Ron is watcher, it seems. He watches his pick-up basketball team–five guys trying to fit together on the court. He watches Dawn on the dance floor, and that tiny star tattoo on her shoulder. He watches Darby run, her short legs all sweat and muscle. He watches his friends veer off–and up–into popularity. He watches his dad move in with his grandmother and make do. But he’s more than a watcher: He’s a hustler on the court, a free-thrower, a poet, a poker player, a rule breaker, a loving grandson, a runner, and a ruthless competitor in those eight laps around the track–the 3200 meter. In nine interwoven stories, award-winning author Rich Wallace brings a small-town high school to life through the sharp, spare voice–and the heart-pounding defeats and triumphs–of an athlete.
|Publisher:||Random House Children's Books|
|Sold by:||Random House|
|File size:||2 MB|
|Age Range:||12 Years|
About the Author
Rich Wallace is the author of three other books set in Sturbridge, Pennsylvania: Wrestling Sturbridge, an ALA Top Ten Best Book for Young Adults; Shots on Goal; and Playing Without the Ball.
Read an Excerpt
Losing Is Not an Option
By Rich Wallace
Knopf Books for Young ReadersCopyright © 2003 Rich Wallace
All right reserved.
It was the fourth home game of the season, so it’d be ten in a row for us if we could avoid getting nailed going over the fence. We’d gone six for six the year before, in fifth grade, but they’d tightened security that fall.
We dressed dark so we wouldn’t be seen, and we knew how to lie in the tall weeds behind the field, timing our move while other kids, less cautious, got caught sneaking in.
We’d never been caught.
I was psyched.
I always walked the four blocks over to Gene’s house before the football games, even though my house was closer to the stadium. This was late October, so the sun was down and the sky was barely visible through the maples, broad enough to meet above the street and still holding some red and amber leaves. I needed a sweatshirt under my coat, but no gloves yet. Definitely not a hat.
I walked in the street, right down the middle, rarely having to shift to the sidewalk for a passing car. The traffic to the game was out on Main Street, away from our neighborhood. Most people walked to the games anyway, especially on nights like this.
Gene’s house was like ours. I’d walk right in the back door. His mother would be doing dishes, his father would be reading the paper with a fat cigar in the center of his mouth.
“Ronny’s here,” Gene’s momwould call, and he’d come racing down the stairs.
He’d shoot me a look--No fence can stop us--and go over and kiss his mom.
“Have money?” she asked.
“All I need.”
“Pooh-Gene,” his dad said, looking up from the paper, “you going to a dance?”
“Pretty fancy shirt for a football game.”
“It’ll be under my jacket.”
His father just gave him the look--amusement mostly-- and nodded as he went back to the paper.
This was a little odd, this button-down pinstriped shirt Gene had on. But he grabbed his jacket and kind of pushed his chin toward the door.
“Maybe we’ll see you at the game,” his mom said. Both sets of our parents would be there (our older brothers sat the bench; they might get in for a few kickoffs in a blowout, but mostly they played on Monday afternoons with the JV squad). If we saw our parents there, we wouldn’t let on that we knew them.
Foot traffic was heavy by the time we got to Main Street, and you could feel the banging of the drums six blocks away and the tinny sound of the fight song riding over it.
We turned up Buchanan Street, moving into a darker zone to approach the field from the far corner. “Dickheadsaywhat?” Gene said.
He started cracking up.
“You suck,” I said, laughing, too. He got me with that a couple of times a week. I smacked him on the arm with my fist.
He stopped walking. “It’s a little early yet,” he said. “Give it about ten minutes.”
We took a seat on the curb. He took a filter-tipped cigar out of his pocket, about the size of a crayon, and stuck it in his mouth.
“Where’d you get that?” I asked.
“Smolinski.” His neighbor, a freshman in high school.
He lit the cigar and took a long puff, holding the smoke in his mouth. He handed it to me. The inhalation was surprisingly hot but had a hint of vanilla or something mild.
We both took another puff, then he rubbed it out on the pavement and put it back in his pocket.
“Save that for later,” he said.
We’d kicked butt that afternoon, touch football on the street in front of his house. His block had more kids than mine for some reason, and we always managed to get on the same team, whether it was stickball, football, street hockey, or driveway basketball. There were always other kids around, but we stuck together. We were such close friends with each other that all our other friends seemed peripheral. It was like we shared two homes, two sets of parents, and two older brothers. My parents’ photo albums had more pictures of Gene in them than any of my cousins or uncles.
We usually won. He’d hit me with square-outs all the way down the field (telephone poles marking each goal line). We did better than the Giants or the Jets were doing.
Two guys were walking down the hill toward us in a hurry. Jerry Boyd and Peter Macey. Peter was in the group that had parties and went to the movies with girls. Jerry was his shadow.
“Geno,” Peter said as they walked past.
“What’s up?” Gene said.
Peter kept walking, turning backward for a few steps. “Going to the game?”
“See you there.”
Gene stood up from the curb, wiped off his pants.
“What a jerk,” I said, meaning Peter.
“No,” Gene said. “He’s cool.”
“He sure thinks so.”
Peter did stupid stuff like writing girls’ names on his notebook covers. We didn’t want anything to do with that stuff.
“Time to move,” Gene said, taking a deep breath. He turned to face me squarely. “Quiet,” he said.
“I know.” I’d almost screwed it up the week before.
We walked the length of the stadium but a block up the hill from it, then cut through a yard, crossed the gravel parking lot, and made our way down the grassy hill at the corner of the Sturbridge Building Products lot. We edged along through that little patch of woods till we were diagonally across from the refreshment stand, back by that low, shedlike building where they store the pole-vault mats and the lawn tractor.
We knelt there, amid the fallen leaves and stray beer cans, surveying the scene.
Gene nudged my arm. “Falco,” he whispered, staring straight ahead.
I looked around. Mr. Falco, a janitor from our school, was standing inside the fence about fifteen feet from our hopping spot, a place where the barbed wire atop the chain-link fence was cut and hanging and that tractor shed afforded maximum shelter. His back was to us, but it was obvious why he was stationed there. Too many others had been using this spot.
We had alternatives, but we’d need to be quiet. We’d need to risk ripped coats and scratched faces, but we’d get in. We’d save the two bucks’ admission.
“Under?” I whispered.
He looked around. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
Excerpted from Losing Is Not an Option by Rich Wallace Copyright © 2003 by Rich Wallace. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
|The Amazing Two-Headed Boy||17|
|I Voted for Mary Ann||25|
|In Letters That Would Soar a Thousand Feet High||33|
|What it All Goes Back to||47|
|Losing is Not an Option||97|
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
Losing Is Not an Option based on 0 ratings. 3 reviews.
¿Winning Is A Must¿ Ron is a high-school boy who is running for his track team. He lives in Philadelphia, and is one of the best runners in the state, in the event called the two-mile. Before track season started Ron, ran cross country. He made it to state, but was beat in the last 100 meters. So when track comes around Ron is determined to win state, but when he finds out that the times the people have he is racing against are faster than his Ron doesn¿t know if he can win state. If you would like to read about what Ron does you will have to read this book. Overall, this book is very good, but lets talk about the down part of the book first. There are only really two down parts of this book, and the first and major one is that in the book it switches from third person to first person throughout it. The second and last reason is that it is a book of short stories so it skips or jumps around a lot, which is sometimes a little hard to follow. Now that we have talked about the bad in this book lets talk about the good. There are a lot of good things in this book, but I am going to name just a few. One of them is that it is all mostly about sports, which is good, if you enjoy them. Another great thing about this book is that it changes stories, but keeps the same character in each story which is great! There is not just one sport it talks about either. It talks about different sports throughout the book including: football, basketball, cross country, and track. The book also includes a moral to the story which is always good to have in a book. If you are really into sports, especially the ones I mentioned, that you will love this book. I play most of these sports and I like this book. Like I said I have said throughout this time, this book is good, and I hope you can too read it someday. One last thing about this book is that it is only 127 pages long. I liked this book, and I hope you do to, if you read it.
It related to me in a way that i started to take losing as a sin in Track and Basketball. The main character and I are juss a like, we are both in high school and both love to run. when some one does something that we havn't we work harder to be better that them. If you hate losing and u think when bad things happen you have to stop what you are doin because of that, then this is your book