My Life as a Stupendously Stomped Soccer Star by Bill Myers

Author:Bill Myers
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: ebook, book
Publisher: Thomas Nelson
Published: 2011-12-17T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter 7

Let the Game Begin!

I got to the stadium just in time to suit up and run onto the field with my incredibly professional team.

The good news was, I was still the world’s greatest soccer player.

The bad news was, I still had my seventh-grade body, which, as you may recall, isn’t always the strongest (or most pain-resistant).

My first problem came when my fellow players slapped me on the back:

“Okay, Wally!” (K-Bamb)

“Here we go, Wally!” (K-Slap)

“Let’s do it, Wally!” (K-Slam)

These, of course, were followed by the usual reactions of my falling face-first (K-Splat!)

K-Smash! K-Smooch!

onto the field and being run over by other players.

But it wasn’t that bad. After eating the daily minimum requirement of turf (at least I was getting enough greens in my diet), I was ready to go.

We got the ball at the kickoff and headed downfield.

One of the halfbacks passed it to me, and I must say I was brilliant.

I did everything . . . I dribbled, I faked, I headed, I bicycle-kicked. And after four or five minutes of these amazing feats, one of my teammates had an even more amazing idea:

“Hey, Wally, why not try moving it downfield!”

I told you these guys were pros!

And so I got the chance to do it all over again— kicking, dribbling, faking.

Finally, I got into the box and tried something even more exciting . . . getting slide-tackled, getting face-elbowed, and getting body-

K-SLAMMed

onto the ground.

Now, I don’t want to say the other team played dirty, but I kept asking myself why their uniforms were striped with prison inmate numbers stenciled on the back.

(And don’t even ask about all the watchdogs and jail guards surrounding the field.)

“Who are those guys?” I groaned as they dumped whatever pieces of my body they could find onto a stretcher.

“They’re the Penitentiary Players,” the team doctor answered.

“They’re from a prison?!” I cried.

“Don’t be silly.”

I relaxed ever so slightly.

“They’re from lots of prisons.”

I tensed ever so muchly. “WHAT?!”

“It was your manager’s idea,” the doctor said as they carried me to the sidelines. “People are paying tons of money to see death-row inmates play you in soccer.”

The good news was, the doctor had me back on my feet and in the game in no time.

The bad news was, the doctor had me back on my feet and in the game in no time.

“Are you really sure I’m ready?” I shouted over my shoulder. “I mean, really, really, really, really sure?”

“Don’t worry,” he yelled back. “We’ve put calls into organ-transplant banks across the country. They’ll have replacements waiting for you just as soon as you finish the game.”

Little did he know the game was about to finish me.

“Wally,” a teammate shouted, “heads up!”

I spun around just in time to see the ball coming at me. It was a perfect setup for a header. The goalie was out of position and there was no defense around me—well, except for one mountain of muscle flying at me sideways with his cleats pointed straight at my chest. Steel cleats which, I might point out, had been filed to some very sharp and very long tips.

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