There were two problems with the notebook:
1. It had my initials on it – “JNB” – and not just on
the front cover; on EVERY SINGLE PAGE!
2. It didn’t fit in any of my pockets.
I didn’t want to hurt Mum’s feelings, so I just stuffed it in my bag, with the scarf, and set off for school.
“Go get ’em, tiger!” she shouted after me, switching to her awful American accent again.
What was I thinking? It would have been so easy to just leave the notebook and the scarf in my bag, and lie to Mum and Grandpa George. But instead, after school, I took both of them out onto the training field and gave Billy two new jokes to add to his collection.
“What is that?” he snorted, pointing at my scarf. I’d had to wrap it around my neck six times to stop it from dragging along the floor. “This is football, Harry Potter – not quidditch!”
I think you can guess what happened next – yes, everyone laughed.
“And what is that?” he cackled, pointing at the notebook in my hand. “Is that your book of spells?”
This was Billy’s idea of a warm-up. I had to do something quickly before he grabbed the notebook and saw the “JNB” on the front. Remember, no one needed to know about the Nigel, especially not Billy! No, I couldn’t let him complete his comedy hat-trick…
Luckily, Mr Mann chose that moment to blow his whistle, which was even louder than his booming voice.
FWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEET!
ARGHHHH, my ears! They’re ringing right now just thinking about it, but at least it stopped Billy.
“RIGHT, TROOPS,” Mr Mann shouted, with his huge hands on his huge hips. “WELCOME TO THE TISSBURY PRIMARY FOOTBALL TEAM! I’M NOT GOOD WITH NAMES, SO YOU’LL ALL BE GETTING NICKNAMES INSTEAD. YOU – WHAT’S YOUR NAME?”
“Scott.”
“OK, FROM NOW ON, YOU’RE SCOTTY.”
It wasn’t hard to work out Mr Mann’s “nicknames” – they all ended in a “y”! Gabrielle became “Gabby” and Mohammed became “Meddy”, even though we all call him “Mo”, which is way easier to say. Alex C and Alex W became “Clarky” and “Webby”. Our team now sounded like Snow White’s Seven Dwarfs!
“Isabelle.”
“OK, FROM NOW ON, YOU’RE BELLY.”
“Wait, shouldn’t I be Izzy?”
“NEXT!”
“Tabia.”
“OK, FROM NOW ON, YOU’RE TABBY.”
“What? I’m not a cat!” Tabia muttered moodily under her breath.
“YOU, WHAT’S YOUR NAME?”
“Billy.”
Uh-oh, a name that already ended in a “y”! What would Mr Mann do?
“HMMMMM, OK, FROM NOW ON, YOU’RE … BILLY.”
“But that’s actually my na—”
“DONE!”
Now that all the nicknames were sorted, it seemed like a good time for me to share my ideas with Mr Mann, you know, assistant manager to manager. I had spent the whole of Maths class filling pages and pages of my pocket notebook with great ideas for training exercises. But as soon as I started to show him…
“NOT NOW, BALLY JUNIOR – CAN’T YOU SEE I’M BUSY?” Mr Mann interrupted, swatting them away like flies. “WE’VE GOT PROPER TRAINING TO DO! RIGHT, TROOPS, LET’S START WITH THREE LAPS OF THE PITCH.”
“Nooooooooooo!” everyone groaned.
“COME ON, YOU’LL NEED TO RUN YOUR SOCKS OFF IN THIS TEAM!”
What?
“DON’T LET ME DOWN! BALLY JUNIOR WILL LEAD THE WAY.”
Double what? Had I heard Mr Mann right? Me? I had never run three laps in my life! I had great football ideas, not great football energy.
“BALLY JUNIOR, YOU’LL BE NEEDING ONE OF THESE,” Mr Mann boomed, putting a whistle around my neck like it was an Olympic gold medal.
I still wasn’t happy about him ignoring my ideas, but, wow, my very own whistle! I put it to my mouth and—
FWE…E…T
The noise fizzled out like a rubbish firework.
Hmm, I would need to practise that. Either I was the worst whistle-blower ever, or Mr Mann had given me a cheap whistle from the pound shop. I was just the ASSISTANT manager, after all.
I threw my pocket notebook down on the grass – what a waste of time! – and covered it with Grandpa George’s super-long scarf. I started jogging. For the first 100 metres, I felt powerful. I was the team leader and I had the whistle to prove it. But then I got a stitch.
“What’s wrong?” Tabia asked me. She wasn’t even sweating yet.
“N-noth-ing,” I panted.
By the corner flag, we stopped to do some stretching. Well, that’s what I told everyone, but really, I just needed a rest. Boy, running is super tiring! On the third lap, I felt like I was going to collapse, but somehow I made it to the finish line.
“THANKS, BALLY JUNIOR,” Mr Mann said, putting away his phone. “RIGHT, TROOPS, I SUPPOSE WE SHOULD PRACTISE A BIT OF PASSING AND SHOOTING. WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR? LET’S GO, LET’S GO!”
Passing and shooting! It wasn’t exactly rocket science, but at least it was better than just playing a match.
Luckily, Billy was in Mr Mann’s group, but I did have a miserable-looking Alex C to deal with. The parrot was missing his master.
“What are you looking at, SPITBALL?” he huffed in my direction.
Not bad! I hadn’t heard that one before, so I guess he must have come up with it himself. I didn’t reply, though. Instead, I clapped my hands together to signal the start of my amazing coaching career.
“Right, troops,” I said, putting on my best mini-Mr-Mann performance (only without the silly football people language). “Is everyone ready? I want you to play the pass and then keep running forward for the one-two. Tabs, show them how it’s done!”
She passed the ball to me and I passed it back (see, I told you I can kick the ball!). Then, Tabia shot it top right bins.
“Perfect!” I cheered.
PASS, PASS, SHOT!
Bottom left bins – “Nice one, Scott!”
PASS, PASS, SHOT!
Post and in – “Yes, Iz!”
PASS, PASS, SHOT!
Alex C blazed the ball high over the bar.
“Unlucky. Take your time with your next shot! Aim for one of the corners…”
What was I thinking? Trying to give advice to Tabia or Scott was fine, but to Billy’s sidekick? No chance! As the words slipped out of my mouth, I tried to shove them back in, but it was too late.
“…if you want,” I added.
Alex C glared back at me. “What do YOU know? If your pass wasn’t so pants, I would have scored easily!”
I stayed silent, but, like always, my best friend had my back.
“Don’t be such a DONKEY - DOUGHNUT – you missed by a mile!” Tabia shouted. “Johnny’s our assistant manager now and he’s just trying to help. Trust me, he’s a football genius!”
Alex C didn’t say sorry, but he didn’t say anything else mean either. His next shot was way, way better. He took his time, he stayed calm and he scored.
You’re welcome! I thought to myself, but this time, I managed to keep my big mouth shut.
Mr Mann soon got bored and brought both groups together for, yep, you guessed it – a match.
“BALLY JUNIOR, YOU’RE IN CHARGE!” he boomed, getting out his phone.
GULP! Me? Sure, I know every football rule there’s ever been, but with Billy watching me, would I even be able to get my whistle to work?
“Come on, Johnny, LET’S PLAY BALL!” he joked as I fumbled around with it.
Of course, everyone laughed, but not as loudly as usual. Maybe the team didn’t mind their new assistant manager, after all…
Anyway, hopefully you’ll be pleased to hear that Johnny Ball: Referee didn’t do too badly:
I didn’t give any silly penalties,
I didn’t trip over my own feet,
I didn’t get a stitch,
and, best of all, I didn’t get hit by another one of B
illy’s big HOOFs!
WIN, WIN, WIN, MEGA WIN!
Unfortunately, the Tissbury Primary players weren’t doing quite so well.
Billy’s HOOFs! kept flying way over Tabia’s head. There were no MAD SKILLZ to be seen; only MAD PLAYERZ.
“What was that, NUGGET-NOSE?”
“As if you could do any better, TABBY-CAT!”
Mo couldn’t pass the ball forward,
Izzy couldn’t pass at all,
Scott couldn’t stop slide-tackling,
Alex W couldn’t start scoring,
and Gabby? Well, she didn’t have anything to do in goal!
No, it wasn’t looking good for the team, but at least I had got through the first training session. Phew! Soon, it would be time for the first match. Would it be a dream debut for Johnny Ball: Assistant Manager, or the early end of my career as an accidental football genius?
TISSBURY PRIMARY VS LAMBERT PRIMARY
“Lambert? Man, they’re TOTES TRAGIC!” Daniel told me at breakfast, showing off some more of his new cool-kid talk. “We beat them, like, 12–1, and Macho Mann took me off after, like, 10 minutes. He said it was ‘the sporting thing to do’, or something stank like that. You’ll thrash them, bro, no probs!”
Really? My brother hadn’t seen our team play yet. It wasn’t pretty! Put it this way – we looked a lot more like Bristol Rovers than Brazil. Daniel had made me feel a tiny bit better about our chances, but my tummy still felt like a busy butterfly jail.
Why was I so nervous? It wasn’t like I had to PLAY in the match! No, I was just the assistant manager – all I had to do was watch and, hopefully, help…
But I couldn’t even enjoy my favourite meal ever – Mum’s “Three-a-Fried” breakfast.
YUMMY! She didn’t even need to ask me what was wrong. Mums already know everything, don’t they?
“Don’t worry, you’ll be great, and I’ll be there to chee—”
“What?” I nearly spat a mouthful of super-tasty sausage across the table.
“I said I’ll be there to cheer you on. I wouldn’t miss my baby’s first match as assistant manager!”
“Mum, no!”
No, no, no – I couldn’t have my MUM there. That would be SUPER EMBARRASSING! She would definitely say something, probably in her awful American accent. How could I stop her? I looked at Daniel, but he just gave a cool-kid shrug.
“OK, fine, but NO CHEERING!”
“Me? Cheer? Of course not, dearest. You won’t even know I’m there…”
“ATTA BOY, JOHNNYKINS!” Mum was cheering and clapping before the game had even kicked off. She wasn’t the only parent there, but she was the only one making way too much noise.
So, I did what I always do when my mum is SUPER EMBARRASSING – I hid behind my hand and focused on football.
“Johnny, how was Tissbury’s first match?” you ask. Well, if my teacher, Miss Patel, asked me to write a poem about it, I would describe it as:
Basically, it was the second-worst game of football I’ve ever seen:
1. Tissbury Town vs Wopham Wanderers in the pouring rain: 0–0.
2. Tissbury Primary vs Lambert Primary.
As soon as the match kicked off, the players swarmed around the ball like flies around a dog poo.
KICK! Then CHASE!
KICK! Then CHASE!
It was awful! Whatever they were playing, it definitely wasn’t football.
Was Mr Mann tearing his invisible hair out on the touchline? Oh no, he was too busy on his phone, checking to see how his beloved Blether United were doing.
Then, out of the blue, our striker, Alex W, had an awesome chance to score. He was two yards out, with an open goal in front of him … but somehow, he scooped the ball over the bar! Noooooooo! It was like Alex W’s foot had suddenly turned into a spade.
It was even worse than Alex C’s miss in training. I, the boy some GECKO-GUTS call Johnny “Can’t Kick The” Ball, would definitely have scored, but let’s not get into that…
“How did you miss THAT?” Billy yelled at Alex W, instead of me for once. “It was an absolute sitter!”
Poor Alex W hadn’t exactly been Mr Confident to start with, but after that bad miss and then Billy’s mean words, he was too scared to even go near the ball.
The half-time score was Tissbury Primary 0, Lambert Primary 0. Sadly, the football didn’t get any better in the second half either.
“THAT’S IT – SMASH IT!” Mr Mann boomed as Billy achieved his highest HOOF! yet.
No, PASS it! I said over and over again in my head, just in case Tabs could read my thoughts. Spread out – there’s so much space to play PROPER football!
I could hardly bear to watch. It was like the time in Year 4 when Mr Tufnell taught us about electrical circuits. He gave us lots of wires and showed us how to connect them up to make the little light bulb shine. But when we tried ourselves, Tabia and I kept getting it wrong. Those wiggly wires were all over our desk, in all the wrong places.
And that’s exactly how our team looked now; the players were all over the pitch, in all the wrong places. It was as if Mr Mann hadn’t even given them positions, but he had!
Scott was meant to be a defender, but instead, he was chasing up the pitch after every “pass”.
Tabs was meant to be our attacking playmaker, but instead, she had dropped deeper and deeper to try and get on the ball.
And Billy was meant to be bossing the midfield, but instead, he was just bellowing at the other players, while walking around like it was still the warm-up!
I knew exactly what Dad would say about Billy: “Lots of huff and puff, but he won’t be blowing any houses down!” I’d heard Dad say that about lots of Tissbury Town players at Railway Road Stadium. He could be pretty funny sometimes when he wasn’t boasting about Daniel or moaning about his right ankle.
Somehow, with five minutes to go, it was still Tissbury 0, Lambert 0. What could I do to get my team to shine more brightly? We had to score – and quickly.
“SUBS, ARE YOU READY?” That was Mr Mann’s masterplan.
“Yes, Coach!” said “Clarky”.
“Yes, Coach!” said “Belly”.
“Y-yes, C-coach,” mumbled “Meddy” from behind his hand.
SNIFF, SNIFF – UGHHHHH!
What was that HORRIBLE, AWFUL, STINKING SMELL? And where was it coming from?
It didn’t take me long to work it out. Mo’s face gave it away – it was almost as green as the grass.
“Are you feeling OK, mate?” I asked, covering my nose and mouth with Grandpa George’s scarf. Finally, I had a use for it and it was so long that it could have protected Mr Mann too!
“Yes, better now,” Mo said, wiping PUKE from his face. It was all over his shirt too.
UGHHHHH!
Was he ill or just nervous? It didn’t matter, because TING! LIGHT-BULB MOMENT! At last! I had been waiting all game for one and now it had arrived, just in time. I ran straight over to Mr Mann.
“I’ve got an idea!” I said and then whispered it to him.
Mr Mann frowned and then looked over at Mo. He was now wiping his pukey mouth with his pukey shirt.
UGHHHHH!
“YOU SURE ABOUT THIS, BALLY JUNIOR?” he boom-whispered back.
I nodded eagerly.
“OK, WELL, WE’VE GOT NOTHING TO LOSE!” he admitted. “MEDDY, GO OUT THERE AND GET UP FRONT.”
“B-but I’m a d-defender,” he moaned.
What could we do? We didn’t want to shout it out and spoil the plan, but we also didn’t want to get close enough to Mo to whisper.
TING! SMALLER LIGHT-BULB MOMENT! I wrote the plan down in the pocket notebook Mum had given me, ripped the page out and made it into a paper aeroplane.
Mo read it and then stumbled onto the field and straight into the Lambert penalty area.
SNIFF, SNIFF – UGHHHHH!
What was that HORRIBLE, AWFUL, STINKING SMELL? And where was it coming from?
The Lambert players soon worke
d it out – they could see the puke all over Mo’s shirt.
“No way, I’m not marking him!” one said, holding his nose.
“Neither am I!”
“Neither am I!”
“Neither am I!”
When Billy eventually got the ball off Izzy after her tenth dribble in a circle, he HOOFed! it forward. Mo was standing there all by his pukey self, in loads of pukey space. He pulled back his shaking leg and BANG! It wasn’t a great shot, but the Lambert goalkeeper slipped (or maybe he fainted because of that HORRIBLE, AWFUL, STINKING SMELL)…
Either way, the ball rolled slowly over the goal-line. 1–0 to Tissbury!
GOOOOOOOOAAAAAAALLLL!
“MO, YOU HERO!” The team were shouting, but as they ran towards him, they stopped. UGHHHHH! It was like they hit a solid wall of HORRIBLE, AWFUL, STINKING SMELL.
“NICE ONE, I’LL CALL YOU ‘SICKY’ FROM NOW ON!” Mr Mann boomed like it was the best joke ever.
“Get in. We’re gonna win the County Cup!” Billy cheered.
What planet was he on? If it hadn’t been for my great football idea, we wouldn’t even have won our first game – against LAMBERT PRIMARY! No, we had a long, long, long way to go. Longer even than Grandpa George’s scarf.
“Congratulations, Johnny-bun!” Mum squealed from the sidelines. “What happened at the end there? Bless him, Mohammed did very well, but why wasn’t anyone marking him? And surely that keeper could have done a little bit better…”
“No idea,” I said, smiling to myself.
As soon as we got home after the Lambert match, I went straight over to Grandpa George’s house to tell him the super-great news. I left out the part about using his scarf as a stink mask, obviously.
“Ho, ho, HO!” he laughed loudly. “What a TIDDLYTASTIC trick!”
“I’m glad we didn’t lose in the first round,” I said with a sigh, “but I think that’s it for us. Our team is terrible!”
OK, to prove it, I’m going to show you something top, top secret right now, but you’ve got to promise me you won’t share this with ANYONE, OK? Good, because if any of the Tissbury Primary players read this, I’ll be in super-big trouble!
Johnny Ball Page 3