Save our Sharks
Page 1
David Metzenthen
Aussie Bites
Save our Sharks!
Illustrated by Craig Smith
Puffin Books
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
For Steve R:
may all junior coaches be as good. D.M.
For Mick. C.S.
PUFFIN BOOKS
Aussie Bites
SAVE OUR SHARKS!
The Seaport Junior Sharks footy team hasn’t won a game for two seasons, and now its existence is on the line.
But Eddie is determined that the Sharks won’t go down without a fight.
Tick the Aussie Bites you have read!
SAVE OUR SHARKS!
David Metzenthen
Illustrated by Craig Smith
CROCODILE JACK
Leonie Norrington
Illustrated by Terry Denton
NORMAN DOES NOTHING
Jen Storer
Illustrated by Andrew Joyner
A CHOOK CALLED HARRY
Phillip Gwynne
Illustrated by Terry Denton
KUNG PHEW!
Simon Mitchell
Illustrated by Gus Gordon
HAGGIS McGREGOR AND THE NIGHT OF THE SKULL MOON
Jen Storer
Illustrated by Gus Gordon
Visit us at puffin.com.au
Chapter One
Me and Mitch are sitting at Shark Park, the home ground for the Seaport Junior Sharks footy team. As usual, we’re the first here for training.
Mitch is the coach of the Junior Sharks. All the players like him. He’s funny, and he’s fair to everyone. Unfortunately, though, the Sharks are not a good team. We lose just about every week. Correction. We lose every week.
Last Saturday we lost for the twentieth time in a row. Not that I’m counting, but some of the parents are, and they’re not happy. One dad said we should all join other teams before the Sharks set the record for the longest losing streak by any team on the east coast of Australia.
‘After last week’s game,’ Mitch says, ‘some mums came up to me and told me that I’m a terrible role model for you guys. I use bad language, I never wear shoes, I never cut my hair, and we never win. They want me to quit.’
Quit? Mitch can’t quit! If he quits, we won’t have a coach, because no one will want to coach a team that hasn’t won for two seasons. And then we’ll go from bad to worse to absolutely terrible!
‘Couldn’t you just wear shoes on Saturdays?’ I suggest. ‘And stick your hair under a hat? And use different words? You know, words that sound like swearwords but aren’t swearwords. Like they do on kids’ TV.’
Mitch sits thinking. ‘You mean, use words like crikey and fiddlesticks and blinkety and blankety and darn?’
‘Yep.’ I nod keenly. ‘You could try everything out at training on Thursday and be right for Saturday. The team’ll understand.’
Mitch looks across the creek to the sea, which is only a hundred metres away.
‘I’ll give it a go,’ he says. ‘But there are other problems the Sharks have, Eddie.’
Yeah, the biggest one being that we haven’t beaten anyone since dinosaurs ruled the Earth.
‘Like what?’ I ask.
Mitch says some of the mums think the picture on our jumper of a shark eating a swimmer is too bloodthirsty. He also says other parents think our team song is too violent. And one dad reckons our footy ground is unsafe because it’s bone dry and has rabbit holes around the boundary. Plus we need more players. And the President of the Sharks club, Percy Peacock, told Mitch if we don’t win a match in the next three weeks we might as well just give up.
The Sharks can’t give up! I mean, Mitch has never given up on us, so we’ll never give up on him, or the team.
‘We’re fixing the shoes, the hair and the swearing problems,’ I tell Mitch. ‘I bet we can fix everything else, too.’ I’m serious. ‘We have to save the Sharks, Mitch. We have to!’
‘You’re right, Eddie,’ Mitch says. ‘If we all try, we’ve got a chance. Otherwise every Junior Shark will be going right down the gurgler.’
Chapter Two
The Parkins are a new family in Seaport. They have two kids, Tarkin and Harlequin, so I drop by to see if I can persuade them to play for us. Harlequin is a girl, and not many girls play football, but my theory is that if there are girl sharks in the sea, why not on the footy field?
I knock on the door. Mrs Parkin answers. She is a big lady.
‘Make this snappy.’ She stares down at me. ‘I’m busy baking Smiley Face biscuits.’
I like Smiley Face biscuits, but I don’t think I’ll be getting one today, by the sound of things. I ask her if Tarkin might be home.
‘No, he’s at the library,’ she says. ‘But Harlequin’s here.’ She turns away and yells. ‘Harlequin! Door!’
Mrs Parkin leaves and Harlequin appears.
‘Yes, Eddie.’ Harlequin and I are in the same class at school. ‘What’s the problem?
‘There’s no problem.’ I decide to change that. ‘Yes, there’s a big problem. The Sharks desperately need more players. And I was hoping Tarkin, and you, might help us out.’
Harley looks at me. ‘Well,’ she says. ‘I’ve never played football. But I guess I could try.’
Harlequin’s a fast runner and she’s fit. She’s even got little biceps. And I’ve seen her kick a can from school to her house, so surely that counts.
‘Come to training on Thursday afternoon,’ I say. ‘And bring Tarkin. We need two more players or else we’ll get booted out of the competition.’ I don’t mention the many other problems the Sharks have. It might put her off.
‘Are you a good player, Eddie?’ Harley asks.
‘Nope,’ I say, ‘but Mitch reckons I’ve got potential. And one day he says he’ll play me in the midfield.’
Harlequin looks me up and down – which doesn’t take long, as I’m quite a short person.
‘So potentially you’re a star, Eddie?’
If I can save the Sharks, I will be.
‘Mitch says if I train hard I’ll improve heaps,’ I answer. ‘And he should know. He played in the AFL once. In the big time.’
‘Wow.’ Harley looks impressed. ‘How many games?’
‘Just one,’ I tell her. ‘As I said. But can you please bring Tarkin on Thursday? We need him.’
‘I’ll try,’ Harlequin replies. ‘But he doesn’t like sport. He likes books. Science books. He’s the quiet, intelligent type.’
‘That’s fine,’ I say. ‘He can read before and after the game. Mitch likes smart players. We haven’t had one for a long time. So. See you guys on Thursday at Shark Park.’
And on that positive note, I head for home.
Progress!
Chapter Three
As usual, on my way to Thursday footy training, I pass the Seaport Ornamental Lake. It’s in the Seaport Gardens, a little park above the football ground. The council talks about draining, fixing and re-filling the lake because the wall is cracked and the water’s murky, but no one has ever done anything about it.
As I walk, I sing the Sharks team song.
We are the Sharks!
The nasty Sharks!
We love to smash kids all over the park!
We’re gunna kill yer! It’s gunna be slaughter!
Your
blood and guts’ll be floatin’ all over the water!
We are the nice, caring, sharing Sharks.
NOT!
The song was written by Gerald Goldspangle’s mum, who drives the rubbish truck, and I guess it might be a little bit on the savage side. Perhaps I could make another one up? After all, if Mitch says I have potential for footy, I might have potential for other things, too. It might be just very well hidden.
There are only twelve kids at training. Neither Harlequin nor Tarkin are here, but I’m hopeful they might come.
‘We’ve gotta have two more players for Saturday,’ Mitch says, limping around in red sneakers. ‘Otherwise the Stingrays get a walkover.’ He pushes his hair up under a purple tartan golf cap with a red pompom. ‘Anyway, let’s do some kicking.’
So we kick, but our kicking isn’t great, and Mitch isn’t pleased. I can see that some mums are listening very carefully to check his reaction.
‘By golly, Sharks!’ Mitch yells. ‘If you jolly guys don’t kick a bit blinkety straighter and a bit blankety further, those flippin’ Stingrays will kick our fat, lazy … derrières!’
Every Shark player goes quiet. I can hear a seagull.
‘What did Mitch just say?’ Tony Tan asks.
‘Was that in English?’ Mozzie Morris says.
Stevie Dean looks confused. ‘What’s a flippin’, Mitch?’ he asks. ‘And I don’t think I’ve got a derrière. Not yet, anyway.’
Mitch takes a deep breath. ‘Those words come straight out of the Sensitive Modern Junior Coach’s Handbook.’ He looks at me. ‘Eddie will explain.’
So I tell the team about the problem some parents have with Mitch’s language, his bare feet, and his hair – and how we’re fixing things.
‘That’s fan-floppin’-tastic,’ says Norris Shoebridge. ‘And derrière is French for your big fat butt, Stevie. But what’s the story with the eeky-freaky dude comin’ out onto the flippety-floppin’ ground?’
Harlequin jogs towards us. She’s dressed in pink bike shorts, a frilly white short-sleeved top, and tennis shoes with glittery gold laces tied into triple bows. Oh, and she’s wearing sunglasses. And a tennis visor.
‘What are you guys staring at?’ she says. ‘Haven’t you ever seen a full-on full-forward totally dead-set goal-kicking legend before?’
‘Er, no,’ says Tom Tippett. ‘Not one like you. If that’s what you are.’
Harley grabs a footy and kicks for the big sticks. The ball travels about ten metres, mostly sideways. There is silence, which Mitch breaks.
‘That’s a good start, Harley.’ He claps his hands. ‘Welcome to the Sharks! Now, everyone, let’s get bleepety-blank-bonk stuck into it!’
I ask Harley where Tarkin is.
‘Library,’ she says. ‘Non-fiction section. He said he’ll think about playing.’
‘Well, tell him to think fast,’ I reply. ‘We need him this Saturday. It’s a matter of life and death!’
And it is, for the Seaport Junior Sharks.
Chapter Four
It’s Saturday, and our game is just about to start against the Smelly Bay Stink-rays – well, that’s what we call them. Their proper name is the Swallow Bay Stingrays. Mitch counts our players and comes up with the same number I got – twelve.
‘Ding-dang-dong blast it!’ He looks at the mostly empty car park. ‘We’ve got one minute to find two players, or no game. And Percy Peacock, our marvellous President, will go berserk.’
‘Harley said she’d be here,’ I say. ‘I gave her my old jumpers and stuff.’
Then I see the Parkins’ green car bounce into the dusty car park and stop. Out get Harley and Tarkin, both wearing Sharks jumpers, shorts and boots, set to play.
‘That makes fourteen Sharks!’ Mitch tries to shove his hair back under his cap. ‘Let’s get ready to rumble!’
Well, we might be ready to rumble, but I’m not sure about playing great football. Within seven minutes the Stinkers have scored three goals and we’ve scored none. I’ve had one kick. I did see Harley give out a handball, and Tarkin took a top mark – even if the ball simply fell into his arms, surprising him so much he just grabbed it.
‘That’s good stuff, Sharks!’
Mitch yells from the boundary. ‘Now keep rabbity-rapid running and wild-wombat tackling!’
The Stingray player I’m on turns around.
‘Your coach is an idiot,’ he says.
As I’m thinking of something to say, the ball whacks the Stingray kid right on the back of the head.
‘Who’s the idiot now?’ I tell him as I grab the footy and race away over the rock-hard ground.
Harley is by herself, as the kid who’s playing on her doesn’t like girls. So I kick the ball to her, and she kicks it to Tarkin, who tries to kick it to Gerald Goldspangle, but instead it hits a crack and goes sideways to Marcus Mousely, who kicks a goal.
‘That’s plurry good football!’ Mitch yells. ‘You Sharks are hot lamb curry unbelievable!’
I don’t think we’re unbelievable, but the final score certainly seems too bad to be true. We have just lost by 181 points – and that is a lot of points.
‘Next week, Sharks,’ says Mitch, ‘we’ve gotta win. Nothing less will do.’
‘And while you’re at it,’ says the umpire, ‘if you don’t find some water for this oval, I’ll have it banned. Someone will fracture their skull. It’s like the surface of Mars.’
Mitch looks up at the blue sky. ‘And where am I gunna get water from, Mr Umpire? It hasn’t rained since flippin’ drippin’ merry Christmas!’
That’s true. No one in Seaport is allowed to water anything. My dog, Bing, hasn’t had a bath since he was born, and he’s thirty-five – in dog years, that is.
‘We play away next Saturday,’ I tell Mitch. ‘That gives us two weeks for it to pour. It’ll be right.’
‘We could do a rain dance,’
Harlequin says. ‘They never fail. At least not on TV.’
‘Good idea, Harley.’ Mitch nods. ‘Book it in for Thursday night training. You’re in charge. And look out for that bunny hole, Eddie. You’ll break a leg.’
Boy, I guess a team of Sharks really are in trouble when they have to watch out for rabbit burrows.
Chapter Five
Thursday night is Rain Dance Night.
‘This is about leadership, Harley,’ Mitch says. ‘The rain dance thing is your gig. Give us what you’ve got.’
We gather around Harley. She looks a bit puzzled. She’s wearing her tennis shoes.
‘Um, right, well,’ she says, and moves her foot.
We all look at each other. We move our feet. Then we chant, ‘Um. Right. Well.’
Harley is surprised. ‘Oh, I didn’t know we’ve started.’
‘Oh,’ we chant. ‘I-didn’t-know-we’ve-started.’
She laughs and does a little dance. ‘Rain, rain, come again.’
So we laugh and do a little dance.
‘Rain! Rain! Come! Again!’
Then she does a kind of a wild dance.
‘Save the Sharks!’ she calls out. ‘Rain on the park! During the day! Or in the dark!’
So we do a wild dance and shout, ‘Save the Sharks! Rain on the park! Come in the day! Or in the dark!’
Mozzie Morris yells, ‘Look, a cloud!’
We look up. It’s not a real cloud – it’s steam from the Seaport dim sim factory.
Mitch thanks Harley. ‘We’ve got about ten days for your rain dance to work,’ he adds. ‘So let’s think positive and train like super-duper hot-shot jolly-good superstars!’
Chapter Six
After training I walk home with Tarkin and Harley. Tarkin didn’t come to our rain dance. He was busy in the library.
‘It was a good rain dance,’ I tell Harley. ‘I bet it’ll work.’
‘And if it doesn’t,’ says Tarkin, ‘I’ve got another trick up my sleeve which has a slightly more scientific basis.’
He’s a serious kid, Tark. He likes home
work, too, which is unusual. He wants to be a physicist and he already looks like one, I reckon. He keeps five pens and a calculator in his shirt pocket and his school shoes are always shiny.
‘So what’s the trick, Tarkin?’ I ask.
‘That’s for me to know,’ he says. ‘And for everyone else to wait and see.’
Harley looks at me. ‘He fell out of a shopping trolley when he was little,’ she says. ‘Ever since, he’s had some pretty whacky ideas.’
Tarkin gives me a wink, which is a bit odd, as he’s not really a winking sort of kid. He’s more a ‘see-you-later-I’m-going-home-to-play-computer-chess’ kind of kid.
‘Anyway,’ Harley adds. ‘I’ve got an idea for a new Sharks jumper. One that’s not so bloodthirsty. It might work.’
‘That’s great,’ I say. ‘But no one can afford new jumpers.’
We stop at Tarkin and Harley’s gate. Their mum is outside, chasing a spider along the wall with a broom. I pretend not to notice.
‘My idea won’t cost any money,’ Harley informs me.
Boy, these Parkins sure are a mysterious bunch. And the greatest mystery of all is that somehow, one minute later, I find myself sitting at the kitchen table eating one of Mrs Parkin’s Smiley Face biscuits.
‘Be careful, Eddie.’ Tarkin holds up a round yellow biscuit. ‘They’re coloured with a special Patagonian food dye. If it goes on your clothes, it sticks forever.’
‘Imagine what it does to your stomach,’ Harley says.
‘Too late,’ I say. ‘I’ve already had five.’
So I eat another.