Losers Take All (16 page)

“They'll never catch us,” she assured me. “Hold on.”

We burst through a curtain of trees to the next fairway, and suddenly we were flying as Shadow broke into a gallop. Trotting had been rough, with every step tossing me up and down on the saddle, but now his strides were long and smooth. It felt like we were skimming five feet above the grass at a speed no golf cart could match.

I held tightly on to Becca and wondered if we would get out of this. I could hear the motors of the golf carts in the distance, and every now and then a searchlight beam shone through trees near us.

Shadow slowed as we entered a small woodsy area behind a tee box, and he picked his way carefully through dense underbrush. We reached the course fence with barbed wire at the top, and Becca guided us to where a large branch had fallen over and collapsed a section of it. Shadow stepped through the gap and immediately started trotting again. Soon we were on a path that led to a one-lane road, and I began to recognize a few landmarks.

“If they saw us, won't they call the stable?” I asked. “They'll see hoofprints and figure out where we came from.”

“There are three other stables nearby, and lots of people keep their own horses,” Becca said. “They'll never connect it to us. Did you enjoy the ride?”

“Till the Mafia started chasing us.”

We brought Shadow back to the barn, and I kept expecting someone to catch us but we got him safely in his stall. The whole place stayed dark and quiet.

We rode our bikes back toward Becca's house, and it felt a lot slower than being up on Shadow's back at full gallop, but also much safer and more familiar. When we turned the corner of her block, I saw my mom's Chevy parked out in front. I was tempted to ride away, but I knew I'd have to face this at some point. So we left our bikes in the garage and Becca led me through the back door.

Our two mothers were sitting on the couch sipping tea and looking worried. My mom stood up when she saw me. She looked like she'd aged ten years in the past three hours. “Okay,” she said, relieved and angry, “now I've found you. We just need to find your father.”

 

21

Mom and I waited together in our family room, where there was a window that faced out toward the street and the entrance to our driveway.

My father had driven away in his truck right after our argument in the basement. He hadn't told my mom where he was going, so we didn't have a clue when he planned to come home. He usually kept his cell phone with him, but it was lying on the kitchen counter where he had left it when he went down to hit the heavy bag. So there was no way to reach him and nothing to be done except to sit and watch for his truck's returning headlights.

During those long night hours, surrounded by our family trophies, Mom shared two secrets with me. First, she asked me what I'd said to my dad when we argued. I told her how I'd mentioned his college football injury and how he'd missed his chance to play in the NFL.

She didn't seem surprised—I think she'd heard most of what had gone on between us in the basement and guessed the rest. “It wasn't really a football injury,” she told me.

“What do you mean?” I demanded. “It happened in practice at the end of his senior year. A freak collision blew out his leg.”

“That's the story we always tell,” she agreed with a sad little nod, “and that's what your brothers think, too. But that's not what actually happened.”

Headlights approached and we sat quietly and watched, but it turned out to be a passing car. When its taillights faded I asked her: “What really happened?”

“It did happen when he was away at college. Your father was a fanatic about staying in shape and he used to jog everywhere around the campus,” Mom told me. “It was winter and he was running between classes. He turned to wave at a friend, and he slipped on a patch of ice.”

I couldn't believe it. “He wrecked his knee on some stupid ice? Why doesn't he just tell the truth?”

“He was the Logan Express,” she explained softly. “He'd never missed a game from grade school all the way through college. Nothing could ever slow him down. And then—when he had an NFL career right in front of him—he looked the wrong way for a split second and it was all gone. Can you blame him that it was too painful?”

The family room grew smaller—the trophies pressed in on me like trees in a threatening forest. From the framed black-and-white poster on the wall, Mickey Mantle seemed to glance down at me as he belted his tape-measure home run and smirk, as if suggesting: “It's all baloney, isn't it?”

“Could he really bust up his knee that badly wiping out on some ice?” I asked.

“The doctors didn't know if he would ever run again,” Mom explained. “It was a few years before he could do more than just walk fast. He came home after college and he took the first job he was offered, in construction. It was right near my house. We started taking walks together, and he would go on for miles as fast and as far as he could, limping on his right leg. I could see how much he wanted to break into a run. He was like a tiger in a cage—it broke my heart, but it also won my heart. I knew within a week that I couldn't marry Brian, that your father and I would always be together.”

“In some ways, I guess Dad was lucky,” I told her. “I take it Muhldinger didn't let you go easily?”

“They almost got into a fight right outside the post office,” Mom said. “It could have been really bad. But they knew that in the end it was my decision, and it was a fairly easy one for me to make.”

“Muhldinger never got married, did he?” I asked.

“I think he married the Fremont football team,” Mom said with a smile. “He's done very well. If you'd told me when we were dating that Brian would ever become the principal of a high school, I would have fallen over.”

“But Dad's done okay, too,” I pointed out, remembering some of the nasty comments Muhldinger had made in his office. “I mean, he likes his job and he works with friends.”

That was when Mom told me the second secret of the night. I saw her hesitate, and then she leaned forward. “To tell you the truth, Jack, things haven't been going well for him at work lately.”

“He hasn't said anything.”

“He never would. But there hasn't been much new construction and his company has been downsizing. A few people in his crew have been let go, and they've cut his hours. He's worried about what may happen in the next few months. That's one reason I've applied to go on full-time at the library.”

“They can't fire him,” I said. “He's worked there over twenty years.”

“Some of the men who were let go had worked there even longer. It's just a tough time.”

I remembered the moment in the basement earlier that evening when I had told my dad that Becca was using our soccer team as a release because she was having a tough time at home. He had replied, “We all go through tough times.” It hadn't occurred to me that he might be talking about himself. No wonder he'd been so tightly wound at my soccer game, and had gone down to pound on the heavy bag.

Just before two a.m. my cell phone rang. I thought it might be my father calling in from somewhere, but when I glanced at the caller ID I was surprised. “It's Becca,” I told my mom.

“Isn't it late for her to call?” she asked.

“It must be something big.”

“Go ahead and see,” Mom said. “I'm gonna get some water.”

She left the room and I answered the call. “Hey,” I said, “what are you doing up?”

“Thinking about you,” she said. “What's happening with your dad?”

“He's still not home. Thanks for the horseback ride. I needed to get away.” I paused. “It felt good.”

“I agree,” she said. Then there was a little silence, and she said softly, almost like she was scared, “I love you.”

I knew I should say it back, but I had never said the words out loud to a girl. I hesitated for a long moment and then whispered her name. I hoped she heard how I felt from my voice.

If she was disappointed she hid it well. She said, “Take care of yourself, Jack.”

“I'm trying,” I said. “It's really late. You should go to sleep.”

“I don't think I can,” she told me. “What's going on is too exciting.”

“What's going on?”

My mom came back into the room holding a glass of water.

“I take it you haven't been around a computer,” Becca said.

“No, my mom and I have been talking.”

“ESPN and CBS Sports News have both picked up the Losers story and embedded the video on their blogs.”

“You're kidding?” I asked.

“We hit a nerve. The video has gotten two million hits.”

For a second I felt dizzy. “Did you really just say two million?”

“Two million people have seen Pierre throw up and Zirco fall in a lake.”

“Wow,” I said. And then, “Holy crap.”

“Two million people have also seen you score your goal. Good night, you sports god. Call me if you need me. I'll keep my phone next to my bed.”

I clicked my cell off and Mom asked me what was going on. When I told her about the video and the two million hits, she couldn't believe it. So I showed the video to her on my cell, and she stared at the little screen, smiling and shaking her head as my teammates screwed up and Muhldinger laced into us.

When it was done, she handed my phone back and said, “Your team may be inept, but I think you're going to be around for a while.”

“Muhldinger said he was flushing us,” I reminded her. “I don't see how he can go back on his word and unflush us.”

“Something tells me he's not going to have much of a choice,” she said. “And he may have to learn some better manners.”

Another hour crawled by on the digital clock under the TV, and I was just starting to wonder if my dad would stay away all night when we saw familiar lights down the block. It was his truck, and he turned carefully into our driveway and shut off the engine. When his footsteps sounded on the back porch, my mom stood and walked out of the family room to meet him. I trailed after her, unsure what to do.

I heard the back door open and shut, and my mom say, “Where did you go?”

“Nowhere special,” he answered.

“We were worried about you.”

“I know you were. Sorry.”

I gave them a minute or two together, and then I took a deep breath and stepped out of the family room.

They were standing together in the kitchen, holding each other. Dad was still in the black shorts and the T-shirt he had worn to hit the heavy bag. When he saw me, his arms fell away from my mother's back. I couldn't tell from his face if he was still angry at me or if he regretted what had happened. My best guess from the look in his eyes was that it was a little of both.

All night long I had felt sorry for him and guilty for what I'd said about his injury and missed pro career, but when I saw him in that T-shirt I remembered what it had been like when he had lost his temper at me.

My mother waited two or three seconds and then announced: “You two need to apologize to each other.”

“Sorry, Jack,” my dad said in a low voice.

“Me too,” I told him.

My mother looked from one of us to the other. “That's the best you can do?”

“It's late,” he grunted. “We should all go to bed.” Without another word or glance at me, my father walked quickly to the stairs and started climbing.

 

22

Something had changed at Muscles High. I felt it when I first walked in the main entrance, past the trophy cases. The statue of Arthur Gentry still greeted us near the front door and the same impressive collection of gold cups and plaques glittered out at us, but the Losers story was all anyone wanted to talk about.

Frank and I were in the same homeroom, and I had never seen him so excited.

“You're looking at the most famous sleeping goalie in North America.”

“That could be because you're the only goalie in North America who falls asleep during games,” I told him. “Any idea who put the video together?”

“No one knows,” he told me. “I just wish there were a few more shots of me. I don't think they got my best side.”

“It's hard to get your best side when you're sleeping on your stomach,” I told him. “You've gotta learn to fall asleep on your back.”

“I can crash in virtually any position,” Frank replied confidently. And then: “Did you see the
Star Dispatch
?”

“No,” I told him. “I was up late and I barely made it to school this morning. Were we in the newspaper, too? What's the big news?”

“It wasn't exactly news,” Frank said. “It was an editorial about Muhldinger using the words ‘morons' and ‘spastics' as insults. It said they weren't just politically incorrect but also hurtful. And his line about how if he were one of us he'd dig a hole and bury himself was not merely destructive and vicious, but—according to the editorial—it could encourage suicidal thinking among teens with poor self-esteem.”

I laughed. “I have my low moments, but I've never thought of burying myself.”

“I'm not sure if it's even physically possible,” he admitted. “But it's still hurtful.”

“Is Muhldinger in real trouble?” I asked.

Frank grinned. I think he hated Muhldinger as much as Becca did. “When he let loose at us on the bus he really screwed himself. The video's getting worldwide exposure and it couldn't happen to a nicer guy. Dylan heard from his mom that the school board is taking this very seriously. There's a clause in his contract as principal that relates to good conduct, so they can fire his ass if they want to.”

In second-period chemistry, my childhood friend Rob Powers came over to me. He was moving slowly and gingerly, recovering from the rib injury he'd gotten in the Smithfield game. “Hey,” he said, “I've been reading about your bozo team.”