July 13, 1946: Knoxville, TN:
James Slocum stepped out of the clubhouse door of Knoxville Baseball Park, taking a moment to appreciate the rather (un)original name before reflecting on how far he had come since his visit to his grandparents in DC back in October. Yet, despite his journey, he felt that very little of it actually constituted progress for him.
His blonde hair was still damp from the shower he had taken, although he hadn't really needed it since he had spent the entire game on the bench—a common occurrence lately, despite his .297 batting average. Unsurprisingly, he found no fans waiting outside since the Knights, despite being a fairly decent club, never managed to fill their cracker box ballpark beyond half capacity. Knowing he wouldn't be able to find a cab, James started walking towards his apartment.
He had a lot on his mind. He had ultimately decided to turn down General Arnold's offer to join Project RAND. However, since then, he had constantly questioned whether it had been the right decision. His grandfather's persuasion to return to baseball had heavily influenced his choice to go back to the Kings. The fact that they had placed him in AA instead of even AAA made him doubt that decision as well. Opting for baseball meant turning down Bill Melton's offer too. Commercial piloting was no longer an option for James, at least not for now. Melton had assured him that his "door was always open."
As for the other option he had been contemplating, it weighed on him the most. Perhaps it was because Rose Winfield had been the one to propose it. With the war over, Rose had been forced out of Boeing (she referred to it as "chauvinism," and James couldn't argue—she was incredibly brilliant when it came to engines). She had returned to her family business: automobile racing. Rose had suggested that James might make a good driver. While he had flown bombers instead of fighters, she knew from James that this was his choice—he could have flown Mustangs or Corsairs if he had wished. Plus, he was Jimmy Barrell's son, and Rose's father had often claimed that Jimmy had been the best natural driver he had ever seen.
Rose... James couldn't get her out of his head, not that he wanted to. However, it was a puzzle for him. He believed he might love her, but he was uncertain about her feelings towards him. Sometimes she treated him like a friend, or worse, like a brother. He wanted to ask her to marry him, but he felt that it might be rushing several steps in their relationship. So when she suggested that he consider becoming a racer, he knew he couldn't dismiss it without serious consideration. He was aware that his mother would absolutely detest the idea, given that racing had taken Jimmy's life, and his grandparents would likely disapprove as well.
That left one person to whom James had always turned in the past for advice: his uncle Tom.
Tom now served as the skipper of the Brooklyn Kings. James fervently wished he could make it to FABL just to play for him. Tom was straightforward, there was no doubt about it. But if he could be tough, he was also fair, and James respected that. It was what had drawn him to work for Hap Arnold—no-nonsense, straightforwardness, and getting the job done. Tom Barrell was the same.
"Racing?" Tom had asked, not attempting to hide his surprise and dismissive tone regarding the idea. "You know it killed your father, right?"
"Yes," James had replied. They had this conversation over the phone two weeks ago when James had been feeling down as his playing time diminished in Knoxville. With baseball rapidly becoming a dead-end, he had decided to sound out Tom about a career change.
"And? You think it can't happen to you?" Tom pointedly inquired.
James hesitated for a moment before responding, "No, of course not. But I flew nearly ninety combat missions over Germany and Japan, and death was always beside me. I'm not afraid."
Tom emitted a low chuckle that sounded more like a growl. "How noble of you. But you're neglecting to consider the people who love you. Your poor mother, for one," he stated.
James knew Tom was about to go down that road. "I'm 26, Tom, and as I just mentioned, I'm a combat veteran. I need to stop worrying about how my mom will react to what I do," he replied, sounding more resolute in that sentiment than he truly felt.
Tom sighed. "Fair enough. It's your life, and I can certainly relate to marching to the beat of your own drum." This was true—Tom had a bit of a rebellious streak, just like Jimmy Barrell, albeit in a completely different way.
Ultimately, Tom assured him that he would support James in whatever he chose to do, and if necessary, he would speak with Claudia, James' mother, about her wayward son now that he was back in Brooklyn.
"I wouldn't read too much into your playing time either," Tom had advised. "We're flooded with young outfielders. The new GM is still trying to figure out who fits and who doesn't. Just hang in there, kid."
James didn't find it as simple as Tom made it sound, but he promised to give it a try.
By the time James had replayed that entire conversation in his head, he had reached his apartment. It wasn't much, just a kitchen, living room, bedroom, and a bathroom, but he didn't need much space.
As he unlocked the door, he discovered Rose Winfield sitting in his living room.
"Hi, Rosie," he greeted her with a smile. She had appeared on his doorstep that morning, declining his invitation to attend the ballgame. She had come for an entirely different reason. The Dixie League, of which the Knights were a part, had a three-day break. Ostensibly, this was for their so-called "All-Star Showcase," which wasn't a game but more of a festival, and unsurprisingly, James hadn't been invited.
"Come with me to North Carolina," Rosie had proposed. James, having nothing better to do, agreed.
"We're going to meet some old moonshiners," she had cryptically mentioned when James asked what awaited them in North Carolina.
"Moonshiners, you mean bootleggers, like during Prohibition?" James had asked.
"Yes, those boys are some of the best drivers you could ever hope to meet," she explained. "And they've modified their cars for speed and handling. My father believes this could be a great foundation for a racing circuit."
"Bootleggers as the basis for a racing circuit?" James shook his head, but as Rose elaborated on Jack Winfield's idea, he couldn't shake the feeling that it just might work.
"Well, I suppose I'd love to go to North Carolina with you, Rosie," he said. And so, they did.
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James Slocum & Rose Winfield, North Carolina, 1946
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