Bentwhistle the Dragon Box

by Paul Cude

  For the first time ever at Tuesday night's training, the entire second team squad was there, culminating in a highly charged, intense and thoroughly enjoyable session for them all. On his way home, all Peter could think about was how this season's league campaign could be their best ever, with promotion there for the taking. With just one more friendly to go this Saturday, he just knew they couldn't fail to get off to a cracking start.

  Saturday morning was normally quite a relaxing time for Peter. Generally he fell out of bed quite late, had a bite to eat and then went and played hockey. Not today though. Awake at just gone six, he tried desperately to go back to sleep without any luck. Getting up, he realised just why he was too excited to sleep. The hockey... he just couldn't wait. Considering himself just like a child on Christmas Eve, he could come to just one conclusion.

  'What a sad fool I am,' he laughed, whilst brushing his teeth.

  With his game not starting until four, time dragged by as he tried to keep himself busy. Needless to say it didn't work. By midday he was going up the wall. All he could think about was hockey, hockey, hockey. How he would play, how the team would perform, who would be playing for the opposition, would they have their strongest team out? All these questions and more picked at his brain, like vultures on a carcass.

  Eventually two fifty arrived and he could wait no more. On arrival at the sports club, he found the second team captain, Andy, waiting in the car park.

  "Hi Pete," said Andy. "Looking forward to the game?"

  "Can't wait," he replied, like a giddy child.

  "There's been a bit of a change of plan I'm afraid," announced Andy, rummaging through his kit bag.

  "Oh?" said Peter inquisitively.

  Andy kept on rummaging as he talked.

  "The opposition cried off late last night. Half of their team have flu. Anyway, all is not lost. The same thing seems to have happened to their first team as well, and they were due to play our first team. So, we're going to be playing our first team instead, which as it happens is not a bad warm up for our first league game next Saturday," said Andy grinning.

  Peter was crestfallen.

  'Oh my God,' he thought. 'I'm going to be playing against Manson!'

  "You okay?"

  "Ahh... yeah... fine," Peter lied.

  "You just look all... pale, that's all."

  "No... no... I'm fine."

  "Okay, I'll see you in the changing room shortly," voiced Andy, heading off towards the entrance to the clubhouse.

  Peter leant on his car, head in his hands. It felt as though his world had ended. Of all the things to happen.

  'I'd rather face a team of drunken, diseased, ravaging Vikings on a hockey pitch than Manson,' he thought. Taking some deep breaths in the hope of calming himself down, he brought his head out from beneath his hands just in time to see Manson's black Mercedes pull into the car park. One word and one word only popped into his head... PANTS! Manson got out of his car and headed towards the changing rooms with some of his teammates, who had gathered in the car park. Halfway, Manson craned his neck and gave a sly glance over his shoulder in Peter's direction, making a mock salute as he did so. What was supposed to have been a brilliant afternoon had started in the worst possible way. He knew he had to get past it and focus on what a good evening he was going to have, and not worry about the hockey. That was easier said than done though.

  Making his way to the changing rooms to join the rest of his team, he got halfway and then changed his mind, opting instead to head into the bar. It was still early and he couldn't face going to get ready just at the moment. Hearing that he'd be facing Manson on the hockey pitch had really knocked him for six. The bar itself was relatively empty, with only a few hockey players from earlier games gathered around the large tables at the far end. Walking the length of the deserted bar, on reaching the end he plonked his kit and stick bag down on the well worn carpet. Gazing out through the panoramic windows, lost in thought, he could see that both the rugby and lacrosse matches were in full flow. Squinting a little against the bright sun, he could just make out his friends competing in their separate sports. Richie was screaming down the wing at full pelt, her stick high above her, the ball cradled in the head, bursting through full throttle towards the opposition's goal. Tank, on the other hand, had just that second been buried beneath half a dozen hulking great rugby players. Peter watched, concerned, as play continued. His brief worry misplaced, he felt a sense of relief as only a few seconds later his giant friend stood up, covered from head to toe in mud, holding the ball aloft, players from both teams tumbling off him like rag dolls. He smiled at the thought of the exhilaration his friend must be experiencing. A light tap on his shoulder startled him back to reality. He turned to see one of the bar staff smiling at him. He struggled to remember her name, which was odd in itself given his eidetic memory. Finally it came to him.

  "It's Janice isn't it?" he asked.

  "That's right," replied the bubbly blonde with a beaming smile. Despite feeling thoroughly miserable, he smiled too, that's how infectious her grin had been. For an instant his mind wandered off, caught up in just how beautiful she was.

  "Ummm... you couldn't do me a little favour, could you?" she asked.

  "Of course. What do you need?"

  "I need some more cartons of orange juice from upstairs and I can't leave the bar unattended. I wondered if you could just nip up and grab a couple of boxes for me," she continued, once again flashing her best smile.

  "Sure," stammered Peter, finding it hard to concentrate, but not sure why.

  "The boxes are on the right, just inside the stock cupboard door on the floor. It's unlocked, they just need bringing down."

  A brief nod was followed by,

  "Back in two tweaks of a dragon's nose," after which he bounded off towards the stairs right at the end of the bar, her chortling at his hopeless joke ringing in his ears. Taking the stairs two at a time, he headed towards the first floor. It wasn't just the stock cupboard that was located on the top floor, but a private function room with its own small bar, a tiny balcony overlooking the sports pitches and the chairman of the sports club's private office which was only accessible through the function room. Reaching the top of the stairs, he strolled purposefully along the corridor to the stock cupboard. Gently, he pushed open the door. Without the need to switch on the light, he could see the boxes of orange juice on the floor, just where Janice had said they were. Using one foot to prop open the door, while bending down to lift up the boxes, it was then that a bone chilling sight on the other side of the function room caught his attention. Hairs on the back of his neck stood to attention faster than Usain Bolt rushing for the last of the chicken nuggets. Outside his office, the chairman of the sports club was having a heated conversation with... Manson! A mixture of raw anger, outright bluster with just a hint of fear scored the chairman's face. He did not look happy. Knowing that he could be spotted at any moment, Peter slipped back into the dark cupboard, closing the door as much as he dared while still being able to see what was going on. Manson had his back to Peter, so it was only really the chairman's face that he had a view of. Softly whispering a very basic enhancement mantra, he was surprised when his hearing didn't pick up what the two of them were saying. Abruptly Manson turned and faced his direction, seemingly searching for something. Peter stood deathly still, the tiny slit through which he was watching concealed by shadows. Clearly on edge, Manson turned back, with the heated discussion continuing for another minute or so, the chairman becoming more and more disappointed.

  It was then that the oddest thing happened. The chairman's face turned whiter than a cartoon ghost. Manson had pulled something out of a bag on the floor, and was offering it out to the chairman. For his part, the chairman didn't want to take it, seeming scared, nervous, almost petrified. Even from as far away as he was, Peter could make out the sweat pouring down the man's neck and face. Manson leaned menacingly close to the chairman and whispered something in his ear, causing him
to shake uncontrollably. After ten seconds or so, he reached out and reluctantly took the object, handling it as if it were about to explode, before turning, walking into his office and putting the parcel down. After locking the office door the two men headed out of the function room, towards the corridor where the stock cupboard was. Peter gently closed the door right up and, holding his breath, stood as still as he could. Hearing the footsteps of the two men pass his hiding place he let out his breath, unable to resist one last look. Opening the door up a little, just enough for him to see out, he watched them going down the top flight of stairs, Manson clapping the chairman on the back, the chairman looking as though someone had just told him he'd got one day left to live. Leaving it for a couple of minutes, he picked up the orange juice boxes, and headed back down to the bar. A beaming Janice was there to greet him.

  "I was just about to send out a search party for you," she said with that gorgeous smile.

  Peter returned it with interest as he plonked the boxes down on the bar.

  "The lock on the door jammed just as I was coming out. Don't worry I managed to fix it. It's fine now."

  "Well, thank you very much," replied Janice, lining all the boxes up on the bar. "Perhaps I'll see you after you've finished your game. Good luck."

  Peter was lost for words as he realised he should be heading for the changing rooms. Giving Janice a quick wave, he scooted out of the back entrance of the bar, and into the changing area. His team were in the changing rooms adjacent to the first team and due to the paper thin walls, could hear just how confident their opponents were. Although his team should have been on a high from all their previous results, their changing room seemed to be charged with negativity. Peter was unusually quiet, for good reason, but then he was never really the life and soul of the banter and chat anyway, so that shouldn't have made a whole lot of difference. It was almost as if a spell had been cast on them.

  As the first team passed the half open door, joking around and playfully slapping each other, the atmosphere inside the Second XI's changing room resembled a morgue. Andy the captain gave his usual rousing team talk to very little effect. The passion and spirit seemed to have been sucked out of the entire squad. With time ticking away, reluctantly the players headed out to the Astroturf pitch, to do battle with the First XI.

  A shrill whistle reverberated around the ground, signalling the end of the current match on the Astroturf. Both teams made their way on to the artificial pitch to complete warming up. Orange tops and white shorts were the order of the day for the first team, sporting the club's normal home strip. For the Second XI, Peter included, it was bright blue tops complemented with dark blue shorts. Knocking a ball back and forth with one of his teammates, Peter picked up on the distant cheers from the rugby and lacrosse matches. He figured they must both be coming to an end. Body on autopilot, still moving the hockey ball around, his thoughts turned to his friends, hoping they'd had an enjoyable afternoon in their respective sporting endeavours, wishing that it would suddenly be this evening and he could be with them watching the Indigo Warriors.

  One of the umpires blew his whistle, indicating that it was nearly time to start. Both teams’ players finished stripping off their tracksuits and assumed their corresponding positions on the pitch. After removing his top, Peter trotted from the sideline to his position as sweeper (the last line of defence except for the goalkeeper), standing just outside the twenty five, directly in the middle of the pitch. Checking to make sure Matt, his goalkeeper, was okay, he watched as Manson strolled purposefully into the opposing centre forward position. That pretty much meant that Peter would be facing him for most of the match. Taking a deep breath and rapping the bottom of his shoes with the head of his stick, something of a ritual he'd developed just as games were about to start, he focused his concentration on what was about to happen.

  Both umpires checked the two goalkeepers were ready and then blew their whistles to start the match. After pushing back, the second team managed to string together seven or eight passes before being hounded off the ball by the first team. Having found possession, the first team surged forward on mass at an unbelievable pace.

  'The accuracy of their passes isn't too shabby either,' thought Peter, as one of his opponents used a cunning bit of deception to slip the ball through the Second XI defence, straight to an onrushing forward.

  In the blink of an eye Peter found himself faced with two opponents heading for him at full speed, the one without the ball being Manson, with only his goalkeeper behind him.

  'Here we go,' he thought as instinct took over. Approaching the player with the ball, he noted Manson off to his left. Taking a deep breath, he offered his stick out to the right as if to make an open side block and then... timing it down to the very last split second, flipped his stick over and laid it down flat, reverse stick on the ground.

  Much to Peter's relief, it was the perfect interception, with the player having taken the bait, trying to pass to Manson who was free, off to his right. With the ball on the end of his stick, Peter pulled it round to his open side and passed it wide to his right back, who had, along with the rest of the defence, busted a gut getting back after the defence-splitting pass had exploited their weakness. As his team went back on the offensive, Peter looked around to make sure no immediate threat presented itself. All it would take was one long ball and they could easily be undone again, something he knew only too well, given that it was his responsibility to rally his defenders and make sure they picked up their assigned players, preferably goal side.

  As all of this happened, he noticed Manson growling some very harsh words at his playing partner from the previous attack, the one whose pass Peter had intercepted. Turning away from the two players, the slightest of smirks tickling his face, Peter hoped that his team could chip away at the first team's attitude throughout the match, with a view to giving them a chance at getting some kind of result.

  Lightning pace would best sum up the next fifteen minutes or so, with both teams winning short corners and goal scoring opportunities but for last gasp interventions from brave defenders. One stocky first team defender blocked a rising shot right on the very goal line, tipping it around the post at chest height, while Peter made a diving reverse stick block, to a shot that Manson had seemed to spend an age teeing up. It was adrenaline pumping chaos... in a good way. But with the highly charged nature of the game and more and more reckless tackles flying in, it seemed only a matter of time until the umpire started showing his cards. As half time approached, the first team became more dominant, their superior fitness showing. However, Peter's thought about team spirit seemed to echo more and more as the match progressed. With each new onslaught the first team created, frustration seemed to stop them in their tracks, more often than not ending up in a missed chance to take the lead. Frayed tempers and verbal backlashes became the norm as one breakdown led to another, Manson generally being the main culprit. Every three or four minutes he was berating one of his own players for either a sloppy pass or just general poor play. A welcome relief to the second team players, after having been run ragged for the final ten minutes of the half, the umpires finally blew for half time, putting them out of their misery with the score remaining level at 0-0.

  Plodding over to their stick and kit bags, dripping with sweat, the second team players took on some welcome water before joining their captain in the goal mouth at the opposite end of the pitch from the one they'd been defending in the first half. As the players gathered round, Peter noted how exhausted they all looked. Each and every one of them had given nothing short of one hundred percent and, although tired, most had a smile on their face. The atmosphere was electric and although the adrenaline rushing round his body was totally and utterly fake... he felt it, all of it. For him it was more real than anything he'd experienced in the dragon domain. He was where he should be, right here, right now.

  Standing with the other players, he watched Andy the captain give one of his highly motivating speeches, th
e gist of which was that they were playing out of their skins and that realistically the first team should be beating them by a rugby score, bearing in mind the different leagues the two teams played in.

  With everyone suitably pumped up, Andy asked if anyone else had anything to add. Every week it was the same, normally with one or two of the more experienced players chipping in with the odd tactical thing, or a potential weakness they'd spotted in their opponents that could be exploited. Peter had never had the courage or felt the need to speak up before now, what with his incredible shyness and the fact that he was still relatively inexperienced at the sport, compared with others. But something about this game today had... got under his skin, or scales if you like. A little reluctantly, he raised his hand, feeling his temperature rising as the whole team gazed in his direction.

  "Peter," said Andy. "This is a surprise. It's not often we hear from you... go ahead."

  With all eyes on him, he suddenly wished he'd kept his mouth shut. Forcing a smile onto his face and trying desperately to ignore the somersaults his stomach was doing, he forged on.

  "Well... I... ah... um... totally agree with everything you've said," he stuttered. "The... um... um one thing I would add is that... well... that I think we can use their lack of team spirit and discipline against them."

  A few of the team members nodded in agreement, giving the young dragon the confidence to keep going.

  "The longer it stays 0-0, the more volatile they'll become. They've already lost their rag with each other a dozen times. Anything we can do to enhance that, we should. Laugh at them, mock them, ignore them - anything that gets them riled will only benefit us and, I believe, give us enough of an advantage to win."

  "Who knew we had our own sports psychologist in the team?" added Andy.