out of the water.

  I threw a discus at Chomp and ended up throwing it further than a discus had ever been thrown in the Northwest stadium. (Chomp matched my achievement, however, by swallowing the first discus in Northwest athletic sporting history.)

  I broke both speed and distance records for javelin-throwing after hurling a javelin straight at Chomp’s heart. (Chomp kept pace, however, by breaking both javelin-catching and javelin-chomping records, reducing the javelin to splinters only moments after launching himself into the air for a spectacular mid-air javelin catch.)

  After reducing previous fifteen-hundred-metre records to rubble, I knew I couldn’t run much longer.

  I was getting tired.

  The banana suit was heavy.

  And Chomp, despite having swallowed a shot-put ball and a discus, was gaining on me.

  Any moment now, he was going to catch me, leap on top of me and rip me—and the suit—to shreds.

  The more tired I became, however, the more energised the crowd seemed to grow.

  I stumbled and the Northwest West Academy grandstand erupted.

  ‘KILL! KILL! KILL!’ they chanted, just in case Chomp needed any reminding about the reason he was chasing me.

  ‘And they’re on the homeward straight, now,’ said Flip. ‘There’s only one event left—the pole vault!’

  My heart leaped.

  This was my chance to get away from Chomp once and for all.

  If Jack could pole vault himself to safety then so could I!

  Chomp was getting closer.

  And closer.

  And closer.

  Despite my exhaustion, I grabbed a pole, ran down the track, planted the pole firmly into the ground, and launched myself up into the air.

  It was a perfect pole vault . . . well, to begin with.

  Unfortunately, Chomp lunged at me at the exact moment I left the ground and he managed to sink his teeth deep into the seat of my banana suit.

  Up, up, up we went.

  A perfect boy-and-dog pole vault—the first ever in pole-vaulting history!

  We cleared the bar and fell onto the mat on the other side.

  Chomp and I both sat there for a few moments, dazed and confused, before we regained our senses.

  ‘KILL!’ came the command from the Northwest West Academy grandstand—a command that Chomp was only too eager to obey.

  58

  Mascot massacre

  I don’t know if you’ve ever had a vicious, shot-put-ball-swallowing, discus-eating, javelin-chomping attack dog leap at your throat, but let me tell you it’s an ugly sight.

  I’m happy to say that I can’t tell you what it feels like, though, because with my last reserves of energy I pulled my banana head off, unzipped the suit and dived out.

  Just in time.

  Chomp dived on top of the suit and began tearing it to pieces.

  It was ugly.

  Forget mascot madness—this was mascot massacre.

  59

  Mr Grunt has a big fall

  And that’s how I, Henry McThrottle, the most average athlete at Northwest Southeast Central School, came to break more records in a single day than any other athlete in the Northwest region ever.

  That’s if you don’t count Chomp, and I don’t think you should because he is a dog.

  A nasty dog with a bad temper who hates bananas.

  And just in case anybody doubted just how much he hated bananas, Chomp proved it that afternoon by ripping that suit into a million tiny pieces.

&nb
sp; By the time Chomp was finished it was nothing but a sad pile of banana-coloured confetti.

  But enough about me and Chomp and the banana suit. What you really want to know is whether Northwest Southeast Central School won, don’t you?

  Well, nobody knew for a long time.

  As well as a great amount of yellow confetti blowing around the stadium, there was a great deal of confusion, table-thumping and shouting.

  The main problem was that while I had achieved record-breaking times and distances in the ten decathlon events, so had Chomp.

  Mr Grunt tried to argue that because Chomp was a dog none of his points counted, but his objections were overruled by the judges, who argued that there was nothing in the rules to say that dogs couldn’t compete in the events.

  Mr Constrictor argued that Chomp should be awarded double points for his achievements because of the increased difficulty due to his being a dog, but the judges overruled that argument as well. They decided that a record was a record, whether broken by a dog or a human, and that it would be awarded the same points no matter who—or what—broke it.

  Eventually a tense silence fell upon the stadium as the judges deliberated and tallied up the final points for the day.

  The silence was broken only by the sound of Chomp’s frenzied growling as he chased the flurries of yellow confetti around the ground.

  Then Flip Johnson recommenced his commentating. ‘Well,’ he said with a sigh, ‘as we await the judges’ final decision, the atmosphere here is as tense as a cat on ice skates. Has the new, improved Northwest Southeast Central School been able to gain the points it needs to win the competition for the first time ever? Or has Northwest West Academy’s late comeback—thanks to the extraordinary efforts of Chomp in that amazing decathlon—enabled them to hang on to the cup that has been in their trophy cabinet for forty-nine years?’

  ‘Doesn’t he ever stop talking?’ asked Jack.

  ‘That’s his job,’ said Gretel.

  ‘And this was my job,’ said Mr Brainfright sadly, letting a handful of yellow banana-suit confetti trail from his fingers. ‘I loved that suit. I loved being a banana.’

  We all looked at each other.

  It was hard to know what to say.

  I mean, we understood how he felt, but we liked him much better as Mr Brainfright.

  At that moment, a blast of feedback squealed through the stadium.

  The head judge was standing at the presentation table, tapping the microphone, and looking rather alarmed at the noise she had just created.

  She leaned into the microphone. ‘IS THIS THING ON?’ she said, and her voice came out even louder than the feedback.

  We all put our fingers in our ears as Principal Greenbeard dived to adjust the volume on the PA.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ said the judge. ‘Ahh . . . um . . . I would like to congratulate all the participants here today on a truly inspiring competition. In an ideal world we would be able to award a cup to each of the schools but, alas, we can award it only to one. And after much deliberation, we have come to a decision. After careful checking of the point tallies for each school we are very pleased to announce that Northwest Southeast Central have won by one point—thanks to the heroic efforts of Henry McThrottle, who was awarded extra points for his extraordinary pole vault because of the weight handicap represented by the Northwest West Academy mascot!’

  The Northwest Southeast Central School grandstand erupted with the sound of cheering and foot-stomping.

  ‘NO!!!’ screamed Mr Constrictor. He dropped to his knees and beat the ground with his fists.

  Chomp started howling.

  Troy Gurgling started crying.

  Fiona and David were making their way to the judges’ table to accept the cup on our school’s behalf when they were roughly pushed aside by Mr Grunt.

  ‘Out of my way!’ he shouted as he grabbed the cup out of the judge’s hands and climbed up onto the podium.

  ‘I’d just like to say a big thanks to MYSELF,’ he boomed in a voice that had no need of a microphone. ‘If it wasn’t for my cutting-edge training methods none of this would have been possible. I mean, to have beaten a team as good as Northwest West Academy with a bunch of no-hopers like Northwest Southeast Central School, well, it defies belief and proves beyond a doubt what a truly great coach I really am!’

  ‘Doesn’t he ever stop boasting?’ Jack asked.

  ‘No,’ said Gretel. ‘That’s his job. That’s what he does.’

  ‘Well, I wish he’d shut up,’ said Jack, ‘because he’s making me very angry!’

  As it turned out, Jack got his wish almost immediately.

  Whether it was the excitement or the weight of the cup in Mr Grunt’s hands I can’t be sure, all I know is that at that moment his ‘finely honed sense of balance’ suddenly deserted him and he fell face-first off the podium.

  The cup flew out of his hands and landed on the grass in front of him.

  ‘Serves him right,’ said Jack.

  60

  A dream come true

  David and Fiona picked up the cup from where it had fallen, cleaned off the confetti and grass, and together held it high above their heads.

  We cheered.

  Needless to say, no one offered to help Mr Grunt up.

  Well, none of us, anyway.

  Help for Mr Grunt came from a very unexpected quarter.

  ‘Here,’ said Mr Constrictor, reaching out his hand and pulling Mr Grunt to his feet.

  Mr Grunt looked embarrassed . . . and slightly scared. ‘Oh, er, Mr Constrictor,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry you lost. But congratulations on coming second.’

  Mr Constrictor snorted. ‘Second place is just another word for first loser. You and I both know that, Grunt.’

  Mr Grunt looked uncomfortable. ‘Well . . . er . . . that’s certainly one way of looking at it . . .’ he mumbled.

  ‘I’ve had my eye on you, Grunt,’ said Mr Constrictor, ‘and I like what I see. I’d be interested to hear more about these cutting-edge techniques of yours.’

  Mr Grunt tried to look modest, but failed. His chest puffed out and he said, ‘Oh, well, you see . . . when you’ve been around as long as I have you pick up a few tricks . . . I was in the Olympics, you know.’

  ‘I’m well aware of that,’ said Mr Constrictor. ‘Did you really mean what you said up there about us being a good team?’

  ‘Are you kidding?’ gushed Mr Grunt. ‘You’re the best! You’ve been the best for forty-nine years! Everybody knows that. Of course, my methods are powerful, but even so, it’s taken a long time for them to take effect given the hopelessness of what I’ve had to work with.’

  Mr Constrictor nodded his agreement. ‘How would you like to come and work with a real team?’ he said. ‘I could use a man like you, Grunt. With the raw talent of the Northwest West Academy students and your cutting-edge training methods, there’s no reason why we shouldn’t dominate this competition for the next forty-nine years! I want to see you on our team tomorrow and that cup returned to our cabinet next year. What do you say? Do you need time to think about it?’

  ‘None at all,’ said Mr Grunt, his chest puffed out to twice its normal puffed-out size. ‘It would be an honour and a dream come true!’

  They shook hands and walked off to discuss tactics.

  We stood staring at one another, unable to believe what had just happened. Talk about dreams come true!

  ‘I think this has been the best day of my life!’ said Jack. ‘Not only did we win the Northwest interschool athletics competition for the first time in forty-nine years, but we just got rid of Mr Grunt . . . forever!’

  61

  Fred and Clive’s last stand

  What a day!

  I don’t usually like to take pleasure in anybody else’s misfortune, but I couldn’t help thinking that if ever a school deserved Mr Grunt, it was Northwest West Academy. They were made for each other.

  David and Fiona, returning from their victory lap, put the cup
back down on the presentation table.

  ‘Wow!’ said Jack, as we leaned in for a closer inspection. ‘Look at that! It must be made of solid gold!’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Fiona, who even in the midst of all the excitement could not let an inaccurate statement go uncorrected. ‘It’s a copper–tin alloy sprayed with gold paint.’

  ‘That’s good enough for me!’ boomed Gretel. ‘Can I have a hold?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Fiona, handing it to her. ‘But be careful.’

  ‘Why?’ said Jack. ‘It’s only a copper–tin alloy sprayed with gold paint!’

  ‘It’s still valuable,’ said Fiona. ‘And it’s the only one we’ve got.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Gretel. ‘I’ll be careful.’

  But just as Gretel was taking the cup from Fiona, there was a commotion behind us and a pair of skinny white arms reached out and grabbed it.

  ‘I got it, Fred!’ said the unmistakable voice of Clive Durkin.

  ‘Well, don’t just stand there!’ yelled Fred. ‘Throw it to me!’

  Clive hurled the cup over our heads to Fred, who was waiting on the edge of the group. Fred sprinted off towards the stadium exit. Clive took off after him.

  ‘The cup!’ yelled Gretel. ‘They’ve stolen our cup!’

  While the rest of us milled around in confusion, Newton was in no doubt about what to do. He took off across the grass in hot pursuit.

  ‘Wow!’ said Jenny. ‘Look at Newton go!’

  ‘Run, Newton, run!’ yelled Mr Brainfright, going back into mascot mode.

  New-ton Hoo-ton

  Please speed up!

  Catch those boys!

  Bring back our cup!

  Whether it was Mr Brainfright’s chant, his program for sporting excellence, Newton’s increased confidence, or a combination of all three, it was impossible to say. But the next thing we saw was Newton launching himself through the air to bring down both Fred and Clive in a spectacular rugby tackle.

  ‘He’s got them!’ said Gretel. ‘Quick! We’ve got to help him before they get away!’

  Gretel’s words woke us up out of our amazed stupor.