The Ballad of the Brothers Barrell - A Figment Story

[legendsport]

December 17, 1943: Detroit, MI:

Jack Barrell slammed the phone down, his face red and his breathing heavy. He tried to calm himself down, but couldn't remember the last time he had been so angry. He stood up and took several deep breaths, attempting to quell his rage. He glanced around his study, the one room in the house that was unequivocally his, as he lived with four women. His eyes fell on his collection of trophies earned during his successful career in sports, including baseball, football, and hockey, where he had excelled as a top-flight defenseman and winger before becoming a coach. His gaze then shifted to the newspaper on his desk, the article that had triggered his outburst, written by Detroit Times hockey writer Dan Urbanski:

Rumors Swirl About Barrell's Job Security

Detroit, MI - December 17, 1943

Speculation is rife in the hockey circles of Detroit as rumors circulate about the job security of Detroit Motors' head coach, Jack Barrell. After a slow start to the season and two consecutive strong regular seasons followed by failures to capture the coveted Challenge Cup, whispers abound that Motors' owner, John Connelly Jr, is considering a change behind the bench. Connelly, known for his passion for the sport and his desire to see the Motors succeed, has not made any official statement regarding the rumors, but speculation continues to mount.

The Motors have been a formidable force in the league for years, but this season has been off to a lackluster start. With a string of losses and inconsistent performances, fans and pundits alike have been buzzing about the team's struggles, and attention has turned to the coaching staff.

Barrell, who has been at the helm of the Motors for the past eight seasons, has led the team to multiple playoff appearances - and a Cup win in 1939 - and has been credited with developing young talent. However, the recent setbacks and the team's failure to capture the Challenge Cup for two years running has put his job in jeopardy.

Some fans are divided on the issue, with some calling for Barrell's dismissal and others expressing support for the coach and his contributions to the team. Critics point to the team's inconsistent performance and lack of results as evidence for the need for a change, while supporters of Barrell highlight his experience and track record of success.

"I think it's time for a change," said Mike Thompson, a longtime Motors fan. "We've had a slow start, and we've been struggling to regain our championship form. It might be time to shake things up and try a new approach."

On the other hand, there are those who believe that Barrell should be given more time to turn the team's fortunes around. "Barrell has been a good coach for us," said Sarah Johnson, another Motors fan. "He has a strong coaching pedigree, and he has nurtured young talent on our team. I think he deserves a chance to make adjustments and get the team back on track."

As the speculation continues, all eyes are on the Motors' upcoming games and how the team will fare in the coming weeks. The pressure is on for Barrell and his coaching staff to reverse the team's fortunes and put an end to the swirling rumors about his job security.

Neither Barrell nor Connelly Jr has made any official comments on the matter, and until any official announcement is made, the rumors about a potential coaching change will likely persist. Motors fans and hockey enthusiasts in Detroit will be eagerly watching to see how the situation unfolds and what changes, if any, are made to the team's coaching staff in the days to come.

In the meantime, the Motors will continue to lace up their skates and take to the ice, aiming to turn their season around and prove that they are still a force to be reckoned with in the league.

With a growl, Jack scooped the paper off the desk and crumpled it into a ball, tossing it into the wastebasket. "Barrell hasn't commented," he muttered. "Maybe because no one asked me..."

His wife Marie and their daughters were all out at the moment and he was alone. The girls had a cat, but it was hiding somewhere, no doubt sensing Jack's foul mood.

The door opened and Marie bustled in, carrying a paper bag full of groceries. "I am home mon cheri," she said as she passed the door of the study.

Jack walked out and followed her into the kitchen. Marie plopped the bag onto the table and looked at her husband. "Why are you angry?" she asked concernedly.

"Ah, that bum Urbanski wrote that my head is on the chopping block," he growled.

"Chopping block?" Marie asked. Her English was very good, but there were still some idioms she failed to grasp. Jack explained that he meant the sportswriter had claimed Jack was on the verge of being fired.

"Junior would not do this thing, would he?" she asked.

Jack frowned. He and Junior Connelly were friends, even good friends. But Junior wanted a winner. In that way he was definitely his father's son and John Connelly Sr had been the kind of man who took no prisoners and considered nothing too underhanded in the pursuit of victory. Finally, he answered his wife: "I don't know. I hope not," he said.

"Perhaps you should call him," Marie suggested.

Jack pondered this for a moment and then nodded. "That's a good idea. Might as well go straight to the man himself," he said.

Jack's daughters Jean and Vera came home from school just as Jack was picking up the phone. They went into the study and each gave him a kiss on the cheek. Jean was now 20 and studying art, while 14-year-old Vera was now in high school. Jack often wondered where the time had gone. Agnes, their eldest daughter was serving in Hawaii with the WAVES.

"Papa, I have a sketch for you," Jean told him as she opened her satchel and pulled out a rolled up sketch. Jack was impressed with her talent and knew it didn't come from his side. The Barrells made great athletes, but aside from Rollie's financial wizardry, that was the only thing in which his family excelled.

He looked at the sketch and was impressed. He thanked Jean and gave her a peck on the cheek. "Thank you, darling," he said. He looked at Vera. "Nothing from you?" he asked with a grin. Vera batted playfully at his shoulder and said, "Nope, sorry."

Jack excused himself and the girls went out to the kitchen where he heard them chatting happily with their mother. He closed the study door and phoned Junior.

The Motors owner was about as happy with the newspaper story as Jack himself was. "I don't know where they get this stuff," he told Jack. "We have no plans to make a change, Jack."

"Thanks Junior," Jack replied.

Junior pointed out that he did expect the club to make a turnaround. Jack bit his tongue - it had been Junior's meddling that had resulted in a trade that sent Fred Yeadon, a good young defenseman, over to Boston back in April, a move Jack was against, but Junior signed the checks and so his word was final.

"We'll get there, Junior," Jack said.

"I sure hope so," Junior replied. His tone of voice left Jack uneasy. He wondered, as he hung up the phone, if the newspaper story wasn't completely wrong, but just slightly ahead of its time.

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Jack Barrell, by Jean Barrell, 1943

[legendsport]

From the private correspondence of Agnes Barrell McCullough, dated December 18, 1943:

Captain James Slocum
Fifteenth US Air Force Inspector General
Tunis, Tunisia
December 18, 1943

Dearest Agnes,

I hope this letter finds you in good health and spirits. I have some incredible news to share with you. You won't believe the unforgettable experience I had on December 8th!

As you know, I am currently stationed in Tunisia as part of the Fifteenth Air Force Inspector General. I was in Sicily that week working at an airbase in a place called Castelvetrano. President Roosevelt paid us a surprise visit on the 8th - he was on his way home from the Teheran Conference. He had General Eisenhower with him, and General Patton whose HQ is in Sicily was there, along with Mark Clark and Hap Arnold. If you don't know, Arnold's the commander of the whole USAAF. I've never seen so many generals in one place!

It all began when I was invited to attend a ceremony at Castelvetrano Airfield where I, along with several other servicemen, was to receive the Distinguished Flying Cross. I wasn't aware that I'd be getting it from President Roosevelt himself. Needless to say, I was deeply humbled and proud to be recognized for my service. The medal was awarded for my service with the 91st Bomb Group back in England. They say the Army moves slow, but it gets there eventually! I wonder if you see the same with the Navy?

At the ceremony, I had the opportunity to meet a Colonel Tom Bigsby, a relative of the famous baseball family, who received a Distinguished Service Cross from the President. He seemed very chummy with General Patton. He commands a regiment in the 36th Infantry Division, which is from Texas and called the "Texas Arrows" and I found that strange because all the Bigsbys I've heard of are from New York. Apparently the 36th is fighting in Italy right now and that's how where he earned his medal. We didn't chat long but I told him I was a minor league ballplayer before the war and he mentioned that he'd like to get involved with baseball once the war's over. Actually what he said was "once we finish kicking Hitler's" you-know-what! One thing that struck me, after having heard all those stories from our uncles, is how down to earth and friendly Colonel Bigsby was. Not at all what I would have expected!

As I approached to receive my Distinguished Flying Cross from President Roosevelt, I was awestruck. He congratulated me on my accomplishments and asked about my experiences in the bombing campaign with the Eighth Air Force. I was amazed by his genuine interest and his ability to connect with the troops on a personal level. After receiving my medal, I was pulled aside by General Arnold and he asked me more questions about my time with the 324th in England. He also mentioned that he'd heard "good things" about me, which was quick a shocker coming from a four-star General.

After the ceremony, President Roosevelt, accompanied by Generals Eisenhower, Patton, Clark, and Arnold, proceeded to speak with various personnel and inspect the troops stationed at the airfield.

The entire experience was unforgettable and left me in awe of the historic significance of the occasion. To meet President Roosevelt, receive the Distinguished Flying Cross, and share the moment with so many brave soldiers, sailors and airmen, like Colonel Bigsby, was a true honor and privilege.

I wish you could have been there to see it. I am filled with pride to serve our country and contribute to the war effort. It is moments like these that reaffirm my commitment to our cause and make me grateful for the opportunity to serve. I am now considering making a request to return to flying - I miss it, even if it is incredibly dangerous. The work I'm doing with the IG is important, but it's really not the same.

Please convey my warmest regards to your fellow WAVES at Pearl Harbor. I eagerly await your response and look forward to catching up on your own experiences.

With much love and admiration,

Your brother James

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President Roosevelt at Castelvetrano Airfield. General Patton standing at rear left, General Eisenhower sitting behind FDR

[legendsport]

February 23, 1944: Durham, North Carolina:

"This war sucks," Tom Barrell groused.

Beside him, stretching was catcher Clem Bliss. "Oh, quit your whining, Georgia Boy," he said.

Tom frowned and glared at him as he bent over and touched his toes. "I'm going to get frostbite out here," he said.

Bliss, who was from Akron, Ohio, shook his head slowly and mumbled, "Hardly."

The reason for Tom's unhappiness was that he, and the rest of the Miners, were holding their spring camp in North Carolina instead of sunny - and warm - Florida due to wartime travel restrictions.

"I don't see why they have us here," Tom persisted.

"Because old man Fitzpatrick sees this as his patriotic duty and somehow convinced three other owners to go along with it," Bliss said.

Bliss winked at Tom and added, "Maybe you can get your girlfriend to talk to her daddy," he joked.

Tom frowned and said, "Don't go there." Marla Fitzpatrick and her father weren't exactly on speaking terms.

"You know, I've been wondering..." Bliss said and Tom rolled his eyes. He knew exactly where this was going.

"Marla is what... Twenty-four, twenty-five?" Bliss asked. Tom sighed and said, "Twenty-six."

Bliss nodded and added, "And Fitzgerald's..."

"In his seventies," Tom replied, his tone stressing his weariness with this line of discussion.

"And..." Bliss prompted.

"And yes, the old geezer married a much younger woman, and that woman is Marla's mother," Tom explained.

Bliss opened his mouth but Tom raised a hand, "And yes, he has since divorced said woman and married another, even younger woman," he said.

"Man, it must be great to be that rich," Bliss opined.

"Yes, I suppose it does offer a lot of... opportunities," Tom said. "And to get back to your original suggestion," Tom added, "Marla and the old man don't get along, because of the aforementioned divorcing-of-her-mother, so there's no chance of her going to him about anything, least of all getting our butts out of the cold."

Bliss shook his head again. "This ain't cold, Georgia," he said. Tom disagreed and demonstrated this by blowing a raspberry at his catcher.

"How mature of you," Bliss noted.

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After the workout, as the team retired to the clubhouse Tom went in to see the Miners' new manager, Hank Leitzke.

Leitzke was himself a former pitcher, who had enjoyed one good season, at age 21, for the Chicago Cougars before spending the next decade in the minor leagues waiting for a second chance that never arrived. Leitzke knew Tom from the latter's salad days with the Brooklyn Kings when Hank had been the skipper of the Toronto Wolves. He'd been out of the game since managing Toronto to the World Championship in 1940. Tom had hopes that he would get along better with Leitzke than he had with Dan Andrew, who'd retired at the end of the '43 season.

"Barrell, what can I do for you?" Leitzke asked when Tom popped his head in the door. The skipper was sitting behind his small desk. Sitting across from him was pitching coach Huck Lucas. Unlike Leitzke, Lucas had been with the Miners since 1939 and had been retained by the new manager specifically because he had so much experience with the club's pitching staff. Tom wasn't thrilled to see Lucas there.

"I wanted to speak with you about my role on the staff this season," Tom replied. He nodded to Lucas and added a friendly, "Huck," as he did so.

"OK," Leitzke said. "What do you want to know?" he asked. Tom took this to mean that the skipper wasn't going to make it easy on him.

Fair enough, he thought and said, "I think I should be starting."

Leitzke looked at Lucas and raised his eyebrows. Lucas frowned and said, "Well, Tom, I'm not sure that's in the cards."

"Why not?" Tom asked, adding, "Lefty Allen's not walking back through that door anytime soon. The way I see it you have Philips, Ligons and Johnson. That's three, who's going to be the fourth?"

"I like Miller," Lucas replied.

Tom craned his neck to make sure he was out of earshot of his team mates. Leaning back into the room he pitched his voice low and said, "Miller? He has control issues and you know it, Huck. And even if you do give him a slot, you'll need another arm. Who you going to use, Stevens? He's old, and I'm better than he is. Hell, I'm better than Miller too." He stopped, realizing he was getting worked up and wanting to calm down. Why wasn't Leitzke weighing in? He wondered.

Lucas narrowed his eyes. "Tom... To be perfectly frank, I'm not sure you have much gas left in the tank."

Tom felt his face getting hot, which meant it was getting red. "I have won three Allen Awards, Huck," he growled.

"Sure, and that's why we traded for you," Huck replied. "But you haven't exactly been performing up to that standard since, what? 1936, 37?" Lucas replied calmly.

Tom dragged his gaze off of Lucas, tamping down the urge to slug the guy and instead looked at Leitzke. "Skipper, what do you think?" he asked.

Letizke chewed his lip for a moment. Then he said, "I'm new here Tom. I have to rely on Huck here for a bit until I get my bearings."

Lucas was about to say something else when Leitzke touched his arm and looking at Tom added, "Let's table this til after camp. If you pitch well in the spring, I promise you, I'll consider you for the rotation."

He locked eyes with Tom and asked, "Fair enough?"

Tom nodded and said, "Yes, that's all I want. A chance."

Leitzke nodded and Tom turned to leave, noting that Lucas was shooting him a glare as he did.

He stopped and turned back for a moment. "If I am going to be sent back to the bullpen..." he said.

Leitzke raised his eyebrows questioningly but said nothing.

"If that's where you see me, then I'd like to be traded. Because I know I can still be a starter in this league," Tom added and then turned and walked out.

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Hank Leitzke

[legendsport]

March 14, 1944: Wichita, KS:

"Wow... it's cold," James Slocum said as he strode as the parking lot towards an extremely long, low building sitting in the middle of the Kansas prairie.

"You'll get used to it," the tall, thin man walking next to him replied.

James thought of mentioning that he'd spent most of the last five months in Sicily and getting used to this cold was not going to be easy.

"Is it always like this? I mean, it's almost spring?" James asked.

"No, this is a real cold snap," the man said. Unlike James, who was wearing an Army overcoat over his dress greens, the other man was in civilian garb - fitting because he was not Army or any other military branch. What he was, was an engineer for Boeing. And he was in charge of the company's facility here on the outskirts of Wichita, the facility where Boeing was building the United States Army Air Force's next big thing. Literally.

For a moment, James reflected on just how he'd gotten here. It was a surprising turn of events, to say the least. That brief conversation with General Hap Arnold in Sicily had put him on the Army Air Force boss's radar so to speak. Now Arnold had pulled James out of the Inspector General and assigned him directly to the team headed up by Brigadier General Bennett Meyers. Meyers job, and therefore now James' job, was to address the technical issues plaguing the B-29 program and get the USAAF's newest, largest and most expensive bomber into active service as soon as possible.

"You're a pilot, right?" the man, whose name was Shelby Donaldson, asked.

"Yep. Did a tour flying the B-17," James replied, going on to explain in general terms what he'd done in Europe before completing his 25 missions and being assigned to the Inspector General.

"And what'd you think of her?" Donaldson asked.

"The Fort? That's one tough bird," James replied honestly and with true admiration. "I loved that plane," he added.

"Good. I worked on that program too," Donaldson said proudly. "Had fewer problems with the 17 than we're having with this beast, I can tell you," he continued.

James was well aware of the issues plaguing the B-29 "Superfortress" aircraft. He knew the B-17 inside and out, its capabilities, its limitations. The B-17 could carry 8,000 pounds of bombs, had a range of 2000 miles and a top speed of 300 miles per hour. By comparison - assuming they could iron out the glitches, the B-29 would carry 20,000 pounds of bombs, have a range of 5000 miles and a top speed of 350 miles per hour. The B-29 had a pressurized cabin, and was chock full of fancy technology that included remote-controlled machine guns and a brand-new, sophisticated bomb targeting system. And lots, and lots of problems.

"Well, we're going to get this thing into service, by hook or crook, Mr. Donaldson," James told him, adding that Arnold envisioned the B-29 as the weapon that would beat the Japanese once and for all.

Donaldson gave him a wry smile. "I suspect you're right... on both counts," he replied.

"Oh, I'd better be, or Hap Arnold's going to have all of our hides," James said, adding a mirthless laugh at the end for good measure.

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James met a slew of engineers and staff. The plant was massive and chock full of big, beautiful, silver airframes. The B-29 had a wingspan of over 140 feet (nearly 40 ft wider than the B-17) and was 99 feet long. It was b-i-g in every sense of the word. James had whistled in appreciation the first time he saw the Superfortress. He had also decided on the spot that he'd put in for a combat tour flying it - if and when they got it operational. Arnold had intimated that James could write his own ticket if they could get the B-29 flying combat missions by the end of the summer.

The problems were manifest and as a pilot, James knew that they absolutely had to be fixed. The engines - four Wright R-3350 radial engines - were big and powerful but also temperamental and unreliable. Even worse, they had a tendency to overheat and burst into flame - therefore fixing that was job one. The pressure seals were cranky - the B-29 was supposed to fly at high altitude and the pressurized cabin was, in theory, going to allow the crew to fly in relative comfort as opposed to the cold and lack of oxygen at high altitude. There was a shortage of key components (including basic things like tires) - Arnold was working on that from DC - and the President himself was reportedly involved in getting those issues ironed out. And of course there was that little issue of the airframe being nose-heavy and prone to crashing instead of landing.

It was a mess. Luckily Boeing was firmly committed and Arnold was ensuring that the full bureaurocratic might of the U.S. government was too.

The high point of the first day on the project for James was meeting a very pretty young woman who was, of all things, an expert on the Wright engine. Her name was Rose and after shaking James' hand the first thing she said was, "Don't call me Rosie the Riveter."

James asked if she got that a lot - she was wearing coveralls and had her hair tied up under a kerchief which did give her quite a resemblance to the woman on the famous poster.

"I do," she said, adding, "I haven't punched anyone in the nose over it, though... yet."

"How'd you end up working on engines?" James asked her.

Rose admitted she got that question a lot but explained that she had gotten her knack for engines from her father. His name was Jack Winfield and he'd been a racecar driver and mechanic.

James' face went white. "Jack Winfield?" he asked in a near whisper.

For her part, Rose's face now bore a look of concern. "You know my father?" she asked.

"No...," James admitted. "Is that the same Jack Winfield who won the race in Indianapolis in 1919?" he followed up.

"Yes, that's the one," Rose said carefully.

"My father..." James croaked, nearly overwhelmed by emotion. "He died in that race," he finished.

Rose's eyes went wide. "My father told me about that race," she began. "He said three men died that day, two drivers and a mechanic."

James was silent, and tears had welled in his eyes.

"Their names were Thomas, Barrell and Coaker, if I remember correctly," Rose said quietly. She eyed the nametag on James' uniform jacket. "That says 'Slocum'" she pointed out.

James nodded. "My mother remarried. My birth name was James Barrell Junior," he said.

Rose said, "Oh my god. Jimmy Barrell was your father? My father told me about him, called him one of the best natural drivers he'd ever seen."

"Yes, that's what I've heard," James nodded in agreement. "He died before I was born."

Rose Winfield pulled James into a hug. "I'm sorry," she said.

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James Slocum and Rose Winfield, Wichita Boeing Plant, April 1944

[legendsport]

March 24, 1944: Bradenton, FL:

1943 had been a banner year for Rufus Barrell II, better known as "Deuce" Barrell. The 26-year-old left-hander had emerged as the ace of the staff for the Cincinnati Cannons. He'd followed a 1942 campaign that saw him win the Allen Award as the Continental Association's best pitcher (24-5, 1.76 ERA) with a second-straight Allen Award, albeit with slightly less gaudy statistics: 18-11, 2.08 ERA. Even better, the Cannons had won the World Championship Series.

1944, however, was off to a rotten start. "I'm afraid you have a torn tendon, Deuce," the doctor said.

Deuce groaned, partly in physical pain, partly out of sheer frustration. Spring training was nearly over and now... his season was over too. Done before it even began.

He barked a string of choice words. Beside him, his sister frowned and shook her head. "What now, doctor?" she asked as Deuce continued to mutter swear words, now under his breath. On the other side of the doctor was Cincinnati Cannons manager Ad Doria. It was getting late, the sunset streaming in through the window at Bradenton General Hospital. Doria was wearing a rumpled suit; he had wasted no time in getting to the hospital. Deuce had injured himself while trying to throw a screwball - something Doria had expressly told him not to do. He'd felt a pop in his left elbow and immediately walked off the field, cupping his injured elbow in his glove. Hours later, he was only now getting a diagnosis on what exactly had happened.

"My suggestion, and it's just a suggestion mind you... is that he have surgery," the doctor said.

"Surgery?" Doria asked. "Can't he just..." he waved an arm, and added, "You know... rest it?"

The doctor shook his head. "I'm afraid not. The tendon is torn and that means his arm isn't going to work as it should. For a non-athlete that's a big deal, for a baseball pitcher? It's catastrophic."

Doria looked at Deuce. "I don't know, kid," he said sadly. "We need you, but we need you back at 100 percent."

Deuce nodded and sighed. "Well, I know this much and that's I don't know much about fixing a busted up elbow, so I'm inclined to listen to the doc," he said.

Gloria agreed, and laughingly added that this was a rare example of common sense out of her twin brother. "Normally he'd be in favor of rubbing some dirt on it and trying to throw a couple hundred fastballs."

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April 17, 1944: Cincinnati, OH:

Deuce was lying in his hospital bed. The doctors hadn't wanted to do surgery right after the injury, wanting to let the swelling go down. So Deuce had been forced to wear a sling for three weeks before they finally agreed to perform the surgery on his left elbow.

"At least they let me do the surgery here in Cincinnati," he complained to his sister.

To her credit, Gloria had stayed with her brother throughout the waiting period and was sitting with him in his hospital room while he waited to be released. Though now married to Deuce's erstwhile team mate Charley McCullough (who had joined the Navy after Pearl Harbor), Gloria had moved back in with Deuce. She'd claimed this was to look after him as she had before she'd married, but Deuce figured she was just lonely. And he understood that perfectly.

"Hiya, Deuce-y," a nurse said happily as she walked into the room. Gloria shot her a disapproving look - that greeting hadn't been particularly professional. The nurse didn't notice - she had her gaze firmly locked on Deuce.

For his part, Deuce had a goofy grin (in Gloria's judgement) on his face. His arm was in a cast, and he'd been given some pain medication. Gloria tried to convince herself that was the reason for the goofy look... but she wasn't entirely certain that was true.

"Hiya yourself Debbie," Deuce replied. "I'd wave hello, but..." he nodded at his left arm. Gloria was half-tempted to point out that his right arm was perfectly fine, but she settled for giving him a dubious look instead.

"So I have some news for you," Nurse Debbie said with a smile.

"Good news, or bad news?" Deuce asked, still wearing his goofy grin.

"Oh, good... I think."

"My favorite kind," Deuce said.

Gloria rolled her eyes and hoped the nurse would spit it out already.

"Your uncle Tom? He's been traded."

"You don't say?" Deuce replied. Now Gloria was certain it was the painkillers.

"Yep," the nurse said. The room was quiet as Nurse Debbie and Deuce just smiled at each other.

Gloria couldn't stand it. "Where was he traded?" she asked. The nurse looked at her as if just noticing that she was in the room too.

"Oh... hi," she said and then added, "Cincinnati, of course."

Gloria wasn't sure about the "of course" part but replied, "That is good news."

"Did you know that nurse Debbie is the world's biggest Cannons fan?" Deuce asked his sister.

"Really?" Gloria replied, not bothering to hide her doubt.

"Oh, yes, I've seen Deucey pitch dozens of times," the nurse said. Deuce's smile grew wider.

Trying to pull Deuce out of his... whatever it was, Gloria pulled a letter out of her purse.

"We got a letter from our brother," she said.

"Really? Charlie wrote us a letter?" Deuce asked.

Gloria wanted to smack him. "No, you dope, our other brother."

"Oh... yeah, Roger, right?"

She rolled her eyes again. "Yes, Roger."

"I didn't know you had a brother, Deuce," the nurse said.

"Yeah, I've got two of 'em," Deuce said, that stupid grin still plastered on his face.

"Yes, we do," Gloria said. She shook the envelope at Deuce. "Want me to read it to you?" she asked.

"Sure, why not?" Deuce replied.

Gloria waited a moment, thinking this would be the cue for the nurse to leave. But she stayed. Gloria waited a beat, raised an eyebrow and then mentally shrugged and pulled the letter out of the envelope.

Roger wasn't much for writing, she thought. She'd already read the letter and decided rather than read it aloud in front of the nurse, she'd just give Deuce a recap.

"When he wrote this, Roger was in Hawaii, but he said they'd be moving out soon and couldn't say where. The censors... you know," she said.

"He also says that he met a girl, but he, typically, provides no detail," Gloria added.

"That's nice. I think I met a girl too," Deuce said.

Gloria, hearing this, shot a look at her brother. He was still staring at the nurse and had a dreamy smile on his face.

"Oh, brother," Gloria moaned. She couldn't wait for her idiot brother to be released so she could get him home.

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Deuce Barrell and Gloria Barrell McCullough in Cincinnati circa 1943

[legendsport]

May 1944: Normandy, France:

Fred Barrell was exhausted. For months he had been working tirelessly to coordinate with the French Resistance, and he had spent the last several weeks making nightly rowboat trips along the coast of Normandy, delivering much-needed supplies and equipment to the Resistance fighters who were preparing for the upcoming invasion.

One evening in mid-May, Fred was met by his contact, a Resistance leader named Jean-Luc. Jean-Luc was a burly man in his early 40s, with a thick beard and a rough demeanor that belied his intelligence and strategic mind. Fred had worked with Jean-Luc and his "Maquis" team often over the past few months and they had built a mutual respect for the talents the other man brought to bear in this tough situation.

"Fred, we need your help," Jean-Luc said, as soon as Fred had landed his boat on the shore. "We have intelligence that there is a German ammunition depot nearby, and we want to destroy it before the invasion. It will cause chaos in their ranks and make things easier for your Sammies and the Tommies." Jean-Luc referred to Americans as "Sammies" and, of course the British were "Tommies" - Fred found this amusing, because sometimes Jean-Luc forgot that Fred himself was a "Sammy."

Fred nodded, knowing the importance of the mission. "What can I do to help?"

"We need explosives," Jean-Luc said. "We have some, but not enough. We also need a distraction to draw the Germans away from the depot while we make our attack."

Fred rubbed his chin. He knew that this would not be an easy task. The Germans were on high alert, expecting an attack at any moment. They appeared to believe the attack would come in the Pas de Calais, but the entire northern coast of France was on high alert. And radioing his superiors in England was generally frowned upon unless absolutely necessary. The Germans had become masters of triangulation, and above all else, Fred had been ordered to avoid capture. But he was determined to help in any way he could and he believed his bosses in England and back in the States would approve.

He quickly put together his radio and used it to contact the OSS office in England. They used code of course, but the Germans would certainly be looking for the source of this radio signal, so it had to be short, and they would need to move to another location immediately. In the end, it was approved and they would receive their explosives in three nights' time.

Together, he and Jean-Luc began planning the mission. They scouted the area around the depot, looking for weak points in the German defenses. They also searched for suitable distraction points, settling on a nearby bridge that would draw the attention of the German soldiers away from the depot.

It was on one of these scouting excursions that Fred saw a golden opportunity to do something really impactful. Field Marshal Erwin Rommel, who had been placed in charge of German defenses along the English Channel back in November, drove right past Fred. Fred was on a bicycle and unarmed, dressed in civilian clothes and playing the role of an ordinary French citizen. Rommel's motorcade came around a bend in the road, and streamed past Fred. If he had known of this, he might have had a nasty surprise for the commander of Army Group B. As it was, he sat motionless on his bike and stared, fitting in with the French people around him, who also stared without expression as the occupiers drove past.

Fred put his language skills to work, using his knowledge of German to create a convincing ruse that would lure the German soldiers to the chosen bridge. He also helped the Resistance fighters rig the explosives, using his knowledge of explosives from his OSS training to ensure that they were set up correctly. This was not entirely necessary - Jean-Luc had long ago become an explosives expert himself.

As the night of the mission approached, Fred was filled with a mix of excitement and apprehension. He knew that the success of the mission would depend on a number of factors, many of which were beyond their control.

On the night of the mission, Fred and Jean-Luc led a small team of Resistance fighters towards the ammunition depot. They moved quickly and silently, staying in the shadows and avoiding detection. As they approached the depot, they set off the distraction at the bridge, drawing the attention of the German soldiers away from their target.

Fred and his team moved quickly, setting off the explosives and causing a massive explosion that lit up the night sky. The German soldiers rushed towards the sound of the explosion, giving the Resistance fighters enough time to escape.

As they made their escape, Fred felt a sense of pride and accomplishment. They had succeeded in their mission, and had struck a serious blow against the German occupation. The next few weeks would be dicey - the Germans would mercilessly hunt for the perpertrators of the depot attack. Fred would need to make himself scarce, and might even have to leave Normandy for a bit. He took comfort in knowing that the invasion was coming and soon, with some hard work and maybe a bit of luck, this entire area would be liberated by the Allied forces.

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Fred Barrell, OSS Operative, Normandy 1944

[legendsport]

June 3, 1944: Detroit, MI:
From the Detroit Times Evening Edition

Barrell Makes Milestone Hit, But Dynamos Have Last Laugh
Bobby Barrell's 2500th career hit may have been the highlight of the game, but it was the Detroit Dynamos who came out on top, defeating the Philadelphia Keystones 5-4 at Thompson Field yesterday.

Barrell, the 33-year-old right fielder, recorded two hits in four at-bats on his milestone day, which included a home run in the first inning off Jimmy Long, registering his 11th home run of the season.

Despite his remarkable achievement, the Keystones couldn't keep up with the Dynamos, who led the game from the start. Frank Vance, the first baseman for the Dynamos, hit a double in the fifth inning off Jim Whiteley, putting the Dynamos ahead by two runs.

The Dynamos' Aart MacDonald hit a triple in the first inning off Whiteley, and with two outs, scored along with Vance. MacDonald later hit a single in the fourth inning to drive in a run for the Dynamos. Vance, who had a great day at the plate, hit a single in the second inning and later hit another in the eighth inning that led to a run.

The Keystones had their opportunities to score, leaving 11 men on base during the game, but could not capitalize on their chances. Barrell's three-run homer in the first inning was their biggest highlight. Chet McCormick also hit a double in the eighth inning, driving in two runs.

The Keystones' starting pitcher, Jim Whiteley, pitched for seven innings, giving up four runs, all earned, while the Dynamos' Jimmy Long pitched for six innings, giving up four runs, two earned. Willie Montgomery took over for the Dynamos in the seventh inning and secured the win, pitching for three innings and giving up no runs.

Barrell, who has a career batting average of .311 and a .362 on-base percentage, has hit 2500 career hits, including 458 doubles, 110 triples, and 354 home runs since he began playing in the league.

With this remarkable milestone under his belt, Barrell has cemented his place among the league's all-time greats. The front-running Keystones see their record drop to 28-17 on the season, but remain one game ahead of the Pittsburgh Miners who also fell 5-4 on the road in St. Louis. The Dynamos, at 24-23 are in third place as they try to chase down the Miners & Keystones.

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Bobby Barrell in the clubhouse after his 2500th hit

[legendsport]

June 6, 1944: Sainte-Mère-Église, France:

As the night sky darkened over Normandy on June 5th, 1944, Fred Barrell and Jean-Luc, the leader of a French Resistance group, waited anxiously in a field outside the town of Sainte-Mère-Église. They had been tasked by the OSS with assisting the 505th Parachute Infantry Regiment of the 82nd Airborne Division, which was scheduled to drop behind enemy lines in just a few hours.

Fred and Jean-Luc had now been working together for several months, coordinating Resistance activities and providing intelligence to the OSS on German defenses in the area. Now, with the invasion imminent, their focus had shifted to supporting the airborne units that would be dropped into the area to secure key objectives and disrupt German forces.

As the sound of approaching aircraft grew louder, Fred and Jean-Luc donned their helmets and tightened their equipment. They had a crucial role to play in guiding the paratroopers to their drop zone and providing them with the support they needed to carry out their mission.

When the planes finally appeared overhead, Fred and Jean-Luc sprang into action, using flares and signal lights to guide the paratroopers to their designated drop zone. As the paratroopers landed, Fred and Jean-Luc rushed to their side, providing them with supplies, ammunition, and critical intelligence on German positions in the area.

An amusing episode happened when Fred approached a pair of paratroopers who had been separated from their squad. "Halt! Who goes there?" one of them barked. "A friend," Fred said. He stayed hidden, just in case, because everyone was trigger-happy and it was still pre-dawn and dark as pitch. He grinned as he heard one of the soldiers tell the other one, "That guy sounds American."

The first soldier wanted to be sure. "Hey! Who won the World Championship Series last year?" he asked. Fred smiled. "The Cannons," he replied. Then he laughed and added, "I should know. My nephew pitches for them and my kid brother plays for the Keystones." Soon he was explaining to the two surprised paratroopers that his nephew was Deuce Barrell and his brother was Bobby. He left out his own big league career. He was technically still undercover and expected to have more clandestine work in the near future. No need to completely blow his cover, but he suspected at least one of the soldiers had worked out his identity - he simply had the sense not to say anything about it.

For the next several hours, Fred and Jean-Luc accompanied the paratroopers on their mission, providing them with local knowledge and support as they moved to secure the town of Sainte-Mère-Église. Despite facing heavy resistance from German troops, the paratroopers were able to secure the town and establish a bridgehead behind enemy lines, thanks in part to the support provided by Fred and Jean-Luc.

Over the next several days, Fred and Jean-Luc continued to work closely with the paratroopers, providing them with crucial intelligence and support as they moved to disrupt German forces and prepare the way for the main invasion force to come ashore on the beaches of Normandy.

Although their efforts often went unrecognized, Fred and Jean-Luc knew that they had played a vital role in the success of the Allied invasion of Normandy. Their bravery and dedication had helped to turn the tide of the war and pave the way for the eventual liberation of Europe.

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Same day, aboard the armored transport ship USS Sheridan (APA-51) somewhere in the Pacific Ocean:

Roger Cleaves and his fellow Marines from the 8th Marine Regiment were on board the USS Sheridan, en route to their next invasion site at Saipan in the Marianas Islands. They were eager - and more than a little nervous - to take on the next challenge and were focused on preparing for the upcoming battle. Life at sea was often monotonous, particularly for someone like Roger who had always led an active lifestyle. Cooped up on a tin can for weeks on end was pure torture. At least he didn't get seasick like some of these poor saps, he thought.

As they sailed across the vast Pacific, news of the Allied invasion of Normandy on June 6, 1944, reached them. The colonel called them together and made the announcement. The Marines were impressed by the bravery and success of their fellow soldiers in the European theater, but they couldn't help but muse about the Army finally getting its feet wet for a change.

"Seems like the Army is finally getting a taste of what we do all the time," Paul Ippolito remarked to Roger and the others. "Assaulting beaches under enemy fire is our specialty, and now the Army is finding out just how tough it is."

The other Marines laughed and nodded in agreement. They were proud of the Marine Corps' reputation as the first to fight and the toughest of the tough. They knew that their skills and training were unparalleled, and they relished the opportunity to put them to the test in battle.

As they approached Saipan, the Marines were ready for whatever lay ahead. They knew that the battle would be tough, but they were confident in their abilities and the support of their fellow Marines.

"We're the tip of the spear, boys," Dwayne Hickey said. "We go in first and clear the way for the rest of them. That's our job, and we're damn good at it."

The Marines cheered and pumped their fists in the air. Roger wondered if the Germans in Normandy would put up the kind of fight the Japanese had at Tarawa. If they did... well, Roger felt more than a little sorry for the dogfaces that were right now fighting through the bloody surf and trying to cling to whatever cover was available on a French beach. There hadn't been a hell of a lot of cover at Tarawa... This in turn made him think about Saipan and what they'd be facing themselves in another ten days or so.

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Same day, Cincinnati, OH:

Someone was banging on the door.

"Go away!!!" Deuce Barrell shouted. Belatedly he realized it was doubtful he'd been heard - his face was buried in his pillow.

He raised his head and yelled for his sister. There was no response and whoever was at the door banged again.

Muttering, Deuce rolled over, carefully avoiding using his left arm. His elbow was getting better, but it was still tender and sore from his rehabilitation session the previous day.

More banging.

"I'm coming! Hold your horses!" he shouted.

He shuffled out into the living room and opened the door.

His uncle Tom stood there, frowning at him. "Being injured doesn't mean you should spend all day sleeping, Deuce," Tom chided him. Then he pushed past him. "Where's your sister?" he asked.

"Uh... I don't know, actually," Deuce replied. "I was sleeping until you started banging on the door," he said.

Deuce's gaze had followed Tom as the latter had entered the apartment, so he hadn't noticed that his uncle wasn't alone.

"So you're the famous Deuce Barrell," he heard a woman's voice say.

As he turned back in surprise, the woman pushed past him and all he had was a brief whiff of perfume and a quick glance at her dark hair as she passed by.

"Yep, that's him," Tom said. Deuce looked outside to make sure no one else was standing out there, then closed the door.

"You might want to close your robe," the woman told him. Deuce looked down, and realized his open robe revealed that he was wearing only a pair of boxer shorts. He blushed a little, then quickly tied his robe.

Tom was grinning. "Marla, this is my nephew, Rufus Barrell the second." He waved a hand in Deuce's direction. "Nephew, this is Marla Fitzpatrick," Tom finished. Marla reached out a hand and shook hands with Deuce.

"You're a lanky piece of work," Marla noted, eyeing Deuce up and down.

"Sure, I guess," Deuce replied, no better response having come to mind. He decided to go on the offensive - "If I might ask, Tom, what are you doing here?" he asked. It was a valid question, Tom was a Cincinnati Cannon now and the team was in the middle of a road trip.

"We're off today, as you might know if you bothered to pay attention," Tom replied. "We got our butts handed to us in Chicago, dropping three of four to the Cougars. We're on our way to Philly, but we had an extra day so the old man decided to give us a day at home."

Deuce was surprised. Ad Doria tended to be all business during the season. Maybe he was getting soft. As if reading his mind, Tom added, "I suspect the reason wasn't so much that he wanted to give us a day off as much as it was that it would cost the team money to spend an extra night in the hotel in Philadelphia."

Deuce nodded, that sounded more like the Doria he knew.

"Well, Marla, since Gloria isn't here, our trip may have been wasted," Tom told his companion.

Deuce eyed them. "You traveling with the team now, Miss Fitzpatrick," he asked, wanting to get a shot in if only because he was miffed at having been rudely awakened. He'd been on a date with Nurse Debbie the night before and was having pleasant dreams when the banging started.

"No, nothing so scandalous as that," Marla replied coolly. "I decided to visit Tom when I discovered he'd be in town, although I am going to travel to Philadelphia - separately - for the series with the Sailors."

Deuce nodded. "Why are you looking for Gloria, Tom?" he asked.

"Oh, we wanted to take you two out for lunch. I assume you have your sister doing everything for you, and the poor girl could probably do with a friendly meal outside this place," his uncle replied.

As if on cue, Gloria opened the door and burst into the apartment. "Oh good, you're up!" she told her brother. "Have you heard?"

"Heard what?" Deuce asked.

"About the invasion?"

Deuce just looked confused so Tom piped up and said, "He just got out of bed."

"Oh, hello Tom... Marla," Gloria said, noticing them for the first time. She paused and Deuce figured she was about to ask why Tom & Marla were there before she turned back to him and said, "Our troops have invaded France!"

"Oh, that's good," Deuce said, wondering why she was so excited about this. He figured it was good news, but Gloria seemed overly happy about it.

"Yes, it is good!" she said, adding, "The sooner this war is over, the sooner Charley will get home!"

"True, but Charley's fighting the Japanese, not the Germans," Deuce said.

Gloria looked at Tom and shook her head. "He doesn't get it," she explained. "The sooner the Germans are defeated, the sooner we can go all out against the Japanese and that means a quicker end to the war!"

"Oh, yeah, that makes sense," Deuce admitted. Gloria shook her head. "Let's go get some lunch," she said brightly. "I assume that's why you're here," she added. Tom smiled and nodded.

Deuce just stood there until Gloria slapped him on the shoulder (his right shoulder) and told him to go get dressed.

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Tom Barrell & Marla Fitzpatrick at Deuce's apartment 1944

[legendsport]

June 15, 1944: Saipan, Marianas Islands:

Roger Cleaves and the rest of C/1/8 of the US Marine Corps (that'd be Company C, 1st Battalion of the 8th Marine Regiment, itself part of the 2nd Marine Division) had come a long, long way and now sat off the shore of a 12-mile-long, smoke-obscured island called Saipan.

Amongst the Marines, the new guys were "gung-ho" about finally seeing combat. Roger and others who had also been on Tarawa were quietly confident, but knew full well what was likely waiting for them on what Paul Ippolito had called "a smoke-shrouded hellhole" when they'd finally sighted it. Unbeknownst to Roger and the others was that the battleship USS Washington (and six other "fast" battleships of US Navy Task Force 58) had pounded Saipan for seven hours. One of the men leading a gun crew aboard Washington was Pete Papenfus, the ace Chicago Cougars pitcher.

Aboard the LSTs, Roger and the other Marines were getting ready: sharpening their Ka-Bar knives (the veterans had let the new recuits know that the knife was likely to be their best friend once they hit the beach), oiling their rifles, and writing letters home (Roger hadn't written one since the quick letter he sent Deuce & Gloria in March while still on the big island of Hawaii). He briefly felt guilty about not having written his mother in months.

They had been thoroughly briefed, there being little else to keep them occupied on the long trip across three thousand miles of empty ocean. Saipan was a fairly large island compared to Tarawa. They knew they'd be encountering Japanese civilians for the first time, as well as the natives of the island. No one knew what kind of reception they'd get. And then there were all the warnings they were given: don't drink the water; don't eat any of the locally-grown vegetables unless they'd been cooked; some of the local fish were poisonous and though the locals knew which were and were not, they might not be relied upon to tell the Marines the difference; the flies carried a variety of nasty diseases; and worst of all to the bunch of 19 and 20 year old young men: the local women would likely have a variety of nasty venereal diseases. Roger raised his hand after this tidbit had been dispensed and asked: "Sir, if all that's true why don't we just let them keep the damned place?"

The best advice - in Roger's opinion - came from First Sergeant Dwayne Hickey who had not only been at Tarawa, but had also been at Guadalcanal. In his inimitable Texas accent, the top told them: "Every damn thing on this island that's not wearing Marine green is going to try to kill your sorry behind. Every Japanese here has one goal - to kill you - so you better kill him first. That, you better understand, is your most important task."

The 1st Battalion of the 8th Marines was in reserve for this one, so they wouldn't be hitting the beach with the assault waves. That was the job of the poor SOBs in the 2nd & 3rd Battalions. While this was somewhat reassuring - they all had nasty memories of the terrifying wade to shore under heavy fire at Tarawa - all of them knew it wouldn't be long before they'd be sent in. So they spent their time watching as the LVTs circled while the cruisers and battleships of Task Force 58 pounded the island with their big shells.

"Don't see how anything could live through that, Top," Paul said to Hickey.

Hickey shook his head, "You'd be surprised, Ipp," he said, and spit over the rail. "This'll be my third landing and both times before, the battlewagons rained fire and steel on the enemy for hours and hours. But as soon as the bombardment ended, the buggers popped right up and started shooting. I expect this'll be no different."

He wasn't wrong. As the 1st Battalion watched, a whistle blew and the circling LVTs all turned and steamed towards the smoking island. And sure enough, within moments they came under heavy fire from both machine guns and artillery. The big Navy guns were now silent, unable to fire for fear of hitting the Marines as they landed. Some Navy Corsairs streaked over, and dropped some bombs, but those were popguns compared to what had come before, even if they were better targeted. Roger knew the helpless feeling amongst the Marines heading in. The shelter afforded by the Landing ships seemed good enough - they were made of steel - but it wasn't enough. So you rode it out, hoping against hope that if your boat was hit, you wouldn't be the one to catch it. Every man was just hoping to make it to the where the ramp came down, allowing you to rush out onto the beach where you could operate under the false assumption that your fate might partially be in your own hands.

For three days Roger and his mates sat on their ship as part of the floating reserve. They resharpened their Ka-bar knives, told stories to the newbies about what to expect; sometimes trying to scare them, but oftentimes just honestly trying to impart whatever wisdom might help keep them alive. They also lapped up every bit of scuttlebutt coming from the island. The 8th Marines' 2nd & 3rd Battalions had secured the beach, moving inland but taking more casualties than expected. As had been the case at Tarawa, the Japanese were putting up a tenacious fight.

On June 18th, the word finally came down that the 1st Battalion was going to be committed. The regiment, which occupied the center of the U.S. line, was bogged down trying to take Hill 240. The 1st Battalion would go into the line to assist. Meanwhile, the Marines watched in dismay as the Navy ships hightailed it to the west. It seemed the Japanese Mobile Fleet was approaching and the Navy was hoping to smash the Japanese carrier forces once and for all. "Figures those swabbies would leave us high and dry!" Paul complained to Roger. Roger shrugged, assuming the Marines would take care of themselves - they always did.

They made it to shore without incident and began heading inland. Their first sergeant, Dwayne Hickey, led the way, bellowing orders and encouragement to the Marines under his command. "Move it, Marines! Follow the sound of the guns!" Roger heard some wiseacre remark - correctly - that there was gunfire all over the place, but the big Texan didn't hear him. Which was probably a good thing, Roger figured, though he grinned anyway.

As they approached the hill and went into the front line, Roger's crew encountered heavy fire from Japanese defenders hiding in a coconut grove. Machine gun fire raked the area, and mortars exploded around them, sending shrapnel flying in all directions.

Paul Ippolito took a hit, a bullet striking him in the leg and sending him tumbling to the ground. Roger and the others rushed to his side, dragging him to relative safety inside a shell hole and yelling for a medic.

"You're going to be okay, Paul," Roger said, trying to sound confident even as his own heart raced with fear. "Just hang in there, buddy."

Paul gritted his teeth and nodded, his face contorted with pain. "I'm not going to let them get the better of me," he said. "I'll be back on my feet in no time."

Ultimately, shortly after medics had arrived and Paul had been put on a stretcher and brought back to the rear, artillery was called in and the guns buried the coconut grove under a mountain of high explosives. The Marines pressed their attack as soon as the barrage lifted and cleared what was left of the grove, their determination and training carrying them forward. Down a man, Roger's crew wasn't at their most efficient, but they handled themselves well, supporting the advance with withering machine gun fire.

"We did good today, boys," Dwayne Hickey said, his voice rough with emotion. "Real good. But we've got a long way to go before this island is secured."

A few days later as the 8th Marines fought their way towards Mount Tapotchau where they had as much trouble with the tangled vegetation as they did with the enemy, the word came down that the Navy had secured a tremendous victory over the Japanese fleet in what the flyboys were calling the "Marianas Turkey Shoot." The Marines took it in stride - the victory didn't impact them all that much. They were more impressed that the Army Air Forces had managed to get some P-47 Thunderbolts onto the airfield the Marines had captured. Local air support was a lot more pertinent to the Marines' situation than what had happened hundreds of miles to the west.

The Marines captured the peak of Mount Tapotchau on the 25th. The next landmark was the town of Garapan, the largest settlement on the island. The 8th Marines had to deal with four hills, which compared to the hellish Tapotchau were dubbed "pimples" and each pimple was assigned the name of one of the battalion commanders, much to the amusement of the men. Each "pimple" was assaulted one by one and captured. Roger's machine gun was plenty busy during this time, still undermanned and the three remaining members of the crew wondered about Paul's fate.

The Marines captured Garapan and the Army, who was handling the right flank of the advance, finally caught up to the Marines on the 30th of June. As July began, the advance into the northern part of the island began. The 2nd Marine Division was pulled out of the line and into reserve, meaning a much-needed break for Roger and his crew. While in the rear they finally got word of Paul, who was safely on a hospital ship and recovering nicely, though it was also rumored he would not be returning to duty.

"Guess you boys will be getting some new blood," Hickey told them. Roger wasn't thrilled, but he was glad Paul was going to be ok. Of course the news wasn't all good: they heard that the reason General Holland Smith had pulled their division out was to rest it up for the invasion of Tinian, which sat in the near distance and whose defenders occasionally lobbed some artillery fire across the strait to land on the Marines on Saipan.

"No rest for the wicked, boys," Hickey said with a laugh when Roger complained about this. "Besides, Cleaves, how bad can Tinian really be compared to this mess?"

Roger shook his head, thinking he'd rather not find out.
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Roger Cleaves (l) and Paul Ippolito on Saipan, June 18, 1944

[legendsport]

October 23, 1944: Philadelphia, PA:

Newspaper story:
Bobby Barrell Claims Coveted Whitney Award as Federal Association's MVP

Philadelphia, PA - In a resounding triumph for the City of Brotherly Love, Philadelphia Keystones' outfielder Bobby Barrell has been crowned the most valuable player in the Federal Association this season, securing the prestigious 1944 Whitney Award. Barrell's exceptional performance throughout the regular season left opposing pitchers reeling and solidified his position as a true baseball titan.

Hailing from the rural town of Egypt, Georgia, the 34-year-old Barrell has risen to prominence as a formidable force in the baseball realm. The Barrell name, synonymous with sporting greatness, shines brightly with Bobby as its latest luminary. Descended from the illustrious Barrell sports family, led by patriarch Rufus Barrell, founder of the esteemed Omni Scouting Association, Bobby joins a distinguished lineage of baseball prowess. Notably, his brothers Dan, Tom, Fred, and Harry have all made their mark in professional baseball, weaving an indelible tapestry of sporting excellence.

While Bobby Barrell's nephew, Rufus Barrell II, has been showcasing his pitching prowess for the Cincinnati Cannons, a debilitating elbow injury sidelined him for the entirety of the 1944 season. Nonetheless, the young hurler's promise echoes the Barrell legacy, leaving fans eagerly awaiting his triumphant return to the mound.

Alas, despite Bobby Barrell's undeniable brilliance, his Keystones fell short in the World Championship Series, losing a thrilling seven-game battle against the Cincinnati Cannons. Nevertheless, Barrell's contributions were nothing short of extraordinary. In the WCS, he compiled a robust batting average of .308, contributing a home run and four crucial runs batted in.

However, it was the regular season that proved decisive in Barrell's quest for the Whitney Award. Throughout those grueling months, Bobby's ferocious swing and unyielding determination propelled him to torment opposing pitchers, tallying an impressive .347 batting average. A total of 213 hits, including 28 doubles and five triples, showcased his remarkable versatility at the plate. Perhaps most awe-inspiring was Barrell's prodigious power, as he launched an awe-inspiring 46 home runs, driving in a staggering 152 runs.

In the final balloting, Bobby Barrell left no doubt as to his rightful claim on the Whitney Award, outshining his closest competition, Red Johnson, the New York Gothams' slugging first baseman. Washington's formidable third baseman Mel Carrol secured a commendable third place, while Chicago's Ron Rattigan and Boston's Pete Day rounded out the top five, respectively.

With Bobby Barrell's triumphant victory, Philadelphia basks in the glory of its esteemed Keystones outfielder, whose awe-inspiring performance and unwavering dedication have etched his name indelibly in the annals of baseball history. The Federal Association and its fans stand united in celebrating Barrell's achievement and eagerly anticipate the continuation of his unparalleled excellence on the diamond.


Bobby Barrell receives his 1944 Whitney Award

[legendsport]

October 30, 1944: Saipan, Marianas Islands:

It was a crisp morning on October 30, 1944, when Major James Slocum taxied "Clouting Claudia," his newly-assigned B-29 Superfortress, off the runway at Isley Field on Saipan. He had completed his crucial work in Kansas, addressing the issues with the Boeing plant, and now he stood at the doorstep of a new chapter in the Pacific theater. The hastily constructed airfields dominated the landscape on the recently conquered islands of Saipan and Tinian and the work had started almost immediately after the Marines & Army had finished clearing the last of the Japanese defenders from the islands. The islands had been seized specifically to house the B-29s: from here the USAAF was finally in reach of the Japanese home islands, thanks to their new bases in the Marianas and the long range of their brand-new bombers.

After having bid a tearful farewell to Rose Winfield, the woman he held dear and who had played a pivotal role in the Battle of Kansas, James eagerly embraced his new assignment. General Hap Arnold had kept his promise and assigned James to the 869th Bombardment Squadron. At Pratt Army Air Field in Kansas, James got acquainted with his new crew, a group of skilled and dedicated individuals ready to face the challenges ahead. The B-29 was an impressive engineering feat and James was now as familiar with the big bomber as anyone outside of Boeing itself.

"Clouting Claudia," the B-29 that would carry James and his crew into the heart of combat, was adorned with the name he had chosen, a homage to his mother, Claudia. She had been less than thrilled about James returning to combat, but he couldn't help but honor her through the name of his aircraft. Back in Kansas, James had told Rose he wanted to name his bomber Riveting Rosie, but she refused.

"Name it after your mother," she told him firmly. "I told you I don't like that Rosie the Riveter stuff."

"My mother? I love her, but..." James had gotten tongue-tied. He wasn't sure, but he thought he might love Rose. But he discovered he wasn't quite able to say so out loud.

"But what?" she shot back, hands on hips. "Someone ought to clout you with a rolling pin," she finished, clearly exasperated.

"That's it!" James had exclaimed. "Clouting Claudia!"

Rose grinned wickedly. "Your mother ever clout you with a rolling pin, Jim?" she asked.

He waved a hand and said, "Of course not. But we'll be clouting the enemy, so that's a great name." He kissed her on the cheek and said, "Thanks Rosie!"

The journey from Kansas to Saipan had been grueling, spanning over 6,500 nautical miles. James and his crew had endured long flights, harsh weather, and the ever-present dangers of the war. Landing at Isley Field, they discovered that they were the last B-29 to arrive, joining their squadron just as it had completed its first mission—an audacious night attack on the Japanese submarine pens on Truk Island.

James spent the next day getting acquainted with the crew chief and the rest of the ground crew. He was a firm believer in getting to know the men who kept his aircraft maintained. And when the ground crew found out he knew as much about maintaining the B-29 as they did, they took to him right away. Their only point of contention turned out to be that they liked the bright silver fuselage while James was a proponent of the green paint that had adorned his B-17 back in England.

"Green stands out against the sky, sir," the crew chief told him. The sergeant, from a small town in Iowa, knew his mechanical stuff, but James liked the green paint and wasn't budging.

"Shouldn't we paint 'em blue then?" James asked.

The sergeant opened his mouth to reply when the air raid siren went off.

The Japanese had launched an air raid on Saipan from their base on Iwo Jima. Although the assault was only marginally effective, several B-29s in the vicinity suffered damage. James breathed a sigh of relief as he found "Clouting Claudia" unscathed. The dangers of war were all too real, but he was grateful that fate had spared his beloved aircraft.

"We're going to have to do something about those Iwo Jima airfields," the chief told James, adding a belated "sir" to his statement. James nodded in agreement and said, "I'm sure the brass feels the same way."

Soon after the Japanese attack, James embarked on his first combat mission in the Pacific theater. It was a retaliatory strike on the Japanese airfields on Iwo Jima, a critical step to neutralize the enemy's capabilities and gain a foothold for further operations. As his B-29 soared above the vast expanse of the Pacific, memories of his time with the Eighth Air Force in Europe flooded his mind. The contrast was stark—the vastness of the world's largest ocean contrasting with the relatively confined waters of Europe. But the purpose remained the same: to strike at the heart of the enemy's infrastructure and dismantle their war machine.

The mission proceeded smoothly, with the Japanese response falling short of the formidable opposition James had encountered in Europe. As he debriefed with his squadron commander, he reflected on the true nature of the B-29. "It's a sledgehammer," he remarked, "and we need to use it like one. Let's unleash its power on the industries and cities that sustain Japan's war effort."

In that moment, James realized the profound impact that working alongside General Arnold had on his outlook. His experiences and interactions with the fiery general had instilled in him a deep conviction that the B-29 was a weapon meant for strategic strikes, capable of bringing Japan to its knees.

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Clouting Claudia comes in for a landing at Saipan, November 1944

[legendsport]

February 21, 1945: Bradenton, FL:

Spring training had arrived once again, bringing with it a renewed sense of hope and anticipation for the Cincinnati Cannons. The two-time defending champions were eager to reclaim their title, and no one felt that pressure more than Rufus "Deuce" Barrell. After missing the entire 1944 season due to an elbow injury, Deuce was geared up and ready to get back out there. His sister Gloria, naturally, told him to "go easy" but going easy was not Deuce's way. The young lefty was fairly reserved off the field, but on it, he was a fierce competitor.

As Deuce stepped onto the practice field, he couldn't help but feel a mix of excitement and frustration. His elbow had healed, and he was ready to show the world what he was capable of. But before he could prove himself, he had to face his manager, Ad Doria, a stern and experienced man who had a reputation for getting the best out of his players.

Doria had always been tough on Deuce, pushing him to reach his full potential. He believed in the young pitcher's talent but was frustrated by his stubbornness and tendency to ignore instructions. It was precisely Deuce's recklessness with the screwball, a pitch Doria had expressly forbidden, that had caused his injury in the first place.

As practice wound down, Doria motioned for Deuce to join him near the dugout. The tension in the air was palpable as the two men locked eyes, each aware of the weight of the conversation to come.

"Deuce," Doria began, his voice measured but firm. "I want to start you off in the bullpen during spring training. We need to ease you back into the rotation and protect your arm."

Deuce's face twisted into a scowl. "The bullpen? Are you kidding me, Skip? I'm a starting pitcher! The bullpen is for bums!"

Doria's gaze hardened, his tone sharpening. "The bullpen is also a place for pigheaded kids who won't listen to their manager. You think I don't remember the screwball incident? You're lucky you're even getting a chance after sitting out an entire championship season."

Deuce's frustration simmered beneath the surface, but he knew arguing would get him nowhere. His uncle, Tom Barrell, a veteran pitcher for the Cannons, had been through his fair share of setbacks and injuries and had himself once been banished to the bullpen - presumably for good - until given a chance by the Cannons. Tom had pulled Deuce aside earlier, offering words of wisdom and reminding him of the bigger picture.

Taking a deep breath, Deuce decided to bite his tongue. "Fine, Skip. I'll pitch out of the bullpen, but you better believe I'll prove you wrong."

Doria's expression softened slightly, seeing a glimmer of maturity in his young protégé. "That's the spirit, Deuce. I'm not doubting your talent, but I want to make sure you're fully ready before we put you back in the rotation. You'll get your chance, but it'll be on my terms."

Deuce nodded, reluctantly accepting the conditions. "Just give me a shot, Skip. I won't let you down."

Over the first two weeks of spring training, Deuce took to the bullpen like a fish to water. Truth be told, he was a little unsure of how his surgically repaired elbow would fare and he found solace in the controlled environment of the bullpen. It allowed him to slowly hone his skills and build up his strength. He toed the line, didn't even toy with the idea of throwing any screwballs, and as the regular season approached, he began to earn the trust of his manager once again.

Doria had been watching Deuce's progress closely, impressed by his dedication and determination. After Deuce pitched well in relief in a game against the Chicago Chiefs, Doria called Deuce into his office.

"Deuce, you've proven yourself thus far during spring training," Doria said, his voice carrying a note of pride. "Your first few appearances out of the bullpen have been solid, and your arm looks strong. I'm willing to give you a shot in the rotation, but you need to keep your head on straight and continue to follow my lead."

Deuce's eyes lit up with a mix of gratitude and excitement. "Thank you, Skip. You won't regret this. I'm ready to show the world what I can do."

Doria smiled, patting Deuce on the shoulder. "Just remember, son, we're all rooting for you. The Cannons want you to succeed, and your family's legacy is behind you. Don't let it go to waste."

With renewed determination, Deuce left Doria's office, feeling a weight lifted off his shoulders. His uncle Tom caught his eye and threw him a lopsided grin and a wink. Deuce knew the road ahead would be challenging, but he had the support of his manager, his family, and the entire organization behind him. And with every pitch he threw, he aimed to prove that he was more than just a hotshot with a chip on his shoulder.

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Deuce Barrell, circa spring 1945

[legendsport]

April 3, 1945: Honolulu, HI:
James Slocum woke up in a sweat. It was warm in Honolulu, but that wasn't the reason. James had been sleeping badly for weeks, and that was the cause for his being in Hawaii in the first place. Once the sun was up, he decided to get out of the quarters the Army had arranged for him and walk around town. Maybe it would help clear his head was his thinking.

Two days earlier his CO had told him in no uncertain terms, to "go get his head on straight" by getting away from the war for ten days. So James found himself in the unfamiliar position of passenger on an aircraft - in this case an USAAF C-54 Skymaster, flying from Saipan to Midway, and then after refueling, on to Honolulu.

The cause of James' insomnia was deemed to be "battle fatigue" by the army doctors on Saipan. The stress of flying missions over Japan was provided as the cause. For James and the other veterans of the Eighth Air Force's campaign against Germany, Japan was a whole other ballgame, and exacerbated by the fact that the B-29 itself was an entirely new breed of bomber when compared to the trusty and tough old B-17 most of the pilots, James included, loved. The B-29 flew so high that it was - theoretically - immune to both flak and enemy fighters who couldn't get up there. But the pilots quickly discovered that the winds over Japan were a major issue, making the trusty Norden bombsights that had been so useful in Europe, almost useless over Japan.

So it was proposed that the B-29s go in low, which brought the plane within range of the flak and fighters defending Japan. To counter this, the B-29s could go in at night where the darkness would help (some) against those threats. But the brass - Hap Arnold and his on-site proxy, Twentieth Air Force commander Major General Curtis LeMay - didn't like that idea. Then someone showed the brass a new incendiary gel - they called it napalm - that stuck to anything it landed on and burned for a long time. Arnold had thoroughly tested napalm, and devised a new strategy. Standard doctrine held that the best way to flatten a city by bombing were high explosives followed by incendiaries. But napalm didn't need a high-explosive to lead the way - it destroyed everything it touched. And the Air Force knew that Japanese homes were largely constructed of paper, bamboo and wood.

On the night of March 9-10 the B-29s from Saipan & nearby Guam put Arnold & LeMay's vision to work. 350 bombers flew to Tokyo, arriving over the city at midnight, flying low. The Saipan bombers each carried six-and-a-half tons of incendiary bombs while the Guam aircraft which had to fly further, had four-and-a-half tons each, and dropped them on a 12-mile square of the city selected precisely because LeMay's intelligence staff believed it was the most combustible. Fed by 30-mph winds the resulting firestorm was catastrophic.

James and the Clouting Claudia were near the end of the bomber streams and flying at 5200 feet, buffeted by winds that bounced the big plane around like a toy. When the bomb bay doors opened, smoke and soot from the raging fires below came into the plane. James was relieved when the bombs were released and he was able to turn away from the conflagration around him. When they landed on Saipan and exited, James saw that his silver bomber was covered in soot and his crew all smelled of smoke. The crew chief asked what had happened to his plane. James grimly told him that "she'd flown through hell itself."

That was when the insomnia began. The docs said it was accumulated stress: 25 missions over Europe, a stint as an IG inspector in Sicily and Italy, the work on the B-29 program in Kansas with Arnold and the USAAF brass breathing down their necks and now... the raid that the intelligence guys estimated might have killed 100,000 Japanese, most of them civilians... all of it had finally gotten to him. James had never been comfortable dropping bombs on "regular folks" as he called them. Telling himself it was all to end the war sooner... rang hollow at times. This was the worst of those times.

James spent the day walking around Honolulu, which was bustling due to all the military in and around the city. He had decided to meet his sister, Agnes McCullough, a WAVES officer serving as a Naval Intelligence analyst who was working at the Naval base at Pearl Harbor. As they sat down for dinner at a quaint restaurant, the siblings greeted each other warmly, grateful for this rare opportunity to spend time together.

Over a delicious meal, the conversation drifted towards their experiences during the war. James, feeling the heavy burden on his shoulders, decided to confide in Agnes. Leaning in closer, he spoke in a hushed tone about his doubts regarding his role in the war. He recounted the events of Operation Meetinghouse, the devastating firebombing of Tokyo, and the impact it had on the civilian population.

Agnes listened intently, her gaze fixed on James as he described the destruction and the suffering caused by the raid. She had a complicated relationship with the war, her bitterness towards the Japanese stemming from the loss of her husband during the attack on Pearl Harbor. She had held onto that pain and anger, finding solace in the belief that the Japanese deserved what they were experiencing.

Taking a moment to collect her thoughts, Agnes responded with a mixture of conviction and vulnerability. "James, I understand your doubts, but we're fighting a war. The Japanese need to be beaten into submission," she said firmly. "Only the horrors of war will convince them to surrender."

James paused, his eyes reflecting the weight of his inner conflict. "But Agnes, what about the innocent civilians caught in the crossfire? What about the lives shattered, the suffering inflicted? Is following orders always the right thing to do?"

His words hung in the air, and Agnes found herself grappling with the complexity of his questions. She had no immediate answer, realizing the truth in James' words. Her desire for revenge had clouded her judgment, overshadowing her inherent decency and compassion.

A soft smile played on James' lips as he reached across the table, gently squeezing Agnes' hand. "You're a good person, Agnes. I know the pain you carry, but it shouldn't consume you entirely. We must strive to find the balance between justice and humanity."

Agnes looked at her brother, her eyes filled with a mixture of gratitude and contemplation. "You're right, James. I suppose I've allowed my pain to blind me at times. Thank you for reminding me of who I truly am."

They shared a moment of understanding, the bonds of siblinghood strengthened by their shared struggles and differing perspectives. Agnes chuckled, breaking the solemnity. "You know, James, no matter how old you get, you'll always be my little brother."

James laughed, shaking his head. "Agnes, I'm hardly younger than you."

She grinned mischievously. "Oh, but younger is younger, dear brother, and that's all that matters."

In that instant, their worries and uncertainties were momentarily set aside, replaced by the warmth of familial love and the realization that even in the midst of turmoil, they could find solace and understanding in each other's company.

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James Slocum & Agnes McCullough in Honolulu, April 1945

[legendsport]

April 11, 1945: Detroit, MI:

April of 1945 was a bitter month for the Detroit Motors hockey club. The disappointment of missing the playoffs weighed heavily on their shoulders, especially on head coach Jack Barrell. Despite having a talented roster and enjoying good regular season success for six consecutive years, the Motors had watched another team raise the Challenge Cup trophy while they fell short of glory. Club owner Junior Connelly was furious and determined to lay blame on someone.

Wednesday, April 11 was a gloomy morning in Detroit. Junior had summoned Jack for a meeting and Jack was all too aware that the tone of the meeting would not be a pleasant one. At breakfast Marie tried to cheer Jack up - she'd received a letter from Agnes, telling her that she'd seen James but in Aggie's typical fashion, was light on details. "She only writes because she knows you worry about her," Jean told her mother. Vera chuckled and added, "We should be glad she even does that much." Jack nodded in agreement; Agnes was certainly more like her father Jimmy - temperamental and impulsive - while Jean and Vera, Jack's own daughters, were more level-headed and sensible than their half-sister.

Jack rose and pecked Marie and his daughters on the cheek. "I'm off," he said. "Wish me luck, I could be unemployed by lunch," he added with a scowl as he popped his hat on his head and grabbed his jacket.

While driving to the team offices Jack ruminated on the winding road of his friendship with Junior. He'd left a perfectly good and comfortable job with the Toronto Dukes and turned a moribund franchise in Detroit around. But Junior had begun meddling in personnel matters, which Jack typically handled with the help of Bill Yeadon, quite possibly the best hockey scout in the world. But Junior signed the checks and his word was law.

When Jack walked into Junior's office his friend didn't even look at him, saying simply, "Take a seat, Jack."

The atmosphere was tense as Junior began reading Jack the riot act, assigning the team's failures solely to his coaching abilities. Junior went on at length about how he believed he had assembled a remarkable group of players, and it was Jack who was not harnessing their full potential.

As Junior continued to vent his frustrations, Jack's anger began to boil within him. He refused to be the sole scapegoat for the team's shortcomings. Gathering his courage, Jack pointed out that perhaps the players were not as talented as Junior believed. He argued that Junior's preference for flashy players had overshadowed the importance of substance and compatibility within the team.

"With all due respect, Junior, you opted for flash over substance," Jack retorted. He went on to provide specific examples to support his case. "Take the draft, for instance. You chose Moe Treadwell, a winger, over Frank Featherstone despite both Bill and I specifically telling you we needed a defenseman. And where did Featherstone end up? Toronto. He would have been a perfect fit for our defense-first system. We needed solid blueliners, not just scoring power."

Jack's frustration poured out as he continued. "And let's not forget the trade that sent Fred Yeadon away. He may not be flashy, but he is a rock-solid citizen and a dependable defenseman, but you insisted on making the deal. We lost a vital piece of our defensive puzzle because you favored your own vision over the needs of the team."

Junior's anger flared in response to Jack's bold accusations. The room crackled with tension as their friendship became overshadowed by their professional disagreements. Finally, unable to contain his rage any longer, Junior made a decision that would forever change their relationship.

"You're fired, Jack," Junior declared, his voice filled with disappointment and frustration.

The words hung heavily in the air. Jack stood there, shocked and hurt. He had left a good coaching job in Toronto to follow Junior to Detroit, believing in their shared dreams of success. Now, bitterness seeped into the cracks of their friendship, leaving them both wondering how they had come to this point.

"You're going to run this team into the ground, Junior," Jack said coldly. "You better hire a competent general manager and coach before it's too late."

Junior glared at Jack. "Watch it, Jack. I can make it so you'll be lucky to get a job coaching amateurs in Moose Jaw."

Jack was fuming but held his tongue. Nothing he could say was going to make the situation any better. He turned on his heel and walked to the door.

As Jack left Junior's office, the weight of uncertainty settled on his shoulders. What would come next for him in his coaching career? The bitterness of their falling-out would linger, but Jack knew he had to pick up the pieces and move forward. The road ahead was uncertain, but Jack was determined to prove himself and find a new path that would lead him back to the world of hockey, this time on his own terms.

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Jack Barrell (r) meets with Junior Connelly

[legendsport]

April 17, 1948: Cincinnati, OH:

It was a crisp April day on the banks of the Ohio River, the air filled with anticipation and the promise of a new baseball season. At Tice Memorial Stadium, the Cincinnati Cannons prepared to face off against the Toronto Wolves on Opening Day of the 1945 Continental Association season. Gloria McCullough made her way to her seat; her nerves jangling for her brother - this would be Deuce's first "real action" (as he put it) in over a year. Sitting beside her were their grandparents, Rufus and Alice Barrell. Rufus' keen eyes took in everything on the field, his age not dimming the love for the game of a legendary scout who had dedicated his life to the sport before retiring from the Cannons after the 1942 season.

Inside the Cannons' clubhouse, Deuce, adorned in the team's iconic white and blue uniform, felt a mixture of excitement and nerves. He meticulously laced up his cleats and adjusted his cap, mentally preparing himself for the game ahead. He hadn't been this excited for a season opener in years. Manager Ad Doria made his way over to Deuce, his weathered face reflecting a combination of wisdom and expectation.

"Deuce, have a good game out there," Doria said, his voice carrying a mix of encouragement and caution. "But remember, don't push yourself too far. Spring training is one thing, but now it's the regular season, and the Wolves are no pushovers."

Deuce nodded, his exuberance evident in his eyes. "Don't worry, Skip. I've got this," he replied confidently, his determination shining through.

As Doria left, another figure approached— Deuce's uncle, Tom Barrell. Tom had experienced both the heights of success, having won the prestigious Allen Award as the best pitcher multiple times, and the depths of disappointment due to injuries that derailed his career.

Tom patted Deuce on the back, a subtle expression of pride and empathy. "I've been where you are, coming back from injury with something to prove. Remember to trust your instincts and listen to your body. Everyone knows you've got the talent, Deuce. Just keep an even keel, no matter what comes your way."

Deuce absorbed his uncle's advice, appreciating the wisdom and experience behind his words. He admired Tom's resilience, drawing strength from the knowledge that even in the face of adversity, he could still make an impact on the game he loved.

The time for preparation soon gave way to the time for action. Deuce took the field with his team, his heart pounding with anticipation. The familiar sound of a ball hitting the catcher's mitt greeted him as he warmed up with veteran catcher Tom Bird. His pitches felt crisp and powerful, his arm felt stronger than ever after a long offseason of recovery and training.

As the first batter, Toronto shortstop Charlie Artuso, stepped into the batter's box, Deuce exuded confidence. Bird signaled for a fastball, and Deuce obliged, going into his windup with a smooth motion. But the adrenaline coursing through his veins got the better of him, and he overthrew the pitch, sailing it high for ball one.

In the stands Alice chuckled and told her husband, "That reminds me of a pitcher I knew about, oh, fifty or so years ago. Trying to throw the ball through a brick wall, as I recall."

Rufus gave his wife a fond grin and squeezed her hand.

Bird was a veteran receiver and he quickly noticed the young pitcher's need to settle down, making a gesture to calm him before calling for a changeup. Deuce adjusted his grip, focused his mind, and executed a beautiful changeup, catching Artuso off guard and delivering strike one. Two pitches later, Artuso sent a high fly ball to center field, where Gail Gifford settled under it for the first out.

The next batter, Gus Hull, approached the plate. Deuce's fastball missed its mark again, flying high for ball one. A slight numbness tingled in his left arm, but he pushed the sensation aside, determined to fight through. Bird called for another fastball, and Deuce, resolute, nodded and prepared to deliver. This time, his pitch found its mark, painting the outer half of the plate, resulting in a weak dribbler to shortstop Jim Hensley, who swiftly scooped it up and fired to first baseman Chuck Adams for the out.

But in the stands, Rufus Barrell, the legendary scout seeing everything at once, couldn't help but mutter, "Uh-oh," as his keen eyes caught a glimpse of Deuce clutching his left elbow, a flicker of worry crossing his weathered face as the trainer ran out of the dugout, followed by Ad Doria.

The disappointment hung heavy in the air as Deuce stood on the mound, his left elbow throbbing with pain. The trainer gently manipulated his arm, confirming what Deuce already feared: his injury had resurfaced. As Manager Doria approached with a grave expression, Deuce's heart sank even further.

"That's it, I'm pulling you," Doria stated firmly, his voice laced with concern.

Deuce's eyes widened in protest, the fire of determination still burning within him. "Skip, I can keep going. It's just a twinge. I can work through it!"

Doria shook his head, his tone unwavering. "No. We're not risking you in the first inning of the very first game, Deuce. We've got a long season ahead, and your health is more important than one game."

Reluctantly, Deuce handed the ball over to Doria, frustration etched on his face. The crowd murmured with concern as the Cannons' trainer escorted Deuce off the field, his dreams of a triumphant return shattered in an instant.

In the stands, Rufus Barrell had watched the scene unfold with a heavy heart. He couldn't help but recall his own experiences in the game. He saw the disappointment in Deuce's eyes, knowing all too well the pain of an injury cutting a promising career short and fervently prayed that wasn't what he was seeing today.

Naturally Rufus had made his way into the clubhouse and heard directly from the team doctor that this was likely just a sprain. It'd take maybe three or four weeks, but Deuce would be back. Rufus offered a silent prayer of thanks and a vocal thank you to the doc then went outside to wait with Alice and Gloria.

As Deuce emerged from the clubhouse after the game, his head hung low, he was met with the comforting presence of his family. Rufus, Alice, and Gloria stood waiting, their expressions a mixture of empathy and encouragement.

Rufus placed a hand on his grandson's shoulder, his voice steady and filled with wisdom. "Deuce, injuries are part of the game. It's how we handle them that defines us. Take the time to heal, listen to the doctors, and come back stronger than ever."

Deuce's gaze met his grandfather's, gratitude shining through the disappointment. "I will, Grandpa. I won't let this setback define me."

Gloria stepped forward, wrapping her arms around her brother in a comforting embrace. "We're all proud of you, Deuce. You've already shown your resilience and talent. This is just a bump in the road."

Tom Barrell, having joined the gathering, offered a warm smile. "Remember, Deuce, the Cannons want you to succeed. Take this time to rest, recover, and come back ready to dominate. The team needs you."

Deuce took a deep breath, drawing strength from his family's support. Although devastated by the turn of events, he resolved to use this setback as fuel for his determination. He would work tirelessly during his recovery, following the doctor's orders and maintaining a positive mindset.

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Rufus Barrell and his granddaughter Gloria, Opening Day, Cincinnati 1945

[legendsport]

April 28, 1945: Berlin, Germany

An old man hobbles out of the half-ruined shell of an apartment building on Potsdamer Straße. He wears a battered watch cap, an overcoat and scarf against the early morning chill and uses a cane to support his left leg as he moves slowly around the piles of rubble.

The old man sighs heavily and nods politely to a woman who bustles past. In Berlin these days, everyone who can run, does run, he thinks. His thoughts are punctuated by the sound of battle in the distance, a sound that comes ever closer.

At long last the war Hitler started has finally and fully come home to roost: the Red Army was in the city and the Third Reich was in its death throes.

Bitterly Fred Barrell thinks about the fact that it was his own countrymen who are responsible for his nomadic existence of the last month.

Fred has been in Berlin since January, working with the anti-Nazi underground in the city. Ostensibly he was sent there by his OSS superiors to help pave the way for the Western Allies just in case they beat the Soviets to the city. That was a race the Americans & British have apparently lost because the Russians were in town and what was left of the Wehrmacht was fighting them tooth and nail for every block.

The sound of gunfire echoes through the war-torn streets as Fred moves cautiously, using his cane to feign a limp and trying to look much older than his 39 years. He had hoped to have escaped the city by now, but has received no orders and with the Red Army on the doorstep, his situation has become perilous.

Fred had been hiding with members of the anti-Nazi resistance, relying on their support and knowledge of the city. However, now that their safehouse had been obliterated in the chaos of an American bombing raid the group was even more scattered than before - the name of the game now was simply survival. Simply put, he was left stranded, navigating the treacherous battleground of Berlin.

Desperate to avoid both the roaming gangs of Nazi diehards looking for anyone able to fire a gun on the one hand and hordes of trigger-happy Soviet soldiers on the other, Fred knows he has to blend in. He observes the battered faces of German civilians, fear etched into their eyes. With his cane and a tattered coat, he tries to resemble an injured war veteran, hoping it will provide some measure of protection.

He realizes with a jolt that it is late April - back home baseball season has arrived. He knows Tom and Bobby are still playing and that Harry is in the Army - somewhere. Right now, he thinks, he'd give a whole lot to be back behind the plate at Kings County Stadium, sore knees or not.

As he walks, rubble is everywhere. What the bombers have missed, Soviet artillery now destroys. The ruined buildings loom around him, their skeletal remains testament to the devastating conflict. Fred's mind races, considering his options. Should he try to reach the Russians and reveal his identity as an American agent? The thought fills him with uncertainty. The Soviets have their own agenda; Fred knows their aims don't necessarily fully align with those of the United States, and the fate of a lone OSS agent in the midst of their advance was uncertain at best.

He could try to hide... but even assuming he survived the fighting, by no means a certain outcome, he'd still have to speak with the Russians at some point. Berlin was in an ever-tightening noose and escaping it might be more dangerous than staying put and hiding in the rubble like a rat until the fighting was done and the Nazis were toppled.

Suddenly, a burst of gunfire erupts nearby, jolting Fred from his thoughts. He seeks refuge behind a crumbling brick wall, his heart pounding in his chest. Through the haze of smoke and dust, he spies a group of Red Army soldiers advancing cautiously, weapons at the ready. His instincts tell him to remain hidden, but a risky idea takes hold of his mind.

With a deep breath, Fred steps out from his hiding spot, his hands raised above his head. The soldiers turn their attention towards him immediately, suspicion etched on their faces. One soldier, a hardened veteran, approaches cautiously.

Speaking in rudimentary German, the soldier - apparently a sergeant if Fred remembers his Red Army insignia correctly - fires off three questions, "Who are you? Are you a deserter? What are you doing here?"

Fred decides to answer in Russian, which wasn't his best language by a long-shot but he wants to be clear on one fact: he is not German. "I'm an American! I'm not your enemy. I'm here to gather intelligence and assist the Allies in defeating the Germans."

The soldier scrutinizes Fred for a moment, his eyes scanning his disheveled appearance. The tension in the air is palpable.

One of the other soldiers quietly mutters something to the first man; Fred thought it was, "It's a trick. Let's shoot this old man and move on."

The first man barks "Nyet!" and frowns. He tells Fred, "Your Russian is terrible. Can you prove you're not a fascist pig?"

Fred ponders this. It wasn't like the OSS gave out membership cards to agents behind enemy lines. The soldier narrows his eyes and Fred can almost feel the man's finger tightening on the trigger of his nasty looking submachine gun. Still, he does see a mix of curiosity and suspicion playing across the soldier's features.

"They don't give me papers to prove I'm an agent, comrade," he says, his hands still held over his head. "Perhaps I should speak to an officer?"

"Perhaps instead we should shoot you as Pavel suggested," the soldier replies with a nasty grin.

Fred swallows nervously. "It appears we are at an impasse," he says, quickly adding as the man shifts his gun, "But you hold all the cards as we say in the States. What is there to lose in taking me to your commanding officer? If I am telling the truth you will have saved the life of an ally. If I am lying, you will either shoot me yourself or see someone else do it."

Surprisingly, the soldier nods. He appears to believe Fred. "Your Russian is not really so terrible. Better than most fascist pigs. Perhaps you are telling the truth."

The man who had suggested shooting him pipes up and says, "You have a lot of nerve, Yankee spy, being here at a time like this."

Fred grins despite his terror. "I assure you, I'm not here by choice. But I can provide valuable information about German positions and defenses. Let me assist you in defeating the Nazis."

The soldier stares at Fred intently, weighing his options. Finally, he nods.

The first man says, "Very well, maybe-American. We will see if you are as useful as you claim. But remember, any false moves, and I won't hesitate to end you."

Fred feels a mix of relief and apprehension as he joins the group of soldiers, his fate now tied to the advancing Red Army. He knows the risks he is taking - being with these soldiers means he's a target for the German troops in the city - but his determination to live and get back to Tillie and their kids burns in him. And he actually does have information on German positions and defenses, so perhaps he can help the Soviets after all. He'd certainly try, knowing his life might depend on it.

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Fred Barrell in the rubble of Berlin, April 1945

[legendsport]

May 6, 1945: Saipan, Marianas Islands:

"Would you look at that?" the new guy said wonderingly.

The other three Marines standing with him nodded appreciatively.

One of them, Sergeant Roger Cleaves, looked at the man who'd spoken, the machine gun crew's newest member - Gustav Andersson. He liked to talk, something that could be a problem when they got back into combat.

The guy had even gone to the trouble of explaining the double-S in his name. More than once Roger had fought down the urge to slug him - he missed Paul Ippolito and this green recruit from some small town in Minnesota was driving him nuts. The other guys had, unsurprisingly, just started calling him "Swede." He was big, and strong, which was great since he'd be toting the gun around when - not if, but when - they got back in combat. and that thing was heavy.

"Sure as hell didn't look like that when we fought for it," Roger said.

The 1/8 was back on Saipan. Roger thought he'd never see this place again, but it sure had changed since they'd wrested it away from the Japanese the previous summer. They were back on Saipan because the rest of the 2nd Marine Division was fighting on Okinawa and the 1/8 was being held in reserve. It had been a floating reserve, sitting in ships off the coast. Then the kamikazes had arrived. Roger still couldn't believe there were people who would intentionally crash their planes into ships, not even after fighting the fanatical defenders of Tarawa, Saipan and Tinian.

"It didn't?" Swede asked.

Roger gave him a disdainful look. "Of course it didn't, Andersson. This was Aslito airfield and the Japanese were flying mostly single-engine planes off it. Of course, they weren't flying much of anything by the time the Corsairs got through with 'em. The field was all tore up when we fought for it, but looks like the Army boys fixed it up and then some."

"Huh," Sweded replied.

Aslito Field had definitely changed since the change in ownership. Someone, presumably Army engineers, had enlarged it ten-fold and turned it into a massive air base they'd renamed Isley Field. And sitting in revetments for as far as the eye could see were gleaming silver B-29 bombers Hundreds of them. It was an awe-inspiring sight.

"Can we go take a closer look, Sarge?" Sweded asked.

Roger shrugged. "Sure, why the hell not. We lost a lot of good men buying this strip for the flyboys, let's go see what they've done with it," he said.

The four men - Roger, Swede, Don Vick and Bill Withers - began roaming around Isley Field. No one paid them much mind, the Air Force boys just doing their jobs. The bombers were big and Roger and his crew enjoyed the artwork painted on the noses; some of the names were really clever. Eventually, their presence caught the attention of an Army MP who approached them with suspicion.

"What's your business here at the airfield?" the MP questioned, his tone authoritative.

Roger bristled at the implication they didn't belong there. "We fought on this island, helped take it from the enemy. This airfield was once a battleground, so we figured we'd see what the blood of our friends had bought," he replied sharply.

The MP didn't appreciate Roger's attitude and tension filled the air.

"What's your name, Marine?" the MP asked.

"Roger Cleaves," Roger shot back, adding, "1st battalion, 8th Marines. You know, the guys who took this island and that one over there" - he pointed to Tinian - "and Tarawa before that, and Guadalcanal before that. What's your name... sergeant?"

The MP now really had his back up but before the situation escalated further, a jeep rolled up to the scene, slowing down as it approached the group. Hearing Roger's name being mentioned, the driver, an officer with an oak leaf on each shoulder, came to a halt and hopped out.

"Roger Cleaves?" the officer inquired, his gaze fixed on Roger. The MP immediately saluted, recognizing the higher rank.

Roger, still caught up in the moment, didn't immediately recognize the officer. "Yeah, I'm Roger," he replied, a hint of confusion in his voice. Then, as he studied the officer more closely, his eyes widened in surprise. "James! Is that you?"

The cousins, separated by their military roles and the passage of time, shared a brief moment of recognition. James Slocum hadn't expected to cross paths with his cousin on Saipan and it was just the same for Roger.

"You're here? Last I heard you were flying B-17s out of England," Roger said.

"Lot of water under the bridge since then," James said with a chuckle. He turned and dismissed the MP. "These guys are fine, sergeant," he told him. The MP didn't like it, but James was a Major, so he backed down and walked off, glaring over his shoulder at Roger.

"Well, you haven't lost your touch," James said to his cousin, slapping him on the shoulder.

Roger shook his head, "That guy was full of hot air. What'd he think, we were gonna blow up one of these big silver birds?"

As they caught up, James explained his role in getting the B-29 ready for war and that his reward was getting posted here to fly it. Roger muttered, "Some reward," making James laugh.

Roger recounted his experiences during the invasions of Tarawa and Saipan and the terror of facing kamikaze attacks off Okinawa.

"I'm telling you, James, up there those kamikazes are as thick as flies on... well, you know," Roger said, his voice trailing off.

James nodded knowingly. "We've started seeing something similar on some of our bombing raids. They've resorted to trying to ram us with their Ki-44 fighters, and they have these suicide rocket planes they launch off bombers, we call 'em 'Baka Bombs.' Thank God their aim isn't always the best. Those things are scary fast."

Roger sighed, his weariness evident. "It's a crazy way to fight, isn't it?"

James agreed. "Indeed it is. Say, why don't you guys come eat dinner with me? I can show you what we 'flyboy officers' get to eat."

The Marines, surprised by the unexpected invitation, exchanged glances and then readily accepted. They were genuinely curious about the food the Army Air Force guys ate. "One thing a Marine will never turn down is grub," Roger told his cousin.

Over dinner, James and Roger shared stories of their respective experiences. Roger described the intense invasions and the horror of kamikaze attacks, while James recounted the hair-raising bombing raids over Germany and the new challenges of flying the B-29 over Japan. He mentioned General LeMay's determination to bring Japan to its knees through the firebombing campaign.

"Sounds good to me," Roger said. "One of these days we're going to land on the home islands, and lord knows what they'll throw at us then. You should have seen them on Tarawa - this little spit of beach in the middle of the Pacific and they fought like tigers defending it. The home islands..." he trailed off, and James thought he looked a little pale.

"Well, we're trying to knock 'em down and we'll keep trying until they give it up," James told him.

James spent a lot of time with his cousin over the next few days. He was surprised to hear that like himself, Roger had gotten roped into playing baseball, but shocked when Roger told him about playing rugby in New Zealand and how much he enjoyed the game. Roger also mentioned that he had a girl there, if he could ever get back to her. "I expect the Corps will have me back in combat pretty soon," he told James.

Roger's intuition proved correct for the very next day he told James that his regiment was heading back to Okinawa - and this time they'd be going right into the meatgrinder.

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James Slocum (l) and Roger Cleaves (r), Saipan, May 1945

[legendsport]

May 29, 1945: Munich, Germany:

Sergeant Harry Barrell, now a seasoned member of one of several US Army baseball teams, found himself touring various parts of Europe, bringing the joy of baseball to the troops. The war in Europe was finally over but Harry knew that many of the men were wondering when they'd get shipped to the Pacific. The Germans were beaten, but the Japanese remained very much in the fight. As Harry jumped down from the deuce-and-a-half truck the team used, his equipment bag slung over his shoulder, he couldn't help but feel a sense of melancholy as he surveyed the devastated surroundings. The toll of war was evident - Munich was a gigantic rubble pile.

As the soldiers gathered for the game, Harry noticed a distinguished-looking man in an Army uniform observing the field. Intrigued, Harry approached him and introduced himself, remembering to salute first.

"Good day, Colonel. I'm Harry Barrell," he said, extending his hand.

The man, Colonel Tom Bigsby, reciprocated the handshake warmly. "Pleasure to meet you, Harry. I've heard great things about your skills on the baseball field."

Harry chuckled modestly. "Thank you, Colonel. It's an honor to be able to bring some entertainment to our troops."

Bigsby mentioned that he'd actually seen James Slocum - how he knew James was actually a Barrell was something about which Harry would later wonder, but at the time it was nice to hear about his nephew.

They found a spot to sit, overlooking the makeshift baseball field. As they watched the soldiers warm up, Harry couldn't help but be drawn into conversation with Colonel Bigsby, who shared his passion for the game.

"So, Colonel, are you a baseball fan yourself?" Harry asked, genuinely curious.

Colonel Bigsby nodded with a smile. "Absolutely, Harry. Baseball has been a lifelong love of mine. My family, the Bigsbys, were once owners of the New York Gothams baseball team. You might have heard of them." He punctuated his words with a knowing smile.

Harry's eyes widened in recognition. The Bigsby family had a notorious reputation, known for their corruption and shady dealings. Harry had recognized the name, but didn't equate the buttoned-down looking Colonel to "those" Bigsbys. The guy looked like a recruiting poster.

"Well, I must admit, Colonel, I've heard a few things about the family," Harry replied cautiously. Truth was, he knew a lot about the family - his brothers Rollie and Joe in particular had experienced the bad side of the New York Bigsbys.

Colonel Bigsby's face took on a serious expression. "Yes, unfortunately, my family's business practices have sometimes been far from admirable. But you might say I'm the white sheep of the family," he chuckled at his own joke and continued, "I'll admit that I've always been bit of a straight-arrow, and I've been a career Army man since the day I enrolled at Rome State. Now that the war is ending, and pending the outcome in the Pacific, I find myself contemplating a different path. A civilian one."

Curiosity piqued, Harry leaned forward. "What do you mean, Colonel?"

Colonel Bigsby explained, "I'm considering entering the family business of baseball, but with a different approach. I've been thinking about starting a brand new league on the West Coast. I believe there's an opportunity to create a league that treats players fairly, with better pay and working conditions in a place that has thus far been shut out of top-level baseball."

Harry raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the prospect. "That sounds promising, Colonel. But would players be willing to take the leap and join a new league?"

Colonel Bigsby nodded, his eyes gleaming with determination. "I understand players like yourself often feel underpaid, undervalued. If the money is right, if we can create a league that truly puts players first, I believe we can entice some of the best players to join us. Players like you, Harry."

Harry pondered the idea. It was true; many players struggled financially, and the promise of fair compensation and better working conditions could be an enticing proposition.

"I can't speak for everyone, Colonel, but I do know that ballplayers appreciate being valued for their skills and dedication. If you can provide that, along with a fresh start on the West Coast, I believe there would be interest," Harry replied thoughtfully.

Colonel Bigsby smiled warmly. "I appreciate your insight, Harry. Your opinion as a respected, and let's be honest, All-Star and championship-winning player carries weight. I will continue to explore this idea further, and perhaps one day, when this war is finally over, we can revolutionize the way baseball operates."

As they sat together, watching the crowd gather, Harry couldn't help but feel a glimmer of hope. Maybe, just maybe, there was a chance for change in the world of baseball, even amidst the post-war uncertainties. Because the fact was that the Colonel had nailed it on the head - ballplayers were chained to their clubs and the owners' contract offers boiled down to "take it or leave it" - and leaving it meant leaving the game. Harry's head was swimming as he imagined a world where players could make a choice about where they played.

It was game time so Harry thanked the Colonel for the interesting conversation and headed to the makeshift dugout. And as the game began, Harry Barrell stepped onto the field, his focus shifting back to the task at hand – bringing joy and a sense of normalcy to the troops who needed it most, one swing of the bat at a time.

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Harry Barrell in US Army baseball uniform, 1945

[legendsport]

June 4, 1945: Detroit, MI:

It was a Monday - and a warm June afternoon as Rollie Barrell made his way to his downtown office. Though the war in Europe was finally over, the shadows of war still loomed over the nation. They called his adopted hometown the "arsenal of democracy" and to Rollie that rang true. In Detroit, the city bustled with war production, its factories churning out tanks and planes that would aid the ongoing fight against the Japanese.

In the heart of the city were the offices of the Detroit Maroons, nestled in a corner of Thompson Field. Baseball season was in full swing but for Rollie, it was time to start thinking about football season. Among the Maroons' star players was Stan Vaught, a veteran pass-catching end who held numerous records in the league. Vaught, now 32 years old, was making noises about hanging up his cleats.

In the confines of Rollie's office the air was tense. Rollie, pacing in front of his desk, asked his daughter to get him a cup of coffee. Allie, who had wheedled her way into becoming her father's girl Friday around the office for the summer, channeled her mother and said in a very "Francie" tone of voice: "Aren't you jittery enough, Dad?"

"Just go get me some coffee," Rollie growled. Then softened and added, "Please." Allie was bound and determined to not only work in the Maroons front office, but also someday to follow in Rollie's footsteps and own - and run - the Maroons.

A moment after Allie left the office, Stan Vaught walked in through the open door.

"Morning, Rollie," he said good-naturedly. "I know what you're going to say, and I'm going to tell you right now: I'm retiring."

Rollie sighed. One thing he knew about Stan Vaught: the man was a straight shooter and told it as he saw it. That was sometimes refreshing, and at other times, irritating. This time it was the latter. He waved Stan to take a seat and sat down himself.

"Stan, I understand your concerns," Rollie began, leaning back in his chair. "But think about what our games mean to the people of Detroit. They need a distraction, a source of entertainment. They've been working tirelessly in those war plants, and our football games give them something to look forward to."

Vaught, his tired eyes reflecting the weight of his years on the field, shook his head. "Rollie, you know my knees are shot. The pain, it's constant. And the back... it's just getting worse. Football at my age is a gamble I'm not sure I want to take anymore."

Rollie leaned forward, his voice filled with genuine concern. "I know, Stan. I've seen the toll this game takes on your body. But you're more than just a player to this city, to this team. You're an inspiration. Your determination, your skill, it gives hope to those who need it most. You're a symbol of strength and resilience."

Vaught sighed, his gaze drifting towards the window. He was reminded of his humble beginnings in Trumbull, Nebraska, the open fields, and the simple life he left behind. Detroit, with its bustling streets and constant noise, never truly felt like home to him. He missed the tranquility of the farm, the simplicity of a slower pace.

Just as he was about to deliver his final verdict, Allie entered the room carrying Rollie's coffee mug. Despite her tender age of 15, she possessed an undeniable spark of intelligence and ambition. Rollie knew she'd also been listening outside the door before entering. She grinned at Rollie as she put his mug on the desk and he knew she had an idea. He was aware that she spent time studying the players' backgrounds, because she talked to their wives.

"Dad," Allie whispered as she leaned in, her eyes brimming with determination. "What about making Stan the highest paid end in the AFA? Money talks, and it might just be enough to change his mind."

Rollie paused, considering his daughter's suggestion. A smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "Allie, that's a brilliant idea. Stan, hear me out. I'll make you the highest paid end in the league. Your skill, your presence on the field, it's invaluable to us. We'll take care of you, both on and off the field."

Vaught's eyes widened with surprise. The offer was unexpected, he remembered Coach Frank Yurik's attempts to low-ball him just a year ago. He had been in high school when the Depression had hit Nebraska, and the allure of financial security resonated within him. It would secure his future and ease the worries that plagued him. Slowly, a smile crept onto his weathered face. Rollie could almost see the wheels turning in Vaught's head.

"You drive a hard bargain, Rollie," Vaught finally spoke, a glimmer of hope in his voice. "Alright, one more season. But after that, I'm hanging up my cleats for good."

Rollie extended his hand, sealing the deal. "Deal, Stan. You won't regret this. And Allie, you've got a future in this business. Your insight saved the day."

Allie beamed with pride, her eyes shining with a mixture of gratitude and determination. She had taken another step toward her dream of inheriting the Maroons someday.

It was a rare moment where everyone was happy. Rollie got his man. Vaught got the status - and money - that would come with being the game's best-paid end. Allie had proven to her father that she had valuable insight. Rollie mused, smiling as he did so, that the only one who wouldn't be happy would be Frank Yurik.

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Allie Barrell with her father in the Maroons offices, 1945

[legendsport]

June 4, 1945: Washington, DC

Rufus Barrell, retired baseball scout (as he often thought of himself these days), was tending to his chickens on a sunny morning in Egypt, Georgia. At 71 years old, Rufus's 72nd birthday was fast approaching and sometimes he felt the weight of every one of those years. He had spent nearly fifty years scouting baseball, an extraordinarily fulfilling career that had come about after a fluke head injury abruptly ended his promising pitching career back in 1892.

Rufus and his wife, Alice, had built a large family together. They had raised ten children, nine sons, and one daughter, and were now blessed with many grandchildren. However, the ongoing war had filled their hearts with worry for their grandsons, James and Roger, fighting in the Pacific, as well as their sons Fred, an OSS agent, and Harry, who was serving in the Army and though his duties largely consisted of playing baseball, he was often in the warzone, or had been - he was currently in Europe where the war was finally over.

As Rufus was feeding the chickens, a mindless task he found relaxing, the sound of the telephone startled him. It was unusual to receive a call so early in the morning. Alice, in the kitchen, had answered the phone and called Rufus inside, informing him that the call was being routed through the switchboard at the Pentagon.

Surprised and intrigued, Rufus hurried into the house to take the call. The operator's voice was brisk and businesslike: "Good morning, Mr. Barrell. I am an operator at the Pentagon and I have a call for you from a service member. I will need to verify your identity before connecting your call."

Rufus, wondering what was going on here, and slightly worried this was something about James or Roger, responded, "Uh, sure. This is Rufus Barrell speaking."

The operator, a young woman by the sound of her voice, had likely picked up on Rufus' discomfort. She sounded much more friendly as she replied, "Thank you, Mr. Barrell. Please hold the line. I have a call for you from U.S. Navy Captain Calvin Stockdale."

Surprise replaced worry for Rufus. Calvin was the son of Rufus's old friend, retired Admiral William Stockdale, who also happened to be the owner of the Washington Eagles baseball team. Rufus accepted the call, unsure of what to expect.

The voice on the other end of the line was scratchy, the connection distant. "Rufus, it's Calvin Stockdale here. I'm aboard the USS Baltimore, off the coast of Okinawa. I have some news to share."

He was calling from his ship? Rufus knew Calvin was commanding a cruiser - the admiral had made no bones about his pride that his son might soon follow him to flag rank. So why was he calling from a combat zone? Rufus' voice was tinged with concern as he replied, "Captain Stockdale, it's been a while. What's the matter? You sound serious."

"Rufus, I regret to inform you that my father, Admiral Stockdale, has passed away."

Rufus was silent for a moment. Admiral Stockdale had been a good man and a better friend. Rufus told Calvin exactly that when he found his voice a moment later.

Stockdale, who had apparently had time to absorb the news, answered in an even tone, "Thank you, Rufus. That means a lot. But the reason I'm calling goes beyond the news of my father's passing. He left the Washington Eagles baseball team to me in his will, but I can't leave my post to take over."

Perplexed, Rufus wondered aloud how he could be of help in such a situation.

"Rufus," Captain Stockdale said, "I need you to run the team."

Rufus was taken aback. The idea of running a baseball club was completely foreign to him. But as he considered Captain Stockdale's request, memories flooded back—memories of a lifetime spent in the world of baseball, from the moment he threw his first professional pitch at the age of 16. The very thought of getting back into the game sent a thrill through his old bones.

"I've never run a baseball club before, Calvin," Rufus admitted, his voice filled with doubt.

Stockdale chuckled, the ship-to-shore radio distorting it a bit. He said, "Rufus, you may not have run a team, but you've been around the game longer than anyone I know. My father had full faith in you. I need you to step in and run the team on my behalf. When the war is over, I will come home and take over. In the meantime, you'll be Club President, with full power over baseball operations and a salary commensurate with those duties."

Rufus glanced at Alice, who was watching him closely, sensing that something significant was unfolding. Her expression hinted at both concern and reluctance.

Stockdale, no doubt noting the silence and thinking it reluctance on Rufus' part, continued, "Rufus, you've scouted baseball for nearly fifty years. You know the game inside out. Besides, I trust you, and my father trusted you. You're the right person for the job."

In the face of Captain Stockdale's trust and the weight of Admiral Stockdale's belief, Rufus couldn't bring himself to refuse the request. With a mix of apprehension and determination, he accepted the challenge, knowing that it would be a whole new chapter in their lives.

Captain Stockdale expressed his gratitude, and as the call ended, Rufus looked at Alice, his face a mixture of excitement and uncertainty.

"We're going to need to find a house in or near Washington, D.C.," Rufus informed Alice, his voice tinged with a touch of unease. He explained the situation, and added that he wanted her with him in Washington. His days of leaving her side were over.

Alice's initial reaction was far from enthusiastic. She had built a life in their small town, and the prospect of uprooting and moving to the city wasn't what she had envisioned. However, knowing Rufus and his deep connection to the game, she understood that this was an opportunity he couldn't pass up.

Alice sighed but offered Rufus a supportive smile. "Well, Rufus, if this is what you truly want, then we'll find a way to make it work. We've faced challenges before, haven't we?"

Rufus's eyes softened as he looked at his devoted wife. "Indeed we have, my love. And we've always come out stronger. This time won't be any different. We'll find a way to make it work for our family and for the Admiral's legacy."

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Admiral William Stockdale, oil painting, circa 1940