38

WCL Superhoop '88

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 ifyou 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.'

'Urg,' replied Penelope.

'Mr Jambe?' said Mr Runcorn, who had been working on a rearguard legal challenge to the anti-Neanderthal ruling.

'Yes? Do we have a case?'

'I'm afraid not. I can't seem to find any grounds. The non-human precedent was overruled on appeal — I'm very sorry, sir. I think I'm playing very badly — might I resign and bring on the legal substitute?'

'It's not your fault,' said Jambe kindly. 'Have the substitute lawyer continue the search.'

Runcorn bowed and went to sit on the lawyers' bench, where a young man in a badly fitting suit had been sitting silently throughout the first third.

'That Duchess is murder,' muttered Biffo breathlessly. 'She almost had me twice.'

'Isn't striking an opponent a red-card three-hoop penalty offence?' I asked.

'Of course! But if she can take out our best player, then it might be worth it. Keep an eye on her, everyone.'

'Mr Jambe?'

It was the referee, who told us that further litigation had been brought against our team. We dutifully approached the Port-a-Court, where the judges were just signing an amendment to the World Croquet League book of law.

'What is it?'

'As a result of the Danish Economic (Scapegoat) Act coming into law, people of Danish descent are not permitted to vote or take key jobs.'

'When did this law come into effect?'

'Five minutes ago.'

I looked up at Kaine in the VIP box. He smiled and waved at me.

'So?' asked Jambe. 'Kaine's dopey ideas have no relevance to croquet — this is sport, not politics.'

The Whackers' lawyer, Mr Wapcaplitt, coughed politely.

'In that you would be mistaken. The definition of "key job" includes any highly paid sports personality. We have conducted some background checks and discovered that Ms Penelope Hrah was born in Copenhagen — she's Danish.'

Jambe was silent.

'I might have been born there but I'm not Danish' said Hrah, taking a menacing step towards Wapcaplitt. 'My parents were on holiday at the time.'

'We are well aware of the facts,' intoned Wapcaplitt, 'and have already sought judgment on this matter. You were born in Denmark, you are technically Danish, you are in a "key job" and are thus disqualified from playing on this team.'

'Balls!' yelled Aubrey. 'If she was born in a kennel would that make her a dog?'

'Hmm,' replied the attorney thoughtfully, 'it's an interesting legal question.'

Penelope couldn't contain herself any longer and went for him. It took four of us to hold her back, and she had to be forcibly restrained and frog-marched from the green.

'Down to five players,' muttered Jambe. 'Below the minimum player requirement.'

'Yes,' said Mr Wapcaplitt glibly, 'it appears the Whackers are the winners—'

'I think not,' interrupted our substitute lawyer, whose name we learned was Twizzit. 'As my most esteemed colleague so rightly pointed out, the rule states: "any team that fails to start the game with the minimum of six players forfeits the match". The way I see it, the match has already begun and we can carry on playing with five. Your honours?'

The judges put their heads together for a moment and then pronounced:

'This court finds for the Swindon Mallets in this matter. They may continue to play into the second third with five players.'

We walked slowly back to the touchline. Four of the Neanderthal players were still sitting on the bench, staring off into space.

'Where's Stig?' I asked them.