Losers Take All (28 page)

I finally broke the awkward silence by saying, “So do you think this is it for Muhldinger? He can't survive this mess, can he?”

“He's gone,” Coach Percy said.

“Don't you mean that he will soon be gone?”

Coach Percy hesitated. “Since we're exchanging confidences, I'll share with you that the faculty received word just before school let out that Muhldinger has resigned as principal, effective immediately. Mr. Anderson is going to be taking over as acting principal till they find a permanent replacement.”

Mr. Anderson was the gentle and scholarly head of the history department who had been teaching at Fremont for forty years.

“I think he's a good choice,” I said.

“Superb,” Coach Percy agreed as we reached the parking lot. “Well, I'd better be heading home. Are we square, Jack?” He held out his right hand again.

“All square,” I told him, and we shook one more time. He turned, walked quickly to his little red car, and sped off. I walked away alone, past the parking lot and alongside Gentry Field, where the only thing moving was an old black crow that had landed on the turf and was hopping around, perhaps looking for bugs.

 

37

Muhldinger did not return to deliver a goodbye speech to the student body, and Mr. Chester, a phys ed teacher, took over coaching the football team.

I noticed that the unusual nameplate on the door to Muhldinger's office—
BRIAN MUHLDINGER—PRINCIPAL/HEAD FOOTBALL COACH
—stayed up for a few days. He was no longer either one, but maybe now that he was gone it didn't seem necessary to remove it right away.

Mr. Anderson wasted no time in making the obvious first change at Fremont High. He rescinded the rule that all seniors had to join a sports team, “effective immediately.” I knew what it meant for the Losers. We had only gotten enough players because all seniors were required to play a sport. Without that rule, the cesspool team would dissolve after our last game against Lynton.

Frank, Dylan, and Becca agreed it was sad that our team would only exist for one season. “I kind of hoped the Losers would become a dynasty,” Dylan said. “Decades of mediocrity. A tradition of glorious failure!”

“Yeah, and we would go down in school history for founding it,” Frank added.

“Actually, Jack founded it,” Becca pointed out.

“It served its purpose,” I told them. “And it was fun while it lasted.”

The last practice of the Losers took place in late October, on a Friday so gray and cold that not one person came to watch us. When Muhldinger resigned, our story grew instantly less compelling and our following in the news and on the Internet quickly fell off. It had been a struggle between David and Goliath, and once Goliath toppled over, people lost interest. Now it was just our team out on the south field, which felt like a big wind tunnel as blasts of wintry air whistled down from the cloudless sky and rustled the branches of nearly leafless trees.

We were wearing sweats, fleece hats, and gloves, and the only way to stay warm was to keep moving. Our team jog around the field was noticeably faster than usual—even Frank and Pierre chugged along, banging their hands together. It was too cold for yoga stretches on the grass, so we stretched standing up and jumped right into our drills. The soccer ball felt like a rock each time somebody kicked it, and when Zirco headed a high ball he fell to the ground as if he'd been bashed in the forehead with a brick.

Coach Percy ended practice early, and we circled around him beneath the branches of the same oak we'd gathered under for our first practice. “Given the blustery weather,” he said, “I won't keep you long. But I have two announcements. The first is that I've accepted a position at the Westmount School in Shropshire, and they want me to start teaching in the spring term, which begins after Christmas holiday. Your new principal was very understanding, so I'll be heading back to England in a few weeks. May I say that coaching this team has been one of my most enjoyable experiences in America. For a team that calls itself the Losers you've accomplished quite a lot, and I daresay had a bit of devilish fun doing it.”

There was silence for a moment, and then Zirco shouted out “Stegosaurus.”

“Yes, that's exactly what I'm feeling,” Coach Percy told him with a smile. He looked out at us. “Forget all of what I just said. Let's leave it simply at Stegosaurus.”

“Stegosaurus,” we repeated back.

Becca spoke up loudly: “Hey, Losers, we never would have had a team if Percy hadn't agreed to coach us.” She gave him a sad smile that made me just a little jealous, and said, “Three cheers for Coach Percy.”

We gave him a trio of hip-hip-hoorays and he tipped an imaginary cap to us, and then shivered. “Before we all freeze, my second announcement is that Lynton initially canceled our last game of the season. As you know, it was supposed to be here at Gentry Field this coming Monday. They read about what happened at Pine River and decided to skip it.”

There were boos and shouts of “Cowards.”

“But a few hours ago their coach called to see if they could still play us. Apparently they're having a perfect season—seven wins and no losses. Seven matches their most wins ever for a JV season in more than fifty years. If they beat us they'll be eight and zero, and they've decided they want the record.”

“Let's summon the Loser Nation for one last game and make a mockery out of their record!” Dylan shouted. “It won't mean anything if they beat us twenty to zip! We can humiliate them with our awfulness!”

“Or we could play the first half and then refuse to play the second,” Shimsky suggested. “So they win on a technicality because we walk off the field, and they always have an asterisk next to their stupid record.”

“Or we could beat them,” I said.

That shut everyone up for a long moment. “Why would we do that?” Frank asked.

“It's our last game,” I pointed out. “We've already lost in every possible way. We were destroyed by the Marion girls and massacred by Maysville. Once you've been obliterated, what fun is another rout? And we already had a game cut off at Pine River. I don't know about you, but I didn't enjoy walking off the field early.”

“He might have a point,” Becca said.

“Don't let him hijack our revolution,” Shimsky said angrily. “We're Losers, not winners. Let's go out in a glorious blaze of failure.”

“It seems to me your revolution's already over,” Percy told him. “Muhldinger's gone. You may be Losers, but like it or not you've already won.”

“That's right,” I agreed. “This is our last game, and we should try something new. Suppose we prove that Muhldinger was wrong and we're not garbage? Lynton beat up on our football team and our whole town. Let's win one for Fremont, and wreck their chance at a perfect record.”

“I agree,” Rob Powers jumped in to support me. “Someone torched my car, so I have more anger than any of you except maybe Dylan. But my anger was about Muhldinger, and he's history. Fremont's where I live, and I didn't enjoy seeing Lynton whip our butts. If you let it be known that the Losers are going to try to snap their losing streak, you can probably get one last burst of publicity.”

“Let's put it to a team vote,” Percy suggested. “All in favor of trying to actually win our last game?”

Seven players raised their hands.

“And how many want to go out Losers?”

There were seven more.

“Who didn't vote?”

“Zirco,” Chloe said.

We all looked at him. “Xander, do you think we should try to win or try to lose?” Coach Percy asked him.

Zirco scratched his head, and we waited. “I want to live in a blue house,” he finally said.

“Yes, we're aware of that,” Percy told him, “and I have no doubt you'll accomplish that worthy goal. But do you want to win or lose against Lynton?”

“Wind,” he said as a chilly burst blew through our huddle. “Wind, wind, win, win, win, win, win!”

And so it was settled, and several of my teammates already had their phones out to broadcast our new agenda out to “Loser Nation.”

*   *   *

I came home and took a hot shower, and then I called the
Star Dispatch
and asked for Dianne Foster. “She's gone for the day,” someone told me. “Would you like her voice mail?”

“Sure,” I said. When it beeped, I left her a short message.

She called five minutes later. “Jack? This is Dianne Foster.”

“Hi,” I said.

“I thought you weren't talking to me.”

“Things change,” I said, echoing Coach Percy. “And for what it's worth, I thought you did a good job with that last article about Muhldinger.”

“That's very generous of you. You mentioned a new story?”

“Since you've been covering Fremont and our soccer team, I thought you might be interested in a story about our last game, which is coming up on Monday against Lynton.”

“That game was canceled,” she said.

“It's back on,” I said, and I told her the plan.

 

38

“Pass me that pipe wrench.” Dad was on his back, fixing our kitchen sink's pop-up drain. “Do you really think you guys have a chance?” The Sunday morning paper was spread out on the floor beneath a plastic bucket to catch any water that leaked. A small headline on a sports page read: “Losers Vow to Go Out Winners—America's Self-Styled Worst Soccer Team Throws Down the Gauntlet in Final Game.”

I handed him the pipe wrench and he removed the trap. There wasn't much that could go wrong in a house that my dad couldn't fix. “We have a slim chance,” I told him. “Some of our players aren't half bad. And it helps a lot having Rob.”

“His dad's not happy about him playing with you guys, but the football season's a washout anyway. Ed's never seen a soccer game in his life, but I told him they're not so bad, except for the scoreless ones.” Dad glanced up at me. “And with your defense you're not likely to have any of those. Hold this trap for a sec.”

I held it as my father lifted the old pop-up drain from the top of the sink. I looked down past him at the article on the floor. Dianne Foster had done a good job of making the fact that we'd decided to try to win our final game sound newsworthy and fun. In seconds Dad had put in the new drain and connected it up underneath. His hands were a blur as he tightened the nuts. “All done,” he said, gathering up the newspaper and bucket. “I told Ed to show his face on Monday and I'd explain the finer points of soccer to him.”

“Now you're bringing football fans to our soccer games?”

“I don't have that many better things to do on my unexpected little vacation.”

“Your vacation will be over really soon,” I assured him.

“Unfortunately, you're wrong,” he said. “They gave it to a young guy who's done some coaching for them already. I can't blame them—it's always better to work with people you know.”

I was shocked. “Sorry,” I told him. “They're fools.”

“The good part is I've got the bug now,” Dad said. “There are two Web sites that list coaching jobs in the area, and I've been checking them out. One job in Bergen County sounds particularly interesting. I don't want to shoot my mouth off because I probably won't get it, but they want to interview me next week.”

“Keep applying,” I told him. “You'll get one and you'll love it. And I'm glad you're coming to our last game. It felt weird to play and not see you on the sideline.”

“I'll come,” he promised, and then glanced out the window. “If there's not a blizzard.”

It was a cold gray morning and snow seemed a definite possibility. But the sun peeked out in the early afternoon and Dylan, Frank, and I went to Founders' Park to toss around a Frisbee. The park is usually mobbed on weekends, but it was so chilly that the moms and young kids had stayed home. Only two players were on the public tennis courts, hitting yellow balls into cold gusts.

Dylan was in great spirits. “They're putting me in charge of set-building for the Christmas play,” he told us. “It's gonna be
Scrooge
and I've started meeting with the director and drawing sketches.” His right wrist must have completely healed because he was hurling the Frisbee on long line drives that bit into the wind.

“Let's cut this short and go grab some pizza,” Frank suggested. “My face is freezing. It's too damn cold for soccer, too. They should just call our game off tomorrow and save us the frostbite.”

“No way,” Dylan said. “Loser Nation is psyched to see us try to win.”

“We'll never win and we shouldn't try,” Frank grumbled. He had voted against us trying to beat Lynton.

“With you in the goal, big guy, I don't see how Lynton can score,” I said.

“Under me, around me, and through me,” Frank suggested.

“Here comes an airmail!” Dylan shouted, and took advantage of a gust to throw the Frisbee over my head. I chased it, but the wind caught it and it sailed an extra thirty yards. It finally came down on a paved walkway by the duck pond and rolled in a big circle. I ran over to it and saw a man sitting on a bench beneath a willow tree. As I reached the Frisbee, I glimpsed his face—it was Brian Muhldinger. He was wearing a Fremont football jacket and a blue Giants cap pulled down over his ears, and he was looking out at the icy and deserted pond. I bent to pick up the Frisbee and as I straightened he turned his head and saw me.

He didn't react. Instead, he sat completely motionless, his big arms folded over his chest, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. His small black eyes fastened on my own. Probably we both were remembering he'd been sitting on this same bench with my dad the afternoon I'd tried out for the football team and gotten my face broken. It seemed like a long time ago, but it was less than five months. I licked my tongue down over my teeth and remembered the pain and how my blood had tasted.