Losers Take All (4 page)

He stepped closer, and began to walk around my bed. “But that's not what I came here to tell you. Or maybe in a way it is.” Again the grin, as if we were buddies now and about to share a secret. “Jack, I have some very good news.” I tried to imagine what his good news might be. Maybe he had taken a job as the assistant line coach of the Giants and was resigning as principal before the school year even started.

Muhldinger walked to the head of my bed, till he was standing right above me. “You are exactly what I'm trying to bring to our school,” he told me. “The guys on the football team already know what they can do. But you challenged yourself and stepped up big-time, and pickup game or not, you really showed me something out there.”

Suddenly I was positive his very good news could only turn out to be really bad news. I didn't like the way he was smiling down at me. If I had become his poster boy for sports recruitment, I was in serious trouble. I wanted to say: “Whatever it is, you've got the wrong hospital patient. Put me on the poster that says: ‘Stay off the field and save your teeth for your old age.'”

But of course I couldn't say any of that because the oral surgeon had wrapped me up tightly, so I just looked back up at him and wondered how much it hurt to have your nose broken three times.

Muhldinger lowered a big paw onto my shoulder. “Forget about tryouts, Logan,” he said. “You're on the team. I'm the coach, after all. We'll have a uniform and a number waiting for you.” His eyes were shining, as if he had just given me the greatest gift in the world. “You're a Fremont Lion. Come see me when you're healed up and we'll talk some more about what it means to be a varsity football player. You're one of my pride now.”

He pulled his hand off my shoulder and walked out of my hospital room.

 

5

I had intended to tell my dad at the dinner table, when my mom could be an ally. I knew that was a little cowardly, but cowardice had taken a big step forward in my playbook since my teeth has been pulverized and I'd started my involuntary liquid diet. But my brother Carl showed up for dinner with his wife, Anne, and I didn't want to turn this into a big family discussion. Carl had been an All-League middle linebacker whose life in high school had revolved around football and the weight room, and I knew he would think I was chickening out.

So I waited till they left, and then I played a computer game and cleaned my room, and after half an hour I ran out of ways to waste time and headed downstairs.

Mom was in the kitchen, reading a thick novel. She's a part-time librarian in our town library and she's always bringing home new books to read herself before recommending them. “Want some ice cream?” she asked. “Might feel good on your mouth.”

“Not hungry.”

She glanced up from what looked like page five hundred. “Since when do you turn down ice cream?”

“Mom, I'm not going to play football.”

She understood immediately and nodded. My mom raised a family of intense athletes, but she never played any sport beyond a little friendly tennis, and she's never pushed me to do anything. Maybe the truth was that she'd had enough of standing in the snow, rain, and wind, cheering on her first two sons and shivering. “When are you going to tell him?”

“I figure it's better to face the firing squad sooner rather than later. Want to give me a blindfold?”

“No blindfold necessary. Just be honest,” she advised. “He'll understand.”

“Sure he will.” I couldn't keep the skepticism out of my voice, and maybe there was just a little bitterness, too. I remembered my dad's hand on my shoulder and his whisper that I had made him proud, while I tasted my own blood and teeth.

“Give him a chance, Jack,” she urged.

“I hope he gives
me
a chance,” I said, and headed into the family room.

My father was sitting in the leather armchair, sipping a beer and watching the Yankees get clobbered by Boston. “Swing the bat, damn you,” he growled at the batter on the screen.

“Dad, he can't hear you,” I said. “That's a digital image of a man who's in the Bronx.”

“He's lucky he can't hear me,” my father muttered. “If there's one thing I hate it's guys who take a called strike three with men on base.”

I glanced around the room. Sports memorabilia was everywhere, from a black-and-white photo of the Mick belting a home run, to a framed Giants jersey signed by Eli Manning, to our family trophy case. The glass case took up a whole wall, and while it was smaller than the case at Fremont High, for one family it was pretty damn impressive. My father and brothers had been studs at every possible sport, and mixed in with the forest of football trophies were gold men shooting basketballs, and silver wrestlers with their arms spread wide, and bronze batters with bats cocked.

“Got a minute?”

“Sure.” He clicked the game off and pointed to the couch. “Have a seat. How's the old mouth?”

“Better,” I told him, remaining standing.

“Try not to take the pain pills unless you have to.”

“Okay, no pills tonight. Dad, I made a decision.”

“Good,” he said. “About what?”

I opened my mouth but I couldn't get the words out. I finally settled for just one: “Football.”

I think he sensed the truth, but he didn't help me. He just waited as the seconds dragged by.

“Sorry,” I finally told him. “Not going to happen.”

Muhldinger had called up to tell my dad that I had a place on the varsity team, and I think it was the proudest he had ever been of me. Now he studied my face as if trying to read an answer there. “You're afraid you'll get hit again,” he finally said. “That's normal. I used to feel that way sometimes after I got popped. I know you don't believe me, but it's true. Everyone has those moments, Jack. You took a real hard shot. But you weren't wearing a helmet, and you'll see that playing with pads feels a lot safer, and they've taken new precautions so—”

I cut him off and my words came out loud and angry. “It's not 'cause I'm afraid. I just don't want to play on the stupid football team.”

“Because?” he asked softly.

“That's not who I am.”

“Okay,” he said, “then don't.” His gray eyes looked sad, and when he spoke again his voice held no anger, but only sympathy, as if he could see me making a big mistake and wanted to help. “But, Jack, are you sure you know who you are? Because sometimes we only find that out by trying something new. Brian was offering you an opportunity. One of the most exciting chances you've ever had to step up and challenge yourself. Are you sure you just want to chuck it in the garbage can and go on with business as usual?”

I stood facing him, and the case of glittering family trophies on the wall behind him, and I wished I could have answered: “This is who I am, this is what I'm good at, and here's what I plan to do with my life, or at least my senior year. I want to explore this subject at school, date that girl, and get into such and such a college so that I can spend the rest of my life doing something that I love.” But this was a moment for truth, and the truth was that I had no such answers. I'd never had a girlfriend, there was no subject I was particularly good at or drawn to, I was only applying to a few mediocre colleges, and the map for the rest of my life hadn't arrived in the mail yet, so all I could tell him was: “Maybe I don't know who I am, but I do know for sure that I don't want to be on the football team. I know how much it means to you. And it's not a stupid team—I'm sorry I said that. A lot of people get great things out of it. But not me. I don't want it and I'm not gonna do it.”

Dad shrugged his big shoulders and clicked on the game again.

He settled back in his chair and focused all his attention on the TV, as if I had already left the room. “Throw your fastball,” he growled at the Yankees pitcher on the screen. “Challenge him with a heater.”

 

6

Hidden Lake isn't actually hidden. Signs on nearby roads have arrows that point to it like a target, and a street called Hidden Lake Lane leads right to our busy town beach with a lifeguard on duty all summer long.

But a few hundred yards from the town beach is a rocky little cove that's hard to get to. The only way in is a twisting, unmarked trail that leads down from the paved road and winds through briar bushes. Suddenly you pop out at the water's edge and find yourself on a narrow beach that's more pebbles than sand.

It was a Wednesday afternoon in July and the sun was sinking toward the trees on the far side of the lake. I sat on a beach towel, trying not to stare at Becca, who was twenty feet away in a red bikini. She was studying a book with great concentration and occasionally making notes with a pencil—probably memorizing vocab words for the SAT or something.

I had been out of the hospital for a little over a week, and had already had two follow-up visits with my dentist. I was off the pain pills and feeling better, except that I knew one more hellish conversation about the football team was going to kick off in my direction very soon. I was still two days away from my first shift back at work.

“You need to tell Brian,” Dad informed me the morning after our talk in the family room. He works long hours on a construction crew and most days he leaves home before I wake up, but on weekends he sleeps late and we all eat breakfast together.

“Why don't you tell him?” I suggested.

“Because he's holding a spot for you, so don't you think you should be the one to let him know that you won't be taking it?” My dad probably thought I wouldn't have the guts to tell Muhldinger, and I admit I wasn't looking forward to it. I couldn't predict exactly how our new principal would react when I told him I didn't want to be part of his mighty Lions, but I knew he wasn't going to slap me on the back and wish me good luck in my future endeavors.

Near me, Dylan and Frank were discussing one of their recurring subjects of the summer—which team they were going to go out for in September, or avoid.

“Ping-Pong,” Dylan said. “I have a wicked backhand slice. I can literally bend the ball around a pillar in my basement.”

“The only problem is that there's no Ping-Pong team at our school,” Frank pointed out.

“I can start one,” Dylan said hopefully. “Millions more people play Ping-Pong than football or basketball. It's an Olympic sport.”

“Muhldinger's not a Ping-Pong kind of a guy,” Frank told him. “He likes sports where people bleed.”

Dylan nodded miserably. “Not many injuries in Ping-Pong, unless you get a splinter from the racket. What about you?”

“I'm using the process of elimination,” Frank announced. “Figuring out the ones I definitely don't want to go near.” He yawned. “Basketball is off my list for reasons having to do with mass and gravity. My vertical leap is…”

“Nonexistent.”

“I can get airborne,” Frank insisted, “but not for long. Football is also out. Collisions on frozen fields are not my idea of a good time. Forget cross-country. I just don't see the point since the invention of the gasoline engine. I once went out for a long jog after lunch and fell asleep while I was running.”

It was probably true—Frank could sleep almost anywhere, especially after a big meal. I'd seen him fall asleep in theaters during earsplitting action movies and in math class in the middle of an algebra test, and I once found him snoring away on a leaf pile in his backyard while the blower that he'd been using roared beside him and his worried dog licked his face. I had no trouble believing that he could start to nap while in the middle of a run.

I knew Frank and Dylan were joking around, but it was also clear they were worried. They had been dismissing sport after sport, trying to figure out what would be the easiest and least dangerous teams. Now that August was just around the corner, their conversations were taking on real urgency. It was kind of pathetic that on this perfect summer afternoon the specter of Principal Muhldinger was looming over Hidden Lake, haunting us all.

I stood, walked down the beach to the water, and waded out three steps. Then I dove in from where it was knee deep and the cold lake swallowed me. I stayed under for as long as I could, and when I finally surfaced I was more than forty feet from shore. I turned over onto my back and floated. The sun felt warm on my face, and I tried to soak it in and clear my mind of worries about sports, my father, and an inevitable conversation with our new principal.

Someone broke the surface near me. I expected to see Frank or Dylan, but instead I glimpsed long black hair and the flash of a red bikini. “Hey, Becca,” I said, a little surprised. I figured she must have seen me dive in and followed me out here, but I didn't have a clue why. We weren't exactly friends. I had tried to chat with her a few times at work but she'd never seemed that interested.

Becca treaded water near me, and for a few moments she didn't give any hint that she even knew I was there. I began to wonder if we had just randomly ended up in the same part of Hidden Lake.

Then she asked: “How're your teeth?”

“Rerooting themselves. It's nice to be able to eat again.”

“I heard about what happened from Meg. Her dad works for the volunteer ambulance corps. It sounded like a real bad accident.”

“It wasn't an accident.”

She gave me a curious look. “Somebody did that to you intentionally?”

“After I intentionally put myself in the stupid position of trying out for the football team.”

Becca slowly stretched out on her back and floated a few feet away from me. “At least it paid off. I heard you made varsity. That's a big deal.”

At Muscles High it certainly was, but I was pretty sure she was being sarcastic. “I've decided to turn that great honor down.”