Muhldinger did not return to deliver a goodbye speech to the student body, and Mr. Chester, a phys ed teacher, took over coaching the football team.
I noticed that the unusual nameplate on the door to Muhldinger’s office—BRIAN MUHLDINGER—PRINCIPAL/HEAD FOOTBALL COACH—stayed up for a few days. He was no longer either one, but maybe now that he was gone it didn’t seem necessary to remove it right away.
Mr. Anderson wasted no time in making the obvious first change at Fremont High. He rescinded the rule that all seniors had to join a sports team, “effective immediately.” I knew what it meant for the Losers. We had only gotten enough players because all seniors were required to play a sport. Without that rule, the cesspool team would dissolve after our last game against Lynton.
Frank, Dylan, and Becca agreed it was sad that our team would only exist for one season. “I kind of hoped the Losers would become a dynasty,” Dylan said. “Decades of mediocrity. A tradition of glorious failure!”
“Yeah, and we would go down in school history for founding it,” Frank added.
“Actually, Jack founded it,” Becca pointed out.
“It served its purpose,” I told them. “And it was fun while it lasted.”
The last practice of the Losers took place in late October, on a Friday so gray and cold that not one person came to watch us. When Muhldinger resigned, our story grew instantly less compelling and our following in the news and on the Internet quickly fell off. It had been a struggle between David and Goliath, and once Goliath toppled over, people lost interest. Now it was just our team out on the south field, which felt like a big wind tunnel as blasts of wintry air whistled down from the cloudless sky and rustled the branches of nearly leafless trees.
We were wearing sweats, fleece hats, and gloves, and the only way to stay warm was to keep moving. Our team jog around the field was noticeably faster than usual—even Frank and Pierre chugged along, banging their hands together. It was too cold for yoga stretches on the grass, so we stretched standing up and jumped right into our drills. The soccer ball felt like a rock each time somebody kicked it, and when Zirco headed a high ball he fell to the ground as if he’d been bashed in the forehead with a brick.
Coach Percy ended practice early, and we circled around him beneath the branches of the same oak we’d gathered under for our first practice. “Given the blustery weather,” he said, “I won’t keep you long. But I have two announcements. The first is that I’ve accepted a position at the Westmount School in Shropshire, and they want me to start teaching in the spring term, which begins after Christmas holiday. Your new principal was very understanding, so I’ll be heading back to England in a few weeks. May I say that coaching this team has been one of my most enjoyable experiences in America. For a team that calls itself the Losers you’ve accomplished quite a lot, and I daresay had a bit of devilish fun doing it.”
There was silence for a moment, and then Zirco shouted out “Stegosaurus.”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m feeling,” Coach Percy told him with a smile. He looked out at us. “Forget all of what I just said. Let’s leave it simply at Stegosaurus.”
“Stegosaurus,” we repeated back.
Becca spoke up loudly: “Hey, Losers, we never would have had a team if Percy hadn’t agreed to coach us.” She gave him a sad smile that made me just a little jealous, and said, “Three cheers for Coach Percy.”
We gave him a trio of hip-hip-hoorays and he tipped an imaginary cap to us, and then shivered. “Before we all freeze, my second announcement is that Lynton initially canceled our last game of the season. As you know, it was supposed to be here at Gentry Field this coming Monday. They read about what happened at Pine River and decided to skip it.”
There were boos and shouts of “Cowards.”
“But a few hours ago their coach called to see if they could still play us. Apparently they’re having a perfect season—seven wins and no losses. Seven matches their most wins ever for a JV season in more than fifty years. If they beat us they’ll be eight and zero, and they’ve decided they want the record.”
“Let’s summon the Loser Nation for one last game and make a mockery out of their record!” Dylan shouted. “It won’t mean anything if they beat us twenty to zip! We can humiliate them with our awfulness!”
“Or we could play the first half and then refuse to play the second,” Shimsky suggested. “So they win on a technicality because we walk off the field, and they always have an asterisk next to their stupid record.”
“Or we could beat them,” I said.
That shut everyone up for a long moment. “Why would we do that?” Frank asked.
“It’s our last game,” I pointed out. “We’ve already lost in every possible way. We were destroyed by the Marion girls and massacred by Maysville. Once you’ve been obliterated, what fun is another rout? And we already had a game cut off at Pine River. I don’t know about you, but I didn’t enjoy walking off the field early.”
“He might have a point,” Becca said.
“Don’t let him hijack our revolution,” Shimsky said angrily. “We’re Losers, not winners. Let’s go out in a glorious blaze of failure.”
“It seems to me your revolution’s already over,” Percy told him. “Muhldinger’s gone. You may be Losers, but like it or not you’ve already won.”
“That’s right,” I agreed. “This is our last game, and we should try something new. Suppose we prove that Muhldinger was wrong and we’re not garbage? Lynton beat up on our football team and our whole town. Let’s win one for Fremont, and wreck their chance at a perfect record.”
“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.