Losers Take All

by David Klass

  “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.

  But now the park was cold and empty, and Muhldinger was sitting by himself. He spat once on the ground and looked away from me, back out at the frozen duck pond.

  I grabbed the purple Frisbee and ran back to Dylan and Frank. If we stayed another few minutes they might spot him, and for some reason I really didn’t want that. “Hey, guys,” I said, “I’m freezing. Let’s go for pizza.”

  “The wind’s dying down. We’ve got all afternoon for pizza. Let’s play a little more,” Dylan said.

  “Let’s go now,” I told him. “My hands are so numb I can’t feel the Frisbee. Come on, I’m treating.”

  “Big spender,” Frank said enthusiastically. “Did I mention I’m feeling like three slices?”

  “Fine,” I said. “As long as you don’t eat so much that you can’t save goals tomorrow.”

  “My eating ability and
my goaltending skills are not linked,” he assured me.

  I glanced quickly back toward the duck pond at the sad figure sitting motionless under the willow tree, and then I said, “Let’s put that to the test,” and we headed off to binge on hot pizza with sausage and mushrooms.

  39

  It wasn’t the biggest crowd we had ever played in front of, but for a cold November afternoon it was still pretty impressive. More than five hundred fans sat in the bleachers of Gentry Field, waiting to see if the Fremont Losers could actually win a game. License plates in the parking lot included some out-of-staters, but when we ran out onto the turf to warm up I scanned the crowd and saw plenty of faces that I recognized.

  My dad and mom were sitting with Ed Powers and his wife, Stephanie, in second-row seats. It was a little strange seeing them there because I was used to seeing them together at football games, cheering for the Lions. As I watched, my father leaned over to Ed and gestured toward the field, and I knew he was explaining something about soccer to his old teammate. Who would have ever thought my dad would become a soccer expert?

  A few rows back I spotted Mr. Knight with Emily. He was wearing a dark suit, and glanced at his watch as if wondering whether the game would start on time. Emily wore a light-blue ski coat with a hood trimmed in white fur. She saw me looking and waved, and I found myself waving back.

  “Your dad’s here,” I told Becca.

  “Yeah, I saw. Must be a slow day at the office for dentists and party planners. My mom’s here, too. On the other side of the field, thankfully.” I followed her gaze and spotted Mrs. Knight sitting with Meg’s mom and dad.

  Jan Brent filed in with a tall man I’d never met, but I knew his name was Sam Magee. Sam was an assistant soccer coach at Rutgers, and he’d told me he’d be coming. I’m pretty sure this was the only time Sam had ever scouted a team called the Losers, and knowing that he would be watching gave me a little extra jolt of excitement.

  There was only one camera crew on hand to film our last game, from a local news station. A guy in a leather jacket was taping a stand-up while the scoreboard clock ticked down to start time. When there were five minutes left the ref blew his whistle and shouted, “I need the captains.”

  I walked out to midfield where the Lynton captain was waiting. He was an inch taller than me, with a heavier build and a super-confident smile that could also be read as a sneer. “Last game of the season,” he said. “Ready to go?”

  “Let’s play before we freeze,” I said. “I hear you guys are undefeated.”

  “Undefeated and untested. We’ve been coasting. We need better teams to play.”

  “That’s a good problem to have,” I told him. “We’ve been getting crushed.”

  “Yeah, it sounds like you guys have turned losing into an art form. I can’t wait to see the show.” He was smiling the whole time he said it, but it clearly wasn’t meant as a joke. Right then and there I decided that we would have to beat Lynton that day.

  “Lynton, call it in the air,” the ref ordered. He flipped the coin and their captain called heads. Sure enough it was heads, and he took the side of the field that didn’t face the afternoon sun.

  “Shake hands, guys,” the ref said.

  “Good luck,” I told their captain as we shook. “Congrats on your great season.” I looked him in the eye and added: “But it’s not over yet.”

  “It’s over,” he said, and then turned away, and we walked back to our teams.

  “Which side do I have?” Frank asked when I approached our bench.

  “Facing the sun. Maybe it’ll keep you warm. By the way, try not to let the Lynton captain score.”

  “Jerk?” Frank asked.

  “Total jerk. Thinks we’re garbage.”

  “We are garbage,” Frank said. “Dump us into the truck and turn on the compactor.”

  “Buddy,” I told him, “I know you voted against trying to win today, and since you’re our goalie you can screw this game up single-handedly. But I’m asking you as a favor not to do that.”

  “Why is a stupid soccer game so important to you?” Frank wanted to know.

  “My dad’s here, with my mom,” I said. “First one she’s ever seen.” I hesitated. “There’s a scout here, too.”

  “Like an Indian scout?”

  “No,” I said, “like a scout from Rutgers.”

  It’s hard to surprise Frank, but I’d managed it. “You’re being recruited at a Loser game?”

  “Please keep it to yourself. And I guess the last reason I’d like to win is that Lynton thumped Fremont so badly in football. They crushed our whole town in their stupid mud pit. It doesn’t make you a jerk to want to win one back for the place you grew up.”

  “Not sure I agree,” Frank said. “That actually sounds to me like the place where all the stupidity starts. But we’ve been friends since I ate your lunch in kindergarten and made you cry.” He shot me a grin. “I might be able to save a few today, if they’re not kicked too hard.”

  “Keep us in the game,” I told him. “That’s all I’m asking.”

  The countdown clock showed two minutes. Coach Percy called us in and we circled around him. He was wearing his weirdest outfit of the season: plaid pants, a yellowish tweed coat that zipped up to his chin, and a black fedora that looked like it belonged in a Mafia movie. “Well, team,” he said, “we’ve climbed the Alps. It’s time to descend into Italy and lay waste to Rome … or at least to Lynton.”

  “It’s cold enough to be the top of the Alps,” Becca complained, shivering.

  “My feet are frozen, so how can I kick a soccer ball?” Meg asked. “Not that I can even when it’s warm.”

  Coach Percy looked around at us and smiled. I think he genuinely liked this team, with all our grumbles and goofiness. “When Hannibal reached the crest of the Alps, a blizzard blocked all the paths down,” he told us. “His generals came to him and said they were within sight of Italy but there was no way to descend. He told them: ‘Aut viam inveniam aut faciam,’ which means, roughly: ‘I will either find a way, or make one!’ I don’t expect you to win this game the way a normal soccer team wins, but I’m sure you’ll find a way or make one! Losers forever, on three.”

  I wasn’t sure I wanted to be a loser forever, but we put our hands in the middle and counted: “One, two, three—Losers forever!” and ran out onto the gleaming emerald turf of Gentry Field.

  40

  I lined up at center mid, with Rob behind me at stopper. “Just to be clear, Jack,” he said, “we’re trying to win today, right?”

  “This is the famous Logan-Powers partnership, second generation,” I told him. “Take no prisoners.”

  “You got it.” He glanced over at his father in the stands. “I kind of owe Dad something to cheer about. I guarantee the defense will hang tough today.” After that promise he turned toward the one news camera that was filming us and flashed a thousand-megawatt smile.

  The ref blew his whistle, and our final game was on. Pierre kicked the ball to Jenks, who tripped over it like it was a giant mushroom that had suddenly sprouted in his path. A speedy Lynton forward scooped the ball up and sliced through our midfield before we knew what was happening. Rob stepped up to stop him but he slid a pass sideways to their tall captain, who was making a parallel run. The captain one-touched a whistling shot from thirty yards away right through Frank’s upraised hands into our goal. Lynton had scored in under ten seconds—I’m not sure the ref had even had time to lower his whistle.

  Their captain did a little victory dance and tapped his wrist as if saying, “Check your watches. Record time!”

  Frank dug the ball out of the back of the net and bounced it twice, angrily, before handing it to me. “Even I’m embarrassed by that one. I swear I was trying to stop it.”

  “It wasn’t your fault,” I told him. “We all fell asleep.”

  “There’s still plenty of time to get back in this game,” Rob assured us.

  “There’s still the whole gam
e to get back in the game,” Dylan pointed out. “That took about three seconds.”

  Pierre kicked off again, and this time he passed it to Becca who kicked the ball back to me. I took one touch and instantly three Lynton players swarmed me and got the ball away. One of them passed it to a short striker on the right wing, who made a darting run down our sideline. Chloe and Zirco ran to intercept him and when he swerved they collided so hard I could hear their bodies smacking together thirty yards away. Zirco flipped completely over Chloe, and it looked like a clown routine except that they both went down painfully hard.

  The Lynton striker didn’t kick it out of bounds at the possible injury—instead he lofted a cross over our goal toward the long corner. Frank jumped to punch it away, but vertical leaps were never his strong point and he barely got off the ground. The ball grazed his fist and when it came down their tall captain was in the perfect spot to snap his head and bang it into the netting.

  This time he rotated three hundred and sixty degrees while holding up two fingers. Then he tapped his wrist again to let us know he had drawn blood twice in two minutes.

  Zirco got to his knees but he looked shaky. Chloe lay on the turf, pressing her hands to the right side of her face. We eventually helped her to her feet, and she put an arm around Percy and an arm around Meg and hobbled off the field. The Fremont fans clapped for her, but not one person in Gentry Field was laughing.

  * * *

  The collision hadn’t been funny and neither was the score—two to zero in record time. Something had changed on this cold autumn day, and our gags and screw-ups that had amused people in late summer sunshine now made them shake their heads and cover their eyes.

  I tried my best to get us back in the game, but a Lynton defensive specialist had been assigned to mark me all over the field, and he stayed with me like a shadow. Whenever I touched the ball he was quickly joined by a second teammate and even a third. They bumped and banged me and I couldn’t shake them. When I tried to dish out quick passes, there was no one nearby.