Championship Ball - Clair Bee

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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.”

      CHAPTER 2

      SCRAPBOOK MEMORIES

      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

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