The Ballad of the Brothers Barrell - A Figment Story

[legendsport]

Egypt, GA: May 13, 1920:

Alice Barrell was feeling a bit of concern. She seemed to have misplaced her daughter. Having ten children, "misplacing" one occasionally wasn't typically something she fretted about much. They were on a farm, and there weren't too many ways to get into too much trouble. And the kids had typically done things together in a group. But Betsy was the youngest, and the only girl and it wasn't like her to just disappear in the way her brothers had occasionally done.

She had gone through the house and found it empty, aside from the dog. Blue, who the kids had always called "Old Blue" because that's what Possum had called the hound dog since he'd brought him to the farm as a puppy, actually was now, in fact, old. And he liked to lay around in the sitting room. He had barely raised his head when Alice had swept through the room calling for her daughter.

"I don't suppose you know where Betsy is?" she had asked the dog. Blue twitched an ear in response. "That's what I thought," Alice muttered.

Maybe the boys would know where their sister was - Tommy, Bobby and Harry had all gone down to the ballfield behind the barn. Alice stepped out on to the porch and could hear - faintly - the sound of wooden bat on ball. She shook her head and started walking.

A few minutes later she rounded the barn and stopped short, too stunned to move.

Tommy was standing on the pitching mound, while Harry was behind him in the approximate position a shortstop would play and Bobby was on the other side of the infield. No one was in the outfield. Behind the plate, as usual, was Fred. He was 14 and had generally begun to seek competition closer to his own age group, but he was almost always willing to catch.

Standing in the right-handed batter's box and doing so competently to Alice's somewhat experienced eye (she had been around baseball her whole life), was Betsy.

"Alright, Tommy, give me something to hit," Betsy said, in her piping, high six-year-old voice.

Tommy grinned. He went into the full wind-up that Rufus had painstakingly taught him (his form, according to Rufus and Possum both, was flawless), rocked back and threw a pitch that wasn't anywhere near full speed - at 12, Tommy already had a fearsome-for-his-age fastball - but it was right over the plate.

Betsy swung, and swung well. Alice wasn't Rufus, but she recognized a technically sound swing when she saw it. And coming from a six-year-old girl, no less.

The bat connected with the ball and shot out towards shortstop. Harry, only a year older than Betsy, smoothly slid to his right and grabbed it. Bobby had gone to cover second base and took the throw against a pretend baserunner.

"6-4-3 double play!" he shouted.

Betsy had dropped the bat and had both hands on her hips. "Was not!" she shouted back.

Fred, on his knees, was laughing. "That probably would have been a double-play Bets," he said kindly. He'd be heading off to high school in the fall though no one was yet sure where he'd go. Danny (and Rufus) had suggested he, like Danny, go to Capital Academy in DC. Fred wasn't sure he wanted to leave his friends. Hence, no decision thus far.

Alice decided to have a bit of fun. "Elizabeth Vera Barrell!" she exclaimed in her stern mother's voice.

Betsy froze and her face went white. Alice heard faintly, from Tommy, a whispered, "Oh, crud."

"What on earth are you doing?" Alice asked, mock-sternly.

"Uh... I wanted to play baseball, like the boys," Betsy said in a small voice.

"You're a girl. Baseball is not for girls," Alice said, barely maintaining a straight face.

"Aw, c'mon Ma, she's actually pretty good for being just a squirt," Fred put in. Bobby shouted "And a skirt!" and doubled over in laughter. Harry said, "I don't get it."

"Watch it, Robert!" Alice shouted back.

Alice walked over to her daughter. "Let me show you something," she said, picking up the bat.

"Hmm, this is a bit small. Where's your bat, Freddy?" she asked.

Fred had pushed his mask up on his head. He looked confused as he turned to the backstop and grabbed his bat. He handed it to his mother.

"OK, this is better," Alice said. "Put your mask back on, Freddy."

Freddy's face split in a wide grin. He pulled his mask down and pounded his glove. "Haha, this is going to be fun!" he said.

Betsy stepped back as Alice stepped into the box. "Go stand over there, Betsy," Alice said and pointed to the bench Rufus had installed for "the fans" to use.

Tommy, standing on the mound, had a non-plussed look on his face. "Uhm, Mom? What are you doing?"

Alice tapped the plate with the bat, and said, "Show me something, Thomas."

Tommy shrugged and stood on the rubber.

Bobby was laughing and Harry still looked confused. "Mom, you don't play baseball," he said.

She winked at him in reply.

"Whenever you're ready," she said to Tommy.

Tommy shrugged and went into his wind-up. This time he threw the ball a little harder than he had before but it was still right over the plate. Alice, hoping she could still do this, lifted her front foot and stepped towards the pitcher, rotating her hips and bringing the bat around in a smooth swing that was just a tad early. She felt the bat connect and saw the ball shoot out towards Bobby who was playing halfway between first and second. It was a soft liner that looped over his head and into the outfield.

Alice whooped and said, "See there, Betsy? That's how you do it. A nice, level swing and you won't be beating the ball into the dirt."

Behind her, Alice heard Fred mutter, "Holy smokes..."

"Girls can do anything boys can. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise," Alice said with a smile for her daughter.

Then she handed the bat to Freddy and started walking back towards the house. She left silence in her wake as her five youngest children stood watching her with their mouths agape. Finally, she heard Harry ask, "Tommy, should I go get the ball?"

[legendsport]

Trenton, NJ: July 11, 1920:

Jack Barrell was in the doghouse. Apparently baseball managers didn't like their players demanding that they be given a chance to play. Jack was still part of the Springfield Rifles - he just hadn't actually played in about three weeks.

The blow-up happened because Jack had forgotten the advice of both his father and Possum Daniels. That advice had essentially boiled down to: work hard, be a team player and your time will come. Though obviously it had been taken vastly different forms in delivery from Possum and Rufus.

Peter Hackett, the Rifles' manager had been sitting in his "office" which was only slightly larger than a closet, in the Springfield clubhouse when Jack had come to talk with him.

Though the meeting had started off genially enough (Jack had to admit Hackett was a fair, if unbending, man). Jack had asked why, when his nemesis Billy Nash had (finally!) been promoted to Worcester, hadn't Jack been given the job at second.

"The Minutemen want Valcin playing there," Hackett said. Al Valcin, a shortstop, had been bumped from his spot by another infielder named Emmett Fisher. Fisher was not new to the team and was a much of part-timer as Jack had been the last couple of seasons, but according to Hackett was considered a better prospect than Jack was.

When Hackett pointed all this out, Jack lost his cool. The culmination came when Jack hurled the chair he'd been sitting in through the doorway, where it crashed into the clubhouse wall, breaking into splintered wood.

Hackett, unsurprisingly, did not handle this well. Jack had been suspended - without pay - for a week. And he hadn't even gotten a pinch-hit appearance since.

Now, sitting in front of his locker, he was shocked when Hackett passed by and without stopping said, "You're playing third base today - Cash needs a day off." Joe Cash was another hotshot prospect. Jack had only played third sparingly, but he wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

"Thanks, Mr. Hackett," he said in what he hoped was a respectful tone. Hackett grunted and kept moving towards the door.

Jack pressed a bit in the game, but did manage to hit his first triple of the season. The Trenton Eagles, as usual, were Springfield's top rival and the two were locked in a battle for the Middle Atlantic League pennant. The Eagles ended up winning a close one, 4-3, and Jack was 1-for-4 with that lone triple (and a run scored). He hadn't made an error at third base, so in general he felt his performance was acceptable. He made the last out of the game and was on his way to the dugout when a familiar voice called out.

Jack looked into the stands behind the dugout to see who'd called his name. To his surprise, his brother Joe was standing there with a big grin on his face.

"Joe? What are you doing in Trenton?" Jack asked.

"On my way to New York. The train stopped in Trenton, and I saw in the Sporting News that your team was in town to play Trenton, so I decided to stop over."

Jack's grin widened. It was always good to see a familiar face when on the road. The Rifles had another game in Trenton the next day and then were heading to Reading and Scranton before finally going home. He was only a few days into a ten-day stretch away from Marie and Agnes, so seeing Joe was a boon.

"Let me get cleaned up. I'll meet you outside the player's entrance in about a half-hour?"

Joe nodded and said he'd be there.

The two brothers found a small restaurant a few blocks from the hotel - Joe had also checked in there. With Prohibition now the law of the land, the hotel bar had lost much of its appeal and Jack actually wanted to get out of there anyway. He didn't need his team mates interrupting his time with his brother.

"So... how are things?" Joe asked.

Jack explained the situation, adding that he was losing heart in continuing what felt like an increasingly futile fight.

Joe commisserated. He knew Jack (unlike Joe himself) enjoyed baseball. Of the four older boys, Jack was the one who basically excelled at everything. Rollie and Jimmy both were athletic - that was just in the genes, Joe supposed - but Jack was seemingly able to competently do anything he set his mind to doing athletically.

Which gave Joe an idea... "You ever think about trying football?"

A dubious look crossed Jack's features and he shook his head. "Not really, no," he said. "I did play in high school. But it was Canadian rules, and they're a bit different than the way the American game is played."

Joe shrugged and said he was aware of the differences, but "the game is basically the same."

Jack frowned. "Why are you asking me about this?"

A sheepish look on his face, Joe admitted that he missed the family now that he was living in Ohio. Jack chuckled and said he could relate.

"I'm on my way to a meeting with Michael Bigsby about playing football in New York."

Jack whistled and muttered, "Another Bigsby? Do they manufacture these guys in a factory?"

Joe laughed and explained that Mike was Miles Bigsby's son. He was also something of a black sheep. While Sam Bigsby and his brother Charlie - both sons of Miles' late brother Charles Bigsby - were given great leeway in the family's sporting empire (Charlie was heir apparent to the Gothams and Sam ran the Oval and was leading the construction of the indoor arena the family was building), Mike was, ironically, considered too much like his uncle Charles, who died in prison.

"I'd just stay away from those guys," Jack said.

Joe gave a half shrug and said, "They're offfering me a lot of money. And I mean a lot."

"Edna okay with this?" Jack asked.

"Hell, no. She hates the idea. Won't tell me why either." Joe still didn't quite get what his wife's big objection was - he thought she'd be happy to see Joe double his income.

Jack sat back with a wry expression and said, "Well, now that I'm a married man myself, I must say that it's generally a bad idea to do something directly against your wife's wishes."

Joe smirked and said, "I hear you, brother. I just want to hear the guy out. I won't sign anything."

They changed the subject and Joe talked about the twins, now three years old.

Jack took a sip of his water as he listened, but his mind kept circling back to Joe's suggestion that he try football. He imagined Bert Thomas' reaction if he did play football and smiled.

[legendsport]

New York, NY: July 13, 1920:

"Well, well, well, if it isn't my business manager," Joe Barrell said with a grin before he stood up and grabbed his brother Rollie in a bear-hug.

"Oof, not so tight, eh?" Rollie groaned. "I have a tournament this weekend and don't need my spine snapped, you big galoot."

They were standing in the lobby of the Bigbsy Manhattanite Hotel and drawing looks from the relatively wealthy clientele wandering through the lobby.

Joe released Rollie and slapped him on the back. "I saw Jack the other day. He's miserable playing baseball. Told him he should try football," Joe said.

Rollie snorted and replied, "Football? Jack's too smart for that."

"We'll see, Roland, we'll see." Joe said before a serious look crossed his face.

"I'm glad you've agreed to help me out here, Rollie," he said. "You being a college-educated financial whiz and all..."

Rollie shook his head. "Well, I needed to be in New York anyway. Francie's playing out at Sheepshead Bay and I've got the New Haven tournament next week. The stars aligned for this one, Joe."

Joe frowned and asked, "Meaning what? This is a one-shot deal?"

Rollie shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know. Could be. I'm officially a professional golfer now, Joe. That has to be my primary focus."

Joe's frown deepened but it relaxed as Rollie continued, "But, I'll always be there for you when you need me, you know that."

Joe slapped him on the back again and nodded firmly. "Ha! I knew it. You've always been the reliable one, Rollie. That's why Jimmy always took advantage of you."

Rollie's mouth turned up in a half-grin and he said, "Yeah, me and everyone else." Then he sighed and said, "I still miss him though."

"Me too."

Rollie took a deep breath and said, "OK. Down to business. I did some checking and Mike Bigsby's got a... umm, somewhat unsavory reputation. So he might try to muscle us."

Joe chuckled, "I'm not easy to muscle."

Rollie nodded, "True, but he's got a lot of money behind him. Our family does okay, thanks to Dad, but the Bigsbys are in a whole other league."

Joe muttered, "Speak of the devil," as the revolving door spit out a series of three extremely well-dressed men, who headed directly towards the brothers.

"Mr. Barrell," said the leader, presumably Michael Bigsby.

"Mr. Bigsby, nice to meet you." Joe said as he shook hands. Bigsby had a firm grip, as Joe assumed he would. "This is my brother, Roland."

Rollie shook hands. Bigsby didn't bother to introduce the two men with him. Joe assumed they were his bodyguards. They had that particular look about them that all-but-screamed "goon."

"Follow me, gentlemen," Bigsby said and he led Joe & Rollie through a non-descript door on the right side of the lobby.

"Nice hotel you've got here, Mr. Bigsby," Rollie said as they entered a long, dimly-lit hallway.

Bigsby glanced over his shoulder and grinned. Rollie discovered what the phrase "shark-like grin" meant as Bigsby said, "Thank you. I run the family's real estate ventures."

Rollie knew this, but nodded appreciatively nonetheless. Beside him, Joe was glancing over his own shoulder at Bigsby's "associates" as they followed them down the hallway.

Bigsby reached a door, unlabeled as was the first, and pulled a key from his pocket. He glanced at Joe and smiled that same shark-like grin as he pushed the key into the lock and turned it.

"This is one of our private clubs, gentlemen," he said as he swung the door open, entered and held it for them, extending his right arm in a welcoming motion.

Joe and Rollie stepped into a large and opulently decorated room, half-full of well-dressed men and, Rollie immediately noticed, a group of attactive young women in flapper dress, sashaying around the room. A jazz trio was on a small bandstand in the back of the room and there was a well-appointed - and since January, highly-illegal - bar with a pair of bartenders making drinks.

"Cocktail, anyone?" Bigsby said as he led them towards the bar.

Joe looked at Rollie and raised his eyebrows. He'd heard of these "speakeasys" but he'd never been in one before. Rollie had already concluded that this had been a ballroom, and was now cordoned off from the rest of the hotel to keep prying eyes - and the police - out.

Rollie tapped Joe on the shoulder and pointed at a young man sitting at one of the small, round tables, a glass of a dusky liquid in hand, with a flapper girl sitting on his lap, an arm draped over his shoulder.

Joe whispered, "Yeah, so? Who's that?"

Rollie shook his head and softly replied, "I forgot you don't follow baseball. That's Pete Scanlon."

Joe was about to reply when Bigsby stopped at Scanlon's table. "Pete? Aren't you pitching today?"

Scanlon smirked and nodded. Bigsby chuckled and patted the girl on the shoulder. "Helping him, relax, Betty?"

The girl tittered. Bigsby looked at Joe and Rollie and said, "Scanlon's a regular. Since he's on the Stars, we let him drink here whenever he wants. If he was on the Gothams, I'd have my father breathing down my neck about it and I don't need that."

He leaned in and said, "Max Morris? He's been in here too. Any time he comes to New York, this is where he comes. This place is for important people, Joe. You can be one of those people."

Rollie frowned and when he glanced at his brother he saw, to his consternation, that Joe looked impressed.

Rollie smirked and asked, "Mr. Bigsby, Joe's got a wife and a couple of young kids. Would your organization help them find a good home in or near the city?"

His words snapped Joe out of his reverie and erased the smile from Bigsby's face - though he quickly brought it back up.

"Of course. As I said, I handle the family's real estate interests. We'd be happy to find Joe and his family a house. Perhaps Westchester?"

Joe smiled and thanked him - then shot Rollie a glance that was part-warning, part-thankful.

They sat at a large table, apparently reserved for Bigsby. His two bodyguards (Joe still thought "goons") took up positions that were obviously designed to prevent anyone disturbing them.

"So... Joe, let's talk turkey. We want you for our football club. We're willing to double whatever Mid-Ohio is paying you to play for Akron. And we won't gussy it up by making you work some factory job on the side. The salary is for football only. You can do whatever you like in the off-season."

Joe whistled and said, "Wow, that's an outstanding offer, Mr. Bigsby."

Rollie jumped in and asked, "What about the Blue Laws? From what I understand, they prevent sporting events from being held on Sunday."

Bigsby smiled and said, "Laws can be changed. My father has friends in Albany and is working to get that law wiped out so the Gothams can play on Sundays. Once it's done, the football club will ride along on those coattails - just like the Stars will. And where New York goes, Pennsylvania will follow. FABL will be a seven-day-a-week concern in no time."

Rollie smirked at the back-handed swipe at the Gothams rivals' - especially the Stars, who played literally right across the street from the Bigsby Oval.

Rollie continued, asking some questions that Joe didn't quite understand. Joe knew his brother had a good head for business, so he tried to nod in the appropriate places and grin occasionally all while hoping he didn't look as lost as he felt.

Discussions were continuing when the door to the speakeasy opened and another man walked in. Joe recognized him immediately - it was Sam Bigsby, Michael's cousin and the man in charge of the Bigsby Oval.

Mike Bigsby frowned, said, "Excuse me, gentlemen," stood up and walked over to his cousin.

Rollie saw Sam talking to Mike, who looked happy at first and then angry. Mike said something with some apparent venom in reply. Sam shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly, as if whatever his cousin had said was of no consequence.

Rollie leaned over to Joe. "I have a bad feeling about this. I know the money is good, but Joe... this..." he waved a hand around to indicate the illegal club, "it's not something you should get involved in."

Joe narrowed his eyes. "Rollie, I brought you along to handle the money stuff, not to tell me to walk away because the Bigsbys are a little.... shady."

"Hello, Joe," he heard and turned to see Sam Bigsby standing behind him. Mike was behind his cousin, looking angry and, Rollie thought, more than a bit uncomfortable.

"Hello, Sam, nice to see you again," Joe said as he stood and shook hands. "I think you've met my brother Rollie?"

Sam nodded and shook hands with Rollie. "How's your lovely wife, Joe?" Sam asked with a disturbing grin. Rollie's eyes widened - he had heard Edna's story from Francie but as far as he knew, Joe had not.

"Edna? She's fine. She's back in Ohio with our kids." Joe said with a confused look on his face.

"Very nice. She's a lovely woman, is Edna," Sam continued. Rollie felt rather than saw, his brother tense up next to him.

"She tell you about kissing me?"

Joe's mouth dropped open. Michael Bigsby, standing behind Sam, said, "You son of a *****, is this how you're going to scotch my plans?"

Rollie was confused by that statement, but more concerning was the dangerous look that had come into Joe's eyes.

"What are you talking about?" Joe said in a near-growl that Rollie immediately recognized as what he and Jack had always known signified that Joe was about to lose his temper. Jimmy would have said Joe "was clouding up and about to rain all over somebody."

"Oh, back when you fought at the Oval? She kissed me in the tunnel. I had to discourage her, of course. While flattering - she is a beautiful woman, after all - it just wasn't appropriate," Sam said with that leering grin still on his face.

Sam had barely finished his sentence when Joe's right hand pistoned out and there was a sickening crack as he connected with Sam Bigsby's jaw. Sam fell to the floor and Mike Bigsby's eyes widened as he stepped back.

"You'd better get out of here," Mike said, looking down at Sam, who was groaning, semi-conscious on the floor.

Rollie grabbed Joe's shoulder and began pushing him towards the exit. "Let's go, Joe."

"Conlan... escort them out of here. O'Brien? Get Doc Coughlin on the phone." Mike was now all-business again, though Rollie could tell he was furious. At whom, he wasn't sure.

Joe, still fuming, let his brother steer him out the door.

"I think that potential football career in New York just died, Joe," Rollie said, shaking his head.

[legendsport]

New York, NY: July 14, 1920:

"It sure was nice of Joe to let us stay here," Francie Barrell told her husband. She had to raise her voice a bit - Rollie was in the bathroom and she was gazing out the window of the hotel room, admiring the view of Central Park.

Rollie, busy shaving, grunted in reply. He doubted she heard him.

Apparently she had however, as she replied, "You've been a sourpuss ever since that meeting with Mike Bigsby,"

"That could not have gone any worse," Rollie told her. "I mean, Joe knocked Sam Bigsby out cold. I think he broke his jaw."

Francie was now standing in the doorway of the bathroom, hands on her hips. "I'd say he deserved it, that heel."

Rollie tipped his head. "Granted. He did indeed deserve it. However..."

Francie huffed and snapped, "Don't 'however' me. I think it's both appropriate and gallant what Joe did."

Rollie stopped, razor in hand and turned to her, eyebrow raised, "Gallant?"

"Yes, gallant. It's very romantic when a man stands up for his wife like that."

Rollie sighed. "Be that as it may, you don't knock out a member of one of the most powerful families in America and expect there to be no consequences."

"What kind of consequences?" Francie didn't really know all about the Bigsby family. Rollie, thanks to his father, did.

He stropped the razor and then scraped it up his neck, carefully. The straight-razor was, well, "razor" sharp after all.

"The Bigsbys aren't just rich, like say Rockefeller or Carnegie. The Bigsbys made their money mostly illegally. At least if the stories are true."

"They're criminals?" Francie asked with a dubious look in her eye.

Rollie moved his head back and forth and said, "Not so anyone could really prove. But the older brother, Sam's father? He went to Sing Sing Prison in the 80s and never came out. My Pop says he was 'crookeder than the Mississippi.'"

Francie continued to play devil's advocate - something she excelled at doing. "But that doesn't mean the rest of them are dirty."

Rollie turned and gave her the cocked eyebrow again. "We were in a secret club that the Bigsbys own. And it was serving alcohol, Francie. That's illegal now, you know. And the guy was bragging about it. He even said his father knows people in Albany and can get laws changed. Regular, honest folks don't do that stuff."

Francie waved a hand dismissively. "Bah, those temperance idiots may have won for now, but prohibition isn't going to last. And the other stuff is probably just braggadocio."

"Oh, really? You a big drinker now? I've seen one glass of wine knock you out, Francie." Rollie shot back with a smirk. Then he added under his breath, "Braggadocio.... show-off."

Francie either didn't hear that, or chose to ignore it. "Doesn't mean I think it should be illegal. It would make a lot more sense for the government to tax it than to try to keep people from doing it. Enforcing this idiocy is just going to be next-to-impossible."

Rollie agreed, but he didn't like to let his wife get the last word, so he muttered, "We'll see. But that doesn't change the fact that slugging Sam Bigsby was stupid."

"I still say it was gallant," Francie said and then there was a knock at the door.

Rollie toweled off his face and exited the bathroom. "I'll get that," he told his wife. "This is supposed to be Joe's room, after all."

Francie kissed him on the cheek as he passed her and said, "You're much more handsome than Joe, you know." Then she stepped away as Rollie smiled at her and was still facing her as he swung open the door. When he turned back he saw two large men standing there.

They were big and blocked the entire doorway. Rollie's smile faded at the serious look on their faces.

"You Barrell?" the one on the left asked.

"Yes," Rollie replied and then let out a gasp of surprise as the man on the right shoved him into the room and grabbed him by the shoulder.

The other man entered and closed the door. "We have a message from Charlie Bigsby on behalf of his brother," he said.

The man holding Rollie wrapped him up from behind while his partner slipped brass knuckles onto his right hand. There was a brief flash of pain and then sudden blackness.

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

Rollie woke up an undeterminable time later. He was woozy and one of his eyes wasn't working quite right.

From his right he heard a gasp and saw Francie's face enter his peripheral vision.

"Roland! You're awake! Thank God."

He turned his head a bit - it took a lot more effort than it should have. He saw that Francie had a black eye. How did that happen? he wondered.

"What happened?" he tried to ask. It came out more like "Whamm hannned" but Francie understood anyway.

"Two men came into the hotel room and they... they beat you. I tried to stop them, but one of them hit me," she pointed to her eye. "I'm sorry... Rollie, I couldn't stop them. I started screaming so they stopped and ran away."

She grabbed his hand, "But, oh lord, they beat you so badly. I thought you were dead."

Rollie figured that the doctors must have given him morphine. He felt... disconnected from physical sensation and his mind was fuzzy. He really didn't remember anything after he had finished shaving.

Beside him, Francie held his hand and cried.

[legendsport]

Washington, DC: July 19, 1920:

Rufus Barrell shook his head and leaned back in his chair. He had a stack of scouting reports in his hand. He waved them at Possum Daniels, who was sitting across from him.

"You would think that having been a pitcher himself, Randle would be less tough on hurlers," Rufus said.

Possum smirked and replied, "Well, son, he may be one of those types what cain't let go."

Rufus frowned and then asked, "What do you mean, can't let go?"

"Do you remember much about him back when he was playing?" Possum asked.

Rufus tilted his head back and looked up at the ceiling, thinking. "No, not really. I seem to remember he was a hot ticket when he was young..." he trailed off and nodded, adding, "Oh, I see what you mean."

Rufus Randle, the scout the two friends were discussing, had been a very good pitcher for the Border Association's Cincinnati Monarchs at a young age, winning 21, 24 and 25 games starting in '89 when he was just 21 years old. When FABL started and Cincinnati was not a part of it, Randle had pitched for Cleveland and went 12-22, but still looked pretty good in general. Then the Foresters released him when he turned up with a dead arm in the spring of his fifth season - just 25 years old. He hooked on with the Chiefs, was released before appearing in a game, then went to the Keystones where a decent year had been followed by a dismal one and he'd ended up being a journeyman in the minors with a few FABL cups of coffee (all poor) thrown in.

"You're saying he's bitter," Rufus said.

"I don't know about that... but he went from being the meanest dog in the yard to a mangy, lame cur in a couple of years. I'm thinking that left him with some scars of the kind you cain't see, son."

Rufus nodded and said, "Possum you have surprisingly good insight, you know that?"

Possum laughed and said, "Well, son, I can relate. Everytime I look at a T.R. Goins or Dick York it makes me sick in that 'coulda been me' way!"

He winked at Rufus and added, "You though, you're the strange one. No bitterness from what I can tell, son."

Rufus sighed and replied, "Yes, well. I can't say that's true. But I can say there's never been anything I could do about it, so no sense taking it out on the world."

He slapped the reports down and said, "I'll talk to Randle. He needs to lighten up - not every pitcher is 'mediocre' or worse. If he wants to keep working here, he'd better give us better reports."

There was a knock on the door and his secretary poked her head in.

Rufus asked, "Yes, Ruth?"

"Mr. Barrell, Mr. Miles Bigsby is here to see you," Ruth said.

Possum's eyes got wide in a comical way and his mouth made an 'O' shape. Rufus would have laughed, but the wave of anger that filled him at hearing the surname Bigsby prevented that.

"He say what he wanted?" he asked as calmly as he could.

Ruth looked nonplussed - normally this wasn't the type of thing she was asked. "No, sir," she said.

Rufus sighed and mentally fought down his anger. "Show him in, please," he said.

As Ruth opened the door, Possum stood up and grabbed his hat. "I'm off," he said. "Galveston, here I come," he added with another wink.

Possum and Miles Bigsby passed each other in the office. Possum nodded tightly, but said nothing. Bigsby muttered a "Good day, Mr. Daniels," as he passed.

Rufus gestured towards the chair Possum had just vacated. "Please have a seat, Mr. Bigsby," he said, gritting his teeth.

Miles Bigsby took a deep breath and sat. He looked uncomforable, which was not something Rufus could ever remember seeing.

"I'm sure you know why I'm here," Miles said by way of greeting.

"I imagine it's something to do with your nephew's thugs beating my son to within an inch of his life," Rufus snarled in reply.

Miles coughed and said, "Yes, I am here to apologize for that."

Rufus wasn't feeling particularly generous so he said, "OK, well, let's hear it."

Miles frowned as if he expected graciousness. "Well," Rufus thought, "You're not getting it."

"What Charlie did was unforgiveable. My late brother's influence on both his sons... and my own... has been rather unfortunate."

"Unfortunate?" Rufus said with a cocked eyebrow.

"Yes... my brother was a hard man and didn't play by any rules save his own. That trait passed to my own son, and I found to my dismay to his namesake Charles Jr, though possibly not to Samuel."

"From what I hear, it was Sam's big mouth that started the whole mess," Rufus replied.

"Sam is a self-important prig. And that is why his brother, and not him, is my heir apparent with the Gothams. Frankly I expected more from Charlie, but he has the same short fuse as his father."

"He had the wrong man beaten, Mr. Bigsby," Rufus said, then held up a hand as Bigsby was about to reply, adding, "Not that I would be in a better mood if it had been Joe, and not Rollie, that had taken a beating."

"Understood. This whole mess... I can't say how sorry I am," Bigsby said and then added, "So what I have done is wired $50,000 into the bank accounts of both Joe and Roland."

Rufus' mouth dropped open. He was literally speechless.

Bigsby frowned again, "Before you give me an idealistic, 'I can't be bought' speech, I would like to say that this is not about that."

Rufus sputtered - he had been ready to refuse. Bigsby gave him a half-smile.

"What this is... is just fair recompense for a situation that was 100% caused by Sam and Charlie. I've spoken to both my nephews. They know who holds true power in our family... me."

Rufus frowned a bit, but Bigsby just tipped a hand at him and continued, "It's true. I've raised all three of my brother's children and am more father to them than he was able to be. So I hold sway over them. And Sam admitted that what he said to Joe was part revenge because Joe's wife had rejected his advances, and part spite because he wanted to keep Joe from signing with Michael's football club. And Charlie had a knee-jerk reaction to his brother's having his jaw broken. Your son packs quite a punch, Rufus."

Rufus gave a rueful chuckle and just nodded.

"Therefore, as my family wronged both Joseph and Roland, my family will offer them recompense. This is no bribe, this is just what I can do to end this fairly and before it goes any further. As you and I are part of the FABL family, I would trust that this will be an end to the matter and that we can continue our professional relationship as normal."

Rufus nodded. He was still stunned. Bigsby had just given away $100,000 without batting an eye.

Bigsby stood up and thanked Rufus for his time. On his way out, he turned and added, "Oh, and tell Joe that there will be no football team in New York anyway. The legislature repealed the Blue Law, but only as it applies to FABL. All other sports are still prohibited on Sundays."

This was news to Rufus and he couldn't keep the surprise off his face. Bigsby tipped his hat and left the office, leaving Rufus wondering if Miles had been the one to shoot down his son's plans for a football club, and had used Sam as a cat's paw.

He shook his head as if to clear his mind. Then he called out to his secretary, "Ruth, please get Rufus Randle on the phone."

Time to get back to the business of keeping his scouts in line.

[legendsport]

Toledo, OH: August 13, 1920:

Rollie Barrell had discovered that being beaten around the face and head didn't help your golf game.

That was not exactly a surprise. The beating he'd received from Charles Bigsby Jr's thugs left him with occasional headaches and slightly blurred vision for several weeks. He felt normal again, but the time that had elapsed while he recovered had kept him off the golf course, and it showed.

Rollie was participating in his first ever U.S. Championship. The tournament had not been played in 1917 or '18 and he had missed the 1919 event due to his brother's death (the event had occurred a week after Jimmy's funeral and Rollie wasn't about to leave his parents at a time like that).

But he was - finally - participating, and he was down on himself for what he felt was subpar play through the first two rounds, which had been played the day before. The tournament had a two-day format - two rounds on Thursday and two rounds on Friday.

His first round had been... acceptable. Francie was on hand and offered her trademark brand of what Rollie considered "tough love" in critiquing his play and offering suggestions on approaches to the various holes now that she'd seen how the course played. Rollie had to admit that his wife was something of a prodigy when it came to looking at a course and figuring out strategies to fit each individual hole.

She had written up exhaustive notes that Rollie's caddy, Billy Caldwell, carried around with him as Rollie played the second round on Thursday afternoon.

No fewer than six previous Championship winners were in the field and Francie watched them as the opportunity afforded itself. The course was a tough one - only one player turned in an under-par first round - a Scotsman named Bill MacDuff. Rollie turned in a +4 for the first round, which was good enough for a 10th place tie, entering the afternoon round.

In the afternoon, Rollie played a decent round, saved by a birdie on the incredibly tough 9th hole - a 492 yard, monster par 5. He bogied the 15th and the 17th (both par 4s) and ended up +3 in the afternoon, sitting in 7th place after the first two rounds.

"You're frustrated and it's showing," Francie told him that night as they sat at dinner in their hotel's restaurant.

"You're right - I'm pressing and I know it. When I bogied the 15th, I pushed too hard and that's why I ended up bogeying the 17th too." Rollie said as he pushed some mashed potatoes around on his plate.

"Didn't Mom tell you not to play with your food?" a familiar voice said from over his shoulder.

Rollie grinned and turned around. Joe was standing there with Edna.

"What are you doing here?" Rollie asked.

Joe's grin grew even wider. "Well, my brother and I are in the same state for a change, so I figured Ed & I could catch a train to watch you play tomorrow."

Francie said, "Please sit down. Roland's too preoccupied to remember his manners."

Edna chuckled and said, "When the Barrell boys get together, they tend to block out things like manners and common sense." She sat down and thanked Francie.

Joe grabbed the other chair and asked how Rollie had played.

"Fair," Francie said before Rollie could respond. Rollie raised a questioning eyebrow and she continued, "He's hard on himself - and I am too, but I will admit that he acquitted himself fairly well today. Seventh-place going into round three."

Joe whistled and said, "Well done, brother. Do you think you have a chance?"

Rollie shook his head and said, "Not unless MacDuff really falls apart tomorrow. I've never seen anyone play as well as he did today."

Francie waved a hand and said, "It's possible. That course is tough. We have a strategy that I think will help Roland tomorrow."

They chatted about the Championship for a bit and then Joe asked Rollie about the money they'd received from Miles Bigsby.

"My wife," he said, pointing to Edna with his fork, "thinks we should return the money."

Rollie chuckled and said, "Well, my wife doesn't. Francie apparently isn't going to let principles override the fact that $50,000 is a lot of dough."

Francie glared at him and looked at Edna and said, "Professional golf doesn't pay that well. That money will last us a good long time, and maybe give the duffer over there," she pointed at Rollie, "an opportunity to make a mark in the sport."

The left side of Rollie's mouth curled in a half-smile and he said, "I'm investing the money, see if I can make it work for me. All those classes at Nobel Jones might pay off after all."

Joe nodded. He said, "I'm investing too... but Edna isn't really on board."

Edna spoke up, "One of Joe's old college team mates wants him to invest in a pro football team of all things."

Joe frowned. "It's not a bad idea," he said, and looked at Rollie. "I'd want you to look over the contracts and such. This would be a brand-new team, in Chicago, where my friend is living. He's even got a potential lease worked out with Ben Hunter - that's the Cougars owner - to play our games in the North Side Grounds."

Edna was shaking her head. "Joe is bound and determined to keep moving us further north. By the time our kids are adults we'll be living on the Arctic Circle."

Joe cocked his head and gave her a look.

"OK, that's obviously an exaggeration... but I'm a Southern girl and even these Ohio winters are tough on me."

Rollie smiled and nodded at Edna before turning back to his brother and asking, "So even after what happened in New York, you think this pro football thing is going to be a reality?"

Joe bobbed his head with enthusiasm and replied, "Absolutely. Carl - that's my buddy, Carl Boon - has been invited to a meeting of serious midwestern football operators. I think a league is a strong possibility. This is my chance to be more than just a player - I can get in on the ground floor of this thing."

Edna shook her head. "He neglects to consider the fact that while college football is massively popular, the pros can't hardly draw flies."

Joe scowled, "We've been playing in Akron. There's a world of difference between Akron and Chicago, you know."

"I do know," Edna replied. "And there's a lot more going on in Chicago too. More competition, you know."

Rollie tipped his fork at Edna, "She's right, there are some good college football programs in Chicago too."

"We play on Sunday - the colleges play on Saturday."

Edna frowned again. "I still don't like this playing on Sunday thing." She had been raised in a fairly religious family and working - even as a professional athlete - on Sundays ran against her grain.

"No blue laws in Illinois, and I doubt that the Lord cares."

"Don't. Blaspheme." Edna growled in reply.

Joe shook his head and spread his hands while giving Rollie a wry look. "You see what I'm dealing with here," he said.

Rollie knew better than to get involved. Instead he looked at Edna and said, "I'll look at the paperwork. Joe's a great athlete, but he's never had a mind for business. I can at least make sure that if you two agree to do this," he pointedly looked at his brother before continuing, "that you won't lose your nest egg."

Edna wasn't happy but she saw there was some sense in what Rollie had said.

Francie looked at Edna and said with a gleam in her eye, "Edna, you must admit. Using the Bigsbys' money to own a football club that might end up competing with them would be sweet revenge."

Edna sat back and then replied, "You know? I hadn't thought of that." She looked pleased by the thought.

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

Joe and Edna joined Francie the next day at the Championship. Neither Joe nor Edna had ever watched golf before, aside from seeing Rollie work on his game at the Barrell Farm. Joe was impressed by the combination of skill and strength involved in driving the ball for distances. Edna enjoyed herself - she genuinely liked Francie and even though the latter was very focused on watching Rollie and kept muttering to herself on each of his shots, she was in all other ways a perfect guide, explaining how the tournament worked and the various strategies the players tried - with varying success - to employ.

Rollie played a decent round, posting a +3 to finish the third round at +10, good for 8th place. Although he did lose ground, he was still just five shots off the lead: Bill MacDuff had posted a +3 himself and was now in second place. An Englishman, Hugh Wilson, was now the leader going into the fourth and final round.

Wilson posted a +7 in the final round, tumbling to a second-place tie with MacDuff and two other players. Rollie posted a +4, and though he hated himself for it, he did finish sixth, and won $90. This demonstrated to Joe & Edna that Francie hadn't been joking when she said being a pro golfer was not exactly a lucrative endeavor.

The win went to another Englishman, Tom Rogers, who finished +11 on the tournament to claim the trophy and the $500 purse.

[legendsport]

August 20, 1920: Fort Wayne, IN:

Joe Barrell looked at the somewhat ramshackle building standing before him. The sign over the door read "Bubby's" so he muttered, "I guess this must be the place."

The building sat between two empty storefronts. The sidewalk outside was cracked and some weeds were visible in the bright (and hot) August sunshine. Joe felt the sweat building against the band of his hat and within the collar of his shirt. He really didn't like wearing a tie especially when the temperature was in the upper 80s.

His brother Rollie chuckled as he ran his eyes over the building. "Well, the name is right. Where'd they come up with that anyway?"

Joe shrugged. "Carl's brother-in-law owns the place. I think it's named for the guy's grandmother or something."

Rollie place a hand on his shoulder and said, "Don't worry, Joe. I won't let you do anything stupid."

Joe frowned and said, "Gee, thanks."

Rollie gave him a half bow and held out his hand in an "after you" gesture. Joe shook his head again and walked to the door.

The door stuck, and Joe had to throw a shoulder into it to get it open. "Better and better," he muttered as he stopped over the threshold into a dark room that smelled of... sawdust, Joe thought.

Rollie followed him in, both of them needing a moment to let their eyes adjust to the dimly-lit space.

"At least it's cooler in here out of the sun," Rollie remarked as he pushed the door closed behind him.

A shadow moved, approaching them, eventually resolving out of the darkness into Carl Boon, Joe's former college team mate and potential football partner.

He thrust his right hand out, saying, "Joe, glad you're here." He shook hands then turned and extended his hand to Rollie. "This must be your brother. I'm Carl Boon," he said. Rollie shook his hand with a smile and nod.

"Uh, Carl..." Joe began. Carl raised a hand and said, "I know what you're going to ask, Joe." His mouth twisted in a rueful grin and he said, "We're having a power problem. Jack's in the basement - he thinks a fuse is out."

As if on cue, the lights winked on a moment later.

Joe took in the room. There were some tables spread around and a large square of empty floor that Joe assumed was for dancing. There was a dusty bar on the right-side of the room that had a decidedly unused look about it.

"If you tell me this is a speakeasy, I'm leaving," Joe said to Carl. "Rollie and I had a bad experience in one back in New York."

Carl laughed and said, "Yes, I heard about that. No, this is no speakeasy. It was a tavern, but with Prohibition..." he paused as a man emerged from the back. Carl nodded towards the newcomer and continued, "Jack here is transitioning the place to a restaurant."

Jack approached them and said, "Yes, that's the plan... or hope anyway." He pointed to some sawhouses pushed against one wall and added, "I apologize for the mess."

Hands were shaken and Jack, whose last name was Kristich, led them past the bar, through a wide and unfinished doorway into another large space. Turning to his right, Joe saw the large, empty windows of an empty storefront. Running along the wall were a series of barren shelves with an equally empty display case standing before them. Apparently Jack was expanding into the space of his former neighbors.

Bringing his gaze back to front, Joe saw a large, round table. Standing around it were five men.

Carl introduced the men, one by one, to Joe and Rollie. The first was familiar to Joe, since he had been playing for him in Akron. Ed Cheatham was his name and he greeted Joe warmly. Next was a dour and thin man from Cleveland named Walter Finch who gave a small grimace when Joe gave him his customary firm handshake. Dayton was represented by Paul Sanders. The fourth man was a near polar opposite to Walter Finch - a smiling, plump man from Youngstown named Norbert Underwood. The fifth and final man was someone with whom Joe, and nearly everyone who followed pro football, was familiar: Alfred Trumaine.

Trumaine was quite possibly the best athlete that Joe had ever seen. Though he was now in his thirties and not quite as fast as he had once been, Trumaine had been the best college football player of his time (and some said the best of all-time), playing for Centerville College in the century's first decade and making that tiny school into a powerhouse that could beat the big Eastern colleges - and anyone else. He had been playing professional football for over a decade and was the pro game's biggest star.

"Alf," Joe nodded with grim-faced respect as he shook Trumaine's hand. Joe had heard rumors that Trumaine had a drinking problem (which was even more of a problem now that alcohol was illegal), but the man's granite-like grip was as steady and firm as ever and his eyes were clear and bright.

"Joe, it's good to see you," Trumaine said in his bass rumble. He then shook hands with Rollie and said, "I've seen you play, Rollie. You're very good. We should play a round sometime."

Rollie was surprised but agreed immediately. Joe, also taken aback, said, "I didn't know you played golf, Alf."

Trumaine gave a half-grin as Carl pointed out, "Joe, I think Mr. Trumaine plays everything. And does it well too!" This set off a brief round of laughter.

With the preliminaries out of the way the men settled down to the business at hand: forming a professional football league.

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

The issues were plain and self-evident to everyone in the room: the barnstorming nature of the sport, while it kept the teams alive (barely in most cases), was unstable and the uneven nature of the competition lessened its appeal to fans.

Norb Underwood put it bluntly: "As a business model, it stinks."

"And then we have the colleges actively campaigning against us," Finch pointed out. Trumaine nodded - his friend and former coach Pug Johnston was one of the most vocal of this group which openly denigrated professional football as "uncouth" and "cheap" while championing the pureness of the (mostly) amateur collegiate game.

By banding together into a formalized organization the men believed they could, like baseball, succeed on a large scale. The professional game was still largely regional and so they decided to - for now - keep their league regional as well. Four of the cities represented at the meeting: Akron, Cleveland, Dayton, and Youngstown were in Ohio. Trumaine sought a western Pennsylvania home for his own club and aimed to place it in or near Pittsburgh. Jack Kristich would place a team in Fort Wayne. And the big prize - Chicago - would belong to the partnership of Carl Boon and Joe Barrell.

They wanted to be able to expand by adding other clubs, so it was decided to keep the cost of membership to a relatively modest $500. "No one's getting rich off professional football," Carl pointed out.

"And we have to play on Sundays. That should, I hope, help us cool off the colleges since we won't be directly competing," Trumaine added.

They spent a couple of hours wrangling out details. Joe let Rollie do most of the talking when it came to business-related items. Alfred Trumaine, noticing this, asked Rollie if he'd like to partner in his club.

"Whoa, hold on there, Alf," Joe said with a smile that was more for show than anything else. "Rollie's here to help me, not sign on as your partner."

Trumaine shrugged. "I'm just a player... like you, Joe. Your brother obviously has a head for this stuff. He wouldn't need to do anything other than handle the business side. I'll take care of the players and the team."

Joe squinted - he didn't like it, but he did notice that his brother had a thoughtful expression on his face.

"Not my call," Joe pointed out. Trumaine nodded and said, "True. Plus you've already got Carl to be the brains of your operation."

Carl chuckled. "I'm a player too, but I have no problem being the 'brains' in our partnership!" he said with a grin and slapped Joe on the back.

Rollie, thinking of what Francie would say, was slowly shaking his head. "I don't know," he said. Trumaine's thin, dark eyebrows shot up in surprise. Rollie sighed and added, "I can't make a commitment like that without thinking it over..." he paused and finished, "And talking it over with my wife."

Trumaine nodded. "I can live with that," he said.

The group got back down to business. They had concluded and were starting to rise from their seats around the circular table when Carl blinked as he remembered an important detail they'd missed and blurted, "Hang on! We never decided what we were going to call this thing!"

[legendsport]

October 3, 1920: Chicago, IL:

"It's a bit ironic, eh?" Carl Boon said to Joe Barrell as they walked out of the locker room at North Side Park.

Joe gave his friend and partner a sidelong glance. "What's ironic?"

Carl waved his hand around as they walked up a slight ramp and into what was typically the home dugout of the Chicago Cougars.

"This... you playing here," Carl said with a smirk.

"I don't get where you're going with this, Carl..." Joe replied.

Carl chuckled and said, "Well... it's ironic that you come from a family with a baseball background... have a kid brother who played professionally and yet you're the first one to actually play on a big league field."

He punched Joe in the shoulder and added, "Of course, we're not playing baseball here."

Joe shrugged and said, "My Pop played at the Bigsby Oval... once."

Carl stopped on the top step of the dugout and put his hand on Joe's chest, stopping him in his tracks. Carl frowned and said, "Yeah, I know. Tough break, that was. But look... now you're here about to step onto a FABL field yourself. So... it's ironic."

"If you say so," Joe said, and stepped up onto the field. He did have to admit... ironic or not, it was definitely exciting.

Carl wasn't done giving him a hard time: "Now that I think about it... I remember you sleeping through English class back at Nobel Jones... maybe that explains it."

Joe gave Carl a playful push and gazed around the ballpark.

Carl had handled the details of the negotiations with Ben Hunter, who owned the Cougars and the North Side Grounds. They got a "good deal" according to Carl. It sure was a step up from Wheels Park back in Akron.

Joe gazed at the gigantic Lifebouy sign on the outfield wall and thought about the long road to get here - the first game in the history of the American Football Association.

There had been a second meeting, again at "Bubby's" in Fort Wayne. Their small group of five had grown to ten. The first surprise - and one not particularly well-handled by Rollie Barrell - was that Alfred Trumaine had backed out. He had been hired as the football coach at St. Matthew's College. In his place was another Centerville College star: Jack Oxendine. Like Trumaine, Oxendine was a Native American and a superb athlete. Unlike Trumaine, Oxendine wanted nothing to do with a business partner. He would run the Pittsburgh Pros - and as he put it, "Do it my way."

Rollie, flustered, had openly wondered to Joe if all his wheedling of Francine had been for naught. It turned out it wasn't. One of the others in attendance, a fellow named Bennie Guilder, was hoping to get in on the new league. He owned, coached and played for a club in Rochester, New York and claimed he had a deal worked out with the minor league Rochester Rooks to play at their ballpark. But, as he put it, "I'm a little under-funded and not much of a businessman." Rollie, skeptical at first, ended up buying a 50% interest in the team for $2,500.

There were representatives from fourteen football clubs at the second meeting - only ten of them would agree to the stipulations posited by the first five: no signing of college players before graduation, no stealing of other teams players and most of all, a stringent agreement to play 10 league contests - for the barnstormers, this was a tough pill to swallow. Still, Carl pointed out that the AFA season would run from the first week of October to the first week of December - "which leaves plenty of time to do a little barnstorming."

The ten clubs who signed on for the flagship 1920 AFA season were the Akron Triangles (Joe's old team), the Buffalo Nickels, Chicago Wildcats (the name chosen to reflect their shared home with baseball's Cougars), the Cleveland Finches (named for their owner), Columbus Buckeyes, Dayton Dusters, Fort Wayne Titans, Pittsburgh Pros, Rochester Maroons and Youngstown Reapers.

The Maroons got their nickname because Guilder had somehow either begged or pilfered red uniforms from Western State University's team who had switched to wearing green jerseys. Rollie when he caught wind of this, rolled his eyes, but stayed quiet.

The Wildcats first game was to be versus Dayton. The Dusters had only one player who really concerned Joe - Roland "Whiskey" Bullock, a 27-year-old vet of the barnstorming years who was both fast and tough running out of the Dusters single-wing.

Ultimately, Joe shouldn't have been concerned. Carl Boon had put together a strong club. To complement Joe - who Boon knew was the team's best player - Carl signed a trio of speedy, multi-talented backs to give the Wildcats a lot of options. Foremost was Homer Case, the best passer on the team, who was also a great runner. Then there was Joe MacDonald, who was a bruiser and finally, Al Harrison, who like Case, was capable of passing and running.

Joe had the strongest kicking leg on the team and he opened the scoring by booting a 42-yard field goal to give the Wildcats a 3-0 lead after the first quarter. When a shorter, 13-yard opportunity came up, Carl elected to have Homer Case kick - and he converted to make it 6-0 at the start of the second quarter. The Dusters cut the lead in half with a field goal of their own and the clubs went into halftime with Chicago up by a 6-3 margin.

In the locker room, Carl kept it short - things were going well and the plan would remain the same: keep running it down their throats. Dayton had not been able to muster much offensively and that trend continued in the third quarter. A safety made it 8-3 in favor of the Wildcats and on the ensuing possession, Chicago ran the ball repeatedly, with small but steady gains until Joe broke around left end and rumbled 29 yards into the end zone for the first touchdown in team history. He also kicked the extra point for good measure.

There wasn't much of a contest after that as the Wildcats put up two more touchdowns on big plays: a 33-yard pass from Case to Russell Odom and a 39-yard TD run by Joe MacDonald (with Joe wiping out Whiskey Bullock on a block) to salt it away. The final was 29-3.

Joe was battered and tired after the game. By his own reckoning he had carried the ball 15 times for 71 yards and the one touchdown. He'd also starred defensively - as a team the Wildcats had five interceptions as the increasingly desperate Dusters were forced to attempt risky passing plays - and Joe, playing safety, had two of them. With two extra points and a field goal, he finished with 11 of the team's 29 points. All things considered, a good day for the Wildcats and Joe in particular.

He later found that Rollie's team, the Rochester Maroons, had managed a 6-6 tie in Cleveland, playing at the Foresters Stadium nestled in a bend of the Cuyahoga River. Rollie wasn't playing of course, but Joe still figured it was safe to root for his brother's team when they were not actually playing his team.

[legendsport]

November 17, 1920: Washington, DC:

Claudia Barrell was pulling laundry off the clothesline at the back of the townhouse, and reflecting that it would soon be too cold to put the clothes outside to dry when she noted some furtive movement in the corner of the backyard.

Frowning, she called out, "Hello? Is someone there?"

Danny seated behind her in the kitchen had just finished his breakfast and was begrudgingly getting ready for another day of school and he stood up and came to the window after hearing Claudia call out.

"What's going on?" he asked as he peered over Claudia's shoulder into the early-morning shadows of the yard. Like all the yards in their Georgetown neighborhood, the yards were brick-fenced, though only about four feet high. Danny didn't see anything.

Claudia pointed and said, "There, behind the trash bin. I think I saw something."

Danny went to the backdoor and was turning the knob to go outside when he heard Claudia give him a standard "be careful" admonition. With the standard bravado of a 16-year-old boy, he replied with a muttered, "Yeah, yeah," and ventured into the yard as Claudia stepped into the open doorway.

Frowning, Danny walked quietly to the trash bin. To his surprise a boy was crouched there as if trying to melt into the brick beside him.

"What are you doing?" Danny asked. Claudia, who had followed him out into the yard, craned her neck for a better view.

To Danny the kid looked like a caricature of a Dickens character: dirty clothes, sooty face, and a near-feral look in his wide eyes.

"Nothin' - wanted to see if you had any food," the kid replied.

"Stand up," Claudia said in what Danny thought of as her "No-Nonsense Nurse" voice.

The kid stood up. He was rail thin, but of a decent height, and if Danny had to guess, was maybe a couple years younger than himself... 13 or 14 perhaps.

"What is your name?" Claudia asked.

The kid's eyes had dropped to the ground and his reply was barely audible. "Clyde," was all he said.

"Well, Clyde, why don't you come inside? I believe we have some food we can give you."

Danny turned to Claudia and whispered, "Do you think that's a good idea?"

Claudia just gave him a stern look and said simply, "It is the Christian thing to do."

Danny couldn't argue with that. He was about to say something else when he heard, "Why are you standing out here in the cold?" from behind them. Thomas Potentas had appeared in the doorway. With Claudia and Danny standing in front of the boy, Potentas could not see him.

The kid's eyes widened even further and he looked like he was about to bolt. Danny put a reassuring hand on the kid's shoulder, cringing a bit at touching the dirty coat. He'd get a rap on the knuckles from his teacher if he showed up at school with grimy hands.

"We have an unexpected visitor, Thomas," Claudia said and stepped back so Potentas could see the boy.

Potentas frowned, but to his credit simply said, "I see." Then he stepped back and with a slight bow and an extended hand, added, "Please, come in out of the chill."

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

When Danny returned home from school that evening, tired after practicing the high jump in the school gym, he found the kid sitting in the kitchen with Claudia and Thomas.

"Still here, I see," he said with a bit of annoyance in his voice. Then he noticed two things: first, the kid was wearing clean clothes - Danny's clean clothes (that were too big for him to boot) - and second, he was feeding baby James. Claudia almost never let anyone else feed her son.

Claudia recognized the tone in Danny's voice and with a warning glance replied, "Yes, Mr. Potentas has graciously extended an invitation to Clyde. He will be staying with us for a bit."

Clyde cooed at James and the baby gurgled in happiness. Danny was liking this less and less.

"Really?"

Thomas spoke up. "Yes. Clyde is a fine and intelligent boy who has run into a bit of bad luck. His father was a salesman - he brought his son here from Washington on business."

He stopped and looked at the boy, who was staring at his feet again.

"And..." Danny prompted.

Thomas frowned but continued, "And his father left their hotel a week ago and never returned."

Now Claudia joined in, saying, "He was kicked out of the hotel room and has been living on the street for the past five days."

Danny felt sorry for the kid, but couldn't help himself, so he asked, "And now we're going to take him in? For how long?"

Thomas glared at him and said, "For as long as it is needed."

Danny shook his head and was about to say something else when Claudia put in, "You'll be taking him with you to school starting tomorrow. We've already arranged it."

Claudia filled Danny in on the kid - his full name was Clyde Hinzman, and he was 13 years old. He'd be in the eighth grade class at the Academy until they could find some family. Under no circumstances would she or Thomas consider sending the kid to an orphanage. So Danny, who already had several younger brothers, apparently had just gotten himself a new one.

[legendsport]

December 25, 1920: Egypt, GA:

Christmas at the Barrell Farm was never dull thought Joe Barrell as he watched his six-year-old sister follow Clyde Hinzman around like a puppy. Danny, whom Hinzman himself was following around (with Fred and Tommy tagging along too), had already told the lone female member of the Barrell progeny to "leave off" as he put it, now stopped and said, "Betsy, you're six. Go play with Harry or something."

"I'm almost seven!" Betsy retorted. Danny opened his mouth to snap something back when Alice, with her usual impeccable timing, corraled her daughter and said, "Betsy, leave the boys be. Come help me with the pie."

Betsy frowned and whined, "But he's such a cutie, Ma."

Alice shook her head, gave Joe a wearied look and steered Betsy towards the kitchen saying, "You're too young to be worrying about that kind of thing, young lady."

Rollie had sauntered over, a cup of egg nog in hand. Joe sniffed and asked, "You put anything in that?"

His brother rolled his eyes and replied, "Prohibition, remember?"

Joe shook his head and smiled saying, "Heck, even Pop thinks that's stupid." He lowered his voice and added, "I hear he's got a case of whiskey in the cellar."

Openly dubious, Rollie shook his head and whispered, "Not a chance. Pop is too straightlaced."

Joe pointed to the door to the basement, through which Rufus Barrell was stepping, a dark brown bottle in hand. He saw his two oldest sons and winked at them. Jack followed him, with a wide grin on his face.

"Wow, it's a gen-u-ine Christmas miracle," Rollie intoned and laughed.

Jack joined them, his smile fading. He gestured with his chin towards the sofa where Claudia and Marie were sitting side-by-side, each dandling a child on their knee.

"That makes me uncomforable, to say the least," Jack said.

Joe shrugged and said, "I doubt Marie's going to spill the beans. She really does seem to love you." Then he grinned wickedly and added, "God only knows why..."

"Ha ha, you're a real comedian," Jack replied.

"Speaking of comedians, did you hear what Harry did yesterday?" Rollie asked.

Joe had, but Jack shook his head and said, "No, what'd the little bugger do now?"

"He gave Possum a hot foot."

Jack's eyes widened and he nearly spit out the egg nog he'd just sipped.

Joe chuckled and said, "That kid definitely takes after us, Jack-o."

Rollie told the story: Possum, as was his wont, stopped by on Christmas Eve to spend time with his "pardner" - meaning Rufus, of course. The two had been sitting on the porch, sipping something (Joe had suspected and now Rollie agreed, it was probably whiskey) and talking as they usually did, about baseball.

Possum was arguing that the Sailors had "blown it" by taking David Merchant with the top pick in the draft, saying that "Topsy Moran is so obviously the best that even a blind coon dog could've seen it." Rufus disagreed and opined that Merchant had a chance to be truly great. He added that he liked Moran too, but he seemed too "willowy" and might end up having injury problems.

While this was going on, Harry had crawled onto the porch with a box of matches in hand. Bobby, acting as lookout had casually sauntered onto the porch and stood on the opposite side, the idea being that Rufus & Possum would see him and not notice Harry. It worked... and almost too well. The match in Possum's shoe had flared brilliantly, sending him into a hopping frenzy that dislodged the match which had nearly set the bench on fire.

Rufus, given the tragic family history with fire, had been extremely angry, but Possum took it surprisingly well, laughing and saying that Harry "got me good, son." He'd then prevailed on Rufus to not go too hard on his youngest son. "That boy is a born prankster... he'll be a ballplayer for sure, son." Possum finished with a smirk.

Bobby had told Joe that he had never seen Rufus so angry. "I thought he was gonna skin us alive," he said with eyes as round as saucers.

Now on his best behavior (at least outwardly), Harry had been assigned to the kitchen, helping Alice with the pie.

Jack shook his head and looked at Joe, saying, "Yep, that kid's definitely a Barrell."

Rollie changed the subject: "So... Jack, how are things?"

Jack told them that he'd finally decided to end his baseball career. "It just isn't happening, and I'm tired of fighting the Dukes about it too." He looked at his wife and added, "Plus, Marie likes having me at home, even if I have to get a 'real' offseason job now."

"You could always come play with me in Chicago, you know," Joe said.

Jack shook his head and said, "Yeah, that'll go over real well with both Marie and the Dukes. Football..." He paused and then in a musing tone added, "Still it would be fun. I do like hitting people."

Rollie scoffed and said, "You and Joe... barbarians at heart."

Joe tipped his head towards Rollie and told Jack, "This from the guy who partnered up on a football team, making money off the backs of barbarians like us."

Rollie frowned and said, "Well, you're partially right. I took a bath financially on that deal. I think we're going to fold, to be honest."

This was news to Joe. "Really? I was talking to Alexander... from Buffalo?... and he said you guys had a good crowd when they played there."

Rollie scoffed again. "Yeah, that's true. But it was Buffalo, so we had a local rival type of thing. Most of our games we couldn't give our tickets away." His frown deepened into a scowl and he said, "And Guilders wasn't kidding when he said he had no head for business."

Jack patted Rollie on the back, "Sorry to hear that, Rollie. You definitely seem like the type who'd make a good owner." He winked at Joe.

Rollie narrowed his eyes, "What's that supposed to mean?"

Jack laughed and said, "Who majored in accounting? Not me... I didn't even go to college. And Joe only went because Edna forced him to... and because he could play football there."

Joe smirked and said, "True. A little harsh... but true."

Rollie stiffened in mock indignation. "You guys are lucky to have a brilliant guy like me for a brother."

Joe put him in a headlock and Jack mussed his hair and said, "And you are lucky you have two ruffians who kept the bullies off you back in Brooklyn."

Alice popped her head out of the kitchen. "Hey!" she shouted. "I expect that kind of thing from the younguns, you three are supposed to be adults."

Jack couldn't let it pass... "Younguns? Really Mom, you've been in Georgia too long. What happened to that high class Philadelphia lady we all knew and loved?"

Alice shook a spoon at him and growled, "Watch yourself Jack!"

Rufus, standing in the corner with a cup of spiked egg nog in hand, grinned widely, basking in the glow of family.

[legendsport]

April 4, 1921: Vancouver, BC:

Jack Barrell trudged down the tunnel of the Yeadon Arena, weary to the bone, with a gash above his (blackened) left eye, his brain aswirl with a mixture of high emotion.

The Toronto Dukes had just won the Challenge Cup!

For Jack, the 1920-21 hockey season had been a rollercoaster ride. It started off strangely when the Dukes "loaned" him to the struggling Quebec Champlains. Though Bert Thomas had personally assured Jack that this had nothing to do with his baseball career - and in fact this came on the heels of Jack informing Thomas that he was ending his flirtation with baseball - Jack felt that this was indeed punishment for his past transgressions.

That loan turned out to be a one-game affair. Jack, angry and bitter, had played like a demon in his lone game with the Champs, scoring twice in a wild affair with the Montreal Valiants, and helping Quebec earned what would turn out to be a rare victory. In the locker room after the game, Jack had received word that the Dukes would be reclaiming him immediately.

Still angry, Jack dominated the NAHC for the balance of the season. He scored 32 goals - two for Quebec and 30 more for Toronto, by far the best tally of his young career (he was still merely 22 years old), and finished third in the league behind Ottawa's Charlie Oliphant and Montreal's Gevis Murphy, both of whom were established stars and both of whom had totaled 33 goals apiece.

His all-out assault took a toll on his body. Several times that season he awakened the morning after a particularly grueling game to find he could barely climb out of bed. Marie, visibly concerned, pleaded with him to take it easy. But Jack had discovered a fire within that had been stoked by what he felt was a grievous slight at the hands of Bert Thomas and the Dukes management, and he was determined to make them see just how good he could be. And though he had left baseball in his past, he began to consider taking Joe up on his offer to play football in Chicago.

The 24-game NAHC season came to a close in early March and by then Jack had removed any doubt about his ability to carry a team. The guys he looked up to - Cal Oliphant (brother of Charlie) and Ben Scheer, now saw him in a new light. The trio of star forwards, along with defensman Philippe Boutin accounted for 80 of Toronto's 96 goals scored and the Scheer-Oliphant-Barrell line was dubbed the "SOB Line" because they made opponents cry (or according to some less friendly opponents, because the players were "merciless sons of #$@%!s").

Even with their top line tearing up the league, the Dukes couldn't quite escape the shadow of the NAHC's pre-eminent franchise: the Ottawa Athletics. Both teams finished with identical 15-9 records and the league declared that there would be, for the first time in its history, a playoff to determine the NAHC champion.

Toronto won both games, and Jack continued to play stellar hockey as he scored five goals in those two games. The victory over their nemesis sent Toronto to the Challenge Cup playoff with the champions of the Transcontinetal Hockey Association - the Vancouver Pacifics.

Jack had nearly played in the TCHA himself - only his genetic pre-disposition for "fair play" keeping him bound to then-owner Jack Connolly's Toronto club and the NAHC. Connolly was gone, but not forgotten with rumors swirling about a new US-based league he was attempting to start, but Jack was now heading to Vancouver regardless.

The train ride across Canada was a long one. Jack spent many hours playing cards with his team mates (Oliphant, for one, was addicted to poker - and unfortunately for him, not particularly good at it), enjoying the brief stops in places he'd never been (including Winnipeg, a place Connolly had wanted him to play, once upon a time) as the train crossed through Ontario, Manitoba, Saskatchewan and Alberta before finally reaching British Columbia.

Vancouver itself was beautiful and Jack briefly mused on his decision - deciding he might have liked playing in the TCHA very well indeed.

Jack entered the chaotic locker room, and his thoughts returned to the present - his team was celebrating and there was Oliphant, standing in the middle of the chaos, holding the Cup. The locker room attendant was wheeling in a cart laden with champagne - no Prohibition in Canada - and Jack grinned widely as he watched.

"Not too shabby, Jack," said a familiar voice behind him.

"Pop?" Jack said as he turned in surprise. Sure enough, his father was standing there, with his ubiquitous grin plastered on his face. He stepped forward and threw his arms around his son. "I'm so happy - and proud," he said, and when he leaned back from the embrace, Jack saw that his father's eyes glistened with moisture.

"Wow, Pop - what in the world are you doing here?" Jack asked, still too stunned to come up with anything else to say.

His father laughed and said, "Come on, you're the first member of the family to play for a professional championship - did you think I'd miss it?"

Jack's head was spinning. Vancouver was a long, long way from his father's office in Washington, DC.

"Plus, I can have a drink without feeling like a criminal," his father added and pulled a bottle of beer from his jacket pocket.

Now Jack was laughing too.

Rufus peered closely at the cut above Jack's eye. "Good thing your mother's not here. That's quite a cut... and a shiner to boot. She'd be reading you the riot act right about now..."

Jack bobbed his head in agreement. "She doesn't get it. This..." he pointed at his eye, "is part and parcel of playing hockey."

Rufus put his hand on Jack's arm and said, "She'll always see you as a little boy. I do too, sometimes..."

Jack hugged his father again. "It's so good to see you Pop!"

A moment later Jack was sputtering... someone (it turned out to have been Ben Scheer) had dumped a bottle of champagne - chilled at that - over his head. Oliphant was there too, pushing the Cup into Jack's hands.

"Take this lady for a spin around the room," Cal told him. "She's been playing hard to get for so long..."

Jack felt tears come to his eyes as he grasped the silver cup. All the hard work, the slights - real and perceived - and the grueling five-game series just completed against a very, very tough opponent. All the effort and emotion spent... ultimately, he thought as he closed his eyes, it was just... oh, so worth it to have this moment.

[legendsport]

May 16, 1921: Washington, DC:

"Max Morris is awesome!"

Danny Barrell rolled his eyes and made a noise halfway between a snort and a laugh. "Bah," he said, "that guy's a blowhard."

Clyde Hinzman turned and gave Danny a skeptical look. "How would you know?" he asked in a mocking tone.

Danny, feeling fairly well self-satisfied retorted, "I met him once."

Clyde stopped, his mouth open. Danny stopped too and sighed. They probably looked like a couple of goofs, he thought, standing around in their school uniforms on N Street.

Danny shook his head and said, "Come on, Clyde. I want to get home." Danny had baseball practice in an hour and like most 16-year-old boys, was looking forward to an afternoon snack before practice.

Clyde closed his mouth and then narrowed his eyes and asked, "Is that true? You really met Max Morris?"

Danny frowned as he answered. "Yes. It was at the townhouse. I was coming home from school and he was standing on the porch. He was looking for my father."

Clyde, who already practically worshipped the ground Rufus Barrell walked on, had an awestruck look on his face. "Wow! Your dad knows everyone!"

Danny sighed, remembering his father's visit to the school the previous year, and murmured, "Yeah, it seems like it sometimes."

Puzzled, Clyde asked, "And that's a bad thing....?"

"No... not really. I just really didn't like that guy."

"Morris?"

Danny shot Clyde a withering look as he said, "Yes, you dope. Morris. He acted like he wanted to grab Claudia by her hair and drag her back to his cave."

Clyde smirked. "I bet you didn't like that," he said smugly.

Now Danny stopped and put his arm out, almost - but not quite - shoving Clyde to a stop.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he growled.

Clyde gulped and Danny could almost see him steel himself as he replied, "You love Claudia. Everyone knows."

Danny's jaw dropped and his eyebrows shot skyward. "What do you mean, everyone?"

Clyde shrugged one shoulder. "Everyone. Thomas, your father, me... probably Claudia too."

Danny felt his cheeks redden as he blushed. "She knows?" he whispered.

Clyde shrugged again. "Maybe... she doesn't exactly confide in me, you know."

Danny's mouth set in a firm line and he grabbed Clyde by the shoulder. "Let's go..." he said and starting marching towards the townhouse.

The boys entered the townhouse and dropped their books on the floor with a clatter.

Thomas, his first-floor office just down the hall, poked his head out to say, "Please, boys. Treat your books with respect."

Danny frowned and stuck his tongue out when Potentas' head disappeared back into the office.

He was about to say something to Clyde when he heard a man's voice from the kitchen.

"Who's here?" he asked in a half-whisper.

"Could be your father," Clyde replied.

Danny gave him another disdainful glance and said, "He's in Missouri, you dope."

"Oh... yes, I forgot."

"Come on... let's go see," Danny said and led the way down the hall.

As they approached the kitchen, Danny heard Claudia's musical laughter and frowned.

With Clyde behind him, Danny stopped outside the kitchen door.

"Well... you going in?" Clyde asked in a stage whisper.

"Yeah..." Danny said, then paused a moment and shoved the door open.

Claudia was seated at the table. Across from her was.... it took a moment for Danny to recognize him.... Powell Slocum.

"Holy smokes! You're Powell Slocum!" Clyde shouted as he pushed past Danny into the kitchen. "I'm a big fan, Mr. Slocum!" he said, hopping from foot to foot.

Slocum grinned. "Right glad to hear it, son," he replied in his Alabama drawl.

Danny was gaping... his mind going back to a dinner at the farm before they moved to DC... Slocum sitting next to Claudia... the two of them chatting amiably, seeming to hit it off.... and Slocum plays for Baltimore... Uh-oh, he thought.

[legendsport]

July 9, 1921: Toronto, ON:

There was a knock at the door. Jack Barrell, wearing a nice suit that his wife had picked out specifically for him when he had been hired for his new, offseason job, had been busily sharpening his pencil. His new job was... well, it was easy and also boring. He was head of security for the Toronto Global Grand Hotel, owned by Bert Thomas, who just so happened to also own the hockey club for which Jack played. He actually shared the job with Eddie Montague, who played baseball for Thomas' Toronto Wolves. Montague was security head from October until March, and Jack for April thru September.

"Come in," he said. His job didn't come with a secretary. He wondered if some drunk had wrecked a room or something. He'd seen some interesting things in the three months he'd been working at the hotel.

The door opened and one of the desk clerks poked her head into the office. "Mr. Barrell, there's a woman here to see you."

"She give a name?"

The clerk was about to reply when another woman raised her voice and said, "It's Jane Clough, Jack."

Jack drew a blank for a moment. That name was familiar.... He was still racking his brains when the clerk was pulled away from the door and the woman entered. Apparently, Ms. Clough was not willing to wait.

As soon as he saw her, Jack remembered. Jane Clough was Jack Connolly's mistress. A tall, attractive and buxom red-head, Ms. Clough was hard to forget - at least everything about her except her name was, Jack mused.

He stood and struggled - but failed - to keep the surprise off his face. "Ms. Clough? It's been... a long time," he said, uncomfortably. As what his mother would call a "loose woman" Jane Clough made the now happily married Jack Barrell extremely uncomfortable.

Knowing full well the impression she made on young men, Jane Clough gave Jack a sultry smile and pointedly looked him up and down. "You're looking, mmm... well, Jack," she purred.

Jack swallowed and shot a quick glance at the photo of Marie on his desk. He took a quick breath and asked, "Something I can do for you, Ms. Clough?"

Rather than respond, Jane Clough closed the door, then sat down in the worn guest chair and slowly crossed her shapely legs. "Do I make you uncomfortable, Jack?" she asked, knowing all too well that she was doing exactly that. "Jack," she said and grinned wolfishly, "my Jack, that is, well... he said you're a married man now."

Jack's mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton, so he just nodded.

"That's so... interesting," she said and batted her eyes at him.

Jack made a determined effort to look her in the eyes and asked, "So... what brings you in, Ms. Clough?"

She sighed and pouted for a second, then said in a disappointed voice, "Aww, you're not any fun at all, Jack."

Jack gave her a stern look, sat back down and raised his eyebrows. "Well...?" he prompted.

"Fine. Jack wants to see you."

"Connolly wants to see me? Why?"

"Business," was all she said in reply.

"Where?"

She smiled again and motioned towards the ceiling with her head, her red curls bouncing. "Upstairs. Suite 410... that's his favorite room."

Jack was somewhat surprised that Bert allowed Connolly to stay at the Global. It's just business, he reflected, and Bert Thomas didn't get rich turning away customers.

Jack sighed and got to his feet. "OK, let's go see him, then."

Jack made a determined and mostly successful attempt to keep his eyes ahead and his thoughts pure as he accompanied Jane Clough to suite 410. He had his master key, but Jane rapped on the door - three quick taps. As if he had been standing right behind the door, Jack Connolly swung it open and gave Jack a broad smile.

"Hello, Jack! It's been far too long," he said, exuding all the charm he possessed.

Jack was still not quite sure what this was all about, but he politely nodded and replied, "Mr. Connolly. Good to see you."

"Come on in, I have a proposition for you." Connolly waved him in. Jane Clough had already entered and was sashaying into the suite's bedroom. She raised a hand and waved her fingers, saying, "See you Jack," without looking back.

As she closed the door, Jack felt the temperature drop about ten degrees. He took a deep breath and turned his attention to Connolly. The older man was smirking. "That Jane..." he mused, "sure has a way about her, no?"

Jack nodded and said, "Yeah."

After they had seated themselves, Connolly got right down to business. "I'm starting a new hockey league in the States. I want you to be a part of it."

Jack shook his head. "I'm under contract, Mr. Connolly."

Connolly came armed, as usual, with information and persuasion. "You're American, Jack. This is a chance to help grow hockey in your country. We have four clubs and you can have your pick of where to play."

Jack was dubious, and reluctant, to say the least, but figured he'd at least hear him out so he asked, "Where are these teams?"

Connolly ticked them off on his right hand. "Boston, Buffalo, New York and Philadelphia."

"Which one's yours?" asked Jack, figuring it'd be New York since Connolly was fundamentally pre-disposed to needing to be the top dog.

So Jack was surprised when Connolly replied, "Buffalo."

"Buffalo?"

Connolly chuckled and said, "Yes. Buffalo. It's close to Canada, for one thing." He paused and lit the cigar he had been holding in his hand. "Plus, Sam Bigsby wanted New York - his family has just built a brand-new arena there. Same is true for Mr. Denny in Boston and Mr. Franklin in Philadelphia. So... Buffalo."

"Hmm. Interesting..." Jack muttered as his mind went through the possibilities. New York was out - given what Bigsby thugs had done to Rollie there was no way Jack would ever play for a member of that family. Boston? He knew Frank Denny by reputation and had played against his son in the minors. Franklin he didn't know anything about.

"I can see the wheels turning, Jack. Does that mean you're interested?" Connolly prompted.

"No, I wouldn't go that far, Mr. Connolly," Jack said. As Connolly was about to reply, Jack raised a hand and added, "But I will think about it."

Connolly chuckled and took a puff on his cigar, then said, "You being... somewhat receptive... this have anything to do with ol' Bert lending you out to Quebec last season?"

Jack tipped his head to the right and said, "Maybe."

[legendsport]

August 3, 1921: Atlanta, GA:

"Those no good, worthless, sons of..."

"Francie! Language." Rollie Barrell was just as upset as his wife. But, like his father, he was also pragmatic. He mused for a second about how much like his mother Francie was. Maybe what they said about guys marrying women like their mothers was actually true...

Francie glared at him. He gave her a look in return that he hoped was more calming than pleading and went on, "This isn't the end of the world. I've got other talents, you know."

His wife turned her back, looking out the window of their small home on Baker Street. "Well, I guess it's a good thing they gave you that blood money after all," she said and barked a short laugh that was entirely without a trace of mirth.

"Yes, I suppose it is," Rollie replied. "Dr. Morton did say this might not be permanent."

Francie didn't move as she replied, "But it could be exactly that - permanent. He did say that too."

Dr. Wyatt Morton was a neurologist, supposedly one of the best in the world. Since being beaten by Charlie Bigsby's thugs in New York Rollie had been having headaches and dizzy spells. They had gone away for a little while, but were now back with a vengeance. These dizzy spells and headaches, so reminiscent of what his father had gone through thirty years earlier, made it impossible for Rollie to be at the top of his golf game. He could still play... but with dizziness always a possibility, the chances of competing for top prizes were somewhere only slightly north of none, and firmly in the range of slim.

Morton had been cryptic, saying that for everything they knew about the human brain there were likely dozens more they hadn't yet figured out. The bottom line, the doctor admitted, was that there was no way of knowing if these spells would be permanent, or not. Rollie felt that he had wasted his time... and money... Possum likely could have told him as much.

Francie turned to him, her eyes brimming over with tears. Her anger, so quick to spark, always burned fast and hot and then disappeared, usually leaving her awash in melancholia. Rollie had seen it before - but it was usually directed at her brother Dick and his wife, whom Francie had long ago decided was not good enough for her brother. The York family bickered a lot - far more than the much larger and rambunctious Barrell clan, at least.

"And this on top of that mess in Rochester," Francie whined.

Rollie shrugged. "I've been thinking about that."

Francie ran a hand across her eyes. Rollie reached into his pocket and handed her a handkerchief. She wiped her nose. "Thinking what, exactly?" she asked, with a more Francie-like bite in the question.

"Well, it occurs to me that with Guilders bankrupt, I can purchase his rights for a song."

Francie frowned and shot back, "That's about all his share - or yours, for that matter - are worth now, Roland."

Rollie nodded and said, "True." He extended a hand towards his wife and added, "But... I retain the rights to the franchise. I can move it wherever I like and build a new team. One that I'd run the right way. Guilders could play for me... he's actually a decent player... but his days as an owner... that's over."

The right corner of Francie's mouth dipped in a half-frown. "So you want to sink more money into this?"

Rollie nodded and said simply, "I do, yes."

"Why? It would seem more prudent to accept that this... experiment with football was a failure. Take your lumps, chalk it up as a learning experience and move on, Roland."

He was shaking his head even as Francie was still talking and immediately replied, "Ah, but I've learned a lot. And Joe's team proves you can be a success. It's just a matter of finding the right place."

"Joe's in Chicago - they could draw fans because there are more people in a big city." Francie replied.

"Precisely," Rollie replied with a grin. "Like I said, it's largely a matter of finding the right city... a big one, preferably."

Francie's frown deepened. "I will admit, you are sharp, Roland." She smirked as she continued, "If anyone could make something out of that disaster, it's probably you."

Rollie's surprised look made Francie chuckle. She continued, "But... we have a lot riding on this."

Rollie nodded and said, "Of course we do."

Now she put her hand on his arm and said, "No. You don't understand."

Rollie was confused. "What do you mean? Of course I understand."

"No, you don't." She squeezed his arm and added, "I'm pregnant, Rollie. You're going to be a father."

Rollie's eyes widened. Then he let out a whoop of joy. He swept Francie into his arms and swung her around in a circle.

"Put me down! I'm nauseous already!" she shouted, but she was laughing too.

Rollie put her down and kissed her. "A baby! That's the best news I've heard in years!" he shouted and hugged her fiercely.

[legendsport]

August 13, 1921: Chicago, IL:

Joe Barrell was playing with his kids in the backyard when his wife opened the backdoor and shouted that they had a visitor.

Joe bundled the kids toward the door. Neither of them wanted to go back into the house, despite it being so hot and humid. Both kids' faces were red and Joe himself was sweating profusely. "Come on, gang, let's go inside where it's cool. Maybe Mama has some lemonade."

Little Rufus and Gloria, both four years old, perked up a bit at the mention of lemonade and ran towards their mother who still stood in the doorway, watching her children with a smile on her face.

The kids shot past Edna and disappeared as Joe trotted up the pair of steps into the house. He bent to embrace Edna, but she backed away, her nose wrinkled in mock disgust as she said, "Phew! You smell. Go dry off and change your shirt."

"I'll just sweat through whatever I put on, Ed," he replied.

"Regardless... go." She pointed towards their bedroom.

Joe gave a muttered "Fine" and went in to freshen up.

Moments later he emerged, having dipped his head in cold water to cool off. His new shirt clung a bit to his wet torso. Edna looked him over appraisingly, then nodded.

"I swear, Ed, Deuce is a lefty. And the kid looks like he's going to have an arm like my Pop." Joe smiled, thinking of a day in his youth when Rufus, submitting to the pleas of Joe and Rollie, had heaved a baseball with all his might, sending it soaring over the trees in the middle of the vastness of Prospect Park and disappearing into the distance. Awestruck, Joe and his brother had looked upon their father with new admiration that day.

Edna replied, "I don't like you calling him 'Deuce' and you know it, Joe."

Joe shrugged. "He seems to like it. And besides, I love my Pop, but Rufus isn't exactly a common name." He told her an amusing story of a time, also back in Brooklyn when Jimmy came home from school one day and asked his father why his friend's family dog had the same name as he did. The look on Rufus' face had been hysterical. "My son's going to be an athlete and he needs a good nickname," he said after finishing the story.

Edna shook her head. "He's four, Joe. We have no idea what he's going to be."

Joe was about to reply when Edna shook her head and continued, "Just go in the front room. Carl's here."

Joe walked into the front room to find his friend and partner holding a small, empty tea cup in his big mitt. Joe's daughter was pouring air from a battered old teapot into it.

"Gloria and I are having a tea party, Joe," Carl said with a grin.

"So I see." Joe looked around the room. "Where's Deuce?" he asked.

"Here I am, Dad!" his son popped out from behind the sofa. "I was hiding!" he shouted with glee.

Joe smiled and said, "Why don't you two go into the kitchen to see if Mama has lemonade and let Mr. Boon and I have a talk, ok?"

His kids ran out of the room. Carl smiled and said, "Those are some good lookin' kids, Joe."

"You know it, Carl." Joe replied then asked, "So what brings you by?"

Carl's smile disappeared, replaced by a frown. "It's your brother."

Joe grinned and asked, "Which one? That's not a commodity in short supply, you know."

Carl shook his head, the grim look still frozen in place. "Rollie," he said.

"What about him?"

Carl took a deep breath and then said, "Well, he's written to Oxendine asking for our League President's permission to move his Rochester club."

Oxendine, the star player and owner of the Pittsburgh club, had been elected League President the year before. His term was ending and Joe suspected they'd find a more business-oriented President, but for now Oxendine still held the reins.

"OK. Well, Rochester isn't exactly a metropolis, and Rollie told me that they took a bath last season, so it's understandable."

Carl couldn't quite keep the bitterness out of his voice as he replied, "True. But he wants to move his team here."

Now Joe frowned as he blurted out, "Here... as in Chicago?"

Carl nodded. "Yep."

"Huh," was all Joe said.

Carl wasn't taking that for an answer. "His request to Oxendine noted that Chicago supports two baseball clubs and, I quote, 'it can therefore be safely assumed it could do the same for football.'"

Joe cocked his head. "He might be right."

Carl's face reddened. "Chicago is our town, Joe. Rollie shouldn't try to horn in."

"I doubt it's like that, Carl."

Carl pointed a finger at Joe's chest. "You need to talk to him. Make him go somewhere else... like Philadelphia. Or New York. We get in there now, we can maybe keep the Bigsbys out."

That last part appealed to Joe but he knew his brother. "I suspect Rollie considered all that."

Carl was starting to fume up again, so Joe raised a hand. "Alright - I'll talk to him. But I can't make any promises."

Carl sighed and said, "Sorry, Joe. I know he's your brother, but this is business. We barely turned a profit last season. Putting another team here... could be bad for us - and Rollie too."

Joe bit his lip. He really didn't like being put in this position, but he knew Carl was right. What was Rollie thinking?

[legendsport]

Washington, DC: September 9, 1921:

"So, Frederick, what do you think of Capital Academy?" Claudia asked. Fred Barrell, his brother Danny and Clyde Hinzman were sitting in the kitchen of the ever-increasingly crowded Georgetown townhouse, eating breakfast.

Fred, who had decided to move to DC in order to face better baseball competition at Capital, shrugged in a typically teenaged way and said, "It's okay. I miss Tommy and my friends in Georgia, but otherwise, no complaints."

"I suspect having Daniel and Clyde here helps," said Thomas Potentas as he entered the room.

Fred shrugged again - it was one of his favorite gestures. "Sure," he replied without much enthusiasm.

Claudia sat across from Danny, her earnest and open gaze locked on Freddy, who sat beside Dan. She told Fred, "It is good that you're here. Daniel has been moping all summer."

Danny's brow beetled as he exclaimed, "That's not true!"

Clyde, looking to kiss up as usual (in Danny's opinion, at least), piped up with, "Yeah, it's true."

Dan shot him a warning look that said, not too subtly, to not expound any further.

Fred, however, hadn't seen the look - and probably wouldn't have cared if he did - and asked Claudia, "So how are things with Powell?"

Danny inwardly groaned. The last thing he wanted to hear discussed at the start of a school day was Claudia's courtship with Powell Slocum. The guy was too old for her for one thing. Besides, Danny would be 17 soon... and that was just a step away from manhood. He had long dreamed of turning 18 and confessing his feelings to Claudia. And now Slocum was messing it up.

"Oh, Mr. Slocum is fine. His team... the Cannons?... they are on a... how do you say it?" she looked at Danny.

"Road trip," he said morosely.

"See? He is moping like this all summer," Potentas noted from the counter where he was steeping his tea.

"Busybody," Danny muttered under his breath. Clyde, apparently hearing him, shot him a glance. Danny grimaced and looked down at the table, embarrassed.

"Coach Beckmann has asked me to join the football team," Fred told Claudia. "But I don't think I'll do it. Pop suggested I get comfortable with the school before committing to any sport other than baseball."

Beckmann had practically drooled over the prospect of having Freddy catch for Capital. As a freshman in Georgia, Fred had terrorized opposing pitching. Beckmann felt that even with the step-up in quality, he had himself a bona fide star in the making. Meanwhile Danny had struggled in his sophomore season the past spring. Rufus had asked Jack to call and talk with him, and Jack had explained his own struggles as a pro, stuck behind a "better" player, which is what Danny had also experienced. Beckmann had promised that Danny would be a regular for the 1922 season and Danny was determined to make sure that happened. In the meantime, he was playing football - and playing it well. Beckmann suggested that he might have more Joe Barrell in him than Rufus Barrell. Danny felt that he could be both, and told the coach as much.

Clyde spoke up again, "I'm going to try out for the baseball team, too, Claudia."

Claudia smiled and Danny felt a clench in his chest. "That's nice, Clyde. I am sure you will do well."

"Pfft. He doesn't know what he's doing. We found that out back at the farm when we visited in July," Danny said.

Claudia's smile vanished and she sharply said, "That is unkind, Daniel. And also untrue. Mr. Slocum himself told me that he would help Clyde."

Danny sputtered, "What?"

Claudia primly noted that Slocum had made the same offer to both Danny and Fred. "I still do not understand why you would not accept his help. He is very talented at baseball, is he not?"

Fred unhelpfully said, "He sure is. He just had his 3500th career hit last month. The guy is the best hitter who ever lived."

Clyde, in his typically worshipful way, responded, "Well... I think Max Morris..."

That started a discussion on the relative merits of Danny's two least favorite baseball players. He frowned and spooned oatmeal into his mouth. He had hoped that having Fred around would help (particularly with Clyde who insisted on following him around) but it seemed like nothing was going to lift the cloud he'd been living under. And Slocum would be back in a week, and probably the first place he'd show up would be at their doorstep.

The doorbell rang. Potentas looked up from his tea and said, "That will be Miss Berger."

Claudia stood up. She was wearing her nurse's uniform. Miss Anna Berger was the nanny and looked after James so that Claudia could return to work. Like Claudia herself, Miss Berger was originally from Germany. Also like Claudia, she ran the household with stiflingly Teutonic efficiency. Still, Danny had to admit that Miss Berger, who was perhaps 19 years old, was attractive too. Maybe he should start paying her some attention... see if that made Claudia jealous. He smirked at the thought.

His reverie was broken when Claudia returned with Miss Berger... and Emily Talbot. Danny nearly gasped in surprise.

"Miss Talbot is here," Claudia pointed out unnecessarily.

"Hello, Dan," Emily said. "Did you finish that book?"

Danny flushed. He had completely forgotten about the book. Crome Yellow by Aldous Huxley. He'd borrowed it largely because Emily had told him how good it was. Danny wasn't much for reading, but already despondent about the "Claudia situation" as Clyde put it, he'd borrowed it just to have something about which to speak with Emily. She at least had the advantage of being his own age, unlike Claudia or her handmaiden Miss Berger (Danny's teenaged mind briefly flashed on Claudia & Miss Berger as Viking maidens and promptly - and visibly - blushed).

"Uh... I haven't finished it, sorry," he told Emily, hoping she hadn't noticed his blush.

She frowned and shook her head. "I must return it to my mother," she said. Her father worked in the British embassy (he was an 'undersecretary' or something - Danny's brain tended to lock up when a pretty girl was speaking to him). One of the things Danny liked best about Emily was her charming English accent.

"Sorry," he said again, feeling like a dolt, and stood up. "I'll go get it," he finished and left the kitchen.

Clyde poked Fred in the ribs and whispered, "Your brother and his girls..."

Fred gave him a skeptical look and asked, "What are you talking about?"

Clyde smiled and then leaned over and began whispering. Fred's eyes widened as he listened.

[legendsport]

Detroit, MI: September 11, 1921:

"Hey... welcome to Detroit," Joe Barrell said with a smile as his brother stepped down from the train.

"I can't believe I let you talk me into this," Rollie Barrell complained. Then he smiled and said, "But, hey, it's always good to see you, you big lug."

The brothers hugged as the stream of people hustling and bustling through the Michigan Central Station moved around and past them. Rollie popped his hat onto his head and said, "So... where's the meeting again?"

"Statler Hotel... I have a cab waiting, come on," Joe said and clasped a hand on his brother's shoulder.

During the ride Rollie filled Joe in on what had been going on. Oxendine, in the fashion typical for him (he correctly saw his position as President as largely ceremonial), had told Rollie that "you work it out with Boon and your brother. As far as I'm concerned you can play anywhere you'd like." Rollie had decided to check out the East Coast first. As Joe had surmised, Rollie looked into playing in New York, preferably in Riverside Park, right across the street from the Bigsby Oval. But the Blue Laws still prevented Sunday football. Next he checked on Philadelphia.... the same. That was why he had landed on Chicago - he needed a big city.

"It had to be a large city, Joe," he said and then leaned over and whispered, "Francie's pregnant. So I need to get this right."

Joe was surprised - and thrilled for his brother. That did explain why he landed on Chicago. Joe had spoken to Rufus - say what you might about the elder Barrell, but the guy had some serious connections. It was Rufus who suggested Detroit. "Talk to George Theobald," he suggested. "He owns a chunk of the Dynamos and he's a lot easier to deal with than old man Thompson."

So Rollie and Joe set up the meeting.

As Joe paid the cabbie, Rollie looked over the entrance to the hotel. Nestled in a park, it was very nice. He'd heard that Theobald had good taste and manners. And he was, according to Rufus, very much a by-the-book type, but open-minded to business opportunities.

They met Theobald in the hotel lobby. An attractive woman, apparently in her early thirties and with two kids in tow, was sitting with the tall, thin Theobald when they approached him.

He rose and shook hands. "This is my daughter, Charlotte Cleaves. And my grandsons, Jack and George." It looked like Jack was about to stick a finger in his brother's ear when he heard his grandfather say his name and promptly squared himself away and managed to look innocent and angelic as the old man turned and gave him a look.

"Behave, Jack," he said.

Rollie nudged Joe and whispered, "Kind of acts like our Jack, eh, Joe?"

Joe smirked, but he had his eyes on Theobald's tall, thin and blonde-headed daughter. Rollie cocked an eyebrow and gave Joe another nudge. "Business, rememmber?" he chided.

Theobald was explaining that Mrs. Cleaves and her sons were visiting from Kentucky where her husband was working for the railroad. "I hope you won't mind if they join us for lunch," Theobald said.

Joe nodded while Rollie said, "Not at all, Mr. Theobald. It'll be our pleasure."

After they had been seated (Rollie noted that Joe had deftly seated himself directly across from Charlotte), Theobald got down to business. "So, Roland, I spoke with your father on the phone and he mentioned you own a football club and are looking to relocate from... Rochester, was it?"

Rollie glanced to his right where Joe was grinning at Charlotte Cleaves.

"Yes, sir. Rochester is a fine city, but it's not exactly a big league city, if I'm speaking plainly. My brother here," he nudged Joe and gave him a warning look before continuing, "and his partner, Mr. Carl Boon, operate a club in Chicago so I was hoping to likewise find a large city for my team."

Joe glanced over at his brother and then Theobald, saying, "That's right, sir." Then he turned his attention back to Charlotte. Meanwhile her sons were fidgeting but Rollie saw that she and Joe were too busy making cow eyes at each other to notice.

Rollie wondered what the hell was going on with his brother, but decided to soldier on. "My father mentioned that you might be willing to help us secure a lease to play at Thompson Field?"

"Yes, I think we could work something out. The ballpark is empty after our season ends and even were we to win the pennant, we could work out the scheduling. It would certainly be good to make some money in the offseason." The Dynamos were having a poor season - Theobald had won the pennant (and the World Championship) in his first season in Detroit in '19 and finished 2nd the next year, but were currently 6th and not a factor this season. 'Toothpick' Theobald as he was known in the game, was the most respected manager in baseball and Rollie knew it was likely the Dynamos would be a factor in the pennant race most seasons with Theobald at the helm.

The older man smiled and said, "It's just a matter of working out the details." He pursed his lips and added, "My partner - who is the majority owner of the ballpark as well as the team - is," he paused and frowned before continuing, "difficult at times. But he's a smart and shrewd businessman. So the deal will be fair, but as he's not one for pleasantries and platitudes I will do the bargaining on behalf of the Detroit Baseball Club, you understand."

Rollie nodded - his father had told him as much. "Yes, sir. I am more than happy to work exclusively with you on the details. We're a bit under the gun, in terms of timing. Our season starts in three weeks, but we have our league meetings on the 21st."

Joe had been half-listening to this... now as Theobald and Rollie began to talk numbers and percentages, he turned his full attention to the lovely Mrs. Cleaves.

One of the kids - the little one - George, was it? - tapped him on the arm.

"Hey mister, I heard that you beat up my father."

Joe was stunned and momentarily speechless. "Huh?" he blurted.

Charlotte rolled her eyes and put her hand on Joe's. "Georgie is partially correct, Mr. Barrell."

Joe said, "I don't understand. I don't remember even meeting anyone named Cleaves, let alone fighting him."

Charlotte smiled. "My husband was a boxer. He fought under the name Kid Donnelly."

Joe's eyes widened. He remembered Donnelly. That guy, in Joe's opinion, had had no business fighting someone like him. "Oh... yes, I remember Kid Donnelly." He smirked. "That was your husband?"

She nodded and winked at him. "Indeed it was. I was at that fight. You really demolished him."

Joe blushed, but as he remembered it, he did in fact demolish the poorly named "Kid" - that guy had to be at least ten years older than Joe. Joe had knocked him out in the first round. He seemed to remember Edna being excited by Joe's dominating performance - and to look and listen to Charlotte Cleaves, she - surprisingly - had the same reaction.

"Sorry about that..." Joe said, not feeling - or sounding - the least bit sincere.

Now the other kid - Jack - spoke up. "My father stopped fighting after that. Said when a kid like you could knock him out that easily it was time to hang up the gloves."

Joe gave the boy the once-over. He was about the same age as Joe's brother Tommy, who was... Joe thought about it... thirteen.

He had a feeling... after all, if anyone knew the type, it'd be a Barrell. "You play baseball, kid?" Joe asked.

Jack perked up. "Sure do. My grandad says I could make it all the way to FABL someday!"

"Me too!" crowed the younger one (maybe about the same age as 8-year-old Harry). "And I'm going to be a catcher just like my grandad!"

Joe chuckled and said, "You sound like my brother Freddy. He wants to be a FABL catcher too. Maybe you'll all make it and play against each other someday..." Joe figured the odds on that were pretty long, but hey, they were kids, so no need to crush their dreams... Not to mention that their mother was sending him some serious signals. As a pro football player Joe was away from home a lot and had already discovered that the ladies seemed to like him as much as he liked them. Joe was no choir boy, and he enjoyed their attentions, even though he knew he shouldn't.

Charlotte was giving Joe an appraising look of her own. "So you gave up fighting too, Mr. Barrell?"

"I did. I discovered that football gives me the same kind of thrill and lets me exercise my need for... mayhem." He grinned wickedly before adding, "And please, call me Joe."

She smiled back. "And you simply must call me Charlotte, Joe."

Joe noticed that her hand was still warmly laid over his own. He glanced down at it, and she squeezed gently. When he raised his eyes, he found her staring into them. Hmm.....

[legendsport]

Fort Wayne, IN: September 21, 1921:

John Oxendine was out as President of the American Football Association. In fact, the erstwhile head of the AFA hadn't even bothered to show up for the league meeting. So Jack Kristich was again hosting in the meeting room at the now-refurbished "Jack's Place" (formerly known as "Bubby's").

When Rollie Barrell had arrived, he couldn't locate Oxendine, but did see the Pittsburgh Pros other owner, Bob Turner. Turner had come on board the previous season after Oxendine, despite not wanting a partner, had discovered he knew nothing about running a business (and a pro football club was a business).

"Hey Bob, is Ox around?" Rollie had asked.

Turner grimaced and replied, "No. Probably has his head in a bottle somewhere." Then he sighed and added, "Sorry, that was unkind. Ox has severed our relationship. Rumor is he's undecided on playing again and has sold me his piece of the club. So I'm now the sole owner of the Pros."

Rollie shook his head. "So who approves my move to Detroit?"

Turner shrugged. "I think Jack's going to call a vote immediately on a new president. But the club owners would vote on your move anyway." He slapped Rollie on the shoulder and added, "I don't think you have anything to worry about, Rollie. The move's a formality at best."

Rollie was filling Turner in on what had happened with his own player/partner Benny Guilder (who had decided he was done with football and was now trying to start a professional basketball circuit) when Joe and Carl Boon walked in.

Boon greeted Turner and turned to Rollie, saying, "Thank you for not moving into Chicago, Rollie."

Rollie conceded that Carl had a point about putting two teams in one city, agreeing that it was better for each club to have its own operating area.

Boon and Turner got into a conversation about Oxendine, so Rollie steered Joe into a corner.

"OK, what the hell was going on with you and Theobald's daughter?"

Joe frowned. "Nothing you need to concern yourself about."

Rollie narrowed his eyes. "Leaving aside the fact that you're both married, there's one salient point that makes this my business: Theobald is my landlord now. I don't need your,,, whatever that was... gumming up the works for me with Theobald."

Joe's mouth was set in a grim line as he replied, "What I do on my own time is not your concern. But..." he paused and lowered his voice, "I won't do anything to jeopardize your deal with the Detroit people. OK?"

Rollie looked skeptical, to say the least, but finally nodded. Feeling like he couldn't help himself, he told his brother, "You need to think about your wife and kids. Don't mess around, Joe."

Joe glared back. "Stay out of my private life, Rollie," he growled.

Rollie threw up his hands. "You're a big boy. But just think about what you have at home... and think about what Mom and Pop would say if they found out."

Joe clenched his fists. "Let it go," he warned, then spun on his heel and walked away.

Rollie sighed. He watched his brother walk over to where Boon and Turner were still talking. Joe joined them and was soon laughing and slapping Turner on the back. Rollie shook his head. Why did he always feel like he had to be the "big" brother?

The meeting began soon after. There were a lot of new faces in the room - no fewer than 23 football clubs were represented. With Oxendine absent, Jack Kristich was running the show (he had been elected Secretary the previous year and he also happened to own the venue in which they were meeting, so...).

The first order of business was the election of a new league president. Kristich left the room, heading to the kitchen to check on the food. By the time he returned, he'd been elected League President. His reaction was amusing, but Rollie was reasonably confident that Kristich was a good choice.

With that out of the way, the meeting moved on to new business. Rollie formally submitted his relocation request. There was a bit of a ruckus when one of the slew of new applicants turned out to be from Detroit. When Rollie pointed out that he had a signed lease agreement to play at Thompson Field, the other applicant was forced to reveal that he had no such agreement in place. Much to Rollie's relief, his request was approved. The Rochester Maroons were no more... and the Detroit Maroons were born.

After the vote, the other applicant sauntered over to Rollie.

"You're name's Barrell, right?" he asked. The guy was young - and even though Rollie himself was just 25, this guy seemed younger. He was also solidly built and Rollie sensed that he was an athlete, "like calling to like" is what Rufus would have said.

"I am," he replied and stuck out a hand.

The man grasped it and gave him a firm handshake. "I'm John Turnbow, but folks call me Red." He pointed at his mop of auburn hair and added with a twinkle in his eye, "For obvious reasons."

Rollie chuckled and tipped his head in acknowledgement.

Turnbow continued, "I'm wondering if you'd be interested in teaming up? I heard about what happened with Guilder..."

Rollie considered and hadn't yet replied when Joe walked up, "Hey, Red, how you doing?" he asked and slapped Turnbow on the back.

Red grinned at Joe. "Barrell... good to see you. I was just talking to your brother about joining forces in Detroit."

"That's an interesting idea," he said, rubbing his chin. He turned to Rollie and informed his brother that Turnbow had been a star at Detroit City. "He's the real deal. I can't vouch for his business acumen, but I can vouch for his play."

Rollie, thinking about his club's dismal 1920 performance, chewed his lip.

"I can bring along some skilled guys... Michiganders too, so the locals will know 'em. Probably help at the gate..." Turnbow said. The fact that he recognized the necessity of name recognition was a point in his favor, Rollie mused.

In the end, Rollie agreed in principle and suggested a meeting the next day to work out some of the details. "Too much going on here tonight to tackle this too," he pointed out, with Turnbow's nodding agreement.

The meeting continued and Kristich did an admirable job of keeping everyone on point. Ultimately 16 clubs were granted membership for the upcoming season. Kristich warned everyone that he would "strictly enforce" the league's by-laws. Rollie sitting with Carl Boon and Joe, heard Boon chuckle and say, "You can take that to the bank. Jack likes rules." Rollie thought that was a very good thing indeed.

[legendsport]

Egypt, GA: December 25, 1921:

Rufus Barrell sat beside his oldest and best friend doing what they usually did when they got together - talking baseball.

"I'm telling you son, this kid's forearms are like tree trunks!" Possum Daniels said, his bushy eyebrows shooting skyward as if in astonishment.

Rufus chuckled - Possum was hyperbolic, you had to give him that much. When he liked something, he really liked it. And the inverse was also true.

"Now... on the other hand, it's not all rosy for this boy."

Rufus recognized what was expected and provided it with a muttered, "How so?"

As Possum opened his mouth to reply, there was the familiar smack of bat on ball as Danny drilled a solid liner to center. He exploded out of the batter's box, rounded first at full tilt and barreled into second with a hard slide, beating the throw.

"Hoo, boy! When did Daniel get so fast?" Possum exclaimed.

Rufus grinned. Danny was indeed fast - and strong. All that track and field work had chiseled his son into a fearsome all-around athlete. He stood on second base, dusting himself off and frowning towards the mound where Powell Slocum stood, gazing back with a smirk on his face.

"Nice hit, Dan!" he called out. Danny's face remained set in a frown, but he did acknowledge the compliment with a short, tight nod.

"That boy looks like he'd like to snap ol' Powell in half," Possum said with a laugh.

Rufus nodded, his face serious, and replied, "Yeah, he hasn't really taken to Powell and Claudia's engagement."

"Heartbreak's a part of life, son," Possum intoned seriously and slapped Rufus on the back. "So... when you going to go see this boy with me?"

Rufus shook his head. "I swear, Possum, you got a bee in your bonnet over this kid." Rufus sighed and asked, "What's his name again?"

"Kellogg... Rankin Kellogg," Possum replied.

"That's a strange one," Rufus replied before asking, "Why haven't we heard of this kid if he's so good?"

"Well... that's the thing. He's had a passel of bad luck, son." Possum rubbed his chin and began to list the litany of reasons no one had ever heard of young Mr. Rankin Kellogg of Memphis, Tennessee. His father had held him out of school to work on the farm, so he was behind in his studies. He'd also forbidden him from playing baseball so his freshman season (where he hit .413 with 7 doubles and 6 homers in 92 at-bats) was followed by a curtailed sophomore campaign where he went 4-for-9 with three homers. As an 18-year-old junior this past spring he'd played with a broken hand when a cart fell on it at the farm, and his stats had suffered accordingly (.260, 2 HRs in 73 ABs).

"But this boy is going to be something, Rufus. You know how Max Morris when he hits the baseball it makes that sound?"

Rufus nodded. Morris' bat did make a distinct sound when he connected.

"Well, Kellogg's bat makes the same sound. But..." and here Possum paused to grin widely before continuing, "where Morris' homers go a mile up and a mile out, Kellogg hits ropes that are still going up as they go out."

He reached out and squeezed Rufus' forearm and added, "I never seen anyone hit the ball as hard as this boy does."

Rufus rubbed his chin. Maybe he would have to go see this kid. The 1921 draft had just concluded, but they'd need to get working on the '22 class - and this Kellogg kid would be eligible for it.

The old friends turned their attention back to the field where Clyde Hinzman now stood at the plate. Rufus had invited some of the better teenaged players in Effingham County to play a Christmas Day game at the farm. The weather was cooperating - high 50s, not too cold. And they'd had a good turnout. Most baseball-mad boys would kill to meet Powell Slocum, let alone play with him. Slocum, for his part, was a good-natured participant who agreed to play only as a pitcher, and to bat right-handed as opposed to his natural - and deadly - left-handed swing. Powell pitched for the "visitors" while Tommy pitched for the home team. Bobby and Harry, deemed too young by their father, were acting as "coaches" - watching young Harry try to tell Danny how to play was, at the very least, amusing. Three Barrell brothers - Danny, Freddy and Tommy - played for the "home" team. Betsy sat with Claudia, watching the game.

"Too bad Jack couldn't make it this year," Rufus told Possum. His third son was busy preparing for the opening of hockey season in Toronto - and his wife was expecting.

Rollie and Francie had made it, as had Joe and Edna. There seemed to be some tension between Rollie and Joe but neither would talk about it. Francie was visibly pregnant and she and Edna had spent most of Christmas Eve with their heads together while Rollie and Joe talked football business despite some evident frostiness between them.

"I wish I knew what was going on with Rollie and Joe," Rufus said.

Possum chewed his lip and replied, "If'n I didn't know better, I'd say it was a girl."

Rufus was visibly surprised and asked, "What do you mean?"

"Well... Rollie's a straight-edged sort. Kind of like someone I know," Possum said and nudged Rufus with a shoulder. "Joe's... well, he's a man's man."

Rufus shook his head. "I still don't follow."

Possum sighed. "Look, Rufus, I ain't saying this is a for-sure. But Joe's a good lookin' guy, a top athlete, and he's on the road a lot. I reckon I don't gots to spell it out for you, son."

Possum gazed out across the field where his wife was sitting with Alice on a blanket spread on the grass. Possum's own son, named for the man sitting beside him and currently chatting amiably with Harry Barrell, was born as a result of the kind of shenanigans Possum had just described.

Rufus rubbed his chin again. "So you're saying Joe's doing something with a woman who isn't his wife and Rollie knows about it... and doesn't approve."

Possum touched his nose. "Just a guess, but yep, that's what I reckon is going on, son."

"Hmph. Well... I hope that's not the case."

Up at the house, Rollie and Joe were talking... but not about Charlotte Cleaves, which was a topic of which they'd agreed to not speak.

"So... Jack Kristich is doing a great job," Rollie was saying.

"Carl says the same thing," Joe replied.

Rollie smiled. "It's a good thing you have Carl as a partner. There's more to running a football club than just running the ball on Sundays, Joe."

"Don't I know it," Joe replied.

Joe's knee was wrapped and stiff. He had his leg stretched out straight before him, resting on a settee. The AFA season had ended earlier that month, but the Wildcats, like most clubs, had done some postseason touring. It was against a local team in Kentucky that Joe had hurt his knee. There were only two good things that had come out of that trip - the gate receipts and the chance to see Charlotte Cleaves.

Rollie continued, "This whole thing with letting any Tom, Dick or Harry in... Jack's right that it needs to stop. And the idea of divisions with a real championship game. It's brilliant."

Joe nodded absent-mindedly.

Rollie gave him a dubious look but soldiered on, "The key thing, and I've had several conversations with Jack about this - is raising our visibility. Right now the papers barely cover the league - it's all about the collegiate game. And we need official statistics. Look at baseball... the fans love the numbers. We need to tap into that, somehow."

He frowned and scratched his head - he felt another headache brewing.

Joe noticed this, "You alright, bub?" he asked with visible concern.

Rollie smiled and nodded. "I'll be fine," he said.

"We gotta get the papers to cover us," he repeated. "But how..." he trailed off.

Joe shrugged, thinking that he was glad that all he really was expected to do was carry the football and run over the opponents. Let Carl, Jack and Rollie figure this other stuff out.

[legendsport]

Jack Barrell was rolling his right shoulder as he hopped off the trainer's table and started walking toward his locker. Shirtless, he could see the angry, purpling welt from his peripheral vision as he moved. The trainer had told him he didn't "think" it'd be more than just a nasty bruise. Jack sometimes wished he could get a more informed opinion on his various aches and pains.

He'd hurt the shoulder when he got himself in front of a hard shot by Montreal's newly acquired sharp-shooting winger Rene Mailloux, just acquired from the Transcontinental Hockey Association's Victoria club. At least the Dukes had won the game, though it wasn't easy - the Valiants were improved and by all accounts Jack's club would have a tough time defending their title from both the V's and their perennial foes in Ottawa.

He sighed - the season was barely begun and he was already hurting.

"It's a brave new world, is it not?" came a voice from his left as he moved past the door. The visiting locker room here at the "Woody" as the players called the Montreal Valiants' home arena (technically the Wood Avenue Arena) was cramped.

Jack mostly fought down the urge to frown and turned his head. A reporter. He nodded with as much enthusiasm as he could (it wasn't much) and said, "What brave new world, Reggie?"

Reginald Waters didn't like being called Reggie which simply ensured that everyone called him just that.

To Waters' credit, he shook it off amiably and fell into step with Jack. "All this friendly trading stuff between the leagues."

Jack shrugged and replied, "Ah, peace sells, or something... right?"

Waters was referring to the sudden flurry of trading between the NAHC and its western competitor, the TCHA. The trade winds had blown Cal Oliphant all the way out of Toronto to Vancouver and brought back Charles Rausse in return.

Jack had briefly played with Rausse in the minors before the big centerman had sought greener pastures and signed in Vancouver - before peace broke out. Rausse was good - very good - but Jack and Ben Scheer both were upset that the S.O.B. line was no more. 'R' just didn't fit. So far the newspapermen - like Reggie - hadn't come up with anything pithy for the new-look Toronto Dukes' top line.

"It's only a peace in name... everyone knows this 'we're all friends now' stuff is just to stick it to Jack Connolly," Waters said.

"Is that a question?" Jack asked as he lowered himself onto the stool in front of his locker.

Waters shook his head. "No, that's a statement. What I wanted to ask was what you think of it?"

Jack sighed and turned his hands palm up with a smirk as he replied, "I don't think about it."

Waters cocked an eyebrow. "Don't play dumb with me, Jack. I know you and Oliphant were friends."

Jack nodded. "I won't deny that. But I don't really have an opinion on the bickering between the leagues. Go talk to Bert Thomas about that stuff. He's got opinions on Connolly and the USHA... I can guarantee you that."

Waters wasn't going to be put off so easily. "Indeed he does, and I already have him on record. But I know," and now he leaned in and dropped his voice conspiratorially, "that you met with Connolly back in Toronto."

Jack narrowed his eyes. "What are you getting at, Reggie?" he hissed.

Waters stood up and took a half-step back. "Why, nothing! Just wondering what you talked about with the most hated man in hockey is all..."

Jack tilted his head to one side and said, "I'm sure you could uh... speculate... quite accurately about it, Reggie."

"So no comment?"

Jack gave him a look that he'd used on his brothers when they did or said something spectacularly stupid and said, "Come on. You think I'm going to hang myself? I'm here, right? Not in Buffalo, or New York. Obviously nothing happened. He made a pitch and I turned it down. End of story."

"Mm-hmm. If I talked to Connolly would he give me the same story?"

"Feel free to go to Buffalo and ask him."

Waters chewed his lip. "So... you won't give me anything on this?"

Jack laughed, but it was completely without humor. "Reggie. If you insist, I will tell you exactly what I told Mr. Thomas: Jack Connolly approached me with an offer, for a substantial raise, to play for whichever USHA club I chose."

Reggie was scribbling in his notepad and looked up when he noticed that Jack had stopped speaking. "And...." he prompted.

"And... nothing. I told him no. I don't back out of contracts. I'm a Duke... unless and until they trade me."

Reggie shook his head. "Why do you make my life difficult, Jack?" he asked.

Jack smirked. "All I'm telling you is the truth. And if you want more, I can say that yes, I liked Cal Oliphant - he's a great player and a fine person and will be missed here. And yes too, to Charles Rausse being a solid-gold playmaker who will fill Cal's skates admirably. We'll be a factor this season."

Jack showed his teeth in a not-exactly-friendly smile and asked, "Anything else?"

Reggie shook his head, mumbled something and stalked off.

Jack chuckled, grabbed his towel and headed for the shower.