peared to him as in a vision a long, long time ago … or had his vision been a forgotten dream?
Ken turned away from the church. Why, he did not know. At seventeen one does not decide whether one shall conform or dissent—that is, a he-man does not; and Ken concluded that as of this July morning, straight in the back seat of Mr. Lowell's Packard, he was mighty glad to get away from Mr. Barton's First Presbyterian Church of Selma.
"Comfortable, boy?" said Mr. Lowell.
"I'm all right," said Ken.
"Homesick already?" the older man placed a hand on Ken's sleeve and smiled.
"No," replied Ken flatly. Mr. Lowell looked out of the window. The car passed the two low Spanish-type buildings of Selma High. Ken felt a sharp, prickling sensation in his throat. Selma High was disappearing in the dust haze as Johnson stepped on the gas; and Selma High did mean a lot to Ken Gracey. That there frame house back of the school on Council Street—what laughs at what dirty stories! And the gym! To be free, young and white in that gym … to stretch long arms and legs, to take in deep, sweet breaths, to ride the horse, row the machine, race Bud and Bill and Lee. And beat them, what's more, beat them! In basket-ball to rise up, up and up … learning form, dribbling, tip-offs, the intricate signals of "Doc" Weston, the keen technique that brings one to success—success—center in the Dallas game—four fouls, three goals, applause and fame.
The town dwindled into flat sandy prairie. Ken turned to Mr. Lowell and said: "Makes one sure feel sorta wobbly, this going away from home."
