Sky Surfing Skateboarder, page 1
MY LiFE
as a
Skysurfing
Skateboarder
Tommy Nelson® Books by Bill Myers
Series
Secret Agent Dingledorf
. . . and his trusty dog, SPLAT
The Case of the . . .
Giggling Geeks • Chewable Worms • Flying Toenails • Drooling Dinosaurs • Hiccupping Ears • Yodeling Turtles
The Incredible Worlds of Wally McDoogle
My Life As . . .
a Smashed Burrito with Extra Hot Sauce • Alien Monster Bait • a Broken Bungee Cord • Crocodile Junk Food • Dinosaur Dental Floss • a Torpedo Test Target • a Human Hockey Puck • an Afterthought Astronaut • Reindeer Road Kill • a Toasted Time Traveler • Polluted Pond Scum • a Bigfoot Breath Mint • a Blundering Ballerina • a Screaming Skydiver • a Human Hairball • a Walrus Whoopee Cushion • a Computer Cockroach (Mixed-Up Millennium Bug) • a Beat-Up Basketball Backboard • a Cowboy Cowpie • Invisible Intestines with Intense Indigestion • a Skysurfing Skateboarder • a Tarantula Toe Tickler • a Prickly Porcupine from Pluto • a Splatted-Flat Quarterback • a Belching Baboon . . . with Bad Breath •
The Portal • The Experiment • The Whirlwind • The Tablet
Picture Book
Baseball for Breakfast
www.Billmyers.com
the incredible worlds of Wally McDoogle
MY LiFE
as a
Skysurfing
Skateboarder
BILL MYERS
MY LIFE AS A SKYSURFING SKATEBOARDER
Text copyright © 2002 Bill Myers
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without the written permission of the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts in reviews.
Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.
Thomas Nelson, Inc., titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail SpecialMarkets@ThomasNelson.com.
Scripture quotations marked (NIV) are from the Holy Bible, New International Version. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Bible Publishers.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Myers, Bill, 1953–
My life as a sky surfing skateboarder / Bill Myers.
p. cm — (The incredible worlds of Wally McDoogle ; #21)
Summary: Wally’s disaster-ridden preparation for a skateboarding championship, his Little Buddy’s entry in a model car derby race, and his work on his latest superhero story combine to teach Wally a lesson about winning.
ISBN 978-0-8499-5992-9
[1. Winning and losing—Fiction. 2. Skateboarding—Fiction. 3. Christian life—Fiction. 4. Humorous stories.] I. Title.
PZ7.M98234 Mykt 2002
[Fic]—dc21
2002067779
Printed in the United States of America
08 09 10 11 12 QW 14 13 12 11 10
For: The ISI guys
who know the real race
and how to win it.
But many who are first will be last,
and many who are last will be first.
—Matthew 19:30 (NIV)
Contents
1. Just for Starters . . .
2. Wally McDoogle, Superstar!
3. First Impressions
4. Priorities
5. Buckling In and Pumping Up . . .
6. At Any Cost?
7. Another Snub
8. Let the Race Begin . . .
9. K-VOOM!
10. Wrapping Up
Chapter 1
Just for Starters . . .
Can you believe it? Me, starring in a sports book?
Me, who sprains his wrists tying his shoes?
Me, who breaks into a sweat after a grueling workout with the channel selector?
Me, who . . . well, you get the picture. Yeah, I know there was that book My Life As a Human Hockey Puck, but being a human hockey puck is a lot different from competing for the Cross-Country Skateboard Championship of the Universe . . . and a lot less painful.
My story started off innocently enough (don’t they all). Just me, my best friend Opera, the human eating machine, and little Leroy (a kid I signed up to be a Big Buddy to). The Big Buddy program is pretty cool. You hang out with some little guy and become like his role model. (Don’t worry, I explained to Leroy to ignore the role model part.)
What is cool, though, is that you take them to all kinds of stuff they wouldn’t normally get to go to . . . like the trial races for the Cross-Country Skateboard Championship. On this day, kids all around the country were competing in similar races to qualify for the final, big event the next week.
So, there we were, just me, Opera, Leroy, and— “Hey, McLoser! You taking notes?”
I looked up to see Bruno the Bruiser shouting at me as he skated past. He was doing his warmup lap, as everyone was fighting for position to start the race.
“Hey, Bruno!” I waved.
“Shut up and get to writing!”
Good ol’ Bruno. As you can see, we have a very special relationship: Whenever he needs someone to beat up, I’m the guy. There are other cool benefits, too . . . like giving him my lunch money every day (it’s such a bother having to carry it around), or washing his car (he’s flunked seventh grade so many times he’s old enough to drive . . . and to vote). And, best of all, I get to write his English papers for him.
His current assignment was to write a paper called “My Greatest Hero.” And, since he wanted to write it about the world’s greatest skateboarder . . . and, since he figured it had to be him (he’s not exactly a humble guy), he strongly suggested that I come and watch him skate. (Suggested as in, “If you don’t come, McDoogle, you’ll be enjoying a lengthy amount of pain during the rest of your very short life.”)
So, there I was, standing with Opera, Leroy, and—
“Go, Brunnie . . . Go! Go! Go!”
Oh, yeah, there was also Bruno’s dad, Mr. Bruiser—the only person more pushy and bossy than his baby boy.
“Get into position!
Cut off that jerk!
Go! Go! Go! GOOOOOOO . . . !”
(See what I mean?)
Not that Mr. Bruiser didn’t have reason to be pushy. In order to get into next week’s final race, Bruno had to place as one of the top three in this one. And the competition was tough. In fact, even as he approached the starting line, two very famous skaters were closing in.
Bonnie the Brain—who always used her genius to figure out some new way to go faster. This race she’d greased her body in fish oil to cut down the air friction. (A cool idea except for the stink and the 1,324 cats chasing after her.)
Slacker Sam—the world’s greatest cheater.
Last year he was so good (or bad) that as soon as they started, he sneaked into a limo, had a seven-course dinner, then was dropped off at the finish line three hours and twenty-two minutes before anyone else. (He almost pulled it off except for the Grey Poupon and hot fudge sauce the judges found spilled on the front of his tuxedo.)
Of course, there were other, not so hot, racers . . . like the kid who was so bad that he took the curve in front of us too high and went shooting off the course.
No problem except that when he shot off the course, he shot right into
K-rash!
(“oaff !”)
me.
Even that wouldn’t have been so bad if he hadn’t accidentally slipped off the skateboard and I hadn’t accidentally
K-slipped (“uh-oh”)
on.
But I could have lived with that if the board hadn’t hit the curb, done a 180, shot back onto the track, and caused me to suddenly
Roll, roll, roll, roll . . .
(“AUGH!”)
join the race.
So, there I was, accidentally racing toward the starting line, doing what I do best . . . hanging on for dear life and screaming my head off. Of course, I wanted to jump off the board, but noticing the ground racing by at a thousand miles per hour, I decided I wasn’t in the mood for suicide.
Bruno heard me scream and looked over his shoulder at me. “McDoofus!” he shouted. “What are you doing?!”
I wanted to answer, but it’s hard to talk when you’re busy passing out from fear.
Anyway, as I reached the starting line, the judge gave the green flag, and the race began.
Bruno, Bonnie, Sam, yours truly, and a half-dozen others flew down Main Street’s steep hill. Well, everyone else flew. I just sort of kneeled down, grabbed the side of the board, and prayed my heart out.
The good news was, I managed to travel all the way to the end of the street. The bad news was, I traveled all the way on the wrong side of the
“Look out!”
Honk! Honk! Honk!
K-Screech K-Rash
street.
I knew I should stick around and exchange phone numbers and funeral homes, but suddenly I ran out of street, popped up onto the sidewalk, and headed straight toward the city park with the rest of the racers.
Ah, yes, the park. Now things got kinda interesting . . .
First we were to turn and circle around the giant fountain. A good idea if you know how to turn. Not so good if you don’t. For everyone else it was an easy
Swish!
roll, roll, roll.
For me
it was a rather hard
Splash!
glug . . . glug . . . glug.
Next up was the giant stairway leading to the lower level. The seasoned pros popped up on the handrails and easily slid down them on the flat of their boards. I chose the stairs, which meant my wheels managed to hit every step-ep-ep-ep a-long-ong-ong-ong-ong the way-ay-ay-ay-ay.
Talk about getting shook up. But at least I was in last place (which is almost as good as being in no place). Unfortunately, the fun and games weren’t quite over.
After the steps came the playground obstacle course. Swings, slides, teetertotters . . . You name it, they missed it. They missed it, I
K-Bamb
hit it.
Except for the teetertotters. Somehow I managed to miss the free dental work offered by those face-breakers. Instead, I hit a kid on a tricycle, flipped into the air, and landed smack-dab on one of the seats. Normally, this would have been a good thing, except for the three-thousand-pound sumo wrestler baby who thought slamming down on the other end would be great fun. It was, too, if you happen to like
“AUGHHHH . . .”
sailing high into the air. (Which I didn’t.)
The view was pretty good, though. Especially the part where I was flying over everyone else in the race. Yes sir, I could see all my old pals down below. There was Bonnie the Brain and her 1,318 cats (she lost six to some kid with a couple of extra tuna fish sandwiches), Slacker Sam and his nuclear-powered skateboard (I told you the guy knew how to cheat), and in the lead, just below me, Bruno the Bruiser.
It was cool looking down and keeping an eye on my old buddy. It would have been cooler, if I wasn’t coming straight down on top of his head.
“Look out!” I screamed. “Look out!!”
Bruiser Boy saw nothing.
“Up here!” I shouted.
He tilted back his head and spotted me. “McDorkle, what are you—
K-Slam
mueing?” (That last word was supposed to be “doing,” but it’s hard to talk when a part-time author and full-time klutz has just smashed into your face.)
“McMmoooodle! McMmoooodle!”
It was good that he broke my fall (not so good that he’d later be breaking my body). Although I was happy for the free lift he was giving me toward the finish line, I would have been happier if he could see where he was going.
“McMmoooodle! McMmoooodle!”
But there was no way I was getting down off his face. No sir. It was nice and safe up there. Well, except for the approaching train crossing and Bruno Boy’s inability to see the upcoming
TOOOOOT . . . TOOOOOT!
Do I even have to say it?
The good news is, we zoomed across the tracks, and the front of the train missed our bodies by just inches. The bad news is, it didn’t miss my coat. Suddenly, the locomotive snagged my jacket, and we were flying alongside it at just under a gazillion miles per hour.
“McMmoooodle! Mhat’s moing mon? Mhat’s moing mon?”
I wanted to tell him, but I knew my free ride would be over if my chauffeur suddenly had a heart attack. So, I tried to be positive and look on the bright side. “You know that math test we’re supposed to have on Monday?” I shouted.
“Messss,” he yelled.
“Well, it looks like we won’t be taking it . . . or any other test ever again!” (Unless there’s an entrance exam to get into heaven.)
Something about the way he screamed told me he wasn’t thrilled with the idea. But that was okay because I looked up and saw the finish line approaching. “We’re almost there!” I shouted. “We’re almost there!”
With a little wiggling and a ton of tugging, I finally pulled my jacket loose. Now we were free of the locomotive and barreled toward the finish line under our own power . . . well, except for the few hundred miles per hour of speed we’d picked up from the little choo-choo.
The good news was, we crossed the finish line in record time. The bad news was, someone had built a department store directly across the street from that finish line. A department store with one very large
K-rash tinkle, tinkle, tinkle
picture window, and one very hard
K-Smash (Anyone got an aspirin?)
wall at the other end.
But at last it was over; we had finally stopped. And, other than the trip the hospital to set a few broken bones and replace a few missing organs, Bruno had qualified for the upcoming race, and I had managed to survive another misadventure.
Unfortunately, this little misadventure was simply a warmup for something bigger and, as usual, a whole lot more painful.
Chapter 2
Wally McDoogle, Superstar!
I’d barely dragged my bruised and battered body through the front door before one of my older brothers, Burt (or was it Brock? I can never keep those twins straight) glanced up from the TV and greeted me. “Congratulations, bud.”
I stopped cold. Who was he talking to?
“Saw you on the news,” he said.
I looked around. Nobody else was there. Just me. Could it be? Was it possible? Taking the chance that he was actually speaking to me like a human being, I ventured an answer and said, “Yeah?”
“Yeah. They say you tied for first place with that Bruno guy. Nice work.”
My heart pounded in my chest. I couldn’t catch my breath. I was feeling faint. Not only had my brother talked to me, but it almost sounded like, could it be, YES! He had actually given me a compliment!!
Not believing my ears and thinking it was some kind of dream, I gasped, “Me? Are you talking to me?”
“Who else, Moron.”
Well, at least I knew it wasn’t a dream. And to prove the point, he finished with an ever-so-thoughtful request. “Now quit stinking up the room and get out of here.”
Yes sir, it had been for real. Imagine, an actual compliment from an older brother. Unbelievable. I headed for my room, sort of floating up the stairs. (Well, except for the part where I tripped over our cat, Collision, who, as you may remember, did not get her name by accident.) After scraping myself from the bottom of the stairs and heading up them a second time
“MEOW!”
stumble, stumble, K-Rash!
—er, make that a third time—I finally got to my bedroom.
I opened the door just as the phone was ringing. I grabbed it and answered, “Hello?”
“Hey, Wally.” It was Wall Street, my other best friend, even though she is a girl.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“I’ve been on the phone all afternoon.”
“Buying more stocks and bonds?” I asked.
“Better than that. I just talked to Buford K. Flabbyjowls, president of Sizzlin’ Skateboards.”
“That’s nice,” I said as I hopped onto my bed and
K-boing!
“AUGH!”
K-thud!
bounced onto the floor. (Ever have one of those days? Unfortunately, I have one of those lives.)
“And you know who we were talking about?” she asked.
“Who?” I said, after regaining consciousness.
“You.”
Suddenly, fear filled my heart. You see, Wall Street loves money. In fact, she plans to make her first million by the time she’s fourteen. Unfortunately, most of the money she’s made so far has all been made off me.
Knowing better, but unable to help myself, I asked the most dangerous question in the world. At least the most dangerous question when it comes to Wall Street’s wallet and my well-being: “What do you want from me?”
“I told him all about your performance at today’s race.”
I didn’t like the sound of her voice. “And?” I asked nervously.
“And, if we’re lucky, he may sponsor us in next Saturday’s cross-country championship!”
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
“You qualified, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, but it was an accident. I can’t skate.”
“So?”
“So, don’t you think skating might come in handy during the race?”
“Why do you always get hung up on details?” she sighed. “The point is, he can make us a ton of money in a real short time.”
“Us?” I gulped.
“Sure, I’m your agent, now.”
“But—”
“Just leave everything to me.”
