[legendsport]

NOTE: It's been a while as I've been focusing on getting the Figment leagues rolling again as online leagues. Baseball has finally relaunched, but we're now a few years behind the times on the Barrells' story. We're moving into 1972 below and it'll take a few posts to get through each year as we try to catch up to the online league (now in the preseason of 1975).

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CHAPTER NINE (1972): “FAULT LINES”

SEGMENT I - PROLOGUE: THE YEAR EVERYTHING SHIFTED

No one in the Barrell family would remember 1972 as a year of explosions.
There were no great scandals (only minor ones), no sudden tragedies, and no seismic upheavals.

Instead, the ground simply… shifted.

The Vietnam War was winding down, but its shadow wasn’t.
Watergate was but a whisper on the evening news.
Gas prices crept upward.
College kids abandoned protest marches for bell-bottoms and platform shoes.

Television devoured America.
Sports grew louder, richer, more mythic.
Heroes became brands.
Brands became heroes.

And quietly, beneath the surface, fault lines formed under many members of the large and far-flung Barrell clan.

Some would widen.
Some would heal.
Some would threaten to swallow careers or illusions whole.

But in January of 1972, no one saw disaster coming.
They felt only a tremor.

A tremor named change.

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SEGMENT II: BASEBALL - THE GREAT DIVIDE

ACE BARRELL: THE INHERITED BURDEN

Cincinnati in spring smelled like river mud, stale beer, and expectation.

Ace Barrell had arrived for his first year at the Cannons' camp first in every way - first in the clubhouse, first on the mound, first to absorb the ribbing that came with being a Barrell pitching prospect. He let it slide. He knew who he was supposed to be.

Fans expected a new dynasty arm. "Deuce's boy!" they shouted gleefully, memories of the beloved southpaw Hall-of-Famer buring burning brightly.
Reporters expected brilliance.
Ace expected perfection.

Instead, he got a brutal education.

A blistered April. A bruised May. A meltdown start in June that ended with a cracked clubhouse mirror. And then came the reporter who asked the question that felt like a punch:

“Are you maybe… not your father?”

Ace stared him silent.

By September he stabilized, finally pitching like someone who belonged, but not like a legend in waiting.

And for the first time in his life, he understood:
Greatness isn’t inherited. It’s carved.

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RALPH BARRELL: THE FALL FROM THE HIGH CHAIR

Los Angeles did not tolerate slumps.
It barely tolerated weather.

Ralph Barrell, coming off a monster 1971, arrived in ’72 shredded from offseason work with his brother Junior. Reporters praised the “New Ralph.”

Then the season happened.

His bat slowed. His timing deserted him. Every at-bat felt like he was fighting shadows. And then came the distraction with a name:

Marla Kensington, aspiring actress, professional spotlight-seeker, and suddenly Ralph’s constant public companion.

Whispers began:
“Has Ralph gone Hollywood?”

His father Bobby sent a terse telegram:
“Focus, son.”

His manager Clyde McCullough - part of the family too - gave him an uncomfortable lecture:
"The wrong type of woman can poison a ballplayer."

But Ralph felt himself drifting.
And for the first time, he feared that the spotlight he grew up in might be brighter than the one he chose.

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DON BARRELL: A ROOKIE SUMMER

St. Cloud, Minnesota: where the mosquitos could carry off small dogs and the Rookie-ball stadium felt like someone’s oversized backyard.

Don Barrell pitched anyway.

Some nights he struck out ten.
Other nights he walked half the county.
Once he gave up three home runs so quickly he joked they left the yard in formation.

He called Tom Barrell every Sunday.
Tom was no nonsense when it came to pitching and always ended with the same line:

“You’re not there to dominate. You’re there to learn.”

Don had the Hall-of-Fame ghost of his very much living father to chase. He wanted domination.
What he got was a crash course in humility and survival.

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BILLY MCCULLOUGH: THE HOME RUN SHOGUN

Japan fit Billy McCullough better than America ever did. Japan appreciated him.

In Nagoya he wasn’t just a player- he was Billy-san, beloved slugger of the Hosho Reliables and part of a power trio with Hank Dunham and Japanese star Yukio Watanabe.

He mashed 33 home runs.
He bowed to umpires.
He signed autographs until his wrist ached.
He lost the Japan Series and cried in the dugout.

Ace wrote him letters about pressure.
Billy wrote back about joy.

Two Barrells, same blood, different worlds.

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REID BARRELL: THE QUIET TRUCE

Montreal baseball was never boring, not with Harry Barrell in the dugout. In 1972, though, Reid noticed something strange - something he hadn’t seen in years.

His father was… joking again.

Not the forced, brittle humor Harry used when he was covering up resentment or pain. This was older, lighter stuff - the mischief Reid remembered hearing about from childhood stories. The prankster who once smeared fudge on Al Wheeler’s home run ball. The chirper who lived to get under an opponent’s skin. The little brother who delighted in poking Tom Barrell on pitching days just to watch him curse.

It wasn’t constant.
It wasn’t even frequent.
But it was real.

And when those flashes of the old Harry appeared, the clubhouse loosened. Pitchers relaxed. Position players laughed. Even the front office seemed to breathe easier.

Reid didn’t say anything about it - they weren’t there yet - but he felt the shift. He could see the steadying influence of Roger Cleaves, could see how the ex-Marine pulled Harry back from the edge when storms gathered behind his eyes.

Reid hit .279 with 20 home runs, played a steady third base, and served as a quiet ballast for a team riding emotional waves. And while the tension between father and son still sat heavily in the background, something unspoken had begun to thaw.

When Harry had been accused of adultery by Reid's mother - a charge Harry to this day denied - the boy he was didn't know what to think. But unlike his mother and sister Barbara, Reid hadn't cut Harry out of his life completely. And then he'd ended up playing for his father. And the doubts had remained.

When Harry won Manager of the Year, Reid smiled.
Not forgiveness.
Not reconciliation.
But a first crack in the wall - the tiniest doorway into whatever might come next.

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DWAYNE & DICK CLEAVES: BROTHERS IN LIMBO

Dwayne spent the entire year at AAA Richmond, the no-man’s-land of pro ball. Too good for AA, not quite breaking the door down in Washington.

He called Roger frustrated.
Roger always said:

“Be undeniable.”

Dwayne hung up the phone every time half-inspired, half-furious.

Dick spent ’72 bouncing between Rookie and A-ball, surviving bad bus rides, worse cafeterias, and the emotional freefall that catches often endure.

Then came June.
Blocking clicked.
Game-calling clicked.
Confidence clicked.

Roger told him, “Catchers grow slow. Good ones grow strong.”

For the first time, Dick believed him.

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HARRY BARRELL & ROGER CLEAVES: LAUGHTER, SCARS, AND THE ODD COUPLE OF MONTREAL

Harry Barrell wasn’t supposed to win in 1972. Not with his history, not with his volatility, not with the baggage he carried like a second uniform. But Harry was never predictable.

Once upon a time, he’d been the Barrell family jokester - slipping hot foot matches into cleats, smearing fudge on Al Wheeler’s “milestone” ball, chirping opponents until umpires prayed for rainouts. He even made a personal sport of annoying his older brother Tom on pitching days, a sacred rule he broke purely for entertainment.

That Harry still existed, buried under resentment, heartbreak, and age.
And in 1972, with the drinking now (mostly) gone, pieces of him began surfacing again.

A prank on a rookie.
A sarcastic dugout quip that drew real laughter.
A playful jab that made veterans shake their heads like they’d rediscovered a familiar ghost.

Through all of it, one man kept him balanced:

Roger Cleaves.

The ex-Marine walked the dugout like he expected an ambush at any moment, but he treated Harry’s chaos with a strange sort of patience. He didn’t smother Harry’s antics - he redirected them.

Everyone saw that Roger respected Harry, calling him "Unk" with an odd, quirky wrinkle at the corner of his mouth.

“If you’re gonna act like this,” Roger would mutter, “at least win the game, Unk.”

Players loved it.
They loved seeing Harry loosen.
They loved the way Roger stabilized him without smothering him.

By midsummer, rumor mills churned - clubs wanted Roger as their next manager. His stock was rising fast. Montreal reporters whispered that he was the “real” brains behind the Saints’ success. Everyone in FABL knew Harry Barrell was a souse.

Roger denied everything. Firmly.
But his posture told another story: the man was ready again. His dismissal by the Eagles had shaken him to his rocky core, and Harry's faith in him had gradually resurrected the fire of leadership within Roger.

After the Saints clinched the pennant, Harry bathed in champagne like he was washing away every failure of the last decade.
Roger didn’t.

He simply stood behind him, arms folded, watching with a mixture of pride… and distance.

Harry needed Roger.
Roger didn’t need Harry - not anymore. But loyalty - the Barrell creed - still mattered.

What no one realized yet was this:

Harry Barrell was slowly becoming himself again.
And Roger Cleaves was the only man alive who knew exactly how brilliant - and dangerous - that could be.