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Freddie 'Dribbler' Loehms, peg defence
Duchess of Sheffield, wingman
LEGAL TEAM: Wapcaplitt & Sfortz
LINESMAN: Ian Paten
COACH: Geoffrey Snurge
Swindon Mallets:
Aubrey Jambe (captain)
Alan 'Biffo' Mandible, niidfield
'Snake' Spillikin, forward striker
Grunk (Neanderthal), defence
Warg (Neanderthal), striker
Dorf (Neanderthal), rog defence
Stiggim (Neanderthal),roquet taker
'Srnudger' Blamey, forward hoop
Zim (Neanderthal), striker
Penelope Hrah, tnid-hoop wingman
Thursday Next, manager/midfield
LEGAL TEAM: Runcorn & Twizzit
SUB: John 'Jonno' Swift
COACH: Alf Widdershame
I took up my station at the twenty-yard line and looked around the green. The rhododendron bushes in the centre occluded my vision of the backhoop right; I glanced up at the Scoreboard and clock. Two minutes to go. There were three other natural hazards that we were to play around on the green — the tea party, which even now was being stocked by volunteers, the garden roller and the Italian sunken garden. Once the tea party volunteers were safe and the parson umpire was happy that his curate linesmen were all in position, the klaxon went off with a loud blare.
Many things happened at once. There were two almost simultaneous clacks as both teams whacked off, and I ran forward instinctively to intercept the pass from Biffo. Since the Whackers didn't think I was of any use I had been left unmarked, and Biffo's pass came sailing towards me. I was flushed by the excitement and caught it in midair, smashing it towards the opponent's ball for what looked like an aerial roquet. It didn't work. I missed by about a foot. The opponent's ball carried on to the forty-yard line, where Spurrier blasted it through the backhoop right — the classic 'Bomperini' opener. I didn't have time to think about it as there was a shout of 'Thursday!' from Aubrey and I turned to make a swipe at the opposition's ball.
The klaxon went and everyone stopped playing. I had touched the opponent's ball when south of the forty-yard line after it had been passed from the last person to have hit a red ball in the opposite direction - one of the more obvious offside transgressions.
'Sorry, guys,' I said as the Whackers lined up to take their penalty. O'Fathens took the shot and catapulted our ball into the rhododendrons. As George tried to find it, and with our other ball out of play in the Italian sunken garden, the Whackers' team went on the offensive and hooped three times before we'd even caught our breath. Even when we found the ball we were too dispersed, and after another twenty-eight minutes of hard defensive footwork we managed to end the first third with only four hoops to Reading's eight.
'There are too many of them,' panted Snake. 'Eight—four is the worst opening score for a Superhoop final ever.'
'We're not beaten yet,' replied Jambe, taking a drink. 'Thursday, you played well.'
'Well?' I returned, taking off my helmet and wiping the sweat from my brow. 'I sank the ball with my first whack and dropped us a hoop on the offside penalty!'
'But we still scored a hoop - and we would already have lost if you hadn't joined us. You just need to relax more. You're playing as though the world depended on it.'
The team didn't know it, but I was.
'Just relax a bit, take a second before you whack and you'll be fine. Biffo — good work, and nice hoop, Penelope, although if you chase their wingman again you might be booked.'
