[legendsport]

Two months later, Rufus was a professional ballplayer. Well, he admitted, the token amount he was paid barely covered his room at the boarding house, but he was being paid - so yes, he was a professional ballplayer. He certainly didn't have enough money to take Miss Reid out to the theater, which he dearly hoped to do... someday.

Back in May her father, Joe (that'd be Mr. Reid) had liked what he'd seen enough to give Rufus a spot on the club. He discovered that Mr. Reid had played professionally himself, with the highlight of his short career being a two-year stint with the Dixie League's Atlanta Crackers. "It was there that I discovered I liked Georgia a whole lot," he explained.

Joseph Reid (he used his full, formal name while playing, though most everyone who knew him called him Joe) himself had just four seasons in "organized" ball. Before (and for a bit after) that he had played with various touring clubs, including, for one summer, with the Cincinnati Monarchs while they were between spells in organized ball. He had opinions too: James Tice was "a genius" and William Whitney "a windbag" (rumor had it that Joe had failed in a tryout with the Chiefs and held a grudge). After trying his hand at coaching "back north" by which he meant the East Coast Association and not the Border or Century outfits, Reid had headed back south, daughter in tow and wife left behind. "She hates the South," he explained, offering the additional tidbit that she found it too hot and too boring. "She puts on airs," he said and wanted to remain in Philadelphia, their erstwhile hometown.

It was in Philadelphia that Peaches had been born. "Peaches" was what Joe called her - her actual name was Alice. As for the young lady herself, she allowed her father to call her Peaches, but Rufus was told in no uncertain terms to refer to her as "Miss Reid" though he hoped to eventually call her Alice. She was nearly 18 years old, and thus a bit more than a full year older than Rufus himself, which when coupled with the fact that she had traveled all over the country as a child, made her monumentally more worldly than Rufus. "You're a rube," she told him flatly. That one hurt, but it didn't dampen his growing affection for Joe's standoffish, spoiled and utterly captivating offspring.

Reid seemed to like Rufus. For one thing, Rufus hadn't been bragging - he really was a decent player. He could pitch, he could hit and he wasn't half-bad in the field either. Reid opined that Rufus was "a solid bushleaguer." Rufus just shook his head - the Reids, both Joe and Peaches, certainly didn't seem to mind hurting a fellow's feelings.

Rufus had been with the Sycamores since his impromptu appearance in May and as Savannah baked under the mid-July Georgia sun, he had become the team's best pitcher... or at least the fastest. Joe - a former catcher - reminded him constantly to back off his power just a bit and he'd "find some control." Then he added, "before you kill someone."

So Rufus worked at it - and going not-quite-full-bore did seem to allow him to control his location a bit better. In one June contest with Greenville he hit three batters - in one inning. Joe, cursing a blue streak, pulled him from the game immediately. As he walked to the dugout red-faced he saw Peaches grinning at him from the stands.

Over the next few games, reminding himself to back it off a bit, he actually pitched well and the Sycamores began, as the local newsman put it, "to make their fans less Syc, instead wanting a-more." No one said the guy was a great writer.

By August, Rufus was pitching every third game and playing right field the others. His strong arm was a weapon in the outfield and the other Coastal clubs quickly learned not to challenge him on the bases. At the plate he was respectable too, and his name started appearing in print fairly regularly.

On August 20, the Charleston Maroons came to Sycamore Park for the first of a three-game set. Rufus was set to pitch and was playing long toss in the outfield when Joe called from the edge of the outfield grass, "Barrell! Get your tail over here!"

Rufus trotted over and found Reid scowling at him, cigar drooping dramatically from the corner of his mouth. "You remember what I said about backing off the speed, right?"

Rufus nodded - they'd been over that particular nugget many times. "Sure," he said. "I've been doing just that for the last month now."

Reid returned the nod. "Good, good," he murmured. And then he leaned forward and whispered, "You see that fellow there behind the backstop?"

Rufus craned his neck. There was a well-dressed man standing in the first row, almost directly behind home plate. "Yes, I see him. Who is he?"

One corner - the one without the stogie sticking out of it - curled up in a half-grin as Reid said, "That's Sam George - used to play. Spent time in both the Century and Border outfits. Now he's working for his hometown team."

Despite the butterflies he now felt, Rufus forced himself to calmly ask, "And what's his hometown?"

Reid took the cigar out of mouth. "That'd be Brooklyn," he said with a slight grin. Then he added while shaking his head slowly as if in disbelief, "Sam George is the top scout for the Brooklyn Kings. He's here to see you, the damn fool."