Phillips High School - Mirror Yearbook (Birmingham, AL)

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The Mirror PROJECTS NOT FINANCED BY XYZ I. THE TENNIS COURT I T was a hot, sunny, quiet Sunday. Finding no program worth my valuable time, I snapped off the radio and angrily walked into my bedroom. From the assortment of baseball gloves, footballs, golf clubs and what-not, 1 picked my tennis racket and waved it around vigorously, depicting Bill Tilden. While doing my backhand lob, I heard a car's horn. Rushing out, 1 saw three friends who were all eager to play the glorious game of tennis. With the gas meter at zero, we proceeded happily to the tennis court, hoping to come home within the car not behind it. It was during our trip that we planned one of the most daring projects ever undertaken by us—building a tennis court! As usual, no one was on the court, and as usual, no sooner had we got our shoes filled with dust, than there was a hopeful crowd calling the familiar phrase, “We got the winners.” The phrase slowly changed to threats. To prevent threats becoming actions, we reluctantly retired to the future site of our private court. We sat under the magnolia tree, deliberately picturing the future triumph, despite the towering weeds and the rugged ground. With the sparrows sleeping above and pictures of the court drawn on the ground below, we left in firm accord to build a tennis court of our own. Monday evening after school, when the blazing sun was sending shafts down futilcly upon the cowering dust, I was drinking water under the large tree and pretending that I had worked hard. When the curfew tolled the knell of parting day, 1 slowly wound my way over the .ea home to tend my tender palms. The second day was more eventful. Some small boys wanted to work so that they may play when the court is finished. Agreeing readily, all of us big ones” sat under the magnolia tree and calculated. With my back against the tree, my feet crossed, slowly shaking back and forth, and my tongue slowly diminishing a popsicklc, I thought of the most tcrribic thing possible. Who was to buy the net, the backstops, the sand, and the other paraphernalia? “Paraphrasia” seized the trio when 1 further added that the cost would be more than $10. And when the time came that all good boys must say goodnight, the sparrows were sleeping above and a group of discouraged figures shivered on the ground below. [23]

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T HE M I R R o R Joe decided to wait another two days before calling at the publishing house for his composition. Why hurry? Or worry, either? Such a marvelous work as that was safe. So, to pass the time—and half in pity—, he would go to this new McCann success. Quite a crowd, he noticed as he entered to the rhythm of the orchestra. Some day. an orchestra, ten times the size of this one would be playing one of his great works and people would applaud loudly as he took bow after bow. He triumphed; but soon his smile changed into an unbelieving stare. Certainly, that horrible orchestra could not be playing his music. Of course not! Hut some of the strains were the same, yet how different they sounded. What was he to think? Tortured he rushed out. On reaching his apartment, he flopped disgustedly into a chair. He had believed himself original. Original! Humph! His friends had been right; music was a cjueer business. One hail onl to go into a musical comedy show and hear his identical theme and rhythm s.aughtered. Well, that music could just stay at the music house; he certainly had more sense now than to go back and have it thrown at him. Why not remain an accountant after ail? Originality was at a discount there, and there were no heartbreaks. It was not too late to accept that invitation to play bridge tomorrow night. And there was still plenty of time before going to bed to string the old tennis racket. —Mary Garrett [22]

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The Mirror On the third day, the “little ones evidently “played out. We had to leave the shade of the majestic tree and cut weeds. Had the weeds only been daffodils, the sparrows, skylarks and nightingales, we might have done a good job; as it was, the surface of the court resembled nothing so much as the gray ocean in a fury. On the first day of spring (March 21) one of our charter members hitched his stubborn pony to a scraper. With a powerful jab of the stocky foot and a blast of air, the pony slowly walked around. Each jab of each hoof left a hole large enough to hide a tennis ball. In a deliberative mood we retired from the disgusting scene to conceive a clever plan. Why not tie tow sacks on those offending hoofs? As simple as the mice belling the cat! Who could summon enough nerve to do the tying? However, concluding that in union there is courage as well as strength, we jumped at the steed and cjuickly but firmly adjusted the sacks. The pony must have had a sudden attack of spring fever—he didn’t open his eves. He clumsily lifted sack and feet once, then refused to move. What an embarrassing moment! The poltroons laughed and jeered and even the pony with a loud neigh woke to agree. Finally with all patience ended, we unhitched the beast with an order to “scram.” We retreated to the magnolia tree but night overtook our plans, and away we went home to dream of the day when the court would be smooth and the jeering spectators wistfully hoping for us to ask them to play. Robert Beyer [24]