[legendsport]

March 13, 1942: West Palm Beach, FL:

"Bobby! Bobby!"

Bobby Barrell, his back turned, looked at team mate Marshall Strickland and rolled his eyes. The players were on one side of the fence, and the shouting newspapermen were - for now - on the other side.

Bobby turned around. "Well if it isn't the gentlemen of the fourth estate," he said. He liked to keep them on their toes and sounding like anything but an idiot athlete was sure to do it. He took great satisfaction in seeing one of the writers blink several times in confusion.

One was quicker to recover than others. "Bobby, word is that you failed your Army physical. Care to comment?" This gem came from Tom Brennan who wrote for the same paper as Johnny Bologna, but wasn't anywhere near as accomplished. Unfortunately, Bologna was visiting the Sailors camp this week.

"There's not much to say, Tom," Bobby said. He pushed his cap back a bit on his head. Annette told him it made him look like a bumpkin, so he did it to keep the state of confusion high with these fellows. Among the writers, only Bologna really got any respect from the Keystone players. He waited a beat, savoring all of the writers hanging on his next word before putting them out of their misery. "You fellows all know the story. A crazy woman shot me in the arm. That wound is the reason the Army disqualified me from service."

"So you're able to play baseball at the highest possible level, but not able to hold and fire a rifle is that it, Bob?" the writer who said this was a new one. Bobby had no idea who he was.

"Different skill set my friend," Bobby said, reining in his temper. Still he knew his voice sounded cold. Who did this joker think he was?

"Oh, hell's bells... what are you doing here Junior," a new voice said.

Bobby recognized that Mississippi twang and turned around. Doug Lightbody, veteran star and 1927 Whitney Award winner, leaned an arm against the fence. "They finally let you out of your gilded cage?" he asked, nodding at the young writer.

The youngster was now wearing a hangdog look. Bobby cocked an eyebrow at Lightbody.

"Aw, shucks, Bob. This here fellow is John Brinker, Jr. Thinks he's going to be a big time 'feature' writer like his daddy," Lightbody said and expertly spat tobacco juice between his own feet. "He was just cutting his teeth back in '39 when I was with the Kings and they let him cover us on occasion. Hoping the experience would help dry out some of the moisture behind his ears."

Bobby smirked. They called Lightbody the Mississippi Mouth and he could go to legendary lengths of oratorical tomfoolery when he had a mind to do it. He was apparently just warming up. "I done told you back in Brooklyn that you have to treat us ballplayers with respect. We are not animals in a zoo. This here is a one hand washes the other situation, you hear?"

Brinker Jr. nodded, still looking like someone had poked him in the eye.

"See now that question, or statement, you just made to Bobby here... that might be construed as being combative. And when I say combative, I mean irritating. I reckon the same type of questions could be pointed at you," Lightbody said and spit again.

"Because, you see, you're of a military age yourself and here you are in the Florida sun asking stupid questions instead of toting a rifle for your good ol' Uncle Sam. Now I think that's just about a cryin' shame."

Lightbody scowled at the young man. "How did your Army physical go?"

He turned to Bobby and a grinning Strickland and asked, "Wouldn't you fellows like to know?"

Strickland was nearly laughing but managed to nod. Bobby, also smiling, said, "Yes, of course."

Brinker Jr. muttered something about an eye condition while Lightbody smirked.

"Now then," Lightbody said and pointed at the young writer. "Do you have any other questions for Bobby? Or perhaps Mr. Strickland? Or I would even say you might strike up the courage to ask me a question or two."

Brinker Jr. appeared to be on the verge of simply running away but instead he visibily steadied himself and asked, "What do you think of your brother Fred announcing he'll be retiring at the end of the season."

Now that was a surprise to Bobby, who hadn't spoken with any of his brothers since reporting to Spring Training. "I wasn't aware that he'd said any such thing," Bobby said and as Brinker opened his mouth, quickly added, "But I support all my brothers 100%. Fred's entitled to step away whenever he's done with the game. I'm sure his family will enjoy having him around more."

Brinker Jr. frowned but wrote in his notebook before desultorily following up with a couple of questions each for both Strickland and Lightbody. His lesson well-delivered, Lightbody even gave what were - for him - relatively terse answers.

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Same day, Vero Beach, FL:

Tom Barrell was not a happy camper. It briefly flashed through his mind that "camper" was an apt description - this being a training camp of sorts.

This was his second spring training with the Pittsburgh Miners after nine of them with the Kings. The guys on the team were fine, but he missed having Harry and Fred around. But that wasn't what had him in a sour mood. What did was finding out that he was going to be working out of the bullpen this season.

The Miners manager, Dan Andrew, was a man Tom respected a great deal. He was a no-nonsense guy, a former first sacker who had never made it to FABL as a player yet had held down coaching and managing jobs for nearly thirty years. But Tom flat-out did not like being sent to the bullpen.

The way Tom saw it, the bullpen was for pitchers who couldn't cut it as a starter. And Tom Barrell, despite a couple of bad seasons, believed he still had it. He didn't believe in making excuses, but still knew that he hadn't been entirely "right" since his right leg - the one he relied on for pushing off the rubber when pitching - had seized up on him back in 1937. The docs said it was his hamstring. All Tom knew was that it kept him out for over two months. And his pitches just didn't have the same sizzle afterwards.

"I can still be an effective starter, Skip," he told Andrew when the older man called him into the cubbyhole that passed for the manager's office at the Miners spring camp.

Andrew sighed and said, "Look Tom, no one is ever going to question your heart. But we have a pennant to chase here and I don't feel like your body can deliver on what your heart's asking it to."

Tom scowled but said nothing.

"I know this is tough," Andrew continued. "Hank thinks you're still favoring the right leg," he said, meaning Hank Lucas, the pitching coach. Lucas had garnered more than his share of praise - in Tom's opinion - because of just how damn good Lefty Allen had been. Tom ruefully thought back to the days when he'd made the Kings' pitching coaches look good.

"Maybe I should have been a hitter after all," Tom said.

Andrew raised an eyebrow. "A hitter? For a pitcher you're good with the bat, Tom, but..." he said.

"Aww, but nothing, Skip. Back on the farm I was every bit the hitter that Bobby was, and look at him now. I just decided I'd rather make up for my father missing out on his career and so I concentrated on being a pitcher," Tom said.

As Andrew sat quietly, Tom frowned as it dawned on him that he'd never vocalized his reasoning for choosing pitching over hitting as a boy. Because the truth was he HAD been as good a hitter as any of the Barrell boys.

"Was that really the reason?" Andrew asked quietly. "I'm no head-shrinker, Tom, but if I was, I'd say you might need to reconcile whether you're living for yourself, or for your Dad."

"Huh," Tom said quietly. He did need to think about that. Was all of it - his choosing pitching, his devotion to it to the exclusion of everything else (including finding a wife like all his brothers had)... was it all because he felt like he had to do it for Rufus?

"Even Harry up and got married," Tom muttered to himself. Andrew smirked a little. Tom's reputation as a "love 'em and leave 'em" kind of guy was well known now in both the Continental AND Federal Associations.

He ruminated on it a bit more. Of all his brothers, he was the only one who had landed on pitching - their father's vocation. Heck, Joe & Rollie didn't play baseball, Jack only did it because he could play any sport well and it wasn't until Dan hurt his knee that he really made baseball his focus. Fred... well, Fred & Tom had paired off, Fred catching because Tom pitched. As for Bobby & Harry... those guys were born hitters though both certainly had the arm strength to pitch.

"Get out of here, Barrell," Andrew said after silently watching Tom for a moment. "You can work on your head while you're out in the bullpen," he said, then softened a bit and added, "I don't mean that the way it sounds, but I have a ballclub here that I think can win the pennant and I'm not going to jeopardize that for your emotional well-being." He blew out a deep breath and added, "No offense."

Tom gave a sad smile. "None taken, Skip," he said and walked out the door.

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