Battle Cry - Leon Uris [6]
“But I don’t understand it. Virg has scored twice as many points. Why, he’s been the star of the team for three years.”
“Danny, I like Virg and I certainly don’t want to belittle any friendships or pacts or what have you. But I’d rather have a boy that can make two yards when we need it than one who makes fifty when we don’t. And I’d rather have a boy who improves with every game and never makes the same mistake twice.”
He turned and paced the floor. “I like a boy who plays the game with everything he has for every minute because he can’t play any other way. I’m not going to pressure you, Danny, but I hate to see you throw away that career you want so badly. Think it over and let me know.”
“Yes, sir.” Danny arose and zipped his jacket.
“And, Danny…of course I’ll never tell Virgil. But if he knew I’m sure he’d say: Georgia Tech.”
The train halted in the Philadelphia Thirtieth Street Station.
“Take care of yourself.”
“Write to me.”
“Don’t worry honey, I’ll be O.K.”
“Get a Jap for me.”
“Good-by, Connie darling.”
“Susan…Susan…”
“Philadelphia contingent in cars two and three!”
Virgil Tucker poked his head in the doorway. “Hey Danny, come on, we’re waiting—oh, excuse me. I didn’t know you were here, Coach.”
Danny thrust his hands in his pockets as he stepped out into the cutting, darkening air. Virgil Tucker placed an arm about his shoulder and they walked toward the car. They looked for a moment across the street where Baltimore City College stood on a knoll like a gray impregnable fortress, glowering proudly down on them.
“I was just thinking,” Virgil said.
“What?”
“You didn’t miss that block in the last quarter. If I had stayed along the sidelines, outside you, instead of cutting back into the middle of the field…”
“What’s the difference? Old Lawrence would have pulled something out of the bag. City would have scored again.”
“Too bad we don’t have a coach like Lawrence…well, maybe Poly can whip them next week.”
Kathleen Walker, Sally Davis and Bud, Danny’s eight-year-old brother, awaited them, by the car.
“Danny, Danny,” cried Bud. “Nice game, Danny.”
Virgil shrugged. “Your Dad went home with my folks and left him. He wanted to see you.” Virgil handed him the keys.
“You drive,” Danny said, smiling at Kathy.
“Naw, you drive,” Virgil insisted. “It’s your old man’s car.”
Virg and Sally snuggled into a corner of the rear seat and promptly ordered Bud up in front.
“Aw girls,” Bud snorted. “Virg has a girl, Virg has a girl.”
“Sit down and be quiet, shrimp.” The car whisked away toward the 29th Street bridge.
“I wish I was old enough to go to Forest Park…I’ll show those City bums.”
“Tell him to pipe down, Danny.”
“Shut up, Bud. City boys are nice guys.”
“Are not either.” He bounced down in the seat and looked stormily out of the window. They swung past the Museum of Art. “Dad says he looks like he’s sitting on a pot.” The youngster pointed to Rodin’s “The Thinker” on the lawn.
“Bud!” And the tone of his brother’s voice finally quieted him.
They drove over the railroad bridge, the slim shining pencils of rails running far below. He had lived near here once and in the summer he’d walk the concrete ridgeguard on a dare. And with his gang, they played “bombardier,” dropping their flavored, ground ice “snowballs” over the side, far down onto the passing cars and trains.
Fringing Druid Hill Park, they cut off at Liberty Heights Avenue towards the Forest Park District.
“Virg is kissing Sally, Virg is kissing Sally….”
“Danny, tell him to be quiet or I’m going to crown him.”
They came to a stop on Fairfax Road before a brick and stone house, exactly like fifty other brick and stone houses on the block. Any trace of individuality had long gone from the middle-class dwellings in Baltimore. They were merely blown-up, more comfortable models of the red brick, marble-stepped domains that ran for mile after mile throughout other districts. Bud was asleep in the back seat. Virgil had been dropped at Sally