ROUND ONE
After all the Team Trepdem excitement, Martin and I were planning to have a nice, quiet evening at home. Martin fancied a bath to calm his nerves after his escape from Declan’s dogs, and I was hoping to spend some quality time with Wilbert.
When I collected him from an exhausted and dishevelled Crunchie, I borrowed a couple of books from my wrestler pal called Mysteries of the Imaginary World and A History of Weird Bottles, which I hoped might shed some light on the N.P. puzzle. Crunchie wasn’t much of a reader, but kept a large collection of books to pad the walls of his ‘home wrestling studio’ (his kitchen).
But before I could turn to N.P.-solving, there was a Wonkey to milk. And although those weird little things on his belly kinda freaked me out, the handbook assured me that Wonkey-milking was a delightful bonding experience for both IF and IP (Imaginary Pet).
‘But I thought you’d already bonded,’ said Martin as we walked up the Moone driveway. ‘Didn’t I see him hugging you yesterday?’
‘Actually, I think the little scamp was trying to strangle me with his hoofs!’ I chuckled. ‘But I’m sure that once we have a nice milking session, we’ll be the best of buds. Duck, Martin!’ I yelled, as some pink pellets came flying over our heads, just missing us.
‘Sorry about that. He keeps throwing his poop at me. Bad Wilbert, bad!’ I scolded. But the Wonkey just honked with laughter.
When Martin opened the front door, he found his family gathered in the hallway, waiting for him, and his bath plans quickly disappeared down the plughole.
‘Ah, there ya are, Martin!’ exclaimed his mother. ‘Quick – into the car.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘Where do you think?’ replied his dad, who was wearing a white T-shirt with the words ‘Up, Sinead!’ scrawled on it in black marker. ‘Sinead’s got her big sack-punch tonight. The county final!’
‘It’s the best out of three,’ added Debra excitedly, ‘so if she wins tonight, she’ll be halfway to the crown of Roscommon!’
Fidelma sighed, wearing a T-shirt that read ‘No Mercy, Moone’. ‘Are we ready yet? I’ve tons of studying to do.’
‘Trisha!’ hollered Liam towards the girls’ bedroom.
Finally she appeared, wearing potato earrings, with the words ‘Sack her good, Sinead!’ scrawled across her face in red lipstick. It looked slightly scary, but Liam ignored that fact since it was also quite supportive.
‘Right, everyone in the car! And no one talk to Sinead,’ warned Liam. ‘She’s in the zone!’
As they piled into the car, Martin whispered to me, ‘You stay here, Sean, and after you milk Wilbert, work on the N.P. mystery. That’s a lot more important than watching Sinead punch potatoes.’
‘Will do,’ I promised. ‘But fill me in later!’
Martin gave a salute and squeezed into the back seat beside Sinead, who was meditating.
‘Hi, Sinead!’ he chirped.
She immediately punched him, giving him a perfect dead arm without even opening her eyes.
‘Ow!’
‘I said no talking, Martin! Don’t let him distract you, Sinead!’ Liam called as he started the engine. ‘Stay in the zone! Just stay in the zone!’
He floored the accelerator, and they sped away.
A little later, the Moones were seated near the stage in the packed Roscommon Town Hall, waiting for the two sack warriors to appear.
‘Looks like Sinead’s the favourite to win!’ exclaimed Debra as she glanced over at the bookies*, who were taking the final bets. ‘Should we put some money on her?’
‘Don’t worry, love, I’ve already bet Martin’s entire college fund,’ Liam informed her.
‘You’ve what?!’ blurted Martin.
‘Relax, Martin – it was only twenty quid,’ admitted his dad.
‘Let’s get ready to rummmmbbbbblllle!’ came a voice from the stage. They looked up to see a priest in his black outfit, who was also wearing a red sparkly jacket that would have looked more at home in Las Vegas. ‘Haha, always wanted to do that. Welcome to the Roscommon Final of the World Sack-Punching Championships!’
The crowd roared and pounded their feet with excitement.
‘This event really puts the fun into fundraiser, and the cha-ching into sack-punching!’ joked the priest into the mic. ‘Thanks to all of you, we’ve raised enough money to put that new roof on the church toilet – and that’s what really matters tonight, isn’t it? That’s why we’re really here.’
There was a confused smattering of applause.
‘Only joking!’ chuckled the priest. ‘We’re here for sack-punching – am I right?’
The crowd erupted into cheers.
‘Hahaha. Lovely stuff. Then let’s bring out the contenders! In the red corner, all the way from beautiful Boyle, she’s a freestyle sack-puncher! She’s a biter, she’s a kicker, she doesn’t care what she does so long as she gets the job done. She’s the Majestic Moone, Sinead the Scrapper! Give it up for the Champion of North Roscommon . . . Sinead Moone!’
There was a mighty roar as Sinead wandered out in her tracksuit and stood on stage looking bored as the audience chanted her name.
‘Moone! Moone! Moone!’
‘And in the blue corner,’ the priest continued, ‘from rocky Knockcroghery, we have the light-footed florist, the dancing gardener, the titan with the trowel. She smells like petals and has fists like metal, it’s the Champion of South Roscommon . . . Fury O’Hare!’
Another cheer, and out came Mrs O’Hare. She was a small, kind-faced lady in her sixties, and was still wearing her florist’s apron with the name of her shop on it: ‘Let’s Talk Some Scents’.
She waved at the crowd, and then glared at Sinead icily.
‘Lower the sacks!’ shouted the priest.
From the rafters, two sacks of potatoes were lowered on ropes – one for each contender.
‘Each sack holds three hundred medium-sized potatoes,’ continued the priest, ‘thoroughly washed, with skin still on. There’s only one rule here, folks: punch until mashed. Whoever pulverizes every potato first will win tonight’s battle. And whoever wins two battles will take the sack-punching crown of Roscommon. Fighters, are we ready?’
Fury O’Hare took off her wedding ring and popped it in her apron pocket. Sinead spat out her chewing gum.
The crowd waited with bated breath.
‘But first,’ shouted the priest, ‘let’s have a quick prayer.’
He bowed his head. A few members of the confused audience lowered their heads too and started muttering a Hail Mary.
‘Only joking!’ chuckled the priest. ‘Let’s SACK-PUNCH!!!’
A bell rang out, and the battle began.
Back at home, I was feeding Wilbert a saucer of chopped onions, and while he gobbled them up, I reread the chapter on milking techniques.
How to Milk Your Wonkey in Six Easy Steps
1. Play some soothing music.
2. Light some candles.
3. Make sure your hands are warm.
4. Grasp the Wonkey’s udder, and squish gently, but firmly, like squeezing a tiny roll of toothpaste.
5. Sing to your Wonkey as you fill your milk jug.
6. Afterwards, tickle your Wonkey’s ears and offer it an ice-cream cake.
Music: check.
Candles: check.
Warm hands: check.
But things started to go wrong at Number 4. I grasped his little udder as firmly and gently as I could, but he didn’t like that one bit, and whacked me across the face with a hoof.
‘Wilbert!’ I cried. ‘You need to be milked—’
Whack!
‘– once a month or your milk—’
Whack!
‘– will turn to cheese and you’ll get cheese cramps!’
Whack! Whack! Whack!
He stood up on his hind legs and jiggled his belly, trying to shake me off, but I clung on tighter. Then he spun me around in circles. As I whirled around him, I used my free hand to see if the handbook had any other suggestions.
It read: ‘If your Wonkey is reluctant to be milked, then cradle it in your arms and sprinkle kisses on its nose.’
Just then, I lost my grip with my udder hand and went crashing across the room.
Wilbert brayed with laughter as I struggled to my feet and staggered towards him in a daze. When I stooped down to pick him up and cradle him, he simply sat down on top of me.
And there he stayed – no matter how much I struggled and shrieked.
I lay on the floor with a face full of buttock, and began to wonder if I was really cut out to be a Wonkey-owner.
‘So much for quality time,’ I sighed sadly, ‘And so much for solving the mystery of N.P . . .’
Meanwhile, in the hall, the battle was still raging.
‘C’mon, Sinead!’ shouted Debra. ‘Mash those spuds!’
‘Slap that sack, Sinead!’ bellowed Liam. ‘Slap it like it’s your worst enemy!’
‘Yeah, slap it like it’s me!’ suggested Martin.
But it was clear to them all that Sinead was struggling. She was exhausted, and her punch-rhythm was slowing down. It was understandable of course – she’d been whacking a sack of potatoes for twenty-six minutes – but Fury O’Hare seemed, if anything, to be getting faster. As Sinead slowed, there was a new spring in the florist’s step, sensing victory.
Fury’s tiny fists were a blur. She danced around her sack, landing left and right hooks as fast as lightning, floating like a butterfly and slicing like a butter knife.
‘C’mon, Sinead!’ urged Liam desperately.
But a few precise punches later, the little old lady obliterated the last spuds in her sack and raised her small red fists in victory as the final bell rang out.
Back in the car, the Moones drove home in silence, trying to come to terms with the shocking loss of Round One.
‘You were robbed, Sinead!’ said Liam suddenly. ‘Robbed!’
Debra nodded bitterly. ‘That woman’s potatoes must have been parboiled*!’
But Sinead just shrugged. ‘Fury fought a good fight. I lost fair and square.’
‘Well, it’s not over yet,’ Liam reminded her. ‘It’s the best out of three, so you’ve got one more chance to beat her. Right, Sinead?’
But Sinead just stared out the window.
In some ways, Martin was glad that there was one less winner in the house lording it over him, but he also felt sorry for his sister. He knew that losing wasn’t pleasant, and it was something that he really wanted to avoid with this science adventure. He couldn’t bear the thought of those posh kids from St Whimmion’s laughing at him or his friends again, and putting their rich, dirtless hands all over those shiny science medals.
Martin wanted to win this time. And Sinead’s defeat made him hope even more desperately that their application would be successful, so they could take gold at the Invention Convention. His face could only take its rightful place on the Winners Wall if they won. There was no ‘Runners-Up Wall’, or ‘You Tried Your Best Wall’, or ‘Your Mammy Bought You A Medal And Told Us To Give It To You Wall’. Not this time.
Winning was crucial, Martin decided. Winning was vital. Winning was the most important thing ever.