Losing Is Not an Option

by Rich Wallace

  “Great. Parties every night. You’ll see, next year.” He looks around.

  Smith motions with his chin toward Wendy and Steve. The wrestling guy nods.

  “This is Ron,” Smith says.

  The guy shakes my hand hard. “What’s going on, Ron?”

  “Nothing much. Just hanging out.”

  “Any karaoke yet?” he asks Smith.

  “Nah. The place is just filling up now. You performing?”

  “Absolutely,” he says. “As soon as I get a few beers in me.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Hell, I don’t know. Something funny. I was working on a few things all week. You’ll see.” He sticks his arm straight out and points at the kegs and starts walking that way with his arm still sticking out.

  Smith turns to me. “Marv’s a riot. Last time he did ‘Paradise by the Dashboard Light’ with some girl he knows from school. You know, that old Meat Loaf song.”

  “Must have been funny.”

  “The karaoke is a blast. You’ll see.”

  An hour later the place is packed and there’s been a steady stream of guys doing songs by macho country people like George Strait, Alan Jackson, and Travis Tritt, plus insipid versions of “After the Loving” and “To Sir, With Love,” but the crowd is rowdy and everybody’s laughing. I’ve just been hanging back, leaning against the wall and drinking beer. Wendy and Steve and Marv the wrestling guy are with us, but we can’t talk much because they’ve upped the volume a lot. Wendy has been talking to me between songs and keeps running her thumb down my sleeve. She’s got curly brown hair and bright red lipstick. Smith seems to be fostering communication between Marv and Steve. I don’t know why those two would have any interest in each other; Marv is a loud party animal and Steve looks like he could gently flap his wings and float toward the ceiling. So Steve and Marv are talking to Smith and looking across at each other. I’m guessing that Steve likes Marv. I’m also guessing that Marv would beat the shit out of him if he tried anything.

  “All right, I’m ready,” Marv says after a while, and starts working his way through the crowd toward the DJ.

  Apparently he has a reputation, because he gets applause even before he starts singing. He gives a big embarrassed grin and shakes his head. Then he raises his hand for quiet and the song begins.

  “You don’t bring me flowers,” he sings in a high girly voice that doesn’t sound a lot like Barbra Streisand, “you don’t sing me love songs.…”

  But then he changes his voice, and he really does sound like Neil Diamond: “You hardly talk to me anymore, when I come through the door at the end … of … the … day.”

  The crowd goes nuts. He does the whole song like that, doing both voices of the duet, and people are yelling for more.

  “Later, boys,” he says, and hands the microphone back to the DJ.

  Wendy pokes my arm. “You gonna sing?”

  “No. I suck. Are you?”

  “Sure. It’s easy. You just have to pick something upbeat or funny. It’s a rush, believe me.”

  “She’s good.” The first words Steve has said to me. Marv has made his way back and Steve smiles over at him. “Nice,” he says. Marv smiles back, blushing a bit. I wince a little and look around.

  Another guy is up there doing “This Magic Moment,” standing kind of sideways with his eyes closed and his elbow up at a right angle, holding the mike steady. Steve kind of rotates his shoulders in a little dance, squinting at Marv, who’s got a sweaty forehead from singing.

  “I’m going up,” Wendy says.

  “You go, girl,” says Smith.

  She has to wait while two guys do the “Summer Nights” duet from Grease. Wendy does “Passionate Kisses” and she can go pretty good. Quite a few people are dancing now.

  I turn and see Steve smoking a cigarette, holding it awkwardly between his thumb and first finger to bring it to his lips like it’s the first one he’s ever smoked. I think it’s one of Marv’s. Smith is sort of dancing, just working his hips and shoulders.

  Wendy comes back and wipes her brow. “Whew,” she says to me. “Want to get some air?”

  “Sure.” I pat Smith on the shoulder and say, “I’ll be back in a bit.”

  I mean, she’s in college.

  The faggy guy at the door nods to Wendy and says, “Mon chéri.” She grins and shakes her head slowly. “Jerry. Too sweet.”

  It’s cold enough to see your breath as we step out toward the cars. Takes a minute for my eyes to adjust, and we almost bump into a couple of guys sitting between cars smoking a joint.

  “Sorry,” I say.

  She stops after a few more steps and leans against an old Toyota. “This is Steven’s car,” she says.

  “Oh.”

  “God, I’m so glad he finally got here. Those two have been eyeing each other all semester, and Steven was just so scared to come out here.”

  “Who?”

  “Marv and Steven. Like you couldn’t tell?”

  “Well, uh … I was wondering. But why here? I mean, it’s a pretty tough crowd.”

  She looks at me like I’m from Jupiter or something. “Are you … blind?”

  I laugh. “No. What do you mean?”

  “This is the secret jock place. Denny didn’t clue you in?”

  “No. He just said it was mostly a college hangout. I mean, is everybody gay in there?”

  “Not everybody. But look around. There are about six women in the whole place. I only came so Steven wouldn’t wimp out.” She looks me over for a few seconds. “So.… You’re not?”

  “What?”

  She gives me a look.

  “No,” I say. “No.”

  She nods. We’re quiet for a minute, listening to the rhythm from the barn. She changes the subject. “So, you know where you’re going next year?”

  “You mean school?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, Sturbridge. I’m only a junior.”

  “Oh.” She smiles. “So I’d not only be betraying Denny, I’d be robbing the cradle, too.”

  “What? Oh … I guess.”

  She’s not my type. Well, considering the alternative, she definitely is.

  “Don’t worry,” she says. “We’ll just hang out. I’ll protect you from the boys,” she adds with a laugh. “You all right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Come on,” she says. “Let’s get another beer. I don’t want to miss Marv’s next performance.”

  “Sure. Hey, Wendy?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Why did Denny …”

  “Invite you here? You tell me.”

  I laugh a little, roll my eyes. A van pulls onto the grass and bounces to a stop. Six people get out, two of them girls a bit older than me.

  “Dorrie!” Wendy says, and they look over.

  “Guys from the U,” she says to me. “Straight. We can hang with them if you want.”

  “Whatever.”

  She talks to them as we walk toward the barn, and I follow behind. Kevin and Tony and those other dudes would beat the shit out of me if they ever found out about this one.

  The guy at the door greets them and pecks the girls on the cheek. He gives me a quick little nod and I go in and look for Smith. He’s talking to a couple of guys.

  “Hey,” he says. “Ronny, you remember Adrian? Ran for Saint Peter’s in Wilkes-Barre a few years ago?”

  “Hi,” I say, shaking his hand, wondering if he’s gay and figuring he probably is. He’s probably thinking the same about me. Big arm muscles.

  “Ron’s the one who kicked my ass today,” Denny says. Somehow that word “ass” makes me uncomfortable. I look around to make sure no one’s checking me out.

  “So,” I say to Adrian. “Where are you now?”

  “Bucknell. This is Joe.”

  Joe has short bleached-blond hair and is wearing a gray T-shirt that says RUTGERS LACROSSE.

  The music gets loud again and somebody starts singing “The Dance,” which
is another Garth Brooks song I never paid much attention to. Denny’s watching the singer—most everybody is turned toward the stage—and I watch Denny from the corner of my eye. He’s a confident guy. Seems to know who he is. One of the best runners in the state. I guess that means I am, too.

  Wendy asks me to dance when “I Will Survive” comes on, and I shrug and say sure. It’s late now; the crowd has loosened up and guys are dancing together. Even Marv and Steven are on the floor, farther apart than the other couples, though, more tentative. Wendy bumps her butt against me and laughs, swirling her arms with the rhythm.

  When the song ends she takes my hand and starts rushing toward the front. Marv’s pulling Steven along, too. Marv and Wendy grab the microphones. Denny is pushing through the crowd toward us. Marv turns to us and says, “You guys are just backups. You know the song. Meat Loaf. Everybody knows it.”

  The crowd is nuts. It is a rush being up there, even though I’m as much a spectator as a performer. We just shout along with the chorus like everybody else in the barn. Nine-minute song; Marv is sweating like a pig. “Though it’s cold and lonely in the deep dark night, I can see paradise by the dashboard light.”

  We dance another half hour, then get ready to leave. Wendy takes my arm and we step into the night. “I’m heading back to Weston in Denny’s truck,” she says. “Steven is occupied.”

  So we get in the truck three across with Wendy in the middle and bump across the field to the road. Smith tunes in the oldies station out of Scranton and rolls down his window. It’s cool and a breeze is blowing through the cab.

  “Good time?” he asks.

  “Great,” Wendy says.

  “Yeah. Lot of fun,” I say. It was.

  Denny kind of drums on the steering wheel for a few seconds, probably wondering if I’d ever go back. He doesn’t glance my way.

  “Lot of fun,” I say again. Then we’re quiet for a while.

  They drop me by the Turkey Hill store. It’s still open, but none of my friends are around.

  “Thanks,” I say. “I guess I’ll see you at the districts.”

  “Better train your butt off,” Denny says. “You won’t get me twice.”

  “We’ll see,” I say, but I know where I stand with him competitively. We’re on even ground now—whoever wants it more will take it.

  Wendy gives me sort of a one-armed hug and I lean over and shake Denny’s hand. “See you guys around,” I tell them, and I get out of the truck and run toward home.

  What It All

  Goes Back To

  My father let me drive his car to the game, so I’m tuned to one of the town’s two FM stations. They’re playing “Sister Golden Hair” by America, which I guess was sort of cool several decades ago but isn’t exactly what I feel like hearing.

  I push the button for the instant shift to the other station, which is playing, I swear to God, “Ventura Highway” by the same band. That’s how hip we are around here.

  I park at the elementary school and look for a group of guys acting like a team, since I don’t know everyone; most of them are my brother’s age. Looks like there are four or five of them shooting around on the upper court.

  I pass through the chain-link gate. There’s a couple of wallets on the black asphalt, keys, a can of Skoal, and a cell phone. “You Ollie?” I say to one of the guys, a quick-looking guard with spiky red hair.

  “Yeah,” he says. “You Devin’s little brother?”

  “Yep.” He sends me a bounce pass. I take a long jumper that misses everything and say, “Shit.”

  Guys nod, stick out their hands. “J.D.” “Shifty.” Tony Hatcher I know. He puts his hand on my shoulder and says, “Ron, my man. Good to see you.” He asks about my brother, who he was tight with for a while back when they were nothing but trouble. “Tell your mom I said hello,” he goes. The tattoo on his bicep says GUTS. His T-shirt says STURBRIDGE WRESTLING.

  Red-haired Ollie is saying something about making big bucks this summer, cutting grass over at the state park.

  “I applied for that job,” says J.D., who’s got one little hoop earring and slightly crossed eyes. “I didn’t even get an interview. They got something against me over there. Ever since me and my friends got drunk and trashed a picnic area.” He shakes his head. “That was like two years ago.”

  My friend Aaron comes walking up, grinning. He’s the only guy on the team who’s my age. Curtis Wheat is with him. “Got the big man,” he says, pointing at Curtis with his thumb.

  Curtis is a muscle-bound Irish guy who used to have long black hair, but he shaved it off about four days ago, so it’s about a sixteenth of an inch long. You wonder why he would take a chance playing in a ragged-ass summer league like this one. They say he’ll be starting at cornerback for Syracuse in the fall. Can’t imagine his college coaches would want him risking an injury here. His T-shirt says CITRUS BOWL CHAMPIONS.

  Seems like everybody’s got scruffy facial hair this summer. Balls keep clanking off the rim. The nets are ripped and hanging. Curtis dunks a couple of times. He’s a tremendous athlete. One of the best ever at our high school.

  We’re playing the team from Pete’s Market. Several of them played basketball for the high school a while back.

  Referee Butch Landers, who’s my shop teacher and the assistant high school coach, blows his whistle. Game time.

  Me and the other guards look at each other. “Go ahead,” somebody says. So I take the court.

  Already there’s a holdup. Landers is telling J.D. to take out his earring.

  “I just got this pierced today,” J.D. says.

  “Not my problem,” Landers says. “You can’t keep that in.”

  J.D. is pissed.

  “Can’t he put tape over it?” I ask.

  Landers shakes his head. His hair is slicked back, and though he’s lean, he’s got the size of a former defensive tackle. “We play Pennsylvania high school rules in this league,” he says.

  J.D. goes over to the sideline and another guy comes on.

  “This is bullshit,” J.D. says loudly as he struggles with the earring.

  “And that’s a T,” Landers says. “You watch your mouth.”

  “Dick.”

  “You want another one?”

  J.D. just scowls and looks away. He’s our biggest guy other than Curtis. Square-shouldered and strong. Played at Weston South, a big rival. Aaron’s cousin.

  We fall behind early. Not a surprise, since we haven’t ever played together. The other team is guys in their early twenties; several of them played for Landers. That’s not a huge credential around here, though. The better athletes rarely even go out for the high school team. Aaron switched over to wrestling last winter after two years of junior varsity basketball. And Curtis didn’t play high school hoops at all, though he clearly would have helped them.

  The other team maintains a seven- or eight-point lead through the first half, and Landers calls a bunch of fouls on Curtis and J.D., which they argue. It’s a physical game, especially inside. We have eight players, and seven of us consider ourselves guards. J.D. played a season at guard for Lackawanna JC and never passes up a chance to shoot, but he moves inside on defense for us. He’s a constant target for elbows and hands, having beaten these guys regularly back in high school.

  “Son of a bitch is giving them every call,” J.D. says at the half.

  “Just start running on them,” says Ollie, who hasn’t stopped running all game. “They’re starting to wheeze.”

  It’s true that the fitness level is in our favor. Though you see a lot of the other team’s players in the weight room at the Y, it doesn’t look like they’ve done much running. J.D. and Curtis are in shape, and Ollie plays Division III ball at Addison College up in Boston. The rest of us can play all day, if not particularly well. Me and Shifty and Ollie have no upper-body bulk at all.

  They’ve got shooters, and they open the second half with a couple of threes, so we’re down by thirteen. I play under the basket for
a few minutes as we go with a small but quick lineup. There’s shoving and cursing but nothing I’d consider blatant. J.D. and their biggest guy stand nose to nose for a second after a shot goes out of bounds, but all I hear is “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  The upper and lower courts are side by side, separated only by the fence, so a whistle in one game sometimes causes a disruption in the other. Their big man goes up hard off an inbounds pass and Curtis gets a hand on the ball. Whistle blows, Curtis stops. The guy grabs the ball and makes a soft, easy layup. Curtis looks around. “What the hell?”

  Landers just shrugs. “Not my whistle,” he says. “Pay attention.”

  We finally get in a bit of a flow, figuring out each other’s game, getting the ball inside. We cut the lead to eight, then four. Time’s running out when J.D. drives hard, has the ball stripped, and lands on his butt. They get a quick outlet pass and have a scrawny guard way ahead of everybody on a fast break. He brings it to the hoop, taking at least one extra step, and lays it in.

  “Nice walk,” says Aaron, who’s trailing the play.

  “Aw,” the guy says. “Are those real tears?”

  “Screw you,” Aaron says. “Take a cigarette break.”

  Down the other end J.D. and the big guy are pushing each other under the basket. “You want a piece of me?” J.D. says, and the guy throws a punch that lands with a thud on J.D.’s chest. They’re on the ground now, and this is right in front of the other team’s subs. Suddenly there’s six Pete’s Market players on top of J.D., kicking the shit out of him. It lasts about three seconds as everybody on the court runs over and starts pulling people away. Landers is blowing his whistle in short little spurts, and the refs from the other game come running up.

  Landers looks frantic, waving his arms and yelling, “Cut the crap!” He orders the two teams to go to opposite baskets and stands at midcourt conferring with the other referees. Finally he calls over Aaron and the Pete’s Market captain. Then he calls J.D. and the other guy involved in the fight.

  He throws J.D. out of the game and gives him a two-game suspension. Same for the other guy.

  “That’s bullshit!” Curtis yells over to Landers. “What about the rest of their team?”