Can Ponies Take Penalties? Read online

  For Chloe Bingley, with lots of love

  The Team

  Megan “Meggo” Fawcett GOAL

  Petra “Wardy” Ward DEFENCE

  Lucy “Goose” Skidmore DEFENCE

  Dylan “Dyl” or “Psycho 1” McNeil LEFT WING

  Holly “Hols” or “Wonder” Woolcock DEFENCE

  Veronika “Nika” Kozak MIDFIELD

  Jenny-Jane “JJ” or “Hoggy” Bayliss MIDFIELD

  Gemma “Hursty” or “Mod” Hurst MIDFIELD

  Eve “Akka” Akboh STRIKER

  Tabinda “Tabby” or “Tabs” Shah STRIKER/MIDFIELD

  Daisy “Dayz” or “Psycho 2” McNeil RIGHT WING

  Amy “Minto” or “Lil Posh” Minter VARIOUS

  Official name: Parrs Under 11s, also known as the Parsnips

  Ground: Lornton FC, Low Road, Lornton

  Capacity: 500

  Affiliated to: the Nettie Honeyball Women’s League junior division

  Sponsors: Sweet Peas Garden Centre, Mowborough

  Club colours: red and white; red shirts with white sleeves, white shorts, red socks with white trim

  Coach: Hannah Preston

  Assistant coach: Katie Regan

  Star Player

  Petra “Wardy” Ward

  Age: 9

  Birthday: 17 April

  School: Mowborough Primary

  Position in team: defence

  Likes: hanging out with friends, especially Megan, and reading

  Dislikes: horses, ponies — anything that neighs, basically. Oh and Turkey Twizzlers. Yeuw!

  Supports: England

  Favourite player(s) on team: Megan

  Best football moment: lining up for the free kick against the Grove Belles in the summer tournament — that was minty!

  Match preparation: I just do stretches and stuff

  Have you got a lucky mascot or a ritual you have to do before or after a match? No! It’s bad enough watching Megan get in a flap over her lucky bandana.

  What do you do in your spare time? My mum makes me do activities like going to choir and maths club, and playing the clarinet. I could go on, but you’d be sooooo bored!

  Favourite book(s): The Prisoner’s Apprentice by Stephen Elboz, Good Night, Mr Tom by Michelle Magorian, Love That Dog by Sharon Creech and the Lemony Snicket books

  Favourite band(s): Pink, Dizzee Rascal

  Favourite film(s): Ratatouille

  Favourite TV programme(s): Hannah Montana

  Pre-match Interview

  Hi! My name is Petra Ward and I’m a Parsnip. That doesn’t mean you can boil me or put me in a soup. It means I play for the Parrs Under 11s, aka the Parsnips. My job is to take up the story where Megan Fawcett, our goalie and my best friend, left off.

  At the beginning of my story we had only played twice against other teams, so the summer tournament was meant to be a fun way of gaining experience. I’m not sure I found it fun exactly, but it was certainly an experience!

  Read on, amigos,

  Petra x

  Table of Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  Final Whistle

  1

  It all began like any other Tuesday evening. I got home from school, did my homework (decimal fractions), had dinner (cheese salad and jacket potato). After dinner my sister, Charlotte, and me had an argument about whose turn it was to load the dishwasher (mine), then it was time to go out: me to football training and Charlotte to her riding lesson. So far so normal.

  “Don’t hang around chatting after practice,” Mum called as she dropped me off. “We’re picking Dad up at the station afterwards.”

  “Got you,” I said, waving goodbye.

  Poor Dad. He’s often in London for meetings and not home until late. Poor Mum, too, having to ferry us all around. It wouldn’t be so bad if we lived nearer to town, so we could walk or catch buses to places, but we don’t. We live in the countryside down a long lane; no buses ever come past. Lornton is the nearest village and that’s over a mile away. Luckily for Mum, the Parrs had finished their season so Hannah, our coach, had extended our training time by half an hour, giving Mum more time at the riding school.

  I headed straight for the field, where I could see most of the team had gathered. It was a warm evening, so I threw the sweatshirt Mum had made me bring “just in case” on top of the pile with everyone else’s “just-in-case” sweatshirts.

  Hannah said hello and crossed me off her register, and then I went to find Megan. She was standing near the goalpost with Jenny-Jane Bayliss. “Blimey, Miss Fawcett, what a treat on me peepers it is seein’ you ’ere!” I said.

  “An’ you, Miss Ward,” Megan replied, pulling up her socks. “I mean, it must be at least what? An ’ole four hours since we met?”

  “Lor! Is it really? Upon my word!”

  “What are you two talking like that for?” Jenny-Jane asked with a frown on her face.

  “We’re talking Dickens,” Megan replied.

  The frown deepened. “You can say that again.”

  “As in Charles Dickens. We’ve been doing the Victorians, and Miss Parkinson’s making us watch Oliver Twist,” I explained.

  “The black-and-white version,” Megan added glumly.

  “I am dead glad I don’t go to your school.” Jenny-Jane sniffed and wandered off.

  “Such a sullen child,” I told my companion.

  Football practice began, as usual, with stretches and a light jog up and down the training pitch to get us warmed up. I always enjoy this bit because you can’t really go wrong. It’s when we get to the drills I panic. I’m not exactly what you’d call super-talented when it comes to football. Ten out of ten for effort, two out of ten for skill, that’s me.

  After about five minutes, Hannah told us to put bibs on and line up. I chose yellow and Megan chose blue. “You look delightful, my dear,” I told her. “That shade matches your eyes perfectly.”

  “And the yellow tones so well with your complexion.”

  “Thanks a bunch!”

  “All right, get into twos,” Hannah said. “Blue opposite yellow.”

  Jenny-Jane, wearing a blue bib, came and stood between us. “Hiya,” she said.

  I heaved a sigh. This was the third time in a row Jenny-Jane had tried butting in during pairs. “Jenny-Jane, Hannah just said to work in twos.”

  “So?”

  “So you can’t work with us if that’s what you think.”

  “I could if I wanted.” She scowled.

  “Yo! One of you over here, pronto!” Hannah called out. “Meggo or JJ. Amy needs a partner.”

  “I’ll give you a thousand pounds and a sausage if you go,” Megan told her. “You know how I feel about Amy Minter.”

  “OK,” Jenny-Jane agreed instantly and sprinted off.

  “She’s so annoying,” I said as soon as Jenny-Jane was out of earshot.

  “She’s only doing what she’s supposed to be doing. Trying to pair up.”

  “You don’t pair up in threes.”

  “I know, but she likes being with us; she doesn’t know anyone else.”

  “She doesn’t try to get to know anyone else!”

  Megan looked at me. “Don’t be so harsh, Petra.”

  “Sorry. She’s just…”

  “Annoying. I know – you said.”<
br />
  “Sorry.”

  “Stop saying sorry!”

  I grinned and pulled my goofy face. “Sorry! Sorry! Sorry!”

  “Doofus!” My best friend laughed.

  2

  “OK, listen up,” Hannah began. “We’ve only got two more training sessions after this one before the summer tournament, so the first thing you all have to learn is to stop running round the pitch like headless chickens.”

  Dylan McNeil, one of the nutty twins, made a clucking sound and started flapping her arms.

  Katie, Hannah’s assistant, gave Dylan a gentle nudge. “You should pay attention, Dyl, seeing as you’re one of the worst culprits!”

  Dylan reacted by putting her hands round her own neck and pretending to strangle herself. She fell to the ground with a final “Kaw!” before bouncing up again to listen.

  “As I was saying,” Hannah continued, “you need to learn that the lot of you running after one ball while Megan stays in goal is not what we call football – right?” She stared at us.

  We stared back.

  “Right?” she prompted.

  “Right, coach,” we chorused.

  “OK. So what we need to look at is passing. Now, you were pretty good at this in twos and fours last week, but when it came to the match at the end, everything went a bit pear-shaped. Any idea why?” Hannah waited for a moment, then pointed to Lucy Skidmore. “Lucy?”

  Lucy took a deep breath. “In pairs you do softish passes to your partner so it makes it easy for them, but on the pitch the ball comes to you any old how and you haven’t time to think. So you just whack it!”

  “Give that girl a gold star!” Hannah beamed. “So this week we’re going to look at ‘whacking’ it properly so it doesn’t go ‘any old how’. We call these whacks volleys, by the way. OK, let’s see…” Hannah looked round and focused on Gemma Hurst. “Gemma, you were outstanding last week.”

  “Me?” Gemma said, pointing to herself and going red.

  “Yep, you, Miss Natural. Step forward, please.”

  Gemma stepped into the middle, looking really uncomfortable. I had the feeling she didn’t like being the centre of attention.

  “When the ball comes to you, instead of bringing it down onto the ground to control it, I want you to let it land on the top of your boot – right on your laces. Like this…” Hannah nodded to Katie, who lobbed the ball so that it landed exactly on top of Hannah’s bootstraps.

  “Then immediately play your foot forward,” Hannah continued. “And direct the ball straight in front of you, keeping your foot raised. That will give it more power, OK?”

  Gemma nodded.

  “Katie, if you can pass to Gemma this time, please…”

  I watched as the ball thudded against Gemma’s laces and soared in a perfect arc back towards Katie. Katie brought it down in front of her and gave Gemma a thumbs-up. Hannah made Gemma repeat the volley a few more times. She made it look so easy!

  Then it was our turn.

  As usual, Megan was miles better than me. “I’m rubbish,” I said as I mis-kicked another of her passes and ended up spinning right round.

  “You’re not,” Megan said. “You just think you are, so you fluff it.”

  “Humph!” I said and tried again.

  “Toe-poke!”

  “Toe-broke, more like!” I sighed. I’d never get the hang of this stuff.

  We spent another hour on different drills, then finished with a short six-a-side match.

  It didn’t seem like a whole hour and a half had gone by when Hannah said, “OK, girls, that’s it. Same time next week. Don’t forget to take a letter home about the final details of the tournament.”

  “Does it have to be at Ashtonby?” Megan asked, scowling at her sheet when she got it.

  “Yes, why?”

  “’Cos the blooming Grove Belles are good enough already without them having home advantage.”

  “They’ve also got facilities advantage.” Hannah laughed.

  “Huh! They would have!”

  As we trundled off the pitch, Megan linked her arm through mine. “So, me old covey, how brilliant was that out of ten?”

  Truth? Five or six. “Eight point seven,” I said instead.

  “I give it twenty!”

  I rolled my eyes and laughed. “You would!”

  3

  Mum was waiting in the car park, the car engine revving. “Come on, Petra. Dad’s train gets here in ten minutes.”

  “All right, keep your wig on, missus,” I said.

  I clambered into the back of the Range Rover and sat next to Charlotte. I can tell you everything you need to know about my sister in two words: Pony Mad. She’s totally bonkers about the things. If she could, she’d be superglued to Betty Boo’s saddle and stay on her for ever, like a centaur.

  “Yeuw! You smell of disgusting horses!” I said, wrinkling my nose.

  “You smell of disgusting football,” she said, pushing me away.

  I pushed her back and we had this play fight until Mum told us off for distracting the driver.

  Once we got onto the main road, Mum told Charlotte to tell me the fantastic news.

  “Oh, Mum, it’s not that fantastic,” Charlotte mumbled.

  “It is so!”

  “It’s not!” Charlotte insisted. She rolled her eyes at me as if to say sorry. She reminded me of Gemma Hurst not wanting any limelight but being forced into it anyway. It couldn’t stop Charlotte keeping the excitement out of her voice, though. “I’ve been chosen to be in the Pony Club junior show-jumping team at Applehampton!”

  “Go you! Well done, sis.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You see, these are things you could be getting involved in if you joined the Pony Club, Petra,” Mum said.

  “Mum, I do loads of stuff I hate already!”

  “Such as?”

  “Clarinet, maths club, choir…”

  “Don’t exaggerate! You don’t hate any of them.”

  “Wanna bet?”

  “Wanna?” Mum pounced. “Wanna?”

  “Want to.”

  “Thank you. Anyway, I’m talking outdoor things, Petra. Sport.”

  “I play football!”

  “I mean a suitable sport.”

  “Football is suitable.”

  “What? Running around a field chasing a ball? It can’t possibly compare to the thrill of jumping over hedges!”

  “It can.”

  “How?”

  “Well … can ponies take penalties?”

  There was a short pause before Charlotte started snorting with laughter. “She’s got you there, Mum!”

  Mum gave one of her deep, disappointed sighs. “I just think it’s a shame, that’s all, Petra. You miss out on so much!”

  I fumbled in my kit bag for the letter from Hannah. “No I don’t. Look! I’m in a tournament too! Saturday the tenth at Ashtonby Sports Ground.”

  “The tenth? That’s when mine is!” Charlotte grinned – then bit her lip as she realized at exactly the same time as me what that meant. Problems! Ashtonby and Applehampton are about forty miles apart.

  “Oh, typical!” Mum said as we pulled into the station. “Another weekend when I’m meant to be in ten places at once.”

  “I told you about my tournament weeks ago,” I reminded her. “You wrote it on the calendar.” The Pony Club calendar, of course.

  “Hmm! Well, that doesn’t solve the problem.”

  “It’s OK, you don’t have to come,” I said. “Dad can take me.”

  No such luck. “Sorry, sweetheart.” He sighed when I showed him the form during supper. “I’m not home that weekend.”

  “Oh?” said Mum. Dad often worked away from home mid-week, but not usually at weekends.

  “It’s the final presentation on the tenth, remember? We’ve got people coming from all over Europe. I have to be there.” He handed the letter back to me and patted my head. “Next time, eh?”

  “Do you have to be at the tournament,
Petra?” Mum asked.

  “Yes.”

  “But is it crucial that you’re there? Will the team have to pull out if you don’t turn up?”

  This was a trick question, I could tell. “Noooo,” I admitted. “It’s seven-a-side and there’s twelve of us, but…”

  Mum leaned across and patted my head just like Dad had. “Well then, you can sit this one out. I have to put Charlotte first on this occasion; this is a really big chance for her.”

  “Mum!”

  But that was it as far as Mum was concerned. End of. “Right, let’s get that dishwasher loaded. Whose turn is it?”

  4

  At breakfast the next morning, Charlotte was extra nice to me. “Did you sleep OK?” she began.

  “So-so,” I mumbled.

  “Do you want any toast? Or cereal? Cup of tea? Orange juice?”

  I just shrugged.

  She poured a glass of orange and set it in front of me. “What lessons have you got at school?”

  Another shrug.

  “Or is it DVDs and games, with it being the last day before we break up?”

  Guess what? I just shrugged again.

  “Though knowing Miss Parkinson she’ll make you carry on as usual. I remember when I was in her class we had to sit through Oliver Twist on the last day when everyone else was watching The Emperor’s New Groove.”

  I was just about to shrug again – but Charlotte was trying so hard I thought I’d put her out of her misery. “Got it in one.”

  “No way! Really?”

  “Charlotte, listen, you don’t have to suck up to me; I know it’s not your fault you’re the favourite. I don’t hate you or anything.”

  She sighed and plonked a huge plate of thickly sliced buttered toast and a jar of blueberry jam under my nose. “Mum just loves horses,” she said. “It’s her blind spot.”

  “I know.”

  “I suppose it’s my blind spot, too,” she admitted, pulling her ponytail out of her cereal bowl. (See, even her hairstyle is named after those creatures!) “But I’ve been thinking … what if I go to Applehampton with Sophie? She’s on the team, too. Then Mum could take you to the football.”