Losers Take All (2 page)

But he didn't get back up. The sad fact is that he died right there in front of nearly five thousand people, and a week later they named the whole turf field and track after him—Gentry Field. There was even a proposal to bury him beneath it, but apparently that had to be abandoned for zoning reasons.

Now, you'd think that Gentry's dramatic death might have given Fremont pause to say, “Maybe we've pushed this sports thing a little too far. Maybe as a school, a town, a community, we owe it to our kids to take our foot off the gas and hit the brakes and emphasize reading and writing and algebra a little more and biceps curls a little less.” But it didn't go down that way at all.

 

2

The surprise announcement was made at a school board meeting just three weeks after Gentry's death. It was very unexpected because there had been talk of a search for “an educator” from outside our community— a new principal with impressive scholarly credentials who would give our school a fresh look and feel.

I wasn't at the meeting—I was spending most of my summer vacation hanging out with Dylan and Frank, playing video games or swimming in Hidden Lake, and most of my evenings at my miserable summer job busing tables at Burger Central.

But I heard the news right away because Dylan's mother is on the board and forces him to come to meetings, and he had dragged Frank along. So my two friends were in the third row when the board president, Mr. Bryce, announced that they had not needed to search far. In fact, it seemed like they had just rolled over the nearest rock and scooped up the biggest and meanest critter that scampered out.

When the meeting ended Dylan and Frank texted me that they had a news flash, and they headed right over to Burger Central to try to score some free fries.

“Muhldinger?” I said, staring back at Dylan. “You're kidding me.”

“There was applause when they announced his name,” Dylan reported. “In fact there was a spontaneous standing ovation. Everyone seems to think he's a brilliant choice.”

“Brilliant how? What qualifications does he have?” I asked.

“He's a proven leader,” Frank pointed out with his usual sarcasm. “What about some fries, Jack? When I'm stressed out I need to eat.”

Frank must be stressed out a lot, because his eating habits resemble those of a great white shark. He seeks out food twenty-four hours a day, or at least every minute when he's awake, and it wouldn't surprise me if he occasionally took bites out of his pillow in his sleep. He would be fat if his growth spurt hadn't matched his appetite—when you're six foot five you can carry fifty extra pounds like an overnight bag.

“Proven at what?” I demanded. “Just because he can win state championships in football doesn't mean he can run our school. And if you want fries, go order fries from Becca. I'm not in charge of handouts—I just wipe the tables, and I'm still trying to get over Muhldinger. What the hell were they thinking?”

“The word ‘legacy' came up several times,” Dylan informed me. “As in ‘We have to stay true to Gentry's legacy.' And also the word ‘tradition,' as in ‘We have a long and glorious tradition to uphold here.' And the news only gets worse, Jack, so a little snack might brighten things up.”

“If we had the money for fries, we wouldn't need a friend,” Frank pointed out. “Just wander through the kitchen and slide some into a napkin when no one's looking. We're all doomed, so we might as well have a last meal.”

I studied Dylan's face. “How could any news be worse than Muhldinger taking over our school?”

Becca was returning from a bathroom break and overheard my question as she walked past. She jolted to a stop and stared at us. “Muhldinger?” she asked in shock and outrage. “No freaking way. How is that possible? He's not even a teacher. He's just a big muscle-head. He doesn't even have a neck. They can't do that to us. He's the worst kind of sports Nazi.”

It was true. Brian Muhldinger, coach of the Fremont football team, chief of the audiovisual department, which made him a nonteaching member of the faculty, and now apparently the new czar of our high school, had a broad chest that seemed to be welded directly to his fat, bald head. It was as if the millions of pounds of weights he had pumped had reconfigured his body to eliminate all thin and weak areas.

Becca's real last name was Knight, but everyone called her “Becca the Brain” because she was focused on school all the time and had never gotten less than an A on any test since third grade. I'd always admired her long legs and sharp sense of humor more than her GPA, but Becca didn't date or do anything that might waste precious time that she could spend studying. During the summer she worked the computerized register at Burger Central, punching orders at hyperspeed and using slow periods to study impossible vocabulary words that might appear on the SAT.

“Neck or not, it's Principal Muhldinger now,” Frank explained. “And you guys don't want to hear the
really
bad news.”

Becca looked back at him. “The football team is taking over the library as their new weight room?”

“I think that's actually quite possible,” Frank told her, “but no, that's not the bold new policy Muhldinger announced in his speech at the board meeting—the one that got him the standing ovation.”

Andy Shimsky, who waited tables, had heard enough to join our little group of social outcasts. He was a string bean of a kid, with long, greasy black hair and wrists like toothpicks, and had been mercilessly bullied by jocks since middle school. “What bold new policy?” Shimsky demanded warily.

There was a moment of ominous silence when Dylan and Frank exchanged looks and Becca, Shimsky, and I waited for the bombshell to explode.

“In honor of Arthur Gentry's legacy…” Dylan began. “And to continue his unique vision of the Fremont High School scholar-athlete…”

Frank finished in a mocking tone: “Starting in September all seniors will be required to join at least one school sports team and stay with it through an entire season. This will develop strong bodies along with keen minds, and create a unifying school spirit that will keep alive the legacy of Arthur Gentry.”

“But that's three hours of practice a day,” Becca pointed out.

“Not to mention weekends and traveling to away games,” I added. “What if we're not good enough to make any of the teams?”

“They're adding B-team and even some C-team options, and expanding the rosters,” Dylan said. “I believe Arthur Gentry would tell you to just go for it.”

“Part of the new policy is no cuts just 'cause you happen to suck,” Frank informed us. “They'll keep you on the roster of one team or another and make you practice your ass off and sit on the bench. You can scrape mud off the cleats of the football stars, or sponge sweat from the basketball court during halftime, or re-lime the baseball diamond after the starters have kicked up dust and left. I guess the good news is that we all have important roles to play.”

“They can't do this to us,” Becca declared. “They can't make me play a sport I hate. I already have my sport. Show jumping. It's part of my story.”

“Your story?” I asked, trying not to stare too intensely at her extremely pretty hazel eyes.

“The one I'm going to tell about myself in my college application essay,” she informed me like I was clueless. “Perfect grades aren't enough these days. Twenty thousand applicants to the top schools have nearly perfect grades and test scores. You need a story to set you apart. And mine is about horses, and how I helped raise one named Shadow that had a damaged hind leg, and nursed him back to health, and won ribbons riding him. I've already written the essay. It's called ‘Knight and Shadow.' I don't need another sport and I can't afford to waste three hours a day on a stupid team I'll never play for.”

“It's not as if Muhldinger's offering you a choice,” Dylan told her.

“There's always a choice,” Shimsky announced, sounding like he was preparing to lead a revolution. He had suffered a lot—getting beat up all the time. In sixth grade his nose had been broken by a creep who'd rammed his face into a garbage can. Our town has its tough side—the jocks rule, and if you don't show them respect you pay. It had made Shimsky tough and crafty in his loner way. “Whenever there's a rule there's a way around it.”

“Not this one,” Dylan said. “This is about legacy and tradition. The school board confirmed the new policy. My mom was the only ‘no' vote. Ladies and gentlemen, start your engines and get ready to suffer. The lunatics have taken over the asylum and we're at their mercy.”

“We're all dead meat,” Frank agreed. “Sports roadkill. If I go out for shot-putter, do you think they'll make me run laps with the track team? I could run one lap, or maybe two, very slowly on a nice fall day.” Frank was being optimistic—he runs about as fast and gracefully as a fully loaded garbage truck grinding up a steep hill in low gear.

“I heard the track team ran ten miles a day last year,” Becca told him.

There was a moment of unhappy silence as we looked at each other and pondered what senior year would be like with Muhldinger in charge of our school.

And that was when Mr. Psilakis, the night manager, hurried up behind us and started screaming: “
Get to work, all of you!
I don't pay you to gab. Jack, a table of ten just left a royal mess. Shimsky, there are two orders of nachos getting cold. Nobody likes cold nachos. Becca, we're shorthanded at the registers.
Let's go, move your butts!
”

I hurried over to the royal mess and started clearing up half-munched french fries and greasy bits of uneaten cheeseburger. Frank ambled up next to me, picked up a discarded onion ring, studied it as if debating whether he should pop it in his mouth, and then tossed it reluctantly into my tray of garbage and dirty dishes. “Sorry to be the bearer of bad news,” he said.

“I just don't get why they're doing this,” I told him. “Why don't they just do their legacy thing and leave the rest of us alone? What happened to live and let live?”

“Ours is not to reason why,” Frank answered. “Ours is just to join a team and die.” He hesitated and then said softly, “Jack, your father was one of the first at the board meeting to jump to his feet and start clapping.”

“No big surprise there,” I muttered, picking up a broken ketchup bottle and turning it upside down in my tray to avoid the jagged glass edges.

Frank lowered his voice even more. “After the meeting broke up I saw him talking to Muhldinger, and I heard him say something about you trying out for the football team. Muhldinger was nodding his head. Sorry, but I thought you'd want to know.”

 

3

“This is not really tackle,” Rob Powers told us. The park was empty because of the summer heat, and as the sun dipped lower the shadows of old oak trees reached out inch by inch across the grassy field, as if getting ready to trip us up.

Twelve of us had shown up for this “friendly game,” and now that I was here I could tell that it would be neither friendly nor a game. “So it's two-hand touch?” I asked nervously.

“Not exactly,” Rob said. “We call it half-hit. Which means you're trying to bring each other down, but not do any serious damage. You don't need helmets or pads for half-hit—just have fun out there.”

Rob had been my closest friend once upon a time, before the school pecking order took shape. His father had played quarterback on the state championship team that my dad had captained. When they drank beers together, Rob's father still sometimes called my dad “Captain.” Rob and I had hung out into middle school, and then we had gone in very different directions. I was scrawny, to use my father's phrase, but Rob had sprouted muscles, not to mention chiseled features, cat-quick reflexes, and a rifle arm. Now he was contending for the starting quarterback job, earning cash from modeling gigs, and dating a swarm of cheerleaders.

He had called me up the day before and invited me to this friendly game, and he hadn't hidden his real agenda. “One of our starting receivers just tore his ACL. Coach Muhldinger is looking for someone with good wheels to replace him, and your name has come up.”

“Thanks, Rob, but I really don't think I'm varsity material,” I had said.

“It wouldn't hurt you to try,” he'd pointed out. “We're not allowed to have team practices during the summer, but we're going to have a friendly pickup game in the park—just an informal toss and catch kind of thing. No coaches, just some of the guys. Why don't you come and give it a run, and see where it leads?”

My dad had been in on the plan. “Just try,” he encouraged at the breakfast table the next day.

“Dad, I've got iron hands.”

“Cover them with receiver's gloves.”

“Do I look like a football player to you?”

He lowered the sports section and glanced across at me, as if evaluating me with his gray eyes. At forty-five he still had the muscular body of an All-State running back whose toughness was legendary in our town. His nickname had been the “Logan Express” and people who'd seen him play said that it had taken three or even four tacklers to bring him down. If a knee injury in his senior year of college hadn't ended his playing career, Dad would have turned pro. It was hard to know what he was thinking as he looked back at me, but he said: “Sure.”

“I thought I was scrawny.”

“The point is there's one thing nobody can teach and that's speed.”

My mother had been listening to the conversation, and she gently said: “Tom, if he doesn't want to do it, don't push him.”

“I just want him to try,” Dad told her. “Is that such a horrible thing?”

So here I was, giving it a try.

Rob wasn't the only varsity player who had shown up. Sprinkled in with seven of us newbies were five starting members of the football team who had come, presumably, to check us out. Coach Muhldinger—or perhaps I should say Principal Muhldinger—wasn't there, nor were any of the other dozen or so assistant football coaches. So Rob and a guy named Barlow were running the thing.