Читать книгу Championship Ball - Clair Bee - Страница 7

DOWNSTAIRS in the big living room Speed, Biggie, Red, and Ted Williams were singing. Mrs. Hilton was playing her old-time favorites and the boys were harmonizing and generally having fun. Although Ross Montgomery never sang, Chip could visualize him sitting beside Mrs. Hilton on the piano bench, following the music. Pretty soon, when she got tired, Ross would take over.

Then the keys would really talk! Ross was talented and could play any type of music well. Chip guessed he liked his mother’s playing best, though. It seemed more homelike . . . more natural. . . .

Chip was concentrating on an English theme which Mr. Wilkinson wanted at his next class. Naismith’s book on basketball had provided some good material for the composition, and Chip had jotted down a number of facts which he felt would be interesting.

Basketball was a natural. What else could he have put his heart into this evening? Nothing! Basketball was surging through his veins.

Chip made passing marks in English, but it was always a struggle. His thoughts wandered away from the composition, and he began to think of his future. If he had trouble with a little English paper, how could he ever be a sports writer?

Ross Montgomery was playing now and suddenly the gang burst into a rapid rendition of “Old MacDonald’s” tricky lyrics. This was a song they all knew, and the words rang out loud and clear:

“Old MacDonald had a farm, EE-YI, EE-YI, OH,

And on this farm he had some chicks, EE-YI, EE-YI, OH!

With a chick-chick here, a chick-chick there,

Here a chick, there a chick, everywhere a chick-chick,

Old MacDonald had a farm, EE-YI, EE-YI, OH!”

Chip laid aside his composition and listened intently. The melody was old and familiar, but he had some words of his own that were running through his mind in time with the music:

“Old Chip Hilton has a leg, EE-YI, EE-YI, OH,

And on this leg he has a brace, EE-YI, EE-YI, OH!

With a limp-limp here, a limp-limp there,

Here a limp, there a limp, everywhere a limp-limp,

Old Chip Hilton has a limp, EE-YI, EE-YI, OH!”

His thoughts turned suddenly to Doc Jones and he imagined the words “Old Patch-’Em-Up” would have substituted:

“Old Chip Hilton has a brace, EE-YI, EE-YI, OH,

But someday this brace will go, EE-YI, EE-YI, OH,

And when it goes, he’ll never know, EE-YI, EE-YI, OH!”

Can’t come too soon, he mused. Here . . . how about Wilkie’s composition? He again tried to concentrate on the paper, but it was no use. Despite every effort to study, his thoughts turned to the basketball team and the part he might play in its success. Greg Lewis had been manager for the last two years and had gone on the trips, kept score, and handed out the equipment. There didn’t seem to be any way to be outstanding in that kind of job. . . .

Speed’s raucous shout broke his reverie. “Hey, bookworm, come on down. What ya doing? Tomorrow’s Saturday, and you can study all day.”

“Wonder what kind of job he thinks I’ve got,” Chip muttered. “Okay,” he called. “Be right down.” He might as well go down with the gang—he couldn’t concentrate With all that noise anyway.

The big living room was crowded. Every chair, sofa, and even the floor, was occupied. Everyone greeted Chip as he entered with, “Hiya, kid!” “Hello, manager.”

Ross Montgomery was sitting at his usual place on the piano bench. “What’d Coach say?” he asked.

“Oh, he gave me a real going-over. Talked mostly about my job and then went into the career act.”

“He would!” Ted Williams laughed. Ted was president of the senior class. He was so shy and quiet that it was hard to realize that he was a star football player.

“The slave driver!” grunted Red Schwartz.

Chip agreed mentally. Coach Rockwell was a slave driver when it came to coaching, but the players all seemed to like it! He sure had . . . even that time last fall when the Rock had bawled him out. . . .

“See Rogers?” queried Red.

“No.”

“Rogers is the only man alive who can get Rock’s goat,” said Speed.

Burrell Rogers was faculty manager of athletics. However, he seldom concerned himself with coaching, but confined his activities to administrative work.

“Who’s really the boss—Rock or Rogers?” Biggie asked.

“Huh!” snorted Speed. “Nobody bosses Rock except the Board of Education. Most of them are scared of him. Rock is an institution.”

“I don’t think he’s very optimistic about this year’s material,” Chip said.

“Look,” said Speed. “Rock always uses that line. We won’t have many out for the team this year, but what of it?”

“Hampton’ll have more out for their team than we have in the whole senior class,” laughed Red.

“Well, Coach doesn’t do so bad with what he gets,” broke in Biggie. “He’s won more championships than all the rest of the coaches in the state put together, I guess.”

“He said the schedule was the toughest in the history of the school,” said Chip.

“That’s him, all right,” said Red. “Always worrying. Rock waves the biggest crying-towel in the state!”

“He’s a great moaner,” agreed Ross, securing himself more firmly on the piano bench, “but I can’t see any need to cry about this year’s basketball prospects. Gosh, there’s Red, Speed here, Buzz Todd, Soapy Smith, and Taps—what more does he want?”

“It’s sure surprising the interest some people we know show in sports,” observed Chip, “even though they profess to doubt their value.”

Ross stood up and shook his head ruefully. “I’d better go. I’m in a den of athletes!”

“I’ve got to go, too,” said Speed. “Don’t worry, gang, we’ll have a good team. We’ve got the best coach in the state, and the first all-state manager in the history of basketball.”

“Huh!” growled Chip, clumping up the stairs to get his coat before leaving for the Sugar Bowl.

Chip paused outside the open door of Coach Rockwell’s office. The Rock, Burrell Rogers, and Assistant Coach Chet Stewart were seated at the big table. Waiting uncertainly, Chip was relieved when Coach Rockwell looked up and greeted him with a smile. “Come in, Chip.”

Chip entered and laid the black book Rockwell had loaned him on the desk. “Here’s the book, Coach. Thanks a lot. It was swell.”

“Good! I’m glad you liked it.”

Chip had never had much contact with Burrell Rogers, but Chet Stewart had been his backfield coach in football and had worked with Coach Rockwell in teaching him basketball for the past two years. Chip knew him well and liked him. He was thrilled at the thought of becoming a part of Valley Falls’ board of basketball strategy.

“Sit down next to Chet,” continued Coach Rockwell. “You two will have to work pretty close together, you know.”

Chip smiled. “Hope I can help,” he said.

“We’ll need a lot of help with the schedule Rogers pulled out of his hat for us this year.” Coach Rockwell was serious now. “It’s a suicide schedule for a small squad, and it begins to look as if that’s what we’ll have.”

“First team’ll be all right, Coach,” interrupted Chet Stewart.

“Not unless we find a center, Chet. A lot depends upon the new candidates. Especially Hilton’s protégé, Browning.” Coach Rockwell smiled at Chip. “If he only has half your fight, kid, he’ll be okay!”

Chip suddenly felt a heavy sense of responsibility. Speed was right, he reflected, he said this job was a tough one . . . boy . . . wouldn’t it be great if Taps could make the team. . . . Maybe I can help a little there, anyway. . . . Guess I know Taps better than anyone . . . he’ll make this team or my name’s not Hilton. . . . Glad he lives next door, handy to the Hilton A. C. . . . The Hilton A. C. . . . I’ll always be grateful to Dad for putting up that backboard and hoop . . . and the football goal posts and the pitcher’s rubber. . . . Gosh, Dad had wanted me to be a good athlete. . . . I guess I know now how he felt. . . . I feel the same way about Taps.

“Maybe Browning will develop,” Stewart said hopefully. “He’s got everything a pivot player needs—height, long arms, and he’s a pretty good jumper.”

Rockwell laughed. “How do you know so much about him?”

It was Stewart’s turn to smile. “I’ve been hearing about Hilton’s find from every kid on the block. Chip’s been working with him in the Hilton back yard every day. I think Chip’s got something!”

Rockwell sighed. “I hope so! We sure need a big man!” He stood up abruptly. “Let’s see the movies.”

“Good,” beamed Rogers. “Pop’s got the Weston film all set.”

Rogers led the way out of the office and Chip hobbled along beside Chet Stewart. “How’s Pop?” he asked.

“Pop? You know Pop—he’s always all right. What a worker! Takes care of the locker room, the gym, acts as the trainer, and does about everything ten other guys should do!”

“Say, how old is Pop?”

“Well, he’s been here at Valley Falls for thirty-five years but that doesn’t mean much. Your guess is as good as mine.”

Chet quickened his pace to catch up with Rogers and Rockwell. Chip clumped along after him.

The stiff formality of Rogers’ office was in sharp contrast to the warmth and fellowship of the room they had just left. Pop smiled broadly as they entered the room. The little stoop-shouldered man was dressed carefully in a blue suit. Holy smokes, thought Chip, I never thought of it before . . . Pop dresses better than Coach!

“All set, Pop?” asked Rogers.

“Yes, sir!” The old fellow smiled. “Rarin’ to go!”

“All right, let’s go.”

Pop pulled down the blinds while the others seated themselves on each side of the big desk. The semidarkness was suddenly broken by a shaft of light as Pop clicked on the projector and they were carried right into last year’s Weston game. Chip had played in that game . . . last year a regular on the varsity . . . this year a manager. . . .

When the picture was finished, Rockwell and Rogers said good-bye and filed out of the office, each busy with his own thoughts.

Chet Stewart stretched himself, grabbed old Pop affectionately by the arm, and said, “Pop, Chip’s our new manager!”

“Yes, sir, I know that, Mr. Chet. Chip off the old block, Chipper is.”

“Sure is,” agreed Chet. “Say, I’ve got to move! Mind, Chip? See you Monday! Four o’clock!”

Chip helped Pop box up the machine and take down the screen. Then they walked down the hall toward the gym lobby. Just before they reached the big door leading to the outside steps, Chip hesitated a moment and looked around. The big foyer was lined with cases containing trophies, plaques, stuffed and varnished footballs, basketballs, and row after row of baseballs—all indicative of Valley Falls victories and championships. Suddenly Chip turned and limped over to a closed case which housed several lacquered basketballs. One ball in particular always held his interest.

“Bet I know what you’re looking at, Chipper.” Pop shuffled over to the trophy case, adding, “The basketball the team gave Mr. Big Chip!”

“That’s right, Pop!”

“That basketball there,” Pop continued, “you’re lookin’ at was the first state championship ball Valley Falls ever won. Your pop won that there championship practically all by himself.”

“It’s really something when a team feels that way about a fellow, isn’t it?”

“Sure is!” Old Pop twisted his head a bit and queried, “Say, Chipper, you had any more trouble with that no-good Fats guy?”

“No, Pop. Not lately.”

“Well, Chipper, don’t you forget—I trained some mighty good fighters in my time and I can fix you up—no foolin’.”

Chip laughed, and before he realized it he found himself back on street level. He didn’t even remember limping down the steps. He was thinking about that championship basketball and the player who had done most to win it—his dad.

Mike Sorelli was in a gay mood. The Academy was thronged, and on every table the little brown leather jugs were sending their dancing pills clattering across the green felt time and time again. Kelly pool was a popular game with the pottery workers at any time, but on Saturdays, the day after payday, the stakes were high and the house take mounted fast. Sometimes there were so many players at one table that those who drew a high pill never had a chance to shoot.

Joel Ohlsen liked to drop into the Academy on Saturdays, but he was careful to park his car by the Ferris home in the next block. His father seldom looked right or left when he was driven to and from the pottery, but Joel didn’t care to risk being seen.

The crowd from the pottery was not too fond of Joel. But the workers didn’t mind getting a little of J. P.’s money without working for it, even though they did say it was like taking candy from a baby. Fats could make a show of his money here and buy a certain amount of attention even when he lost—which was most of the time.

Mike greeted Joel with a smile and waved toward the back of the room. “They’re just starting on table nine, Ohlsen, if you want to play—”

It was nearly midnight before Ohlsen had lost all the money he had in his pocket, and nearly one o’clock when he made his way on tiptoe up the stairs to his room. J. P. was always early to bed and early to rise, and Joel knew the dressing down he would get if he were heard coming in at this hour.

Although Mrs. Ohlsen often pleaded with Joel to come home early, she never told J. P. about his late hours. On the few occasions J. P. missed him, Joel had said he was studying at Stinky’s. This was always a safe alibi. The Ferris family could not afford a telephone, and J. P. never went to the flats after dark, except when there was an emergency at the plant.

As Joel stood before his bathroom mirror brushing his teeth, the image reflected in the glass wore a sullen look. Why did he keep on hanging around Sorelli’s dump when everyone kept taking him for a ride? . . . Why did everyone pick on him all the time . . . fellows like Chip Hilton? . . . Gosh, they used to play together from morning to night when they were kids. . . . He’d licked Chip in a fair fight, hadn’t he. . . .

Something stirred in the boy’s memory. . . . After all, he was the one who had built up that quarrel and kept it alive . . . and the fight, well, he wasn’t too proud of his end of it . . . still, Chip did have all the luck. . . . That smashed leg? . . . Yes, but the guy had it coming to him. . . .

Why should everybody make a hero of Hilton? . . . After all, just because his dad had been an All-American, why should Chip throw his weight around? . . . Did people think you were nobody if you didn’t wear a big VF and be a slave to that conceited Rockwell? . . . Why be a kid all your life? . . . a fellow had to be a man of the world these days. . . .

What right did birds like Chip and Biggie and all those bohunks at the pottery have to look down on an Ohlsen . . . and why did he always have to lose at Kelly pool with all those bums laughing at him?

Joel Ohlsen turned off the light and climbed into bed feeling very sorry for himself. Someday he’d get even with the whole crowd, but even this realization was of small comfort as he lay there wide awake in the dark.