Not at all. In the many years Rockwell had taught football, basketball, baseball, and sportsmanship to successive generations of boys at Valley Falls High he had become a town institution. A strict disciplinarian, he demanded the best a fellow had in him at all times. The boys on his teams grumbled over the long, extra hours of practice which he required, but a Rockwell-coached athlete was welcomed on every college campus. Coach Henry Rockwell was a perfectionist.
The Rock knew boys inside and out. He knew, for instance, what had been troubling Chip ever since the disaster that followed the Delford game more than a month ago. He had no patience with members of his teams who broke his rules. He knew Chip had had a good reason. If only the boy had told him why he had to get back to town early. . . . But a youngster like Chip wouldn’t betray a confidence. He had taken the consequences. And now the kid was worried because he had put his coach in the position of showing favoritism to a player who had broken a rule. Well, the Rock had been a sensitive lad once himself. Coach Rockwell shook himself out of his reverie and looked up.
“Why, hello, Chip. Come in, sit down.” Rockwell’s face was friendly, and he smiled a little as he quizzed, “Been worrying about this little meeting?”
Chip was relieved by the friendly greeting, and all his uncertainty vanished. “Yes, I have, Coach—but I’ve been wanting to tell you how sorry—”
“Let’s forget it, Chip. Okay? After all—we won the championship!”
“Yes, but, Coach—”
“Chip!” There was a note of finality in Rockwell’s voice. “What’s done is done!” He leaned back in his chair and regarded the tall youngster with friendly black eyes. “I know just how you feel, Chip. Exactly how you feel. And I know the whole story, too, about that night you got a lift in Piggie’s car. In your shoes and in the same situation, I probably would have done precisely as you did. What say we forget about it and start all over in basketball? Okay?”
Chip’s throat was a bit tight, but the deep breath he took cleared away the feeling and he managed a faint “Sure, Coach.”
The big leather chair squeaked a bit as Rockwell swung it toward the window and shifted his eyes out over Ohlsen Stadium. The room was quiet while Coach Rockwell’s thoughts flew back over the years. To other years when another tall, blond, youngster with level, gray eyes had sat in front of his desk. . . . They had called that other boy Chip, too. . . .
Again the leather chair protested as Rockwell turned back to his desk. “Leg bother you much now?”
“No, sir, at least not too much.”
“I’m glad to hear that! I saw Doc Jones yesterday and he said it was coming along fine. Doc tells me that he’s fixing you up with one of his trick braces tomorrow. That old guy knows more about bones than any big shot in the surgical profession. If he were located in some big city he’d be a bone specialist with a big rep. Here he’s just old Doc Jones.” The coach was silent for a moment. Then he nodded reassuringly and added, “It’ll come along all right in time.”
“I sure hope so,” Chip said earnestly, “I’d give my right arm to play one more year of football.”
“You will, Chip. You’ve got a lot of football 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
