Selby Scrambled (5 page)

‘I’m not a dog!’ Selby said. ‘Calm down. Would I be talking if I was a dog?’

‘No, you’ve got a point,’ the woman said. ‘Then what are you?’
Tha-kunk!

‘I’m a person in a dog suit,’ Selby said. ‘But never mind about that, your foot just came loose! Push it back again, quick!’ ‘Oh, okay.’
Pssssht!

‘So what are you doing up here? Are you trying to beat me to the top or something?’
Tha-kunk!

‘No, I’m not! But never mind about that, Clem, your left hand just came loose again!’
Pssssht!

‘That’s better,’ Selby said, ‘now start climbing! You’re almost there!’

‘I can’t,’ the woman sighed. ‘I’m too exhausted.’ ‘If you don’t, you’ll fall!’ Selby said. ‘Come on, Clem, right hand …’

Tha-kunk
!
Pssssht
! ‘Now left foot …’
Tha-kunk! Pssssht!
‘Atta girl, Clem …’

Pssssht! Tha-kunk! Pssssht! Tha-kunk! Pssssht! Tha-kunk!

Little by little Selby and Clemenza Lightfoot moved towards the top of the building. ‘I can’t do it,’ Clemenza gasped. ‘I can’t.’ ‘You have to! You’re almost there! One more step!’

Tha-kunk! Pssssht!

Clemenza grabbed the railing at the top of the tower and pulled herself up and over. Then she turned and leaned down, putting out her hand.

‘Grab my hand, little guy,’ she said. Selby stretched out a paw but suddenly sensed himself slowly slipping.

‘Oh, no! I’m sliding!’ Selby screamed. ‘Save me!’

But it was too late, Selby’s front paws had lost their grip and he spun around, pointing downward. His back paws held him for a
second but then he started sliding faster and faster down the side of the building.

‘I’m going down!’ he cried.

‘No, no, don’t go!’ Clemenza yelled after him. ‘I want to know who you are!’

Like a skier going full speed down a ski slope, Selby slid through the mist towards the ground. Before he knew it he was lying on the footpath staring up at the startled Dr and Mrs Trifle.

‘Oh, Selby,’ Mrs Trifle said, picking him up in her arms. ‘Thank goodness, you’re safe!’

‘Good boy,’ Dr Trifle said, taking the Wall Walkers off Selby’s paws and throwing them in a rubbish bin. ‘I guess these were a bit of a dud. It’s a pity because they seemed to work brilliantly at first. Oh, well.’

That night back in Bogusville, the Trifles watched the evening news. They saw Clemenza Lightfoot being taken away in a police car.

‘What is she raving about?’ Dr Trifle asked. ‘Something about a man in a dog suit talking to her and helping her get to the top.’

‘I told you the woman was a bit strange,’ Mrs Trifle said.

Suddenly Dr and Mrs Trifle turned towards Selby.

‘A man in a dog suit?’ Mrs Trifle said. ‘You don’t suppose …?’

‘But there’s no way Selby could have
talked
to her,’ Dr Trifle said.

‘Still,’ Mrs Trifle answered, ‘I think something strange happened up there on that building today. It was a pity we couldn’t see because of the mist.’

‘You mean we
missed
something because of the mist,’ Dr Trifle laughed.

‘I guess you could say,’ Selby thought, ‘that it will always be a mist-ery.’

‘Soccer?’ Dr Trifle said. ‘I have no idea how to play soccer. Is it a card game? Or is it that game where you throw rubber chickens into a bathtub?’

‘Neither, silly,’ Mrs Trifle said. ‘There’s a ball and you kick it up and down the field till

someone gets a goal.’

‘What’s a goal?’

‘That’s when someone kicks the ball into this sort of a box thingy. Only there’s a goalie trying to keep it from going in.’

‘I don’t understand this sports business,’ Dr Trifle said. ‘In every sort of game there’s someone trying to do something and someone
else trying to stop them. Why don’t they just take turns? That way everyone will get lots of points and they’ll all stay friends and no one will get hurt.’

‘Poor Dr Trifle,’ Selby thought. ‘He has no idea. He’s the least sporty person in the whole world.’

‘But it wouldn’t be any fun,’ Mrs Trifle said. ‘Now I hope you don’t mind but you and I are going to be playing soccer for Bogusville against Poshfield. Don’t worry, I’ll tell you what to do. It’s just a friendly match.’

‘Friendly? Against Poshfield? Are you sure? It seems to me that things can be quite unfriendly if Poshfield’s mayor, Denis Dorset, has anything to do with it. Is he going to play?’

‘No.’

‘Good.’

‘He’ll be the referee,’ Mrs Trifle said. ‘And don’t worry, he can’t cheat because I have a copy of the rules right here,’ Mrs Trifle said, holding up a book called
Soccer for Ninnies.
‘I’ve been studying them for weeks.’

‘If I’m going to play this soccer thing I’d better get into shape,’ Dr Trifle said. ‘I think I’ll
start by walking around the house once a day and then I’ll do some thumb flexes and some bending over.’

‘There’s no time for that. The game starts in fifteen minutes,’ Mrs Trifle said, handing her husband a pair of shorts and an
I Luv Bogusville
T-shirt. ‘Get into these. Oh, and Selby can be our mascot and bring us good luck.’

‘Oh, boy!’ Selby thought. ‘I love soccer! I watch it all the time on TV when the Trifles are out. I can’t wait to see Bogusville thrash those poncy Poshfield guys.’

At the soccer field Denis Dorset was wearing a striped referee’s uniform and a whistle hung around his neck.

‘Let’s see who’s playing for Bogusville,’ Selby thought. ‘There’s Melanie Mildew, she could be okay; Camilla Bonzer, I’m not so sure about her; Postie Paterson, good; and Aunt Jetty is the goalie. They used to call her Shin-Smasher Jetty when she played hockey. I reckon she’ll be a really good goalie. Oh, and there’s Gary Gaggs, he could be okay. Not a great team but the Poshfield team looks pathetic. Look at them in
their neat little uniforms. They look like they’ve just come from the hairdressers and had their fingernails polished. And that’s just the guys. I reckon they’ll be in for a big surprise.’

‘It’s about time you got here,’ Denis Dorset said to the Trifles. ‘Now are you ready to play?’

‘Well, yes, I think so,’ Mrs Trifle said.

‘Then how about a little wager?’

‘A what?’

‘A bet. I’ll bet you ten thousand dollars that we’ll beat you.’

‘Ten thousand dollars!’ Mrs Trifle said. ‘We don’t have that sort of money. Besides, I’m not really a betting person.’

‘Then we’ll make it one thousand. Just take it out of the tea money jar in your council’s recreation room. That’s what we did.’

‘Our council doesn’t even have a recreation room and our tea money jar never has any more than seventy cents in it.’

‘Oh be a sport, Mayor Trifle,’ Denis said, rubbing his hands together. ‘Or are you afraid we’ll beat you?’

‘Not at all. I think we should just play for the fun of it.’

‘Fun? You’re such a bunch of scaredy-cats.’

‘No, we’re not.’

‘If these Poshfield twits really want to lose their money,’ Aunt Jetty roared, ‘let’s take it from them! What do you say? Let’s all chip in and take the bet! Come on, guys!’

‘I’ll be in that!’ Melanie Mildew yelled.

‘Me too!’ said Postie Paterson.

‘And me!’ Gary Gaggs said.

One by one, the Bogusville players called out.

‘Okay, Denis,’ Mrs Trifle said, ‘a thousand dollars it is.’

A cheer went up from the Bogusville players as the two mayors shook hands.

‘Great!’ Selby thought. ‘This is just
tooooooo
good!’

Denis Dorset blew his whistle.

‘Okay, the game has officially started,’ he said. ‘But wait. I do believe you’re one player short, Mayor Trifle. I’m afraid you’ll have to forfeit the game.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Your team just lost. I’m terribly sorry but those are the rules,’ Denis said, holding up his
copy of
Soccer for Ninnies.
‘You only have ten players and you need eleven. Sorry. We’ll take the thousand dollars in cash, thank you very much.’

The Poshfield team all laughed and began putting on their designer tracksuits.

‘That is so not fair!’ Mrs Trifle said. ‘You knew we only had ten players before you made the bet. That’s cheating!’

‘It’s not cheating,’ Denis said. ‘It’s just noticing. It’s a pity you didn’t notice, too. You could have saved your players a considerable amount of money.’

Mrs Trifle thumbed through her copy of
Soccer for Ninnies.

‘Hang on,’ she said. ‘Selby is our eleventh player.’

‘Selby?’ Denis Dorset asked. ‘Who’s that?’

‘Our mascot,’ Mrs Trifle said, pointing to Selby. ‘And now he’s going to be a player, too.’

‘You can’t have a dog on your team!’

‘Show me where it says that the players have to be human beings.’

‘Of course it’s not in the rule book,’ Denis said. ‘It’s too obvious. Everyone knows that already.’

‘We don’t know that, do we, team?’ Mrs Trifle called.

‘No, we don’t!’ came the reply.

‘There you have it then,’ Mrs Trifle said.

‘I’m sorry but our team refuses to play against a dog,’ Denis said. ‘He might bite.’

‘He most certainly will not!’ Mrs Trifle answered. ‘But if you’re worried about it we’ll just let him sit and watch the game. And, by the way, I’ve been noticing something myself: Poshfield is short a player. That’ll be a thousand dollars, please.’

‘You tell him, Mrs Trifle,’ Selby thought. ‘That dirty guy! He’s getting everything he deserves.’

Denis smiled.

‘No, we do have another player. He’s getting dressed. Carlos! Are you ready?’

A man ran onto the field. Denis threw him the ball and he caught it on his toe and kicked it up over his head and when it came down he kicked it back over again with his heel. For a minute, everyone just stood and stared as the man kept the ball in the air with his feet, his knees and his forehead.

‘Wow!’ Selby gasped in his brain. ‘Where did this guy come from?! He’s fantastic! Carlos? Carlos who? I’m sure I’ve seen him before. Hang on a tick, Carlos Rodrigues! He’s the guy who scored the winning goal in the World Cup Final last year. In fact, he scored
all
of the goals in the World Cup Final.’

‘That’s Carlos Rodrigues!’ Camilla Bonzer said and gasped (out loud). ‘He scored all of the goals in the World Cup Final!’

‘He can’t play for you,’ Mrs Trifle said. ‘This is a game between Poshfield and Bogusville. He doesn’t live in Poshfield.’

‘For the moment, he does,’ Denis said.

‘But he’s a professional. Professionals aren’t allowed to play against amateurs.’

‘What’s the difference between an amateur and a professional?’ Denis asked.

‘Professionals play for money.’

‘Then we’re all professionals,’ Denis said. ‘Because we’re playing for a thousand dollars.’

‘That is sneaky and mean,’ Mrs Trifle said. ‘Denis Dorset, you tricked us!’

‘Me? My dear lady, I did nothing of the kind. Now can we please get this game started?

Or would you just like to hand over the money and save yourself a lot of embarrassment?’

‘We’ll play!’ Aunt Jetty shouted. ‘Won’t we, guys?’

There was a moment of silence and then a mumbled chorus of,‘I guess so’s’,and ‘Okay,all right’s’,and ‘If you say so’s’.

Mrs Trifle turned to Selby.

‘Stay here, boy,’ she said.

‘Oh, how I’d love to play,’ Selby thought. ‘I wish I could kick a soccer ball.’

Then the game started and Carlos dribbled the ball up the field towards the goal and Aunt Jetty. Bogusville players raced in from all directions but Carlos kicked the ball between their legs, or chipped it over their heads, or even bounced it off them only to get control of it again.

‘This isn’t fair!’ Selby squealed in his brain. ‘None of them has a hope of even touching the ball. Look! They’re falling all over the place!’

Soon Carlos was facing Aunt Jetty.

‘Atta boy, Carlos!’ Denis yelled. ‘Shoot! Shoot!’

But Carlos just smiled and turned around,
dribbling the ball back in the other direction, weaving around the Bogusville and Poshfield players.

‘What are you doing?’ Denis shouted. ‘The goal is that way! What are we paying you for?’

‘You pay me to play,’ Carlos said. ‘I play. I have good time.’

‘Well, you’d better win the game,’ Denis said.

Suddenly Carlos kicked the ball hard, straight up in the air. And as it came down, he did a bicycle kick up and over his head, shooting the ball straight back towards Aunt Jetty.

There was terror in Aunt Jetty’s eyes as the ball tore towards the goal, making a highpitched whistling noise as it flew through the air. Aunt Jetty dived to the side to get out of the way, only to have it accidentally hit her arm and bounce out. Jetty jumped to her feet and grabbed the ball in her hands.

‘I’ll show you, you boofhead!’ she screamed, throwing it down the field.

Carlos stopped and wagged his finger at Aunt Jetty.

‘Is not nice, Crazy Lady,’ he said. ‘You make Carlos sad you say thees thing.’