Читать книгу Championship Ball - Clair Bee - Страница 6

CHIP closed the scrapbook with a snap, crushed the Yellow Jacket between his hands, and pushed back from the desk. Grasping the book, he hurled it across the room and glared at Morris.

“Manager of a basketball team! You fixed it all right Smokes, I must have been crazy to let you talk me into that!”

Yes, Speed had fixed it. That day’s Yellow Jacket had carried the story of Hilton’s appointment as basketball manager. Speed had hurried over with the school paper right after school.

Morris closed the book he had been studying and carefully straightened up from his comfortable position on the couch.

“What’s eating you now?” he asked, his black eyes studying Chip’s scowling face.

“Aw—nothing. I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?”

“Oh, I don’t know. All my life I’ve been dreaming of a scholarship at State. Gosh, that would have taken care of a lot of my expenses. Maybe I could have worked and sent some money home to Mom, too. They don’t give scholarships to managers, you know.”

“They don’t give ’em all to athletes, either. You talk like you’re the only guy who ever had a broken leg. Most of them heal stronger than ever.”

“Could be.”

“Could be, nothing. It’s true!”

“S’pose it doesn’t? What then? You think I’m going up to State and let my mother slave for four years?”

“You could get a job. I’ll have to work. We’ll both work!”

“Nope, I’m not going to waste four years. I’ll get a job in the pottery—probably where I belong, anyway.”

“Look, Chip, college is nearly two years away. We’ve got this year and then our senior year before college. Let’s forget about it until after graduation. Okay?”

“Guess so. Well,” Chip gestured toward the scrap-book and the scattered clippings, “guess I’d better buy some post cards and change that thing to a photograph album.”

“That leg’s only gonna need a little rest and time. Quit beefin’! Bet you’re playing baseball by spring. Anyway, there’s more to school than athletics!”

“Coming from you, that’s good!” exclaimed Chip, moving dejectedly toward the door where the scrap-book lay in a heap on the floor.

“Jeeps!” shouted Speed, glancing at his watch, “I’m late for supper! Mom’ll kill me!”

He grabbed his coat with one hand, brushed his thick black hair back with the other, and dashed out the door. “Hate to leave you, toots, but I’m late already.” Speed was looking back over his shoulder and talking as he ran.

Chip watched Speed turn at the end of the hall and swing out the front door. Speed’s footwork always amazed him, but this afternoon it struck home hard. Speed had been the only player on the squad who gave him any competition when Coach Rockwell called for a race the length of the football field.

Speed would jump the gun and be in the lead for the first fifty yards; then Chip’s long strides would begin to tell, and he would slowly creep up and take the lead ten yards from the goal line—always close—seemed like he and Speed had always pushed each other. . . .

Sitting at the study desk Chip read the clipping slowly and reflectively. He had cut the article from the sports page of the Valley Falls Yellow Jacket. Gee whiz . . . he hadn’t even thanked Speed for bringing the paper over. . . .

Once more he looked at the clipping. By now he had almost memorized the contents:

FORMER VARSITY STAR APPOINTED BASKETBALL MANAGER

William “Chip” Hilton, a member of the junior class and a star center on last year’s basketball team, will serve as varsity basketball manager this year.

Hilton was injured several weeks ago in an automobile accident. He was co-captain of the football team and a great passer and kicker.

Hilton’s injury keeps him out of a basketball uniform, but the team will be fortunate in having an experienced basketball player as manager.

Chip is the son of the famous William “Big Chip” Hilton, All-American football and basketball player, who played at the Valley Falls High before going to State University. Mr. Hilton, formerly chief chemist at the Valley Falls Pottery, was killed in an accident there several years ago.

Frank Watts and Herbert Holden were named assistant basketball managers.

Chip laid the heavy scrapbook on the desk at his side and pasted in the clipping. Somehow it looked insignificant among all those empty black pages he had hoped to fill with his junior-year clippings. The fact that the first half of the book bulged with glowing accounts of his freshman and sophomore years served only to dishearten him. Headlines, and sometimes whole columns of type, told of his athletic feats and record-breaking accomplishments.

Turning the pages, he glanced at the headlines and relived every thrilling moment they recalled: “Valley Falls Wins, Chip Hilton Stars” . . . “Hilton and Morris Selected for East-West All-High Game” . . . “Morris and Hilton Chosen All-State” . . . “Hilton and Morris, Three-Letter Stars, Attend Spring Practice at State.”

Hilton had earned six letters at Valley Falls High before his junior year. “Guess that’s the end of that,” he murmured.

A familiar stride on the front porch brought him out of his reverie. The door opened and in the dim hall only Taps Browning’s shoulders were visible. Then with a duck of his head he was in the room. “Hiya, manager,” he beamed, waving a copy of the Yellow Jacket in the air. “See the paper?” Taps was exuberant. His blue eyes sparkled behind his silver-rimmed spectacles.

“Yes, I saw it. Speed brought it over.”

“Boy, that’s the best news that’s been in the paper this year! How you feelin’?”

“Okay—except for this manager stuff. Don’t know whether that’s good or not, Taps.” Suddenly his mood changed and with a grin he added, “Anyway, I guess I won’t have to pay my way into the games.”

Taps sensed Chip’s feelings and said quickly, “You sure won’t, Chip. The gang’s been pulling hard for you. The team needs someone like you. You’ll be a help to all of us—specially me!” Grasping Chip gently by the arms he added, “I’m glad you’re going to be manager, Chip. Maybe now I’ll be able to make the team. I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t around. Gosh, it doesn’t seem that it was only this fall that we met out there on the Hilton A. C. court, remember? You taught me more basketball—”

The tall youngster broke off suddenly to protect himself from a good-natured, though threatening, gesture from his friend.

“Cut the sob stuff, kid,” growled Chip.

“Well, see you in the morning, Chip—gotta stay home tonight. Mom said she wanted to see what I look like. Nights”

“Twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four.”

Chip stopped counting and paused for a rest . . . this was hard to take. He was breathing heavily and he was glad he had reached the landing. Come to think of it, this was the first time he had been up the gym steps since before the Steeltown football game. . . .

Boy, how about that! He had never even noticed counting steps before. Now, he bet he knew how many steps there were between every floor in Valley Falls High.

There was a certain something in the air today which Chip sensed instinctively. It was the approach of winter—and basketball. Yes, basketball was in the air! His pulse quickened.

He looked back down the long flight of steps. Funny, he had never realized before how many steps there were leading to the gym. Glancing at the huge gym door, he started upward again, counting as he climbed . . . twenty-five, -six, -seven, -eight, -nine . . . thirty. The big door required no small effort to open, and he was glad to find himself inside. He paused inside the big foyer, a bit out of breath; as he used to be after he’d dashed up these same steps, three at a time.

Arriving in front of Coach Rockwell’s office, Chip stopped for a few seconds to collect his wits before knocking. He knew a lot about this office. Every inch of space on the walls was covered with pictures of teams and great players who had played for Coach Rockwell and Valley Falls down through the years. His dad’s picture was up there; maybe his would be up there, too, someday. Right now, though, he was more concerned with his appointment with Coach Rockwell. Well . . . might as well get it over with. . . .

A hearty “Come in!” greeted his knock, and he found himself face to face with Coach Rockwell. Chip stood there tongue-tied. In the hospital and even at the championship football game, when Coach Rockwell had asked him to sit up in the stands and help figure out the weakness in Steeltown’s defense, he had tried unsuccessfully to work up enough nerve to unburden his feelings; to tell the Rock how sorry he was for breaking a team rule after the Delford game.

Chip had mentally rehearsed this meeting many times and doped out just what he would say. It wasn’t because the Valley Falls head coach was someone to be afraid of or the kind of man a boy couldn’t talk to freely. Not at all. In the many years Rockwell had taught football, basketball, baseball, and sportsmanship to successive generations of boys at Valley Falls High he had become a town institution. A strict disciplinarian, he demanded the best a fellow had in him at all times. The boys on his teams grumbled over the long, extra hours of practice which he required, but a Rockwell-coached athlete was welcomed on every college campus. Coach Henry Rockwell was a perfectionist.

The Rock knew boys inside and out. He knew, for instance, what had been troubling Chip ever since the disaster that followed the Delford game more than a month ago. He had no patience with members of his teams who broke his rules. He knew Chip had had a good reason. If only the boy had told him why he had to get back to town early. . . . But a youngster like Chip wouldn’t betray a confidence. He had taken the consequences. And now the kid was worried because he had put his coach in the position of showing favoritism to a player who had broken a rule. Well, the Rock had been a sensitive lad once himself. Coach Rockwell shook himself out of his reverie and looked up.

“Why, hello, Chip. Come in, sit down.” Rockwell’s face was friendly, and he smiled a little as he quizzed, “Been worrying about this little meeting?”

Chip was relieved by the friendly greeting, and all his uncertainty vanished. “Yes, I have, Coach—but I’ve been wanting to tell you how sorry—”

“Let’s forget it, Chip. Okay? After all—we won the championship!”

“Yes, but, Coach—”

“Chip!” There was a note of finality in Rockwell’s voice. “What’s done is done!” He leaned back in his chair and regarded the tall youngster with friendly black eyes. “I know just how you feel, Chip. Exactly how you feel. And I know the whole story, too, about that night you got a lift in Piggie’s car. In your shoes and in the same situation, I probably would have done precisely as you did. What say we forget about it and start all over in basketball? Okay?”

Chip’s throat was a bit tight, but the deep breath he took cleared away the feeling and he managed a faint “Sure, Coach.”

The big leather chair squeaked a bit as Rockwell swung it toward the window and shifted his eyes out over Ohlsen Stadium. The room was quiet while Coach Rockwell’s thoughts flew back over the years. To other years when another tall, blond, youngster with level, gray eyes had sat in front of his desk. . . . They had called that other boy Chip, too. . . .

Again the leather chair protested as Rockwell turned back to his desk. “Leg bother you much now?”

“No, sir, at least not too much.”

“I’m glad to hear that! I saw Doc Jones yesterday and he said it was coming along fine. Doc tells me that he’s fixing you up with one of his trick braces tomorrow. That old guy knows more about bones than any big shot in the surgical profession. If he were located in some big city he’d be a bone specialist with a big rep. Here he’s just old Doc Jones.” The coach was silent for a moment. Then he nodded reassuringly and added, “It’ll come along all right in time.”

“I sure hope so,” Chip said earnestly, “I’d give my right arm to play one more year of football.”

“You will, Chip. You’ve got a lot of football left.”

Coach Rockwell spoke in such a friendly tone that for a moment Chip forgot himself. “I always dreamed of playing at State!”

Coach Rockwell broke in quickly. “You will, Chip. I wrote to State about you and Speed even before they had you up for their reception last spring.”

The coach rubbed his clean-shaven chin and studied the tall youngster with keen eyes. “What course are you taking?”

“General, Coach.”

“What are you going to study in college?”

“I was planning to go to State and study chemistry—” Chip stopped suddenly. He had nearly added, “—if my leg is okay.”

“Ceramics,” queried Rockwell, “like your dad?”

“Yes.” Chip finished lamely. “But I had journalism in mind, too.”

“What kind of journalism? News? Sports?”

“Sports, I guess. I like sports stories.”

“No reason you shouldn’t be anything you want to be, Chip. You can be anything you want to be, a ceramic chemist like your father, a sports writer like Joe Kennedy or Pete Williams, or a physician like Doc Jones. But there’s time for all that later. The main thing right now is doing good work in high school—and really learning basketball,” he added, smiling.

Coach Rockwell moved quickly from his chair to a bookcase near the files. Glancing rapidly along a shelf, he grasped a black-bound book. “Here’s a book you should read: Naismith’s History of Basketball. Take it along and bring it back when you’ve finished.” He paused a moment. “You’ll get a lot of basketball out of that little book, no matter whether you plan to be a coach, a sports writer, or what!”

Chip felt a glow of confidence now, and his heart was beating rapidly as the coach went on, “Naismith’s book will give you a good background for basketball, and it contains a lot of interesting dope that’s not generally known.”

“I hope I can do a good job as manager, Coach.”

“You will. You’ve played the game, and you’ve had more responsibilities than most boys your age. By the way, will this manager’s job interfere with your job at the Sugar Bowl?”

“Oh, no, sir. No, sir!”

“I’m glad of that. I know one thing sure, Chip. If your dad were in your shoes he’d be right in there pitching, giving all he had for the team, whether he was the star, a sub on the bench, or the manager!”

Pointing to the book Chip was holding, he continued, “The man who wrote that book and who invented basketball had the right spirit. Naismith showed a lot of courage when he went in for physical education and athletics. He had to buck everybody—his friends, his only sister, the church, and his teachers. But he felt, like most coaches who love their work, that no man can have a better job than the opportunity to work with youngsters and help them develop into real men.”

Chip was silent for a moment. Then, getting back to his own problem, he said hesitantly, “I don’t know much about being a manager, Coach.”

The corners of Coach Rockwell’s thin lips twisted into a half-smile as he regarded the boy quizzically. “You didn’t know much about football either, four or five years ago, did you, Chip?”

Chip smiled and scratched his head. “I sure didn’t!” Suddenly he felt sure of himself and made a mental resolution. He’d be the best manager Valley Falls ever had . . . if it killed him. . . . Eisenhower could be a cheerleader . . . well, Chip Hilton could be a manager. . . . A good one!