What people are saying about Fergus, the Soccer-Playing Colt:
“A charming book geared toward pre-teen boys. This story of a horse who dares to be different and the boys who embrace his uniqueness instead of trying to get him to conform gives the positive message that different can be good. There is plenty of action and adventure in this story that should appeal to young soccer fans and horse lovers alike. This likeable little horse finds himself in danger after the villain and his bumbling henchmen kidnap him. Will Fergus escape and find his way back to his beloved owner, Bobby? What will become of the little dog that has become his friend? Will the evil Rumble Smith get the punishment he deserves?
“This book has enough suspense to keep me reading right to the satisfying epilogue. Fergus: The Soccer-playing Colt should interest even the most reluctant young reader.” — Katelyn Thomas, Roundtable Reviews
“Fergus is a delightful polo pony colt that shows a natural talent as a soccer goalkeeper. He comes to the attention of an international audience and is taken on a tour of America’s major cities in a series of demonstration soccer matches. Along the way, Fergus is stolen by an unscrupulous rodeo stock dealer from West Texas. Will Bobby Simpson ever find him, especially now that his appearance has been altered by a cosmetologist ex-pro football player?
“This is an excellent read for mid-grade boys and girls. Fergus the colt emerges as a character with his own personality, as does his pal, Bouncer the dog. The author emphasizes teamwork in both play and in the tracking down of the lost Fergus. He has given varied and interesting voices to all his characters, making them easy to delineate. This is an excellent book for reluctant readers.” — Bob Spear, Heartland Reviews
“Fergus, a palomino colt at Simpson Farms, displays unusual talents. Besides twirling in the air and executing daring back flips, Fergus loves to play soccer.…
“Peterson’s book should entice between (8- to 12-year-old) boys to read. He offers adventure, sports, and humor. His bad guys provide comic relief and still have a conscience. In an era when few books cater to the young male reader, Fergus is a welcome addition. Young girls can enjoy the story of this endearing colt, too.”
— Kim Peterson (not related to author) for Reader Views
“In this exciting adventure story, young Bobby Simpson and his friend, Ramon Aguilar, are playing soccer near the pasture one day when they discover that Bobby’s star palomino colt, Fergus, has an unusual talent. Fergus, bred to be a polo pony, plays goalie in their soccer game—and wins! …
“While a debut novel for the author, the story reflects Peterson’s impressive expertise and experience. He holds a degree in journalism and English…. Peterson knows all about horses, too, having grown up on a farm, and having raised paint horses to show.
“Exploring this delightful story—with its tension and obstacles—young readers will not only enjoy the adventures of a remarkable horse, but will also learn about the importance of friendship and family.…“It comes to a satisfying conclusion and offers interesting statistical information about some of the most famous ballparks and stadiums in the United States along the way.” — Carla L. Verderame, ForeWord Magazine
Fergus: The Soccer-Playing Colt
by
Dan A. Peterson
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2010 © Dan A Peterson
Cover Illustration © 2005 Ryan Weber
Print edition copyright: 2005 Dan A. Peterson
Published by:
Raven Publishing, Inc.
PO Box 2866
Norris, Montana
E-mail: Info@ravenpublishing.net
The illustrated print edition in Trade Paperback is available at:
and other online stores, gift shops and bookstores.
Publishers note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to any person, place, or event is coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book, text or illustrations, may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
For Birdeen, for my children
And for Maggie and Cole
Chapter 1
Fergus was a very unusual colt. He could dance like sunlight on water. He could twirl on his back legs like a ballerina. He could leap and hop and kick like other colts, but mostly he danced and whirled and did somersaults and back flips.
Of course there was no way of telling, but Jessie, Fergus’s mother, always looked worried about Fergus. And it was plain that Fergus’s somersaults, back flips and other antics worried Mrs. Simpson. “What will the neighbors think?” she wondered.
Mr. Simpson, Fergus’s owner, was really worried. Mr. Simpson raised polo ponies. He was worried about what everyone would think. Who would want to buy a weird colt like Fergus for a polo pony? Worse yet, who would buy any horses from Simpson Farms if they just happened to see Fergus do a couple of back flips and then twirl on his back legs like a ballerina?
But Fergus didn’t worry Bobby Simpson. Bobby thought Fergus was wonderful. Bobby could sit on the pasture fence all day long and watch Fergus twirl and whirl and do somersaults and back flips. Nothing Fergus did surprised him anymore.
One day Bobby and his friend, Ramon, were playing with a soccer ball just outside the pasture fence. Fergus stopped whirling and twirling and cocked his head to watch. He was very curious. He watched Bobby and Ramon pass the soccer ball back and forth, never touching it with their hands. They bumped it with their heads or kicked it with their feet. And the soccer ball sailed between them back and forth, back and forth.
Fergus was fascinated. He tossed his head. He flipped his tail around like a propeller. He blew air out his nose and stomped his left forefoot. He startled Bobby and Ramon. Maybe even scared them a little bit.
“Why’s he doing that?” asked Ramon.
“I’m not sure,” Bobby answered, then added jokingly, “Maybe he wants to play soccer.”
“Yeah. Right,” said Ramon, casting a wry smile at Bobby.
“Let’s see,” Bobby said, no more convinced than Ramon that Fergus wanted to play soccer. He tossed the ball over the pasture fence to the colt. And just as if he had been practicing with a soccer ball all his young colt life, with a toss of his head he sent it squarely back to Bobby.
Bobby and Ramon’s eyes grew wide. They stared at Fergus. Fergus cocked his head and stared back.
“Did you see that?” Bobby asked Ramon, his eyebrows raised into question marks.
“I saw it, but I don’t believe it,” Ramon said. “Pass the ball back to him and see what he does.”
Bobby tossed the ball in the air, headed it in Fergus’s direction, and watched Fergus tap it back in a perfect arc so that he could easily return it again. Bobby headed the ball back to Fergus, and with a toss of his head, Fergus passed the ball perfectly back.
“I still can’t believe it,” shouted Ramon. “He heads the ball better than we do.”
“Let’s try something else,” Bobby said. He climbed over the fence into the pasture. Ramon followed. Fergus watched them expectantly then jumped into the air, turned a full circle, and hopped and bucked and turned somersaults across the pasture.
His mother snorted and tossed her head and switched her tail as if a horsefly were tormenting her. “Now what?” she seemed to ask. All the other mares had stopped grazing and were watching Fergus and Bobby and Ramon intently.
Fergus whizzed through the pasture like a whirlwind, zigzagging through the mares and other colts. With snorts and stomps, the mares herded their colts and fillies to the far end of the pasture where they all turned and glared at Fergus. But Fergus just kept turning somersaults.
“Okay, settle down, Fergus,” Bobby called, “or we won’t be able to do this. Come here, Fergus, come here.”
Fergus raced back towards Bobby, slowed to a trot, then to a walk, until he was at Bobby’s side. Bobby stroked Fergus’s neck and scratched his withers. “Okay, Fergus. It’s time to calm down.”
The colt began to relax under Bobby’s gentle hands.
“Listen, Fergus,” Bobby said, draping an arm over Fergus’s neck. “We’re going to teach you how to play soccer. Well, we’re not going to teach you the whole game right off. We’re just going to see how you do as a goalkeeper.”
Fergus cocked his ears forward. His eyes gleamed. He was jumpy with excitement again.
“First we have to have a goal,” Bobby said. “Come on, Ramon. Let’s find something to build a goal with,” and they set off, leaving Fergus and the soccer ball behind.
When they returned, each dragging a long post, Fergus was balancing the ball on his nose like a sea lion. They watched, astonished, as Fergus bounced the ball off his nose into the air, never once letting it drop to the ground. He stood on his back legs and tossed the ball even higher with his nose until it almost disappeared. Then he tossed the ball into the air once again, did a back flip, and kicked the ball with his two back feet, sending it climbing even higher.
“Awesome!” Ramon exclaimed.
“He’s just showing off,” said Bobby. But Bobby thought it was awesome too.
Fergus looked altogether like he was smirking.
“Let’s build the goal,” Bobby said. “He can do it. I know he can. He’ll be the best goalkeeper anyone has ever seen!”
As Fergus watched curiously, the boys went to work.
When they finally had the posts stuck in the ground, almost exactly eight yards apart, and almost exactly eight feet high, Bobby called Fergus over. Fergus took tiny, cautious steps. He trusted Bobby, but he was unsure about the posts.
“Don’t be scared, Fergus,” Ramon said in a very gentle voice. “It’s still a game. We’re still playing a game.”
Ramon’s gentle voice was reassuring. Fergus knew now that he wouldn’t be tied to one of the posts or be forced to trot around in circles like some of the older colts and fillies. He wasn’t ready to be trained as a horse just yet.
Bobby and Ramon had also marked out the goal area with the shovel. Bobby pointed it out to Fergus. “Okay, Fergus,” Bobby explained, “this is the goal area, and there’s the goal. You stay in the goal area and keep the ball out of the goal—like this.”
Bobby crouched in front of the goal. “Okay, Ramon. Take some penalty kicks. But not hard ones. All we’re trying to do is show Fergus what he’s supposed to do.”
Ramon sailed an easy one towards the goal, and Bobby stretched to stop it. He stopped several easy ones and missed a few hard kicks that Ramon had taken from the penalty spot.
“That’s not funny, Ramon,” Bobby yelled as a very hard kick sped by him. “Remember, we’re just trying to give Fergus the idea.”
“Your turn,” Bobby said to Fergus. “It’s your turn to show us what you can do.” Bobby scratched Fergus under his chin then led him over to the goal. “You stand here, Fergus,” Bobby instructed, “and don’t let a ball get by you. See, Fergus, this is the goal.” Bobby turned Fergus’s head this way and that so that Fergus would be sure to see both goal posts. “And you’re not to let the ball get through. Do you understand?”
Fergus’s ears perked and twitched, and his eyes shone. He tossed his head, and his forelock flipped back between his ears. He snorted and arched his tail and stomped the ground with a forefoot.
“He knows!” shouted Bobby. “He knows just what he’s supposed to do!”
“He does know!” echoed Ramon. “He’s ready to play!”
“Yes!” yelled Bobby, pumping a fist. “Okay, Fergus. Let’s do it!”
Fergus spun a dizzy circle before dancing into position. He looked back along his left side with his left eye and saw a goal post. Then he looked back along his right side with his right eye and saw the other goal post. Perfect position. “Okay. I’m ready,” he seemed to say.
“You take the first kick, Ramon,” Bobby said. “He’s been watching you kick. He’ll know what to expect.”
Ramon placed the ball on the penalty spot. Fergus watched him carefully. “Here it comes, Fergus,” Ramon warned. Fergus tossed his head impatiently.
“Come on, Ramon,” Bobby yelled, as impatient as Fergus. “He knows it’s coming. Look at him. He’s waiting for it. He’s waiting for you, for heck sakes. Just kick the ball.”
Ramon took a step backward. Fergus watched intently. Then Ramon took a step forward and whipped his foot into the waiting soccer ball. It spun like a tiny planet towards Fergus and the goal. Bobby crossed his fingers and scrunched his eyes. Hardly able to watch, he held his breath.
Fergus was cool-headed. Not worried at all it seemed. He would protect the goal. Easily. Bobby could sense it. It was to his left and a little higher than his head, and Fergus had to reach for it, but he stopped the ball, and with his head sent it back to Ramon. Then for the joy of it all, he flipped a backwards somersault.
“He did it!” Bobby yelled.
“He did it!” Ramon echoed.
Fergus whinnied and did another backwards somersault.
“Stay there, Fergus,” Bobby said. “We’ll do some more.”
Fergus lined himself up with the goal again. He looked back along his left side. Then he looked back along his right side. Perfect. The ball spun towards him again. He stopped it. The boys cheered. And Ramon kicked another one. And another one. And another one. And Fergus stopped every one. Soon the boys were kicking or heading the ball at Fergus from all angles and from different distances until it seemed like the sky over the pasture was full of soccer balls. And Fergus did not miss one. And he discovered he could stop the ball with his feet just as easily as he could with his head. And soon the ball was taking trips around the pasture courtesy of Fergus’s accurate hind feet.
“I’m tired,” said Ramon. “I’ve had enough.”
“Yeah. Me too,” said Bobby. “Can you believe he didn’t even let one get by him?”
“Pretty amazing,” said Ramon, wiping the sweat off his forehead.
Fergus was disappointed. Bobby could see it. So could Ramon. “Don’t worry, Fergus,” Bobby said, gently patting Fergus on the neck. “We’ll do it again tomorrow. I promise.”
“Yeah, Fergus. We’ll come back tomorrow,” Ramon vowed.
“Now go back to your mother, Fergus,” Bobby said. “She’s worried about you.”
Fergus looked longingly at the soccer ball Ramon carried, then trotted over to his mother and nuzzled her nose.
Every afternoon for the rest of the week Bobby and Ramon and Fergus met at the goal posts in the pasture to practice. Fergus of course really didn’t need to practice. To him, more balls flying in his direction meant more fun, and sometimes he just couldn’t contain himself. Often, after he’d stopped a dozen or so balls in a row, he’d just have to jump and twist, front end this way, back end that way, until he looked like a contortionist in a carnival. He’d dash off in a wide circle around the pasture, then he’d slide to a stop at his mother’s side and nuzzle her cheek as if to tell her not to worry. Then, looking to all the world like he was smiling, he’d race back and take his position at the goal. Every day was a glorious day for Fergus.
Of course it didn’t take long for the word to get around that there was a soccer-playing horse at the Simpson place. Well, actually a soccer-playing colt, as a growing number of spectators discovered. And soon, every afternoon a long line of boys and girls, men and women would be draped over the Simpson’s pasture fence, watching Fergus at the goal. Their eyes would grow wide with disbelief as Fergus denied ball after ball kicked or headed at his goal.
Chapter 2
Mr. Simpson had a good mind to put a stop to it all. “I’m not raising soccer horses,” he said to Bobby one day, his arms folded resolutely across his large chest. “I’m raising polo ponies—to sell—for money. And who’s going to buy a polo pony from me if they see Fergus clowning around and playing soccer, for heaven’s sakes?”
“But, Dad . . .” Bobby began.
“But Dad nothing,” Mr. Simpson said, raising his voice. “It doesn’t look good.”
“Oh what’s the harm?” Mrs. Simpson said to Mr. Simpson. “I think Fergus is quite charming. And so do my friends. Everyone in town is talking about him.”
“Well,” Mr. Simpson grumbled, “maybe I can sell him to a circus.”
“Daaad,” Bobby coaxed, half alarmed and half wondering if his Dad really meant to sell Fergus to a circus. “He’s mine. You gave him to me when he was born. Remember? You can’t sell him. You can’t sell Fergus.”
“Of course you can’t,” said Mrs. Simpson, directing a very stern look at Mr. Simpson.
“But he must—“
“I won’t hear of it,” Mrs. Simpson said in that tone which always discouraged any more argument from Mr. Simpson.
Mr. Simpson began to change his mind about Fergus when, two weeks later, Fergus made the ten o’clock news. By then Bobby and Ramon and the rest of Bobby’s Branton Rocket soccer team had outlined a rough soccer field in the pasture and were playing an actual game with Fergus playing goalkeeper. The long line of people along the pasture fence watching Fergus grew like a magician’s rope and in some places was now four or five people deep. Everyone’s mouth was agape with disbelief.
It wasn’t long before the BRANTON WEEKLY BROADCASTER did a story and ran a picture of Fergus playing soccer. When the news director at Channel 4 in the city saw the story, he sent a great white truck with a satellite dish on top to Simpson Farms. The truck wheezed to a stop next to the pasture, and doors on the front, sides, and back opened simultaneously. Out poured three men with television cameras, two men wearing headsets and carrying clipboards, and next, a pretty young lady carrying a microphone in one hand and fussing with her hair with the other. And just when it seemed the truck had completely emptied, three more men emerged, one at a time, bringing with them coils of thick black cable and three very large saucer-shaped microphones.
One of the men with a clipboard squinted this way and that way at the sky.
“It’s a bit cloudy,” he yelled back at the truck. “I think we might need some more light,” and to everyone’s amazement out climbed three more men, each carrying a large light attached to a sturdy tripod.
“Okay, let’s get it set up,” the man with the clipboard said, and soon the thick black cable was snaking between spectators’ feet along the pasture fence, and the light men had adjusted their lights, and the sound men had adjusted their saucer-shaped microphones.
Bobby and Ramon and the rest of the Branton Rocket soccer team had stopped playing soccer and were gathered at the pasture fence, investigating the goings-on of the Channel 4 TV crew.
“Hey,” said one of Bobby’s teammates, “I’ll bet we’re going to be on television.”
“What was your first clue?” snorted another teammate, who then began to giggle uncontrollably.
“They’re here for Fergus, not us, you dweeb,” said another.
At that moment, the pretty young lady with the microphone squeezed her way through the crowd of spectators to the pasture fence. “Where’s this Fergus guy?” she asked. Fergus’s ears flicked forward, and he gazed expectantly at the pretty young lady who had just said his name.
“That’s Fergus,” said Bobby. “Right there.” Fergus tossed his head, and his mane flew about, catching sparkles of sunlight that had found a crease in the clouds. His golden coat glowed.
The pretty young lady stared at Fergus. “Aren’t you beautiful?” she murmured. “I wonder if you can do all the things they say you can do. If you can, this is going to be one great story.” She shifted her gaze to Bobby. “And you are Bobby?” she asked.
“Yes ma’am,” Bobby answered, suddenly finding it difficult to speak. “I’m-I’m Bobby Simpson.”
“Well, Bobby Simpson, my name is Brooke Campbell. I’m a TV reporter for Channel 4, and I’d like to interview you and Fergus.
That night Bobby and Mrs. Simpson waited anxiously for the ten o’clock news. Mr. Simpson was waiting anxiously too, but he wouldn’t admit it. He just said “Harummph” two or three times as he wandered back and forth between the refrigerator and the television.
“Shhh,” Bobby said, even though no one was talking. “Here it is.” And right there on the Simpson’s very own TV screen was Fergus at the goal, ears and head alertly forward, waiting eagerly for Bobby’s first kick from the penalty spot.
“That’s weird,” whispered Bobby.
“Shhh,” said Mrs. Simpson, and then added quickly, “Oh you look so cute on TV. And so does Fergus.”
“Shhh,” said Mr. Simpson.
And then Brooke Campbell stepped into the screen and began her newscast. “This is Brooke Campbell,” she said as if she were talking right to the Simpsons. “I’m at a makeshift soccer field in Branton, and I’m here to introduce you to a very special horse—well actually he’s just a colt. That’s right, a colt. I’d like you to meet Fergus.” (The camera switched to a close-up of Fergus.) “And over here is Bobby Simpson, Fergus’s very special person.” (The camera switched again to a close-up of Bobby.)
“In a minute,” she continued, “you’ll find that Fergus will amaze you—just as he has amazed me, the town of Branton, and the entire Channel 4 TV crew. But right now, let’s meet Fergus and Bobby close up.” Brooke Campbell walked to Bobby’s side, the camera following her. Fergus, poised and alert, waited for Bobby’s first kick. “Bobby why don’t you call Fergus over and let’s chat for a moment. Then Fergus can show us his stuff.”
Bobby clucked to Fergus, and the colt stepped gingerly towards Bobby and Brooke Campbell and her microphone. Brooke and the microphone made Fergus nervous. So did the lights, the big saucer-shaped microphones, and the three TV cameras—not to mention the thick black cable that looked to Fergus like a long, black snake.
“It’s all right, Fergus,” Bobby soothed. “Don’t be scared. I’m not going to let anything hurt you.” He looped his arm protectively over Fergus’s neck and looked directly into the camera lens. Which, of course, made him look directly into the Simpson living room where Bobby and Mr. and Mrs. Simpson were watching the taped newscast. “That’s really weird,” said Bobby.
Brooke Campbell asked Bobby a lot of questions about Fergus. How did he learn to be a goalkeeper on a soccer team? When did he start playing soccer? How did he get along with his teammates? What did his teammates think about Fergus? Bobby thought the questions would never end. So did Fergus. Brooke Campbell even asked Fergus some questions. Of course Fergus didn’t answer. He just tossed his head and looked impatiently at Bobby as if to ask, “When will this be over so we can play soccer?”
Finally, Brooke Campbell said to Bobby, “Well, let’s see what he can do.”
Bobby nodded at Fergus, who trotted over to his goal. As the cameras watched, he looked back along his right side with his right eye then looked back along his left side with his left eye until he was satisfied he was in perfect position. Then he waited. And suddenly, as the Simpsons watched from their living room, the TV screen was filled with soccer balls, and Fergus was stopping them with his head, then his back feet, then his head, then his forefeet. Balls were spinning at him from every angle and from every part of the field. Balls whipped towards him from the penalty spot and looped towards him from mid-field, as both Bobby and Ramon tested Fergus time after time.
Fergus might merely head the ball back to Bobby. Or he might catch it on his head, bounce it in the air, and let it drop to the ground, then twirl around so fast he became a blur, and kick the ball so hard with his hind feet that it sailed into the goal at the other end of the field.
“Isn’t he fantastic!” Brooke Campbell kept shouting into her microphone. “Isn’t he?” And just as she was shouting it, a shaft of sunlight fell on Fergus who was now standing upright on his back feet, bouncing the ball expertly off his nose. And in the sunlight, as he danced with the soccer ball above him, his coat seemed to flow with liquid gold, and the bouncing soccer ball looked like a tiny sun. “That’s it,” Brooke said as she smiled into the camera. “That’s all from a pasture in Branton with Fantastic Fergus, the Golden Goalkeeper!”
The next day, GOOD MORNING AMERICA ran a clip of Brooke Campbell’s TV piece about Fergus. At noon so did CNN. And that evening Fergus’s story was on ESPN. They gave it three full minutes. By the following day all the major TV networks had run the story at least five times. The day after that, it began appearing on television sets in Australia and England and China and Russia and Argentina. Soon, even people in tiny Tibet knew about Fergus.
By the end of the week, Fergus was famous. Internationally famous. Letters arrived at Simpson Farms by the sackful. All were addressed to Fantastic Fergus, Branton, USA, or Fantastic Fergus and Bobby Simpson, Branton, Utah. Mr. Simpson began to growl about all the unopened mail that accumulated on the table where he kept his reading glasses. Envelopes were everywhere.
Chapter 3
After two or three weeks of spending long evenings opening mail, the Simpsons looked forward to the days when there was no mail delivery. They had just settled down for a quiet Sunday evening when the doorbell rang.
“It’s probably Ramon,” said Bobby. “I’ll get it.”
“Yes, you get it, dear,” Mrs. Simpson agreed. “I’m sure it’s Ramon. I’m not expecting anyone.”
Mr. Simpson was reading his newspaper. He looked over his glasses and over his paper.
“No more soccer tonight,” he said. “I think both you and that colt need a rest from it once in a while.” He tried to smile.
It wasn’t Ramon at the door. It was a tall, quietly dressed man with a pair of sunglasses dangling loosely from one hand. Bobby instantly liked him.
“Hello, Bobby,” the man smiled. “My name is Ian Connor, and if I could, I’d like to have a little chat with you and your mother and father. May I come in?”
“Oh. Yessir,” Bobby said quickly, a little embarrassed that he had forgotten his manners. Bobby showed Ian Connor to the living room.
“This is Mr. Connor,” Bobby said to Mr. and Mrs. Simpson. “He wants to talk to you. He wants to talk to me too. He wants to talk to all of us.”
“That’s right,” chuckled Ian Connor. “I’d like to have a word with you.”
Mr. Simpson folded his newspaper and stood up. Bobby noticed that his father and Ian Connor were almost exactly the same height. He had to tip his head back to see their faces.
“How do you do,” Mr. Simpson said. “What can we do for you?”
“Would you like something to drink?” asked Mrs. Simpson. She thought Ian Connor was very handsome.
“Thank you, no,” he replied. “But if you can spare me a few minutes I’d like to talk to you about something that involves that golden colt of yours. Fergus, isn’t it?”
Bobby thought he could almost feel his ears twitch forward to listen—like Fergus’s did. He crossed his fingers on both hands and prayed his father wouldn’t send him to bed. If this conversation was going to be about Fergus, Bobby had to be there.
“Can I stay, Dad? You’re not going to sell Fergus, are you, Dad? Mom, is Dad going to sell Fergus? Dad, you promised. You promised you wouldn’t sell Fergus.” Bobby rattled like rocks in a can. He felt like his heart had dropped to his knees.
“No one said anything about selling Fergus,” Mr. Simpson said.
“Oh no,” said Ian Connor. “I’m not here to buy Fergus. Definitely not.”
Mrs. Simpson looked sternly at Mr. Simpson. “Of course he’s not going to sell Fergus,” she pronounced.
“No,” Ian Connor continued. “I’m with the International Soccer Federation, actually, and what I’d like to talk about is borrowing Fergus for a little while. Not buying him.” He smiled at Bobby.
“Borrowing Fergus?” Bobby asked. His eyebrows shot to his forehead.
“Borrowing Fergus? For heaven’s sakes!” Mrs. Simpson’s eyebrows jumped, and her mouth dropped.
“Borrow a colt?” Mr. Simpson said mostly to himself. His eyebrows moved like two caterpillars. “Well no one’s ever made that request before.” He glared suspiciously at Ian Connor.
“This could involve Bobby too,” Ian Connor said. “With your approval, we’d like to borrow Bobby as well as Fergus.”
“ABSOLUTELY NOT!” said Mrs. Simpson, stomping her foot for emphasis.
“Out of the question,” growled Mr. Simpson.
“What for?” asked a very curious Bobby.
“Let me explain,” said Ian Connor. “I’ve been watching Fergus goal keeping and playing soccer for the past week. I’ve been out here every day. Amazing! Fergus really is fantastic. He may be a horse—well a colt actually—but he’s probably the most talented goalkeeper in the country. He’s already had a huge effect on soccer in the United States. More people are watching. More kids are playing. But we want even more people watching and more kids playing. We want to make soccer as popular here as it is in the rest of the world. And Fergus can do that. We want Fergus to go on a promotional tour for the game of soccer.”
The Simpsons, all three of them, were astonished. All three of them backed up to the sofa and sat down, rather abruptly. “You mean you want me and Fergus—I mean Fergus and me—to travel around the country playing soccer?” Bobby asked. “Like on a bus or something?”
“That’s right, Bobby. Travel around the country. Fourteen cities. We think Fergus can give American soccer a big boost. Why, look at all the publicity Fergus has already received. He’s known all around the world. Just think how many kids and moms and dads would come out to watch Fergus in the goal. Well, the possibilities are staggering.”
Mr. Simpson’s eyes lit up. “Say,” he said slyly, “Would Simpson Farms be mentioned at all on this tour?”
“Well . . .” Ian Connor began, “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to mention Simpson Farms once in a while. I think we can arrange it.”
“You old rogue,” Mrs. Simpson said to Mr. Simpson. “Didn’t I hear you complain about raising soccer ponies not so very long ago? Well?”
Mr. Simpson harrumphed and cleared his throat. “I . . .” he stammered, “I think a little publicity could help us right now. After all, we’re in business here. We raise horses for a living. Though I’ve never sold a soccer pony before.” He made a wry face.
“And you’re not going to sell this one,” Mrs. Simpson said.
Bobby grinned.
“That’s right,” said Ian Connor. “You could get some very valuable publicity for Simpson Farms.”
“Well then,” Mr. Simpson mused, “I’m for it.”
“And you, Mrs. Simpson?” Ian Connor asked.
“I just don’t think I can let them go. How long did you say this would take?”
“Three or four weeks, Mrs. Simpson, and I’ll be along every mile and every minute to watch out for Bobby.”
“Oh, but I’d miss him so.” Mrs. Simpson wiped away a tear.
“Please, Mom. Puuleese,” Bobby begged.
“Did I mention that I’ve already talked to Ramon’s mother and father?” said Ian Connor. “They’ve agreed to allow Ramon to go along as well. That is if you agree to Fergus and Bobby going. And yes, Bobby, it will be on a bus. A very special bus. But we’ll save that as a surprise.”
Bobby looked anxiously into his mother’s eyes. “Well, Mom?”
“Oh. Oh. Okay,” Mrs. Simpson said, wiping away another tear.
A week and a half later Ian Connor arrived in a very large, very long, silver bus with a wide green stripe running all the way around it. Standing atop the stripe on each side of the bus was a life-sized Fergus, steadying a soccer ball with one forefoot. He was painted in brilliant gold. And to the back and front of Fergus in foot-high golden letters were the words: FANTASTIC FERGUS, THE GOLDEN GOALKEEPER. Beneath the green stripe in smaller letters were these words: TRAINED BY BOBBY SIMPSON AND RAMON AGUILAR.
“Well, folks,” Ian Connor said to Mr. and Mrs. Simpson and Bobby and to Mr. and Mrs. Aguilar and Ramon, who had gathered at Simpson Farms to await the bus’s arrival, “What do you think of her?”
Each one of them was squinting, as if the bus was too bright to look at, as if they were trying to look at the sun.
“Ohmigosh!” exclaimed Bobby and Ramon at the same time.
“My goodness!” exclaimed Mrs. Simpson and Mrs. Aguilar.
“Quite a rig,” said Mr. Simpson, trying not to sound impressed. “I’ll bet it cost a bundle.”
“Madre Mia!” exclaimed Mr. Aguilar.
“How about a tour,” said Ian Connor. Everyone pushed forward and lined up at the bus door. “This is our driver, Mr . . .”
“Just call me Will, if you will,” grinned the driver, tipping his baseball cap to the ladies and shaking hands with the men. “Hiya, boys,” he said to Bobby and Ramon. His eyes sparkled. “I think this is going to be one heckuva fun ride!”
Bobby and Ramon grinned back, their eyes agreeing with Will’s. It was too hard to believe.
In the “business end of the bus,” as Will called it, was the driver’s seat and three reclining passenger seats complete with padded footrests. The one-inch-thick carpet on the floor was the color of pasture grass. Deep wide windows framed the whole world. Just behind the last passenger seat was a small, compact kitchen, with a sink, stove, cupboard, and a refrigerator stocked with food and drinks. A fold-up door opened onto a bus-wide bedroom containing four wider-than-usual bunks, two on each side of the bus. Four small closets waited for clothes to fill them. And, of course, there was a small bathroom.
“And now,” announced Ian Connor, “the best part of all,” and he led them past the bathroom through a wide door, above which was painted in broad gold letters, FANTASTIC FERGUS.
“Wow!” exclaimed Bobby, who was right behind Ian Connor.
“Wow!” repeated Ramon, close behind Bobby.
Mrs. Simpson and Mrs. Aguilar were next. “Goodness!” they exclaimed in unison.
“This is too darned much,” said Mr. Simpson. “Why that colt will be so spoiled there’ll be no living with him.”
Ian Connor looked surprised and just a little hurt. “I thought you’d be pleased,” he said. “We’ve spared no expense to make Fergus—as well as the boys—as comfortable as possible.”
Ian Connor was talking about the part of the bus Fergus would travel in. Except for two very large tinted picture windows, which opened and closed, and which of course came with full-length shades, the walls were deeply padded with a relaxing cream-colored leather.
A small, automatic watering bowl was mounted chest-high in the corner where Fergus could easily reach it. On the front wall was a bright feed trough with separate compartments for oats and hay. The floor was deep in cedar shavings so fragrant that without realizing it, everyone took long, deep breaths through their noses while their eyelids fluttered.
“Does it meet your approval?” asked Ian Connor hopefully.
“Too soft,” groused Mr. Simpson. “I can’t allow you to pamper that colt like this.”
Ian Connor looked just a little hurt again. Bobby and Ramon glanced nervously at one another. Mrs. Simpson took two deep breaths and turned to her husband. “
“It’s Just Fine,” she said, carefully emphasizing each word. “The colt won’t be spoiled, and neither will the boys. We’re going to miss them, but they are going on this trip, Mr. Simpson. Yes, Mr. Connor, the boys will go on this trip. It will be a valuable experience for them—and it will be good for Simpson Farms. You’ll reconsider, dear,” she said to Mr. Simpson. “Won’t you.”
“Well . . . well,” Mr. Simpson sputtered.
“Of course you will, dear. It’s settled then.”
Chapter 4
Four days later, Bobby and Ramon gazed wide-eyed as the bus passed beneath the Sears Tower. “Would you look at that,” exclaimed Bobby loudly. “You can barely see the top.”
“Can you believe the cars?” exclaimed Ramon. “And the noise. It sure isn’t sleepy old Branton.”
At that moment Fergus began to fidget and stomp, as young colts are prone to do when they are uneasy.
“I’d better check on Fergus,” Bobby said. “This noise is probably making him jumpy. He doesn’t understand it.”
He made his way to Fergus’s compartment. The colt flicked his ears forward and watched Bobby with wide, questioning eyes. He pawed the cedar shavings into a pile beneath his belly. He looked out the window and then back at Bobby as if to ask about all the cars and all the people and all the dreadful noise.
“It’s okay, boy,” Bobby soothed. “All that noise and all those people and all those cars won’t hurt you.”
He scratched Fergus about his withers and on his backside, which always seemed to reassure the colt.
“This is Chicago, the Windy City. You’re going to make it Chicago, the Soccer City. Just wait.”
When he heard the word soccer, Fergus’s ears twitched back and forth just opposite of one another. Then they flicked forward at attention again.
“That’s right, Fergus. We’re going to play soccer. Right here in Chicago. Look, Fergus,” Bobby continued, still trying to calm him, “there’s the Sears Tower. It’s so tall you can’t even see the top. Take a look.”
He pushed Fergus’s head around so that he was looking through one of the large tinted windows. Fergus cocked his head sideways as if he might be looking upwards.
“No,” said Bobby quietly. “There’s no way you understand what I’ve just told you. You’re just looking at all the people. Right?” Still Bobby wasn’t quite sure. But Fergus had calmed down.
Will pulled the bus over to the curb and stuck his head out the window. He peered into the sky, looking for the dizzying summit of the building. Its top seemed to be in the clouds. “It pokes a mile into the sky, at least,” he pronounced.
“Not quite,” said Ian, chuckling. “More like a quarter of a mile.”
“One thousand four hundred and fifty-four feet,” said Ramon. “One hundred four stories.”
“And how do you know that?” asked Ian, rather delighted.
“I just know,” said Ramon. “It used to be the tallest building in the world. Now it’s just second tallest.”
“Well it still looks a mile high to me,” Will insisted, pulling himself back into the bus.
“I’m afraid that’s got to be our sight-seeing in Chicago,” said Ian. “Sorry, guys, but we just don’t have the time. We’re on a pretty tight schedule.”
Will moved the bus carefully back into the street, pacing himself with the traffic so as not to throw Fergus off balance with a sudden stop.
“There’s Soldier Field,” Ian pointed out several blocks later. “That’s where Fergus’s first exhibition match is going to be played.”
“Soldier Field?” Will questioned.
“It’s where the Chicago Bears play football,” Ramon explained. “It was built in 1924 and holds 66,944 people.”
“Geez. How did you know that?” Will asked, shaking his head.
“I just know,” said Ramon.
Will eased the bus up to a wide gate and honked the horn. A security guard clad in a black uniform trimmed in blue came to the gate. “Whatta ya want?” he yelled, not politely.
Will’s jaw muscles tightened. “Ain’t very friendly in Chicago, are they?”
“Don’t let it bother you,” Ian said. “I’ll take care of it.” He stepped lightly off the bus, whistling cheerfully. He began talking with the guard and soon had a friendly arm draped over the guard’s shoulders.
As Ian talked, the guard’s face stretched into a grin. “No kidding! Well, drive ‘er right in here. I can’t say as I’ve ever seen a horse that could play soccer.”
“Just watch tomorrow,” chuckled Ian. “He can do a lot more than that.”
Will wheeled the bus through the gate and brought it to an easy stop in a long wide corridor that opened onto the playing field. He could feel Fergus shift his weight at the rear of the bus.
“Are we there, finally,” yelled Bobby from Fergus’s compartment. “Fergus is getting fidgety again. He needs to stretch his legs. He needs to play.”
Fergus whinnied a high, colt whinny and nodded impatiently. He backed up against the rear door that became a ramp when it opened and leaned all his weight there. Then he rubbed his bottom from side to side.
“Okay, okay,” Bobby chided Fergus again. “But you’ve got to help. Quit leaning against the door. And for heck sakes, settle down. You’re just making this take longer.”
Even at that, Bobby had to push from one end and pull from the other to get Fergus to move. But soon Fergus caught on and high stepped away from the door. Bobby shouted to Will to unlatch and lower it.
“Easy, Fergus,” Bobby cautioned, trying to stay ahead of the colt as he pranced down the ramp. “Don’t be so rambunctious.”
The clatter of Fergus’s hooves on the cement floor echoed down the corridor to the arc of light that was the opening to the stadium. He tossed his head and pranced sideways down the shadowed corridor toward the sunlight. Bobby could just keep up with him. The excited colt burst into the stadium. It was all green and sunlight and white lines. He trembled as Bobby undid his halter, and as Bobby let the halter drop, the colt raised up on his hind legs and was away like lightning in a thunderstorm. He was a splash of gold against the green field, his four feet moving so fast they barely stirred the grass. He raced first to one goal then back the length of the green field to the other. Then it was an acrobatic journey around the sidelines, and as he flew, he bucked and kicked and snorted and turned backwards somersaults. He did three circuits of the field and then slid to a grass-exploding stop at the closest goal.
He looked carefully back along his right side, then carefully back along his left side and lined himself up with the goal. Then he just waited.
Ramon was already in his soccer togs with the soccer ball under one arm. He had thought ahead of everyone else, including Fergus. He dribbled the ball out near the center circle and flashed a get-ready look at Fergus. He teased the ball with his feet. He was enjoying being in the middle of Soldier Field in Chicago, Illinois with a soccer ball. He couldn’t believe he was there. He teased the ball some more.
“C’mon, Ramon,” Bobby shouted. “Get to it or Fergus is going to get fidgety again. I already am.”
Will and Ian both chuckled. Bobby shot them a displeased glance.
“Okay,” Ramon shouted back at Bobby. “Don’t get an ulcer. I’m just getting warmed up,” and in an instant he launched the ball towards the goal. And of course Fergus intercepted it.
When the sun finally dipped behind the highest stadium seats, soccer balls were still sailing around Soldier Field. Fergus hadn’t broken a sweat, but Bobby and Ramon were tuckered. Will had dozed off in one of the expensive seats, and Ian was talking with a writer from SPORTS ILLUSTRATED. “Time to wrap it up, boys,” he said. The writer from SPORTS ILLUSTRATED looked disappointed, but promised to return for Fergus’s exhibition match the next day.
Bobby haltered Fergus, and they walked slowly back to the bus. Bobby and Ramon brushed and groomed Fergus until his coat shone and left him with an extra ration of grain. They almost fell asleep before they could finish the hamburgers Will had grilled for them on the sidelines of the field where the Chicago Bears had played football since 1924.
By noon the next day, Soldier Field was crackling with electricity. Fergus, as gold as the sun, pranced the sidelines like a fine Roman steed. A polished silver halter shone against his cheeks. His mane and tail, shampooed and combed, then combed again, rippled and flowed in the sunlight. He was magnificent. Bobby, dressed in new soccer togs, held Fergus’s braided leather lead rope loosely, giving Fergus freedom to dance. He knew this day belonged to Fergus.
“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, “ a rich voice began. “There are 66,944 seats in Solder Field, and from what I’m told 66,933 are occupied. You’re all here to see a phenomenon, and there he is. Breathtaking, isn’t he? But you ain’t seen nuthin’ yet! The International Soccer Federation and Bobby Simpson from Simpson Farms give you FERGUS, THE GOLDEN GOALKEEPER!”
“FERGUS, FERGUS, FERGUS,” chanted the crowd as Fergus and Bobby made two electrifying trips around the stadium. Thunder rolled out of the stands and onto the field as the spectators stomped their feet while they chanted. Fergus tossed his head, pranced sideways, and did a backward somersault, almost landing on Bobby. He played to the huge crowd like a movie star. The air was charged. It felt to Bobby like the whole stadium would explode. He hoped Fergus would be able to calm down enough to play soccer.
Bobby’s worry tumbled in his mind as he, Ramon, and Fergus approached the center circle for the coin toss. His heart tumbled in his chest. He wondered if he might explode with the stadium. Bobby and Ramon had been chosen honorary co-captains. They would call the coin toss for their team. Bobby looked anxiously at Ramon. Ramon returned Bobby’s anxious glance. He was nervous too. Fergus was unruffled.
“Okay, gentlemen,” the referee smiled at the three of them, “make your call. And good luck!” The silver coin climbed into the sky above their heads. As it reached the top of its flight, Bobby and Ramon yelled in unison, “TAILS!”
And so it is,” said the referee as the coin came to rest. “Gentlemen, choose your goal.”
“I guess I shouldn’t have worried,” Bobby whispered to Ramon. “Fergus was fine. I guess I was just worried about you.”
“Yeah, right,” Ramon answered. “You were in countdown for the first manned Mars probe.” They smiled weak smiles at each other.
Soon the soccer players trotted onto the field from the sidelines and began their final warm-ups. Fergus’s teammates, handpicked by Ian Connor, trotted over and said “Hi” to Bobby and Ramon. They even introduced themselves to Fergus, patting his neck. “That’s for luck,” said the right wing. “Do you think we’ll need it?” He looked at Fergus as if expecting an answer, then feeling foolish, trotted off.
Ian walked out to the goal and motioned to the players. “Okay, guys. Here’s the deal. You already know that Fergus is playing goalkeeper. You don’t have to worry about him. He’ll do his part. But I’m subbing in Ramon and Bobby as sweeper and left defender. Fergus might get nervous without them. Is that okay?”
The left defender nodded. The regular sweeper plodded off the field, kicking up clumps of grass as he went. “Who needs to play soccer with a horse, anyway,” he muttered. ”I’d look ridiculous.” He stopped and looked back at Fergus. “Geez,” he said, kicking up another clump of grass.
“Sorry, Dennis,” said Ian. “We’ll get you in the game in the second half—after Fergus has adjusted.”
Dennis tried to hide the grin that stretched his ruddy cheeks.
As it turned out, Fergus didn’t need adjusting. He already felt at home, even in front of 66,933 fans who had once again made Soldier Field so noisy that businessmen in offices two miles away were having their secretaries call to complain. It was so noisy that no one could hear the striker from the other team shout menacingly at Fergus. “No baby-faced pony is going to beat me,” he yelled. “Do you hear me, Fergus, you twit? This will be your first and last stop on your famous tour. After this, it’s back to the pasture and momma!”
Fergus, unruffled, gazed calmly at the striker. No one noticed how his ears perked forward just a little bit, or how, just a little bit, his mouth seemed to curl upwards ever so slightly into a smile.
“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, the players have taken the field,” boomed the rich voice of the announcer. “The game will be underway in just a few moments. Keep your eyes on that flash of gold protecting the south goal.”
As one, the spectators glanced in that direction just as Fergus cocked his head at the net as if he were inspecting it. The crowd grew silent. He looked down at the ground as if he were trying to find just the right spots for all four hooves. You could have heard a pin drop in the stadium. He looked carefully back along his right side and moved just a little bit to the left. Then he looked carefully back along his left side and moved just a little bit to the right. He looked down at the grass again and lifted one hoof, then set it right back down precisely where it had been. Then he raised his head and waited. Not a bird twittered. Not a baby cried. Not a blade of grass rustled in Soldier Field. It was that quiet. It was as if the whole stadium had taken a breath and held it. It was as if everyone wanted Fergus to get it just right.
The stadium shimmered in the summer sunlight. The referee placed the ball in the center circle. The striker from the Chicago Diamond, the one who had called Fergus a twit, glared at Fergus and launched the ball towards Fergus’s goal. The game had begun.
The Chicago Diamond sweeper leapt for the ball and headed it out to the left winger. The left winger passed to the right back who chuckled because he knew—he just knew—that it was clear sailing to the goal. Ramon, young and small and quite frightened, was his only obstacle. His chuckle became a satisfied laugh that frightened Ramon even more. “Okay, kid,” he yelled, “get out of the way or get run over. Lemme at the pony.” He glared at Fergus, faked a pass to the sweeper, and whipped the ball at Fergus’s goal, raising his arms in triumph.
But before his arms were back down at his sides, the ball was sailing far over his head in the direction of the Chicago Diamond goal. It dropped and rolled to a lopsided stop, deflated and untouched, at the feet of a very astonished Chicago Diamond goalkeeper. In a blur that no one could follow, Fergus had stopped the ball with his forefeet, bounced it in the air to just the right height, then twisted half around and with his back feet kicked the ball so completely it split a seam and whistled all the way to its destination.