Championship Ball. Clair Bee
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’