Читать книгу Championship Ball - Clair Bee - Страница 5

THE front wheels of the jalopy wobbled uncertainly in the car tracks for a moment and then buckled almost at right angles as Robert “Speed” Morris slammed on the brakes and slid the brilliantly painted rattletrap squarely against the curb in front of the Sugar Bowl.

With the screech of the brakes the crowd of boys on the sidewalk looked up and scattered in mock fear and horror, screaming and yelling: “Destry rides again!” “Hi-yo, Silver!” “It’s a plane—it’s a bird! No! It’s SUPERMAN!”

Speed laughed and nudged the tall, blond boy seated at his side. “Okay, pal,” he said, “unload the body!”

William “Chip” Hilton grinned and swung his bandaged leg through the space which formerly had been graced by a door. As he limped across the walk he was greeted by: “Hiya, Chip!” “Atta boy, Chip!” “How’s the ole pin?”

Hilton greeted them briefly and swung on through the door. Crutches would have helped ease the weight on his leg, but that would have been too much—he just wouldn’t do it! Doc Jones had finally consented to their elimination, but Chip didn’t know he had been confined an extra ten days because of his distaste for those same crutches.

“Well, if it ain’t ole Chipper himself,” yelled Petey Jackson delightedly, spilling half the coke he held in his skinny hand. “Hey! Hey! The gang’s all here! How’s about a little grip of the flipper, kid?”

Little Petey Jackson was the best soda jerk in town. He was older than Chip and had quit school several years earlier to go to work. However, he was a rabid sports fan and extremely popular with the athletes. When Chip had been injured, Petey was one of the first to visit him at the hospital. When Chip had been worried sick about his job at the Sugar Bowl because it meant so much in helping out at home, Petey had volunteered to take care of Chip’s work and had been handling both jobs all during Hilton’s absence.

Petey pumped Chip’s arm and appraised him aloud. “Huh! Pretty soft! Must weigh two hundred pounds. Looks taller, too!” He led Hilton laughing and protesting to the penny scales. “Get on, Big Boy,” he said, “we’ll see.” He dropped a coin in the slot and then affected shocked surprise. “Only one-seventy? Six feet two, and only one-seventy? What’d they feed you up at that repair shop?”

Chip hung on to Petey’s hand as they slapped and tugged at one another. It was sure good to be back. . . .

“How ya feelin’, pal? When ya comin’ back to the ole grind?”

“It’s up to the boss; hope it’s right away. Where is he?”

“Storeroom, as usual. Go on back.”

John Schroeder was the most popular businessman in Valley Falls and was intensely interested in the high school youngsters. His interest went beyond the needs of his drugstore business, for he was well to do and could have retired long ago had he wished. Many people said that he had opened the sweet shop adjoining his drugstore just so the high school kids would have a social center. Others said he did it to keep the youngsters out of the pharmacy. He looked up from his desk as Hilton opened the door, and his surprised expression quickly changed to an enthusiastic smile.

“Hello, Chip! Am I glad to see you! Come on in here and sit down. How are you feeling anyway?” Without waiting for an answer he grabbed Hilton by the hand and led him over to the desk chair. “Boy, I’ll bet you’re glad to get out of the house again.”

“I sure am, Mr. Schroeder. I want to thank you for coming up to see me and—”

“Tut, tut,” broke in the kindly man, “think I wouldn’t?”

“No, sir—but—Mr. Schroeder—Mom wanted me to thank you for keeping my pay going. I didn’t deserve it.”

John Schroeder walked over and gently shoved a half-closed fist against Hilton’s jaw. “Now, listen to me, youngster. If you hadn’t deserved it, you wouldn’t have gotten it. Understand?”

Chip gulped. “I’d like to get back to work if you still want me—”

“Well, you don’t think for a minute that anyone could take your place, do you?” Mr. Schroeder smiled. “Sure, you can come back to work—sooner the better! Petey’s been doing swell, but he probably has every corner in the place swept full of dust. As for some of those showcases out there—they haven’t been washed for a week!”

“I’ll start tonight then, if it’s all right with you.”

“Sure, start right in. Tonight’s a good time.”

Hilton did all of the cleaning in the drugstore and the Sugar Bowl. His work consisted of sweeping out, washing the big glass windows, polishing the counters, burning papers, stocking the shelves, unpacking and checking supplies, and boxing shipments. It was a tough job, but it was vital to Chip because it still left him time to do his schoolwork and take part in athletics.

John Schroeder closed both stores at eleven o’clock every night except Saturday, and Hilton started work as soon as the doors were locked. There was only about an hour’s cleaning work to be done at night. Chip was allowed to do his other chores at any time of the day most convenient to his personal program. Occasionally, Speed Morris, Taps Browning, or Biggie Cohen would join him in the storeroom and study. Later they would help him “close up.”

Chip peeked out the storeroom door. It was just like old times. . . . Speed was sitting on the last chair at the soda counter, intently absorbed in Petey’s latest coin-and-glass trick. Out front, Chip could see Fats Ohlsen holding forth. Everything was the same. . . . Closing the door gently, he breathed a sigh of satisfaction and rejoined John Schroeder.

Although several days had passed since Valley Falls had defeated Steeltown for the state football championship of Section Two, the drugstore quarterbacks were still talking about the victory. They grouped in front of the Sugar Bowl every evening and second-guessed the strategy of the coach and even the quarterbacking of Speed Morris—everyone’s hero.

Tonight, big, blustering Joel “Fats” Ohlsen, a head taller than anyone present, had the center of the stage. He had singled out Chip Hilton as his pet peeve, and was holding forth aggressively to his particular cronies.

“Well, we won without the great Hilton, didn’t we? He thought the team would fall apart when he got hurt. Anyway, he deserved what he got—going high hat with Piggie Thomas after the Delford game!”

“Yeah!” agreed someone. “Yeah, can you imagine that? The janitor of the Sugar Bowl had to ride home in a Packard with society. Why, he was the great Chip Hilton, the star, the captain, the big shot!”

“Too good to come home in the bus with the rest of the team,” growled Fats. “Huh! No wonder they had a wreck; probably talked Piggie blind bragging about himself.”

“Don’t see how you can blame Hilton for the wreck,” ventured Stinky Ferris. “Piggie was driving.”

“Speedin’s the word for it,” said Bob Graham.

“Well, he won’t drive that particular car very fast again—” Ed Shelton began.

“You mean what’s left of it,” interrupted Stinky. “Old man Thomas said Piggie couldn’t drive for a year—guess he’s plenty sore!”

“Hilton fixed everything, didn’t he?” growled Ohlsen. “Nearly lost Valley Falls the championship, broke his leg, wrecked Piggie’s Packard, and worried his poor mother sick; just because he wanted to be the conquering hero and come riding home ahead of the team.”

“Is that so?” drawled a lazy voice.

Biggie Cohen, unnoticed before, had been standing in the shadow of the wall which separated the drugstore from the Sugar Bowl. Now the big football tackle moved slowly over in front of Ohlsen. Placing his hands on his hips he looked straight into Joel’s eyes. The others began to press back against the big glass window. Everything about Biggie expressed overpowering emotion.

“Is that so?” he repeated, his black eyes glittering angrily.

Ohlsen grew red, stammered, and vainly tried to find words. “I—I—” he began.

“I know,” Biggie growled. “You’re a great talker—behind a fellow’s back.” He flashed forward. Before Fats could move, Biggie had pressed him back against the building.

“Leave Chip Hilton alone! Understand—Fat Stuff?”

“Sure—sure, Biggie,” welched Fats.

“Okay, don’t forget it!” Biggie disdainfully turned his back on Fats, took a few steps, and then again faced Fats. “In case you don’t know it, wise guy, Chip had as much to do with the winning of that game as anyone. He figured out the scoring play that tied the game and got Rock to let Speed drop-kick the winning point.”

He turned to the others in the stilled group. “You guys oughta be ashamed of yourselves. Chip plays his heart out in everything he does—and you know it!” His voice was cold and hard.

The group broke up quietly. Biggie had completely spoiled that little round-table discussion.

Joel Ohlsen and Stinky Ferris were almost home before a word was spoken. Suddenly Ohlsen blurted out, “I hate that guy!”

“Biggie?”

“Yeah, him and Hilton both—I’ll get even with them if it takes me twenty years!”

Joel’s father, Joel Palmer Ohlsen, Sr., was one of the richest men in Valley Falls. As long as anyone in the town could remember, J. P. Ohlsen had been a dominant figure in the town’s destiny. Everyone in Valley Falls knew the wealthy and aggressive man as “J. P.” Tall, angular, and dictatorial in manner, he ruled his business associates and his employees with an iron hand. Yet, withal, he was eminently fair and just. Joel, Jr., was J. P.’s only son and his only weakness.

J. P. Ohlsen owned the town’s biggest lumber- and coalyard, about all the houses in town—everyone said—and was the president and main stockholder of the pottery, Valley Falls’ chief enterprise.

“Biggie’s tough,” Stinky said hesitantly.

“Yeah?” snarled Joel. “Wait and see! Bigger they are—harder they fall!”

“Think you can lick Biggie?” persisted Stinky.

“You don’t think I’m crazy enough to bust one of the town’s idols, do you?”

“Don’t know—guess you can whip Hilton, though.”

“Did it once; I’ll do it again, too!”

“Hilton had a bad leg, didn’t he?” ventured Stinky. Then he quickly asked, “What’ve you got against Hilton, anyway? What’d he ever do to you?”

“Plenty! Think I’m gonna forget who started calling me ‘Fat Stuff’?”

“What’s so serious about that? Heck, Joel, you are fat! Anyway, Hilton just did that in fun.”

“Yeah? Well, I don’t think it’s funny. You better watch out how you talk, too!” Ohlsen was in an ugly mood, and the two parted in silence.

Completely oblivious of the scene in front of the drugstore, Chip had scarcely moved from his position at Mr. Schroeder’s desk when Speed Morris barged through the storeroom door. He was closely followed by Taps Browning. Morris waved a little book at Chip and exploded: “Hey, listen! Listen to this story about Ike Eisenhower.”

Chip, accustomed to Speed’s violent enthusiasms, slowly turned his head toward Taps and cautiously winked one eye.

Unperturbed by Chip’s lack of interest, Morris continued, “Eisenhower went out for football at West Point and broke his leg—” Shaking his head in a determined manner and enunciating each word slowly, he went on, “—and then he became a cheerleader!”

“I don’t believe it!” said Chip, swinging his body around and easing his leg up on a chair. “Let’s see!”

Chip’s eyes were glued to the book but, before he had finished the first page, he was interrupted by Taps.

“Hey!” Taps was standing over him, his head scraping the ceiling light, arms swinging, a veritable flag pole. “Hey, Chip! That gives me an idea! Why don’t you try out for basketball manager? Greg Lewis had to quit school—bet you’d get it.” Taps was excited.

“Me? A manager?” Chip laughed. “Get out!”

“What’s the matter with that?” challenged Speed. Then without waiting for an answer he continued with mock sarcasm: “Oh, the great Chip Hilton—why, he wouldn’t think of being a manager. Eisenhower could be a cheerleader at West Point, but that’s different—he was just an ordinary guy!”

For a moment Chip’s temper flared, and his gray eyes narrowed angrily. All the frustration that had gnawed at his heart as he sat in the bleachers during the final game of the recent football season came near to finding an outlet now in bitter words. . . . Speed probably didn’t realize how it felt to be barred from sports. . . . Why a fellow burned all up inside just watching. . . . Sitting on the bench was bad enough, but to an athlete the thought of a permanent grandstand seat was unbearable. Slowly regaining his composure, he ventured, “Well, I didn’t mean it that way, but—”

“But what?” persisted Speed.

Chip’s thoughts ran on . . . Speed was one of his best friends . . . he couldn’t quarrel with Speed . . . why, he had shared everything with him . . . they had been classmates ever since they had started school . . . just the same, how could he ask Coach Rockwell to make him manager?

He looked up and then grinned slowly. “But nothing.”

“Well, what about it?” persisted Speed. “We gotta have you around some way!”

Chip raised himself to a standing position and thought it over. Maybe it wouldn’t be too bad after all . . . might give him something to think about . . . if he got the job . . . at least he wouldn’t have to sit in the bleachers. . . .

Shaking his head and eying Speed with distaste he sighed resignedly, “Okay, Mr. Fixit! Okay.”

“You mean it?” Speed asked eagerly.

“Sure!”

“Gee, that’s swell,” breathed Taps.

“Okay, Toots, take a letter!” Speed wasted no time. “To Coach Henry Rockwell, Valley Falls High School: Dear Coach—”

“Wait a minute,” interrupted Chip. “Maybe Rock won’t want me around after what happened—”

“Forget it. That’s ancient history.” Speed shook his head impatiently. “Never look over your shoulder, me lad,” he quipped. “I’ll fix it!”

The next half-hour was a turmoil of suggestions, criticisms, and heated debate, but at last the letter was finished. Speed grabbed it from Chip’s reluctant hand and dashed for the door. “Be right back, Chipper, soon as I mail this.”

Pivoting quickly, he barged across the room, threw a fake shoulder block at a packing box and half-ran, half-fell, through the door.

“He’ll break his neck someday,” Taps said.

Chip rumpled his short, blond hair with both hands and rubbed his forehead, reflecting. Speed always knows what he wants and goes after it . . . I wish I were like that. . . .

Later, after the boys had dropped him off at home, Chip pulled Speed’s little book from his pocket and continued reading.

Eisenhower nearly lost his leg when he was a kid . . . blood poisoning . . . and he wouldn’t let them amputate and it got well . . . and then, just as Speed said, he hurt it again at the Point . . . and when the doctor told him he could never play football again he became a cheerleader. . . . He almost didn’t graduate because of his leg. . . .

The book was full of stories of other personalities; most of them were centered around men who had succeeded in sports in spite of physical handicaps.

There was the story of Glenn Cunningham who had been badly burned as a kid and was told that he might never be able to walk . . . but he did! He was told that he would never be able to run . . . but he did! He ran on will power . . . and became the most remarkable runner the world has ever known. . . .

Gregg Rice . . . another great runner . . . the sports world was amazed at his record . . . achieved in the face of a handicap seemingly incurable. . . .

Chip closed his eyes and let his thoughts wander back to the night of his accident. Old Doc Jones had come right away; had worked half the night setting the ankle. Everything had to be just right with Doc . . . good old Doc. He could still hear him saying “Bum leg, nothing—you wait! That leg will be as good as new in six months.” Gosh . . . what if he had to limp the rest of his life. . . . Then he could hear Doc saying again “You can do anything—anything you want to do—”

Chip undressed slowly; he was worn out. Getting back on the job and making up his schoolwork had tired him out. He had never dreamed how much the Sugar Bowl and Petey and Mr. Schroeder meant to him. Then, too, he had missed the school crowd that made their headquarters at the store.

Clicking off the light he stretched out in bed, his mind full of thoughts concerning the letter to Coach Rockwell and its possibilities . . . his mother, too . . . her love and hopes. She sure was no quitter. . . .

Mary Hilton was so small and appeared so young that she could have passed for Chip’s older sister. Chip and his mother each had a straight nose, a small mouth with thin lips, gray eyes, and the same shade of unruly blond hair.

Every evening Chip would put both arms around his mother, pick her up, hold her close to his chest, and swing her around in a circle. Mrs. Hilton would struggle and pretend anger. “William Hilton,” she would scold, “put me down this instant!”

Chip would let her down then and pretend to be terribly frightened. “I’m sorry, Mom,” he would say, and Mrs. Hilton would forgive him with a kiss. They both liked the little game; it was their special way of expressing their love for each other.

Mrs. Hilton was always working and planning for Chip’s future. She was determined that he should have a college education, always talking about the day when he would enter State. Nothing he could ever say shook her determination.

“Why, Chip,” she would say, “you owe that to your father. His greatest hope was that you would go through State.”

Just last night they had talked about college again. “But, Mother,” Chip had remonstrated, “I’d rather finish high school and go to work. I don’t think I could stand it if I had to sit on the side lines. My leg—” He had been silent for a moment. “Besides, you need me here at home.”

His mother had checked him then. “We’ve made out all right so far, son; we’ll get along all right when you go to college.”