“But nothing.”
“Well, what about it?” persisted Speed. “We gotta have you around some way!”
Chip raised himself to a standing position and thought it over. Maybe it wouldn’t be too bad after all . . . might give him something to think about . . . if he got the job . . . at least he wouldn’t have to sit in the bleachers. . . .
Shaking his head and eying Speed with distaste he sighed resignedly, “Okay, Mr. Fixit! Okay.”
“You mean it?” Speed asked eagerly.
“Sure!”
“Gee, that’s swell,” breathed Taps.
“Okay, Toots, take a letter!” Speed wasted no time. “To Coach Henry Rockwell, Valley Falls High School: Dear Coach—”
“Wait a minute,” interrupted Chip. “Maybe Rock won’t want me around after what happened—”
“Forget it. That’s ancient history.” Speed shook his head impatiently. “Never look over your shoulder, me lad,” he quipped. “I’ll fix it!”
The next half-hour was a turmoil of suggestions, criticisms, and heated debate, but at last the letter was finished. Speed grabbed it from Chip’s reluctant hand and dashed for the door. “Be right back, Chipper, soon as I mail this.”
Pivoting quickly, he barged across the room, threw a fake shoulder block at a packing box and half-ran, half-fell, through the door.
“He’ll break his neck someday,” Taps said.
Chip rumpled his short, blond hair with both hands and rubbed his forehead, reflecting. Speed always 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
