Santa Rosa High School - Echo Yearbook (Santa Rosa, CA)

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14 THE PORCUPINE the first half they stood one point ahead of Cleveland. The scoreboard read “6—5.” Five minutes more in which to win the game, with the score just the same as at the end of the first half. Suddenly a shout burst from the excited audience—but it was just as the referee’s whistle blew. Bob had made a splendid field throw, but had Karl Knight, the idol of the school, fouled just before? One referee thought that he had caught the ball and thrown it while he was outside the field. The other thought he was inside, but neither were positive. If the referee who called the foul was correct then, of course; the goal would not count, and Piermont would win, for only two minutes were left, and what could be done in that time? The referees could not come to a decision, so they asked Karl if he were conscious of fouling. Here was a chance to win the game! But he remembered the captain’s words, “Tf we win, it must be squarely,” so with only a moment’s hesitation he answered with a simple “Yes, I fouled.” No more was said. The game was resumed, but Karl was determined to do something. He must make a field throw in those two minutes. Before the Piermont boys had fully recovered themselves from joy over the decision, the ball was in Karl’s hands; in the next second it was on the edge of the basket. Unde- cided whether it would win the game for Cleveland or Pier- mont, it rolled around the rim, then stopped, wavered for a moment before it rolled, not into the basket, but onto the floor. The whistle blew; time was up, so the boys trooped off to the dressing room; that is, the Cleveland boys did. The Piermont boys remained for fully ten minutes, tearing off their high school yells as if they were mad. All Cleveland High School was disappointed in the result of the game, but not in Karl. Honesty is always admired. He was disappointed himself, yet he felt the joy of victory. He had conquered a dishonest impulse.

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THE PORCUPINE The Winner “Hey, wait a minute!” Bob stopped in answer to the summons, and waited for the boys’ basketball team. Lawrence the manager of White gave him a letter which read “Piermont High School has received your letter of the 17th, and will play your team of Cleveland High School in a basketball game on’ November Ist. “Sincerely, “Walter Overton.” “Good! When did you get it?” asked Bob Sanborn, the captain. “This morning. I’ve been searching the earth for you,” was the answer. “Come on, let’s tell the rest of the fellows. They ll yell for joy when they learn that we're going to lick our old enemy on the first of November.” “Yes, if we can lick ’em,” returned the practical Law- rence. “White, you make me tired. Of course we can beat ’em with Knight as goaler. There’s nothing the matter with him, let me tell you. What do you think of him?” “He's all right,” and when Lawrence White said that in that way, he meant. it. The evening of the first of November finally came. It was half after seven, with the game scheduled to start at eight o'clock. Confusion reigned supremely in the dress- ing room: A glance into the hall showed the immense assembly awaiting impatiently for this, the most important game of the season. The Cleveland boys were gathered around their. captain, listening intently while he encouraged them. They were going in to win squarely and fairly, in- tending to come out at least a few points ahead of “those old scrubs.” But “those old scrubs” were not so srubby as their opponents thought them to be. In fact at the end of

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| ! THE PORCUPINE 15 His Reception It was a cosmopolitan audience.. Almost every civilized nation was represented. The majority of those present were Russian Jews and Poles, who had come out of admira- tion for their fellow-countryman. Here and there were a few Americans, whose curiosity had led them to the con- A few Germans and Frenchmen—seekers of the One or two newspaper re- cert hall. best in music—could be seen. porters sat with pencil ready to criticize the recital, but the audience was small. New Yorkers are not given to patronizing unknown pianists, especially when not under the direction of one of their famous managers. For an artist without a’name to give a concert solely by himself was almost unheard of. Jan Marval paced nervously up and down the little room just off the stage. He was buried deep in thought. To- night was his night of all nights. He was about to realize his fondest ambitions. His dreams were about to become realities. For years he had thought of nothing else but to play before an American audience; and now, to-night, just a few feet distant, was that very audience waiting to hear him. He hoped it was large, and that his first appearance in America would be successful. At an early age Jan had shown a remarkable talent for music. His father, being very poor, thought he saw the hope of future wealth in his son, so he kept him practising unceasingly at the piano. The result was natural. At fifteen Jan was a wonder, and at seventeen he made his first tour of Poland. This tour had brought Jan’s father some pecuniary relief, so he now felt that a tour of America would be well. Exaggerated reports had reached distant Poland of the great appreciation shown by the American audiences; of the wild applause and the mad worshipping of pianists by