The Trophy of Champions (27 page)

Lying on the cats' reserve bench, Prowler began to move his arms and legs as the effects of the tranquiliser darts wore off. Whisker looked over his shoulder to see his own tail twitching haphazardly behind him.

As the clock ticked over to ten thirty, the referee blew his whistle and the final half of Death Ball was underway.

Whisker was amazed at what spirit could do. Although the soft squeaks of half-a-dozen Pie Rat supporters were drowned out by the roar of three hundred hostile Cat Fish fans, the rats played like every opposing cheer and chant was intended for
them.

Granny Rat's game plan was simple:
make as much mischief as you can without conceding a goal.

Ball in arms, the rats darted and wove between the cats' legs, jabbing them in the belly for good measure. Whenever the cats won possession, the rats would cling to their hind legs and yank their tails, causing the ball to bounce free time and time again. The size and strength of the Cat Fish proved no match for the nimble acrobatics of their smaller opponents, and they had no choice but to hurl the ball into the crowd as soon as they touched it.

Much to the dismay of the Pie Rats, the crowd began bounce-passing the ball from spectator to spectator in an attempt to move it closer to the cats' goal. In response, Granny Rat ordered her team into a defensive formation in the back half of the field. The Captain went to centre, Ruby and Horace moved to left and right fullback positions and Whisker joined Fred in the goal box as a shadow keeper.

The restructure proved invaluable. As the game wore on, the cats' master striker, Prowler, having fully recovered from the tranquiliser darts, subbed on for Siamese Sally and took a monumental shot at goal. Fred managed to get a finger-touch on the ball as it headed towards the lower right corner and Whisker's tail did the rest. Like an anaconda suffocating its prey, his tail coiled around the rubber ball, and with a deathly tight grip, jerked it to a halt.

The crowd booed. Prowler hissed. Whisker said a silent
thank you
to his tail and flicked the ball over the heads of the attackers. As it bounced towards a deserted wing on the far side of the field, Whisker noticed Granny Rat gesturing frantically and pointing to the cats' goal box.

‘I think the old bat want us to mount an attack,' Horace whispered.

‘But we can't risk leaving our defences open,' Whisker shot back. ‘Not with the cats and the crowd breathing down our necks.'

‘The crowd is no longer our concern,' the Captain shouted, sprinting after the ball. ‘Take a look.'

Whisker's eyes flashed to the crowd. A sea of tiny bodies wearing maroon blazers were pushing past the Cat Fish supporters towards the front row. They squeezed between the legs of startled onlookers and scrambled over shoulders like an army of ants.

Everywhere Whisker looked he saw ecstatic students: hamsters, Guinea pigs, gerbils and dozens of mice. In the midst of the mayhem stood the most unlikely ringleader: Mr Tribble, the timid history teacher-turned holiday adventurer.

‘Greetings, fellow Pie Rats,' Mr Tribble beamed, almost losing his spectacles. ‘Better early than late, I say. My students are under strict orders to remember their best Oakbridge manners – and then to behave in the exact opposite way!'

By the time the bouncing ball had reached the sideline, Emmie and Eaton had clambered onto the heads of the two closest spectators and covered their eyes with their paws. Mr Tribble scooped up the ball from their feet and hurled it to the Captain.

The Captain charged past, catching the ball on the fly, and centred up for his shot at goal. Furious Fur stood alone in the goal box, but the rest of the cats were closing fast.

‘Go, Uncle Black Rat!' Emmie squeaked from the sidelines.

‘Let ‘em have it!' Eaton added, heartily.

The Captain dropped the ball onto his foot and, with a mighty kick, sent the ball spinning towards the left corner of the goal. A moment later, Sabre crashed down on top of him with bone-crushing impact.

The Captain hit the ground head first and Furious Fur made a desperate lunge for the ball. Stretching out his shaggy paws, he clipped the side of the speeding object, deflecting it wide of the goal post.

The Cat Fish supporters let out a roar of delight. The Captain remained motionless on the ground.

A whistle rang out and the referee called for a halt in play. The entire Pie Rat crew rushed over to the Captain. Ruby reached him first and dropped to her knees by his side.

‘He's got a pulse,' she said, touching his neck. ‘Uncle, can you hear me?'

The Captain didn't stir.

‘It appears he's suffered a nasty concussion,' the referee said, leaning over. ‘I'm afraid he'll have to be stretchered off at once.'

‘And what about our penalty?' Ruby said, glaring up at Sabre. ‘My Uncle was tackled after he got the shot away.'

‘I assure you, the tackle and the kick were simultaneous.
'
Sabre hissed indignantly. ‘Ask the referee.'

The referee hesitated for a moment and Sabre gave him a deathly-cold stare.

‘N-no,' the rabbit gulped, suddenly looking ill. ‘There will be no penalty. The game will resume with a centre bounce when the injured player has left the field.'

‘You can't be serious!' Ruby exploded. ‘This is a –'

‘I've made my decision,' the referee said, hopping away. ‘There's no more to be said.'

‘Arrrgh!' Ruby fumed, stepping after him.

‘Come on, Ruby,' Whisker said, grabbing her arm. ‘We haven't lost yet.'

‘But we're about to,' Ruby hissed, pushing him away. ‘Haven't you seen the time?'

Whisker glanced across at the clock – and gasped. The time read
ten fifty-five.
With all the action and excitement of the second half, he had totally lost track of the time. There was less than five minutes left to play and the scores were still locked at nil-all.

‘The last thing we want is a penalty shootout,' Ruby said as Rat Bait and Papa Niko loaded the Captain's unconscious body onto a stretcher. ‘The cats are the masters of set shots. You saw their game against the marmosets. All six shots soared straight through the goal.'

‘And we just lost our best striker,' Pete sniffled, hobbling onto the field. He pointed to his red pencil leg. ‘A roundhouse kick is one thing, but I'm not much chop when the ball is lying stationary on the ground. Heavens, I'd be hard pressed attempting the run-up.'

Ruby raised two clenched fists in front of her. ‘I hate to admit it but I'm much better with my paws.'

‘I'll second that,' Horace said, holding up his racket attachment. ‘When it comes to kicking, I've got two left feet – and I'm right footed.'

‘I get it! I get it!' Whisker groaned in frustration. ‘We're all useless at penalty shootouts.'

‘You're not, Whisker,' Fred rumbled. ‘I've seen you kick. You're almost as good as Frankie Belorio.'

‘Hardly,' Whisker muttered. ‘Frankie's got speed, accuracy and a killer strike – not to mention the best set plays in the world. And all I've got is-is …'

Of course!
With a gasp of realisation, Whisker turned his back on his teammates and sprinted for the sideline.

‘Hey!' Horace called after him. ‘Where are you going?'

Whisker was in too much of a hurry to respond. He reached the reserve bench to see the hands of the grandfather clock ticking over to
ten fifty-seven.

Just enough time,
he thought, frantically opening his brown drawstring bag. He pulled out a single item, stuffed it into his pocket and darted back onto the field.

‘Everythin' alright?' Rat Bait asked, passing Whisker with the stretcher.

‘Fine,' Whisker called over his shoulder, ‘although I could do with some more time.'

‘Aye,' Rat Bait said knowingly, ‘that can be arranged.' With a sly wink to Papa Niko, he slowed his walk to a snail's pace and said in a loud voice, ‘It's safer for our patient if we take the long route ‘round the puddles.'

Whisker reached his four teammates in the centre of the field and pulled out a crumpled, white napkin.

‘Frankie's signature?' Horace said, puzzled.

‘No,' Whisker said, reversing the napkin and spreading it on a muddy patch of ground. ‘Something much better.'

Horace peered down at the collection of circles and squiggles covering the material. His eyes grew wide. ‘Shiver me britches! It's Frankie's
Double Decoy – Centre Steal.'

‘Shush,' Pete hissed, glancing behind him to the watching Cat Fish crew. ‘A decoy's not a decoy if you give the blasted thing away.'

Ruby turned to Whisker and frowned. ‘If that kindergarten scribble can get us out of this mess, then I'm in. But you'd better get explaining – and fast.'

‘Alright,' Whisker said. ‘Listen up. Frankie's plan will only work with a few modifications …'

Eleven Strokes

As the Captain's body was lowered onto the reserve bench, the grandfather clock ticked over to
ten fifty-nine
. With sixty seconds left to play, it was now or never for the Pie Rats.

In a positional change that had the Cat Fish baffled, Fred took Ruby's place in the centre circle, with Whisker crouching directly behind him. Horace stood a short way back, his entire right arm concealed under his canvas shirt. Ruby occupied Fred's usual position in the goal box, but was slowly creeping away from the posts. Pete waited up-field, to the left of the cats' goal, looking utterly terrified.

With the shrill of the whistle, the referee slammed the ball onto a dry patch of earth.

The crowd roared with excitement and Prowler made a mighty leap into the air. Facing him, Fred did the exact opposite. He hunched his huge, powerful shoulders and stooped down before the ball had even left the ground.

The rubber object exploded upwards, rising high above the competitors. As Prowler extended his paws for an easy catch, Whisker made his move. He sprang onto the mountainous shoulders of Fred and, in one perfectly executed move, the giant straightened his back, catapulting Whisker upwards like an exploding cannon ball.

Whisker plucked the object from Prowler's fingertips and somersaulted over his head. He hit the ground running and dummied to Ruby, sprinting along the left wing.

Master Meow took the bait and bounded after her, his glass eye hampering his vision. Whisker wasted no time in throwing the ball back to Horace.

With his right arm still tucked out of sight, Horace caught the ball with his left paw and took off down the centre of the field. Ahead of him, Fred ran as a blocker and shoulder-charged Prowler before he knew what was happening. The dazed cat stumbled backwards, opening up a clear path for the two rats.

As they stampeded past Whisker, Horace stepped clumsily to one side, clipping Whisker's shoulder. With a startled
‘YELP!'
Whisker tripped forward, splashing into a shallow puddle and Horace's right arm sprang out from under his shirt.