Clifton High School - Rotunda Yearbook (Clifton, NJ)

Page 21 text:

unclothed condition. Well, it was only a question of time, now, philosophized Terry. They had to open the door sometime. As he had his choice between exercise and pneumonia, he began to trot up and down the hall with water dripping at every step and his bare feet making odd little slapping noises as he ran. All would have ended well had not the principal decided to go through that corridor at that particular time. At any rate, the principal gasped, and Terry gulped, and the situation was brought to a sudden denouement by someone's opening the locker room door. Terry didn't make any apologies but actually dove into the room. Someone was telling the well-known story about another humorous incident that had taken place the previous year, when someone had imitated an assistant coach's pep talk to Little johnny and then turned around to find the coach in question standing directly behind him. Coach Wilson came through the doorway quietly and stood silent, watching his boys . He was a coach such as you might find in any school in the country, hard as nails on the outside, but underneath a human being in the finest sense of the word. He was the sort of fellow who would batter to a pulp a man who tried to steal his watch, and when he found out that the fellow was half starved would pawn that same watch to buy him food. His eyes and his hair were gray. He loved this gang of his, these boys with men's bodies. Fine fellows everyone, these bronzed, homely gridders who had graduated from the dust and dead-grass smell of the sand-lot to the alcohol and wintergreen odor of the locker room. He tried to think of something to say to the squad. This was the last time they would be together before the Turkey Day game and he ought to say something to them. People were beginning to blame him because they hadn't won more games. He tried to think about tomorrow's contest, but always that other thought crept in like some insidious demon to torment him. It was money that was preying on his mind. He didn't need such an awful lot, either, a hundred would stem the tide. Yes, he had .rome money. Perhaps he could scrape together fifty or so, but that was not enough. It must be a hundred. There was his salary but he needed every cent of that. He had a family to support. He must think. He turned and left the hot, steam-filled room and went to his own quarters to light a cigarette. He was sitting there lost in a cloud of smoke and staring at the blank wall when jeff Miller stamped in, a little breathless from the exertion of climbing up the hill to the club house. He eased himself into a chair, but not until he had lit the ancient briar which he always followed around did he speak. Somethin' on your mind, 'seems if', he started. What's a matter, Don ? Nothing much, jeff, Don lied in a voice that was almost a shout, for jeff was almost as ancient as his pipe, and his hearing wasn't what it used to be in the old days . Why, Great Tophers, Don, y' ought to know I know you better'n The REFLECTOR - 17

Page 20 text:

Buck, you see, had been brought up on a farm and was six feet two and as wide as he was long. He hadn't been actually sure what the students thought until that time he left his coat in the gym locker room and had gone back for it only tlq fglpd that someone had put a wide stripe down the back of it with yellow c a . That season he had gone out for football and made the second team. This was his last year, and he had made first string tackle, but, although it took two good men to move him and he opened ponderous holes in the line, there was something missing. That all important thing-fight! II. In the growing dusk they trotted off the field, sweating from their laps , those hated circuits of the field which inevitably come at the end of a hard workout when your muscles ache and your joints seem to creak. They dove into the steam-filled locker room. Forty wild animals pulled each other's jerseys off over shoulder-pads, linesman shoulder-pads raised high by secondary straps underneath and with air spaces between, backfield pads, flat and light. Heavy, cleated shoes were thrown crashing into steel lockers. Varsity men pulled off pants with elastic stripes on the legs. Substitutes pulled off much-patched and adhesive-taped pants. Student managers took great delight in ripping tape off weak ankles and wrists, for much hair came off too, and the accompanying howls were very gratifying. The inexperienced left their towels in their lockers and came back from the shower rooms dripping water and questionable language as they found that their towels had already been used by four or five other players who had forgotten theirs, and who also, to go by the evidence of the towel, had for- gotten to take off all the grime in the shower room. The general bedlam was augmented by a flury of towels being snapped at the players returning from their shower, much to the delight of the snappers and the discomfort of the snapped-at. Buck Serrini secretly loved all this tomfoolery but somehow he was not accepted by the rest of the squad. They sensed his dislike of the game as a whole and unconsciously resented it. He sat there on the bench before thc lockers in the midst of the fun and yet not part of it. He pulled on his socks slowl . Y Terry Ackerman always managed to be the last one out of the showers and this night was no exception. He was immediately descended upon by a howling Dervisher in the forrn of Bop Starrett. Now Bop was a lunging, line-plunging fullback, with arms about as beefy as Little johnny's legs, an asset which made him a foe to be respected, especially while snapping a wet towel. Terry dove for the first opening in sight, which happened to be the door leading to the lower hall. Immediately he realized his mistake, for the door was quickly slammed and locked behind him, leaving him in a rather drafty corridor in an extremely The REFLECTOR -2:-1' 16

Page 22 text:

that. Why I know you better'n you know yourself. 'N you a settin' there a tryin' to tell old jeff Miller there ain't nuthin' a troublin' you . . . Crnon now, son. Tell y'r old Uncle all about it. He talked to the gray-haired coach as if he were a child. Oh, I don't know, jeff, Wilson hesitated. The truth is I need some money-a hundred dollars. I've saved fifty of it, but I need a hundred, now. Tomorrow night at the latest. jeff exhaled clouds of acrid smoke. No way of gettin' any, eh P Wilson shook his head mutely and Jeff continued to puff his briar. Then: Let you have et m'self, Don, but I jist ain't got et. My pension ain't hardly enough to live on as 'tis, 'thout savin' none. The two men sat silent for a moment. Then jeff opened his mouth to speak and thought better of it. He knocked the ashes out of his pipe decisively and pointed the stem at Wilson. Now you listen 't me, Don. You ain't agoin' to like this suggestion, but a far as I kin see, it's the only way out. This here new football team of yours, fr'm what I hear, ain't got a chance ag'in Woodcliff tomorrow. Great Day, son, give me a chance! as Don was about to protest. Why don't you bet that fifty ag'in 'em? Now wait! I kin git old man Bartlett to take the bet. That ol' fool'll take any side of an arg'ment if'n I take t'other. What say, Don? Great Guns, jeff, I can't do that! Bet against my boys in there? He jerked a thumb toward the locker room. He shook his head determinedly. Not while I had anything to say about it. Jeff shrugged slowly and stuffed tobacco into the bowl of his pipe. He heaved himself out of his chair and moved toward the door, his rheumatic joints cracking audibly. Then Don called to him. Just a minute, jeff. He lit another cigarette and inhaled deeply. Tell you what I'll do. Maybe your idea wasn't so bad after all. Iill give you the money to bet for me tonight, but bet it on my boys. You're makin' a mistake, Don. That crew of yours ain't won but two games all season, 'n' them agin easy teams, but-if y' want it like that- he shrugged. That's how I want it, jefff' And Woodcliff was one of the chief contenders for the State Charn- pionship. III. It had started to snow, and the brisk November wind whipped the flakes into the faces of the crowds in the stands. The air literally vibrated with excitement. The stands were noisy and the confidence of the Woodcliif supporters was matched only by the desperate bravado of the Lincoln rooters. In the dressing room Coach Wilson leaned against the concrete wall and fingered the change in his pocket, trying not to show his nervousness. The REFLEICTOR It - 18