Authors: John R. Tunis
All-American (20 page)
“Oh, but Mr. Perry, you’re up here on the eighth floor. I’m down there at the corner of Main and State. Everybody drops in, it’s just a corner store.” The cigar waggled in Mr. Goldman’s hand.
“Well, they’ve been after me. The Chamber of Commerce. The railway. The Trust Company. Then Latham called, and got my dander up. He hinted the Central might take their work over to Steele’s office. Worse, he said the boys around town had made up a purse for young LeRoy. Seems they’re going to give him a hundred bucks so he won’t mind missing the trip.”
“Oh, that’s bad.” The cigar waggled again.
“Y’see, Mr. Goldman, he doesn’t want the money. He only wants a square deal. He’s a right guy, see?”
“Yes, I see. I understand. I’m glad I came over. Meyer’s hardly had a chance to explain things to me like this.”
“And, Mr. Goldman, we’re going to vote on it tomorrow morning. The whole team’ll meet and vote whether we go or not. Meyer and Jim Stacey and I, we’ll vote together. We stand together, and there’s one or two others on our side, too.”
“Ok.” The black-haired man stood up quickly. His sudden movement shot cigar ashes over the rug. “That’s fine. Meyer, he’ll stand with you, no matter what happens, I can promise you that. Mr. Perry, glad I saw you. Never mind the business; if they throw me out of that corner, Goldman and Straus will move uptown. We’ll find a good spot somewhere. Good-bye. Glad I had this talk with you.” He turned to Ronald.
“By ginger, young fellow, you’ve got something there. Don’t let ’em talk you out of it.”
They came trooping into the auditorium. Seniors down front, juniors behind them, sophomores in the rear, freshmen in the balcony. Everyone connected with Abraham Lincoln was there; the teachers, all of them, even Miss Rollins of home economics who never went to rallies, the coaches, and Mike, the janitor, with his two helpers. Everyone in school except the team.
The auditorium boiled and bubbled with noise, with arguments between the two factions. From her seat up front Sandra watched the excited mob, turbulent and aroused, those who were angry about what they felt was a wrong, and those—it was the larger number, she knew— who saw a fine trip ruined by a gang of hotheads.
She glanced round. Everyone was there except the team. Finally they entered. From their faces as they came down the aisle it was impossible to tell the result of the vote. There were Bob and Dave and Mike Fronzak lumbering along, and Vic Snow and Ned LeRoy. Ned wore the same faded greenish sweater with his checked shirt underneath. Last of all came the three of them together; Ronny and Meyer and Jim.
The school rose and cheered and clapped. Sandra rose with the rest but she did not feel like cheering.
Mr. Curry stepped out from behind the red curtains to the front of the platform. He had a slip of white paper in his hand, most likely the slip with the vote, the slip with the fatal news. There it was, and only Mr. Curry and the team knew the result.
He began in his usual way, just as if this was an ordinary meeting, as if nothing at all was at stake, as if this was just like every other assembly throughout the year.
“We will begin as is customary by the singing of the National Anthem.”
Rumble. Rattle. Books dropping. The clatter of hundreds of seats. The noise of twelve hundred boys and girls rising. The band started. Some of them, Sandra observed, were really singing as if it mattered, as they didn’t usually. The verse ended. Rumble. Rattle. Books dropping. The clatter of hundreds of seats. The noise of twelve hundred boys and girls sitting down again.
Then an immense quiet settled over the auditorium, over the kids and the teachers and the coach and his assistants and Mike, the janitor, and his two helpers standing back there under the balcony in the rear. Everyone was there and everyone was interested. He began. Here it comes. This is it. Here’s the sixty-four-dollar question. Will the team go to Miami?
No! Shoot! It wasn’t the thing they wanted to know at all. He was only reading notices from the slip in his hand. Aw, heck!
“Mrs. Lewis’ sophomore girls club will have a discussion on table manners in the cafeteria tomorrow afternoon at three. All interested are invited.”
A low series of groans greeted this. Now isn’t it like that icicle! Imagine! A discussion of table manners when we want to know do we go to Miami. Jeepers!
“The girl’s intramural basketball series will be started this afternoon in the gymnasium at three-thirty.” More groans, slightly more perceptible this time. When would that drip ever get down to business? What about Miami? Are we going to Miami to play Intersectional or aren’t we?
Still more routine. “The following officers of clubs have been elected for the coming year. Mathematics club: Jean Wrigley. Senior dramatics club: John Stanswyck. Camera club: Henry Werman. Radio club: Tom Slater. Bowling club: Barbara Haynes.”
Who cares? Who cares about the camera club? Come on, there! Give us the bad news. What about Miami? Are we going to play Intersectional at Miami or aren’t we?
“I have a report to make to the student body about the proposed trip to Miami for the suggested football game with the Miami High School.” The groans stopped suddenly, the shuffling and whispering died away; utter, complete silence fell over the whole auditorium. Here it comes.
“Due to complications that have arisen, Fosdick-Masten High of Buffalo, New York, has been chosen to make the journey in our place.”
A roar broke out. You couldn’t tell whether it was approval or disapproval or both. Cheers mingled with groans. The entire auditorium seethed. Anybody however could see that the majority were disappointed at the action taken. He held up his hand for silence.
But silence did not come immediately. The tumult died away slowly; it was a ripple, then a murmur. At last quiet came again. “I have another announcement to make. Late last night Coach Quinn received a telegram challenging us to an Intersectional game a week from Saturday with Oak Park High of Chicago, Illinois....”
Why, you never heard such a yell. It was like nothing at any victory meeting, at any pep rally, like nothing the auditorium had ever heard. They were frantic, boys, girls, the team; yes, even Mike and his assistants in the rear under the balcony.
He couldn’t restrain them nor quiet down the noise. They yelled and yelled and yelled some more. As the wave of sound subsided it would burst out again. At last, after waiting, he managed to get order. But this time there was no quiet; a buzz persisted over the entire hall. Everyone had questions to ask of everyone else. Would I get to go? Would you? Would the band be taken? Would the drill team go along? Would...
“The same arrangements made for the Miami trip will hold for this trip to Chicago.” Another mighty outburst rose. That’s super, that is! We’re going to Chicago to play Intersectional!
The noise died away as he spoke again. “I’m happy to be able to inform you...” he talked slowly and very, very distinctly... “that the whole team will go.”
Boom! Boom-boom! Boom went the bass drum.
Clash went the cymbals, clash-clash. Then the sounds of the band were lost in the uproar. The band got up, they started along the aisle playing, they were surrounded by yelling kids.
For Abraham Lincoln High was playing Intersectional! The whole team!
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
copyright © 1942, renewed 1970 by Lucy R. Tunis
cover design by Milan Bozic
978-1-4532-2111-2
This edition published in 2011 by Open Road Integrated Media
180 Varick Street
New York, NY 10014
