[legendsport]

George Blankenship had connected solidly with Rufus' second fastball, zipping it straight back at him with ferocious velocity, where it hit him on the forehead as he was in his follow through, too fast for him to react. Of the impact, he had no memory (and never would) - in fact, he didn't remember the game at all for nearly a week and even when he did remember the last thing he recalled was thinking that he'd take a bit off as he delivered the fateful pitch.

Rufus had fallen as if shot, lying immobile on the mound while the crowd fell into a hush, save for a lone woman screaming from the first base stands (that turned out to be Alice Barrell). Blankenship quietly retrieved Rufus' cap from where it had landed halfway between the mound and second base.

Rufus had been carted off the field and delivered via ambulance to Kings County Hospital where an examination revealed a skull fracture. The doctor, Stanford Miles, had performed a trephination - in other words, he had cut a hole in Rufus' skull to relieve the swelling of his brain. Though no one said so at the time out of concern for his mental state, Rufus Barrell's career as a baseball player was over.

A slew of telegrams came to the hospital during Rufus' extended stay - including one from William Whitney, whose team had indeed offered Rufus a contract which had arrived less than an hour after he had sent a signed contract back to the Bigsby club. Joe Reid also showed up - he had left the Sycamores in the hands of Rollie Daniels as acting manager: "I half expect him to have renamed the team the Possums or something," Joe said with a grin. He added, "Rollie did say, and I hope you understand this, because I sure as hell don't, quote: 'Getting hit in the head like that is a thumpin gizzard.'" Joe shrugged, "I think maybe it just means bad luck. I wish Rollie spoke English, sometimes."

To his credit, Malcolm Presley, the Kings owner was a man of good morality possessing a kind heart. He would not abandon young Mr. Barrell whose playing career was over before his 19th birthday. Presley, on the advice of Jack Pinkerton, informed Mrs. Barrell (during a visit to the hospital) that Rufus would have a job with the Kings for as long as he wanted one. Pinkerton had suggested a scouting role - Presley, a businessman smart enough to not interfere in the baseball operations of his ballclub, agreed. Mrs. Barrell, bleary-eyed and unkempt from days spent at her husband's bedside, thanked him.

So it was that as the 19th century gave way to the 20th, Rufus Barrell was a 27-year-old "birddog" working for the Kings County Baseball Club, scouting hopeful young ballplayers - just as he himself had been just a decade earlier.

"Happy New Year, darling," Alice said as she kissed Rufus as the grandfather clock, an anniversary gift from Mr. Presley, rang in the year 1900.

"Brand new century, I suppose," he said, adding, "I heard someone at the office saying that 1900 is actually the last year of the 19th century, since if you count 1 to 100, this would be the 100. There was quite a bit of back-and-forth on that one. I lean towards this being the first year of the 20th century, myself."

Alice shook her head. "I swear you fellows just have nothing to do in the offseason but talk about nonsense."

Rufus chuckled and said, "Well, if I were a player, I'd have an offseason job. I'm thankful that the Kings, at least, keep paying me in the winter, even when I have very little to do."

Alice harrumphed. "You could be here more, helping with the children, you know."

Rufus loved his kids, but he wasn't sure he could handle spending as much time with them as Alice did. There were three little Barrells - all boys. Joe (named for his grandfather) was the oldest, at six years old, and quite a little hellion. Roland (or Rollie) was four, and fittingly for a boy named after Rufus' friend, was a bit of a prankster. Their youngest (for now) was named John (for Rufus' father), who had just turned two and his personality hadn't manifested itself just yet. Alice was pregnant with a fourth child, one they were both hoping would turn out to be a girl. The baby was due in March, just before Rufus would have to head out on the road to start his spring scouting swing through the south.

"You two need to keep it down or you'll wake the youngsters," came a new voice. Alice's mother, Vera, had moved in with them several years back to help with the children. Alice noted wryly at the time, that "the real reason is that she was bored with Philadelphia parties and hopes the ones in Brooklyn are better." Regardless of the reason for her arrival, both Rufus and Alice were glad for the help and Rufus doubly glad for the company she provided Alice during his long absences.

Rufus smiled at his mother-in-law and said, "It is about time to go to bed. I get a headache if I stay up too late." In reality, Rufus had frequent headaches, a near-constant reminder of the line-drive that had ended his career before it had begun.

"Before you go, I would like to remind you to have a word with Joseph," Vera said. Rufus rolled his eyes - this was becoming a familiar topic. Joseph (or Little Joe, as Rufus called him), was a bit of a rough-and-tumble type. "He's like his namesake, quick with his fists," said Vera. Alice, for her part, was sanguine about it: "No one will take advantage of him at least," she pointed out to which her mother had said, "Fighting causes more problems than it solves."

Rufus promised to talk to Little Joe the next day and went for bed. And though he did talk with Joe about not fighting, it didn't really take.

By the time Rufus was packing for his trip in late-March, Alice was very pregnant and very irritable. Vera groused, "Thanks for leaving me alone with that hellcat." To which Rufus' reply was, "Well, she's your daughter." Vera shook her head and blamed it on Joe Reid as she walked away.

Rufus would be seeing Joe while on his trip. Joe Reid's Savannah endeavor had gone belly-up along with the rest of the Coastal Association back in the recession of the mid-90s. Still, he had proven himself capable of running a ballclub and had been hired to as General Manager of the Atlanta Peaches. Which was a sort of homecoming since he had played there and enjoyed it so much he called his only child "Peaches" (and which only he was allowed to call her, lest her formidable temper be put on display).

He'd also make time to stop and visit his parents at the farm outside Egypt. Robert was now 24 and doing the bulk of the work on the family farm. He was unmarried, which worried their mother and Rufus had steeled himself for a barrage of "can't you find a wife for Robert" questions from her.

And finally, and what he most looked forward to, was seeing Rollie Daniels. Rollie was still playing ball, though he now was with an independent club in Huntsville, Alabama. Rufus couldn't wait to hear some of Rollie's homespun homilies.

The trip went very well - Rufus watched the Peaches for an entire weeklong homestand, writing up reports on some of the Dixie League's top talent to send back to Brooklyn. His visit home went by the numbers - Robert was quiet, his father was restive and his mother wanted him to play matchmaker.

Which brought him to Huntsville in late April. Rollie Daniels was happy to see him and slapped him on the back just like he had in the good old days. "Son, it is good to see you!" He even introduced him to his players - Rollie had been named manager of the Huntsville Colts - as "the finest pitcher I ever caught, and never got too big for his britches... you hear me, Robertson?" And he pointed at one of his players, a tow-headed kid of about 16 who grimaced and nodded.

After watching the Colts lose both ends of a doubleheader, Rufus was sitting with Rollie in "his office" which was just a corner of the locker room with a ramshackle table and a couple of chairs.

"Son, I am going to let you in on something, or rather, someone..." Rollie said. He had a cigar hanging out of his mouth, something he had picked up from Joe Reid, apparently.

"Uh-huh, what's that?" Rufus said, not trying to hide the skepticism.

"I wouldn't pee down your back and tell you it's rainin' son, this here's the real McCoy," he said and managed to look serious while doing it.

"OK, so what is it?"

"You need to head down to a town called Ragland. It's south of here, east of Birmingham," Rollie said.

"And..."

"And nothin - just go watch their town team. You'll know it when you see it."

So Rufus did go to the town of Ragland, Alabama. And there he saw the future of baseball. Too bad the future was only 13 years old...

His name was Powell Slocum and he was about the best hitter for a kid that Rufus had ever seen. Long and thin, he was a scrawny thing, but he could swing the bat and was fast too. Rufus had to hand it to Rollie - this kid was quite a find. But at 13... too young for Rufus to do anything about. He'd have to file it away and come back in a few years.