Same Song, Different Tune - The Barrells in the Modern Era

[legendsport]

CHAPTER NINE - SEGMENT V - RACING, RECKONING AND THE REST OF LIFE IN 1972

THE SLOCUM BROTHERS

Paul and J.P. Slocum entered 1972 carrying a legacy that had begun long before their father James Slocum ever took control of NARF.

They were the grandsons of Jimmy Barrell, the aviator who had traded a cockpit for a race car and died in flames at Indianapolis in 1919. His death had left behind a young widow, two unborn children, and a shadow that never quite lifted from the family.

For Claudia Barrell, that shadow remained vivid. Each race brought back the same smell, the same fear. When her grandsons strapped into their cars, she watched with her hands clenched and her breath held, as if history itself were waiting to repeat.

Paul Slocum raced with restraint. His 1972 season was methodical and controlled, a study in discipline rather than spectacle. It was exactly the kind of performance his father valued and exactly the kind of season that positioned Paul as the future public face of the organization. Still, the weight of expectation pressed on him. He understood that he was not simply competing against other drivers, but against a lineage that demanded composure as much as victory.

J.P. Slocum wanted no such restraint. He spoke often of carving out his own legend, even as he bristled at comparisons to Jimmy Barrell. Yet on the track, he chased those comparisons relentlessly. He drove with flair, aggression, and a willingness to flirt with disaster that left spectators thrilled and his family terrified.

When J.P. nearly lost control at Effingham County Super Speedway in June, the incident felt different. Claudia left the stands in tears, the first time she had done so since her husband’s death. J.P. laughed it off afterward. Paul did not.

Between them, despite being the youngest, stood Edward “Eddie” Slocum. He had no interest in racing, but every interest in what sustained it. Eddie worked behind the scenes, studied engineering and logistics, and saw the machinery of NARF as a system rather than a stage. Claudia leaned on him quietly, sharing fears she did not voice to James. Eddie listened, and began to understand that if the family’s future ever needed steady hands rather than fast ones, it would fall to him.

By the end of 1972, the Slocums had never appeared stronger from the outside. Internally, the balance felt fragile.

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MIKE BARRELL

Mike Barrell had returned from Vietnam in early 1971, but the war followed him home.

As 1972 unfolded, he remained in uniform, newly promoted to lieutenant colonel and quietly struggling with wounds that had no visible markers. Sleep came in fragments. Guilt filled the silences. Crowds unsettled him. Sudden noises pulled him back into places he did not want to revisit.

His children grounded him, even as they reminded him of how much time he had lost. Their laughter brought clarity, followed by confusion when he realized how unfamiliar ordinary family life still felt.

Mike had nearly left the Army when the promotion came. He stayed for a single reason.

If I stay, maybe I can help the ordinary soldier. The ones who follow orders without medals or headlines.

During 1972, he began writing. Memos at first, then longer drafts. They spoke of combat stress, fractured reintegration, and the need for institutional support long before such language was common. The Army had no framework for what he was describing. Mike did not either. But he kept writing, driven by the same instinct that had once sent his uncle Jimmy to war underage, unwilling to stand idle while others paid the cost.

The Barrell impulse to fight did not fade. It simply changed form.

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BRENDA SLOCUM

Brenda Slocum, known briefly to the outside world as Carolina, had ridden a single song, “The Human Cost,” into a flash of national attention. By 1972, the moment had passed. The counterculture fractured. Communes dissolved. The music industry moved on.

Brenda returned to Charlotte with little to show for it.

She came back not only to her parents, but to Cheryl, the daughter she scarcely knew. Cheryl had been raised under the steady influence of James and Rose Slocum, with Claudia providing structure and moral grounding. Brenda’s reappearance brought disruption rather than reunion.

Her instability resurfaced quickly. Arguments followed. Patterns repeated. James Slocum, patient longer than most, finally drew a line.

He told her to go to Egypt, Georgia. To take Cheryl with her. Claudia would oversee what needed watching. Or Brenda could leave the family entirely.

She chose Egypt, though the choice felt more like exile than refuge.

The irony was unavoidable. The back acreage of the old Barrell farm now housed the Effingham County Super Speedway. Even in retreat, Brenda found herself surrounded by the legacy she had tried to escape.

Claudia went with her. Guardian, mediator, grandmother. The role came as naturally as breathing.

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LORETTA BARRELL

In early 1972, Loretta Barrell completed her master’s degree in West Berlin, still convinced her father’s warnings about her boyfriend were motivated by ideology rather than concern.

The truth arrived abruptly.

When Fred Barrell retired from Berlin Station, the relationship ended without ceremony. Her boyfriend dismissed her with cold efficiency, making it clear her value to him had been situational, not personal.

The realization shattered her assumptions. She returned to the United States disillusioned, distrustful of political movements on both sides, and wary of the ideals she had once defended.

What Loretta did have was a master's degree in political science. Fred arranged a State Department interview through old contacts. Loretta refused at first, bristling at the implication of favoritism. The offer felt like another attempt at control.

Then she reconsidered.

If systems were broken, perhaps they could only be changed from within.

Late in 1972, she agreed to the interview. The path ahead remained uncertain, but it was no longer closed.

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CLAUDIA SLOCUM

Claudia Slocum stood at the center of the family, whether she wished to or not.

Widow of Jimmy Barrell... and dear Powell Slocum. Mother of James Barrell Slocum. Grandmother and great-grandmother to a sprawling lineage tied together by ambition, talent, and loss.

In 1972, she carried more weight than ever.

She relocated to Egypt with Brenda and Cheryl, providing the stability the child needed. She watched Paul and J.P. race with restrained dread, reliving memories she had never fully escaped. She worried for Eddie, the grandson who understood her fears without being told.

Her role expanded quietly, absorbing strain without complaint. Where others fractured, she held.

Claudia did not command attention. She commanded endurance.

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FRED BARRELL JR.

Fred Barrell Jr. had never been drawn to spectacle.

He was neither star nor daredevil, neither firebrand nor showman. What he offered was consistency, judgment, and an understanding of institutions that others lacked.

As president of the Detroit Maroons, he preserved Rollie Barrell’s vision with the full trust of Rollie’s widow Francine and daughters Marty and Allie. He had recently married. He had become a father. Responsibility suited him.

In 1972, his purpose clarified.

He had tried life as a ballplayer - the family business - and failed. He'd become a pro golfer and had been average at best. But golf had kept him in the orbit of Rollie Barrell and he had learned a lot of lessons, few of them about golf. He'd worked with another uncle - Tom - and his cousin James Slocum at NARF. Gotten practical experience in running a sports business. All of that had led him to the Maroons' front office in Detroit and given him the purpose he'd been seeking.

He was not there to chase glory, but to protect what had already been built.

In a family defined by motion and risk, Fred Jr. became the counterweight. The steady hand that kept the structure standing while everything else strained against it.

[legendsport]

CHAPTER TEN
JANUARY 1973
Finding Their Stride

January had a way of revealing truths people spent the rest of the year trying to outrun.

Some found comfort.
Some found momentum.
Others found that the things they thought they wanted were already beginning to cost them.

The Super Classic

The AFA Super Classic ended the 1972 football season the same way it had begun for Bobby Barrell Jr.: with dominance and dissatisfaction sharing the same locker.

Houston fell short again. Eleven wins, a conference title, and another narrow loss on the biggest stage. Junior finished the game battered and furious, his stat line obscene even by his own standards - sixty-three tackles, twenty sacks - numbers that should have crowned a champion.

Instead, they mocked him.

Reporters circled. Cameras rolled. Junior smiled when required, said all the right things, and felt none of them.

He did the same at dinner with his parents, his brother Ralph and Ralph's wife Marla. Junior kept the rage bottled up and acted like losing was fine... It was just a game, after all. He knew his father, and probably his mother, knew better. Ralph too, but he was too involved with his beautiful wife to care. Junior didn't like the way she ogled him - she was Ralph's wife. Not his type anyway - too plastic; she probably had Mattel, Inc. stamped on her foot.

That night, long after his teammates had gone out to drink or sleep, he trained alone in the hotel gym. Harder than prescribed. Longer than sensible.

He told himself this was what champions did.

He did not tell anyone what he’d started taking to make sure it stayed that way.

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Ottawa, at Last

The Continental Hockey League was no longer a rumor. It was real, loud, and thriving... and nowhere more so than in Ottawa.

For Hobie Barrell, the adjustment was effortless. The joy was endless.

The pace was slower. The defensive structure thinner. The gaps wider. He still played the game the right way; still passed when the pass was there, still backchecked - but now there was a sense of inevitability to his nights. Goals came in bunches. Assists piled up. Crowds leaned forward every time he touched the puck, expecting something spectacular because something spectacular usually followed.

Hobie knew what he was doing to the league.

He didn’t hide it.

Benny Barrell found something different in Ottawa.

He found peace.

His best days were behind him - he knew that - but his brother was beside him again, the way it had always been. The city suited him. The fans appreciated his edge, his willingness to protect, his refusal to be pushed around. And somewhere between practices and road trips, he met a woman who saw past the fists and the scowl and liked what was underneath.

For the first time in years, Benny wasn’t counting seasons.

He was living in one.

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A Familiar Stranger

Billy McCullough spent January drifting.

He split his time between Ohio and Los Angeles - workouts with Ace Barrell, family dinners with his parents, long conversations that circled the same unspoken question: what comes next?

He should have felt relief being home.

Instead, he felt oddly displaced.

Japan lingered with him in small ways. The routines. The discipline. The quiet moments after games. Most of all, Hana - her letters careful, her phone calls warm but restrained by distance and time zones.

Billy had gone to Japan to prove he could play at the highest level.

Now he wondered why proving it somewhere else mattered so much.

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The Veteran’s Winter

In Louisville, Steve Barrell had begun to accept what his body had been telling him for months.

He still dressed. Still played. Still saw the floor better than most of the roster. But his minutes came in shorter bursts now, his value shifting from what he could do to what he could explain.

Coach Robinson leaned on him openly. Film sessions turned into tutorials. Young guards listened when Steve spoke, not because of his name, but because he was right.

At home, life was steady. Shirley’s pregnancy brought anticipation instead of anxiety. Mike was home too - distant, quieter, but present - and the brothers found themselves talking late into the night about things neither had ever said aloud before.

Steve continued to suspect this season might be his last.

He found himself surprised that the thought didn’t frighten him.

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Resolve

In Georgia, Mike Barrell kept a rigid schedule.

Morning runs. Paperwork. Meetings. Long, careful letters to men still overseas.

The promotion had given him distance from the fighting but not from the responsibility. He listened now more than he spoke. He challenged decisions when he thought they were wrong. He believed - stubbornly, perhaps naively - that rank could be used to protect instead of command.

January didn’t bring peace.

But it brought clarity.

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Berlin, Still Divided

In West Berlin, Loretta Barrell continued her studies, unaware that the ground beneath her convictions was already shifting.

Her father’s warnings echoed at the edges of her thoughts, easily dismissed in daylight and harder to ignore at night. Fred Barrell had not risen to high rank in the CIA by not being able to read people's hidden motives and secret agendas. But Loretta knew he was wrong about this, or at least most of the time she knew it.

The university pulsed with certainty, with belief that history could be bent by force of will alone.

She still believed that.

For now.

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FEBRUARY 1973
Speed and Friction

February brought engines.

While winter still clung to much of the country, down South the sound of racing cut through the cold mornings, loud and unapologetic. For the Slocum family, February was never about waiting. It was about motion.

The Georgia 500

Effingham County Super Speedway came alive the way it always did for the Georgia 500 - trailers lining the access roads, the smell of fuel and grilled meat in the air, engines barking during warmups like restless dogs straining at the leash.

For James Slocum, this race was personal. The track sat on land that housed generations of the Barrell family - his family - carved out of red Georgia clay, hard work, and stubborn pride. Every year it reminded him where he came from. Every year it reminded him why he built NARF the way he did.

This year, he watched his sons.

Tom Barrell stood beside him in the pits, arms crossed, eyes sharp.

Tom owned a string of Ford dealerships, based on advice from Rollie that had generated a fortune. And now Tom Barrell Racing had two cars in the field (Fords, of course), both bearing the now-familiar TBR colors. Paul Slocum in one. J.P. Slocum in the other.

They were teammates.
They were brothers.
And they were already racing different races.

Paul drove the way his father had raced - patient, methodical, saving tires, waiting for mistakes. He let others fight early, let the race come to him. By halfway, he was exactly where he wanted to be.

J.P. was everywhere. He was Jimmy Barrell reincarnated.

Aggressive on restarts. Late on the brakes. Dancing the line between daring and foolish. When he spun exiting Turn Four midway through the race, narrowly avoiding the wall, Tom’s jaw tightened.

“My car,” Tom muttered. “He’s driving my car like it owes him money.”

J.P. recovered, but the damage was done. He finished deep in the pack, furious and defensive. Paul, meanwhile, cruised home second - clean, professional, and unspectacular in the way that won championships.

The winner was Cal Harlan, a grizzled veteran with a smooth drawl and a calm demeanor, driving the number 43 for Tidewater Motors. Harlan had been around forever, it seemed, and he drove like a man who had nothing left to prove.

Paul watched him on Victory Lane.
J.P. glared at him.

Harlan smiled at both.

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Brothers, Watching

Eddie Slocum stood back from the noise.

At eighteen, he wasn’t racing. He wasn’t trying to be. He watched the cars, the teams, the scorers sitting in the grandstands, instead of simple lap times (but he watched those two); he listened to crew chiefs and drivers. He knew who had radios - and who didn't. He'd listen in on the former and watch the hand-signals and chalked signs of the latter. He asked questions James didn’t always answer right away.

James noticed.

So did Tom.

Tom watched Eddie for a moment, then nodded toward him.
“If he were a little older,” Tom said quietly, “I’d scoop him up for TBR. He could run the whole shebang right now.”

James didn’t look away from the track.
“Oh no,” he said. “This one’s not for you.”

Tom raised an eyebrow.

James finally smiled - just a little.
“This here boy is the future of NARF. I’m keepin’ him close to the nest.”

If Eddie had heard anything, you couldn't tell. He said nothing, scribbling notes, already thinking about the next race.

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Winter Sports Grind

In Ottawa, Hobie Barrell made the CHL look smaller every night.

Defenses sagged toward him. It didn’t matter. He found space anyway. Found teammates anyway. Found the net anyway. The league had no answer yet, and Hobie knew it.

Off the ice, the attention grew louder. Invitations. Parties. Faces that smiled a little too eagerly. One woman in particular stayed close - glamorous, demanding, unimpressed by anything that didn’t revolve around her.

Hobie liked the attention.

Benny didn’t.

He said nothing. He’d learned long ago that Hobie rarely listened when he was enjoying himself.

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Basketball and Waiting

Steve Barrell continued to drift toward the inevitable.

The season wore on. His role narrowed. His influence grew. He coached from the floor now, correcting positioning between plays, reading defenses aloud during timeouts. The younger players leaned in.

At home, Shirley rested more. The house felt full in a way that calmed him. Mike called when he could, still restless, still searching for ways to make his new role matter.

Neither brother talked about the end.

They both felt it coming.

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Distance

Billy McCullough flew back to Japan at the end of the month.

The relief surprised him.

Ohio and Los Angeles had felt familiar but wrong, like visiting a childhood home that no longer fit. Nagoya greeted him with routine and quiet competence. Hana met him at the airport, and for the first time in weeks, Billy felt centered.

The season awaited.
So did decisions.

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MARCH 1973
Fault Lines

March brought motion back to places that had been dormant.

Baseball fields thawed. Racing schedules filled. Families that had been avoiding one another found themselves suddenly too close to pretend nothing was wrong.

The Tennessee 400

If February had been about warning signs, March made them impossible to ignore.

The Tennessee 400 at Knoxville was supposed to be a "get right race" after the hoopla in Effingham County - a chance for drivers to find rhythm before the heart of the NARF season. Instead, it became a referendum on patience.

J.P. Slocum drove like he was trying to outrun something.

He pushed too hard, too early, clipped the wall coming out of Turn Two, and destroyed a perfectly good Tom Barrell Racing car in a cloud of smoke and twisted steel. He climbed out unhurt, helmet still on, jaw clenched - already building his defense.

Tom Barrell didn’t wait to hear it.

“That’s it,” Tom snapped in the garage, voice low and dangerous. “You keep drivin’ like that, and you’ll be in the spare until your kids are old and gray.”

J.P. bristled. “I was racing.”

“You were showboatin’,” Tom shot back. “This isn’t a damn rodeo.”

Paul said nothing. He never did. He finished fourth, steady as ever, while J.P. watched from behind the wall, furious at everyone but himself.

James Slocum watched it all with folded arms.

He didn’t intervene.

Not yet.

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Egypt, Georgia

Life at the old Barrell farm moved at a different speed.

Brenda hated that.

She missed the road. Missed the noise. Missed being Carolina - the girl with the guitar and the protest song that once meant something. Egypt felt like exile. The proximity of Effingham County Super Speedway only sharpened the ache, the roar of engines a constant reminder of her father’s world and his unspoken ultimatum.

Cheryl, four years old now, toddled freely across the porch, laughing when Claudia corrected her German pronunciation and reaching instinctively for her great-grandmother’s hand.

Brenda noticed.

She resented it.

One afternoon, the resentment boiled over.

“She looks at you like you’re her mother,” Brenda snapped.

Claudia didn’t raise her voice. She never did.

“She looks at me like someone who stays,” Claudia replied. “You should be grateful for that.”

Brenda turned away, shaking.

Claudia followed anyway.

“Your anger is loud,” Claudia said, stern but not unkind. “But it is not the center of the world. You have a child. You do not get to be only wounded anymore.”

Brenda said nothing.

Cheryl crawled into Claudia’s lap, clutching a worn stuffed animal.

Claudia held her, unyielding and resolute, the same way she always had.

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Ottawa Nights

Hobie Barrell’s life off the ice was beginning to mirror the risks he took on it.

His new girlfriend was Québécoise - glamorous, sharp-tongued, and entirely unimpressed by anyone who didn’t understand her world. Ottawa made it easy. The border between provinces was thin, porous, and full of temptation, and Hobie crossed it eagerly.

She liked the parties, the cameras, the way heads turned when Hobie walked into a room.

Benny did not like her.

“She’s trouble,” Benny said one night, not for the first time.

Hobie laughed. “I like a woman with some flair.”

Benny snorted. “You don’t speak French.”

“I speak enough,” Hobie shot back.

“Bull,” Benny said. “You know gutter French and hockey curses. You probably picked her up by mumblin’ the words to Lady Marmalade and hopin’ for the best.”

Hobie grinned. “Worked, didn’t it?”

Benny shook his head. “Flair burns hot,” he said. “Then it burns out.”

Hobie waved it off.

On the ice, he was untouchable.

Off it, he was already drifting.

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A Different Ring

The shiny new Chelsea Arena was booked that night for hockey, so Gotham Wrestling Federation ran the show at the aging Bigsby Gardens instead - the old barn that still smelled like sweat and cigar smoke, a relic that suited Junior Barrell just fine.

The crowd came to see the football star.

They always did.

Junior worked under a mask, billed as a “special attraction,” squaring off against a veteran GWF regular who knew how to sell, how to pace, how to make it look real without ever letting it be real.

Junior did not listen.

The match went off the rails halfway through. A tackle that landed too hard. A follow-up slam driven with real anger instead of timing. When Junior locked in the finish, he didn’t ease up. The man in his arms screamed - not for the crowd, but for real.

The bell rang early.

Backstage, the GWF's owner and promoter, Frankie D'Amico, was waiting.

“What the hell was that?” he snapped. “This isn’t football. This isn’t a bar fight. This is a show.”

Junior toweled off, jaw tight. “He should’ve protected himself.”

D'Amico stepped closer. “You keep that up, you’re done here. I don’t care who you are and I don't care who your father is. We don’t cripple our own.”

Junior said nothing.

He left without showering.

Father and Son

Bobby Barrell Sr. caught up to him in the hallway.

He’d been watching from the back, arms crossed, smiling at first - then not smiling at all.

“What’s going on with you?” Bobby asked quietly.

Junior kept walking.

“I said,” Bobby repeated, firmer now, “what’s going on?”

Junior stopped. Turned. His face was flushed, eyes hard.

“I won,” he said.

“That wasn’t winning,” Bobby replied. “That was you trying to hurt someone.”

Junior scoffed. “It’s wrestling. It’s fake.”

Bobby shook his head. “No. It’s work. There’s a difference. And Barrells don’t cheat, and we don’t take shortcuts.”

Junior bristled. “You don’t get it.”

Bobby studied him for a long moment - the bulk, the tension, the edge that hadn’t been there before.

“I get more than you think,” Bobby said. “And I don’t like what I’m seein’.”

Junior turned away.

Bobby didn’t follow.

For the first time in his life, Junior Barrell walked away from his father without a joke, without a smile - carrying a fury he no longer knew how to explain.

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Spring Camps

Baseball returned the way it always did - slowly at first, then all at once.

Harry Barrell walked the Montreal Saints’ spring camp fields in Florida with a familiar ache. For the first time in years, Roger Cleaves wasn’t beside him. The routines felt wrong without “The Sarge” barking reminders or quietly fixing problems before they grew teeth.

Ruth watched him closely.

She knew about Sarah's illness.

She knew what it meant.

She said nothing, but every silence carried weight.

Fifty miles away, Roger Cleaves stood in a different camp, surveying a roster that bore little resemblance to the one he’d left behind. The Dynamos needed a lot of work.

“I’ve got my work cut out for me,” he told Dwayne over the phone one night. “Ain’t any Dixie Turners around here, son.”

Dwayne listened from Toronto’s camp, trying not to show how much the call steadied him. He was close now. Closer than he’d ever been. Terrified he'd screw it up.

North waited.

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[stratonapba]

Originally Posted by legendsport

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FEBRUARY 1973
Speed and Friction

February brought engines.

While winter still clung to much of the country, down South the sound of racing cut through the cold mornings, loud and unapologetic. For the Slocum family, February was never about waiting. It was about motion.

The Georgia 500

Effingham County Super Speedway came alive the way it always did for the Georgia 500 - trailers lining the access roads, the smell of fuel and grilled meat in the air, engines barking during warmups like restless dogs straining at the leash.

For James Slocum, this race was personal. The track sat on land that housed generations of the Barrell family - his family - carved out of red Georgia clay, hard work, and stubborn pride. Every year it reminded him where he came from. Every year it reminded him why he built NARF the way he did.

This year, he watched his sons.

Tom Barrell stood beside him in the pits, arms crossed, eyes sharp.

Tom owned a string of Ford dealerships, based on advice from Rollie that had generated a fortune. And now Tom Barrell Racing had two cars in the field (Fords, of course), both bearing the now-familiar TBR colors. Paul Slocum in one. J.P. Slocum in the other.

They were teammates.
They were brothers.
And they were already racing different races.

Paul drove the way his father had raced - patient, methodical, saving tires, waiting for mistakes. He let others fight early, let the race come to him. By halfway, he was exactly where he wanted to be.

J.P. was everywhere. He was Jimmy Barrell reincarnated.

Aggressive on restarts. Late on the brakes. Dancing the line between daring and foolish. When he spun exiting Turn Four midway through the race, narrowly avoiding the wall, Tom’s jaw tightened.

“My car,” Tom muttered. “He’s driving my car like it owes him money.”

J.P. recovered, but the damage was done. He finished deep in the pack, furious and defensive. Paul, meanwhile, cruised home second - clean, professional, and unspectacular in the way that won championships.

The winner was Cal Harlan, a grizzled veteran with a smooth drawl and a calm demeanor, driving the number 43 for Tidewater Motors. Harlan had been around forever, it seemed, and he drove like a man who had nothing left to prove.

Paul watched him on Victory Lane.
J.P. glared at him.

Harlan smiled at both.

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I Don't Know what the NARF is, But How Did you Sim the NARF or the North American Racing Federation?

Will it be NASCAR Racing 2003 Season from Papyrus, PLAAY's Red White and Blue Racing or something else?

[legendsport]

Originally Posted by stratonapba

I Don't Know what the NARF is, But How Did you Sim the NARF or the North American Racing Federation?

Will it be NASCAR Racing 2003 Season from Papyrus, PLAAY's Red White and Blue Racing or something else?

Neither, I created my own thing. It's still a work in progress to a large extent but gives me the basic results I need for this. I hope to flesh it out and maybe actually make something I can share with others. But it's not there yet.

I am a massive fan of RWB and wish I could use it, but it takes too long to run a race for my purposes.

[legendsport]

I just belatedly realized that what I posted was actually 1974 material - not 1973. So we'll consider '73 to have been a relatively quiet year and will just continue with 1974.

[legendsport]

CHAPTER TEN — 1974
APRIL–JUNE: THINGS PUT BACK TOGETHER

APRIL

Spring arrived unevenly for the far-flung members of the Barrell clan, as it often did.

In Montreal, the Saints were already in motion, the rhythm of a long season settling in. Harry Barrell paced the dugout with the same restless energy that had followed him since his playing days. The club was good—deep, balanced, experienced—and expectations were high. But Harry’s thoughts drifted more than usual. He knew Reid's mother - Sarah, his first, truest love - was sick. He didn't know much more, but he was worried about much more than just how his ball club was playing. He discovered it made him miss Roger even more. The former Marine had been a solid sounding board. Stoic, non-judgemental, and always honest. A completely different man than he'd been before the Marines... before the war.

In Cincinnati, Ace Barrell looked more and more like the pitcher people whispered about. He was still officially the number two behind Herm Quinn, but opposing hitters didn’t seem to care about depth charts. Ace attacked the zone with confidence and precision, pitching like a man who expected the game to bend to him eventually. Deuce Barrell watched the Cannons games on TV from his home in Dayton, a knowing smile on his face.

In Toronto, Dwayne Cleaves surprised everyone by breaking camp as the Wolves’ starting center fielder and leadoff man. He ran hard, played fearlessly, and made the sort of rookie mistakes that veterans tolerated because they were paired with promise. Roger watched from Detroit, equal parts proud and anxious. Evelyn joked with him, "You never ran like that." Roger nodded his head and said, "Maybe he gets it from you."

Japan continued to embrace Billy McCullough, even as his batting average dipped. The home runs still came, the crowd still roared, and Billy - home briefly in the States before the season started - felt an unexpected ache for routines he’d once found alien. He missed Hana. He missed Nagoya. It unsettled him.

And in Los Angeles, Ralph Barrell hit again. Not just better—right. The swing was back, the confidence returning, the whispers quieting. For now.

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MAY

May brought clarity, and with it, reckoning.

Sarah Barrell was sick. Cancer. Terminal. The word arrived without ceremony, delivered by Reid with a steadiness that belied the weight of it. Harry flew east between road trips, his presence careful, respectful, and undeniable. He and Sarah talked—not about blame, not about the past—but about children, about time, about things left unsaid for too long. Harry could still make her laugh, telling her he'd meant to "pack a frog or two" for his visit, but forgotten.

Barbara watched it all from a distance at first. Years of silence are not undone quickly. But Reid stood between them—not as a mediator, but as proof that something good had survived the wreckage. He even knew what the "frogs" meant, something a drunken Harry had explained to him years ago; ten-year-old Harry's first prank on the girl who'd become his wife.

In Detroit, Roger Cleaves began to understand the depth of the task before him. The Dynamos were bad. Not unlucky. Not misunderstood. Just bad. He worked anyway. Late nights. Early mornings. No shortcuts. He called Dwayne often, grounding his son with reminders that progress wasn’t always visible on the surface. He thought back to the fighting on Tarawa where the Japanese knew they had no chance of winning; but they were tough and tenacious and made the Marines earn every inch of that small spit of land in the middle of the Pacific. Barely big enough to land a plane on. Roger respeted that, and he knew he'd never give up on his team, no matter how impossible things looked.

In Ottawa, Hobie Barrell did things to goaltenders that bordered on cruel. The CHL was thinner than the NAHC, and Hobie exploited it mercilessly, piling up goals and points with an ease that unsettled his peers. Benny, now on the third line, played the game the way he always had - with grit, intelligence, and timing. His relationship with Margaret O’Connell - Maggie - grew by leaps and bounds. Maggie liked him immediately. He trusted her instincts. And no matter what Hobie said, Benny had come to realize that Maggie was his future.

In New York, Jack Pollack continued his quiet ascent, while Billy Pollack - barely nineteen - showed flashes that made his father nod to himself behind the bench.

-------------------------------------------------------

LATE MAY

Ruth spoke to Harry late one evening, the words long considered.

She apologized - not for loving him, but for not stopping what she could have stopped. For knowing that her brother’s lie had found fertile ground because her affection had opened the door. She'd known her half-sibling would ruthlessly use any leverage he could in his battle for control of their father's fortune (tied to his ownership of FABL's Boston Minutemen) and let it happen.

Harry listened. He did not absolve her. He did not accuse her. He told her the truth.

Sarah had been his first great love. Ruth was his present. Both were real. Neither erased the other. It had taken years for Harry to figure out how to comparmentalize his love for two very different women and accept that one was now out of reach. But he'd done it.

Ruth accepted this without bitterness. She told him to go. To do what was right. To put his family back together while there was still time.

She would stand beside him when it mattered.

-------------------------------------------------------

JUNE

Barbara Barrell was married on a warm June afternoon.

Harry walked her down the aisle.

The gesture was simple. The meaning was not.

Sarah watched from the front row, pale but smiling, her hand clasped in Reid’s. Ruth sat beside Harry afterward, present, unflinching, and wholly gracious. There were no speeches about forgiveness. No declarations. Just quiet understanding, earned the hard way.

At the reception, Sarah gasped, her hand going to her mouth. Barbara, helping her walk to her seat, had asked, "What is it, Mom?"

Sarah pointed at a young man standing and talking with Reid. "Harry...." she said.

Barbara looked and her lips moved in a way that appeared to be something halfway between a smile and a scowl. "That's Leland, Mom."

Sarah's eyes widened. "Oh," she said. "What a handsome boy, he looks just like Harry when we were in high school."

Sarah knew who Leland was - Harry's son with Ruth - as did Barbara, who hadn't yet reconciled how she felt about her young half-brother, who did in fact strongly resemble their father. Albeit with hair that was more dark gold than Harry's deep brown. That, of course, came from Ruth and might have been why Barbara remained conflicted.

Meanwhile, baseball continued. Hockey ended. Life moved forward.

And for the first time in a long while, something broken felt whole again.

-------------------------------------------------------

[legendsport]

NOTE: As I finally catch up to where Figment Baseball and the other Figment sports currently are (1975), I am moving back towards a more story-driven format rather than shorter recap-style entries. These will sometimes be longer, but hopefully more enjoyable.

CHAPTER TEN - 1974
JULY
Summer came hard and fast, and with it the sense that whatever balance had been found earlier in the year was beginning to slip.
The heat arrived early in Montreal, turning the concrete around Stade Montreal into something that shimmered and lied about distance. Harry Barrell stood in the dugout during a Tuesday afternoon game against Milwaukee, sleeves rolled to his elbows, watching his shortstop - his son Reid - boot a routine grounder.
"C'mon Reid," he muttered.
Beside him, pitching coach Tom Villareal spat sunflower seeds into a cup. "That's three errors in two games."
"I can count, Tom."
"Just saying."
Harry said nothing. The Arrows scored twice that inning. The Saints lost 4–2, their fifth loss in seven games. Walking back to the clubhouse afterward, Harry caught his reflection in the glass of the tunnel-jaw tight, shoulders hunched. He looked like a man waiting for bad news.
The losses weren't dramatic. Weren't catastrophic. Just steady. Nagging. Relentless. A missed cutoff here. A pitch left up there. Rallies that never quite came together. He'd been in baseball long enough to recognize a team starting to fray, the way a rope does - one strand at a time, until suddenly the whole thing snaps.
That night, he called Ruth at her hotel in Boston.
"How bad?" she asked.
"We're still in it," he said. "Three games back."
"That's not what I asked."
Harry leaned back against the headboard, closed his eyes. "I don't know. Something feels off. Like we're all waiting for someone else to fix it."
"Roger?"
The name hung there.
"Maybe," Harry said finally. "Or maybe I just don't know how to do this without him."
Ruth was quiet a moment. "You managed before Roger."
"Not well."
"Harry—"
"I know. I know." He rubbed his face. "How's Barbara?" Harry couldn't quite believe it, but his daughter had found a confidante in Ruth. The universe moved in mysterious ways.
"Worried about her mother. Sarah's been tired lately. More than usual."
Harry's stomach tightened. "I'll call her tomorrow."
"She'd like that."
After they hung up, Harry sat in the dark, listening to the hum of the air conditioner and the muffled sounds of the city outside. Somewhere down the hall, a couple was arguing. He thought about Sarah. About the years they'd had together and the years they'd had apart. About how some things break and never quite mend, even when both people want them to.
He didn't sleep much that night.

In Cincinnati, the heat was worse.
Ace Barrell stood on the mound at Tice Memorial Stadium in the bottom of the eighth, two outs, runner on second. The thermometer read ninety-four degrees. Felt like a hundred and ten. His uniform clung to him like a second skin.
Herb Quinn, leaning against the dugout railing, watched with the detached interest of a man who'd already pitched his game three days prior and wouldn't throw again until Sunday.
"Kid's got ice water," Quinn said to no one in particular.
The catcher put down two fingers. Curveball. Ace shook him off. Fastball. Inside corner. He wound up, delivered, and watched the batter swing through it for strike three.
Eighteen wins by season's end. An ERA that stayed comfortably under three. And with it, the questions.
They came in every city. Reporters with notebooks and recorders, asking about legacy, about lineage, about whether a right-hander with his temperament could ever eclipse the left-handed legend who had come before him.
After a game in late July - a complete game shutout against the Saints, as it happened - a writer from the Cincinnati Enquirer caught Ace near his locker.
"Your father says you've got better control than he ever had at your age. You agree with that?"
Ace toweled off his face. "My dad's being generous."
"He also said, and I'm quoting here, 'Let the boy pitch. That'll answer everything.' What do you make of that?"
Ace smiled, tired but genuine. "I make of it that my father knows better than to let people put words in his mouth. Or mine."
The reporter scribbled something down. "Fair enough. One more - do you feel pressure, being a Barrell?"
Ace looked at him for a long moment. "Every day," he said. "But that's not the family's fault. That's baseball."

In Toronto, Dwayne Cleaves ran out a ground ball in the bottom of the fourth inning on a Friday night, legs pumping, lungs burning, and beat the throw by half a step.
The crowd at Dominion Stadium, what there was of it, gave a polite cheer. Dwayne stood on first base, hands on his knees, catching his breath. The first base coach, a grizzled veteran named Howie Strong, leaned over.
"You know you're hitting .234, right? You don't gotta run like it's the World Series every time."
Dwayne grinned. "Coach, if I hit .234, I better run like it's the World Series every time."
Strong snorted. "Fair point."
Two batters later, Dwayne scored on a double to left. His seventieth run of the season. The average didn't tell the story. The speed did. So did the arm. In late July, a runner on second tested him on a single to center. Dwayne came up throwing, a frozen rope that nailed the runner at third by three feet.
The third base coach for the visiting team - Milwaukee, as it happened - shook his head in disbelief. "Who the hell is that kid?"
"Cleaves," someone said. "Rule 5 pick."
"Great, another one."
Roger Cleaves, watching from Detroit on a small television in his office, allowed himself a rare smile. Evelyn, sitting beside him with a cup of coffee, noticed.
"What?"
"That arm," Roger said. "That's mine."
Evelyn raised an eyebrow.
"The speed, though," Roger added, "that's all you."
She laughed and kissed his temple. "You're allowed to take credit, you know."
"I know," Roger said. "But it's more fun this way. And, no lie, I was never fast."

In Toledo, the heat was oppressive and the losses were piling up - for Don Barrell. The team was in first place.
Don stood in the bullpen after a rough outing in early August-five innings, six runs, four walks-and wanted to put his fist through the wall.
His catcher, a veteran with the all-too-generic name of John Smith, sat beside him on the bench.
"You're overthrowing," Smith said.
"I know."
"So stop."
"That's real helpful, Smitty. Thanks."
Snith shrugged. "You want me to lie to you?"
Don didn't answer. His father was in the stands. Again. Tom Barrell hadn't missed a home game in three weeks, and every time Don looked up, there he was-arms folded, face unreadable, watching.
After the game, they met in the parking lot. Tom leaned against his car, waiting.
"You gonna say it?" Don asked, tossing his bag into the trunk.
"Say what?"
"That I'm walking too many batters. That I'm leaving pitches up. That I'm—"
"Don."
"-not listening to my catcher, not trusting my stuff, not—"
"Don."
Don stopped. Looked at his father.
Tom sighed and shook his head. As he opened his mouth to speak, Don raised a hand.
"You had your career," he said quietly. "Let me have mine. My mistakes. My failures. My successes."
Tom was silent for a long moment. Then he nodded. "You're right," he said. "I'll wait until you ask for help."
A beat passed.
"I'm still coming to games," Tom added. "And I can't be held responsible for what comes out of my mouth in the heat of the moment. Fair warning."
Despite himself, Don laughed. "Fair warning received."
They stood there a moment longer, the August heat radiating off the asphalt, the distant sound of the groundskeepers hosing down the infield.
"Your record's around .500," Tom said finally. "That's not bad for a first full season at Triple-A."
"It's not good either."
"No," Tom agreed. "But it's yours."
Don nodded. Climbed into his car. Drove home thinking about the walks, the lack of wins, the long road still ahead.

AUGUST
Football camps opened, and with them came pressure of a different kind.
Junior Barrell arrived in Houston in the best shape of his life-and the worst state of mind.
The steroids had done their job. Two hundred and sixty-five pounds of muscle, and not an ounce of fat to spare. He could bench press a Volkswagen. Could run a forty in under four-point-seven seconds. Could hit a quarterback hard enough to make his ancestors feel it.
But the anger - God, the anger was getting harder to control.
It started small. A lineman held his jersey during a drill. Junior shoved him. Hard. The lineman shoved back. Junior threw a punch. The offensive line coach had to pull them apart, and even then, Junior wanted to keep going.
"Barrell! Cool it!"
"He grabbed my jersey!"
"I don't care if he shot your dog! You walk away!"
Junior walked. Barely.
The call came early in the month, on a Tuesday evening. Junior was in his apartment, watching Watergate coverage - Nixon's lawyers arguing some arcane point about executive privilege - when the phone rang.
"Junior? It's Karen."
He turned the television down. "Hey. What's up?"
There was a pause. A long one.
"I'm pregnant."
The room tilted.
"You're... what?"
"Pregnant. About six weeks."
Junior sat down heavily on the couch. His mind raced. They'd hooked up a handful of times over the past few months-parties, late nights, nothing serious. She was fun. Easy. Uncomplicated.
This was very, very complicated.
"Are you sure?" he asked, hating how stupid the question sounded even as he said it.
"I took three tests, Junior. I'm sure."
"Okay. Okay." He rubbed his face. "What do you want to do?"
Another pause.
"I'm keeping it," she said. "I just thought you should know."
"Right. Yeah. Of course." He felt like he was underwater. "Does anyone else know?"
"Not yet."
"Okay. Let me... let me talk to my family. We'll figure this out."
After they hung up, Junior sat in the dark for a long time, staring at the silent television. Nixon's face, looking defiant. The word WATERGATE in block letters at the bottom of the screen.
He called his parents the next day.
Bobby Sr. was furious. "What the hell were you thinking?"
"I wasn't."
"Clearly!"
Annette was disappointed, which somehow felt worse. "Junior, how could you be so careless?"
"I don't know, Ma."
Ralph - quiet, steady Ralph - just sighed when Junior called him in Los Angeles. That hurt the most.
"You're an idiot," Ralph said.
"I know."
"You're also going to be a father."
"I know that too."
"So what are you going to do about it?"
Junior didn't have an answer.
The temper followed him onto the practice field. The steroids amplified everything - every slight, every perceived disrespect, every moment of frustration. During a scrimmage in mid-August, an offensive tackle got handsy on a pass rush. Junior drove him into the turf, then stood over him, shouting.
The head coach, a no-nonsense veteran named Mario Case, blew his whistle.
"Barrell! My office! Now!"
The suspension came down that afternoon. One week. Sent home to think about what he'd done.
Junior drove back to his apartment, packed a bag, and flew to visit his parents in LA. The conversation that followed was long, painful, and necessary.
"You can't keep going like this," Bobby Sr. said. "The anger, the fights-something's got to give."
"I know."
"Do you?" Annette asked quietly. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you're trying to destroy everything you've worked for."
Junior stared at his hands. Big hands. Dangerous hands.
"I don't know how to stop," he said finally.
Bobby Sr. softened, just a little. "Then you ask for help."

In Japan, Billy McCullough found something he hadn't expected.
Peace.
The Hosho Reliables were in the middle of a West Japan pennant race, and Billy was hitting .285 with power from the hot corner. The language was still a struggle. The food took some getting used to. The customs, the rituals, the way everything seemed to move at a different speed-all of it had been disorienting at first.
But Hana made it easier.
They'd been seeing each other more often since May, carefully, deliberately. She was a teacher at a local school, patient with his broken Japanese, curious about America, thoughtful in ways that caught him off guard.
After a game in early August - a walk-off home run that sent the Nagoya crowd into a frenzy - Billy found her waiting outside the players' entrance.
"That was a good swing," she said in English.
He grinned. "Thanks. You staying for dinner?"
"If you're buying."
They went to a small izakaya near the stadium, crowded and loud and perfect. Over yakitori and beer, Hana asked him about America.
"Do you miss it?"
Billy thought about that. "Sometimes. I miss my family. Miss my cousin Ace. Miss certain foods. But..."
"But?"
"I don't know. I always thought Japan was just a stop. A way to get back to FABL. But the longer I'm here..."
"The less certain that sounds?"
He looked at her, surprised. "Yeah. Exactly."
She smiled. "That's not a bad thing, you know. To change your mind."
"Feels like giving up."
"Or," she said, "it feels like finding something better."
Billy didn't have an answer for that. Not yet. But late that night, lying awake in his small apartment, he wondered what it would mean if the mountain he'd been chasing wasn't the one he actually wanted.

In Los Angeles, Ralph Barrell felt the hits stop coming.
Not all at once. Just gradually, the way summer turns to fall. July had been good—.310, five home runs, twenty-two RBIs. August started to cool. The average dipped to .280. Then .265. The home runs dried up. The arguments at home started to multiply.
Marla was in the middle of filming a new picture, and the hours were brutal. She'd leave before he woke up, come home after midnight, exhausted and short-tempered. Ralph tried to be understanding. Tried to remember that her career mattered as much as his.
But the marriage, barely nine months old, already felt like something that needed managing rather than living.
They fought after a game in mid-August. Ralph had gone 0-for-4 with three strikeouts, and he came home to find Marla on the couch, still in her costume, staring at the television.
"How was your day?" he asked, dropping his bag by the door.
"Long."
"Mine too."
She didn't look at him. "You want to talk about it?"
"Not really."
"Good. Me neither."
Ralph stood there a moment, feeling the distance between them like a physical thing. He thought about saying something - about the slump, about the pressure, about how he felt like he was losing his grip on everything that mattered.
Instead, he said, "I'm gonna take a shower."
"Okay."
The Stars stayed in the race anyway. One game back by the end of August. One game separating them from first place. Ralph kept playing. Kept showing up. Kept pretending everything was fine.
It wasn't fine. But it was all he knew how to do.

BLACK SEPTEMBER
Sarah Barrell died on a Tuesday.
Harry was at her bedside. Buddy Schneider, his bench coach, was running the club. Buddy was no Roger, but he was a sharp guy and the team was in good hands.
The house in Boston was quiet, the late-afternoon light slanting through the curtains in a way that felt too peaceful for what was happening. Barbara sat in a chair by the window, hands folded in her lap. Reid stood near the door, looking like he wanted to be anywhere else.
Ruth stayed in the hallway, present but unobtrusive, exactly where she belonged.
Sarah's breathing had grown shallow over the past few hours. The hospice nurse had warned them it wouldn't be long. Harry held her hand, feeling the bones beneath the skin, remembering when those hands had been strong enough to raise two children, to manage a household, to hold him together when he couldn't hold himself.
"Harry," Sarah whispered.
He leaned closer. "I'm here."
"You were a better man than you thought."
His throat tightened. "I wasn't good enough."
"No," she said, voice faint but firm. "You were human. There's a difference."
She closed her eyes. Her breathing slowed. And then, sometime around four in the afternoon, it stopped.
Barbara made a sound-not quite a sob, not quite a gasp. Reid put a hand on her shoulder. Harry stayed where he was, holding Sarah's hand, feeling the weight of over fifty years settle over him like a shroud.
Ruth appeared in the doorway. "Harry."
He looked up. Nodded. Let go.

The funeral was small, dignified, and mercifully brief. Family, mostly. A few old friends. The priest said kind things about Sarah's strength, her grace, her devotion to her children. Harry listened and thought about all the things the priest didn't know. The fights. The silences. The long, slow unraveling of a marriage that had once felt indestructible.
Afterward, at the house, Tom Barrell found Harry in the kitchen, staring at a pot of coffee he'd forgotten to pour.
"You all right?" Tom asked.
"No."
Tom nodded. Poured two cups, handed one to Harry. They stood there in silence, brothers who'd spent a lifetime not saying the things that mattered most.
"She loved you, you know," Tom said finally. "Even after everything."
Harry looked at him. "I know."
"You love Ruth?"
"Yes."
"Then don't make the same mistakes twice."
Harry took a sip of coffee. It was cold. He drank it anyway.

Two weeks later, Jack Barrell died.
The call came from Toronto on a Thursday morning. Heart attack. Quick, the doctors said. Didn't suffer. Small comfort, but comfort nonetheless.
The family gathered again, this time in mourning that stretched across generations. A Hall of Famer. A brother. A father. An uncle. Fred flew in from Washington. Tom came from North Carolina. Harry arrived from Montreal, Ruth beside him. Bobby and Annette flew in from California. Betsy and George drove over from Buffalo.
The living remnants of something once enormous stood together in a funeral home in Toronto and felt the weight of what was gone. The ten children of Rufus and Alice Barrell had now dwindled to five living members. And it took the death of ther oldest living sibling to bring them all together in one place.
Quinton Pollack gave the eulogy. He spoke about Jack's career-the numbers, the accolades, the way he'd carried himself with quiet dignity both on and off the field. He spoke about legacy, about family, about the responsibility that came with the Barrell name. Marie and Jack's three daughters sat sobbing, listening to Quinton's words.
Afterward, in the parking lot, Deuce found Roger leaning against his car, tie loosened, looking exhausted.
"Hell of a speech," Deuce told his brother.
"Hell of a man," Charlie added, as he joined them. The three sons of Joe Barrell, each with a different mother. And each remembering that after their father died it had been Jack - and Rollie - who'd stepped in to fill the void as best they could. And now those two fine men were also gone.
They stood there a moment, watching the rest of the family filter out of the building. Tom with his arm around his wife. Bobby with Annette. Harry with Ruth. Fred, with Tillie, but looking alone. He'd been close to Jack than any of his brothers.
"We're running out of them, you know," Deuce said quietly, watching Betsy talking with Debbie and Evelyn.
Roger looked at him. "I know."
Charlie nodded in agreement. Anna walked up and hugged Charlie.
"Makes you think," Deuce said.
"About what?"
Deuce smiled faintly. "About whether we're doing it right. The next generation. Whether we're properly passing along the legacy, setting them up or setting them loose."
Roger thought about Dwayne, hitting .234 and running out ground balls like his life depended on it. "I think we do the best we can. And hope it's enough."
"And if it's not?"
"Then we trust them to figure it out."

Baseball, cruel as ever, did not pause.
The Saints collapsed down the stretch. Three losses became five. Five became eight. By the time the season mercifully ended, they'd finished 81–81. Third place. The first time in five years they hadn't won the division.
Harry sat in his office at Stade Montreal after the final game-a meaningless 5–3 loss to the Arrows-and stared at the final standings tacked to his wall.
Milwaukee: 90–72.
Cincinnati: 84–78.
Montreal: 81–81.
Buddy Schneider knocked on the door. "You coming?"
"In a minute."
Buddy hesitated. "It's not your fault, Harry."
"Isn't it?"
"No. It's baseball. Sometimes you just don't have it."
Harry didn't answer. After Buddy left, he sat there a while longer, thinking about Roger, about Sarah, about Jack, about all the things he'd lost and all the things he still had left to lose.
Finally, he stood, turned off the light, and went home.

In Detroit, Roger endured his own reckoning.
Sixty-two wins. One hundred losses. The worst record in the Continental Association.
The front office was patient. "It's a rebuild," they said. "These things take time."
Roger knew that. Believed it, even. But sitting in his office after the season ended, staring at the Federal standings the way Harry was staring at the Continental's hundreds of miles away, he couldn't help but wonder if time was something he'd ever have enough of.
Evelyn found him there past midnight.
"Come to bed," she said.
"In a minute."
"Roger."
He looked at her. Tired. Beaten. But not broken. Not yet.
"One hundred losses," he said. "You know how long it's been since Detroit lost a hundred games?"
"I don't care."
"I do."
She crossed the room, took his hand, pulled him to his feet. "Then care tomorrow. Tonight, you come to bed."
"Forty years," he said, then he went.

The season ended. The losses lingered.
And September, black and unyielding, closed its grip on the Barrell family - reminding them that some years take more than they give, and that even victories come with a cost.
Outside, the world kept turning. Nixon resigned on August 8th, his face pale and defiant on every television in America. Inflation climbed. The Midwest baked under a brutal heatwave. And somewhere in all of it, the Barrells kept playing, kept managing, kept trying to outrun the weight of their own history.
Some days, they even succeeded.