Quantum Interstellar Sports League #1
272
Quantum Interstellar Sports League #1
272eBook
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Overview
Wyatt Benson is NOT a football player. Yes, his dad may be the greatest quarterback of all time, but don't go getting any ideas. Wyatt's the kind of twelve-year-old who invents his own junk food and whose greatest physical achievement was accidentally knocking out his third-grade teacher with a badly thrown dodgeball. (Don’t ask.)
So how did he find himself as the quarterback on a football team of pro-athlete tweens playing in an intergalactic tournament against terrifying aliens? Well, it's a long story that involves contractual mishaps and the alien overlord Schnozly Grofsplot, but no matter what he tries, he can't back out. Wyatt and the rest of his teammates – like the cocky soccer star Nitro, bighearted rugby player Quake, and super cool gymnast Nova (who Wyatt is totally NOT crushing on) – will have to work together to win the tournament. Because did he mention that if Earth loses, the fate of the world is at stake?!
Told in a mixture of text and black-and-white illustrations, this is a laugh-out-loud series for any kid that loves science fiction, football, and friendship.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780593662328 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Penguin Young Readers Group |
| Publication date: | 09/24/2024 |
| Series: | Quantum Interstellar Sports League , #1 |
| Sold by: | Penguin Group |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 272 |
| Age Range: | 8 - 12 Years |
About the Author
Brandon Dorman (he/him) grew up near Tacoma, Washington, and is the dad of four smiley boys and one dancing girl. He is best known for his book cover artwork on popular series like Goosebumps, Fablehaven, and The Land of Stories. With more than twenty-two picture books under his belt, he is an accomplished visual storyteller. Hoolie and the Hooligans: The Alien Who Ate My Socks, is Brandon’s first middle-grade chapter book, for which he is both author and illustrator.
Read an Excerpt
Chapter 1
Today is the biggest football game in pretty much the entire history of human—and alien—civilization. Quasar-21 Arena is jiggling like one of those plastic pudding cups they give you in the hospital after you accidentally get a Lego Batman head stuck up your nose. (Don’t ask.)
My team, the Planet Earth Defenders, is out on the field where hundreds of spaceships are zapping their images to billions of big-screen TVs across the universe.
Where am I? Back in the tunnel, because I can’t get my artificial intelligence helmet over the giant ears I inherited from my Grandpa Fred.
“Need help, mate?” asks Quake, my offensive lineman who’s so big people mistake him for a walking tree.
“No, I just have to—” I start to say when he pounds a ginormous fist onto my head, slamming my helmet down so hard I feel the rattle all the way to my cleats. “Guess I didn’t need those ears anyway.”
With my uniform squared away and my head spinning, I hurry out onto the field with the rest of the team. I squint into the bright lights wondering if my mom and dad are at the game. Part of me wants to see a friendly face in the crowd. Another part of me is like “Dude, do you really want your parents to see their kid get humiliated on interstellar TV?”
The only faces I see are thousands of angry Droglidorians. Orange drool drips from their fang-filled mouths like cheese leaking out of an overcooked quesadilla, their clawed hands snap open and shut like lobsters dancing the Macarena, and their four eyes glare like my mom after I left my sweaty socks on the kitchen table for a science experiment.
But I bet once you get to know them, they’re actually very nice.
“Groblescroff smick-smack!” screams a fan in the front end-zone seats. The computer inside my helmet translates the Droglidorian’s words.
Translation: Our team will tear off your fingers and feed them to you for breakfast.
Okay, maybe not.
A girl with a spiked blue faux-hawk sticking up through a slot in her helmet backflips three feet into the air to catch a pass. “Looks like the fans are pretty fired up.”
Nova Alanto, our wide receiver, is the smartest, toughest, prettiest girl I’ve ever met. I’ve had a crush on Nova since the first time I saw her, but I would never tell anyone that even if they pulled out my fingernails and made me eat tofu turkey.
As Coach Derwins calls us to the sideline, fifty-foot pillars of flame shoot up from random spots around the field. Confetti explodes from goalposts over our heads like a package of fireworks duct-taped to a skateboard that may have accidentally jumped the curb of our street, landed in my neighbor Mrs. Garibaldi’s front yard, and blown up her garden gnome. (Don’t ask.)
Our star running back, Nitro Gonzalez, smirks at me through the tinted lens of his helmet. He’s a famous soccer star whose face has been on magazines all over the world, and I know for a fact that he spends hours polishing his teeth in front of the mirror to make his smile perfect.
“What’s the matter, Einstein?” he asks. “Scared?”
My real name is Wyatt Benson. But he calls me Einstein because I read a lot. I mean, hey, it beats teeth polishing.
“No way,” I mutter, even though I’m more terrified than the time I accidentally lit my lab table on fire in sixth grade.
“Whatever.” Nitro poses for the crowd and flashes his million-dollar smile.
“Humans-humans-humans, Droglidorians, and other esteemed guests-guests-guests,” a voice blares throughout the stadium. “Welcome-welcome-welcome to the moment you’ve all been waiting-waiting-waiting for. The first game-game-game of the Quantum Interstellar Sports League’s football-football-football season-season-season! Whoever wins-wins-wins the championship becomes the owner of planet-planet-planet Earth-Earth-Earth.”
That’s not an echo you’re hearing. The announcer, Skeevitch Snorkblot, has three mouths, which is great for calling the fast-paced action of a Quantum Interstellar football game. But sometimes when he’s excited, the mouths get a little out of sync with each other.
“Huddle up,” Coach says, and we all squeeze into a circle.
A giant one-eyed snail bumps into me, leaving a smear of green snail slime on my jersey, and mutters something that my helmet translates as, “Sorry, human larva.”
Nitro snickers, and Coach glares at all three of us.
“This is your first Quantum Interstellar Sports League game, and some of you might be a little nervous right now.”
My stomach gurgles. This isn’t just my first game in the QISL. It’s my first football game ever. I try to remember the advice my parents gave me before I left for training camp, but the only things I can come up with are “cover your mouth when you cough” and “put the toilet seat down after you use it.” Neither of those seems appropriate at the moment.
“I’m not nervous,” Nitro says.
“Good,” Coach growls. “Because if any of you gutless, squirmy-worm, mouth-breathing, cheeselivered scroodletoots (“Translation unavailable,” my helmet whispers) are too scared to go out on that field and give it all you’ve got, you can turn around and go home now.”
Technically, this isn’t true. I’ve tried going home multiple times, but they keep bringing me back.
I raise my hand. “Aren’t you supposed to say something inspiring here?”
Coach cracks his hairy knuckles and blows his whistle. “You’re the quarterback. I’ll leave the gushy stuff to you.”
Did I mention that I’m the quarterback?
I, a kid whose greatest physical achievement prior to today was knocking out my third-grade teacher, Mrs. Brazzoni, with a badly thrown dodgeball, am about to be on the field of the biggest football game ever, and it’s not even some forgettable position like backup long snapper.
Across the field, the Droglidorians—clawed, armored, fanged, and horned, every one of them bigger, stronger, and faster than we are—line up. I’m pretty sure I should give a rousing speech that will send the team onto the field ready to destroy the Droglidorians, but all I can think is, What the freak am I doing here?
Come on, Wyatt, I tell myself. Say something that will motivate your team while showing Nova that you’re brave but also compassionate—the kind of guy who pulls stuck kittens out of trees and also puts them back if that’s really where they want to be.
“What should I say?” I whisper to my AI helmet, before realizing it’s set to Team Broadcast Mode.
Nitro rolls his eyes. “My name’s Einstein and I’m a doofus.”
I’m totally putting itching powder in his sheets tonight—if I survive that long.
Taking a deep breath, I open my mouth.
But instead of a speech, the pizza I ate for lunch explodes up my throat and spews onto my cleats, smelling worse than the tuna sandwich I accidentally left in my locker for two weeks.
Coach drops his head. “We’re doomed.”