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Bob Hope sat staring at the frosted-glass hospital door in front of him, through which he could just make out the silhouette of the doctor, pacing up and down, evidently mulling over the charts and papers he held in his hand. The doctor paused at the door. . . .
Bob clenched the polished arms of the chair, hardly aware of his own anxiety. “There’s so much . . . still so many things I want to see,” he thought to himself, as he waited for the doctor’s verdict.
He looked over at the black and white moonfaced clock high on the wall, watching the sec
ond hand as it moved very slowly around and around. Its ticking seemed unusually loud.
Then suddenly he shuddered and shut his eyes tight. He didn’t want to think any more, think what it might be like not being able to see the happy faces of his audiences when he cracked a joke because somehow he knew . . . you couldn’t make jokes at just a blur.
And he remembered the first time he’d seen the audience as a blur . . .
He had stood in the center of the improvised platform at Port Lyautey, in Morocco, looking out at sailors — hundreds and hundreds of them — gathered under the hot North African sun to see the USO troupe ( Continued on page 96)
still so many more things I’d like to see”
by JIM HOFFMAN
W atching his family as they grow up . . seeing the faces of the soldiers — of any audience— as he cracks a joke . . . these things mean so much to Bob. And he knew that somehow he must see ... he had to see.