TEAM MARTIN
That night, I didn’t quite get my full forty winks of sleep – in fact, I barely got two or three winks, as the Wonkey refused to snooze. I read stories, rubbed his belly, hugged his hoofs, whistled up his nose, and everything else they suggested in the handbook, but it wasn’t until Martin bounded out of bed, ready to start a new day, that Wilbert finally nodded off.
So I was feeling a little groggy as I sat at the back of the classroom listening to Mr Jackson drone on. But Martin was wide awake, eagerly putting his plan into motion. And as their teacher handed out results of a class test about what they did on their science trip, the determined boy took note of which students did best.
‘Next up – Declan Mannion,’ called Mr Jackson from the front of the room.
As Declan went up to retrieve his results, there were snickers from the rest of the class. This did not usually go too well.
‘What’s the damage, Jermaine?’ Declan asked.
His teacher frowned at him, handing him back the test.
‘F minus. We may as well get married, Declan – looks like we’ll be spending the rest of our lives together in this classroom.’
There was a chuckle from the room. This soon died when Declan turned around and glared.
‘No thanks, Jermaine. I’m never getting married again, but cheers for the offer.’
Declan walked off, leaving his teacher a little confused. Martin wrote down the latest poor result in his copybook.
‘It’s pretty slim pickings here, buddy,’ I whispered.
‘Yeah, when did kids get so dumb?’
‘Trevor’s got the best score so far.’
‘He always does fairly well in tests. And don’t his new glasses make him look particularly clever?’
‘And so grown up,’ I agreed.
‘I should probably include him in the team – he loves being part of stuff.’
‘Ah, yeah. It’ll really make his day.’
The boy nodded, happy to be doing Trevor a huge favour.
‘Trev . . .’ Martin called, in a hushed but excited tone. ‘Wanna be in a super-secret science team?’
‘Yeah, whatever,’ Trevor replied, barely looking up.
‘Cool. Love the new glasses, by the way.’
‘Thanks – they’re my auntie’s. Dad sat on mine.’
Martin turned back to me and I gave him an encouraging look. ‘OK, so there’s you. And there’s Trevor. We’re halfway there.’
But as Martin looked around the room, his confidence drained from his already pale face. Was there anyone else with the Right Stuff to be on Team Martin . . . ?
During break-time, we were cornered by an irate Padraic behind the bike sheds. He’d heard about Martin’s plan and was shocked not to be automatically included.
‘But you’ve got to have me in the group,’ Padraic insisted. ‘What kind of party doesn’t invite the P-Dog?’
‘Like I said before, Padraic, it’s not a party.’
‘Not without me it’s not.’
‘I’ll tell you what, P, why don’t you use this opportunity to sell yourself to me?’
‘How much? I’ll not take less than a fiver.’
‘No, I mean, tell me what you’d bring to Team Martin.’
‘Well,’ Padraic said. ‘A better flippin’ name for a start.’
‘C’mon, P!’
‘OK, OK. Well . . . I’m punctual.’
‘I can’t argue with that; you’re a wonderful timekeeper.’
‘I always carry a spare sandwich in my pocket,’ added Padraic, pulling out a soggy sarnie from his trousers.
‘Noted,’ Martin noted.
‘I’m good with animals.’
‘Not sure how that’ll help, but OK.’
‘I’m excellent at maths.’
‘That one is not true.’
‘Nope, that one was a lie – I’ll admit to that.’
‘I dunno, Padraic. I really need the best of the best!’
‘I put the A in team!’ Padraic exclaimed, holding up his science results.
‘Did you get an A in the test?’ Martin asked, surprised.
‘No, I got a C minus.’
‘Well, there’s no C in team, Padraic.’
‘There’s a C in cream. Can I be in some cream?’
‘I want to win this thing, P, and I need every team member to bring something special.’
‘OK, well, what you’ll get from me is total loyalty. One hundred and ten per cent. Loyalty, plus the aforementioned spare sandwich.’
Martin considered his friend’s plea.
‘P-Dog – you know I can’t say no to a sandwich. You’re in!’
‘In what?’ came a voice behind us.
We turned to find Declan Mannion staring at us, with a cigar in his mouth. He was certainly not part of the plan.
‘In, eh . . .’ Martin tried to think quickly of something. ‘In . . . school. I was just telling Padraic that he’s in school. He was saying that this was a hospital, and I was assuring him that he’s not having surgery today. Because he’s in school.’
‘Good save, buddy,’ I lied.
‘In what?’ Declan repeated, this time looking at Padraic.
‘We’re all in a big party!’ Padraic replied excitedly.
‘It’s not a flippin’ party!’ Martin hissed.
Declan noticed the entry form in Martin’s hand and snatched it from his feeble grasp.
‘What the flip is an Invention Convention?’ he demanded.
‘Oh, it’s just some boring classwork-based nonsense. It’s certainly not the kind of thing you’d be—’
‘The winners get gold medals?’ Declan noted, still reading the entry form. ‘Grand, I’m in too.’
‘What? But . . . I don’t think you’ll enjoy it, Dec—’
‘I need gold. I don’t trust paper money any more. All my operations are moving to gold.’
Martin looked to me. I shrugged. I’ve always liked Declan. He’s the kind of guy that’s good to know. In prison.
‘Cool,’ Martin lied. ‘I’ll let you know the details when I—’
But Declan had already walked off. He was in.
‘Now it’s a party!’ Padraic added, before skipping off to the toilets.
Martin considered the newly formed team. He seemed less than impressed with what he’d just created.
‘Sean, I bet those kids from St Whimmion’s are as sharp as a Wonkey’s front teeth. What have we got?’
I looked out at Padraic skipping happily away with a party in his step, Trevor poorly bouncing a basketball in his auntie’s reading glasses, and Declan ‘Can’t-Stop-Failing-Sixth-Class’ Mannion playing blackjack on a beer keg.
‘It’s not just about brains, Martin. Finding the right mix is the key to a successful team,’ I told him confidently.
‘I don’t know, Sean . . .’
‘Look at the A Team*. They’ve got a wily* old con man – for us, that’s Declan. They’ve got the handsome charmer with a twinkle in his eye – that’s Trevor.’
‘Yeah,’ Martin agreed. ‘Those new glasses do make his dull eyes sparkle.’
‘They’ve got the tough guy who’s afraid of aeroplanes.’
‘I did once see Padraic duck under a table when he saw someone making a paper jet,’ Martin agreed.
‘And lastly, they’ve got the crazy loon.’ As I pointed at Martin, he seemed unimpressed by his status in the group.
‘The crazy loon?’
‘The wild card,’ I assured him. ‘The man of mystery who always surprises the enemy.’
‘Well, I do surprise myself many times daily,’ he agreed. ‘You’re right, Sean. We can do this!’
‘We sure can, kiddo. All we need now is a better name.’
‘Hmmm,’ Martin thought. ‘How about The A-Team?’
‘I feel like that one’s kinda taken, buddy.’
‘The B-Team?’
‘The B-Team? Hmmm. I like it! I like it a lot.’
‘Agreed, Sean!’ he cried. ‘What sounds more like victory than The B-Team?!’
