Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

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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

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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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they were already anticipating for their objective game with Middletown. The Middletown players, moving with speed and unison, continued the wide swath they were cutting through the competition with an efficiency that prophesied no good for Bayview. As the day of the key game approached, the fruits of Red Baker’s in- struction became evident. Ripley played well, and the accuracy of his shoot- ing was a joy to behold. The coach placed a great deal of hope in him and matched it with a confidence in Bill, when the starting lineup was posted the night before the big game, by establishing Bill at a forward post. Dressing for the game the next day, Ripley vowed to push himself to the utmost and not hamper his teammates by his lack of experience. The referee’s whistle started the game shrilly, and at the tap-off, Bill leaped in towards the center. But before he could lay hands on the ball, tripping himself, he fell flat on the floor while the play went past him. This caused his undoing and he went completely to pieces, snarling up the attack of the hoopsters so badly that he was taken out before the end of the first quarter. As he walked to the bench, a wit among the spectators shouted, “Back to the bush leagues with him!” The ripple of laughter this sally brought rankled in Bill’s mind as he dully watched the game proceed through the third quarter. Bayview’s situation was desperate. By dint of extraordinary play they had held Middletown to a fifteen point lead, but now the rain of baskets was unnerving them. Nevertheless, as they lay panting on the floor in the rest period, they tried not to appear discouraged. The coach knew their feelings, however, and acting on an impulse born of necessity, he called sharply, “Get in there, Ripley, and fight with all you’ve got and try to keep your face off the floor!” The fourth quarter of that game is history. Bill, apparently temporarily demented, and certainly impervious to all shouts from the stands, played like a regiment of tornadoes. He was everywhere; taking a pass and, with his deceptive motion, converting it into a score; blocking a Middletown shot, and generally playing with a skill and polish that enabled Bayview to overtake the opponents and knot the score at thirty-two all. With less than a minute to play, Bill, in midcourt, received a pass and, gathering his fleeting strength, hurled it basketward. Up, up, it soared, between the rafters and, dropping like a plummet, won the game for Bayview when it swished through the basket, In the midst of the tumult which arose from five hundred voices, only one shouted phrase lingered in Bill’s ears, “No bush leagues for him, he can have a whole major league for himself!!”