Frankie vs. The Cowboy's Crew

  To my mom, Pat, who encouraged me to do my homework in between kicking a ball all around the house, and is still with me every step of the way

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ALSO BY FRANK LAMPARD

  COPYRIGHT

  Welcome to a fantastic fantasy league — the greatest soccer competition ever held in this world or any other!

  You’ll need four on a team, so choose carefully. This is a lot more serious than a game in the park. You’ll never know who your next opponents will be, or where you’ll face them.

  So lace up your cleats, players, and good luck! The whistle’s about to blow!

  The Ref

  At the edge of the field, Max strained at his leash, barking loudly. Frankie knew how he felt. This game was really close. St. Peter’s School had a good team. Maybe even as good as Frankie’s. The score remained zero–zero, so the pressure was building. Lots of parents, including Frankie’s, had come out to watch the game.

  “Concentrate, team!” called Mr. Donald, their soccer coach. “Two minutes to go! Play to the final whistle.”

  Charlie had the ball in his gloves in the center of the goal, looking for someone to throw it to. He saw Frankie’s friend Kobe and rolled it out to him.

  “Pass it, Kobe!” called Louise.

  Kobe neatly sidestepped with the ball as one of the St. Peter’s players ran toward him. He kicked a looping pass to Louise. She managed to cushion the ball on her knee.

  “Great!” said a voice from the side of the field. “Pass it to a girl.”

  Frankie shot a frown at his brother, Kevin, who was holding Max’s leash. “She’s better than you, any day of the week,” he shouted back.

  Kevin made a face. “Whatever.”

  “Hit me, Louise!” yelled Frankie.

  Louise looked up. Two opponents rushed at her. She stabbed the ball with her toe, and it sailed perfectly between them to Frankie’s foot.

  “Go on, son!” shouted his dad.

  Frankie turned and ran toward the goal. It was just him and the goalie, a giant kid who’d stopped every shot so far.

  “Shoot, Frankie!” yelled Louise.

  The goalie started moving out from the goal, spreading his arms wide.

  “You can do it!” called Frankie’s mom.

  Frankie wondered what to do. Dribble the ball around the goalie, or try for the chip over his head? The boy seemed taller by the second. He’d have to go around him. No problem. Frankie stepped over the ball, and dropped his shoulder to go left. The goalie kept his eyes on the ball. Frankie darted right. He was through …

  Argh!

  He felt his legs snag as the goalie stuck out a foot and tackled him. Frankie fell headlong onto the ground.

  The crowd let out a groan.

  Frankie sat up, a bit dizzy. The St. Peter’s goalkeeper had the ball in his hands.

  “Too bad,” he said with a grin, then hurled the ball forward.

  “Get up, Frankie!” yelled Mr. Donald.

  Frankie scrambled to his feet and ran after it, but he was too far back. It felt like he was watching in slow motion. The opposition passed the ball expertly between themselves, avoiding Louise and Kobe and Matt. Their striker blasted the ball past Charlie and it nestled in the back of the goal.

  The St. Peter’s players piled on top of one another as the whistle blew.

  One–nothing.

  Frankie’s team had lost!

  * * *

  They shook hands with the St. Peter’s kids. Frankie couldn’t look Louise in the eye.

  “I don’t know what happened,” he said, feeling his face grow hot. “I messed up.”

  His friend patted him on the back. “Don’t worry,” she said. “We can’t win every game.”

  As the teams left the field, Frankie’s brother blocked his path. “Nice job, loser,” he said.

  “Leave him alone,” said Charlie.

  “Even she could have scored that,” said Kevin, nodding at Louise.

  “Is everything okay here?” asked Mr. Donald, glaring at Kevin.

  “Just giving some encouragement, coach,” sneered Kevin. Frankie’s brother stalked off, tugging a whining Max with him.

  Frankie sat on the grass and took off his cleats. As he dropped them into his bag, his battered soccer ball rolled out.

  “Oh no,” said Mr. Donald. “If you’ve been practicing with that old thing, it’s no surprise you’ve been struggling.”

  Frankie shared a glance with Charlie and Louise. True, the ball did look like it had been chewed up and spit out, but only Frankie and his friends knew that the ball’s appearance was deceiving. The soccer ball was magic—a gateway to other worlds. He couldn’t help the flicker of a smile on his lips.

  “I don’t think it’s funny,” said Mr. Donald. “You shouldn’t try so many tricks, Frankie. Just get the basics right.”

  “Sorry, coach, it’s just …” Frankie began.

  But Mr. Donald had walked away.

  Frankie’s dad came over with Max. “You want a ride home, Frankie?” he asked. “We have to go shopping to get Kevin some new clothes.”

  Frankie shook his head. He couldn’t think of anything worse than sharing the backseat with his older brother taunting him. “It’s okay, Dad,” he said. “I’ll walk Max back. We’ll go the long way, through the fields.”

  “We’ll come with you,” said Louise.

  “Yeah, we can get a snack on the way!” said Charlie.

  * * *

  They didn’t talk about the game on the way home, which suited Frankie fine. It wasn’t like him to lose his nerve at all. He kept replaying the missed shot in his head, wondering what he could have done differently.

  Their route back to town took them past Evans Farm.

  “I’ll show you the horses,” said Louise.

  Louise mucked out the stables at the farm every weekend, and in return was allowed to ride some of the horses. The farmer, Mr. Evans, was fixing a fence post near the road.

  “Hello, Louise!” he said, waving a mallet.

  “Hi, Mr. Evans,” said Louise. “Do you mind if I take my friends to see Tinkerbelle?”

  “Go right ahead,” said the farmer.

  “Tinkerbelle?” said Charlie as they crossed the yard. “What a silly name for a horse!”

  Louise led them into a barn, past rows of empty stalls. As they reached the last stall, Louise said, “Meet Tinkerbelle.”

  Charlie gasped and took a step back as a huge black head peered over the door. “He’s a giant!” he said.

  Louise grinned. “He’s a she, actually. Sixteen and a half hands tall. Big softy, though, aren’t you?” she said, stroking the horse’s nose.

  Max gave a little bark, and Tinkerbelle tossed her mane.

  “Do you want to say hello, Frankie?” Louise asked.

  Frankie let the soccer ball roll out of his bag. “That’s okay,” he said glumly. He practiced a couple of step overs. Maybe Mr. Donald was right. He’d tried to be too fancy.

  Charlie slowly approached Tinkerbelle, his gloved hand outstretched.

  “Why don’t you take those off?” asked Louise. “She won’t bite.”

  Charlie chuckled. “No way. You know me—always ready.”

  Frankie managed a smile. He spotted a horseshoe hanging on a nail on the wall opposite the stall. They were supposed to be good luck, weren’t they?

  Maybe if I can hit the horseshoe with the ball, I’ll get lucky in front of
the goal next time, he thought.

  He took aim, then gently chipped the ball. It sailed in a perfect arc toward the horseshoe …

  … and vanished.

  “Um … guys,” he said, turning toward his friends.

  Tinkerbelle gave a panicked snort, and Louise and Charlie spun around.

  “Uh-oh,” said Charlie.

  “Cool!” said Louise.

  Max yelped.

  The horseshoe and the stable wall were gone, replaced with a swirl of color.

  “Ready for another adventure?” asked Frankie.

  Frankie led the way, closing his eyes as he passed through the wall. When he opened them, the farm was gone. He found himself standing at the end of a dusty street lined with ramshackle wooden buildings. One had a “General Store” sign above the door. Another looked like a saloon, with a wooden porch and swing doors. Shutters covered most of the windows. Beyond the street stretched miles of sandy desert dotted with cacti, and in the distance mountains rose in a haze of heat. What looked like a single line of railroad track vanished into the distance. The magic soccer ball was resting alongside a water trough outside a blacksmith’s stall.

  Frankie sniffed—the air smelled strangely sweet, like caramel.

  “Where are we?” asked Charlie. Instead of his uniform, he was now wearing faded jeans and shirt with a neckerchief and a wide-brimmed hat.

  “When are we?” asked Louise, who was tugging at the hem of a fancy red dress. “This is not my style at all!”

  Frankie glanced down at his own clothes. He saw boots with spurs, pants with leather chaps, and a brown shirt. Stitched onto the shirt was his FFC logo.

  We must be here to play a game!

  Max scampered along, sniffing the ground. “Looks like the Wild West to me!” he barked.

  “How do you know?” asked Frankie.

  The little dog wagged his tail. “You know when your dad’s asleep on the sofa on Sunday afternoons with the TV on?”

  “Yes,” said Frankie.

  “Well, I watch the Westerns,” said Max. “I love John Wayne. Plus, you’re wearing a cowboy hat. It’s really obvious.”

  Frankie reached up and felt the hat on his head. “Oh, yeah.”

  “Let’s explore,” said Louise.

  As they walked slowly up the middle of the street, eerie silence settled over them. Gusts of wind blew in from time to time, scattering sand in the air.

  “Where are all the people?” asked Charlie, shielding his eyes from the glaring sun. “This place seems deserted.”

  Frankie thought he saw the shape of a face in a window, but it quickly vanished.

  “They are all hiding,” he said. I wonder why.

  But not everyone was indoors. A grand white building stood at the end of the street. Above the double doors, a man with a rag stood at the top of a ladder. He was polishing a large clock that said it was eleven o’clock.

  As they approached, Frankie spied a sign hanging above the doors that read EXPRESS TRAIN COMING THROUGH AT TWELVE O’CLOCK TODAY!

  “Hello there!” said Frankie.

  The man spun around, and the ladder wobbled beneath him. Frankie rushed forward and grabbed it before it fell. The man wore a black suit with a thin black tie. A whistle hung around his neck. Beneath his bushy white beard, his face looked sort of familiar.

  “You’re the Ref!” said Frankie.

  The man took out a pair of glasses from his top pocket and put them on. He squinted at Frankie and his friends.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “I’m the stationmaster here in Sweetsville.”

  “Sweetsville?” said Charlie. “Sounds like my kind of place!”

  “We’re Frankie’s FC,” said Louise.

  The stationmaster climbed down from his ladder, then pointed to the clock. “You’re early, then,” he said.

  “Early for what?” barked Max.

  The stationmaster didn’t seem surprised that a dog was talking to him. He shambled inside the station building and came out clutching a newspaper. He opened it up so Frankie could read the front cover:

  The Cowboy’s Crew

  vs.

  Frankie’s FC

  The Sweetsville Showdown

  High Noon!

  “High noon!” said Charlie. “Cool!”

  “That’s twelve o’clock to you,” said Max.

  Charlie scowled. “I know that, fur-face.”

  Louise nudged Frankie. “I don’t like the sound of the Cowboy’s Crew,” she said.

  “No one does,” said the stationmaster. “They are the meanest group of bandits this side of the mountains. Over in Candytown, they stole every bar of chocolate from the store. The kids there haven’t seen anything sweet all summer!”

  “That’s awful!” said Charlie.

  “And over by Jelly Mountain,” said the stationmaster, “they blew up the sugar mines! The folks up there have to make cakes with salt instead of sugar!”

  “Yuck!” said Louise.

  So that’s why everyone’s hiding, thought Frankie.

  “No point standing around here,” said the stationmaster. “Why don’t you go and rest in the saloon?” He nodded across the street. “No milkshakes, I’m afraid. The Cowboy’s Crew made sure of that. Just water.”

  “A rest sounds good,” said Charlie, fanning his hat in front of his face. “It’s hot out here!”

  “A glass of water will be fine,” said Frankie, “but then we have to practice.”

  He led his team back across the street, kicking the ball in front of him. The Cowboy’s Crew would be tough opponents, no doubt. We’ll have to do some passing drills. Then shooting. A bead of sweat trickled down his back. We’d better not tire ourselves out, though.

  Max ran ahead. “Let me go first, guys,” he said. “In the movies, these saloons are a little rough-and-tumble. They don’t like strangers, so you need to speak the lingo to fit in.”

  He scampered beneath the swing doors, and Frankie pushed through after him. A bell rang above.

  “Howdy, partners,” Max said. “We’re just passin’ by … Oh.”

  Frankie laughed. The saloon wasn’t what he was expecting at all. There were no tables, no outlaws, and no bar. In fact, it wasn’t a saloon at all.

  “Awesome!” said Charlie. “A candy store!”

  But then his face fell, and Frankie saw why. Though hundreds of jars filled the shelves on the wall, nearly all were empty. Some had a few hard candies on the bottom, others contained one or two chocolates or toffees. Trays on the counter had a few dusty gumdrops. Frankie saw a pot with a single lollipop, and some ancient-looking jawbreakers and marshmallows.

  “Coming!” called a voice, then a plump woman with frizzy hair shuffled up behind the counter. “Greetings,” she said. “What can I …?”

  The shopkeeper trailed off and her face drained of color. She was staring at Louise and her mouth opened and closed like a gasping fish.

  “Oh my giddy gumdrops!” she cried. Then she bustled out into the street screaming, “Sheriff! Sheriff Quigley! Come quick!”

  “What got into her?” asked Louise.

  Charlie opened a jar on the counter and sniffed suspiciously. “Who knows?” he said. “Maybe she didn’t like your dress!”

  Frankie took the chocolate out of Charlie’s hand and placed it on the counter. “These aren’t ours,” he said. “Plus, we’re playing in an hour. You don’t want to get sick.”

  “She just walked in, plain as day!” came the shopkeeper’s voice from outside. “Be careful, Sheriff. She’s dangerous!”

  The swing doors opened again, and a tall, gray-haired man wearing a starred sheriff’s badge strode into the candy store. He placed his hands on his hips, and Frankie saw he had a gun in his holster. The woman who owned the store peered out from behind him, trembling.

  “Listen here,” he said. “We don’t want any trouble, miss. You’re coming with me to jail.”

  “Jail?” said Louise. “But
I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “Don’t make this hard,” said the sheriff, stepping forward.

  Charlie stood in his path, shielding Louise with his gloves. “You leave her alone!” he said.

  Quick as a flash, the sheriff drew his six-shooter and fired at Charlie’s feet. Max leapt into the air and Frankie froze.

  When the smoke from the barrel cleared, Frankie saw something white smeared just in front of Charlie’s toes. Max sniffed at it.

  “Chewing gum,” he growled.

  “Ugh!” said Louise. “That’s gross!”

  “The next time you won’t be so lucky,” said the sheriff. “Out of the way, kid.”

  Charlie stood his ground, but Louise touched him on the shoulder. “It’s all right,” she said. “I’ll go with him and get this sorted out.”

  The sheriff tied Louise’s hands with what looked like a strawberry licorice and led her out of the shop. Frankie followed with Charlie and Max. The station clock read twenty past eleven. We can’t afford for Louise to be locked up, he thought. The game’s in forty minutes, and we don’t have any subs!

  “This is a big mistake,” Max said.

  “It was a mistake trying to rob my shop!” cried the shopkeeper. “I can’t believe the legendary Miss Sue-Ann just rode into town.”

  “Who’s Miss Sue-Ann?” asked Charlie.

  The jailhouse was a stone building across the street from the saloon. Pinned to the front wall were several sheets of windblown paper, each one showing a drawing of a face with the word “WANTED” above. The sheriff pointed to one in the middle. “There she is!”

  Frankie peered closer. The picture was of Louise! True, she had a bandana pulled up over her face, but the eyes were the same and so was the hair. Beneath the portrait were the words: MISS SUE-ANN. WANTED FOR CANDY-RUSTLING. RUNS WITH THE COWBOY’S CREW, THE MOST FEARSOME GANG IN THE WILD WEST!

  The sheriff opened the door. “Sandy!” he shouted. “You’ll never guess who just moseyed on into town!” No answer came from inside. “Sandy?” Still nothing. Sheriff Quigley growled. “That good-fer-nothing …” he said. “Late again.”

  He unfastened Louise’s wrists, shoved her inside, and then started munching on the strawberry licorice. He pointed a finger at Frankie’s chest. “You and your sweet-toothed gang better lie low. Tex and the rest of the Cowboy’s Crew will be here soon, and you don’t want to get in their way.”