[legendsport]

July 25, 1932: Chicago, IL:

"You sure this is good for you?" Fred Barrell asked his wife. This had become a familiar refrain of late.

Tillie looked at him, the exasperation she felt plain on her face. "I'm not a porcelain doll, Fred Barrell. Walking is good for me." She patted her abdomen. "And good for our son, too."

Skepticism writ large upon his face, Fred shook his head but knew this was a battle he would not win. He changed tactics and asked, "What makes you so sure this kid is going to be a boy?"

They stopped at the corner. Across the street a line of men stretched down the block.

Tillie shook her head. "Those poor men. You'd better be grateful Freddie. For all your grousing about how little the Cougars pay you, at least you're not like those poor souls."

Fred nodded in agreement. "I know," he said. In the intersection a policeman blew his whistle and people started crossing the busy street, Fred and Tillie among them.

They walked, arm in arm up the street, passing the lengthy line of unemployed men, finally reaching the storefront they were all heading towards - the sign above the entrance reading in large, block letters "Soup, Coffee and Doughnuts for the Unemployed."

"You know, Al Capone started that operation," Fred told his wife.

Tillie sniffed dismissively. "Didn't save him from prison, did it?" she asked. Capone had finally been sent to prison in May, convicted of tax evasion of all things.

Fred realized Tillie had never answered his question, so he repeated it.

"A girl just knows," she said, patting his arm.

Fred just sighed. He loved Tillie, but she drove him nuts sometimes.

As they reached the corner of Ashland and Wellington, with the facade of the ballpark finally coming into view, Fred saw and heard a newsboy hawking his papers, shouting "Barrell traded!"

Fred's mouth dropped open. Tillie wore a look of shock as well, but she recovered faster than Fred did, walking up to the boy and buying a paper from him.

She was shaking her head as she handed it to Fred. Sure enough, it was there in black and white: he'd been traded to Brooklyn. "Did you know about this?" she asked.

"No. No, I didn't," he replied. He wondered how this had happened without someone from the Cougars calling him - then he remembered that he and Tillie had gone to Peoria to visit her cousin and hadn't been home until late the night before, which had been an offday for the Cougars. "You sure this story is true, kid," he asked the newsboy.

The kid shrugged. "I don't write 'em mister, I just sell 'em," he said. A second later he was shouting again, "Read all about it! Barrell traded!"

Fred opened the paper and read the story. "It says that both Tom and I, plus a couple other guys, have been traded to Brooklyn for Tommy Wilcox and Mike Taylor."

"Ooh, Wilcox is pretty good," Tillie said.

Fred narrowed his eyes at her; he didn't really like her admiring tone. She noticed and said with a smile, "Don't fret none, Freddie. You're the only ballplayer I'd care to be seen with, you know."

He sighed. Traded? Then he wondered if Tommy had gotten the news yet.

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Milwaukee, WI: the same day

Tom had heard about it all right. And though he was as stunned as his brother, he was also happy.

"Teams don't trade for a fellow unless they plan on using him, right?" he asked his now former battery mate, Claude Ramsey. Ramsey had actually been acquired by the Cougars just before the season from the Galveston club in the independent Lone Star Association.

Ramsey shrugged, "Sure. I suppose so. I mean, I'm sitting here with you, so the Cougars didn't get me and stick me right in as a replacement for your brother, now did they?"

Tom frowned. "That's true. But the Cougars really like Fred... or at least I thought they did." A keen look came into his eye. "Maybe they brought you in because they knew they were going to deal Freddie... and maybe me too, I suppose."

Tom had gotten three measly starts with the Cougars before getting sent back to Milwaukee. He was angry about it - he was as sure as he could be: he was ready for FABL.

"The Kings... who's in their rotation?" he asked Ramsey.

"What are ya asking me for?" the catcher replied. "I've never been up. Ask Jimmy - he follows the whole Continental. You know, since he's convinced he's going to be the next coming of Max Morris." Ramsey nodded towards the corner stall in the clubhouse where first baseman Jim Fisher was picking at his toenails.

Tommy frowned. Not only was Fisher full of himself... but now he's picking at his toenails in the clubhouse?

"Hey Fish," he called out. "Who's in the rotation right now in Brooklyn?"

Fisher stopped and looked up. His face creased in thought for a moment. "Uh... Wilcox, Fritz, Jacob and... Weigel? Or maybe Bretz. I don't know that they have a solid backend." He got a sly look on his face and added, "Maybe that's why they traded for you... you're all backend, Barrell."

Tom picked up a towel and threw it at Fisher. "You better hope you don't get called up, Fish. I'll give you a closer shave than your barber if you do."

"Pssh. You better break in with them first, Barrell. Just 'cause they traded for you doesn't mean you're going to be in Brooklyn. I hear Rochester is pretty nice in the summer," Fisher said and laughed. Then he went back to picking at his toenails.

"That guy...." Tom muttered. Then his face brightened. "Guess I better pack up!" he told Ramsey, clapping him on the shoulder. "I can't wait to get to Brooklyn!"

As he started throwing his things into his bag, he heard Fisher say in a mock PA voice, "Now pitching for the Rooks... Back end Tommy Barrell...."

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July 31, 1932: Reading, PA:

"Barrell! Get your tail in here!"

Harry Barrell was sitting in front of his stall, trying to figure out a way to give first baseman Gene Hand a hotfoot, when he heard the manager shouting his name.

"Better luck next time, Barrell," Hand said as he Harry passed him on his way to the manager's office. Hand was a big, lumbering - and dim-witted - oaf. So how did he keep avoiding Harry's patented hotfoot? Three times Harry had tried - and all three times, Hand plucked the match before it could be struck.

Manager Joe Alexander was sitting behind his desk, chewing something. Harry never really saw him put anything in his mouth, but it seemed like the manager was always chewing. Maybe it was a nervous tic?

"Barrell, you with us?" Alexander asked. He looked annoyed.

"Focus Harry," Harry told himself. That aborted hotfoot was really putting him off his game today.

"Sure, skipper. What's going on?"

"Well, I would tell you to leave off with Hand. That boy is big and stupid, but he's also got a bit of a mean streak. Eventually he might break your bony butt in half if you don't stop trying to set his spikes on fire," Alexander began.

Harry opened his mouth to reply but the manager raised his hand. "No. Stop right there. You don't need to give me any excuses or explanations. It's not a problem anymore."

Harry was taken aback. "Really? I thought you didn't care for that type of thing."

"I don't." Alexander had a small grin on his face. Harry tried to remember if he'd ever seen the skipper smiling. He didn't think he had.

"Why not?" he asked.

"Because you're out of here," Alexander said.

Harry's eyes widened in shock. "You're releasing me?" he gasped. "Isn't that a little drastic. I mean, it was just a hotfoot."

Alexander laughed. "No, no. Calm down. The Cleveland Foresters organization does not release the first overall pick because he's an immature prankster."

Harry breathed a sigh of relief, then he realized he still didn't know what was going on. "So... why am I out of here, then?" he asked.

"Because you've been traded, son."

"Traded?" Harry gasped.

Alexander laughed again. "Is that a Georgia thing? Gasping at everything like it's the world's biggest shock? Ballplayers do get traded Barrell."

Harry blushed. "I know that skipper."

"Good. If it is any consolation, you came at a pretty high price."

Harry thought about it for a moment. He realized he'd never actually get to be a Cleveland Forester. And then he realized that was a disappointment because he'd always assumed it was just a matter of time.

"So... who traded for me?" he asked. He hoped it was the Keystones. Getting to play with Bobby would be a dream come true. If not, then hopefully....

"Brooklyn," Alexander said. Harry smiled. That sounded just fine.

"Go see Bill," Alexander said - Bill being the clubhouse manager - "he's got a train ticket for you."

Harry was almost afraid to ask, but did it anyway, "Where to?"

"Omaha, Nebraska, son. Omaha, Nebraska."

Harry's grin faded. Still stuck in A-Ball.