Radio mirror (Nov 1938-Apr 1939)

tend One day Graham McNamee, who has never lost his love for the great game of football, told us about an idea he had for a football short story. It sounded good, so we pestered him until he wrote it for us — and here it is. We're sure you'll like it. — The Editors. DEJECTION lay heavy upon the normally untroubled brow of Clump Hamp — known to the authorities of Sweetwater University as Cornelius Wittenden Hamp, III, class of 1940. He sat on the rail of the bridge which runs across Sweetwater Lake, pondering his own thoughts and the reflection of the Chemistry Building in the water. To ease his soul, he reached for a cigarette, found the pack empty, and accepted the fact as but one more proof of his sad lot. He crumpled the pack and tossed it into the pond. A passing gardener saw him and yelled profane admonitions against polluting the water. Two Freshmen co-eds, neat in bright sports clothes, heard the gardener and giggled. Clump slid off the railing, rammed his hands into the pockets of his corduroy trousers, and shuffled off in the opposite direction from the co-eds, pretending he hadn't noticed them. It was always that way! For generations the undergraduate men of Sweetwater University had perched on that rail, joyously and freely polluting the water with old chewing gum, cigarette butts, ice-cream-cone ends, and candy-bar wrappers — and nobody had ever said a word to them. But the first time he, Clump Hamp, tried it, a dirty dog of a gardener swore at him while half the school listened in. Everything he did was always wrong. Other fellows were called by their own names, or by nicknames which weren't implied insults — but he was called Clump, and for a reason. Did he arise to go to the blackboard in Math, class, he fell over somebody's foot, there in his path by accident or design. Did he play football, he attempted a punt and connected brilliantly with a brother player's shin. Did he start to be initiated into his fraternity, he ended up in the dead of night, twenty miles from town, minus his pants and one shoe. And did he ask Arlene Mills to go with him to the Harvest Ball on Homecoming Day night, he was turned down cold. Oh, very gently and sweetly, because it wasn't in Arlene's nature to do things any other way. Arlene was an angel — a tiny, hundred-pound angel with an adorable nose, exasperating lips, and spunsunlight hair. But she was also a misguided angel. Infatuation was the only word for the way she obviously felt about Tom Reller. It was disgusting — the ease with which nice girls could be taken in by a handsome face, manners that made a real man want to slug their possessor, and — worst of all — a heroic prowess on the football field. "Pulling those grandstand plays all the time!" Clump muttered to himself. "Regular prima donna! 14 Why doesn't Coach do something about him. . . . Wish I could get in there, just for one quarter — I'd show him up." (This last thought was sheer nonsense, and even Clump knew it, but it made him feel a little better anyhow.) He went to his fraternity house, sat on the corner of the huge leather sofa in the drawing room, and tried to look as if his mind were far away on great affairs. In this he was not successful. Andy Robertson, the undergraduate football manager, charged into the room and into his revery in one bull-like rush. "Clump!" he shouted. "Playing in the Homecoming Day game?" On the surface this was brutal addition of insult to injury, unbecoming in a fraternity brother. Everybody knew, and none better than Andy, that Coach wouldn't trust Clump two inches off the bench unless the score was 57 to 0 in favor of Sweetwater — and in the Homecoming Day game with State there certainly wasn't any chance of that. "Naw," said Clump. "Well, look. We're going to broadcast the Homecoming Day game." Andy paused for a reaction, proudly. Broadcasting the game had been his idea, he had sold KBAB, the local station, on giving the University the time, and he expected everyone to be as awestruck at the accomplishment as he was himself. "That's swell, Andy," Clump said unhappily. " — And I've talked the Athletic Council into letting you do the announcing!" Andy finished. This time he received the proper response. Clump sat bolt upright, knocking over a smoking stand as he did so. "Me?" he exclaimed. "Why me?" Andy explained patiently. "Because you know everybody on the team, and all the plays. And you won't be — I mean, Coach won't need you in the game. And anyway," Andy continued, telling the real reason, "I thought we ought to have a man from this house in there." The news that the Homecoming Day game was to be broadcast, for the first time in Sweetwater University's history, spread over the campus like hot fudge over ice cream. So did the even more sensational news that Clump Hamp was going to announce the game. Some cynics affected not to believe it; others made rude gibes; but Clump could afford to ignore both. For on the very evening of his appointment he paid a call, in company with two other young men of his fraternity, on the Phi Phi house, where Arlene Mills lived. Arlene was in the drawing room when the party entered, and she rushed over to Clump. "Isn't it thrilling, Clump?" "Yeah, sorta," Clump said, flushing an exotic shade of red and arranging his necktie so The next instant twenty-one neatly that the knot. yelling football players inunpeeked out from under dated the heap of arms, legs, the lefthand collar tab. and wire which had once been (Continued on page 16) Clump, Tom and a microphone.