My Life as a Stupendously Stomped Soccer Star
Page 1
MY LiFe
as a
Stupendously
Stomped
Soccer Star
Books by Bill Myers
Series
SECRET AGENT DINGLEDORF
. . . and his trusty dog, SPLAT
The Case of the . . .
Giggling Geeks • Chewable Worms
• Flying Toenails • Drooling Dinosaurs •
Hiccupping Ears • Yodeling Turtles
The Incredible Worlds of Wally McDoogle
My Life As . . .
a Smashed Burrito with Extra Hot Sauce • Alien Monster Bait • a Broken Bungee Cord • Crocodile Junk Food • Dinosaur Dental Floss • a Torpedo Test Target • a Human Hockey Puck • an Afterthought Astronaut • Reindeer Road Kill • a Toasted Time Traveler • Polluted Pond Scum • a Bigfoot Breath Mint • a Blundering Ballerina • a Screaming Skydiver • a Human Hairball • a Walrus Whoopee Cushion • a Computer Cockroach (Mixed-Up Millennium Bug) • a Beat-Up Basketball Backboard • a Cowboy Cowpie • Invisible Intestines with Intense Indigestion • a Skysurfing Skateboarder • a Tarantula Toe Tickler • a Prickly Porcupine from Pluto • a Splatted-Flat Quarterback • a Belching Baboon • a Stupendously Stomped Soccer Star • a Haunted Hamburger, Hold the Pickles • a Supersized Superhero . . . with Slobber •
The Portal • The Experiment • The Whirlwind • The Tablet
Picture Book
Baseball for Breakfast
the incredible worlds of Wally McDoogle
* * *
MY LiFe
as a
Stupendously
Stomped
Soccer Star
BILL MYERS
MY LIFE AS A STUPENDOUSLY STOMPED SOCCER STAR
© 2006 by Bill Myers.
Cover illustration by Jeff Mangiat.
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without the written permission of the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts in reviews.
Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Tommy Nelson. Tommy Nelson is a registered trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.
Tommy Nelson books may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please email SpecialMarkets@ThomasNelson.com.
Scripture quotations in this book are from the International Children’s Bible®, New Century Version®, © 1986, 1988, 1999 by Tommy Nelson®, a Division of Thomas Nelson, Inc. All rights reserved.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Myers, Bill, 1953–
My life as a stupendously stomped soccer star / Bill Myers.
p. cm.— (The incredible worlds of Wally McDoogle ; 26)
Summary: Enabled by an overactive imagination to make his every wish come true, Wally becomes the world’s greatest soccer player, but he soon realizes that God’s plans for himself and the world may be better than his own.
ISBN: 978-1-4003-0635-0 (trade paper)
[1. Wishes—Fiction. 2. Christian life—Fiction. 3. Athletes— Fiction. 4. Soccer—Fiction. 5. Humorous stories.] I. Title. II. Series: Myers, Bill, 1953– . Incredible worlds of Wally McDoogle ; #26.
PZ7.M98234Myle 2006
[Fic]—dc22
2006004471
Printed in the United States of America
10 11 12 13 14 EPAC 9 8 7 6 5 4
For Sonny Cruise:
A genius in his own right.
“Give thanks whatever happens.”
—1 Thessalonians 5:18
Contents
1. Just for Starters
2. Wally McDoogle: Stupendous
Something-or-Other
3. Almost . . . but Not Quite
4. Another Day, Another Billion (or Two)
5. Don’t Forget to Floss
6. Perfection!
. . . and other impossible dreams
7. Let the Game Begin!
8. No Pain, No Brain . . .
9. Up, Up, and, Away
10. Wrapping Up
Chapter 1
Just for Starters
It all began simply enough—which should have been my first clue we were heading for trouble (at least in these books).
I was at soccer tryouts being my incredible, nonathletic self. This, of course, involved the usual number of
—torn muscles,
—sprained ankles, and
—broken body parts.
As the world’s “Master of Disaster” (I hold a fifth-degree black belt in self-destruction), this was nothing new. What was new was that most of it was brought on by one Sophie Stompuregut.
I don’t want to say Sophie is tough, but she’s the only soccer player I know who is required to wear a sign on the back of her uniform reading:
CAUTION: The Surgeon General has determined that playing me can be hazardous to your health.
So there we were, out on the soccer field showing our stuff, when I made three major mistakes:
1. I accidentally got into the clear.
2. I shouted, “I’m open, pass to me, pass to me!”
And number three? Actually, that’s before I got onto the field. That’s when . . .
3. I actually thought I’d try out for a sport.
I know, I know, talk about brain-dead. I should have known better. But Wall Street had been so convincing:
“Come on,” she had said. “You’ll do great. I’ll be your sports agent, and we’ll make a ton of money.” (Wall Street wants to make her first million by the time she’s fifteen. Most of it off me.)
“How can we make money if we spend it all on hospital bills?” I demanded.
“There won’t be any hospital bills,” she argued.
“Okay, funeral bills.”
“There won’t be any of those, either.”
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“Trust me,” she said, grinning.
Which, of course, was another mistake (I know I said there were three, but I’ve never been good at math):
4. I trusted Wall Street.
I figured I was in trouble when I arrived at the field and saw her yelling through a megaphone:
“Step right up! See the world’s greatest klutz in action. Hear his screams of torture, his gasps of agony, the cracking of his breaking bones. Buy your tickets now while he’s still alive!”
Good ol’Wall Street.
Anyway, so there I was out on the field, shouting for the ball, when the forward saw I was in the clear and passed to me.
I expertly trapped it (hey, accidents happen) and started up field. That’s when I spotted Sophie bearing down on me.
Unfortunately, she had one of those I-haven’t-killed-a-player-in-a-good-two-minutes-and-I’m-getting-kinda-cranky looks on her face.
No problem. I immediately started to use all my athletic skills (which, unfortunately, was a problem).
I faked right, then left, then right.
Sophie slowed to a stop and watched
Sophie slowed to a stop and watched as I continued faking this way and that, that way and this. Actually, I was really getting pretty good at it. Of course, I hadn’t moved up field an inch, but I was sure impressing myself.
Unfortunately, I wasn’t impressing Sophie. After a few more minutes of boredom, she went for the ball (which also involved smashing her very sharp forearm into my very soft face).
I tried shouting, “Foul! Foul!” But it’s hard shouting anything when your mouth has been knocked to the back of your head.
It’s harder still when you’re suddenly
K-Wham!
slide-tackled . . .
K-Thud!
; to the ground and have
squish-squish-squish
“Ouch! Ouch! Ouch!”
some supertough girl running up and down your back with some supersharp cleats.
But that was nothing compared to that same girl accidentally mistaking my head for a soccer ball (at least, I thought it was an accident) and accidentlier
K-BAMBing
it as hard as she could.
The good news was, they did NOT count it a point when my body flew past the goalie and into the net.
The bad news was, I didn’t have time to celebrate. It’s hard to celebrate anything when you’re busy losing consciousness.
When I woke up things were whiter than a marshmallow lost in a blizzard inside a bottle of liquid whiteout. Seriously, the place was almost as white as the sheets Mom puts on the guest bed whenever Grandma sleeps over.
“Hello?” I shouted. “Is anybody here?”
“I’m always here,” a voice replied.
I looked in every direction but could see only white. “Where are you?” I shouted. “Where am I?”
“I think you know where you are,” the voice replied.
I swallowed. “Am I . . . in heaven?”
“Sorry, Wally, you’re not in heaven.”
I took a bigger swallow. “Then am I in . . . the other place?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” the voice answered. “You don’t see anyone around here having to eat your little sister’s cooking, do you?”
“They do that in the other place?”
“Can you think of any worse torture?”
He had a point.
“No, don’t worry,” the voice said. “You’re simply in one of your I’m-unconscious-from-one-too-many-disasters states. You’ll eventually wake up.”
I nodded and tried swallowing again. But there was something about the voice that made my mouth drier than sand baked at 350 degrees for seven hours in the desert—(which can also be mistaken for my little sister Carrie’s lima-bean casserole).
“Are you . . . God?” I croaked.
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Then who—”
“I’m just your overactive imagination representing God.”
I frowned. “What does that mean?”
“It means you have a problem with the way God is running things, and together we’re going to straighten it out.”
“I don’t have a problem with God,” I argued. “Well, except for making me too short, too clumsy, too stupid, too ugly, too unlucky, too clumsy—”
“You said ‘clumsy’ already.”
“I did? Okay, then add too clueless, too non-athletic, and way too clumsy. Other than that, I’m just fine.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely . . . well, other than being a little too clumsy.”
“I see. And if you had the chance to be God, you would change that?”
“In a heartbeat! In half a heartbeat! In half of a half of a heart—”
“Hold it,” the voice interrupted. “Overactive imaginations aren’t great with fractions. But I get your point.”
The voice paused a moment as if thinking. Finally, it answered, “Okay . . . done.”
“Done what?”
“You can change it.”
“Change what?”
“Anything you want.”
“Are you serious?!”
“Absolutely. For the next few days I’ll change whatever you ask.”
“Wow!” I cried. “Just like the genie in the bottle story!”
“Actually”—he cleared his throat—“as an overactive imagination, I’m good enough not to borrow other people’s stories.”
“Sorry.”
“Each change you decide to make will go into effect at midnight. But remember, once you’ve made them, they will remain permanent. Is that clear?”
“You bet! That’s way cooler than some stupid genie in a bottle.”
“My point exactly. And your first change will be?”
“What, now? You’re ready to start now?!”
“Absolutely. It’ll be midnight in a few minutes.
“Absolutely. It’ll be midnight in a few minutes. What change would you like to make for tomorrow?”
“This is incredible!”
I couldn’t believe it. My mind spun, my heart raced, my breath, er, breathed, until I finally shouted, “I’ve got it!”
“And it is?”
“I want to be the country’s greatest soccer player!”
“Then, starting at midnight, you will become the country’s greatest soccer star. Good luck.”
“Thanks!”
“You’ll be needing it . . .”
Chapter 2
Wally McDoogle:
Stupendous Something-or-Other
I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling. Then I rolled over in bed to stare at my alarm clock. It read:
11:37
Of course, I knew that whole thing about my “overactive imagination” was just a dream (although a very overactive one). So, of course, I wasn’t taking it seriously.
Still, with nothing else to do except count the number of bones Sophie had broken at soccer tryouts (hey, everybody needs a hobby), I decided to stay awake, just in case.
To kill time, I reached for Ol’ Betsy, my faithful laptop computer, and started another one of my superhero stories . . .
It had been another long day of superherodom for our supersized superhero... Pudgy Boy.
Already he had battled the fiendishly foul Fad Diet Dude——that skinny slimeball who convinced the world that a steady diet of slugs was the key to quick weight loss.
(And he was right...if you count the number of times per day it made people hurl.)
Rubber Band Workout Machine
as advertised on TV.
After that came his fight with Rubber Band Man. The sinister stretcher was selling his revolutionary Rubber Band Workout Machine as advertised on TV. You’ve seen the commercials——just 99 payments of $99 for 99 months will buy your very own rubber band to stretch back and forth between your fingers. What better way to burn off those unwanted fractions of a calorie?
But now, at last, his day is over. He flops down in his Fat Cave and is about to order his usual deluxe pizza with extra caramel sauce and chocolate chip topping (how else do you think he got so pudgy?) when, suddenly, the Flab Phone
Blubber-Blubber-Blubber
Blubber-Blubber-Blubber
rings. He reaches for it and answers:
“Pudgy Boy here:
If bad guys give you
eating disorders,
In prison, I’ll make them
permanent boarders.”
(Hey, he’s a superhero, not a superpoet.)
“Pudgy Boy!” a voice shouts from the other end of the phone. “This is a national emergency!”
“Mr. President! Is this you?”
“Of course it’s me, who else would be calling you at the beginning of these superhero stories!”
“But you sound so different! Your voice, it’s somehow...thinner.”
“Look out your window, and I’ll explain!”
Our roly-poly hero rolls out of his chair and waddles to the window.
Outside, the road is covered with all sorts of people exercising. Everyone is jogging, skipping rope, running in place, doing jumping jacks.
And not just a little, but a lot. Crazily. Desperately. They are drenched in sweat and so exhausted they can barely stand. Still, they keep pushing themselves as they do sit-ups, pushups, and (with all that exercising, what else) throw-ups.
“What’s going on?” our hero cries.
“It’s the fiendish work of your archenemy...Boney Boy.”
“Don’t tell me he’s created more of those belly-baring fashions that you have to have a perfect body to wear?”
“Worse than that! He’s manipulating people’s brain waves——making everyone want to get thinner and thinner and thinner some more.”
/>
“Is that why everyone’s exercising so hard?”
“Yes! Everyone hates themselves for not having superthin bodies. But it’s not just bodies. Butchers are slicing their meat thinner. TV screens are becoming thinner. Even iPods—”
“Your voice! Mr. President, is
Butchers are slicing their meat thinner. TV screens are becoming thinner. Even iPods—”
“Your voice! Mr. President, is that what’s happening to your voice?”
“Yes! Everything is getting thinner! Hurry, Pudgy Boy! You’re the only one who can save us! You’re the only one who.”
“Yes! Everything is getting thinner! Hurry, Pudgy Boy! You’re the only one who can save us! You’re the only one who.”
“Mr. President, I can barely hear you. Mr. President, please try to speak a little fatter.”
With great effort, the President tries again. “Hurry, Pudgy Boy. Before we become nothing but...”
“Mr. President! Mr. President!!”
But there is no answer.
In desperation, Pudgy Boy lets out a loud but incredibly thin
“Sigh.”
“Great Scott!” he shouts. “It’s even happening to me!”
In a surge of superhero strength, he waddles through the Fat Cave to do what he has to do while there’s still time for him to do it.
TRANSLATION:
Better hold off on that pizza till the world gets saved...
I stopped for a moment and glanced at the clock. It now read:
12:02
Of course, nothing had happened. How could it? It was just my overactive imagination being overactively imaginative (imagine that).
Oh well, I thought as I shut Ol’ Betsy down and slid under the covers. Everything can’t always go the way you want it. Of course, I’d settle for anything going any way I want it, but some things aren’t meant to be.
Little did I know how wrong I was . . .
“Mista McDoogla, wake up!”
I tried opening my eyes, but they were heavier than my little cousin’s diapers when it’s my uncle’s turn to watch him.
“Mista McDoogla!”
The voice was no longer just talking. Now it was dragging me
K-Thud
out of bed and down the