Losers Take All

by David Klass

“You think it was an electrical fire or something?”

  “Don’t bet on it,” he spat out. “People have been saying stuff to me all week.”

  “You really think someone would do that?” Becca asked.

  “Sure.” He stared at his mom, who was holding his sister protectively. “And I’ll be damned if I let them get away with it. See you guys later.” He walked back to his family and took his sister from his mother. The little girl might have been sleeping when the fire broke out, but she was now wide awake and having lots of fun. The commotion was just a big game to her and she kept smiling and waving to the crowd. Rob hoisted her up onto his back, and she shrieked delightedly at being up so high.

  “Let’s go,” Becca said.

  I walked her home, and we didn’t say much. The run-in with her dad no longer seemed very important compared to what we had just seen. Someone had targeted Rob, and setting his car on fire in front of his home had pushed things to a new and very dangerous point.

  36

  Rob’s threat to strike back worried me, because I was afraid he might escalate things and end up getting hurt. But nothing much happened in the next few days, except that the fire department found some evidence that the fire might have been intentionally set, but it was inconclusive and there were no witnesses.

  A week later I woke up early to study for a math test and came downstairs to gobble some cereal. I was surprised to find my father on his way out the door dressed up in gray pants and a blazer. “Hey, fashion plate,” I kidded him. “What’s up?”

  He looked just a little embarrassed. “Probably nothing.”

  “Nice outfit for ‘nothing.’”

  “There’s a possible job,” Dad admitted. “I don’t want to shoot off my mouth because I’m sure I won’t get it.”

  “Must be pretty fancy construction work.”

  He hesitated and then told me: “It’s another kind of job.”

  “What kind is that?”

  He was reluctant, but I sensed he really did want to talk about it. “There’s a junior college in South Jersey that’s looking for an assistant athletic director. They need someone who can step in right away and help coach their football team this fall.”

  “That’s perfect for you.”

  He shrugged. “Except that I don’t have any experience.”

  “You led the state in rushing.”

  “Back in the Dark Ages.”

  “You coached my teams, and all my brothers’ teams, and you were by far the best coach any of us ever had.”

  “That was kids’ stuff,” he said. “And you always said I was too much of a hard-ass.”

  “You were. But we’ve got a room in this house filled with cups and ribbons, and they didn’t come out of nowhere.”

  I think he appreciated the shot in the arm. “Well, I’m going to give it a try.” He hesitated. “There is one reason I might get this.”

  “Because you’re the most qualified person in New Jersey?” I guessed.

  “No,” he said, “because it pays peanuts and nobody else may want it.” He glanced at his watch. “I’d better head out. Got a long drive ahead of me and I want to get there bright and early. You should read the paper today, Jack.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “To me, it’s kind of a sad day for Fremont. But you’ll probably look at it very differently.”

  Mom came down the steps then, and asked, “What’s a sad day for Fremont? Hey, who’s sneaking out early? Look at you!”

  Dad glanced from her to me. “Am I really usually such a slob?”

  “No,” Mom and I said at exactly the same moment.

  “She just means you look like a coach,” I told him.

  “A college coach,” Mom agreed, walking over and fixing his collar. “You’ll knock ’em dead. Want some coffee for the road?”

  “Already had two cups,” he said, and kissed her goodbye. Then he headed out to his truck, and Mom and I looked at each other.

  “Great job for him,” I said.

  “He’s worried they’ll give it to someone younger, who’s just starting out,” she told me.

  “He’s not that old.”

  “Let’s hope.” She poured herself a cup of coffee from the pot my dad had brewed. “So what’s a sad day for Fremont?”

  “I don’t know yet.” I walked to the kitchen table where the newspaper was waiting. Since the sports section was sitting on top, I flipped through it. There was a golf tournament going on, but nothing about Fremont. Mom pointed to the news section, where there was a big front-page feature article by Dianne Foster titled: “The Dark Side of a Sports Culture.” I sat and held the paper with both hands, and Mom read it over my shoulder.

  For many years, Fremont High was known as “Muscles High” and gloried in its long string of championship seasons. But this year, a cycle of escalating violence has plagued the school. There has been a pattern of bullying and intimidation, leading to an assault on a student, the recent arrest of three football players, and a possible case of arson at a soccer player’s home this week. Shocking new revelations from a source very familiar with the football team place the responsibility for that attitude, and for several of the specific incidents, squarely at the feet of the school’s football coach and new principal, Brian Muhldinger.

  “Wow,” I said.

  “Poor Brian,” Mom whispered.

  The article linked a string of things that had happened in the last five months to Muhldinger, starting with his policy that all seniors had to join sports teams. It explained how nonathletes had felt caught in a bind, and that our relaxed soccer team was an attempt to deal with his new rule.

  From the start Muhldinger saw this soccer team as an embarrassment, and as it gained popularity he soon came to look upon it as a threat. He let his football players know that he wanted the team harassed and that he intended to find a way to break it up. He called it the “cesspool” and its players “wastes of genes.” In early September he told a handful of seniors to lead the football players on a run straight through the first soccer practice and “Show them what contact sports at Fremont is all about.” Soccer players, including several girls, were knocked down and terrorized when the football players came charging through.

  I flashed back to when the football stampede had hit our practice, and I’d intuitively tried to protect Chloe. Rob Powers had almost slammed into me, and for a moment we’d caught each other. He’d looked very guilty, as if he knew he was doing something he shouldn’t have been doing.

  Suddenly I realized who Dianne Foster’s new source, the one “very familiar with the football team,” must be, and that Rob had chosen his own way of striking back.

  The article described how the football team had been locked in the Keep and almost missed its first home game. A few days later, in the football coaches’ office after practice, Muhldinger had told several seniors that our soccer team was to blame, and that we should pay for that outrage. According to Dianne Foster’s source, all three seniors who had been arrested for beating Dylan had been present when Muhldinger voiced this opinion.

  The article ended by explaining how Rob had left the football team for our soccer team and been insulted and threatened.

  Less than one week later, his car was set on fire right in front of his family’s home. The police are still investigating, and may never be able to identify who set the blaze. But it’s clear that the culture of bullying at Fremont High that created this firestorm is directly attributable to one man and his policies.

  I lowered the paper and looked at my mom, who had finished reading a few seconds before me. “It’s over for him, isn’t it?” I asked her.

  “Unless that reporter has it wrong.”

  “I doubt that she does.”

  * * *

  School that day was weird. Everyone knew what was going on, but no one talked much about it. Even my fellow Losers seemed to sense that some sort of turning point had been reached, and the moment was a little too serious
for words. Nobody saw Muhldinger all day, but several school board members were spotted around the halls. Sports practices were all canceled, so I headed home after school. I was cutting through the parking lot when a familiar voice called out in a British accent, “Hallo there, Jack.”

  “Hey,” I called back.

  Coach Percy had been about to drive home. Instead he walked over to me and said, “Strange day.”

  “Sad,” I agreed, repeating the word my father had used.

  “We talked about having a chat. Is this a good time?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Let’s take a stroll,” he suggested, and off we went. We walked behind the school, and soon entered the wooded area where Dylan was jumped.

  Coach Percy looked around at the trees and the brook that spilled down in a waterfall over sharp rocks. “A pretty spot for cruelty.”

  “I guess Muhldinger’s gonna get what he deserves,” I said.

  “I take no pleasure in that,” Percy told me. “We all make mistakes.”

  “That’s for sure,” I muttered.

  He looked at me sharply and said: “I’ve certainly made my share.” He paused, as if hoping I’d say something to help him out, and then continued: “I assume that we’re now discussing something Rebecca told you. Is that correct?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You realize this is a rather serious matter? One that could get me fired.”

  I thought to myself that it could have gotten him fired up till this morning, but Muhldinger wasn’t in a position to fire anyone now—even the teacher who’d put together the video of him shouting at our players on the team bus and posted it on the Web for the world to see. “I guess you knew you were taking a risk.”

  “To tell you the truth,” he admitted, sounding a little embarrassed, “there are times when a man acts without thinking about the consequences.”

  “In any case, it’s over now,” I said.

  “Absolutely,” he agreed. “In fact it never really was there at all. I mean, nothing consequential happened. I just wanted to make sure you understand that.”

  Actually, his posting the video had had lots of important consequences. “I’m not sure I agree,” I said.

  Percy rubbed his hands together, as if trying to clean them. “I suppose she showed you the sonnet.”

  I looked back at him, but before I could ask what the heck he was talking about he went on. “I should never have written it. But she is a wonderful girl, as I know you’d agree. By far my best student. And I’ve been a bit of a stranger in a strange land. Anyway, we took a walk together, and held hands once, and I wrote her the sonnet, and that was the extent of it. You came along, and I’m so glad that you did. It was certainly best for everyone. You’re a lovely couple and I’m heading back to England to a job I’ll relish, and—”

  He broke off and took a breath. “I’m grateful we finally got everything out in the open. I hope you won’t hold it against me.” He held out his right hand.

  I shook hands with him and looked him in the eye. “Good luck in England.”

  “Thank you, Jack,” he said. “Good luck with soccer. I have a feeling you may have stumbled onto something. And if I may say so, good luck with Becca.”

  We walked back through the Stevens toward the school, and there was a very uncomfortable silence. I found myself thinking how a crisis like the one in Fremont brings out so many different kinds of secrets. I guess when you stir up a school and a small town hard enough, all kinds of hidden things rise to the surface.

  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 woul
d 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.”