by Bill Myers
K-bamb—thump!
K-bamb—thump!
K-bamb—thump!
stairs.
The good news was, all that K-bambing and K-thumping had finally jarred my eyes open. The bad news was, I suddenly started to
chatter-chatter-chatter
chatter-chatter-chatter,
which, of course, is the sound my teeth make when I’m dragged outside at 3:30 in the morning in my underwear!
I staggered to my feet and looked up to see a giant muscleman climbing onto a motorbike.
“Who are, chatter-chatter-chatter, you?!” I shouted.
“I am yar pursanal trainer, Arnold S’poseta Nag-v!”
“What??”
“No time to talk. Time iz vaisting!”
Before I could chatter more protests (or at least come down with a good case of pneumonia), he fired up his motorbike, put it into gear, and
V-ROOOMMed
directly at me.
I leaped out of the way, nearly becoming a permanent part of his tire tread.
“What are you doing?!” I screamed.
He spun the bike back around to face me. “You cannot raymain de number one soccer player in de coundry ef you don’t vurk out! Now run!”
“What?!”
Again he
V-ROOOMMed
toward me, and again I leaped out of the way.
“Run!” he shouted as he spun the bike back around. “You mus run!”
I got the picture and started jogging down the driveway.
He pulled up behind me, his front tire just inches from my
V-ROOOMM V-ROOOMM
rear.
“Fasta, girlie boy! Fasta!”
I turned left onto the street. He followed right behind.
“Fasta! Fasta!”
Now, you didn’t have to be a genius to figure out what had happened. I had become the number one soccer player in the country, and this was my daily workout session!
How cool was that?! My wish had actually come true!
Of course, it would have been cooler if I’d remembered to wear shoes, a few more clothes, and was actually in shape. But after fifteen or so miles of
V-ROOOMM V-ROOOMM
“Fasta! Fasta!”
pant-pant, wheeze-wheeze, die-die,
the fun and games finally came to an end.
Well, maybe the fun . . . but by the looks of things, the games had just begun. Next stop was . . .
OUR KITCHEN
Mom wasn’t up yet, but I guess that didn’t matter. Arnie was also my dietician.
I’d barely regained consciousness from our little gasp-a-thon before he made a delicious breakfast of raw eggs, curdled yak milk, and a half quart of stewed cauliflower.
Of course, I tried to leave (before I heaved), but that would have involved moving my legs, which still had no feeling since my jogging workout.
Anyway, he slammed the delicious mixture onto the counter in front of me and grinned.
I tried to protest. “But—”
“Opan up!”
“But—but—”
“But—but—”
“Opan up, girlie boy!”
“But—but—but—”
Before I could impress him with any more of my astonishing logic, he stomped on my foot, which suddenly had feeling, which suddenlier made me open my mouth to scream.
But, of course, no scream came. It’s hard to scream when you’re chugging down raw eggs, curdled yak milk, and stewed cauliflower.
I don’t want to say it tasted bad, but at the moment I’d have given anything to wash it down with some of my little sister’s cooking.
But that was only the beginning. Next stop was . . .
SCHOOL
I don’t want to say people acted differently because I was a famous athlete, but it was a little embarrassing when everyone treated me like some sort of celebrity (with the IQ of a cockroach).
Take Mr. Brainboredom’s English class. He went around the whole room having everyone read a few paragraphs from Julia’s Seizures (or whatever that Shakespeare play is called). But when it got to be my turn, he said, “That’s okay, Wally, you don’t have to.”
“But I want to.”
“No, really, we don’t want you to strain yourself.”
“Strain myself?”
“Well, yeah, you know—having to use your brain and everything.”
“You think just because I’m an athlete I don’t have a brain?”
“It’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”
“Come on,” I insisted. “Let me read something. I’ll show you.”
“Well, okay then. Read the top of the page. Way up in the right-hand corner. Do you see it?”
“You mean where the page number is?”
“That’s right. And what does it say?”
“43?”
“Very good.” Mr. Brainboredom began to clap. “Class, let’s hear it for Wally.”
Before I knew it, everybody was giving me a standing ovation.
Unfortunately, there was plenty more weirdness to follow in . . .
THE HALLWAY
It was the custom in our school that whenever jocks passed one another, they gave high-fives.
Unfortunately, it was no different with me.
“Hey, McDoogle!”—K-Slap!
“What’s up, man?!”—K-Pow!
“How’s it going?!”—K-Bamb!
Actually, it was pretty cool, and I wouldn’t have minded it except for all my broken wrists, broken arms, and other structural damage.
Finally, there were . . .
MY FRIENDS
I knew Opera and Wall Street wouldn’t treat me differently. After all, we’d been friends ever since Camp Wahkah-Wahkah.
I finally spotted them in the cafeteria line (better known as the death row). Wall Street was trying to sell nose plugs so you couldn’t taste the food, and Opera was busy listening to classical music through headphones that were surgically implanted into his ears.
“Hey, guys!” I shouted.
It was about this time that Opera turned, saw me, and immediately
“YIKES!”
ran for his life.
How weird was that?
Figuring he mistook me for someone else, I grabbed a tray and filled it up with the usual culinary delights of crusted-over spaghetti, crusted-over Jell-O, and crusted-over apple juice.
I then strolled on over to join Opera and Wall Street at our table. We call it “our table” ’cause it’s way off in the corner, all by itself, so no one will accidentally sit with us.
Not that we blamed them for setting us apart. Until the tests come back to prove you can’t catch dorkiness by sitting too close to a Dorkoid, everyone is careful to keep their distance.
“Hey, guys,” I repeated as I sat down beside Opera.
He looked at me and suddenly did an encore performance of
“YIKES!”
But this time he leaped to his feet and ran out of the room.
“What’s with him?” I asked Wall Street.
She looked at me and frowned. “You’re a jock.”
“Meaning . . .”
“Meaning you’re required by law to be a bully.”
“I’m no bully.”
“Yeah, right,” she said scornfully. “The point is, it’s been over a week since Opera has been thrown into the showers or has had his head dunked into a toilet.”
“So?”
“So, he’s due.”
“And he thinks I’ll do it?” I asked.
“Why else would you come over to our table?”
“To be your friend?”
“Get real,” she said, scooping up her own tray and also moving off.
“Hey, where you going?” I cried.
“Jocks don’t sit with Dorkoids. You know that.”
“But—”
“Go hang out with your musclebound mutants and quit terrorizing the rest of us.” With that, she was gone.
> Suddenly, I was sitting all by myself and feeling very much alone.
No matter how you figure it, things hadn’t turned out so well. Little did I realize that this not-so-wellness was nothing compared to the unwellness that was about to come.
TRANSLATION:
Buckle in, sports fans.
It’s going to get a lot worse.
Chapter 3
Almost . . . but Not Quite
Luckily, soccer tryouts went a little better than school.
Of course, there was the problem of all the beautiful babes fighting over who was going to carry my books to the locker room . . .
“You got to carry his science book the last fifteen feet. It’s my turn!”
“But you got to carry his notebook and his math book!”
And don’t even get me started on the girls who were too busy fainting over my presence to do much of anything—except clutter up the hallway.
Suiting up in the locker room was just as cool.
“Hey, Wally, will you sign my shoes?”
“Hey, Wally, will you sign my T-shirt?”
“Hey, Wally, will you sign my undershorts?”
Then there was Coach Hurtumuch:
“Okay, men, listen up. We’re honored that the great Wally McDoogle has chosen to try out for our team.”
This was followed by the usual clapping, cheering, and standing ovations.
The coach continued. “However, I promise you that there will be no favoritism. Lord McDoogle will be treated like everybody else . . . just as soon as the limo takes him onto the field and he’s had his personal sauna, massage, and manicure.”
This, of course, was followed by more clapping, cheering, and underwear signing until I finally entered the limo and headed to the field.
Now, I don’t want to brag, but as a soccer player, I was sensational, remarkable, incredible (and any other ible word you can imagine). It’s hard to explain, but just imagine living in a world where everything is backward. A world where
—people give gifts on their birthdays,
—politicians can be trusted,
—everything I do doesn’t backfire.
After we divided up into teams and started playing, I was unstoppable. Of course, Sophie Stompuregut tried checking me, but she’d have been more helpful if she’d have just gone off to the movies.
Granted, I was moving a little slow in the first period (scoring only 27 points), but there’s just so much time on the clock for one person to dribble all the way down the field and score again and again . . . and again some more.
Only after the first period ended did Coach suggest we try a different strategy.
“Lord McDoogle?”
I chose to give him a thrill by looking in his direction.
“Would you mind passing the ball off once in a while? Just to keep things interesting?”
It sounded like a novel idea, so in the second period I did just that . . .
I got the ball, triple-faked Sophie, and passed to our team captain, Stanley Superjoke.
Now, I don’t want to say ol’ Stan was bad, but other words like awful, terrible, and embarrassing do come to mind. (In short, he was only ten times better than I used to be.) In fact, he was moving so slow that I raced ahead of the ball, jumped, and gave it a header up the field.
Unfortunately, the next teammate, Wynona Wannabeaplayer, was no better.
So, with no one else to turn to, I outmaneuvered Sophie, passed the ball, raced ahead of it, and gave it one of my famous triple-whammy bicycle kicks to . . . who else but me, who dribbled it down the field, passed it off to . . . me, who dribbled it, passed it to . . . me, who went in and kicked it for a point! (Coach was right, passing the ball did make things a lot more interesting.)
And so the game continued. Me passing it to me, who passed it to me, who headed it to me, who . . . well, you get the picture.
Then, when things got boring, I started playing the goalie as well.
Yes sir, the good news was, the rest of the team could take the day off and join Sophie at the movies. Who needed eleven players when there was one wonderful Wally McDoogle, superstar.
The bad news was, for some reason, some of my teammates got a little jealous. Can you imagine, one or two actually accused me of being a ball hog?
It got so bad that by the end of the third period when the score was 1,234 to 1 (they got the 1 because I had to take a restroom break), nobody on my team remained on the field. They’d all gone home.
Including Coach. (I forgot to mention that in the last minutes I’d been playing his position as well.)
I felt a little bad . . . and a lot lonely. It was worse than being deserted by Wall Street and Opera in the cafeteria. Now I didn’t have anybody to call friend. Not my fellow Dorkoids, not my fellow players.
Nobody.
Talk about weird. I’d gotten everything I’d wanted, but somehow things were worse than before.
But that’s okay. Midnight would be rolling around in a few hours. I’d just ask for things to go back to what they used to be.
A piece of cake, right?
No sweat . . . no problem . . .
And, as you’ve already guessed . . . no way.
I got home and dragged my body up the stairs. (Even the country’s greatest soccer star can get tuckered out.)
Of course, Mom was worried that I didn’t want dinner. The fact that she’d cooked pot roast and carrots made it more than a little tempting. But I’d been busier than an Oompa-Loompa in a Wonka chocolate factory. In fact, my head had barely hit the pillow before I drifted off and my imagination started working again.
“Hey there, Wally.”
I opened my eyes and saw a giant horse standing on my bed looking down at me. This, of course, inspired me to practice my world-famous and ever-popular
“AUGH!”
as I grabbed my pillow and leaped under the covers, praying for my life.
“Come on, Wally, knock it off.”
“M-m-mees m-m-mwont eet m-mwe!”
(That’s supposed to be “P-p-please d-d-don’t eat m-m-me,” but it’s hard begging for your life when you’re screaming into a pillow.)
“Come on, Wally, knock it off. It’s me.”
“M-mwe mwho?”
“Me, your overactive imagination.”
Ever so slowly, I pulled the covers off of my head.
The horse gave a little whinny and shook his mane.
I gave a major scream and dove back under the covers.
“Wally . . .”
I felt his lips grab the covers and pull them back farther and farther until it was just me lying there in my Fruit of the Looms. I finally looked up to stare directly into his giant, flaring nostrils.
With my last ounce of courage, I managed to stutter, “Wh-what happened to the white room and th-the voice?”
“Oh, please. What self-respecting imagination would do the same thing twice? Hey, did you check out my cool wings?” He dropped his shoulder so I could see two giant white wings fluttering on his back.
I nodded. The wings were very impressive. Though I’d have preferred being impressed with him as a parakeet or a ladybug or just about anything else that didn’t tower seven feet over my bed smelling like oats.
“Am I . . .” I took another breath and gave it another try. “Am I asleep, again?”
“Yeah, probably,” he said. “So how was your day? Was it everything you’d hoped?”
I nodded. “And worse.”
He gave a snort, which I guess is how horses say, “I told you so.”
“It really wasn’t that bad,” I argued. “In fact, it was pretty cool. It was just . . . well, it wasn’t as cool as I thought it would be.”
“It never is.”
“So if you just let me change things back to—”
“No, that was the deal, remember? You can’t change anything back.”
“Oh yeah.” I frowned. “I forgot.”
“See, that’s what I was tryi
ng to tell you. God always knows what’s best. You just have to trust—”
“No, wait a minute! I’ve got something.”
He sighed wearily as he reached his long neck down to the backpack next to my bed.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Just checking for sugar cubes.”
“Sorry. Listen, I have an idea. You say I can’t change anything back, right?”
“Right.”
“I can’t change things back . . . but I can add things on. That’s what you said, right? As long as it’s before midnight, I can add new things.”
“Yes . . .”
I sat up straighter in bed. “Okay, this is what I want. I don’t want to be the country’s greatest soccer player, I want to be the world’s greatest player.”
“I knew that was coming.”
“And I want Opera and Wall Street to still be my best friends.”
His eyes widened. “But they’re Dorkoids.”
“So.”
“So you’ll be a superjock. The two never hang together.”
“Are you saying this is too big for an overactive imagination?”
He snorted in contempt. “Believe me, I can imagine anything you throw at me.”
“Good. Then that’s what I want. I’m still a star soccer player . . . but they’re still my friends!”
“All right,” he said, sighing. “If that’s what you want.”
I folded my arms in triumph. “That’s what I want. Oh, and tell Arnie boy I’m taking tomorrow off.”
“All right . . .” I didn’t like the sound of his voice as he climbed off my bed. “Then so be it.”
“That’s it?” I asked.
“Of course,” he said, sighing as he started for the door.
“Wait a minute, where are you going?”
“Is that cooked carrots I smell downstairs?”
“Left over from dinner, yeah.”
“Great.” He took another step, then he suddenly stopped and turned. “Tonight wasn’t Carrie’s turn to cook, was it?”
“Nah, that was last night.”
He smiled and continued out the door, clip-clopping down the hall and toward the stairs.
I thought of warning Mom and Dad (something about a horse strolling through your living room in the middle of Jeopardy might be a little startling). Then again, they’ve got their own imaginations. Let them deal with it.
I, on the other hand, was expecting to enjoy some incredible things.
