Losers Take All

  “Jan Brent,” a man’s voice said. He had a slight European accent, maybe German or Dutch. “Great goal today.”

  “Thanks,” I told him. “I got lucky.”

  “I wouldn’t call it luck,” he said. “You took them on and ran through them. Your father says you can run a hundred meters in under eleven seconds.”

  “That’s unofficial,” I told him. “I haven’t been timed in years. What’s this about, anyway?”

  “Jack, I coach a soccer team in Warren.”

  Warren is a large town about ten miles from Fremont.

  “A youth travel team?” I guessed.

  “We have youth teams, but I run the club’s men’s team,” he said. “We’re pretty strong, but we’ve aged a bit and we lack speed up top. Our fastest striker just tore his meniscus. We need someone young to replace him, who can make runs like the one you made today.”

  “I’m flattered,” I said, “but I never played organized soccer before a month ago.”

  There was a moment of silence. “That’s a little hard to believe,” the voice said. “I saw that run you put together in that first YouTube video. And you pulled off a pretty fancy move today to set up your goal. Where did you learn to step over the ball like that?”

  “I’ve got two older brothers who are much bigger than I am,” I told him. “I had to learn to dodge them or I’d get crushed.”

  Jan laughed. “That’s a very unorthodox soccer training method but it seems to have worked. Jack, I’ve seen you shoot with your right foot. How’s your left?”

  “Not real good.”

  “We practice early on Saturdays. I gave your father the information. No guarantees, but would you like to work out with our team?”

  I hesitated and glanced at my father, who was looking back at me. “Okay,” I said. “I guess I’ll try it once. Thanks.”

  I clicked off the phone and Dad raised his eyebrows. “You’ve been playing this sport for a month and men’s teams are calling you up to join?”

  “It’s just a tryout. They had an injury and they need someone fast. They’re probably calling every soccer player in the county.”

  “It’s pretty damn impressive, is what it is,” Dad said, and this time he didn’t hide his pride. “Especially for the Logan who doesn’t like sports.”

  I couldn’t tell from his face if he was angry or just teasing me. “Look, I’m sorry about that article. They should have left you out of this. I want you to know I never said a word to that reporter.”

  “I had some stories written about me back in the day that I didn’t appreciate,” Dad told me with a nod of understanding. “But I haven’t had my picture in the sports section in a long time. The guys I work with got a kick out of it, and so did I. Especially today.”

  “What happened today?” I asked.

  “Nothing I didn’t expect. Want to take a ride?”

  Five minutes later I was in his truck, headed out of town at ten miles over the speed limit. He switched on a sports radio talk show, and three baseball experts dissected the Yankees’ playoff chances. I listened for a while, and then zoned out and just looked out the window.

  He drove to Highland Lake, a mountain lake near Fremont. Dad had been going there for years to fish, and I knew he’d helped build several of the luxury houses on the north shore. He pulled his truck over to the side of a dirt road near a beach, and we both got out. “Let’s take a walk,” he said.

  The banks were spongy from all the recent rain. The day had been sunny and hot but it was clouding over now and starting to get a little chilly. A late afternoon breeze rustled the scrub bushes on shore and stirred the lake’s surface. We passed a secluded cove where lily pads rippled as they rode the waves. Wild rosemary with small lilac flowers sweetened the air.

  “Nice spot,” I said.

  “I always liked it,” Dad told me. “My father used to bring me here to fish. I caught my first lunker bass where those lily pads are. I was eight years old and it was a toss-up whether I pulled it out or the bass pulled me in.”

  “You still come here a lot?” I asked.

  “Helps me relax. See that blue house? We did a total knockdown rebuild on it—ripped down an old wooden wreck on a big view lot and put up that new one that’s easily worth more than a million.”

  “It’s pretty sweet,” I said.

  “Yeah, when I worked on it I used to eat my lunch up on the roof. You can see the whole lake from up there.”

  I imagined him sitting alone on the roof of a nearly finished lake mansion, eating his ham and cheese sandwich, sipping from his thermos, and looking out at the million-dollar view.

  “Check out that white one, with the observation tower,” he said, pointing with a finger. “That’s my favorite. Been here since I was a kid. It’s still the only one with a pool.”

  I heard something in his voice that I couldn’t identify, but I knew we were getting close to talking about something private and powerful that meant a lot to him. I figured it was why he had brought me here, and I didn’t want to rush him. “I don’t see why they need a pool if their house looks out on a lake.”

  “They don’t need it,” Dad agreed. “But it wouldn’t be a bad thing to have, just for a little evening dip.”

  “Sure, why not,” I agreed carefully, studying his face.

  Dad bent and picked up a rock and threw it far out over the dark water. “I was going to buy that house,” he told me, watching the rock land.

  “What?” I asked. And then, “When?” I was smart enough not to ask how.

  “I used to come here when I was in college and I was working my butt off to make myself into pro material. In those days top draft picks wouldn’t get nearly as much as they do now, but if you went in the first round you could easily sign for a million or more. I used to swim across the lake to that house and stand in the sand in about three feet of water and check it out close up. They had parties almost every weekend, and I could hear the music. I felt like a spy, but I knew what I wanted.”

  I didn’t have a clue what to say, so I just kept silent.

  “If it had worked out, you would have grown up there,” he went on. “Your brothers would’ve played football on that lawn. Mom would’ve read her books while sunbathing by the lake.” He said the words as if he had thought them a thousand times.

  “I like the house we live in now,” I told him.

  “Sure,” he said, still gazing across at the white lake house. “Funny thing is I almost bought it, and now I can’t even work on it.”

  “You got fired today?”

  “They don’t like to use that word. Nothing personal. Just tough times. Thanks for twenty-three years.”

  “You’ll get another job,” I told him. “You’re great at what you do.”

  “It will probably work out in the long run. I’ve put in calls to lots of guys I’ve worked with over the years. The problem is nobody’s hiring right now. But these things go in cycles, so…” He stopped talking and his hands clenched into fists. If there had been anything nearby to punch I think my dad would have demolished it, but we were standing on a grassy bank and there wasn’t even a nearby tree for him to hit. So he just stood there helplessly with his fists hanging down at his sides.

  “I’m sorry,” I told him after a while.

  He shrugged his big shoulders. “Life is funny, but I never thought I’d be out of work.” And then: “Feel like a swim?”

  “I didn’t bring a suit.”

  In a second he was in his boxers wading out into Highland Lake. I stripped down and followed him. The water was cold, and when I dove in, it was a shock to my system. Then I got used to it and even started to enjoy it. Dad was a strong swimmer, and I think he got some of his aggression out by racing me across that cold mountain lake. I stayed right with him, and we ended up standing side by side on the sand about thirty feet from the white house.

  It took me a while to catch my breath. “If they see us out here they might call the police,” I said. br />
  “It’s not a crime to be swimming in a lake,” he noted.

  I took a few more breaths. “It’s not so nice up close,” I finally told him. “It’s too much. I really do like our house better.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” Dad said. “It’s probably hell to keep clean.” His eyes moved over the lakefront mansion with its pool and observation tower and big windows facing out on the lake. “It’s a strange thing that a man can make a million dollars a year running with a football around a grassy field, but he can’t save that much money in twenty-three years working ten-hour days building homes. Your mother told me she let you know how I busted up my knee.”

  “Yeah, she did.”

  A few seconds passed. “Was that the dumbest thing you ever heard?” he asked.

  “No,” I told him. “The dumbest thing I ever heard is that she almost married Muhldinger.”

  My father grinned. “She dated him but I don’t think she ever would have married the guy.”

  “Stuff happens you can’t predict,” I said.

  “That’s for sure,” Dad agreed, and we were quiet as the breeze kicked up and small waves splashed us. “I think I tried every sport with you. Swimming. Track. Baseball. Football. Basketball. You really sucked at basketball.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I appreciate the honesty.”

  “Who ever thought I would have a soccer player for a son?”

  “We also didn’t try volleyball,” I pointed out. “I might be good at that.”

  “To hell with volleyball. You’re a soccer player. It makes perfect sense. You’ve always had speed and balance. You just never had any hand-eye.”

  “I’m getting cold,” I told him. “We’ve gotta swim back soon or I’m gonna turn into an ice cube.”

  “Cold water’s good for you,” he said. “Listen, I don’t know anything about soccer but I’m proud you’re gonna give this men’s team a try.”

  “It probably won’t come to anything.”

  “You gotta grab your opportunities while you can,” he told me, casting one last long look at the white house. Then he finally turned to face me. “It’s a harder world than you know, Jack.” His voice thickened. “Senior year is one foot out the door. You’re the last of my sons. Gonna be a big change for everyone.” He broke off, took a quick breath, and said, “Sorry I pushed you the other night, son.”

  “We pushed each other,” I told him. “Maybe it was for the best.”

  “How do you figure?” he asked.

  “If it didn’t happen, we wouldn’t have gotten to freeze together in this lake.”

  “Good point,” he admitted. We stood for a long minute more, looking at each other as the numbing lake waves slapped us. Then he said, “Cold water’s good for you, but I can’t feel my feet. Let’s go home.”

  29

  I was in chem lab with Rob Powers, trying to make a battery out of two lemons connected to zinc and copper electrodes. We’d plugged the electrodes into a digital clock, but so far the only juice we were producing was lemon juice. Rob’s ribs were healing fast, and he kept bugging me about joining the soccer team. “Why haven’t you at least asked them?”

  “Because I know they won’t go for it,” I told him.

  “I’m not good enough?”

  “You’re too good. You’re one of the best athletes at this school. They don’t even want me on the team.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” he said. “Tell them I’ve never played soccer before in my life and I’ll probably suck worse than they do. I’m not doing this to win the World Cup. I just want to have some fun.”

  “How come our battery doesn’t work?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” he admitted. “You must’ve plugged the electrodes into the wrong part of the lemon.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” I told him. “You must’ve bought the wrong kind of lemons.”

  Suddenly flashers turned our school’s parking lot blue and red, and three police cars sped up and made their own spaces right by the front entrance. Half a dozen cops piled out and I saw Police Chief Duggan leading the charge.

  “What’s this about?” I asked Rob.

  “Don’t have a clue.”

  Ten minutes later the same six cops emerged from our school with two students in handcuffs. Everyone in the lab left their experiments and stood silently at the window. One of the handcuffed students was a backup lineman on our football team named Davis. He was clearly scared and looked like he might burst into tears. The other was the co-captain of the Lions and starting running back, Barlow. His face held no fear at all—it was just hard and angry. For a moment he seemed to glare right at me, and I remembered when he had knocked me flat at Founders’ Park, and how it had tasted to have blood and teeth washing around inside my mouth. The cops pushed down their heads, loaded the two of them into the back of a cruiser, and sped away.

  By the time we changed periods fifteen minutes later, the school was buzzing with news. A third football player, Lowry, had been arrested earlier that morning, at his home. Everyone figured he must have given the police the names of Davis and Barlow. The two of them had been in study hall in the cafeteria when the cops had marched in, yanked them out of their chairs, announced that they were being charged with assault, and read them their rights.

  I wasn’t completely surprised when seventh-period classes were canceled and we were led to the gym for an unscheduled assembly. We were seated by grade, with the seniors at the front. I hadn’t exchanged more than a few words with Frank, Dylan, or Becca in the two days since the Maysville game, but Dylan was seated in front of me. His black eye and the bruises on his face were healing fast but his wrist was still in a cast. He was looking around the gym nervously, as if he couldn’t quite believe that his beating had triggered this chain of events.

  “Hey, Jack, what do you think’s going on here?”

  “It’s not a pep rally,” I told him.

  He nodded. “Becca was right. She kept saying it was guys from the football team.”

  “I’m glad they caught them. How’s your wrist?”

  “It just itches a lot. Can’t wait to get this cast off. Listen, after practice today we’re all getting together in my basement.”

  “Thanks, but I have to head home,” I told him.

  “Come on,” he urged. “If Frank and I pissed you off at the soccer game, I’m sorry. I apologize. You can’t hold a grudge against your two best friends.”

  “Why not?” I asked, remembering how they’d looked into my eyes and chanted “Ego, ego, ego” with the rest of the team.

  “Because I bought two giant bags of your favorite barbecued potato chips for the team meeting and if you don’t come Frank will eat them all.”

  Before I could respond to that, the auditorium quieted as Muhldinger walked to the mic. At the rally when they’d retired my dad’s number he’d seemed completely at ease and in control, but this afternoon he looked uncomfortable. Police Chief Duggan, the assistant principal, and several school board members sat behind him—I saw Mr. Bryce watching carefully.

  “Hey, everyone,” Muhldinger began with a friendly smile. “As a lot of you know, there was some police activity at our school this morning. First, I’d like to assure all of you that our school is completely safe.”

  “The hell it is,” somebody called out from a few rows behind me.

  I thought I recognized the voice. Could it have been Shimsky? I twisted around to look, but everyone was shifting and craning their necks so it was impossible to tell who had shouted.

  Muhldinger broke off and stared hard at the crowd as if he, too, was trying to figure out who had just challenged him. He took a breath and tried to act as if nothing had happened. “For the next few days, just to reassure everyone, we’re going to have a couple of policemen at our school. They’ll be in front when you come in, and walking the halls, and just making sure that everything stays calm. We’re a family and we’re going to pull together and be just fine, but it’s good to
be extra careful. I’d like to thank Police Chief Duggan for helping us out.”

  Duggan raised a hand as if to let us know that his men were at our service.

  Muhldinger took a sip of water and continued. “Now, it’s not appropriate for me to comment on legal matters that haven’t been decided yet,” he said. “This is of course a serious matter. Some of the students involved are on my team, and they’re fine young men, but…”

  Scattered boos and hisses sounded. They weren’t loud and it wasn’t as if the whole crowd was turning against him, but they caused Muhldinger to break off again and blink. He planted his hands on the podium in front of him, with his big arms angled to either side. It looked like he was anchoring himself, and I realized, with a shock—no, he’s not just nervous and angry, he’s also scared. He couldn’t seem to figure out what to say next, and seconds dragged by.

  I noticed Mr. Bryce watching closely, as if he was taking the pulse of the whole situation. The boos and hisses ended, and the gym fell eerily silent.

  “The point is,” Muhldinger finally went on, “what’s important is that we are a family. And in a family there can be no room for cruelty or violence to any family member. I want to make it very clear that we simply will not put up with bullying or intimidation at Fremont High. I have no tolerance for it. Zero.” He thumped the podium with a big fist for emphasis, and lots of people clapped.

  He should have quit right there. He could have cut his speech short and used the applause to turn the mic over to the assistant principal or Mr. Bryce, or just let us go back to our classes. If he’d sat down with that loud “Zero” as his last word on the subject he would have been fine.

  But Muhldinger glanced up at the American flag and the dozens of championship pennants hanging down from the rafters, and they seemed to inspire him to keep talking. He lowered his gaze back to us. “Some have suggested that there is a culture of bullying at our school, and that it’s linked to our long sports traditions.” He gave a little smirk. “Sure, we’ve won our share of championships and we’re rightly proud of them.” It was as if he kind of knew better but he still couldn’t stop himself from slipping into his pep rally speech. “They’re part of who we are. That doesn’t mean we’re not also a respectful and tolerant school. And that’s exactly why we’re going to pull together as a family and defeat Lynton tomorrow, and I hope all of you will make the trip to the game and come support our Lions…”