February 20, 1946: Brooklyn, NY:
Tom Barrell had never felt this nervous, not even when pitching in Game Seven of the World Championship Series. In fact, he wasn't even sure if he wanted to be there. This interview was the result of listening to his brothers, and now he found himself uncertain about the job and the man he would potentially work for, Daniel Prescott, the owner of the Brooklyn Kings.
As Tom waited in the outer office, observing Prescott's secretary giving herself a manicure while wondering why she didn't have more important tasks to attend to, he realized his deep affection for the team and the borough of Brooklyn. It was part of New York City, yet it had its own distinct identity.
The intercom on the secretary's desk buzzed, and she reluctantly set aside her emery board to answer the call. "Send him in," Prescott's voice came through the slightly tinny speaker. Tom stood up before the secretary could say anything, causing her to pick up her emery board and resume her previous activity. Tom smirked a little and entered Prescott's office.
"Tom, thank you for coming on such short notice," Prescott said from behind his desk, not bothering to rise or offer a smile. Tom expected as much—his departure from the Kings hadn't been on good terms. He hadn't wanted to be traded to Pittsburgh, a move supposedly influenced by Prescott against the objections of Powell Slocum, his former manager and close friend.
Tom took a seat, crossed his legs, and brushed away imaginary lint from his pants. He took a deep breath and met Prescott's gaze.
"As you know, Powell Slocum retired from managing. He specifically requested you as his replacement, and since the new general manager had no objections, I was inclined to follow Slocum's recommendation," Prescott explained. He went on to mention that the new GM, who had recently been hired and was in the process of moving from Detroit, would join the team in Florida the following week. Tom nodded, knowing the new GM by reputation and anticipating a smooth working relationship.
"To be honest, Mr. Prescott," Tom began, "I have reservations about accepting the job. It's not that I don't want it, but I've never seriously considered becoming a manager."
Prescott frowned. "I'm not sure how many ballplayers do think about it," he said, adding, "At least not until they've retired."
Tom agreed and explained further, "My brothers, several of them, along with my father, all encouraged me to take the job."
"Which brothers?" Prescott asked with genuine interest, as he was familiar with most of the Barrells, many of whom had played for him.
"Well, Dan, for starters. Then I also heard from Fred, and of course, Harry. Even Rollie and Jack thought I should do it. My father... well, it was as if he was taking the job himself."
Prescott laughed. "Your father is a true baseball man. He's probably made of rawhide himself."
Tom chuckled. "That's true. It drives my mother crazy. She's been urging him to retire for good for about fifteen years."
Prescott's tone softened as he added, "Your father is a good man, Tom. He's the main reason I offered you the job." This revelation surprised Tom, and he expressed his surprise.
"Well, we spoke at the owners' meetings in December. I mentioned that I would need a new skipper, and he suggested you and your brother Fred," Prescott explained. He paused, opened a cigar box on his desk, and retrieved a cigar. Holding it up, he asked, "Cuban?" Tom shook his head, as he had never developed a taste for cigars.
Prescott continued speaking while he clipped and lit his cigar. "To be frank, I wanted to hire Fred. I've always believed that ex-catchers make the best managers," he said, explaining that their unique position on the field and involvement in every pitch granted them insights that other players lacked.
"So why didn't you ask him?" Tom inquired, feeling a tad miffed at being the second choice.
Prescott grunted and replied, "I couldn't locate him. Apparently, he was still in Germany when I began the search. By then, I had expanded my options, but I kept coming back to you."
"Why me?"
"The more I thought about it, the more I believed you had the right mentality for the job. The club has faced challenging times, as you know. With our new GM, who is a shrewd dealmaker, I expect the talent level to rise."
Tom nodded, sharing the same sentiment. Prescott continued, "Now, Fred is a cerebral guy, very intelligent, but he lacks that edge. You," he pointed his cigar at Tom, "are all about that edge. At least you were. I've heard you've mellowed a bit." He smirked as he took a puff before continuing, "I need that edge. I need the man who gave me hell for trading him away from here. I know you love this town and this team. You're what I need, and you're what the Kings need."
Tom felt moved by Prescott's words. He still possessed the competitive fire, and any mellowing had occurred because he recognized that his edge, as Prescott called it, would only lead to frustration given his declining arm.
There was a brief silence in the office as Prescott puffed on his cigar and Tom pondered. He had discussed the opportunity with Marla, and she had encouraged him to follow his instincts.
He made his decision: "I'll do it."
Prescott smiled. "Good." He pointed his cigar again. "We need to work out the details. Let me get our elusive general manager on the phone, and we can start negotiating the terms."
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Daniel Prescott in his office, 1946
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