Losers Take All Read Online Free

football up, we raced toward them, and I found myself in the lead.
    I’ve always been fast. It’s my saving grace as a mediocre athlete—the thing that partially makes up for my scrawny build and lack of coordination. I’m not the fastest in our school—there are probably two or three sprinters on the track team who can edge me out over fifty yards. But that evening in the park, when six of us sprinted across the grass toward the other team, I quickly took the lead.
    As I raced ahead of my teammates, I wondered why I was doing this. It was almost as if a little voice was shouting: “Stop. You don’t have to do this. You hate football. None of these guys are your friends. Not even Rob—don’t kid yourself. You don’t have to prove anything to Muhldinger—he’s a sports Nazi, just like Becca said. Your dad should just accept who you are, or it’s his problem and not yours. Slow down and let somebody else get there first.” That’s what the little voice said, and I heard it as I ran, but my arms were pumping and I was flying over the grass. Instead of slowing down I sped up, and quickly pulled away from my teammates.
    The football rolled deep into what would have been their end zone if the field had been lined, and stopped in tall grass. Barlow got to it first and could have just downed it. But he chose to pick it up and run it out, and I slanted toward him.
    One of their players tried to block me, and I dodged around him. Barlow saw me coming and shouted to his teammates: “C’mon, you losers, block for me.” One of the losers threw a nasty block at me and the bony point of his right elbow dug into my ribs, but then I was past them all and facing Barlow one-on-one. He was about my height but not scrawny at all—a star running back, one of the co-captains of the varsity team, and a furious competitor in every sport known to man.
    I darted toward him, and he held his ground, watching me come on. The truth is I wasn’t even thinking about tackling him—I figured my job was just to contain him till my teammates arrived to help.
    Barlow faked right and went left, and I bought the fake for a half second and then reversed direction. My feet got tangled with each other, and as I took off after him I tripped myself. I knew that any second I would do a face-plant into the grass and look like the biggest clown since the Three Stooges stopped making movies.
    I fought gravity and my own clumsiness, and somehow I kept running for three more steps, if you can call that running. It was halfway between a sprint and a dive—I was already nearly horizontal and my arms were windmilling for balance.
    And then I couldn’t fight it anymore and went down hard, chest first, but at the very last second my arms grabbed on to something and I held on.
    In my battle to stay upright I had forgotten all about Barlow, but my three-step dive to the grass had made up the distance to him, and my thrashing arms had wrapped around his knees. Instead of the clumsiest dry-land belly flop in the history of Founders’ Park, I had by sheer luck executed a nearly flawless open-field tackle of the football team’s starting running back.
    We both went down hard and rolled over on the grass. I let go of his knees and lay there for a second, stunned. Then Rob’s excited voice crowed above me: “Way to hit, Jack. That was awesome, man. A safety on the first play of the game!”
    He pulled me up, and my teammates surrounded me and thumped me on the back. “Great stuff!” “Massive hit, Logan.” “You’re the man.”
    Barlow walked over, wiping mud off his forehead. He muttered, “Good hit,” and tapped me on the shoulder, but there was a sharpness to his voice and his dark eyes didn’t look particularly friendly.
    â€œThanks,” I said.
    â€œThat was a safety,” Rob reminded Barlow. “We get two points and you guys