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By James Craven

The match wasn't going well. Leven's losing streak was continuing. Tabley United had scored a hat-trick, shot after shot, left, right, down the middle. Leven had a single goal, a lucky strike that bounced in off the post.

Thomas passed to Jimmy. Jimmy sprinted down the pitch, dodging the Tabley players until he was in front of their goalkeeper. Jimmy paused, choosing the spot, and the ball flew like an arrow into the bottom corner.

The crowd erupted, parents and teachers shouting and cheering. Even the Tabley parents clapped quietly. It was the noisiest that a Leven crowd had ever been.

That's what woke the beast.

He had been asleep under the grass for a hundred thousand years, snoring loudly (though everyone had thought the noise was traffic) as he dreamed delicious dreams. He unfolded his long, furry legs, blinked his eight owl-like eyes, and came roaring up through the half-way line, the ground cracking over his horrid head.

The crowd screamed and fled, abandoning coats and bags. The beast stretched out his humungous legs and clasped with his claws at everybody he could reach, shovelling them into his cave-like mouth, sharp teeth crunching and scrunching, saliva dribbling down his chin and splatting onto the wet, muddy ground.

The players for Leven and Tabley stood still, shocked at the horrible thing that had been beneath their boots.

None of them knew that a thousand years ago, parents had told children playing near the grass to 'Leave Alone', not to wake up the evil thing waiting under the mud. The children had told their own children and grandchildren to 'Leave Alone'. Eventually the boys and girls had just called it 'Leven' and everyone had forgotten about the beast.

It remembered the people. It remembered how they tasted.

Oliver moved first, whacking the ball into one of the beast's angry eyes. The eye shut, and the spidery thing turned to catch him. Tom from the Tabley team took the rebound, smacking the ball into one of its legs. Imogen back-heeled the ball into the beast's face again, and it snarled, revealing its dripping fangs. Tabley again, and Archer chipped the ball: it bounced over the beast's back and tapped its tail. The beast turned, confused. Jessica toe-tapped the ball hard, another leg gone. Ben, the Tabley goalkeeper, took a throw: another eye. The beast slowly stepped backwards.

It was the referee, Mr Beadnall, who finished it off, throwing his red and yellow cards straight at the beast's bottom, shouting "Get off my pitch, you beastly beast. There's a match going on!"

Now it was the beast's turn to flee: it wobbled back to the hole in the pitch and hurried inside, pulling the grass back in after it until there was no sign that it had ever been there.

Leven went on to lose the match on penalties, but they didn't mind. Afterwards, the school turned the grass into a cricket pitch, just to make sure the beast was never disturbed again.