Disclaimer: I did not come up with any of the Penderwicks characters, that would be Jeanne Birdsall.

Author's Note: This is my first Penderwicks fanfic. Please review or make suggestions for future Penderwicks fanfics if you like and enjoy!

It was a bright, sunny day at the Penderwick residence on Gardam Street. All seemed calm and silent until…

"GOAL!" Came a cry from inside the house.

Skye and Jane Penderwick were running around their living room shouting and holding their hands in the air like you see professional soccer players do when they've just won the World Cup.

"Would you two quiet down over there? I'm trying to do some homework!" Shouted Rosalind Penderwick (the oldest Penderwick daughter) from her room upstairs where she was intently trying to finish her Latin assignment.

Skye and Jane had been downstairs on the couch watching soccer on TV when England had made a goal against France. The two sisters liked both teams and started their goal shouts whenever either team had made a goal.

"Aha, we've made a goal dear friends!" Shouted Jane in a British accent.

Skye stopped her jumping for a moment to stare quizzically at her younger sister.

Jane continued the puzzling antics for a few moments longer, apparently shaking the hands of her teammates then turning to the losing side laughing a loud, British laugh (if there is such a thing).

"You mad cows thought you could defeat us? Well, ha! We've shown you!" She shouted and jumped up and down a few more times, her brown curls bouncing.

"Jane, what on earth is wrong with you?" Skye Penderwick asked, still staring.

"Who's this Jane you speak of? I'm sure she's simply exquisite, but I, my American friend, am Mick Hart! The professional British soccer player!"

"Rosalind!" Skye shouted, her voice rising in concern. "Jane's going nuts!"

"What now?" Rosalind asked from upstairs.

"Jane thinks she's some British soccer guy named Mick Hart!"

"That's nice…" Rosalind's voice trailed off.

Jane began a mad victory dance in the middle of the hallway and Skye backed away slowly, heading back to the living room to finish watching the game.

That is the origin of Mick Hart and to this day neither him nor Jane know that the French really won the game that day.