[legendsport]

Washington, DC: July 2, 1916:

"Uh, Rufus, we gots to talk."

Rufus was seated at his desk behind a shiny nameplate (of which he was unduly fond) that read, "Rufus G. Barrell, Director" in golden letters on a wood veneer background. On the blotter in front of him was a stack of scouting reports and he had been busily poring through them. This was all in preparation for categorizing them before sending them off to the teams. All in a day's work for Rufus Barrell, Director.

At least that was what he was doing until Possum Daniels walked into the office.

Rufus looked up over the rims of his glasses (he hated having to wear glasses, but he needed them to read - just a part of aging, according to Alice). "What can I do for you, Possum?" he asked with a small smile.

Possum was fidgeting, which was usually a sign that whatever he needed to say was not something he wanted to say.

"You know I was up there in Montreal, right?"

Rufus nodded and replied, "Sure."

"Well... I was scouting this place called the Montreal Industrial High School - some kind of vocational thing, I do believe," Possum said.

Rufus nodded again. He knew this - after all, he had been the one who'd written up the itinerary for Possum's trip to Canada.

"Find anyone interesting?" Rufus asked.

Possum grimaced and replied, "You could say that, yes."

Rufus was starting to get impatient. He pulled the glasses off his face, gave Possum a direct look and said, "Get to the point, Possum."

His friend took a deep breath and then, his words coming in a rush, said, "This here school got a fellow on the roster name of Dick Banner. Infielder. He was one of the fellas you wanted me to birddog."

Rufus blinked and motioned for Possum to continue.

"Well... it turns out that Banner was an assumed name. That there fella is actually named John Barrell."

Rufus blinked again as what Possum had said sank in. "John Barrell? As in Jack? My son, Jack?"

Possum nodded and said, "Yep, it was Jack. Looked slicker 'n snot out there on the field too. He's definitely your son... son." He grinned widely.

Then the grin turned into a frown as he added, "He wasn't too happy to see me. In fact he was madder'n a puffed toad."

Rufus was shaking his head. "That doesn't make sense. Why would he be attending high school under an assumed name?"

"I asked him that very thing. He said it was on account of the fact that he signed a professional hockey contract and technically wasn't eligible to play high school sports."

Rufus narrowed his eyes. "He signed a pro contract? When?"

Possum shrugged and replied, "He didn't say. But it wasn't too long ago. He begged me not to tell you, but I told him that I couldn't hide this from my oldest and best friend."

Rufus stood up, came around the desk and slapped his friend on the back. "Thanks, pal. I appreciate it."

Now Possum narrowed his own eyes. "You ain't mad? I figured you'd be hotter than a three-legged dog trying to bury a turd on a frozen pond, son."

Rufus chuckled as he said, "Nah, I'm not mad. Apparently this assumed-name business runs in the family. First Joe, now Jack. I expect Danny or Freddy will be next."

"I expect Miss Peaches won't be none too happy though," Possum said.

Rufus nodded in agreement. "You're right there. That Connolly fellow sure rubbed her the wrong way. If Jack signed with him, she'll be as mad as that dog... or whatever it was you just said."

Rufus cocked an eyebrow and one corner of his mouth curled in a smile, "You said Jack looked good?"

Possum smiled back as he said, "Sure did. That boy can play. I expect he'll get drafted - not high, mind you. He is playing in Canada and most of the teams don't think too much of the competition up there, but he'll get plucked for sure."

Rufus mused, "Wonder which sport he'd choose? He really does love hockey."

"Maybe he could do both - the seasons don't overlap," Possum pointed out.

Rufus shook his head, "I expect Mr. Connolly would be unhappy to hear that Jack's been playing baseball... and playing well, too," he said and grinned wickedly.

Possum asked, "Speaking of which... what'd you do with that there fancy car? Hoo boy, that was perty."

Rufus shook his head. "That car... well, it wasn't easy, but Alice and I decided we couldn't keep it. Jimmy pitched a fit, but he finally agreed to take it down to Atlanta and sell it. I had to get back here to D.C. before he left though, so I'm not sure where that stands though I expect Alice would have let me know if the darn thing hadn't been sold."


Ormond Beach, FL: July 2, 1916:

"If Ma or Pop find out, they'll skin you alive," Rollie told his brother.

Jimmy gave his older sibling a serious look. "Guess they better not find out then, huh?"

Rollie shook his head. "I can't believe you got me to agree to this. It's crazy, you know?"

"Aww, don't fret too much. This beauty will come through with flying colors and we'll go home with some great memories and some good money. Ma and Pop need never find out." Jimmy patted the red Buick, grinning in his winning way and Rollie, though he still had his reservations, couldn't help himself - he grinned back.

The brothers were supposed to be in Atlanta, selling the car. Instead, they had driven down to Ormond Beach in Florida where the hard-packed sand made a perfect racing surface - according to Jimmy who had read about it in a magazine.

"Daytona Beach is good, too," Jimmy had told his brother, then continued, "I bet we can find some wealthy Yankees to race against and with this here car, we'll win us some money."

"Pop said to sell the thing - he didn't want us taking a bribe from that Connolly fellow." Rollie pointed this out, though he knew Jimmy wouldn't change his mind. The kid was even more stubborn than their mother once he had settled his mind on something.

"Pop's got his principles, and I've got mine," Jimmy said with a disdainful wave. "My principles involve seeing how fast this thing can go." He paused and pointed at his brother, "So the question is - are you coming along, or not?"

Rollie had agreed, telling himself that he was simply going to look out for his slightly crazy brother - but in reality, he too wanted to see how fast this car could go. And, with greens fees being what they were, he wasn't adverse to making a little money either.

So now they were standing beside the red Buick on the hard-packed sand of Ormond Beach, looking south towards Daytona Beach. The sand stretched, hard and flat before them. Rich people - usually northerners, had been racing their cars on this beach for over a decade and even some auto designers had come down and tested their best and fastest machines on this sand.

Jimmy rubbed his hands together and cast his gaze over the competition - a New York banker whose name was also James - James Reynolds who had brought his white Chevrolet Series H "Royal Mail roadster" down to Ormond to race. Jimmy - who had become an enthusiastic follower of automobile technology, knew this Chevrolet had a fancy electric starter. He also knew that while it looked like a race car, it was not as powerful as the Buick (though it was certainly lighter). He was confident he'd win this race.

"Gentlemen, we are agreed, then? $100 to the winner, yes?" Reynolds said in his upper crust accent.

Jimmy tried to conjure up the accent of his Brooklyn youth as he nodded and replied, "Yes, we are agreed, sir."

Reynolds pulled his goggles over his eyes and moved to his Chevy. Jimmy winked at Rollie, put his own goggles on and climbed into the Buick.

Rollie, now feeling extremely nervous, told his brother, simply, "Be careful."

Jimmy smirked and said, "Careful won't win the day, brother. I'm going to let her fly!"