Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

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THE BUSH LEAGUER Second Prize Story Newton MacLeod QS he slowly undressed in the twilight of the Bay view High School locker room, the gloo- my look on the face of “Red” Baker gave evidence of his thoughts. More than midway through its schedule, the highly-touted Bayview basketball team had done little more than earn an even break. The fact that this record was made only over the “warm-up” teams on its list did not give any added luster to the achievement. In the five remain- ing games, the squad faced its fiercest combats, with Middle- town and its crack outfit, their traditional rivals, looming as an insurmountable barrier. Red had diagnosed his fellow players and had come to the in- disputable conclusion that poor basket-shooting was the cause of most of the team's defeats. The Bayview athletes had developed a smooth, fast, passing attack, and this factor alone had enabled them to keep clear of utter rout, for it seemed that when the ball was in Bayview hands, the basket would emulate the bear and go into hibernation. Baker wearily shook his head in disgust, but he determined not to complain and so ran briskly out onto the gym floor. Although it was early in the afternoon, someone else occupied the gym before him,—a tall, rawboned youth with a countrified manner. He was doggedly and systematically shooting at the basket, letting fly with an un- orthodox motion that brought the ball from between his knees. This style

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THE ROMANCE OF NAMES Margaret Higginbotham XWAS examining an atlas recently for the purpose of learning the area of some obscure county in North Carolina, when my eye fell on an attrative name—What Cheer. Immediately good old Grid- ley County, or whatever it was, completely left my mind and I lost myself in mental pictures of what a town with such a jolly name as What Cheer could be like. I visioned a little hill-village, tucked in at the edges with rambling stonewalls, and peopled by sturdy miners with their crisp housewives and rosy-cheeked youngsters. However, I imagine I should be much disillusioned if I should travel to my “little” What Cheer, for statistics say its population is 1310, and probably it is as sober as any New England town. But those are the chances you take in romancing with geography. I hold that it is a fascinating game despite possible disillusion- ment, for if you are at least a couple of thousand miles away, you will probably never have the misfortune to discover that Ferndale has a skyline as ferny as Quincy’s, and that the keepers of Deer Park, Scotland, have to go to a museum to see what that animal called the deer looks like. When I was a child, Iceland was one of the most mysterious and excit- ing places on earth to me. Somewhere, somehow, I had gained the idea that it was, literally, a land of ice, and I can still remember the visions I had of poor, little children who could suck only icicles for candy! To this day, with the resistless force of all my childhood imaginings behind me, I cannot think of Iceland other than an expanse of ice, boasting a few ig- loos and Eskimos, and the Northern Lights every night. Thus can much of the romance connected with names be traced to fan- cies of our childhood. There are other reasons why we are attracted by the names of rivers, mountains, and cities, and even nations. History plays an important part in our tastes. A good many less, for instance, would sail up the Saint Lawrence to Quebec each year, if the French and Indian War and the blending of English and French history in that old town had not woven a glamour about the name Quebec that is irresistible. So it is with the river Tiber. What a sluggish and muddy river it is! Yet who remembers that, when he thinks of such incidents as the heroic battle of Horatio who kept back, almost single handed, a band of soldiers from crossing the bridge, until it had been undermined by the men below. Tiber doesn’t spell romance in appearance, but it certainly does in history. A wealth of beautiful and suggestive names can be had for the search- ing on almost any trip, and the maps are covered with them. It is one of my most treasured ambitions to, some day, go the rounds of all my fa- JCominued on page 38]

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was obviously no drawback, for invariably the ball slipped through the basket. Discovering his audience, the player staged an impromptu exhibition and whirled about the floor shooting from all angles and making each shot count. These shots, coming as it were from the nether regions, provided an element of unexpectedness that was startling. Red’s imagination became active; suppose that this element could be in- troduced at a critcal point in a critical game. Would it not disconcert the opponents? It certainly would!! Rousing from his reverie, he rushed across the floor and interrupted en- thusiastically, “Say! That’s the best basket-shooting I’ve ever feasted my eyes upon. Why weren’t you out for the team?” The stranger hesitated and then gave answer quietly, “I’m rather ashamed to admit this, but I’ve never played a real game of basketball in my life.” Red’s excited exclamation shook an echo from the beams above. “What! Never played? Then where did you learn to shoot baskets as well as you do?” More questions followed until it came out that the youth Bill Ripley was a transfer from Sprucehead, Maine. Basketball was foreign to him be- cause the town was so small it could not muster enough material to form two teams. Bill, however, got hold of a ball and, after constructing a regu- lation basket in his yard, had practiced for hours until he acquired the un- canny skill which had astounded Baker. Having no one to imitate and no one to correct him, he had developed a style peculiar to himself. That it was effective, Red had seen. Later that day, at the regular practice session, Baker expounded his theory to the coach, and when the mentor had seen Ripley in action, he agreed with Red that the idea was a reasonably sound one. At the end of the practice session, however, the old apathy had returned, for the newcomer from Maine did not prove to be the help expected. He disrupted the entire passing attack and becoming excited, would shoot for the nearest basket, making no distinction between his own and the opposi- tion’s. Notwithstanding these facts, the coach saw enough promise in the boy to merit a uniform and so one was doled out to him while instructions were given Baker that he was to educate Ripley in the ways of basketball. In the weeks that followed, Baker carried out his instructions faithfully. Every afternoon would find the two in the gym practicing diligently. Red taught Bill the fundamentals, but he did not drill him on the style of play; instead he had the youth concentrate on getting his shots away fast. Meanwhile the Bayview team had continued to hold its own with great effort, but they considered these preliminary games of little account, for