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The Sleepover Club Goes for Goal! by Fiona Cummings Contents
Have you been Invited to all these Sleepovers?
She turns, she shoots, she scores! Yeeaah! Kenny for England, Kenny for England! Whoops, sorry, I didn’t see you there. Blinding shot, wasn’t it? But what do you expect? I am a footballing genius after all! Actually, I’m just getting in a bit of practice before the others get here for a kick-around. Why are you looking at me like that? Yes I do mean the rest of the Sleepover Club, what’s so strange about that? But of course, you don’t know do you? Cool! I’m going to love telling you about our latest Sleepover adventure. You’re never going to believe it. Never in a million years! As you know, I think that football is the best game in the world, and I can’t understand people who don’t. But it seems that the others thought I was the one who was weird. Now I suppose I can understand Fliss for having that attitude because, well – she’s so girly, basically. I mean, mud and Fliss just don’t go. She complains when it’s cold. She complains when it’s wet. And there’s no way that you’d get her running about outside in a skimpy pair of shorts messing up her hair. The only good thing about football as far as Fliss is concerned is David Beckham. And the only reason she knows about him is because she’s seen posters of him in stupid girly magazines. As I say, I sort of see where she’s coming from, but the others? I just don’t understand them at all. Take Frankie. She’s my best mate and you’d think that she’d agree with me about the most important thing in my life, wouldn’t you? Well, you couldn’t be more wrong. She says she can’t see the point of football at all. But that’s just crazy, because she plays netball and she thinks that’s OK. And football’s the same, isn’t it? Apart from the fact that you kick the ball – and you have goals instead of nets – and the pitch is bigger… Look, what I mean is, in both games whoever scores the most wins, right? So basically they’re the same. Everybody thinks that Frankie is some brainbox or something, but if you ask me, sometimes she can be really dumb! Rosie’s the same. Her brother Adam is crazy about football, but all she does is wind me up by calling me a hooligan. Just because I go to watch Leicester City with my dad. As far as she’s concerned, it’s as though every single football supporter goes around beating up old grannies in their spare time. My dad’s a doctor for goodness sake, and he’s not violent at all. He never even shouts out anything rude at a match. And sometimes Leicester City play so badly they deserve to be shouted at, believe me! The person I really can’t understand though is Lyndz. She goes to football matches with her grandad and her brothers sometimes. We all sit together. She loves going. I know she does, because she gets all excited and jiggles about in her seat. You ought to hear her when someone scores a goal. But in front of the others she always pretends that she’s not that interested. You just can’t work some people out, can you? But really, the fact that I love football so much has never been that big a deal. It’s just a fact of life that the others accept. Or at least, that was the case. All that changed when the notice appeared at school. Now you should know that as soon as a new notice goes up everybody crowds round, as though it’s some really important event. I know, I know, it’s a bit sad isn’t it? Well anyway, one Monday, there was this big crush in the corridor at the end of lunchtime break. “Looks like there’s a new notice up!” said Frankie, elbowing her way to the front of the crowd. “Hope it’s something exciting!” Rosie shouted, joining her. Fliss, Lyndz and I didn’t want to feel left out, so we got some serious elbow action going and worked our way to the front to join the others. There was a bright spanking new notice up, but somehow the others weren’t impressed. As soon as Fliss read it she turned away in disgust. “If I’d known it was going to be so boring, I wouldn’t have wasted all that energy!” she sniffed, and pushed her way back out through the crowd again. The others followed her. But it was one of the best notices I’d ever read, so I stayed there a bit longer just staring at it. It said:
FIVE-A-SIDE PRACTICES
Wednesdays 3.30 – 4.30pm In the School Gym with Mr Pownall
EVERYBODY WELCOME
“Brilliant!” I yelled, and ran to join the others back in Mrs Weaver’s classroom. “I don’t know what you’re so excited about, Frogface,” sneered Ryan Scott, who had followed me in. “Mr Pownall doesn’t want soppy girls trying to play football. It’s a boys’ game. You’d just be wasting your time if you turned up.” “I know you can’t read, Spotty Scotty,” I snapped back at him, “so I’d better tell you that Mr Pownall has written ‘everyone welcome’ and underlined ‘everyone’. So he must mean that he doesn’t mind if no-talent wasters like you turn up. And he’ll certainly be pleased to see talent like mine – whether I’m a girl or not.” “Yeah, right McKenzie, in your dreams!” “Ryan Scott,
