Cyborg Cat and the Masked Marauder, page 4
“Well, this is still pre-season training at the moment,” said Carlos. “The first match isn’t for a while yet, but that’s a good thing. You’ve got talent, Ade, but there’s a lot to work on if you want to improve. And it’ll give you a chance to get used to your new sports chair. Vamos! Let’s get you measured up.”
I’d learnt from Salim that occasionally, without thinking, Carlos would drop a Spanish word into a sentence, especially when he got fired up about something. Vamos with the ‘v’ pronounced like a ‘b’ meant ‘come on’ or ‘let’s go!’ The team affectionately called it Spanglish.
Sport with language lessons thrown in, I thought. How could Mum and Dad not love that?
Carlos and Jordan, one of the other coaches, started taking all sorts of measurements. It felt weird having a tape measure being run up and down all over me, but there were so many things that needed to be taken into consideration: the seat and backrest width, the backrest height, something about the degree of wheel camber, which turned out to be the angle of the wheel in relation to the ground. Apparently, if I got that right, it would help me turn my chair much more quickly, which is perfect for beating defenders one on one.
They also talked about footrest position and lots of other technical stuff. Listening to Jordan and Carlos made me feel like my brain had been fitted with one of those camber things itself, and my head was spinning at a hundred miles an hour.
“The basketball wheelchair is a technological piece of art,” said Jordan, with a mystical look in his eyes. “Get one measurement wrong and it will totally ruin your game.”
Jordan had played for Great Britain when he was younger, so he knew what he was talking about. I gulped. This was serious.
It was exciting, though. I’d done pretty well in my standard-issue hospital chair and that definitely didn’t feel as if it was because of my Cyborg Cat powers. They were there when I played, of course, but it felt more as if they were cheering me on than helping me. My achievements on the basketball court so far had all been down to hard work and, though it felt a little big-headed to think it, natural talent. The thought of a new sports wheelchair filled me with excitement. I was sure I would reach incredible new heights in it.
But then I was hit with a bombshell. A massive one.
“Okay, that’s everything we need,” said Carlos. “If we put the order in soon, we could get your new chair just before our first game of the season. We’ll need the £250 deposit first, though. You can pay the remaining £500 once it’s been delivered.”
“What?” I blurted. “That’s … that’s …”
My mind went blank. All I knew was that it was a lot of money. An awful lot of money.
“Seven hundred and fifty pounds,” said Brian helpfully.
“I thought the club provided the chairs! I haven’t got that sort of money,” I said helplessly.
“I’m sure you don’t,” said Carlos, smiling. “Just let your parents know – they can send the deposit to me.”
Without realising it Carlos had just lit the fuse that would lead to a massive explosion.
“Can’t I borrow someone else’s chair?” I pleaded. “Or what about if I keep playing in this one?”
“That chair isn’t legal,” said Jordan. “The British Basketball League have got a lot stricter with the rules this year and, even with adjustments, it just wouldn’t cut it.”
“If you want to maximise your potential,” added Carlos, “and compete with the best players in our league, you need to have a chair designed and built to your body shape. Using someone else’s chair won’t do.”
“Right,” I said, unable to keep the disappointment out of my voice.
I explained the situation with Mum and Dad to Carlos and Jordan, but they said there wasn’t anything they could do. The club just didn’t have enough money to buy chairs.
“We have to pay the home court referees, table officials and court hire fees for training,” said Jordan. “And food and transport for the away team on game days.”
“After all that,” said Carlos, “there’s very little left.”
Carlos could see I was distressed. He looked sad but he put his hand on my shoulder to try to comfort me.
“Lo siento, Ade,” he said.
I looked at him confused.
“I’m sorry, Ade,” he translated. “But you can’t play without a chair.”
I looked at the Rollers’ players cracking jokes and mucking around. All of them had custom-made basketball chairs. Their chairs looked super cool, but somehow I just hadn’t thought that I’d need a new chair too. Now I’d found out that they were so expensive, my dreams of becoming a superstar basketball player looked like they were over.
For good.
7
Sponsored by the Parsons Road Gang
“I’VE got sixteen pee and three buttons,” said Dexter, as we made our way back to Parsons Road.
“Thanks, Dex,” I muttered. “But –”
“Oh, hang on a minute!” he said excitedly, rummaging in his pocket. “Four buttons!”
“Dexter,” said Brian. “Ade needs seven hundred and fifty pounds. After your sixteen pee he’ll still need seven hundred and forty-nine pounds and eighty-four pence.”
“What about the buttons?”
“Oh yeah, I forgot about them,” said Brian. “If we include the buttons, Ade still needs seven hundred and forty-nine pounds and eighty-four pence, but you need a new shirt.”
“I can’t believe it,” I said. “I’m sure the England football players don’t have to pay for their own kit.”
“No,” said Brian. “But this is a wheelchair basketball team in East London, Ade. It’s a bit different.”
“I know, but … I suppose I just assumed …”
My voice trailed off. I was gutted, of course, but I also felt stupid for thinking the chairs would be provided. In fact, I just hadn’t thought about it at all.
“You know, when the youth club my brother goes to wanted a table tennis table, a load of them did a sponsored trampolining session,” said Dexter. “They trampolined non-stop for eight hours, raised a hundred million pounds or something, which I think was enough to buy two tables.”
“I don’t think it would have cost quite that mu—” I started to say, but before I could finish my sentence, a strange sort of yelp came out of Brian’s mouth.
“Yeek! That’s it! Dexter, you’ve done it again. You’re a genius. Ade, that’s what we’re going to do!”
“Where will we get a trampoline?” asked Dexter.
“Dex, for a genius, you can be a very silly sausage,” said Brian. “It doesn’t have to be trampolining. We can do loads of other things to get the money – sponsored walks, swims, bike rides, anything. What do you think, Ade?”
“I … I … I …”
“You … you … you …” they mimicked.
“I don’t know,” I said eventually. “Do you think it’ll work?”
“Course it will,” said Dexter. “With the Parsons Road Gang on the case, you’ll have your super-cool basketball wheelchair in no time at all.”
“Okay, then I think it’s a great idea!”
“Yes!” shouted Brian, punching the air. “Let’s tell the others and we can have a planning meeting after school tomorrow.”
At four o’clock the following afternoon we were all sitting in Brian’s front room. He had a clipboard and a notepad and was treating it like a very important business meeting, even though his mum had laid out crisps and lemonade, and we all had to be home for tea by six, which I don’t think is what happens in real business meetings.
“Right,” said Brian. “You know the plan, let’s hear your ideas.”
The Parsons Road Gang were brilliant: they had loads of suggestions. Along with Brian’s original ideas of a sponsored walk, swim and bike ride, we also came up with a sponsored headstand, silence, car wash, juggle (even though none of us could juggle), dance, sleep (ruled out for being too easy), hoopla, press-up-athon, sing-song, doughnut-eating and a sponsored donkey ride at the beach (as long as someone could take us to a beach where they had donkey rides).
Those were just the sponsorship ideas. Salim suggested a cake sale, because his sister had done one and made loads of money. Dexter came up with the best – and the worst – idea. He suggested we should have a twenty-four-hour fart-athon. He even came up with a catchphrase.
“Give us your pence for flatulence,” he announced confidently.
The room went silent as we all gave Dex a look that said, “Are you serious?” before we fell about laughing.
Brian was the first to recover and got us back to our senses by slamming his hand on the table (although he did spill a lot of lemonade in the process).
“Right, then,” he said, mopping up with a tissue. “I’ve made a note of all those ideas and you will all be receiving a copy of them for your own records.”
“What records?” said Shed.
“Yeah, my dad’s got lots of records, but I haven’t got any,” added Dexter.
“I don’t think Brian meant those sort of records,” I said. “Or did you, Brian?”
“No, I meant – oh, it doesn’t matter. Let’s decide what to do first.”
“Hang on a minute,” Melody cut in. “I’ve got another idea. How about asking Emily to make posters?”
“Emily? Emily the graffiti artist? Emily aka the Night Spider who tried to scare Ade off the safari park trip and then released a tarantula when we were there?” Shed said.
“Yes,” said Melody.
“She doesn’t like Ade,” Salim pointed out.
“Didn’t like Ade,” corrected Melody. “I’ve been talking to her at school and she’s really sorry about what happened. I reckon this would be her chance to prove it to us.”
“I don’t know,” said Shed.
“I think it’s a great idea,” I said, cutting in. “In a strange way, if she hadn’t done what she did, the school wouldn’t have seen how good I am in a wheelchair and I wouldn’t be here now, trying to raise money for a sports one.”
“Yeah, but can we trust her?” Shed said.
My chair suddenly glowed and vibrated a little, giving me the answer.
“I’m pretty sure we can trust her,” I told them. “Plus, Emily’s a really good artist and I bet her posters will help us a lot. We all know how powerful they can be. Go for it, Melody.”
“So,” said Brian, “what shall we do first?”
After a lot of discussion it came down to two ideas: a sponsored doughnut-eating contest or a sponsored press-up-athon.
Dexter was disappointed that we didn’t consider his fart-athon, but he was very keen on the doughnut idea and said his mum could make a hundred doughnuts easily.
Melody preferred the press-ups, because eating doughnuts wasn’t exactly the best preparation for her football trial and because, as she pointed out, Dexter hadn’t actually asked his mum to make the doughnuts, so she might not agree to do it.
Then Brian said that none of us were sure how many press-ups we could actually do, but that he’d seen someone on television doing forty in a minute.
“I could beat that easily,” shouted Dexter, who had forgotten about the doughnuts for the time being.
“Go on then,” challenged Shed.
“Okay, watch this.”
A minute later an exhausted Dexter rolled over, barely able to speak.
“How … how … many … d-d-did I do?”
“I think I counted seven,” said Brian. “But it might have been three.”
We all fell about laughing. Seeing Dexter struggling was so funny that we decided we had to see it again. A sponsored press-up-athon for the Parsons Road Gang it was.
I headed home feeling pretty positive. Even if we didn’t raise enough money for my sports wheelchair, we were going to have a good time trying.
8
Press-Up Pressure
“A SPONSORED press-up-athon! That is the stupidest thing I have ever heard. Whoever came up with that must have only half a brain.”
“Actually, Spencer,” I said, “we came up with it.”
He turned round to see me, Melody, Emily and Dexter staring daggers at him.
“What a surprise,” he said. “I suppose you’re raising money to get the other half of a brain to share between you?”
“Well,” countered Melody, “if you’d bothered to read the rest of Emily’s poster, you’d see exactly why we’re raising money.”
“Why would I bother doing that?” sneered Spencer. “It would be a waste of time. Just like you trying to get into the football team. See you later, losers!”
Emily’s poster was fantastic. It was a starburst of colours around someone doing press-ups, someone who looked a lot like me. She’d had a lot of practice drawing me, of course, back when she’d been tagging her graffiti the Night Spider, but at least this time it wasn’t meant to scare me away.
“The poster’s great, Emily,” I said. “Loads of people are talking about it.”
“Thanks,” she said meekly. For someone who had once threatened to destroy me, she was actually quite shy. “But try not to look at it too closely.” “Wh-what do you mean?”
My stomach started to churn with nerves as I remembered the strange effect her graffiti had had on me, as if I was being pulled into it and a different world.
“Only kidding! Don’t worry this poster’s fine,” she said, giving me a cheeky grin as she walked off, spray cans poking out of the pockets of her backpack.
This poster. Had she known the effect the posters had had on me? No. I felt certain that it was just my imagination. Emily was on our side now.
The press-up-athon was scheduled to take place the following day after school. We’d decided that instead of trying to do as many press-ups as we could at the same time, we’d take it in turns in a relay and keep going as long as possible. I was going to start, then, when I ran out of steam, Dexter would take over and so on. By the time it came back round to my turn, hopefully I should have recovered enough to go again. Our aim was to keep it going for three hours.
The others had already been sponsored by their parents and as many relatives as they could contact, but I couldn’t ask Mum and Dad in case they found out what we were raising the money for. That meant I’d had to work a bit harder for help. Glenn at the market had been brilliant. He’d sponsored us and he’d got quite a few of the other stallholders to chip in as well, so I felt I’d done my bit. Some of the teachers and older kids at school had also agreed, though others hadn’t been quite so friendly when we’d asked.
“Right,” I said. “We’ve done well, but let’s try really hard to get as many people to sponsor us as we can today, then all we have to do tomorrow is keep it up for a few hours.”
“I’m going to ask the lollipop lady,” said Dexter. “She always smiles at me, so I’m sure she’ll say yes.”
“She smiles at everyone, Dex,” laughed Melody. “I think it’s part of her job.”
“Nah, she definitely likes me, you’ll see.”
As it turned out, the lollipop lady agreed to sponsor us thirty pence an hour, and said she would round it up to a pound if we completed three hours, which was not too bad, though whether or not that meant she especially liked Dexter was unclear.
We all agreed to practise doing press-ups in our bedrooms that evening, as we had done all week, and I made it to two and a half minutes easily. There were a lot of minutes in three hours, admittedly, but I went to bed feeling good. I knew it was going to be difficult, but my arms are pretty strong and the pressure on my legs wasn’t going to be too great, so I reckoned I’d be able to manage.
The next day flew past and by four o’clock we gathered in the school gym, confident of achieving our goal.
Quite a few people had come along to watch. Brian’s older brother Colin was the official timekeeper and checker (or ‘adjudicator’, as Brian later informed me was the proper title).
“Okay,” said Salim. “When the person doing press-ups can’t do any more, they have to say ‘bogey’ – that was Melody’s idea – and then the next person has to start as quickly as they can. If they don’t start, it’s a fail. Got it?”
“Got it,” we said in unison.
“Ade, you’re up first,” said Salim.
Shed helped me out of my wheelchair and I lay on a mat, ready to start.
“Okay,” said Colin, ready to click his stopwatch. “Three, two, one, go!”
I pushed my hands down into the mat, lifted up with my arms and we were off. We’d already talked about the pace. If we went really fast, we’d probably burn out pretty quickly, so I took it nice and steady. I also knew, thanks to Brian’s research, that on average people our age should be able to do between forty and fifty press-ups, so that was what I was aiming for.
It wasn’t too bad at first, but as I got to thirty-five my arms began to ache and then the ache turned into a burn. I pushed up for one last time.
“Bogey!”
Brian was in position next to me and began doing his press ups. I rolled over, sweat dripping down my back and lay there, breathing heavily.
Thankfully, by the time Brian, Melody, Salim, Dexter and Shed had finished, I had recovered and was good to go again.
The first hour went well, but the second hour was a lot tougher. None of us could last as long as we had at the beginning, which meant we had less time to recover, and had to do more sessions each so it became a real slog.
That was nothing compared to the third hour, though. The pain in my arms was intense, and each individual press-up seemed like a huge, huge challenge.
The crowd watching us had thinned out, but those that remained were being really encouraging. By the last five minutes of the hour we were on our last legs – or arms, to be more exact.
Shed was in position, but he was really struggling. Dexter was meant to be next, but I could see there was no way he could go again, he was absolutely done for. Melody had had it as well and Brian had only just stopped and was practically passed out.
Even though I’d only had a short break, and even though my limbs were in agony, I knew if we were going to make it to three hours, I would have to jump in when Shed couldn’t go on any longer. We were not going to fail.
