The Ballad of the Brothers Barrell - A Figment Story

[legendsport]

October 22, 1946: Brooklyn, NY:

"You know, I don't think I've ever been to one of these," James Slocum remarked.

His half-sister, Agnes, gave him a dubious look. "One of these what, little brother?" she asked.

James shook his head, feeling slightly irked. Despite being only seven and a half months younger than Agnes, she insisted on calling him little brother. "You have actual younger sisters, Aggie. Why don't you save that stuff for them?"

Agnes scoffed. "What makes you think I don't give them grief too?" she retorted before reminding James that he still hadn't answered her question.

"You know, here..." James gestured with his hands, taking in the surroundings. They were standing in the rotunda of Flatbush Gardens, home to both the Brooklyn Eagles hockey club and the Brooklyn Red Caps basketball club. They had come to watch the Eagles play.

"Flatbush Gardens?" Agnes asked incredulously. "You grew up in Brooklyn and never came here?"

James shook his head and replied, "Nope."

"Not for hockey or basketball?"

"Nope."

"Not even for the circus?"

"No," James said matter-of-factly. Then, with a hint of amusement, he added, "My mother doesn't like clowns."

Agnes laughed and shook her head. "My poor little brother... you really missed out."

"Well, not all of us had Jack Barrell, the famous hockey star and coach, raising us," James retorted playfully.

"True, and not all of us had the all-time hit king, Powell Slocum, raising us either."

This prompted James to laugh. "Touché," he conceded.

"Now you sound like my mother," Agnes quipped. "Come on, I think our seats are this way." She pointed in the direction and began leading the way.

Fifteen minutes later, James found himself enjoying a hot dog. He wasn't particularly fond of the lingering cigar smoke that filled the air, but he appreciated the cozy atmosphere of the hockey arena, a refreshing change from the baseball parks he had grown accustomed to.

"There he is!" Agnes exclaimed excitedly, drawing James' attention. She pointed at one of the Eagles' players as both teams skated around, warming up for the game.

James squinted to get a better look. "I don't like him," he stated bluntly.

Agnes turned to him, her mouth agape, and playfully swatted him on the shoulder. "What do you mean!?" she exclaimed, nearly shouting.

James, grinning mischievously, swallowed his bite of hot dog. "I knew it! You really like this guy!"

Agnes blushed, leaning back in her seat. "You're such a stinker, tricking me like that," she said, feigning annoyance. Then, sitting upright again, she admitted, "Well, you're right. I really like him."

The "him" in question was Quinton Pollack, the player who had recently joined the Eagles after leaving the Tacoma Lions. Agnes, who happened to have a brother living in Brooklyn during the baseball off-season, had followed Quinton to New York.

"I hope this Quinton is a good guy," James commented.

"He is," Agnes replied, her gaze fixed on Pollack as he skated past. Surprisingly, she hadn't called out to him, leaving James slightly perplexed. Perhaps his usually direct and somewhat loud sister was feeling too shy to draw this guy's attention after traveling across the country just to see him.

"You know, I met some Canadians when I was in England with the Air Force," James began, trying to engage Agnes in conversation.

"Mmm-hmm," Agnes murmured absentmindedly, clearly only half-listening.

"They were real monsters, you know. What with their having moose antlers on their heads," James continued, a smile tugging at his lips when she repeated her indifferent response.

"You're so smitten that you're not even listening," he remarked before playfully swatting her on the shoulder.

"Hey! I heard you! You didn't need to slap me," Agnes protested. Then, giving James a cool look, she changed the subject. "Have you told Claudia about Rosie yet?"

James' eyes widened. "No, not exactly," he confessed. "And you better not say anything, or I'll spill the beans to Marie about Mr. Hockey down there!"

Agnes laughed. "Oh, she already knows," she responded. "You have nothing to hold over me," she added, a proud gleam in her eyes.

Finishing the last bite of his hot dog, James stood up and looked at Agnes. "Oh, yeah?" he challenged, turning his gaze toward the ice. "Hey, Pollack! Over here!"

Agnes covered her face with her hands as James laughed and Pollack turned in their direction. "My sister wants to say hello!" James called out, unable to contain his amusement.

The crowd around them began to look, and Pollack skated over, searching the stands. "Aggie? Is that you?" he called out.

Agnes muttered a threat at James under her breath, but her face beamed with joy. "Yes! Hello, Quinton!" she shouted down to the man she had decided, back in June, was going to be her husband. He just didn't know it yet.

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Quinton Pollack
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[legendsport]

December 1, 1946: Boston, MA:

Minuteman Stadium buzzed with energy as Rollie guided his family to their seats. He glanced around and commented to his wife, Francie, "Nice crowd we have today."

Francie looked around, nodding in agreement. "Yes, and considering the temperature, it's even more impressive," she replied.

Rollie, undeterred by the cold weather, shrugged it off. "At least it's not snowing," he retorted.

Following behind Francie, Marty, their daughter, shivered and remarked, "That's a blessing, indeed."

On the other hand, Allie, the youngest of the quartet, smirked and remained silent. She, too, felt the chill, but she knew that football games weren't always played in ideal weather conditions. Her aspirations to follow in her father's footsteps as the owner of the Detroit Maroons had not wavered in the slightest.

The Barrells had gathered for "Tom Bowens Appreciation Day," coinciding with the Maroons' clash against the Americans in Boston. Rollie's sister, Betsy, was already settled in her seat, positioned in the third row right at midfield. It was an excellent location, in Rollie's opinion. Francie had questioned why they hadn't secured a spot in the owner's box, to which Rollie admitted that he found Boston owner Gene Unger to be a pompous blowhard and preferred not to spend several hours in his company. "I'd rather freeze with the regular folks," he told Francie.

Betsy greeted her brother and warmly hugged both Allie and Marty.

She looked at Marty and said, "So I hear you're engaged?"

Marty's face lit up with a broad smile. She pulled off her left glove to reveal her engagement ring. "Yes! We're probably going to have the wedding in June. I'm aiming for the 14th," she shared. Marty went on to explain that her fiancé, Jack McCarver, had transitioned from playing in the AFA for the Washington Wasps to working as a defensive coach for the New York Football Stars. After serving in the Navy during the war, Jack decided to pursue coaching rather than playing, and he was now in his second season with the Stars. The head coach, Dolph Ulrich, had played alongside Jack's father at tiny Enid State.

"Football really is a small world," Rollie chimed in. Betsy chuckled and remarked, "You sound just like Pop. That man knows everyone in baseball and thinks that's a small world too."

Francie joined in the laughter and added, "Yes, a small world with about ten thousand people in it!"

Betsy agreed with a nod. Rollie simply shook his head.

"Looks like you'll be living in New York then?" Betsy inquired.

Marty nodded and then glanced at her father, pointedly stating, "Apparently."

Betsy caught the look and raised an eyebrow. "Considering a coaching change, Roland?" she asked.

Rollie shook his head. "I wish," he replied, explaining that he would love to oust Frank Yurik, the coach, but the club's board of directors held a strong affection for him. Despite Rollie being the majority shareholder, the board wielded some power, and he anticipated a messy fight if he were to unilaterally decide to remove Yurik, who also served as a board member.

"Who knows what the future holds?" surprisingly, Allie interjected. Rollie looked at her, and she gave him an overtly innocent smile. Rollie was continually taken aback by his younger daughter's insightful remarks, and he briefly pondered whether he should stop being surprised by her.

While the women continued their conversation, the game commenced. Betsy, being only nine years older than Marty, eagerly shared her wisdom about marriage. Though Francie joined in the discussion, Allie found it rather tedious and opted to sit beside her father, attentively watching the game.

"I can't wait for this season to end," Rollie confided in his daughter. And it was true - the Maroons had plummeted from being contenders to falling hard. Starting with an 0-2 record, including a demoralizing home defeat against their archrivals from Chicago, they then suffered a narrow loss to Washington. A subsequent four-game winning streak raised expectations among fans and the front office alike. However, a disheartening loss in Cleveland brought them crashing back to reality. They managed to secure a victory against Pittsburgh, although it wasn't an impressive achievement given the Paladins' lackluster performance. Following that, they lost to Cleveland and now faced a formidable Boston team.

"Del Thomas won't make it easy for us," Allie pointed out. Rollie nodded in agreement, acknowledging that Thomas was the best quarterback in the league, perhaps even the greatest of all time. Meanwhile, the Maroons desperately needed a competent quarterback of their own. With Stan Vaught and Dewey Burnett retired, the team lacked a formidable passing game. This suited Frank Yurik, the coach, as he strongly believed in a "two yards and a cloud of dust" approach. However, Rollie, with his progressive mindset, having witnessed Vaught's prowess in ripping apart opposing defenses time and again, maintained that passing was the future of the sport. "Passing is the future," he reiterated to Allie, who readily agreed, considering herself part of the same school of thought.

As the game got underway, Boston won the toss and began their offensive drive. True to expectations, Del Thomas led them down the field, and although the Maroons' defense stiffened, the Americans managed to secure a field goal, taking a 3-0 lead. Both defenses dominated for a while - Detroit's first four possessions resulted in three-and-outs, accumulating a mere five yards of offense. Rollie silently appreciated that no one in their vicinity recognized him as the club's owner. Such anonymity had its advantages during an away game, he supposed.

Midway through the second quarter, Thomas reignited the American's offense, marching them into the end zone. At halftime, the score stood at 10-0 in favor of Boston. The Maroons had amassed a meager 35 yards of offense. The Americans hadn't fared much better, but with 10 points and 118 yards, the comparison appeared stark.

During the halftime ceremony, Betsy joined Tom on the field for the festivities. Bowens received a gold watch and a plaque, and Unger, the owner of the Boston team, delivered a lengthy and tedious speech. Soon after, the game resumed, and Rollie couldn't help but notice that Tony Oliver, Boston's head coach had been absent from the halftime ceremony for Tom Bowens. "I wonder what's going on there," he mused.

Throughout the first half, Rollie's frustration mounted as he watched his team relentlessly attempt to run the ball with minimal success. Even Allie, with her keen eye for the game, pointed out the missed opportunities that the Maroons could have capitalized on had they retained the services of Burnett and Vaught. The current quarterback, Rich Coleman, paled in comparison to Dewey Burnett, and no one, anywhere, could match Stan Vaught's skill set. Although Marc Orlosky, Troy Renton, and the other Maroon running backs gave their best effort, the Americans knew the Maroons' strategy and thwarted them play after play.

When the Maroons went three-and-out once again, Rollie expressed his frustration by throwing up his hands. Mike Hendrick punted, and Mel Greene of Boston caught the ball at his own 20-yard line. After executing some impressive moves, Greene made his way to the 34-yard line before being tackled. The ball popped loose and Detroit's Jim Clapp fell on it, causing Rollie to rise to his feet while the surrounding Boston fans groaned. Rollie pumped his fist in silent celebration.

However, Rollie's elation quickly turned to disappointment as the next play unfolded. Clapp, now playing quarterback in place of the ineffective Coleman, handed the ball to Renton, who was immediately tackled for a four-yard loss. On the subsequent play, Clapp kept the ball and rushed for nine yards, setting up a somewhat manageable third-and-five situation. Yet, in line with the Maroons' predictable pattern, the next play was yet another run. Clapp handed the ball to Renton, who this time powered through for an eight-yard gain and a first down. Rollie applauded, and Allie wore a satisfied smile.

Orlosky, Art Ericksen, and Clapp each carried the ball on the following three plays, advancing it to Boston's eight-yard line. From there, Clapp once again called his own number, breaking through the line and into the end zone. Renton's successful extra point narrowed the score to 10-7, prompting Rollie to breathe a sigh of relief.

"We still need to find a competent passer," Allie pointed out. Rollie acknowledged her astute observation and agreed, yet reminded her that the search for a quarterback would have to wait until the offseason.

Boston embarked on a lengthy possession that consumed eight minutes of clock time but nearly ended in a fumble by Del Thomas, which was ultimately recovered by Boston. However, Detroit's defense stood strong, forcing Boston to settle for a field goal, extending their lead to 13-7 as the game approached the end of the third quarter.

The ensuing kickoff saw Marc Orlosky unleash a remarkable return, carrying the ball back 33 yards to the Americans' 40-yard line. Two consecutive runs were followed by an incomplete pass from Clapp. Fourth down appeared imminent, but a holding penalty against the Maroons pushed them back fifteen yards. Facing a daunting third-and-22, Clapp dropped back for another pass attempt. He targeted Art Ericksen, but the pass was intercepted by Mel Greene at the 47-yard line. To make matters worse, Greene returned the interception 42 yards, placing Boston at Detroit's 11-yard line. One play later, Tom Molloy burst into the end zone from nine yards out, widening the score margin to 20-7.

Rollie uttered a curse, eliciting a sharp rebuke from his wife. Allie frowned and shook her head. "Clapp had no business throwing into that coverage," she admonished her father.

Coleman returned as quarterback, leading the Maroons to the 27-yard line. However, Steve Wynkoop promptly broke through the line, ran into the secondary, and dashed into the end zone for a touchdown. With Renton's successful extra point, the score stood at 20-14. Unfortunately, it would remain unchanged as both defenses stubbornly refused to yield in the final stretch. Rollie felt a sense of pride in the determination his team displayed, yet the gaping absence of a skilled quarterback continued to plague the Maroons.

"We need to find a capable QB. I don't care what Yurik says," Rollie confided in Allie. She knew that Coach Yurik believed the team would thrive with a minimal passing game, running the ball with their talented stable of backs.

"Yurik is a dinosaur," Allie asserted, voicing her agreement.

Rollie frowned. "Yes, and we're the ones facing extinction if we continue to play football his way," he declared.

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Detroit Maroons coach Frank Yurik, 1946:
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[legendsport]

February 15, 1947: Cleveland, OH:

Head Coach Jack Barrell Takes Charge of Cleveland Eries in Hopes of a Turnaround

Cleveland, February 15, 1947 - The Cleveland Eries of the Hockey Association of America (HAA) introduced their new head coach, Jack Barrell, to the media today in a press conference held at the Lake Erie Arena. Barrell, formerly with the Tacoma Lions of the Great Western Hockey League (GWHL), brings with him an impressive track record and a reputation for developing young talent.

Barrell's departure from Tacoma came as a surprise to many, as the Lions were enjoying a remarkable season under his guidance. With only eight games remaining, the Lions boasted an outstanding record of 33 wins, 3 losses, and 4 ties. Barrell led the Lions to the 1946 Yeadon Cup, the coveted championship of the GWHL, showcasing his ability to bring out the best in his team. While there, Barrell tutored young Brooklyn Eagles star Quinton Pollack, and despite Pollack moving on, the Lions were even better in year two under Barrell than they had been in their championship run of 1945-46.

The Cleveland Eries, on the other hand, find themselves in a dire situation. With a record of 7 wins, 20 losses, and 7 ties, they currently occupy the bottom spot in the seven-team HAA. The team's struggles have left fans and management frustrated, prompting the search for a fresh start with the hiring of Jack Barrell.

General Manager Byron Rowland believes Barrell's proven track record of working with young players will be invaluable in turning around the fortunes of the Eries. "We believe that Jack Barrell's experience and ability to develop talent will have a positive impact on our team," said Rowland. "His success in Tacoma speaks volumes about his coaching prowess, and we're confident that he can help us rebuild and lay a strong foundation for the future."

Rumors are already circulating that Barrell might be a strong candidate for the head coaching position with the Toronto Dukes of the North American Hockey Confederation, the top professional league in the world. Barrell has a storied history with the Dukes, having played for them with great success in the 1920s and 30s. As a head coach, he led the Dukes to two Challenge Cup trophies before departing for the Detroit Olympians (now known as the Detroit Motors), where he added another Challenge Cup to his collection.

The dismissal of Barrell from Detroit by owner John Connolly Jr., a former close friend of the coach, has been a subject of controversy in recent years. The once-amicable relationship between Barrell and Connolly soured as Connolly increasingly involved himself in player acquisition and roster decisions, encroaching upon Barrell's traditional domain. The strained relationship eventually led to Barrell's departure from the Motors and opened the door for new opportunities.

As Jack Barrell begins his tenure with the Cleveland Eries, the hopes of the organization and its passionate fanbase are high. The task ahead is challenging, but Barrell's proven leadership and ability to transform teams make him a promising figure to guide the Eries towards a brighter future. Only time will tell if he can rekindle the winning spirit and restore the team's glory days, or if this is merely a rest stop for Barrell on his way back to the NAHC.

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Jack Barrell speaks to the media
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[legendsport]

March 3, 1947: Clearwater, FL:

Bobby Barrell entered the Philadelphia Keystones clubhouse, whistling a cheerful tune. The start of spring training always held significance for him, marking the end of winter and the beginning of a new season brimming with promise. While Opening Day held a slight edge in excitement, the first Monday morning of full-squad activities was a close second.

As was his habit, Bobby arrived early, joining Billy Woytek, another diligent early bird, with a friendly wave and nod. He engaged in a brief conversation with Lloyd Stevens, the team's dependable ace pitcher. Bobby found pitchers to be a peculiar breed, including his brother Tom and nephew Rufus, but Stevens was an exception. They caught up on their winter activities, exchanging stories.

Heading towards his locker, which had been his for fourteen years, Bobby located it without hesitation. It occupied the left side of a corner tandem, while the right one, belonging to the legendary first baseman Rankin Kellogg, remained empty as a tribute to his retirement due to health reasons in the fall of '38. It was hard to fathom that this would be Bobby's tenth season without his mentor. Despite their physical distance, Bobby made an annual trip to visit Kellogg in Tennessee, spending a couple of days together, discussing baseball and catching up. Kellogg led a reclusive life, allowing only a few privileged visits. Listening to the radio or watching televised games, he reveled in the excitement of the Keystones' 1945 championship.

As Bobby turned down the row towards his locker, he froze in astonishment. He stood still, staring intently. Someone occupied Rank's locker. The man, tall and broad-shouldered, was changing into his uniform, revealing a heavily muscled physique. Bobby, no stranger to physical strength himself, found this individual to be even more imposing. Unable to spot anyone nearby, Bobby decided to investigate the situation on his own.

"Hey!" he called out, trying to conceal his annoyance. "What are you doing at that locker?" he inquired.

The man turned around, causing Bobby's amazement to resurface. This had to be Roger Cleaves, his nephew, who possessed an uncanny resemblance to his father, Joe. While Rufus, or Deuce as everyone called him, was also Joe's son, he took after his mother, Edna. In contrast, Roger was undoubtedly Joe Barrell's child.

"Oh..." Bobby stammered, his surprise evident. "Roger, right?"

Roger flashed a lopsided grin and extended his hand. "That's me. I know who you are, uh, Uncle Bobby."

Bobby shook his hand, assuring him, "We're teammates, just call me Bobby or Bob."

"Thanks," Roger replied, slightly confused. "Is there a problem? They assigned me this locker," he said, gesturing towards his belongings hanging inside.

Bobby proceeded to explain that the locker had belonged to Rankin Kellogg and remained untouched for nearly ten years.

"I see..." Roger said, thoughtfully regarding the locker. "Skip didn't inform me about that," he added, referring to manager Jack Everhart.

"You know, he might not even be aware," Bobby pondered. "But Dutch should have told him," he mentioned, with "Dutch" being the former clubhouse attendant.

"Oh, you mean the old clubby? He retired. We have a new guy, he's just a kid," Roger revealed, his perplexity evident when Bobby grinned.

"What's amusing?" Roger inquired.

Bobby chuckled and replied, "Oh, it's just you referring to someone as a kid. How old are you, 22 or 23?"

"Twenty-three," Roger responded, his pride slightly hurt.

"Relax, Roger, I didn't mean anything by it," Bobby assured him. "I also know you served as a Marine during the war and saw a lot of action."

"Yes," Roger responded softly. After a moment, he asked, "Weren't you shot by some crazy..."

Bobby nodded, revealing his forearm with a visible scar, the indentation a vivid reminder. "Not my fondest memory," he confessed.

"Yeah, I can imagine it hurt," Roger sympathized, grabbing the waistband of his shorts and revealing a round scar. "Took one in the rear end on Tinian," he explained. "It went through, but the pain was intense, you know? Got a Purple Heart, but it kept me out of action for just a week."

Bobby let out a rueful laugh, commenting, "Well, I suppose if you're going to get shot..."

Roger laughed, replying, "Yeah, that's true. Getting one in the keister hurts, but it doesn't cause any lasting damage."

Curious about Roger's presence in the big league camp, Bobby inquired, "Weren't you in Class B last year?"

"Yeah, made it to Class A as well. I guess I performed well enough for the higher-ups to take a closer look at me," Roger explained.

Bobby nodded in understanding, observing Roger's chiseled physique. "You look like you're carved out of stone," he remarked, acknowledging Roger's muscular chest.

Roger shrugged, confessing, "I developed a habit of exercising during my time in the Marines. It helped alleviate boredom, and I grew to enjoy it." He pointed at Bobby as the latter unbuttoned his shirt. "I assume you're no slouch either," he noted.

Bobby nodded, stating, "Yes, I underwent extensive rehabilitation for my arm and developed an exercise routine. No weights, though... the organization frowns upon it, believing excessive muscle reduces flexibility and hampers your swing." He lowered his voice and added, "Personally, I think that's nonsense. Being strong? It's a tremendous advantage when you connect with a ball. Look at Max Morris... he was a big guy. Some said he was fat, but I played against him, and there was a lot of muscle there."

Roger agreed, saying, "That's good to hear. I've been trying to elevate the ball more," he revealed, recounting Clint Casstevens' advice that he could hit 40 home runs a year if he set his mind to it.

"Cass said that, huh?" Bobby remarked. Roger nodded, and Bobby continued, "Well, he knows what he's talking about. I'd love to see that guy secure a FABL job one day, perhaps even here. But that's beyond my control."

Roger laughed, exclaiming, "Hey! Now you sound like a Marine!"

As Bobby continued chatting with Roger he realized that Rank would probably approve of the new guy who had inherited his old locker. It would remain to be seen whether Roger could also earn a spot in the clubhouse at Broad Street Park. That's what spring training would help determine.

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Rankin Kellogg's Official Hall of Fame Portrait
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[legendsport]

March 13, 1947: Sarasota, FL:

"I'm telling you, Deuce, Doria has it in for me," Charley McCullough said.

Deuce Barrell ran a towel over his head and then shook it in disagreement. "I think that guy just treats everyone poorly," he said.

"You're just sore because you hate how he treats you like a naive kid," Charley pointed out. "In my case, I'm a veteran player who lost his job because he served his country in war."

Deuce bristled at the "naive kid" comment and said, "I'm going to be thirty years old in June, Charley. I'm not a kid."

Charley flapped a hand at him. "How is it we always start talking about my problems and end up discussing yours?" he asked.

As was their custom, Deuce and Charley were spring training roommates, sharing a small apartment. Charley's wife, Gloria, who was also Deuce's sister, was back in Cincinnati.

"Because my problems are..." Deuce began, then struggled to find the right word for a moment as Charley gave him an exasperated look. Deuce finally finished, "Weightier, yeah, they're weightier than your problems."

"Weightier, my..." Charley began to retort when he was interrupted by a knock at the door.

"Get that, will you?" Deuce asked. He had a towel wrapped around his waist and another in his hand, having just taken a shower. Charley, an early riser, was already dressed. He grumbled about it but went to the door, telling Deuce, "You better get ready, the game's at noon."

"Yeah, yeah," Deuce said, turning to go into the bedroom.

When Charley opened the door, he found a Western Union man standing there.

"I've got a telegram for Charles McCullough," the guy said. Charley accepted the telegram and, despite being a little put out that the guy didn't recognize him as a FABL player, he thanked and tipped him.

He was holding the telegram, his mouth open in surprise, when Deuce came back out of the bedroom a moment later.

"Okay, Mom, I'm dressed," Deuce said sarcastically, then stopped when he saw Charley staring off into space, a shocked look on his face.

"What happened?" Deuce asked with concern.

"Telegram from Gloria," Charley muttered and waved the telegram.

"And? Is she okay?"

Charley was quiet and didn't respond right away. Deuce walked over and snatched the telegram from his hand.

He read aloud, "You two need to get a phone. Stop." He laughed and shook his head. "There she is, bossing us around from a thousand miles away."

Then he read the rest and his eyes widened in surprise. "Holy smokes!" he exclaimed.

"Yeah," Charley said.

"I'm going to be an uncle!" Deuce shouted, an enormous grin on his face.

"Give me that," Charley said and took the telegram from Deuce's hand. "There you go, making it all about you again," he pointed out.

"Well, at least I wasn't standing there looking like someone punched me in the face," Deuce retorted.

Charley shook his head.

Deuce frowned and said, "You don't seem happy about this."

Charley paused for a moment, then smiled and said, "Oh, I'm plenty happy. I just wonder what's going to happen."

"What do you mean? You know what'll happen. Gloria will have a baby, and you'll be a father," Deuce replied.

"Not what I mean, Deuce," Charley said and went on to explain that he had been quietly talking with a fellow from the Great Western League.

"Those guys? Why?" Deuce had made no bones about his general disdain for the GWL. As far as he was concerned, top-flight baseball consisted of the FABL and nothing else.

"Well, if Doria won't play me, then maybe those guys would," Charley explained.

"You can't..." Deuce said.

"Can't what? Look out for what's best for me... and now my family?" Charley replied, exasperation in his voice. "I'm not you, Deuce. I haven't won Allen Awards or been to, what, five All-Star games. I'm basically a backup infielder at this point, and I get paid like one. I need to consider what's right for my family."

Deuce was quiet. Charley was like a brother, even though he already had two of those, and he really liked Roger. He didn't want Charley to go.

Charley eyed him shrewdly. "You're thinking about how this would affect you, aren't you?" he asked.

"No," Deuce said, managing to sound insulted. Then he shrugged and said, "Well, yeah, maybe. A little."

Charley shook his head. Typical Deuce.

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Charley McCullough
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[legendsport]

April 15, 1947: Boston, MA:

Harry Barrell, who had a rough spring with a .239 average, was determined to make a statement in the first game of the year for the Boston Minutemen. The team was hosting the defending Federal Association champion Washington Eagles, who had won their opening day matchup against Bobby and the Keystones. With his wife Sarah and their six-year-old son Reid in the stands, Harry wanted to put on a show. However, the brisk 44-degree temperature at Minuteman Stadium was something he hadn't quite gotten used to. Growing up in Georgia, cold weather wasn't a common part of his baseball experience. Despite his desire to complain to manager Bill Boshart about his placement in the lineup, Harry decided to take his poor spring performance in stride and earn his way back into the manager's good graces. The Minutemen had finished second the previous year, and there were high hopes for the team in the new season.

Harry, known for his friendly demeanor, often engaged in banter with pitchers from his position at shortstop during breaks in the action. He had played with numerous pitchers, and their reactions to his conversations varied. His own brother Tom, in particular, could be quite prickly on the mound and never hesitated to tell Harry to keep quiet, often using colorful language. For the opening day, the Minutemen had veteran Ed Wood on the mound. Wood was a blue-collar pitcher, known for his hard work and earnest approach. While he wasn't a big talker, he had never dismissed Harry either. So, when Harry offered him a good luck wish before the first batter, he was pleased to receive a nod and a smile from Wood. However, Harry's excitement was tempered when Wood added with a playful wink, "Don't make any errors." Harry sensed that the seasoned southpaw was feeling particularly confident despite the cold weather.

In the home second inning, Harry faced Eagles starter Billy Riley with Art Spencer and Bill Burkett already on base due to back-to-back singles. Harry stepped into the batter's box, hoping to make the most of this scoring opportunity. Riley was a talented pitcher with excellent command of his three plus-pitches, but he was prone to giving up flyballs. Harry, lacking his brother Bobby's power, aimed to hit the ball hard and find a gap or hole. He fouled the first two pitches straight back into the screen. Then, Riley threw three consecutive balls, with the last one causing the pitcher to argue with himself as he believed it was a strike. Harry glanced at the umpire and noticed the narrowed eyes, indicating that the umpire was not fond of Riley's dramatics. On the next pitch, Harry made solid contact, driving the ball hard along the line and past Eagles' first baseman Sig Stofer. Both runners scored as Harry reached second base with a stand-up double. Relieved and invigorated, Harry hoped this at-bat would set the tone for a successful season.

By the time Harry's second at-bat came around, the Eagles were leading 4-2, and Ed Wood was sitting at the end of the bench, glaring at anyone who approached him. Harry took a ball from Riley but tapped out to third baseman Mel Carrol for the first out. Wood drew a walk, and Pete Day followed with a single, raising hopes for a potential rally. However, Buddy Schneider flew out to right field, and Chick Donnelly struck out, leaving the runners stranded. The seventh inning brought better fortunes. Harry led off the inning and drilled a single into right field. Ben McCarty, pinch-hitting for Wood, flew out, but Pete Day crushed a ball off the center-field wall. Harry, running full speed, scored easily, and when Day also crossed the plate on a double by Buddy Schneider, the Minutemen tied the game at four, forcing Riley out of the game.

The decision to pinch-hit for Harry in the eighth inning left him disgruntled. With two outs and Bill Van Ness on second base, Harry was due up, but Boshart called him back to the dugout. Frustrated, Harry confronted Boshart, questioning the move. "I'm 2-for-3, why are you hitting for me?" he demanded, his voice filled with heat. He couldn't understand why Boshart seemed to have a grudge against him, and he felt that enough was enough. Boshart scowled, disliking the challenge to his authority, and explained that since Eagles pitcher Ike Keller was a lefty, he wanted Joe Watson, a right-handed hitter, in the lineup. While the explanation made sense, Harry's competitive spirit rebelled against this latest slight.

Watson drew an intentional walk, but the Minutemen failed to capitalize on the opportunity as Bob Donoghue grounded out to end the inning. The Eagles scored a run in the top of the ninth, taking a 5-4 lead, but the Minutemen rallied in the bottom half of the inning, tying the game and sending it to extra innings. Ultimately, Boston pulled off a 6-5 victory.

That night, Harry discussed his frustrations with Sarah after Reid had gone to bed. He contemplated the idea of jumping to the Great Western League, as he was unsure if he could continue playing under Boshart's management. Sarah advised him to give it a couple of weeks, reminding him that the season had just begun. Harry agreed to take some time to evaluate the situation, but deep down, he felt that playing for Boshart might not be sustainable in the long run.

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Bill Boshart
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[legendsport]

May 14, 1947: Philadelphia, PA:

"What are you smiling about?" Billy Woytek asked Bobby Barrell as they stood near the batting cage at Broad Street Park. It was just after eleven on a partly cloudy but otherwise pleasant morning and the Keystones were preparing to take on the St. Louis Pioneers. St. Louis had come out of the gate like gangbusters and entered play with a 19-9 record while the Keystones were 15-13.

"Oh, I'm feeling good today, Bill," Bobby said, his grin getting even wider. Woytek scoffed but didn't say anything - truth was Bobby had been feeling good all season. He entered the game with 13 homers in 27 games, a breakneck pace to be sure. The whole league was suddenly power crazy - even the writers were noticing - and the Keystones were leading the pack. Bobby was setting the pace but rookie catcher Roger Cleaves had hit nine homers and Hank Koblenz six.

Bobby was in a batting practice group with Cleaves, Woytek and Davey Robicheaux. The latter, who'd come up a third baseman before getting bumped to the outfield when Koblenz came along, was a thickly-accented Alabaman with a perfectionist streak who had finagled his way into Bobby's group because he was trying to emulate his swing. Consensus around FABL said Bobby's swing was perfect. Keystones hitting coach Tom Wright, while acknowledging Bobby had a "good swing" was always telling Robicheaux that he'd never be able to copy it. "You're a right-handed hitter, Dave," he'd say to which Robicheaux would reply with a slowly drawled slew of words that the California-born Woytek believed had something to do with mirrors.

Bobby had no problem understanding Robicheaux. Woytek told him this was only because Bobby himself was from the deep south. "You all speak draw-all," he'd said with a smirk.

Rochicheaux, who had been chatting with Cleaves, perked up and paid attention as Bobby stepped into the cage. Pitching coach Elmer Pettus was throwing BP. A former catcher, Pettus was always in Cleaves' ear about working with the staff, but he had gotten into some hot water with Wright for telling the young catcher that he should try to hit the ball on a line, or on the ground and stop "trying to hit taters."

Now, Pettus frowned at Bobby, who just grinned back at him.

"Show time," Cleaves said, making Rochicheaux and Woytek smile. Woytek's smile was half-hearted, he'd suffered a concussion and was officially on the injured list. He wasn't taking batting practice, but refused to stay away from the team even though he wasn't playing.

Pettus began throwing and Bobby began hitting bombs into the bleachers. Cleaves, watching Robicheaux's reactions, smiled when the outfielder began trying to mimic Bobby's swing. "Mirror, right, Davey?" Cleaves asked.

Robicheaux nodded. "Watch my hips, Roger," he said and did a slow-motion imitation of Bobby's hip turn. Woytek, seeing this, shook his head. Wright, next to him, huffed and said, "Knock it off Davey, you're not going to get it."

Robicheaux stopped, muttering something only Cleaves could hear and which caused the rookie to smirk. Manager Jack Everhart had wandered over and told Rochicheaux to "leave it alone" and then pointed out that there was nothing wrong with his swing. "You do you, and let Bobby do Bobby, eh?" he said.

Cleaves was next and jumped into the cage with a big smile on his face. "Show time, part two!" he shouted, earning a frown from Pettus and a chuckle from Bobby.

A few hours later, the smiles around Broad Street Park were even wider. The Keystones had won in dramatic fashion and for the fans, it was showtime indeed.

Bobby and Hank Koblenz had combined for five home runs, and Robicheaux had also hit one.

The fun had started in the first inning. After Charlie Waddell had set down the Pioneers 1-2-3, Hal Hackney took the mound for St. Louis. He'd gotten leadoff man Ed Greenwood to pop to second baseman Bill Freeman. Robicheaux had followed and still trying to emulate Bobby's swing had flown out the center, earning him a "knock it off!" from Everhart when he got back to the dugout. Bobby himself stepped in, took two balls from Hackney and then unloaded on a fastball, depositing it 386 feet away in the right field bleachers for a 1-0 lead. Koblenz, hitting cleanup, took a 2-1 change-up and gave the fans in left field a souvenir with a 352-foot blast of his own. Cleaves followed but got underneath it and lifted it out to center for the final out.

Waddell ran into trouble in the third and St. Louis scored four runs to take the lead. The Keystones had come back to the top of the order in the bottom half, with Greenwood again leading off. This time he drew a four-pitch walk, to bring Robicheaux to the plate. Woytek, watching from the dugout, saw third base coach Frank Kirby signal for a bunt. Robicheaux frowned. Hackney checked the runner and came home. Robicheaux started to square, then pulled back and took a strike. Everhart, seeing Pioneers third baseman Gary Carmichael creeping in, signaled out to Kirby who relayed to Robicheaux - the bunt was off.

Hackney gave Greenwood a glance, then came home. Robicheaux, his swing looking like an awkward combination of his own swing (which Woytek also found perfectly fine) and Bobby's hip-driven power stroke, connected solidly. Woytek stepped up onto the top step of the dugout and laughed out loud when the ball plopped into the waiting hands of some kid in the second row of the left-field bleachers. A two-run homer - Robicheaux's third of the season.

"Now I'll never get him to stop that *&%^!" Everhart muttered while Wright rolled his eyes and shook his head.

Robicheaux had tied the game and rounded the bases looking like he was on cloud nine. Waiting at the plate was Bobby himself, who was up next. He had a broad grin on his face and slapped hands with Robicheaux. Then he stepped in, worked the count full, and hit another homer himself, this one 401 feet into the right field bleachers. When Koblenz connected for his second circuit clout of the game three pitches later, even the reticent Jack Everhart had to smile. The Keystones had gone back-to-back-to-back and it was 6-4. The fans (18049 of them) went berserk.

Robicheaux came up again the home fourth with Frank Davis on third and two outs. He was again trying his "power swing" and this time, got on top of the ball, beating it into the dirt in the direction of Carmichael at third. Bobby, standing on deck, heard Davey's curse as he busted out of the box and down the line. He beat out the infield single, scoring Davis and extending the Keystones lead to 7-4.

Bobby stepped in but grounded out harmlessly to second to end the inning. The Pioneers, showing a lot of resilience, came back in the top of the fifth to score three runs and tie it at seven apiece. Things settled down from there and though both teams threatened, neither had scored any additional runs by the time the game went to the bottom of the ninth.

The Pioneers' stopper, Tony Dixon, came on to pitch, relieving Ben Fiskars who had himself relieved Hackney back in the fourth. Greenwood, first pitch swinging, flew out to center. Robicheaux stepped in and struck out swinging on four pitches, earning a glare from Wright and a direct rebuke from Everhart on his return to the dugout. Bobby came up and took the first pitch for a ball. Dixon came home with the second pitch and Bobby unleashed his full might on the swing, launching the ball deep into the air towards left-center field. Both Larry Gregory in left and Cal Page in center just looked up as the ball soared far overhead, landing more than halfway up the bleachers, some 414 feet from the plate.

Bobby circled the bases as the fans went crazy. All the Keystones came out of the dugout and were waiting on him at home plate. Pioneers shortstop Homer Mills said, "That was the finest hitting display I've ever seen," as Bobby passed him; Bobby muttering "thanks" as he did so. Koblenz was the first to greet him, but Bobby was swallowed up in a sea of Keystones players. Woytek, trying to get in, was grabbed by the shoulder. It was Everhart. "You're recovering from a concussion, remember?" he said.

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Davey Robicheaux, 1947
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[legendsport]

June 14, 1947: Detroit, MI:

"Why so glum, Dad?" Allie Barrell asked, noticing her father's somber expression.

Rollie did indeed look glum and seemed lost in his thoughts, completely oblivious to his daughter's question. She playfully poked him in the arm, repeating, "Dad?"

"Huh? Oh, sorry, Allie. Did you say something?" Rollie asked, snapping out of his reverie.

"What's going on? You look sad," she inquired, showing genuine concern.

Rollie shook his head and managed a smile. "Oh, I'm not sad," he replied, then added, "Or not much, anyway."

Allie gave him a pointed look. "This is supposed to be a happy occasion," she reminded him.

Allie was right - it was indeed a joyous event. Marty Barrell had just married Jack McCarver, and the reception was in full swing. Rollie had spared no expense, renting the best ballroom in Detroit for the festivities, and he truly was happy for his daughter. He wasn't truly sad, just preoccupied with thoughts about his football team. He admitted this to his daughter, who burst into laughter.

"Dad! It's June; we've got months before we need to start worrying about the Maroons," she reassured him.

Just then, Francie approached them in a bustling manner. "Roland, did you talk to the travel agent?" she asked breathlessly.

Rollie nodded, replying, "Yes, Francie. Everything is all set." He didn't mention that she had already asked him the same question multiple times, and the answer had not changed. They were surprising Jack and Marty with a honeymoon trip to California, Francie's idea of course. Rollie had initially thought that covering the expenses of the extravagant wedding reception was enough of a paternal responsibility, but Francie had convinced him otherwise, excited to surprise the newlyweds with this gift.

As Rollie glanced toward his sister Betsy's nearby table, he noticed her looking radiant. Betsy was five months pregnant and thrilled about it. Her son George was sitting beside her, pointedly ignoring a similarly aged girl from the McCarver family who was trying to engage with him. On Betsy's left sat her husband Tom.

Rollie excused himself, saying, "I'll be back in a bit," to Allie. She frowned but watched him walk over to Betsy's table, her expression turning knowingly smug.

"Hey, it's the proud papa," Betsy greeted as Rollie approached. He gave Betsy a warm embrace, exchanged polite nods with the others at the table, and sat down next to Tom Bowens.

"How are things, Tom?" Rollie asked.

Tom replied that things were going well, mentioning that he and Betsy were eagerly looking forward to the new addition to their family. He also shared that he was doing sales work in Boston, nothing too exciting, "but it pays the bills," he explained. Rollie knew this was a common arrangement for many players. Although the pay in the AFA was getting better, a lot of players still needed offseason jobs to make ends meet. Tom was no longer a player; he had transitioned to coaching, and assistant coaches didn't make much money.

"Do you ever miss playing?" Rollie asked quietly, noticing that Betsy was engaged in conversation with a woman sitting across from her.

Tom's eyes briefly darted to Betsy before he answered, "Sure, sometimes. But I'm no kid, Rollie. My body can't do the things it used to."

Rollie nodded in understanding. This was a familiar sentiment among retired players.

"In December, I noticed... everything okay between you and Coach Oliver?" Rollie inquired.

Tom frowned, "Well, if I'm being honest, we butt heads more than I'd like," he admitted. Then he shrugged and added, "But he's the head coach and my boss. I get the feeling he wishes I weren't around. As a former player, the guys on the team see me more as a buddy than an authority figure, and that drives Oliver nuts. He's very traditional."

Rollie was aware of the dynamics and had heard similar talk around the league about Oliver being a strict discipline-first kind of coach.

"What would you say if I offered you a spot with the Maroons?" Rollie asked, surprising Tom.

"A spot? As a coach?" Tom asked, taken aback.

Rollie shook his head, "No," he clarified. "I need an end."

Tom's eyes widened, "An end? I don't know, Rollie," he said, glancing at Betsy, who was still engrossed in her conversation.

Rollie smiled, "Don't worry about my kid sister. You only get one chance, Tom. If you want to play another year or two, you should."

"Two years? Let's not get ahead of ourselves," Tom replied.

"Well, take it one year at a time then," Rollie said with a chuckle. He glanced toward the head table and noticed that Allie was watching him closely. Her expression indicated that she knew exactly what he was doing, and it seemed she approved. It was gratifying to receive her approval, even though she was still just a kid and he owned the team.

"I don't know..." Tom hesitated.

Rollie smiled and leaned forward. "Excuse me for a moment, please," he raised his voice slightly. Betsy looked at him, and he said politely to the woman across from her, "I'm sorry to interrupt, but I have a question for my sister."

Betsy raised an eyebrow, "What is it, Rollie?"

"I was just wondering what you'd say if I offered your husband fifty thousand dollars to play for the Maroons this fall," Rollie said with a twinkle in his eye.

Betsy's eyes widened in shock, and the woman across the table gasped. "Fifty thousand!" both Betsy and Tom exclaimed in near unison.

"You want Tom to play football? He's retired..." Betsy said incredulously.

"He can un... retire," Rollie pointed out. He knew he could make it happen; he just needed to talk to Jack Kristich and ensure the deal was sealed.

"He can... I mean, I can?" Tom spluttered.

"Sure, it's just a formality," Rollie waved a hand dismissively, trying to look nonchalant. Allie caught his signal and wiggled her fingers, wanting to know what he had offered. Rollie grinned, holding up an open hand with a five and a fist beside it, letting Allie know he had offered fifty thousand dollars.

"He'll take it, I'm sure," the woman across from Betsy said. Betsy looked at her in surprise, and the woman added, "Well... who wouldn't?"

"Who indeed?" Rollie agreed, his face breaking into a broad smile.

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Rollie Barrell at Marty's wedding, 1947
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[legendsport]

July 22, 1947: Philadelphia, PA:

"Fifteen and three, two-point-one-seven," Roger Cleaves stated to his uncle. That was the impressive season record of St. Louis pitcher Danny Hern, making him the clear favorite to win the Federal Association's Allen Award.

Bobby Barrell held his bat up to his eye, aligning the barrel as if it were a rifle, without responding to Roger.

They both sat in the Keystones' clubhouse before their scheduled night game against the Pioneers.

"Are you even listening to me?" Roger asked, frustration creeping into his voice.

With one eye closed, Bobby inspected his bat and remarked, "I think this one might be a little crooked."

Growing more exasperated, Roger pressed, "Bobby? Are you listening?"

Bobby sighed, putting the bat down and leaning over it, holding the knob with the top of the barrel on the floor. He replied matter-of-factly, "Sure, I hear you. None of that stuff matters."

The surprise and disbelief on Roger's face brought a smile to Bobby's lips. He raised a hand to halt Roger from speaking.

"Look, Roger," Bobby began, speaking gently, "You shouldn't worry too much about the pitcher."

Roger stared at his uncle, waiting for more. Bobby looked back at him until Roger, now even more frustrated, asked, "Why?"

Bobby shrugged. "Simple," he explained. "You can't control what the pitcher does. You should worry about what you can do, not what the pitcher does. That's why I check my bats every day."

"But..." Roger started, thinking about how exceptional Danny Hern had been in the season so far.

Smiling, Bobby interrupted again. "I'm not saying you shouldn't know as much about the pitcher as you can. You definitely need to know what he throws and how he attacks hitters. If you've faced him enough, it'll become second nature. But as you're a rookie, you need to observe and see how he pitches to me, how he pitches to Koblenz... and so on," he finished, waving his hand.

Bobby returned to examining his bat. As Billy Woytek strolled by, he muttered, "Four ninety-eight," and winked at Roger.

Bobby grinned and shook his head. "That Billy," he said.

The 498 Woytek mentioned was the number of career home runs Bobby Barrell had achieved. He reached that milestone two days earlier in New York, during a frustrating 9-8 loss. It had become typical of the 1947 Philadelphia Keystones: the offense would dominate the opposing pitcher, but their own pitching would let them down (with the exception of Lloyd Stevens, of course). It was a challenging season for the team, with a record of 40-54, while the front-running Pioneers boasted 57-33.

"I hate night games," Roger muttered.

Bobby shrugged once more. Roger had grown accustomed to his uncle's somewhat nonchalant attitude. Of course, Bobby was so talented that he could excel in any game setting. This aspect sometimes irked Roger, but he knew it stemmed mainly from jealousy.

"I see the ball pretty well under the lights," Bobby remarked. Roger responded in a slightly desultory tone, "You see the ball pretty well all the time, Bob." Bobby laughed, not denying the fact.

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It turned out that Bobby Barrell did indeed see it pretty good under the lights - at least on that night. Danny Hern might have been enjoying a great season, but he, like so many other hurlers, couldn't handle Bobby Barrell.

St. Louis was in first place and playing extremely well. They torched Keystones starter Charlie Waddell for five runs in the top of the first. In the home half, Bobby singled sharply off Hern, a hard hit grounder between the first and second basemen that proved to be the least impressive at-bat Bobby had that night, and it still resulted in a hit. Koblenz followed with a groundout to end the inning.

Waddell managed a 1-2-3 second and Roger led off the home half of the second with a solid single of his own past the Pioneers third baseman. That gave him a boost of confidence: maybe Hern wasn't superhuman after all. He was stranded when Nate Power flew out to center and Robicheaux, still trying to emulate Bobby, grounded into an inning-ending double play.

In the third the Pioneers jumped on Waddell again. Roger, catching, made a trip to the mound to talk to Waddell. The pitcher was having none of it and told him in stark terms to get his behind back behind the plate where it belonged. Waddell proceeded to give up an RBI single to Hern and Everhart had seen enough, replacing Waddell with Jonah Brown. It was 8-0 heading to the home third and 9-0 heading to the home fourth. In the dugout, Roger sat next to Bobby and noticed that his uncle was angry, muttering the score and scowling before grabbing his bat and heading to the on-deck circle as Woytek stepped in.

Woytek singled to start the inning and Bobby strode to the plate. Koblenz, shaking his head, said to Roger as he walked past on his way to the bat rack, "Bobby's angry. This is probably going to be bad for Hern."

And it was. Bobby took two strikes and then belted his 499th career home run, going to the opposite field. The two-run shot made it 9-2 and Bobby was still scowling as he returned to the dugout. The fans provided some desultory cheering but these were Philadelphia fans and they were as angry as Bobby was. Roger congratulated Bobby who nodded his thanks and sat down, his face still grim. Koblenz singled, then Roger followed with his second single, bringing the young first baseman Power to the plate. Hern, looking a bit angry himself, whiffed the rookie on three pitches before Robicheaux beat out an infield single to load the bases. Shortstop Frank Davis doubled into the gap, scoring Koblenz and Roger and cutting it to 9-4. The Keystones couldn't bring Robicheaux home, however they did succeed in batting around.

In the fifth Jonah Brown worked into and out of trouble without further damage. Woytek led off the bottom of the fifth with another shot into the gap and in typical Billy Woytek-fashion turned it into a hustling triple. Bobby came up for the third time, worked a 2-2 count with a couple of foul balls and then drove a moonshot into the stands in left-center for his second two-run homer of the game. Even better, this was his 500th career home run. Bobby did manage to crack a smile as the fans gave him a standing ovation and accepted the congratulations of his team mates on his return to the dugout. "That's 9-6 boys, let's get this one," he said, his grim expression back after a momentary celebratory smile.

Ben Fiskars came on to replace Hern after Bobby's homer. Koblenz greeted the new pitcher with a solo shot of his own, his 24th of the season (Bobby was at an incredible 42 homers now) to make it 9-7. The attitude in the Keystones dugout was much improved as they were feeling that momentum had swung their way.

Brown and Fiskars each enjoyed a 1-2-3 inning in the sixth before Brown gave up back to back singles to Bill Freeman and Homer Mills which led to St. Louis scoring its tenth run of the game on a squeeze bunt successfully executed by Ben Fiskars with Bill Freeman coming home from third. In the home seventh, Billy Woytek led off with a double bringing Bobby to the plate again with a man on and already three-for-three on the day. He took the first pitch for strike one and fouled the second back over the screen and into the crowd behind the plate. On the third one he laced his third home run of the game, again going to the opposite field, 333 feet into the seats, scoring Woytek and making it 10-9. Fiskars, shaking his head as he watched Bobby circling the bases with a determined look on his face, recovered to whiff both Koblenz and Roger and then got Nate Power to fly to left to prevent further damage.

In the eighth, the Keystones mounted yet another rally attempt. After Robicheaux flew to center to start the inning, Frank Davis doubled off the center field wall. Henry Schmidt, hitting for Jonah Brown, struck out swinging. With the top of the order coming, Pioneers skipper Hugh Luckey replaced Fiskars with lefty Russ Peeples. Peeples worked a 1-2 count on Wilbur Zimmerman before the Keystones' centerfielder singled up the middle. Davis, running hard the whole way, rounded third and headed for home. Cal Page, the Pioneers' CF, charged, scooped the ball off the grass and fired home. Davis slid hard in a cloud of dust and was.... out! That ended the inning and the game remained at 10-9 entering the ninth.

Jim Whitely came on to pitch a 1-2-3 top half for Philly. Peeples went back out to see if he could close out the win for the Pioneers. Woytek was again at the plate, but his magic had apparently run out as he lined it towards the gap but it was run down by left fielder Larry Gregory. Bobby stepped in and every fan in the house was hoping for a fourth home run. But it wasn't to be as Peeples got Bobby to put it on the ground on a 3-1 sinker. It was hit hard, but right at Freeman at second base, who tossed over to first to retire Bobby. Koblenz, the Keystones last hope, swung on the first pitch and lined it to center where Page gloved it easily to end the game.

Bobby, his mouth set in a line, grabbed his bats and headed up the tunnel towards the clubhouse. Roger, following, wanted to say something because it had been, by most measures, a great night for his uncle. He'd gone 4-for-5 with three home runs and six runs batted in. The three homers had increased his season's total to 43, just 17 shy of tying Max Morris' FABL record of 60 in a season. And the Keystones still had 59 games left to play. But Roger could tell from Bobby's body language that what mattered most to him was that the team had lost 10-9 and Roger himself felt the weight of that too. They'd gone down 9-0 before rallying but still came up short, which had been the team's season in a nutshell.

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Roger Cleaves, 1947 Baseball Card
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[legendsport]

September 8, 1947: Austin, TX:

"What time are you supposed to be at the ballpark?" Rose Winfield asked James Slocum as they sat eating lunch in Austin, Texas.

"Ahh, who cares at this point?" James replied sulkily.

"Well, I'd think you'd care since you are getting paid to play baseball," Rose pointed out.

James nodded, but he still looked like he was pouting. Rose reached out and lifted his chin with her index finger.

"I didn't come out here to see you sulk like a little boy who didn't get a lollipop," she told him.

James bristled a bit and said, "No, you came out here to look at some field your father might buy. I'm just here by coincidence."

She smiled and said, "A happy coincidence." She narrowed her eyes and asked, "Or am I the only one who thinks that?"

James shook his head and said, "No, of course, I'm happy to see you. I just wish I were in Oakland instead of here." He waved a hand around.

"This is a perfectly fine restaurant," she said, giving him a hard time.

"I mean Austin," he said with a frown, though he knew precisely what she was doing.

"I know that," she said and then laid her hand on his. "Listen, I know you want to be playing in Oakland, especially after Brooklyn cut you loose." That had been a terrible blow for James, getting released by the Kings at the end of spring training. That the news had come from his uncle Tom didn't make it sting any less. Tom had made a point of telling him to "try and hook on with one of those Great Western League clubs."

Well... he had, and they'd promptly shipped him to the minors. He'd just about had it - he was hitting over .300 and playing well and still the Grays left him rotting in Waco. James was unhappy, and for the first time in his life, he felt he was adrift and directionless. Maybe his heart wasn't in baseball any longer. He even missed the Air Force (the Army Air Force was going to be detached as its own separate branch in just a couple of weeks, and James felt a pull for his old military life, although he certainly didn't miss the war, he did miss the structure and the sense of having something important to do).

He sat in silence for a few moments. Rose was looking at him, her sandwich only half-eaten and apparently forgotten. James came to a decision. He looked up and saw her looking into his eyes.

"Rose, let's get married," he said. Saying it out loud, it felt surreal.

Rose stared at him, her brow furrowed. "Married?" she asked.

James felt an instant urge to backpedal, to lie and say he didn't mean it. But he held his tongue and instead, he simply nodded and grabbed her hand.

"Wow," she said, clearly not expecting this (who would?). After a moment, she said, "I don't know, James. I can't really see myself being a baseball wife. Who knows where you'll be next year?"

James squeezed her hand and said, "I'll retire."

"Retire? And do what?"

"I don't know... I could fly; Bill told me he'd give me a job flying for his airline whenever I wanted it."

She shook her head. "That might even be worse than being a ballplayer's wife. You'd be home even less," she pointed out.

James frowned and thought, then he said, "Well, why don't I talk to your father? Maybe I could become a driver, or at least work with him on that new racing circuit he's been thinking about starting."

Rose's eyes widened, and she smiled. "Now you're talking," she said. "We'd be together all the time then!"

James' smile was so wide his face hurt. "Does that mean?" he asked, not even finishing before she was nodding and saying, "Hell, yes, I'll marry you James Slocum! I thought you'd never ask!"

"What!?!" James nearly shouted. "If that's true, what was with all that business about baseball and flying?" he asked.

"Well," she said matter-of-factly, "I had to make sure you'd be around. I'm no housewife, and you'd better get that straight, buster."

James laughed and said, "I wouldn't have it any other way."

That night, with Rose in the stands, James had his best game of the season. He went three-for-five with a double and a home run, driving in five runs and scoring three as the Waco Wranglers downed the Austin Violets 12-5. Only his teammate and good friend Rufus Daniels knew why James was in such a good mood. Daniels, the son of Rollie "Possum" Daniels, was playing center field, and James played left. Possum was James' grandfather Rufus' best friend, and James had immediately hit it off with the man named for his grandfather. James called him "Roof" because "Little Possum" seemed a strange nickname for a 34-year-old man.

"Shoot, son! That's the best news I've heard all year!" Roof said. Roof himself was getting married in October and James was to be his best man. "Now you get to return the favor!" he told James. James agreed but held back what would have been the really big news around the Waco clubhouse: that James Slocum was playing his last couple of weeks of pro baseball.

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James and Rosie at Rufus Daniels' wedding, October 1947
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[legendsport]

September 13, 1947: Cincinnati, OH:


"I feel like I'm playing hooky," Charley McCullough said.

Deuce Barrell shrugged and replied, "Well, what about me? I have less excuse than you." He smiled and added, "And you have a good excuse."

Now it was Charley's turn to shrug. Sure, he had a valid reason. But the way Ad Doria had simply said, "Sure, go ahead," as if it didn't matter whether Charley were at the ballpark for the Cannons game against the Stars? That stung a little. He had hoped the old man would have shown at least a bit more concern about his absence.

The excuse - and the reason that Deuce was there too - was that Gloria Barrell McCullough was in labor. Deuce had just pitched a few days earlier, beating the Cougars 9-2 in a complete game victory with six strikeouts. He was due to pitch again in a couple of days (against the Kings). Doria's reaction to his request to accompany his brother-in-law had been, "Sure, it'll be good to get you out of my hair for a day."

"How long's this going to take?" Deuce asked Charley.

"Why? You got somewhere to be?" Charley shot back. He was excited and nervous, and the last thing he wanted to deal with was a bout of Deuce's selfishness.

"No, of course not," Deuce replied defensively. "I'm just wondering, is all."

"How in the world would I even know the answer to that, Deuce?" Charley asked, exasperation heating his voice.

Deuce sighed and sat down. He began leafing through a copy of "Life" magazine - his uncle Bobby was on the cover under a headline that read "Barrell Blasts His Way Towards History." Deuce smirked and showed it to Charley. His friend muttered, "I'm just glad that guy's in the Fed," to which Deuce responded, "You can say that again."

Deuce started reading the article about Bobby. Charley went back to chewing his fingernails. A few moments later, a woman in white appeared in the doorway of the waiting room. Deuce shot to his feet and exclaimed, "Debbie!"

The nurse looked at Deuce, frowning. Then she smiled and said, "You're so cute that I can't stay mad at you, even though you haven't called in months."

Deuce shrugged and said, "Well... you went on that date with Charlie Griffith. I figured we were through."

Charley stood up. "Any news on Gloria?" he asked. Debbie looked at him and replied, "I don't know. I'm not in that department."

Charley groaned and asked, "Then why are you here?"

Debbie gave him the disdainful look that seemingly all women used when a man asked a stupid question and replied, "I saw Deuce sitting there and wanted to say hi."

Charley groaned again and sat down. Debbie looked back at Deuce. "Were you ever going to call me again?"

Now Deuce shrugged. Truth was, he had his eye on a woman who had recently moved into his apartment building. He thought she had a boyfriend, but he wasn't quite sure, and even if she did...

"You going to answer me?" he heard Debbie say, snapping him out of his reverie.

"Uh... yeah, sure," he replied.

Another nurse, an older woman, wearing a severe expression on her face, appeared in the doorway. "Nurse Scanlon? Why are you here? I believe you work on the fifth floor...."

"Yes, Nurse Magruder," Debbie replied. She shot a quick glance at Deuce, then bustled out of the room in a hurry.

"Mr. McCullough?" Nurse Magruder asked. Charley looked up.

"Congratulations. It's a girl," the nurse said in a matter-of-fact tone. Deuce thought that he was glad she hadn't been his nurse when he'd been recovering from his surgery. No bedside manner at all. Now Debbie on the other hand...

Charley jumped up. "A girl! That's fantastic!" he exclaimed.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out cigars. He practically threw one at Deuce and then, with a dopey grin on his face (at least in Deuce's opinion), he actually offered one to the nurse. She gave him a small smile and shook her head, saying, "No thank you, Mr. McCullough."

"I'll be back in a few minutes to bring you to the viewing window so you can see your new daughter," she said and left with a slightly amused look on her face.

Charley looked at Deuce. "Can you believe it?" he asked.

Deuce was smiling too and replied, "Sure, I can believe it. It's not like we didn't know this was going to happen, Charley." He laughed.

Charley lit his cigar, and then Deuce's, and they puffed a couple of times, Deuce trying not to cough (he mostly succeeded).

After a few moments Deuce asked, "How about that Debbie?" Charley glanced over at him, frowning around his cigar. "I think I will give her a call," Deuce added.

Charley wanted to tell his friend that Debbie had a bit of a reputation as someone who'd dated half the team. Instead he angrily scooped up the magazine and threw it at his friend.

"Hey!" Deuce protested.

Charley said, "I think I like Linda." He looked at Deuce, "What do you think?"

"What? Who's Linda?" Deuce asked.

"My daughter, you knucklehead." After a beat he added, "Assuming Gloria's ok with that name, of course."

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Gloria McCullough and daughter Linda, 1947
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[legendsport]

September 19, 1947: Philadelphia, PA:

"Two Days in September" - A Special Baseball Feature by John Brinker

In the annals of baseball history, the name Rufus Barrell looms large, revered by fans across the nation. But, dear reader, I'm not referring to the famed Cincinnati Cannons' pitching prodigy Rufus Barrell II, but rather his esteemed grandfather, the original Rufus Barrell, whose association with professional baseball spans a remarkable 57 years. He's finally retired, having last served as the Club President of the Washington Eagles during the interregnum between the ownership reigns of Admiral William Stockdale and his son, Captain Calvin Stockdale. The old man - Rufus that is - even received a Federal League championship ring when the Eagles won the 1946 pennant (though they did fail to win it all, losing the World Championship Series in seven games to the New York Stars).

Amidst all this, Rufus experienced a joyous week - on September 13th he became a great-grandfather when Deuce Barrell's sister Gloria (married to Cannons 2B Charley McCullough) gave birth to a daughter. Then Rufus was rewarded for following the Philadelphia Keystones around when his son Bobby belted a record-tying 60th home run on the 16th against the Pioneers in Philadelphia. Rufus had started following the 'Stones around on the 10th when Bobby hit number 59. That 60th home run knotted Barrell with the immortal Max Morris. The following day, Bobby went 2-for-5 in the opener of a two-game set with the visting Chicago Chiefs, but both safeties were of the single variety. Given that Bobby Barrell is not only chasing Morris but also a second Triple Crown, those two singles were important too.

On the 18th, Rufus, the ever-devoted father, graced the stands at Broad Street Park once more. As the game unfolded, Bobby, the mighty slugger, was confidently slotted into the third spot in the Keystones' order - a position he had occupied throughout this stellar season. Leading the charge ahead of him was none other than the sparkplug, Billy Woytek, while batting behind him was the fireplug himself, Hank Koblenz. Oh, let's make this clear, folks, no disrespect to Koblenz; he's got the build of a fireplug, compact and powerful, and boasting a remarkable 46 home runs this season - a feat any other player would rightfully celebrate! But when you're in the same lineup as Bobby Barrell, well, it's Bobby who commands the spotlight, and the numbers he's putting up are nothing short of phenomenal!

Taking the mound for the visiting Chiefs on this momentous occasion was Charlie Bingham, a crafty hurler known for his off-speed offerings and, dare I say, infuriating knuckleball. Ah yes, the knuckler - a pitch that can befuddle even the most seasoned hitters. Bobby himself has faced Bingham on numerous occasions, and while he may find the man "annoying" with that knuckleball of his, he's managed to hold his own against the righty, racking up a respectable 29 hits out of 100 at-bats, including five home runs, as the OSA records attest. But on this fateful day, it seems Bingham was all too aware of Bobby Barrell's impending milestone. Not wishing to make the history books as the pitcher who surrendered home run number 61, he displayed uncharacteristic restraint and handed Bobby a free pass, strolling him to first base on five pitches in the bottom of the first.

As the game progressed, the Chiefs managed to grab a slim 1-0 lead against the Keystones' starting pitcher, Joe Quade, in the top of the second, and that lead persisted until the home half of the fourth inning. As the inning unfolded, all eyes were on Bobby Barrell, who was set to lead off against the ever-tricky Charlie Bingham. With a knuckleball dancing its way towards the plate on the first pitch, Bobby wisely held back his swing, as the elusive ball dipped out of the strike zone for ball one. Bingham, in his wily fashion, delivered another knuckler on the next offering, and Bobby's timing was slightly off, resulting in a fouled ball that sailed back into the stands. Undeterred, Bingham threw yet another knuckleball, making it three in a row, but this one too found its way outside the zone for ball two. At that moment, this humble writer, perched alongside Rufus Barrell behind the home dugout, overheard the seasoned old scout - a former pitcher himself - confidently proclaim, "He's going to have to throw something else, and Bobby will be ready for it." Oh, the anticipation that hung in the air as both the pitcher and the batter sized each other up, engaged in a subtle dance of strategy and skill. The duel between Bingham's knuckleballs and Bobby Barrell's resolve had the crowd on the edge of their seats, eagerly awaiting the next chapter in this gripping baseball tale.

Oh, what a moment it was! Rufus Barrell's uncanny foresight, if indeed it was, stands as a testament to his profound understanding of the game. In the realm of baseball, no pitcher relishes the prospect of issuing a walk to the leadoff man, even when that batter happens to be the mighty Bobby Barrell. Yet, the seasoned scout was spot-on with his prediction. Charlie Bingham, the crafty hurler, received the sign from catcher Pete Casstevens, offered a nod of readiness, and delivered a tantalizing curveball towards home plate. Now, both Bingham and Barrell, each seasoned veterans at the age of 37, possess an unparalleled depth of knowledge accrued through decades of experience in the game. Yet, on this occasion, the wise old scout by my side proved to be right: Bobby Barrell displayed an unparalleled mastery, showcasing a textbook-perfect technique in his stroke. The resounding thwack of the wooden bat meeting the ball reverberated throughout the historic Broad Street Park. As the ball soared through the air, destined for right field, it became apparent that this was no ordinary hit for Bobby Barrell. Known for his prowess in opposite-field home runs, this time, it was all about the pull as the ball soared out to right field. Chiefs' right fielder Billy Brown could only turn around helplessly, witnessing the momentous occasion as the ball descended into a sea of hands, a multitude of fans eagerly vying for the cherished baseball that now etched a new chapter in the annals of the sport's history.

The atmosphere at Broad Street Park was electric as fans, including myself, who had chosen to sit amongst the fervent supporters, collectively rose to their feet. Over 15,000 pairs of eyes intently tracked the trajectory of the ball, as it soared majestically towards the right-field bleachers. But among the sea of standing spectators, there was one figure that remained seated, quietly observing the history unfolding before him – Rufus Barrell. A 74-year-old man, blessed with a lifetime of baseball wisdom, Rufus knew the gravity of the moment as soon as his son's bat made contact with the ball. And as the significance of the record-breaking homer settled in, a look of contentment and pride swept across his face, while a single tear escaped from his right eye. He later confided in me, revealing that his left eye hardly ever wept, a lasting reminder of the time he suffered a traumatic injury from a line drive to the head in 1891, an incident that marked the end of his own playing days but laid the foundation for his storied career as one of the most renowned scouts in baseball history.

In the jubilant atmosphere of the clubhouse, Rufus embraced his son, the record-breaker. Among the Barrell clan, sports prowess seems to run deep. Rufus proudly recounted to me that he has nine sons, each a skilled athlete in their own right, excelling in various sports. Bobby, the eighth among them, with only younger brother Harry behind, has stood out with his sheer dedication to the game. Rufus fondly recalled how, as boys, he and his wife Alice couldn't quite discern which of their youngest duo would emerge as the more exceptional athlete. "Bob was always more serious about it," he shared, comparing Bobby's resolute approach to the happy-go-lucky demeanor of his younger brother, Harry.

The Barrell patriarch expressed unwavering confidence in both boys, foreseeing bright futures for them on the diamond, just as he did for their older brother Tom, a stellar pitcher whose career was marred by unfortunate leg injuries (now commanding the Brooklyn Kings). "Bobby was always a strong boy," Rufus remarked, likening his physical prowess to that of his eldest brother, Joe, with a sturdy frame and a robust build. He also drew comparisons to their maternal grandfather, Joe Reid, an esteemed catcher and manager in his time.

While Joe may have had a mean streak, Rufus playfully shared that Bobby embodies the gentle nature of a teddy bear. Yet, underneath that affable exterior lies a formidable strength, which Bobby has wielded to become a baseball titan, leaving an indelible mark on the sport with his record-setting home runs. As Rufus proudly declared, "He is strong as an ox."

So there you have it, dear readers. The legacy of Rufus Barrell and his remarkable son Bobby, the home run dynamo. A story of triumph, tears, and the enduring spirit of baseball glory. The records may be broken, but the legend of Bobby Barrell, as strong as an ox, lives on!

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Rufus Barrell biographer John Brinker (1940 photograph)
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[legendsport]

October 18, 1947: Cincinnati, OH

"This whole thing... it's nuts," Charley McCullough was telling Roger Cleaves.

Roger tugged at his collar. "I hate these things," he muttered, ignoring for the moment Charley's statement.

Charley frowned and said, "You were a Marine; you guys have that fancy dress uniform."

Roger pulled a face of his own. "I spent most of the war in green dungarees, Charley. I think I wore that dress uniform once or maybe twice."

Charley wanted to get back to the matter at hand, so he leaned in to whisper, "Your brother is probably making a mistake."

"Well," Roger said with a shrug, "It's his mistake to make."

"He's your brother," Charley insisted.

Roger gave him a flat look. "He's your best friend, and you know him a helluva lot better than I do. I didn't even know him until just before the war, and then I spent the bulk of the war out in the Pacific while he was here playing baseball."

"He's color-blind," Charley pointed out.

The look on Roger's face told the tale of what he thought of that. "I'm color blind too," he said. Charley was taken aback, and it showed. "Really? How'd you get into the Marines?" he asked.

Roger gave a gallows laugh. "Simple. They didn't test me, and no one cared. We had a war to win, remember?"

Charley, who'd served in the Navy, nodded. "Yeah, I remember," he said.

"Good," Roger noted, then grinned and added, "You're a good guy... for a swabbie."

Charley walked away shaking his head.

He found his wife chatting with her cousins Agnes and Martha. "What are you three talking about? You look thick as thieves," Charley noted.

"Oh, we're just talking about my idiot brother rushing into something stupid," Gloria told her husband.

Charley chuckled without mirth and told her he'd been trying to get Roger to talk to Deuce about just that subject. "Roger's thick-headed too, though I suspect he has a romantic streak he hides under all his 'I'm a Marine dadgummit' bluster," Gloria noted.

"Well, whatever his reasons, he told me to do it myself," Charley replied.

Gloria touched his arm and noted, "Deuce is 30 years old. If he wants to make a big mistake... well, he's more than old enough to do it."

"You two need to stop that," a new voice noted. Gloria spun around to see her mother standing there. "Mom... sorry, I didn't know you were there," she said.

"I'm a little dubious about this Debbie too," Edna noted. "But Rufus is a grown man, and it's actually about time he started acting like one. Maybe this will end up being a good thing," she added.

Charley muttered something under his breath, and Edna shot him a look. "You have something to say, Charles?" she asked, one eyebrow arched.

"Uh, no," Charley said. He had considered explaining to his mother-in-law exactly why he thought this was a mistake. Debbie's reputation as a woman of... low moral character... wasn't something he felt comfortable talking about with Edna, though Gloria knew all about it. Let her explain it to her mother, he thought.

Edna gave them all a stern look, noted that both Marty and Aggie looked "gorgeous" in their dresses, and drifted off.

Across the room, Tom Barrell was standing with Powell Slocum.

"So, Tom, I never got a chance to congratulate you," Powell said.

"On what?" Tom asked.

"You boys finished strong. I think the future looks bright for the Kings," Powell noted. This made Tom feel good - Powell had been his manager when Tom had pitched for the Kings, had spent a decade as the Kings' skipper and won the franchise's lone World Championship with Tom and his brothers Dan, Fred, and Harry all playing key roles.

"I like our club," Tom admitted. He had found some of the moves the new guy in the front office had made to be... strange. But after a 1946 season that was a disaster in most respects, the '47 campaign had been a breath of fresh air as things started to click. "After we traded away Tiny Tim and Rats... if you had told me we'd finish four games out this year, I'd have told you to get your head examined," Tom admitted.

"Ralph Johnson certainly was a revelation," Powell noted, and Tom nodded. "That he was," he agreed. Johnson was receiving his Kellogg Award that very day as the Continental Association's top rookie. And Tom had heard through the media grapevine that Johnson was a strong possibility to also cop the Whitney Award as the loop's top batter. "I hope all this adulation doesn't go to his head," Tom told his former skipper.

Now Powell leaned in and said softly, "So what's this I hear about Deuce's bride?" he asked.

Tom looked uncomfortable. "Debbie Scanlon?" he asked, simply to buy time.

"Yeah," Powell replied.

"Uh... well, she has a bit of a reputation, if you know what I mean," Tom said. Powell, of course, having been a Hall-of-Fame player as well as a long-time coach and manager, knew exactly what Tom meant.

"Really?" Powell asked.

Tom nodded and then he lowered his voice even further and admitted, "I, uh, actually dated her myself."

If Powell had been holding a drink, he'd have done a fantastic spit-take. Instead, he sputtered and asked, "What? Did you..."

Tom, looking even more embarrassed, nodded and softly said, "It was before, you know, Marla."

"Oh, brother," Powell muttered.

"Oh, brother what?" Tom heard a familiar voice say from behind him.

He spun around and said, "Hello, dear," then grabbed his wife and gave her a peck on the cheek. "Uh... Powell and I were talking about something one of the rookies on the team did. Unbelievable stuff," he said, shooting a glance at Powell.

The older man was a quick study - he nodded and said, "Uh, yes, these kids..."

Marla frowned for a moment and said, "The way you two looked... seemed a lot more serious than some rookie doing something dumb."

Tom shrugged and Powell tried to look innocent. Marla had a look on her face that Tom knew was a dangerous one, so he steered the conversation elsewhere, asking Marla if she'd met Claudia, Powell's wife, and James' mother. Claudia and James were approaching, along with Rose Winfield. James' fiance.

A moment later Marla was busy chatting with Claudia and Rose, allowing Tom a moment to shoot a relieved look at Powell while James, seeing this, wore a quizzical look. Tom muttered, "Later," to his nephew, who had the sense to give a small nod and keep his mouth shut.

In another area of the reception hall, Rufus and Alice were talking with Yancy and Nancy Scanlon, Debbie's parents. Alice could tell that Rufus was dying to ask if having rhyming first names was an issue for the Scanlons - he'd mentioned this to Alice several times, and she'd warned him, in no uncertain terms, not to bring it up.

"So..." Rufus began. Alice, suspecting what he was about to ask, shot him a glare, and she saw Rufus frown a bit before going on, "Are you from Cincinnati originally?"

Alice breathed a sigh of relief.

Rollie and Jack Barrell were sitting at one of the tables. "I'm starting to feel old, Rollie," Jack told his brother.

Rollie took a sip of his drink and noted, "I'm older than you, Jack."

"True," Jack admitted. "With Joe gone, you're the old man of the Barrell brothers. You wear it well," he added with a smile.

"Thanks," Rollie said and laughed. "I know what you mean, though... our kids and our brothers' kids... they're getting married. Heck, Gloria has a baby already. I need to give Pop some grief about being a great-grandfather," he said.

Jack motioned to the crowded room. "I will give Deuce some credit. He managed to get all of us together, and that's no easy feat with everyone having so much going on."

And it was true. All seven of the surviving Barrell Brothers were there, as was Betsy and her husband. This being a Saturday, Tom Bowens had a game the next day, but since he played for Rollie's team, he figured he was safe from Frank Yurik's wrath. Jack was briefly playing hooky from the Toronto Dukes, who were in the preseason. Dan was the boss over at the OSA, and baseball season was over anyway, which also freed up Fred, Tom, Bobby, and Harry. Bobby, who was chatting pleasantly with Al Wheeler at another table, had won the Triple Crown for the second time, after hitting .356 with 64 home runs and 143 RBIs. Jack had noted that there were a lot of baseball fans who'd love to be a fly on the wall for the conversation between Bobby and Wheeler, two of only three men to have hit 500 home runs. The third, Ohio congressman Max Morris was not in attendance, though he had been invited. Harry was in the back of the room, doing magic tricks for the assorted younger Barrells (and some Scanlons). "I just hope he doesn't give someone a hot foot," Rollie had noted with amusement when Jack pointed to Harry. Dan and Fred were deep in a conversation of their own, probably about scouting. Jack knew that Fred really wanted to manage, and he was up for some of the openings.

As for the happy couple, Deuce was sitting with his new wife at the head table. Debbie was chatting with her sister while Deuce was watching Charlie Barrell chat up one of Debbie's nieces. Deuce had a curious, almost wistful look on his face. Jack saw this and mentioned it to Rollie.

"Probably having second thoughts," Rollie said.

"Did you?" Jack asked.

"What? Have second thoughts after marrying Francie?" Rollie asked and then looked around for his wife - finding her dancing with Mike Barrell, Dan's oldest son. Rollie smiled and said, "Nope, not even once. You?" he asked Jack.

Jack thought for a moment and then smiled and said, "You know what? I never did either. Marie is something special," he said.

"And don't you forget it!" Jack heard his wife say. He turned and gave her a kiss, causing their daughter Vera, who was standing behind Marie holding a plate with cake on it, to mutter, "Eww."

Bobby Barrell was frowning. He was getting an earful about Debbie from Al Wheeler. "I'm not bent that way," Wheeler had told him (and Bobby knew this to be true, Harry having told him what a straight-arrow Wheeler was). "But I'm pretty sure Tom..."

Bobby held up a hand and said, "Understood." He looked at the head table. "Well, maybe she's changed her ways," he said in a hopeful tone of voice.

Wheeler shrugged. "I've seen a lot in my time around the game, Bob," he said, then shoveled a forkful of wedding cake into his mouth. "One thing I've seen, and I know you have too, is that ballplayers love to tomcat around. That's never going to change, far as I can see, and I'm not sure that the wedding band on her finger will keep the boys from sniffing around, you know?"

Bobby sighed and nodded. "I hope not, Al," he began, then shook his head and added, "But you're probably right, human nature being what it is."

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Deuce Barrell and his wife Debbie at their wedding, October 1947
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[legendsport]

October 20, 1947: Detroit, MI

"I'm going to grab the newspaper from the porch," Tom Bowens told his wife as he was heading for the front door.

Mondays were the worst and his body didn't recover from the pounding of sixty minutes of professional football as quickly as it did when he was younger man. The big salary his brother-in-law Rollie Barrell had offered him was the only reason he had decided to play again. As he pulled the door open, he reflected that if he and Betsy hadn't been trying to have a second child back in June, he would have turned Rollie down, fifty thousand dollars or not. Now, Betsy was pregnant and his excitement about their upcoming addition to the family was needed fuel when he felt as battered as he did today.

He bent over to pick up the paper, groaning a bit, feeling that hit from Del Thomas in the small of his back. Thomas, a former team mate, hadn't let up on Tom at all and though he'd made his fame as a quarterback, Del was a ferocious defensive back too. As Tom scooped the paper up, he saw his name in a headline - a below-the-fold headline, but a headline nonetheless:

Tom Bowens Leads Detroit Maroons to Victory Against Boston in Thrilling Match at Thompson Field

In an exhilarating match at Thompson Field in Detroit, the Detroit Maroons secured a remarkable 24-21 victory against the Boston Americans, with an impressive attendance of 31,620 passionate fans. The game witnessed a fantastic performance by Tom Bowens, the star end of the Maroons, who played a pivotal role in their triumph. Perhaps making the victory even sweeter for Bowens was that it came over his former club.

The rushing battle between the two teams was intense. Boston's Henry Kugler led his team with 12 attempts for 54 yards, while the Maroons' Troy Renton put up a great fight with 13 attempts for 51 yards. Despite Boston's efforts, it was clear that the Maroons' rushing attack was more potent, with Mark Belles gaining 44 yards and Marc Orlosky tallying 49 yards and a touchdown.

The passing game showcased Del Thomas's impressive skills for Boston as he completed 16 out of 30 attempts for 224 yards, including three touchdown passes. However, Detroit's quarterback, Mike Beard, displayed his own prowess by completing 10 out of 19 passes for 127 yards and one touchdown.

The receiving game was equally thrilling. Art Ericksen, playing for Boston, caught five passes for 73 yards and scored a touchdown. On the other side, Tom Bowens was the standout for Detroit, also recording five receptions for 73 yards and a crucial touchdown that proved to be the eventual game-winner. Coach Frank Yurik of the Detroit Maroons praised Bowens, stating, "Tom's performance tonight was simply outstanding. He's a key player who can turn any game around in our favor."

Defensively, both teams put on a fierce display. Scott Ranz was a standout for Boston, making 11 tackles and causing one sack. Meanwhile, Detroit's Mike Hollingshead had eight tackles, one interception, and one forced fumble.

The game began with Eric Balfour's powerful kick that sailed 61 yards to the Maroons' 1-yard line. Marc Orlosky managed a solid return, setting up the Maroons at their own 26. The Detroit offense, led by Troy Renton and Mike Beard, showcased their versatility as they methodically advanced down the field. Marc Orlosky's 30-yard option pass to John Cline was a highlight, and Troy Renton ultimately plunged in for a 2-yard touchdown, putting the Maroons ahead 7-0 after Tommy Milatz's successful extra point.

Detroit would use an interception of a long pass by Del Thomas that was returned by Larry Murphy to the Boston 21 yard line. On the first play, Beard handed to Marc Orlosky who bulled his way through the line, stiff-armed Thomas and darted into the end zone for a 14-0 lead after Milatz converted the extra point.

The Boston Americans, undeterred by the early deficit, launched their offensive onslaught early in the second quarter. Del Thomas orchestrated the offense with precision, connecting with his talented receiving corps. Henry Kugler, Ed Johnson, and Art Ericksen were all involved as the Americans steadily marched forward. Thomas found Ben Zelmer for a 10-yard touchdown but the extra point attempt by Eric Balfour was wide right, leaving Boston behind 14-6.

The Maroons continued to showcase their offensive prowess on the very next drive, with Mike Beard finding Tom Bowens for 31 yards the powerful Detroit ground attack grinding forward. The Americans' defense, though game, was unable to stop the drive and Beard hit Bowens in the end zone for a 5-yard touchdown to extended the lead to 21-6.

The Americans responded swiftly, with Del Thomas orchestrating another spectacular drive, connecting with Art Ericksen for a key first down and then striking paydirt with a successful pass to Ed Johnson for a touchdown. Balfour's extra point cut the deficit to 21-13 as the clock wound towards halftime.

As the second half began, the intensity only grew. Both defenses tightened their grip, making each yard hard-fought. The Detroit Maroons' defense, led by Bill Dickinson and Mike Hollingshead, proved formidable, stopping Boston on a 4th & 6 from the Detroit seven-yard-line, when Thomas' pass intended for Johnson was tipped at the line by Bowens and fell short of its target, giving the ball back to Beard and the offense.

The Maroons capitalized on the turnover, orchestrating a strong drive deep into American territory. Troy Renton bulldozed his way into the end zone, extending the Maroons' lead to 28-13 after Tommy Milatz's successful extra point.

Thomas would lead the Americans on another long drive, and this time complete it successfully. His 14-yard toss to Ericksen and the extra point that followed cut the deficit to 28-20, but that was all either offense could muster as the defenses dominated the fourth quarter. Each side turned the ball over twice in the final stanza with Mark Belles and Mike Beard fumbling it away for Detroit and Thomas both fumbling and throwing an interception for Boston. The interception proved the final nail in the coffin for Boston, as Mike Hollingshead's big play gave the ball to Detroit with 6:12 left to play and the Maroons' trio of outstanding backs ground the game out from there, getting down to the Boston 1-yard-line before penalties pushed them back. But even that didn't matter as time expired.

The Detroit Maroons enjoyed the victory, securing a hard-fought victory with a final score of 28-20. Tom Bowens' impressive performance and Coach Frank Yurik's strategic guidance were instrumental in leading the Maroons to triumph, making it a night to remember for the roaring Detroit crowd.

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Tom Bowens, Detroit, 1947
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[legendsport]

November 9, 1947: Detroit, MI:

The dimly lit restaurant provided the perfect ambiance for a conversation between brothers Jack and Rollie Barrell. As the waiter served Jack his sizzling ribeye, Rollie couldn't help but express his envy for the mouthwatering dish. "That looks good. I'd kill for a good steak," he remarked.

Chuckling, Jack raised an eyebrow and asked, "So why'd you get fish then?"

Rollie let out a sigh of frustration, "Francie's been on my back about what I eat. Apparently she spoke to our family doctor, and he filled her head full of nonsense about red meat being bad for you."

"Mankind's been eating red meat since the discovery of fire, if not before," Jack stated confidently, savoring a bite of his steak.

A familiar voice interrupted the brothers' banter from behind. "Revenge is a dish best served cold, eh, Jack?" Junior Connelly remarked, having overheard their conversation.

Rollie's reaction was immediate, and Jack realized he would have known who was standing behind him even without recognizing the voice. "Hello, Rollie," Junior greeted him, before turning back to Jack.

With a calm demeanor, Jack responded, "Revenge has nothing to do with it, Junior. Business is business, and my business is winning hockey games."

"Well, it's cold on the ice and your boys have beaten my team three times in a matter of weeks," Connelly pointed out.

This was true. Jack's Toronto Dukes had opened the season with a home-and-home with his former Detroit club and beaten them in both. And the reason he was in Detroit this night, enjoying a late dinner with his brother, was that the Dukes had beaten the Motors handily, 5-1, at the Thompson Palladium earlier that day.

Junior frowned a bit before adding, "Look, Jack, I'm sorry about the way things ended."

Jack figured this was true. The Motors were scuffling under the man who'd replaced him, Mark Moore. Ironically, and proving pro hockey was a small world, the man who replaced Jack in Detroit had come from Tacoma - which was where Jack's road back to the NAHC had begun. Moore had led the Motors to a fifth-place finish in his first year (the same slot Jack's last year with the Motors had yielded) then finished third in 1946-47 to make the playoffs but had lost in the first round. This year the club was off to a slow start - the 5-1 loss to Detroit had them at 0-9 to start the season. Thinking on it for a moment, Jack was certain he'd never had a nine-game losing streak as a player or as a coach.

"I bet," Rollie muttered. Junior, if he heard, pretended he hadn't. He and Rollie shared the Thompson Palladium because Rollie's Detroit Mustangs also played there. But Rollie, as Jack's brother, had no love for Junior Connelly, just as he wasn't the biggest fan of their shared landlord, Powell Thompson.

"I'm sorry it ended that way too," Jack said. He and Junior had been friends a long time and won championships together before things went south and the finger-pointing began.

"How's your family doing?" Junior asked.

Jack smiled at the change in topic. "They're doing well. Marie is Marie, of course. Aggie is dating Quinton Pollack of all people," he said, explaining how they'd met in Tacoma and that Pollack had helped her get past her lingering resentment and anger about losing her husband.

"Pollack... he's quite a player," Connelly said ruefully. "We would have grabbed him up if we could have," he added after a moment. Jack knew this was true - all six of the remaining NAHC teams had been salivating about Pollack as soon as the Brooklyn Eagles had folded. There had been other good players in the Eagles organization but no one with the talent and shining promise that Pollack possessed.

Jack nodded in reply before continuing, "Jean is working for an advertising agency, doing illustrations. She's quite talented. She went to art school and paints in her free time, but she's 24 now and wants to be an independent woman." Jack shook his head, but was smiling.

"And Vera?" Junior asked.

"She graduated high school this year and has enrolled at Detroit City College."

"Not one of the schools in Ontario?" Junior asked. He himself was born in Canada and though he held dual-citizenship he still considered Canada home. Though Aggie and Jean had been born in Canada, Vera had been born in Chicago and spent most of her formative years in Detroit. Jack explained this to Junior, who nodded as he remembered that detail.

Junior was ultimately invited to sit. Rollie talked about his family: Marty was living in New York where her husband was an assistant football coach for the New York Football Stars while Allie had one year of high school remaining and was determined to attend DCC just like her cousin, where she'd major in business and then take a front office job with the Detroit Maroons. "She has her future completely mapped out," Rollie said, only half-jokingly.

"A woman running a professional sports franchise?" Junior asked with raised eyebrows.

"Matilda Johnson is doing it in Philadelphia," Rollie pointed out, mentioning the Sailors owner.

"From what I hear, she owns the team, but doesn't involve herself with the business end, let alone the player-personnel side," Junior said.

"Probably a good idea for owners to stay out of player-personnel stuff anyway," Jack said. This was a jibe, and all three men at the table knew it - the hard feelings were still there and Junior's meddling in roster matters had been the main bone of contention between him and Jack.

"I've learned that lesson," Junior said.

Jack wondered if all this was legitimate. Junior would never admit he was the main reason for their falling out, but even admitting that he should have let his hockey men deal with the draft and roster construction? That was a big admission in itself.

"You know Jack," he said but Rollie held up a hand and said, "Whoa, Junior."

Connelly looked at him, frowning.

"Were you just about to say 'You can always come back to Detroit?' or something along those lines?" Rollie asked him.

Junior didn't answer but the look on his face said that was exactly what he was about to say.

"That would be tampering, wouldn't it?" Rollie asked, then added, "I don't know for sure about the NAHC but I know in both football and basketball, we have rules about that stuff."

Junior looked at Jack. "Is he serious?" he asked.

Jack chuckled and said, "Yeah, Rollie is running that new basketball league, you know, as league president until they get around to hiring a real boss," Rollie smiled at this as Jack continued, "and he's always been a stickler for the rules." Then Jack looked at his brother and said, "Yes, the NAHC has a tampering rule, Rollie."

Rollie nodded. Junior was wearing a rueful smile. "And you'd turn me in?" he asked Rollie.

Rollie shook his head and said, "No, I don't have a dog in that fight. But if an investigation ever happened and they asked me about it, I'd tell them the truth."

Junior shook his head. "You Barrells and your morality," he said with a light laugh. "Well... I didn't actually make an offer, but I think you know where I stand, so we'll leave it unsaid."

Now Rollie laughed and said, "So now if Jack or I are asked we can say that such an offer was never made."

Junior winked and said, "Exactly."

Jack laughed too and said, "Well, David Welcombe would have a heart attack if I marched into his office and told him I'm leaving."

Junior's drink arrived and he raised his glass, said, "Heaven forbid," and took a long gulp.

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[legendsport]

December 19, 1947: Washington, DC:

"Brrr, I hate the cold," Dorothy Bates complained to her son, Charlie Barrell.

Rolling his eyes, Charlie reminded his mother, "You were born in Wisconsin, as Myrtle Bates, before becoming a Hollywood star. You should be used to the cold."

Dorothy waved her hand dismissively, saying, "That was a lifetime ago, Charlie."

Exiting the Capital Academy gymnasium, Charlie and his family celebrated his team's victory in the school's annual holiday tournament. Charlie had led Capital to victory against a tough team from New York City, scoring an impressive 20 points.

"That was some game, Charlie," his uncle Dan Barrell said, beaming with pride. His wife Gladys nodded in agreement. She was a former basketball scout who'd worked for Rollie Barrell's now-defunct basketball club in the old Federal league back in the late 1920s. Rollie was back in the basketball business with a new Federal league; this time his team was in his adopted hometown of Detroit and was called the Mustangs.

Curious about Dorothy's opinion, Gladys asked, "What did you think, Dot?"

"Oh, I suppose it was fine," she said. Then she added, "I don't know much about sports. Except football of course - Joe taught me all about that."

Charlie rolled his eyes again. He didn't remember much about his father, but he doubted his mother ever had taken much interest in football. She'd never bothered to come see him play.

Sensing Charlie's frustration, Dan decided to change the topic. "So, Charlie, I got a call from the FABL offices asking if you've decided on the draft. It happens next month, you know."

Charlie nervously chewed his lip, and Dorothy, showing her lack of knowledge about sports, asked, "FABL is baseball, right?"

"Yes, mom," Charlie replied with a hint of annoyance.

"They draft high schoolers?" she continued with her questioning.

"Yes, mom," Charlie replied again, trying to hide his exasperation.

Curious about the financial aspect, Dorothy inquired further, "What kind of money are we talking about?"

Dan took a moment to think before answering, "Well, in my opinion, Charlie's probably a high first-rounder right now. So, the signing bonus would likely be somewhere in the eight to ten thousand dollar range."

Dorothy merely replied with a thoughtful "Hmm..." before asking, "And if he goes to college? Football and basketball drafts happen after college, right?"

"Yes," Dan confirmed.

"And they would pay more or less?" Dorothy inquired.

Gladys answered this time, explaining, "Most likely less, depending on the circumstances. By 1952, both the football and basketball wars should be over. The competing leagues are driving salaries up, and if that continues, Charlie might get more than he would from FABL, even after college."

Deciding to offer her input, Dorothy declared, "Oh, you should absolutely go to college, Charlie."

"Ugh, more school," Charlie groaned.

"You could come home, go to Coastal or CCLA," Dorothy suggested.

"Maybe," Charlie conceded. "I do have some scholarship offers already. But I'm leaning towards Noble Jones."

"Isn't that in Georgia?" Dorothy asked, surprising her son.

"Yes. How did you know that?" Charlie asked her.

"Simple," she replied. "That's where your father played football."

Charlie's eyes widened. He had no idea she knew that. Dorothy saw his look and laughed. Though she was now forty, that famous smile lit up her face and Dan found himself openly staring. Though she'd been married to his oldest brother, she was actually several years younger than Dan himself - Gladys too. Unfortunately for Dan the latter saw him staring and swatted him on the arm.

Dorothy was oblivious to all this, having long been used to having men stare. She looked at her son, laughed again, and said, "I told you that Joe told me all about football."

Dan, feeling slightly embarrassed, agreed, "I think Noble Jones would be a great idea."

Gladys teased him, saying, "But Dan, you went to Chicago Poly. I'm surprised you're not campaigning for Charlie to go there."

Dan shrugged and replied, "Well, Poly's football team hasn't been doing great. Noble is probably the better choice if Charlie's going to play three sports."

Charlie confirmed, "Oh, I'm going to play three sports."

Dan stopped and put his hand on Charlie's shoulder. "Does this mean you're saying no to entering the FABL draft?"

Charlie turned and looked at his mother for a second. Then he said, "Yes, that's exactly what it means. I'm saying no to entering the FABL draft."

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Charlie Barrell, late 1947
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[legendsport]

December 20, 1947: Daytona Beach, FL:

James Slocum stood on the hard-packed sand of Daytona Beach. He knew from his uncle Rollie's stories that this stretch of sand was close to the strand at Orland Beach where his father had first raced the red Buick D-55 his grandparents had instructed their sons to sell in Atlanta. Instead, Jimmy Barrell had convinced his older brother to take the car to Florida to "race against some rich Yankees." And race it they did, winning (according to Rollie) over $100. Then they'd gone home, stashed the Buick in an abandoned barn, and had only gotten caught when Bill Merlon had sent a telegram to the farm wanting to hire Jimmy to drive for him.

James had relayed all this to Rose and her father. While Rose was largely interested because of her feelings for James, Jack Winfield had only known Jimmy Barrell for a short time after the war. He loved hearing details about the young man he remembered as being a driver who was "all guts and instinct," as he put it. James had told the Winfields about how his father had lied about his age, enlisting in the Army while Rufus & Alice were thousands of miles away in California. About how he'd finagled his way into the Signal Corps, where he found Bill Merlon and further finagled himself into a role as first an aircraft mechanic and later, a pilot. How he'd been shot down, wounded, captured by the Germans and sent to a POW hospital where he'd met Claudia, his future wife, and James' mother. He also mentioned Marie, the young French girl he'd romanced who lived near the air base and was the mother of James' half-sister, Agnes. And how Jimmy had died before either of them had been born.

But that was all in the past - the present, and particularly the future, were why James was in Florida with Jack and Rose. Jack had gotten together a group of like-minded men and arranged a meeting at the Beachcomber Hotel. The agenda: the formation of a racing organization built around the principle of using "stock" cars (which meant ordinary street vehicles) as race cars. Naturally, these so-called "stock" cars were customized to varying extents by their drivers, but in theory, they were the same automobiles anyone could purchase from a dealership in their hometowns. Jack's idea had come about because of bootlegging. Moving illegal whiskey to sell it during Prohibition (and after) had given rise to a need for cars that were small, fast, and nimble enough to avoid the police, and the drivers modified their street cars for these purposes. That, combined with the unique beach and blacktop road course at Daytona, had inspired Winfield that perhaps he could combine the two into a brand-new type of racing. He'd driven race cars for years and had run the race at Indianapolis many times before age caught up with him (it was during one of the Indianapolis races that Jimmy Barrell had lost his life), and those cars were fast but specialized for racing. Winfield's idea was simple: race cars that more closely resembled what the fans were driving themselves. There would be three divisions: roadsters, modified, and stock.

Jack Winfield's proposal was put to 35 men with the financial wherewithal and either the driving skill or a hired hand who had that skill and would drive for them. There was one big issue.

"The automakers can't keep up with demand," Jack Winfield told his audience. "The end of the war has seen every family wanting to own a car. The big irony is that during the war the plants churned out Shermans by the thousands for the Army, but even after retooling, they can't keep up with the demand of our private citizens for Fords, Chevys, and the like." There was a mix of subdued laughter and some shaking and nodding of heads.

"So we'll run the modifieds only in 1947. Then we can reassess things for 1948. I expect that modified and roadsters to be more popular than the stock circuit anyway," Jack said.

James wasn't sure about this last part - and he'd told Jack as much. "The stock circuit is going to be the biggest draw, Jack."

Jack had shook his head. He liked his future son-in-law and saw much of his old friend Jimmy Barrell in him, but he also saw him as being wet behind the ears when it came to racing. "I don't know, Jim," he replied. Jack was one of only a few people James would allow calling him anything but 'James' - the others were Bill Merlon (and for the same reason as Jack) and, of course, Rose, who James would allow to call him anything she wanted.

"The stock might be too ordinary for the working Joes," Jack said. "The roadsters are really popular in the midwest and northeast," he pointed out.

James nodded and said, "Sure. But my guess is that where this will really catch on is in the southeast. That's where bootlegging is and was the biggest. I bet the coast from North Carolina down to Florida is going to love this stuff."

Rose laughed and said, "I sure hope so." Then she turned to her father and added, "You know, Dad, I think James is right."

Jack had chuckled at this good-naturedly. He said, "Well, as long as it catches on, I don't care which division it is, or even where it catches on. So long as it does catch on!"

In the larger meeting that followed this small tête-à-tête between the three of them, Jack had outlined his plans for the modified and roadster divisions for 1947 and left the stock division out of the planning, noting they'd reconvene sometime in the second half of '47 to discuss the particulars.

"Don't you have a wedding in the middle of next year?" one of the group asked. Jack nodded, smiling, and said, "Indeed I do. And in fact, my future son-in-law will be one of our stock drivers."

James, sitting nearby, smiled as Rose squeezed his hand.

"Gotta let the kids have their honeymoon first, eh Jack?" the man who'd asked about the wedding threw in, causing general laughter.

Jack joined in and nodded. "Of course. I'd never hear the end of it from my daughter if it happened any other way!"

James thought this all sounded good to him. And to be honest, as excited as he was about making Rose his wife in June - he was nearly as excited at the thought of following in his father's footsteps. After all, that old Buick D-55 Jimmy Barrell had raced on the sands of Orland & Daytona beaches all those years ago was literally a stock car.

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Jimmy Barrell and his infamous Buick D-55 in 1916 on Orland Beach, FL
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[legendsport]

January 24, 1948: Toronto, ON:

"How'd you do it, Maman?" Agnes asked her mother.

Marie didn't take her eyes off the action on the ice as she answered her daughter's question with one of her own, "Do what, cherie?"

"This?" Aggie waved a hand toward the ice. The Toronto Dukes were hosting the Chicago Packers at the Dominion Gardens. As the wife and family of the head coach, Marie and her daughters had good seats. Vera sat on Marie's left, and Aggie on her right. Jean had begged off - she was locked in a battle of wills with Marie.

"Hockey? What is there to do? You sit and you watch the game. I did not understand this at first, but your Papa... you should have seen him!" Marie enthused.

Aggie smiled. "I did see him, Maman," she replied with a smile, remembering watching Jack Barrell flying around the ice as a young girl. Her smile faded, and she asked, "What I meant was, how did you deal with the worry that Papa would get seriously hurt?"

Marie made a derisive sound and replied, "Your papa is tougher than he looks. Sure, he 'took his lumps,' as he would say, and he spent more than a few nights in the hospital." Marie took her eyes off the ice where the Dukes were handling the first-place Packers much better than expected. She looked at Aggie and gently asked, "You are worried about your young man, are you not?"

Aggie smiled at her mother's phrasing. She had been following Jack Barrell around the western hemisphere for almost thirty years, but she sometimes still spoke like the French farm girl she'd once been. "Yes, Maman, I am worried about Quinton."

Marie took her daughter's hand and with the other pointed to Quinton on the ice. He was getting ready to take a faceoff. "That young man? He is incredibly gifted," she told her daughter. "I have seen many hockey matches," she added, again showing her still slightly-imperfect grasp of the language. "He is one of the best players I have ever seen," she concluded.

"But he's still just a man and...." Aggie said, not finishing her thought.

"C'est vrai," Marie replied in her native tongue. "And he can... and will... get hurt. This is the nature of life, cherie. We can only..." she paused for a moment as she thought of how to say what she was thinking, then continued, "... walk into the future bravely, and hope for the best."

Aggie was looking at her feet. Her mother squeezed her hand and went on, "This is not like it was with William," she said, and Aggie gave a sad smile. Her mother had never called Aggie's husband 'Bill' - to her, he was always William. "William was a sailor and died in service to his country," Marie said. "Quinton is a hockey player," she continued and again pointed to the ice where Quinton was shoving his way into a position near the Packers' goal. "He will be hurt, but he will also recover. You cannot live in fear, cherie. Life is short and you should enjoy it."

Aggie squeezed her mother's hand. She had been worried about Quinton for months. In October, he had been hit in the face with the puck while playing against the New York Shamrocks; the resulting gash had taken thirty stitches to close, and the scar... was ugly, though it had faded some since.

Vera, sitting on Marie's other side, had been listening to all this intently. She pursed her lips and then said, "Maman? What about Jean?"

Marie's head snapped around. "Jean? What about her?" she asked.

"Well... you are telling Aggie that life should be enjoyed, and yet you are preventing her from chasing her dream," Vera explained, trying to soften her mother's stance on her daughter wishing to leave Toronto. Jean was 24, working for an advertising agency in downtown Toronto but wanted to go to New York or Chicago "where the action really is," as she put it. Jack had mixed feelings about this: Marie decidedly did not and was adamantly opposed. Jack had suggested that Vera talk to her mother. He himself had explained to Marie that Jean was an adult and she could go anywhere she wished, at any time she wished to do it. The fact that she was even discussing this with her parents was a sign that she was not a flighty child but was showing maturity and responsibility. He hadn't been able to change Marie's mind, but thought Vera might. As the youngest of the three girls, Vera had a special relationship with her mother.

"Jean should stay near her family. This is for her own good," Marie said stubbornly.

Now Aggie joined in. "Maman, I was married and living in Hawaii when I was two years younger than Jean is now," she said, giving her mother's hand another squeeze. "You should let her go. Let her live her life. After all, this is nothing less than what you've let me do."

Marie frowned. She didn't like this, at all. She tried to explain to Aggie and Vera that in Aggie's case, she was a married woman and had William to take care of her. Aggie pointed out that had only lasted until Bill had been killed aboard USS Arizona. After that, she was on her own. Vera also mentioned that of the three of them, Jean was the one who was the most responsible. Aggie laughed and said, "Well, she's much more level-headed than I am, that's for sure!" making both Vera and Marie laugh as well.

"I will think about it," Marie finally said after the laughter had ended and the three of them had sat thinking for a moment.

Vera opened her mouth, but Aggie, leaning over, said, "Let it go, Vera. Maman said she'll think about it, and that's about all we can hope for."

Marie narrowed her eyes at her eldest daughter but then gave a small nod.

There was an audible crunch, punctuated by a collective "Ooooh" sound from the crowd, catching Aggie's attention. Quinton had been checked into the boards, hard, by Chicago defenseman Jesse Santoro. Their seats were good enough that Aggie could clearly see the grimace of pain on Quinton's face as he slowly skated toward the bench and heard him tell Jack, "It's my back," as he made his way through the small door in the boards while another Dukes player hopped over to replace him.

"You see Maman?" Aggie asked her mother.

Marie shook her head and firmly said, "He'll be fine."

"You sound like Papa," Vera noted.

Marie looked at her and replied, "Your Papa is a smart man, cherie."

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Marie Barrell (center) with Vera (l) and Jean (r) in Detroit, 1944
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[legendsport]

February 2, 1948: Detroit, MI:

From LIFE magazine:
The Mustang: Rollie Barrell, the Visionary Sports Mogul
By John Anderson, Special Correspondent

In the heart of Detroit, where the echoes of roaring engines have dominated the city's soundscape, a new symphony is emerging. The score is set by the thumping of basketballs and the cheers of passionate fans. At the center of this melodious spectacle stands Roland "Rollie" Barrell, the mastermind behind the Detroit Mustangs of the Federal Basketball League (FBL).

Born on June 17, 1896, in the bustling borough of Brooklyn, Rollie was destined for greatness from an early age. His father, Rufus Barrell, a renowned baseball scout and co-founder of the Omni Sports Bureau, instilled a love for sports that ran through the veins of the entire Barrell family. As his brothers made their marks in baseball, football and hockey, Rollie found his passion in the world of golf, displaying prodigious talent on the green.

In his youth, Rollie's sporting achievements were impressive. He played both golf and basketball at Noble Jones College, making his mark in the same way as his brothers, albeit in different sports. But fate had different plans for the young athlete. First the war prevented him from participating in the U.S. Open when it was cancelled for 1917 and 1918. He did compete in the 1919 Canadian Open but shortly thereafter a head injury cut short his promising golf career, burdening him with debilitating migraines and affecting his eyesight. Undeterred, Rollie faced adversity with courage, seeking new avenues to channel his passion for sports.

It was during those dark days of World War I that Rollie encountered the love of his life, Frances "Francie" York, herself a talented golfer and the sister of future FABL player, and current Detroit Dynamos manager, Dick York. Their meeting at a promotional golf event supporting war bonds sparked a romance that would endure a lifetime. Married on July 25, 1919, their union bore witness to countless chapters in the annals of sports history.

Rollie's entry into the world of professional football was a momentous occasion. He became a founding member of the American Football Association (AFA) in 1920 and took ownership of the Detroit Maroons. The club has thrived under his leadership, capturing several championships and cementing Rollie's status as a trailblazing sports entrepreneur.

With a vision that transcended fields and courts, Rollie partnered with Brooklyn-based businessman Daniel Prescott to form the original incarnation of the Federal Basketball League in the late 1920s. Although the league faced adversity and was shut down during the Great Depression, Rollie's innovative spirit never wavered. After the Second World War's conclusion in 1945, he joined forces with like-minded businessmen to breathe life into a resurrected FBL, daring to challenge the established American Basketball Conference (ABC) which had started operations in 1937. The ABC had been built on the ashes of the defunct FBL by Prescott and other east coast businessmen and had become, by war's end, a well-established, if intermittently supported, enterprise.

"Our league will conquer in this war for the hearts of basketball fans, mark my words," Rollie declared, his eyes shining with determination. "We're here to make history, to create the kind of organization that North American fans deserve!"

At the helm of the Detroit Mustangs and serving as the League President, Rollie Barrell has emerged as the driving force of the FBL. Yet, he remains grounded, seeking an "outsider" to take the mantle of League President, much like Federally Aligned Baseball League commissioner Sam Belton. "Independence is vital to ensuring fairness and integrity," he explained.

As Rollie orchestrates the Mustangs' journey to success, his daughters, Martha and Alice, stand as a testament to his enduring legacy. Marty, married to Jack McCarver, an assistant coach for the New York Football Stars, carries the family's love for sports into a new generation. Meanwhile, Allie, a high school senior at Detroit's Pershing High School, shows promise in writing her own chapter in the history of sports as she seeks to follow in her father's footsteps. "Allie is quite determined to someday run both the Maroons and the Mustangs," Rollie explained, adding, "And I think she'll do it."

While the Mustangs face challenges on the court, Rollie Barrell remains steadfast in his resolve to elevate the FBL to unparalleled heights. With clubs spread from the east coast to the mid-west, the battle for basketball supremacy between the FBL and ABC rages on. Rollie's indomitable spirit reverberates through the halls of the league, echoing the spirit of Detroit's never-say-die attitude.

The man himself has become a Detroit sports icon. The Maroons are one of the bulwark franchises of the AFA, and Rollie has earned a spot as one of the most powerful voices in that professional football league, one that is facing a challenge of its own in the Continental Football Conference. On that front, Rollie believes there is opportunity: "I can perhaps see a path to a reconciliation between the AFA and CFC, whereby perhaps some of their clubs become AFA clubs."

In the words of Rufus Barrell, the proud patriarch, "The love for sports runs deep in our family's veins. Rollie is a visionary, a man who paints with dreams and turns them into reality. I have no doubt that his legacy will shine for generations to come."

As the world watches, the trailblazer Rollie Barrell continues his quest to reshape North America's sports landscape, leaving an indelible mark on the courts and hearts of fans far and wide. Detroit, the city of innovation, proudly watches its visionary adopted son lead the charge, forever altering the trajectory of professional sports in the Motor City.

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Rollie Barrell, photographed for LIFE magazine, 1948
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[legendsport]

February 6, 1948: New York, NY:

"I will not be intimidated. I can do this," Jean Barrell said, only realizing she'd spoken aloud when she saw the sidelong looks a few of the people streaming past on the sidewalk threw in her direction.

She was standing on the Madison Avenue sidewalk in front of a tall building. She wondered if they built anything but tall buildings in Manhattan. Realizing that she had formed an island in the stream of people walking up and down the sidewalk, and suddenly self-conscious about it, she turned towards the building. She had to navigate the cross-stream of people to actually get into the lobby, but she got there.

There was a directory on the wall. She knew where the offices were, but she looked at the directory anyway. "Anderson, Klein & Trask, 19th Floor," she read and then headed for the elevators.

She nodded briskly to the elevator operator, a serious-looking man who stood outside his elevator. She stepped inside and turned around to face the doors. Several other people were in the car, and several more entered before the operator stepped inside. "Nineteenth floor," she replied when asked what floor.

As the elevator made its way up the shaft, she felt a mix of nervous energy and excitement. The fight had been long and hard, but eventually, Marie Barrell had been convinced by Jean, her daughters Aggie and Vera, and her husband Jack to allow Jean to leave Toronto and take a job in New York. Now she was here, it was her first day, and she looked forward to starting her own life away from her mother's watchful gaze.

The doors opened on the nineteenth floor. She thanked the elevator operator and stepped off into a hallway. The floors were marble, and there was the smell of fresh flowers in the air. At one end of the hall was a door whose glass panel read "Anderson, Klein & Trask, Advertising Agency." She turned and headed that way.

Inside the agency, she was greeted by Mr. Anderson himself. He was, of course, one of the firm's partners, and he had been impressed by her portfolio and hired her himself. She hadn't met either Mr. Klein or Mr. Trask, but Mr. Anderson had told her they'd all been impressed with her illustrations.

Anderson showed her around the office, eventually leading her to the desk she'd call her own as part of the firm's creative department. As Jean sat down in her chair and began to soak up her surroundings, Anderson perched on the corner of her desk and picked up the telephone on it.

"Lisa, this is Mr. Anderson. Have Mr. Lee meet me in creative," he said and replaced the receiver. He looked at Jean and smiled. Anderson was, in Jean's estimation, about her father's age. He wore spectacles and was a bit overweight. He took a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, shook one loose, and popped it between his lips. As he reached into his pocket for his lighter, he held the pack towards Jean. She shook her head and said, "No, thank you. I don't smoke."

He nodded at her and lit his cigarette. After blowing a cloud of smoke into the air, he said, "Jean, we have a fantastic opportunity for you. We want you to collaborate with one of our top ad executives, Gene Lee, on a campaign for a new beverage client called 'Sunburst Sips.'"

Jean's eyes lit up with enthusiasm, "I'm thrilled to work on it, Mr. Anderson! I'll give it my all."

An attractive, confident-looking man joined them a moment later. Anderson looked at him and said, "Gene, this is Jean Barrell, our new, brilliant artist. You two will be working hand in hand on the 'Sunburst Sips' campaign," Mr. Anderson introduced. Jean blushed a little when Anderson referred to her as "brilliant."

Gene extended his hand with a warm smile, "Great to meet you, Miss Barrell. I've heard wonderful things about your talent."

Jean shook his hand, feeling an instant connection. "Likewise, Mr. Lee. I'm excited to work together and create something exceptional for 'Sunburst Sips.'"

Anderson laughed. "I'm sorry, I just made the connection when you two were referring to each other as Mr. Lee and Miss Barrell. You have the same first name!"

Gene Lee laughed, and Jean found it so infectious she joined in. Gene noted, "Well, not really boss. That is, assuming you don't spell your name G-E-N-E, Miss Barrell."

Jean shook her head. "No, it's J-E-A-N."

"There you go. They're homonyms," Gene said with a nod. "But Mr. Anderson's right. We'll have all kinds of trouble with this 'Gene & Jean' stuff around here. I'll just call you Miss Barrell, or maybe Barrell?"

Jean bobbed her head. "Sure, that'll work. And I'll just call you Lee?"

Anderson laughed again and clapped his hands once. "It appears you two have it all worked out. I'll let you get to work. Gene... Lee, that is... please get Miss Barrell up to speed. I look forward to seeing what you two come up with for Sunburst."

With that, the boss stood up and walked away.

Gene perched himself on the corner of her desk, right where Anderson had been. He looked at her and said, "So... Barrell? You related to Rufus?"

Jean was taken aback. "How do you know Rufus Barrell?" she asked.

Gene laughed. "Ah, answering a question with a question. Good move, Barrell." He nodded, and the smile remained on his face as he said, "I was a ballplayer, and there aren't many ballplayers who don't know Rufus Barrell, or his many sons."

Jean shook her head. "I've heard my father mention this," she said. Gene's quizzical look prompted her to continue, "My father's Jack Barrell, and Rufus is his father - my grandfather. My father's the coach of the Toronto Dukes, but he did play some minor league baseball when he was a young man."

They talked about Gene's baseball career. It was brief. "I had two cups of coffee," he admitted. "Really small cups. I played in four games for the Cougars, two each in '44 and '45, and had three total at-bats. No hits, never got on base, but also never struck out. I'm proud of the last bit, at least." He'd been a catcher, and the Cougars had released him after the 1945 season. "With the war over and everyone coming back, they didn't have room for me." He shrugged. "I miss the competition, but I always had a creative streak too, and I really enjoy the advertising game," he said, then asked about her.

She related her experiences explaining that she'd always enjoyed drawing, and then dabbled in painting. "I had a bit of an infatuation with Sal Pestilli," she admitted, relating the story of the painting she'd done that had eventually made its way to Sal himself. "Of course, now he's with the Cougars," Gene said with another warm laugh. Jean nodded. "We moved around a lot. My father played hockey through most of my childhood and then became a coach. I've lived in a bunch of places: Montreal, Toronto, New York, Chicago, Detroit..." she trailed off.

"That must have been... tough?" Gene asked.

Jean nodded. "It was, but my Maman - she's French, so she's always been Maman to me and my sisters - was... is, a rock. With Papa gone a lot, she kept it all together." She described her family - stoic, dependable Jack at the helm, her fiery but loving mother Marie, her flighty and equally fiery older sister Agnes "we call her Aggie," and her kid sister, the quiet and confident Vera. "Poor Papa," Jean said, "having to live with four women. He has nine brothers, you know."

Gene whistled and said, "Well, I know of a few of them. Dan, Fred, Tom, Bobby, and Harry - they all play, or played, ball, so..." he trailed off.

Jean admitted, "I never really enjoyed sports. Baseball itself wasn't a big part of my life, for obvious reasons, and even though I've attended hundreds of hockey games, I never enjoyed them like my mother and sisters." She explained that Aggie and Vera were both big fans and that Aggie was actually dating one of the Dukes players.

They chatted for a few more minutes, then Gene stood up and said, "I suppose we'd better get to work." Jean took a deep breath and nodded. "Sounds good to me. I'm new, so I'll just follow your lead... Lee," she said with a grin.
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Jean Barrell at work, 1948