Championship Ball. Clair Bee
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!
CHAPTER 3
A CHIP OFF THE OLD BLOCK
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.