The Ballad of the Brothers Barrell - A Figment Story

[legendsport]

Tyrone, PA: November 21, 1931:

"You ever been here before?" Hank Moorehead asked his newest assistant.

Joe Barrell shook his head and said, "Nope. When I was at Noble, we never played these guys, nevermind played up here."

He smirked and added, "There wouldn't be much to this place if someone hadn't planted a university here."

Moorehead chuckled, slapped Joe on the shoulder and replied, "That'd be true for a lot of small towns. This is a railhead for coal coming out of the mines hereabouts, but yes, the town would certainly be not much of a thing without St. Blane's being here."

"We've been playing these boys every year since '26. It's becoming something of a rivalry," said Sam Berry, the other assistant coach. Berry was a more accomplished and experienced coach than Joe and ran the scout team, whose job was to mimic the upcoming opponent. "Everytime I think I get a handle on the Fighting Saints, they change it up on me," he said with a frown.

Moorehead grabbed Berry by the shoulder, "We've got 'em this time, Sammy."

"Sure do hope so, boss," Berry replied. "The boys are as ready as they can be, I'll say that much."

"That's just right, Sam. You and Joe have done a great job this season," Moorehead said. Then he took a deep breath and said, "Now let's get out there and show 'em what Dolphins football is all about."

Moorehead gave a signal to captain Sid Wilson, who gave a whoop and then led a cheering group of Coastal California Dolphin footballers into the tunnel and then the bright Saturday sunshine of St. Blane Stadium, deep in the heart of Central Pennsylvania and a long, long way from the Dolphins' Los Angeles home.

For Joe Barrell the game was a landmark. He'd been a part of some very good teams, including professional championship teams with the Chicago Wildcats. But the season Coastal was having.... he'd never seen the like. The season had begun with a pair of shutouts: 37-0 over Golden Gate University and 47-0 over Lane State. They followed their wins over California and Oregon-based teams with an equally easy 40-7 romp over Spokane State to complete a Pacific Coast state sweep. Then they ran off four straight shutouts: 33-0 over Portland Tech, 41-0 over Northern Cal, 45-0 over Redwood and 51-0 over Custer College. That brought them here, to the middle of Pennsylania with a record of 7-0 and having outscored their opponents to the tune of 294 to 7.

Joe was in charge of the backfield, and had a great one. The fullback, Golden Custer, was a force of nature and a shoo-in for All-American honors. If College Football had an equivalent to the FABL's Whitney award, Custer would be a frontrunner for it.

But St. Blane was the pre-eminent Eastern football program and were even tougher on their home field. They had suffered one loss this season, a surprising 12-10 loss to St. Magnus. They'd immediately bounced back by demolishing Lambert College 85-3, the type of loss that made Joe feel sorry for the overmatched Stags. That had kicked off a hot stretch for the Fighting Saints, who came into the matchup with Coastal Cal coming off back-to-back shutouts of their own against quality teams in Pierpont and Annapolis Maritime. And the Saints had a star back of their own in Dolph Sloan who was also expected to be an All-America selection. What made that worse from Coastal's standpoint was that Sloan was a California native, who'd spurned Coastal to play for the Saints. Moorehead, Berry and Joe had made sure all the Dolphins knew this which meant Sloan could expect to hear about it on the field.

The battle between two of the top teams each featuring one of the best backs in the game lived up to its billing. Custer shone as brightly as could be expected by someone whose moniker was "Golden" - he put up three touchdowns and finished with a game-high 172 yards rushing. Sloan, despite getting some rough business at the bottom of piles all afternoon long, also played very well, scoring twice himself and becoming the first opposing back to hang a century against the Coastal Cal rush defense.

When the gun sounded to end the game, it was Coastal that came out on top by a 38-24 margin in a game that many agreed was one of the best of the '31 season. With three games left in the season, Coastal was 8-0. Joe had already circled December 12 on his personal calendar: on that day the Dolphins would welcome Joe's alma mater Noble Jones to Dolphins Field. But that was a few weeks away... for now Joe could celebrate a big win before the team boarded the train for the long trip back to California.

[legendsport]

June 14, 2020: Maplewood, NJ:

Paul Crowe was in the "home theater" he'd built in the basement - a 60" 4K television and a pair of recliners flanking a table Cheryl had purchased. It was made from reclaimed wood... which Paul imperfectly understood as meaning it used to be the side of some old barn or something.

He had a streaming app open on the television and was intently watching something he'd found by chance when Cheryl walked in.

She frowned at him and said, "I know it's Sunday, but it's also nearly noon and you haven't showered or gotten dressed yet."

Paul waved a hand at her, then saw her face tighten. To forestall the impending lecture, he paused the video, looked at her and replied, "Yeah, I know. I found this and wanted to watch it. There might be something in here that I could use for the book."

Cheryl looked at the image frozen on the screen. An old, black and white photo of a group of three men in dirty football uniforms. Or what passed for uniforms back then - they looked like sweaters with a bit of padding added to the shoulders. None of the men was wearing a helmet - leather or otherwise.

She squinted and looked more closely. "Is that... Jack?"

Paul smiled and nodded. "Yep. That there is the Milwaukee Hawks backfield, circa 1923."

"Milwaukee? When did Jack play there? I thought he only played football for Chicago?"

Paul's grin widened. "Yes, that's what most people think. The records from that time are pretty sketchy."

With the video still paused, he explained to her that what he was watching was a Canadian TV production from the middle 1960s about the sporting career of Jack Barrell. "Apparently, they somehow got Jack to sit down and talk to them about his entire career... from hockey to baseball to football. Everything. And some of this is pure gold."

Cheryl walked over and plopped herself into the other recliner. "OK, so play it," she said, fluttering a hand at the screen.

Paul hit the play button and the video resumed.

A very sportcaster-like voice was speaking over the still photo: "... 1923 was an interesting year for Jack Barrell. Nominally a member of the Chicago Wildcats, Jack found himself playing for the brand-new Milwaukee club halfway through the season..."

The scene shifted to a closeup of Jack, sitting in a chair, his legs crossed, a wry grin on his face. This was a younger - but not young - version of the Jack she remembered from her childhood, which would have been probably twenty-ish years later. His hair, though mostly gray, still had some brown in it and his weatherbeaten face still had some firm ruddiness in it. He was probably in his early sixties. All of this flashed through Cheryl's mind before Jack began speaking.

"So... as I mentioned earlier, my brother Joe had gotten himself involved with the North Side Gang. This was during Prohibition and running liquor and money between the States and Canada was a big thing. Well, let's just say that to help my brother out of a jam, I agreed to run money from Chicago to Toronto."

Jack's face was replaced on-screen by another still image. This one of a grim-faced man. "That's Bugsy Moran," Paul told his wife. "He was the gangstar that Joe got mixed up with, in a roundabout way because of his affair with Charlotte Cleaves. That..."

"Shush, I want to listen," she said with a touch of irritation in her voice, her eyes never leaving the screen.

"The man Jack was working for was notorious gangster George Moran. Moran was one of the top members of the North Side Gang and would eventually head up the crime syndicate. 'Bugs' as he was better known, would later be involved in a turf war with the South Side Gang of the much more famous Al Capone. But in 1923, he was still rising through the ranks and he employed Jack Barrell as a courier."

The photo was replaced by another of a smiling Jack with his foot on the running board of a car. The voiceover continued, "Jack had been loaned an automobile by a local Chicago dealer. He would use this to pick up the cash, which he would then carry in his luggage as he traveled from Chicago to Canada, passing through the Detroit-Windsor crossing where he was well-known to the Customs officials on both sides of the border, none of whom would ever suspect that the friendly professional athlete was acting as an Organized Crime mule."

The interview footage of Jack resumed as he explained, "I felt bad. These customs guys were good folks and they trusted me. Not once did they ever ask to go through my bags. Things would have gone badly if they had. The whole scheme made me extremely uncomfortable."

The voiceover resumed: "And things got worse in the fall of 1923."

A photo of Jack running with the football appeared. Even Cheryl recognized the uniform of the Chicago Wildcats because of the piping on the shoulders.

"Jack concocted a scheme to throw a wrench into Moran's scheme. To do so, he enlisted the help of the Wildcats' coach and co-owner, Carl Boon. Boon and Joe Barrell were 50/50 partners at the time in the Wildcats and Boon was aware of Joe's 'issues' with the North Side mob. Jack explained the scheme as follows..."

Back to Jack's interview: "So I went to Carl and said, 'What if I were traded?' Now Carl, he liked me, but his concern, first and foremost was the health of the Wildcats. So he asked, 'Why in the world would I trade you? You're our second-best backfield player.'"

Jack paused and gave a small chuckle. "I explained that he was liable to lose me one of three ways anyway. First, I could get caught and go to prison. Second, I could refuse in which case Moran might have me - and Joe - killed. Or third, he could trade me, get something in return and there was a chance Moran would just find another solution."

"Once I put it that way, he agreed."

The voiceover resumed, over the earlier seen shot of Jack in the Milwaukee uniform. "So Jack Barrell went from being a Chicago Wildcat to being a Milwaukee Hawk. Now, even though the two cities are less than 100 miles apart, the logistics of moving the money from Chicago to Milwaukee and then to Canada were more complicated than Moran wanted. So Jack's plan, harebrained though it may have seemed at the time, actually worked."

Jack was shown laughing. "Moran was angry, but accepted my explanation that trades happen in pro sports and I hadn't made the choice - though of course it had been my plan all along. It wasn't like he didn't have other couriers... other options. He did. I think he really just liked having a couple of pro athletes under his thumb. Once I became unavailable he lost interest in both Joe and me. Soon he was too busy in the feud with Capone to worry about us football players. So we were able to get on with our lives."

The scene shifted back to another still. This one showed Jack with his brothers Joe and Danny. The youngest of the trio was in his Chicago Poly football uniform. Joe and Jack were both wearing suits, Jack with a straw boater perched jauntily on his head, Joe with a more somber bowler on his head and a serious look on his face. "That was a bad year for Joe," the voiceover continued, "and for Jack as well. But he ended up playing just seven games for Milwaukee before being 'traded' back to Chicago that winter, returning as a key member of the Wildcats backfield for several more seasons."

Paul hit the pause button and turned to his wife. "Did you know about any of this?"

She shook her head, "No. We all knew about Joe and Charlie Cleaves, of course. Not that it ever became public knowledge about Roger, you know..."


Paul nodded. He doubted that Charlotte's father, George Theobald, the baseball-playing Cleaves brothers and least of all Charlotte herself, would have wanted that story to get out into the public domain.

"But... Jack running cash for gangsters? No, and I'm surprised Jack talked about it. I mean this show had to be about a decade before I was born, but I still never heard about this."

Paul winked at her and said, "That's because it never aired."

Now Cheryl looked surprised and blurted, "What? Then how in the world is it on the internet?"

Paul shrugged. "At the time, I would guess maybe Charlotte Cleaves had it suppressed. Not that it explicitly mentions what Moran had on Joe, but I suppose people might have started wondering and uncomfortable questions might have been asked."

He shrugged and continued, "I suspect that since it's nearly sixty years old and the main participants are all dead... no one cares now. I think someone found this in the network archives and surreptitiously put the video up. With the coronavirus situation being what it is, people are doing some crazy stuff whether out of fear, frustration or boredom."

Cheryl snorted and said, "Well, that's certainly true."

They settled in and watched the rest of the program. Cheryl was intrigued. Her grandfather and Jack's "daughter" Agnes were half-siblings, something neither of them knew for a large chunk of their lives. And Jack and Cheryl's great-grandfather Jimmy Barrell were of course brothers. So she always found Jack interesting, though she still scorned hockey for some reason. "Football I like," she would say when asked about it, adding, "Hockey? Meh."

The program did fill in a few blanks for Paul. He knew most of the story of the early days of the AFA, but hearing Jack talk about it first-hand helped flesh it out. The seat-of-the-pants nature of the league in the 20s was interesting. Teams shuffled around, statistics were barely (and badly) kept, players jumped from team-to-team seemingly on a whim, and the sport lived very much in the large shadow of FABL baseball.

Jack explained how first Joe, and then he himself, decided to leave the game. He didn't touch much on Joe's career after football - understandable since the subject of the film was Jack himself. But he did explain how the Depression could have killed the AFA but instead empowered Jack Kristich to make the changes needed to turn things around and get the league started on the path to the multi-billion dollar juggernaut it was now. At the time Jack was interviewed, pro football was just beginning to take advantage of television and now television outlets threw increasingly ridiculous amounts of money at the league for the right to show its games.

The 1932 season was the one in which things turned thanks in large part to the steady, commonsense ideas of Jack Kristich. Statistics began to be strictly kept, the small-town teams were - mostly - gone (with the AFA now only willing to talk to well-financed parties in big cities) and the format settled into a two-division template that would last nearly twenty years before the postwar boom changed the landscape for all professional sports.

Paul looked down at his notebook where he had been jotting notes throughout the program. He wrote '1932' in big numbers... and then he circled it.

[legendsport]

Egypt, GA: February 13, 1932:

"So I eat, sleep and drink baseball, 24 hours a day, every day. What of it?"

Tom Barrell rolled his eyes at his younger brother. "Because there's more to life than baseball? Ever consider that, you big lunk?"

"Do you mean chasing women, like you do?" Bobby Barrell replied in a flat tone.

"Don't get all high and mighty on me, little brother. Maybe a girl would do you some good."

Bobby Barrell huffed out his breath and shook his head angrily. His lip curled and he shot back, "Well, I'd say that given I am in going into my second season with the Keystones and you spent last year in Double A that the results bear out that I'm doing just fine."

"Bah! The only reason I'm still in Double A is that the Cougars are overly protective and they already have a great team so they can take it slow. They know what an asset they have right here." He tapped his chest.

"Do they? Seems like you spend an awful lot of time on the trainer's table."

Tom's face turned red and he was nearly shouting when he replied, "Watch it, Bob! You're lucky we're in separate leagues so that you don't have to step in and face me."

"Why? You gonna drill your own brother? Would that prove something to you? The only thing it'd prove to me is that you're afraid to pitch to me because I might hit your best pitch a country mile!"

Harry rushed into the barn and skidded to a stop a few feet away. He was momentarily stunned to find his brothers standing toe-to-toe and each looking like they were ready to start throwing punches at each other.

"Hey, fellas. You might want to settle down. You boys are shouting so loudly I reckon Mom and Pop can hear you up at the house."

For a few moments no one moved and the two continued glaring at each other. Bobby was the first to step away. He waved a hand at Tom and said over his shoulder, "Maybe you should take the game more seriously and then you'd actually get to Chicago. Hell, Harry might beat you to FABL too and he hasn't played an inning of pro ball yet."

Tom took a step forward, his right hand balled into a fist. Harry stepped in front of him and put a hand on Tom's chest, pressing him back. "Stop! Both of you. Save it for the opposing team."

Harry smiled sheepishly and said, "I guess it's a good thing spring training starts soon. A little too much pent up energy around these parts!"

The next morning Harry was out early, doing some long toss with Bobby. It had become something of a ritual for them, and despite the fact that Bobby was playing for the Keystones and Harry had been the first overall pick in the draft by Cleveland in December, old habits died hard. Plus it helped both their throwing arms - Harry felt he could go deep into the hole and throw out anyone - and he looked forward to proving it, no matter where the Foresters sent him for his first pro season.

They heard an engine and both turned towards the house where they saw Fred arrive. Since he and Tom were both Cougars, Fred had offered to drive them out to Pasadena for spring training. While Joe, and Tom (who was most like Joe in temperment), were willing to fly, most of the Barrells from Rufus and Alice on down the line, were openly sceptical of the still-young airline industry. Plus Fred and Tillie were looking forward to seeing as much of their big, rambunctious country as possible.

Harry squeezed Bobby's long throw - the pair had to be well over two hundred feet apart by now - and then trotted towards the house. He shouted towards Bobby, "I want to talk to Freddy! You should come along!"

Bobby nodded and started to jog towards the farmhouse too.

"Fred!" Harry shouted as he trotted to a stop near the car. Fred had a straw boater on his head, tipped back rakishly. Tillie was opening the door as she prepared to exit the car, citing a need to visit "the powder room" which made Harry smile. Bobby arrived a moment later. Fred grinned noting that neither of his brothers were breathing hard.

"I see you boys have kept yourselves in shape. Not going to get much guff from the old-timers when it comes time for the old boil out, eh?"

Harry looked perplexed, but Bobby came to his rescue, as he told him out of the side of his mouth, "Some of the older guys call spring training 'boil out' because they cook the winter softness out of us ballplayers before we head north."

To Fred, Bobby said, "Well, Buster and I just had our long toss. We been spending a lot of time playing basketball this winter too. But I do look forward to seeing some of my team mates wheezing next week."

"I reckon Rankin Kellogg won't be among the wheezers," Fred noted drily.

"Noooo... ol' Rank is always in tip-top shape. I'd reckon he's my role model," Bobby replied.

Fred nodded. "He's a good one, no doubt. I will admit having John Dibblee around when I first came up to Chicago was a godsend. Seeing how these star veterans do it... that stuff's priceless."

To Harry, Fred said, "And you. Ready for your first taste of pro-fessional baseball, Buster?" Harry grinned at the way Fred split professional into two words. He bobbed his head with some enthusiasm.

The pleasantries having been attended to, Bobby mentioned to Fred that Tom was a bit "testy" of late. Harry jumped in and detailed what he'd seen in the barn the day before.

Fred frowned and brushed some dust off the fender of his car. "Well... don't tell him I told you this, but Tommy's frustrated that he missed most of last season. Plus," he paused and looked around before dropping his voice and continuing, "he had a girl in Mobile. This one he apparently really liked. Then... he found out she was two-timing him with one of his team mates."

Harry whistled and said, "Well, no wonder he's been in such a snit."

Bobby, wearing a chagrined look, said, "Maybe I shouldn't have given him that shot about being on the trainer's table too much."

Tom came out of the house, toting a pair of suitcases. He slowed a bit when he saw Bobby and Harry, then picked up his pace and greeted Fred.

"There room for these in the trunk?" he asked.

Fred chortled and replied, "Not really. Tillie's got half our house back there. Just toss 'em in the back, you'll have the backseat to yourself anyway, might as well share the space with your stuff." He looked at Harry and Bobby and winked.

Tom threw his bags in the car, then looked at Bobby and said, "Sorry about yesterday, Bob. Been a tough year. Just itching to get back at it, you know?"

"Me too, Tom, me too," Bobby said, adding, "And I'm sorry about what I said too. Heat of the moment got to me."

Tom waved a hand dismissively. Then he pointed at Harry and said, "You show those boys in Sarasota how the Barrells do it, you hear?"

Harry grinned and nodded, though he wondered if the Foresters would let him near the big league camp in Sarasota.

To Bobby, Tom added, "And you... give 'em hell in Philly."

Fred, with a grin on his face said, "Aww, I'm going to get all misty with all this brotherly love going around. We're not in Philly, even if Bobby's going there in six weeks." He winked at Bobby and then shouted, "Tillie! Get a move on! We've got about three thousand miles of road ahead of us girl!"

In the end, a quick escape was not in the cards. For one thing, Rufus, Alice and Betsy had to come out to see them off. With a lot of reminiscing to do and best wishes (and advice from Rufus) to go around, it was another forty minutes before Fred turned his car towards the road and got underway.

"They're crazy," Alice said as she watched them dwindle into the distance.

"Huh?" Rufus asked.

"Driving all the way to California? They should have flown."

Rufus gave her a stunned look. "I thought you had a big fear of flying."

The right corner of her mouth turned up as she said, "Oh, I do. But three thousand miles in a car? With restrooms few and far between? It may not be a problem for you boys, but for me - and Tillie? No thank you."

Rufus started laughing.

.

[legendsport]

April 4, 1932: New York, NY:

"Sorry son, but we don't have a roster spot for you."

To his credit, Bill Craigen looked like he actually meant it. That didn't really lessen the blow for Danny Barrell, but he wasn't going to hold it against the New York Stars' skipper either. Craigen had been good to him in their short time together and Danny had looked forward to working with him - he had been an outstanding player who won three titles with the Stars as a player and had repeated that feat by winning three more as the Stars' manager.

"It's a numbers game and the man upstairs," Craigen actually nodded his chin up towards the ceiling as he said this. "Well, he looked over the roster and decided that we just didn't have room for you."

Back in December the New York Stars had tapped Danny in the Rule 5 draft. This meant that he'd get a shot at FABL once again - by league rule the Stars couldn't send him to the minors... but they could send him back to Brooklyn. And now, that's exactly what had occurred. And he had no doubt that the Kings would ship him back to Rochester toot-sweet.

Craigen frowned. "I know this is tough for you, kid." He rubbed his nose and continued, "But I know your Pop and I would say that if you're anything like him, you'll pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and prove to the Kings that you belong on their roster and not in Rochester."

Danny thanked his now-former skipper and sat down on his stool, looking at the locker that had been his for an all-too-short period of time. He shook his head and grabbed a bag as he prepared to start packing.

A short while later, he walked into the lobby of the hotel that had been his home during his short stay with the Stars. As he trudged across the lobby towards the elevator toting a bag that contained a lot less than he hoped (the Stars' clubhouse manager had promised to send his bats and glove to his next destination - as soon as they were informed what that would be), the clerk behind the front desk called out to him, "Mr. Barrell! I have a message for you."

Surprised that first, the clerk actually knew what he looked like, and second that someone had sent him a message, Danny turned and headed over to the desk. As he approached, he mentally steeled himself: it was probably a message from the Kings telling him to stop by Kings County Park to pick up his train ticket for Rochester.

The clerk smiled at him and handed him a pink slip. Written on it was simply, "Call me." Followed by a phone number.

Danny turned the slip over, his forehead creased in confusion. "That's it? No name?"

The clerk shrugged. "No, sir. But it was a man, I can tell you that much. The exchange, I believe, is Pittsburgh."

"Pittsburgh?" Danny asked.

"Yes, sir. In Pennsylvania..." the clerk said, seemingly unsure if Danny knew where Pittsburgh was.

Briefly, aggravation flared in Danny, but he quickly tamped it down. No need to take out his frustrations on this guy. He was just doing his job, after all.

"Thanks," Danny said with a wry expression on his face. Then he continued, "You have a house phone I can use?"

The clerk puffed out his chest and said, "Of course, sir." He then pointed to a small alcove beside the desk. "Right in there sir. Please let the operator know your room number so we can bill the long-distance call appropriately."

Danny nodded his thanks and entered the curtained alcove. He picked up the receiver and heard the hotel operator ask him for the number he was dialing. He read it off the slip and told her his room number, which was her next question. Then he waited while she made the connection to, he assumed, Pittsburgh.

A moment later he heard a familiar voice, tinged with an all-too-familiar Alabama accent. "Dan? Is that you, son?"

Danny smiled a little and he replied, "Yes. How are you doing Powell?"

Powell Slocum, his sort-of-brother-in-law and erstwhile hitting guru, chuckled and said, "A sight better 'n you, I'm guessing." Then he paused and in a serious tone, continued, "Sorry to hear that the Stars sent you back. I know you were hoping to stick there."

Danny nodded, then realizing that Powell couldn't actually hear him nod, said, "That's true. They've got a great club and I was really looking forward to playing for Bill Craigen."

"Ah, yes, Bill's a good man. Tough guy to play against, and I played against him plenty back in my day. And a finer skipper is hard to find," Slocum said.

Powell then explained that Danny shouldn't let this get to him. "You've got the ability, Dan. Someday the Kings will give you another chance. Until that day comes, you just need to go wherever they send you and bust your tail everyday."

"I know all that," Danny replied. "It's just hard. My knee aches like the Dickens every day but I never complain. I just wish...."

"I understand, son."

Danny, still mired in self-pity, briefly wondered how Powell could say he understood. He'd become a big leaguer after 41 games in Double-A at the age of 18 and was generally considered the best pure hitter to ever play after a 21-year-career that saw him pile up a hits record that would be unlikely to ever be broken. How could he relate to a half-lamed 27-year-old minor leaguer who still hadn't gotten more than a handful of at-bats above Double-A?

But he bit all that down and instead he told Powell how much it meant to him that he'd called. "You have your own team to worry about, what are doing calling me?" he asked. And this was true, Powell Slocum was managing the Pittsburgh Miners these days. He had bigger fish to fry than worrying about Dan Barrell's stalled career.

"Bah, you're family, son. Besides, Claudia would tar and feather me if I didn't call to offer you some advice."

Danny smiled at Claudia's name. She and his nephew, James, were now living in Pittsburgh and he hadn't seem them in what seemed to be forever. He asked about them and listened with small, slightly sad smile, as Powell filled him in, especially when he talked about James, who was now showing some baseball ability of his own.

"Not much of a surprise there," Powell laughed. "Baseball is y'all's family business!"

Danny laughed with him, and realized that he had - briefly - forgotten his troubles. Powell's call had lifted his sprits. Slocum finished the call by reminding Danny to concentrate on the fundamentals, let his innate athletic ability shine through and "just hit the tar out of that ball until the Kings simply have to bring you up!"

And even the next day, when he found out that the Kings weren't sending him to Triple-A Rochester, but instead back to Double-A Knoxville, Danny vowed to do just that.

[legendsport]

June 3, 1932: Macon, GA:

Joe Barrell handed his ticket to the man at the Macon ballpark's lone gate. The man tore it in two, handed Joe a half and told him to enjoy the game.

"First game I've been to in..." Joe thought, wracking his brain as he walked under the stands towards the rectangle of sunlight that led to the seating area. He realized he couldn't remember the last baseball game he'd attended.

"I tell you, son, he was grinnin' like a possum eatin' a sweet tater!" Joe haard as he stepped into the sunshine. He knew the voice immediately and turning to his right, he saw Possum Daniels talking to a short and round man in a seersucker suit. The man listening to Possum had his eyebrows raised as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing. Possum's back was turned, but he had his crushed hat tipped back on his head in a way that was all too familiar to any of the Barrell clan.

"And you say this boy is in Arkansas?" the other man asked.

Possum nodded. "I just happened to be out Murfreesboro way and I heard that sound..." Possum paused and grinned, then emitted a "thwack" sound. He leaned forward and the other man tipped his torso back, just a hair as Possum continued, "You know that sound... good ol' hickory hittin' that horsehide so hard it knocked the shoes offa every hoss in three counties, son!"

The man shook his head. Joe started walking towards them. "Sutton, that's the name. You tattoo that on your forearm, son, 'cause you gonna be hearing about him all too soon."

"Fifteen?"

Possum nooded. "Yup. Won't even be eligible til '35. But watch out son!"

The man spied Joe walking towards them. He tipped his head to the side and pointed with his chin, telling Possum, "Ain't that one of Rufus' boys?"

Possum turned and saw Joe. His weatherbeaten face creased into the familiar grin. "Hoo boy! I am really in high cotton now! Joe Barrell! I thought you was in Californey, son!"

Joe smiled warmly and clapped a hand on the shoulder of his father's oldest friend. "I was. They have this new fangled invention... it's called an airplane," he said, laughing.

Possum shook his head and said, "You won't get me on one of them things, son. It's unnatural... flying around in a bucket of bolts. We ain't birds, son. Give me a good ol' train any day."

Joe knew better than to get into a debate with Possum so all he said in reply was, "Fair enough, Possum."

Then he asked why Possum was there, even though he figured he knew the answer.

"I'm working, son. Specifically, I'm here to see a certain left-handed pitcher." He cocked a bushy eyebrow and finished with a crooked grin, "You mighta heard of 'im, name's Rufus Barrell."

Joe chuckled. "What a coincidence. I'm here to see that same boy."

Possum introduced him to the man in the seersucker suit. "This here's Dave White. He works for the Cleveland Foresters."

White was also there to see Deuce.

Possum frowned and said, "You know Edna's here, right?"

Joe shrugged as he replied, "I figured she would be. Is Gloria with her?"

Possum nodded. "They're settin' over there behind the home dugout." He pointed them out.

Joe looked over and felt a small thrill. His daughter, who - like her twin brother - turned 15 this day was looking at him. He realized she probably was wondering if it was her father or just some large, broad-shouldered guy who looked like him. He was still watching intently, thinking how much she looked like her mother when he saw her tap Edna on the shoulder and point.

Joe's ex-wife turned her head and looked. She narrowed her eyes - she recognized him, alright. She said something to Gloria. His daughter stood up, and Edna grasped her arm briefly, but his daughter said something - sharply, by the looks of it - and stepped into the aisle.

She headed towards the group of three men standing in the aisle behind the backstop.

"Pop?" she asked with a small smile on her face when she got within earshot.

"Sure is. Happy birthday, darling," Joe said with a big grin plastered on his face.

Gloria hugged her father. Of the twins, she was the one who had always had the most forgiveness in her heart for Joe. His son... well, Joe figured Deuce would not have a hug for his old man. Gloria begged him to sit with her and Edna. Joe told her that wasn't a good idea. The hurt was still there, he knew, and knowing full well he deserved it, he wasn't about to try to intrude. "I've got something for you back at the hotel," he told his daughter. "If you and Deuce can stop by later on, I've got things for both of you," he said.

Gloria returned to her mother. Edna's current husband was nowhere to be seen, which had Joe wondering, but he wouldn't ask. None of his business, he realized. He had a new wife of his own and he knew Eddie wouldn't ask him about her, so turnabout was fair play.

Possum nudged Joe with a shoulder. "Set with us, son. You ain't see your boy throw lately, have you?"

Joe shook his head. He hadn't really ever seen Deuce pitch, not in a real game at least.

"You're in for a treat, son. Your boy... you named him right, I tell you. That boy is Rufus reborned as a left-hander."

Joe had never seen his father pitch. But he'd heard stories a-plenty from many ballplayers. Being Rufus Barrell's son - there were always ballplayers around, it had seemed. Joe couldn't have cared less for baseball - his youunger brothers had the bug, but it had skipped him for some reason. But plenty of people had said what a terrific talent Rufus Barrell had been. Could his son be just as talented?

It turned out that he could. The kid was a freshman - that he was even playing in this game was an accomplishment. But what he did... that was a revelation. Joe knew how little he knew about baseball talent. But he leaned on his football experience - you could spot the good, or great, ones by how they compared to the other guys. And Deuce... he outclassed the opposing pitcher in a way that was so obvious, even Joe could see it.

Deuce threw hard. He looked like he might fill out to be as big as Joe. As it was he was among the tallest on either team, despite being two or three years younger than most of them. He was broad-shouldered and his left arm was a blur. Joe thought again: "he throws hard." Joe had a great view of it. And Deuce, seeing his father sitting with the scouts behind the plate, scowled, but showed no other reaction. There was no wave, no nod, no "hello" - he simply... pitched.

In the end, Deuce pitched a one-hit shutout and struck out 16 batters. As his team mates clapped him on the back after the final out, Joe saw his son looking him in the eye. Then he gave a small, almost unnoticeable shake of his head, and turned away to walk to the dugout with his friends and team mates.

Later that evening, Edna and Gloria showed up at Joe's hotel. Answering the door, he realized he was as nervous as if he were about to play in a championship game. Edna was polite, but distant. He still cared for her, and he believed she for him as well. But the romantic spark that had burned so brightly for both of them in their youth was gone, and though it pained him to admit it, he knew it would never be back. He'd killed it.

He handed Gloria her gift: a gold necklace with a single diamond pendant. It had cost a small fortune, but he was doing ok and Dorothy had insisted he buy it for Gloria.

"Where's Deuce?" he asked his daughter.

"He, uh, wouldn't come with us," she said sadly. "Even Mama tried to convince him. But he's... well, he's stubborn."

Joe barked a short, humorless laugh. "Probably got that from me," he admitted.

He reached into his bag and pulled an aged baseball glove out. "Please give this to him for me," he said as he handed it to his daughter.

"What is it?" Gloria asked, wrinkling her nose.

Edna laughed and said, "Well, it's obviously a baseball mitt, Gloria."

Gloria shook her head. "I know that!" she exclaimed. "I mean... it's old. And smelly."

"It's also right-handed, Joe. You know your son is left-handed." Edna pointed out.

Joe nodded. "Yes, I know." He grinned and pointed. "That there glove was worn by none other than Allan Allen. Ol' Double Al, himself!"

Edna looked dubious and Gloria had a baffled look on her face.

"Who?" they asked, nearly in unison.

"Allan Allen? Well.... shoot, you know I'm no baseball fan. But this guy is the fellow that FABL named it's pitching award after. According to Billy Whitney, he's a legend."

"And Deuce knows who this guy is?" Gloria asked.

"I'm sure he does, dear," Edna said. She gave Joe a level look - he recognized it immediately as her "no nonsense" look. "How did you get your hands on this?" she asked.

Joe grinned and explained that his friend Billy Whitney gave it to him. Well, sold it to him, was more truthful, he explained.

"Billy Whitney? As in William Whitney's grandson?" Edna knew more about baseball than Joe did.

He nodded. "Yep. Apparently ol' Double Al - that's what Billy calls him - gave this here glove to his grandfather. And old man Whitney gave it to Billy."

"Why in the world would Billy Whitney sell this to you?" Edna asked.

Joe frowned. "He feels like he owes me because of what happened with the movie studio."

Edna gently took the glove from her daughter. "You sure about this? This thing is probably some kind of heirloom. Even I've heard of Al Allen. Maybe not as Double Al, but yeah, Al Allen was pretty famous."

Joe took a deep breath. "Hell, yes, I'm sure. Billy told me that Double Al would probably love to see this thing go to a hard throwing, take-no-prisoners type like Deuce."

Edna looked doubtful for a moment but then she brightened and said, "You know something, Joe? After all these years of being a wool-headed neanderthal and yet sometimes, you can come up with the most thoughtful gifts in the world." She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye and added, "Deuce is going to love this. I don't know that he'll forgive you - he's very protective of me - but he will absolutely love this."

Gloria looked skeptical. "I still think it's strange. And it smells terrible too." She sniffed and added in a disgusted tone, "Boys!"

[legendsport]

July 25, 1932: Chicago, IL:

"You sure this is good for you?" Fred Barrell asked his wife. This had become a familiar refrain of late.

Tillie looked at him, the exasperation she felt plain on her face. "I'm not a porcelain doll, Fred Barrell. Walking is good for me." She patted her abdomen. "And good for our son, too."

Skepticism writ large upon his face, Fred shook his head but knew this was a battle he would not win. He changed tactics and asked, "What makes you so sure this kid is going to be a boy?"

They stopped at the corner. Across the street a line of men stretched down the block.

Tillie shook her head. "Those poor men. You'd better be grateful Freddie. For all your grousing about how little the Cougars pay you, at least you're not like those poor souls."

Fred nodded in agreement. "I know," he said. In the intersection a policeman blew his whistle and people started crossing the busy street, Fred and Tillie among them.

They walked, arm in arm up the street, passing the lengthy line of unemployed men, finally reaching the storefront they were all heading towards - the sign above the entrance reading in large, block letters "Soup, Coffee and Doughnuts for the Unemployed."

"You know, Al Capone started that operation," Fred told his wife.

Tillie sniffed dismissively. "Didn't save him from prison, did it?" she asked. Capone had finally been sent to prison in May, convicted of tax evasion of all things.

Fred realized Tillie had never answered his question, so he repeated it.

"A girl just knows," she said, patting his arm.

Fred just sighed. He loved Tillie, but she drove him nuts sometimes.

As they reached the corner of Ashland and Wellington, with the facade of the ballpark finally coming into view, Fred saw and heard a newsboy hawking his papers, shouting "Barrell traded!"

Fred's mouth dropped open. Tillie wore a look of shock as well, but she recovered faster than Fred did, walking up to the boy and buying a paper from him.

She was shaking her head as she handed it to Fred. Sure enough, it was there in black and white: he'd been traded to Brooklyn. "Did you know about this?" she asked.

"No. No, I didn't," he replied. He wondered how this had happened without someone from the Cougars calling him - then he remembered that he and Tillie had gone to Peoria to visit her cousin and hadn't been home until late the night before, which had been an offday for the Cougars. "You sure this story is true, kid," he asked the newsboy.

The kid shrugged. "I don't write 'em mister, I just sell 'em," he said. A second later he was shouting again, "Read all about it! Barrell traded!"

Fred opened the paper and read the story. "It says that both Tom and I, plus a couple other guys, have been traded to Brooklyn for Tommy Wilcox and Mike Taylor."

"Ooh, Wilcox is pretty good," Tillie said.

Fred narrowed his eyes at her; he didn't really like her admiring tone. She noticed and said with a smile, "Don't fret none, Freddie. You're the only ballplayer I'd care to be seen with, you know."

He sighed. Traded? Then he wondered if Tommy had gotten the news yet.

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

Milwaukee, WI: the same day

Tom had heard about it all right. And though he was as stunned as his brother, he was also happy.

"Teams don't trade for a fellow unless they plan on using him, right?" he asked his now former battery mate, Claude Ramsey. Ramsey had actually been acquired by the Cougars just before the season from the Galveston club in the independent Lone Star Association.

Ramsey shrugged, "Sure. I suppose so. I mean, I'm sitting here with you, so the Cougars didn't get me and stick me right in as a replacement for your brother, now did they?"

Tom frowned. "That's true. But the Cougars really like Fred... or at least I thought they did." A keen look came into his eye. "Maybe they brought you in because they knew they were going to deal Freddie... and maybe me too, I suppose."

Tom had gotten three measly starts with the Cougars before getting sent back to Milwaukee. He was angry about it - he was as sure as he could be: he was ready for FABL.

"The Kings... who's in their rotation?" he asked Ramsey.

"What are ya asking me for?" the catcher replied. "I've never been up. Ask Jimmy - he follows the whole Continental. You know, since he's convinced he's going to be the next coming of Max Morris." Ramsey nodded towards the corner stall in the clubhouse where first baseman Jim Fisher was picking at his toenails.

Tommy frowned. Not only was Fisher full of himself... but now he's picking at his toenails in the clubhouse?

"Hey Fish," he called out. "Who's in the rotation right now in Brooklyn?"

Fisher stopped and looked up. His face creased in thought for a moment. "Uh... Wilcox, Fritz, Jacob and... Weigel? Or maybe Bretz. I don't know that they have a solid backend." He got a sly look on his face and added, "Maybe that's why they traded for you... you're all backend, Barrell."

Tom picked up a towel and threw it at Fisher. "You better hope you don't get called up, Fish. I'll give you a closer shave than your barber if you do."

"Pssh. You better break in with them first, Barrell. Just 'cause they traded for you doesn't mean you're going to be in Brooklyn. I hear Rochester is pretty nice in the summer," Fisher said and laughed. Then he went back to picking at his toenails.

"That guy...." Tom muttered. Then his face brightened. "Guess I better pack up!" he told Ramsey, clapping him on the shoulder. "I can't wait to get to Brooklyn!"

As he started throwing his things into his bag, he heard Fisher say in a mock PA voice, "Now pitching for the Rooks... Back end Tommy Barrell...."

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

July 31, 1932: Reading, PA:

"Barrell! Get your tail in here!"

Harry Barrell was sitting in front of his stall, trying to figure out a way to give first baseman Gene Hand a hotfoot, when he heard the manager shouting his name.

"Better luck next time, Barrell," Hand said as he Harry passed him on his way to the manager's office. Hand was a big, lumbering - and dim-witted - oaf. So how did he keep avoiding Harry's patented hotfoot? Three times Harry had tried - and all three times, Hand plucked the match before it could be struck.

Manager Joe Alexander was sitting behind his desk, chewing something. Harry never really saw him put anything in his mouth, but it seemed like the manager was always chewing. Maybe it was a nervous tic?

"Barrell, you with us?" Alexander asked. He looked annoyed.

"Focus Harry," Harry told himself. That aborted hotfoot was really putting him off his game today.

"Sure, skipper. What's going on?"

"Well, I would tell you to leave off with Hand. That boy is big and stupid, but he's also got a bit of a mean streak. Eventually he might break your bony butt in half if you don't stop trying to set his spikes on fire," Alexander began.

Harry opened his mouth to reply but the manager raised his hand. "No. Stop right there. You don't need to give me any excuses or explanations. It's not a problem anymore."

Harry was taken aback. "Really? I thought you didn't care for that type of thing."

"I don't." Alexander had a small grin on his face. Harry tried to remember if he'd ever seen the skipper smiling. He didn't think he had.

"Why not?" he asked.

"Because you're out of here," Alexander said.

Harry's eyes widened in shock. "You're releasing me?" he gasped. "Isn't that a little drastic. I mean, it was just a hotfoot."

Alexander laughed. "No, no. Calm down. The Cleveland Foresters organization does not release the first overall pick because he's an immature prankster."

Harry breathed a sigh of relief, then he realized he still didn't know what was going on. "So... why am I out of here, then?" he asked.

"Because you've been traded, son."

"Traded?" Harry gasped.

Alexander laughed again. "Is that a Georgia thing? Gasping at everything like it's the world's biggest shock? Ballplayers do get traded Barrell."

Harry blushed. "I know that skipper."

"Good. If it is any consolation, you came at a pretty high price."

Harry thought about it for a moment. He realized he'd never actually get to be a Cleveland Forester. And then he realized that was a disappointment because he'd always assumed it was just a matter of time.

"So... who traded for me?" he asked. He hoped it was the Keystones. Getting to play with Bobby would be a dream come true. If not, then hopefully....

"Brooklyn," Alexander said. Harry smiled. That sounded just fine.

"Go see Bill," Alexander said - Bill being the clubhouse manager - "he's got a train ticket for you."

Harry was almost afraid to ask, but did it anyway, "Where to?"

"Omaha, Nebraska, son. Omaha, Nebraska."

Harry's grin faded. Still stuck in A-Ball.

[legendsport]

August 20, 1932: Los Angeles, CA:

"Did you see the paper, Pop?" Joe Barrell asked his father.

Rufus was sitting on the floor - a sight that nearly doubled Joe over in laughter - playing with two-year old Charlie Barrell. Charlie was no longer the youngest of Rufus' grandchildren - Tillie Barrell had given birth to a son, Frederick Barrell Jr. just two weeks earlier. Rufus and Alice had spent a week in Brooklyn with their new grandson before boarding a train for Los Angeles (Alice refused to fly).

"Nope," Rufus said. "I'm on vacation, remember?"

Sitting in a chair by the window, Alice Barrell smiled at her husband and said, "That's right, Rufus. You are on vacation." Rufus rolled his eyes - Alice had been after him for weeks to take some time away from the OSA. "It's scouting ballplayers, not figuring out how to end the Depression!" she had told him.

Alice frowned at her husband, then looked at Joe and asked, "What is it?"

"Oh, Bobby apparently hit a walk-off three-run home run yesterday to beat the Gothams," Joe said. Then he leaned over to his mother and asked, "Walk off means they won on the home run, right?"

"I heard that, Joe," Rufus said in a mockingly stern voice.

"Bah, I don't follow baseball, Pop," Joe said. "You know that."

Alice meanwhile was smiling and had clapped her hands. "Good for Bobby. It really is nice that all the boys are doing so well."

And that was true. Tom was with the Kings and pitching well in a regular turn in the rotation. Fred was as steady as ever, his catching skills drawing praise from all corners of the league. And best of all Danny had finally earned a spot on Brooklyn's big league roster and was doing the most with the opportunity. His bad knee bothered him fiercely, but he played through the pain. His fielding at first base wouldn't earn any plaudits, but he was swinging the bat well. Harry had earned a promotion to Double A Knoxville. In Rufus' opinion (biased though it may have been), his youngest might be ready for FABL by the start of the next season.

That left Bobby, playing at a near elite level in Philadelphia. His home run power had grown and he was thriving under the wing of Keystones veteran Rankin Kellogg.

Rufus rolled a red rubber ball to Charlie. The two-year-old picked it up and tried to put it in his mouth. Finding it too large to fit, he looked at the ball with a frown on his face, then cocked his arm and threw it. The ball smacked Rufus right in the forehead and he tipped over onto his back.

Alice was out of her chair like a shot. She might be in her fifties, but she was still in fine fettle. She crouched down beside Rufus. "Are you ok?" she asked.

"Ow..." Rufus moaned. He sat up, rubbing his forehead. Alice watched, and noted it was a good inch or more further down than the site of the skull fracture that had ended Rufus' baseball career long ago. She sighed in relief and glared at Joe who was trying, with only moderate success, not to laugh.

"It was just a rubber ball, dear," Rufus said to her, one corner of his mouth turned up in a half-smile.

"You need to be careful with your head, Rufus. You know that," she shot back.

"Yes, dear. But in all seriousness, did you see that throw!" Joe expected his father to start rubbing his chin any second as he imagined Charlie Barrell getting drafted in... what? 1948?

Joe was shaking his head and Alice frowned again. "He's two, Rufus. Way too soon to be anointing him the next great pitcher to come out of the Barrell family tree."

Rufus grinned. "It's never too early, Alice."

Meanwhile, Charlie toddled over to his grandfather. "Boo-boo," he said. Then he leaned forward and kissed Rufus on the forehead. Everyone started laughing.

They were still chuckling when someone knocked on the door.

Joe rose, walked to the door and swung it open. "Dean Presley, what brings you by?" Rufus and Alice heard him say. They couldn't quite make out what the visitor said. Joe asked the man in, surprise evident in his voice.

Dean Walter Presley of Coastal California University entered the room. He saw Rufus sitting on the floor with a small red circle on his forehead, Alice kneeling beside him and Joe's son holding on to his grandfather's shoulder.

"Hope I'm not interrupting," he said with a quizzical look on his face.

"No, not at all," Rufus said. "We were just enjoying some playtime with young Charlie here."

Dean Presley nodded. Joe, looking shaken, stood behind him.

"What's going on?" Alice asked. She was concerned about Joe.

"Well, I was just coming to offer Joe the head coaching position for our football squad," Presley said.

Joe still looked stunned. "Coach really resigned?" he asked.

Presley nodded. "Indeed. He's going back east to be with his family. He's in his sixties and said it was just time for him to go." Alice speared Rufus with a look - one he recognized as her "when are you going to retire, Rufus?" look.

The Dean didn't notice this and continued, "He recommended you as his successor, Joe."

Joe's eyes were glazed. "I'm honored, Dean. But what about the other assistants?"

Dean Presley smiled. "They said they'd be willing to stay on and work with you, Joe."

"I don't know what to say," Joe muttered.

Alice rose, dusted her skirt with her hands and said, "Well, I do, You say, 'Yes' and then you ask 'When do I start?'"

Dean Presley laughed. "Mrs. Barrell, I couldn't have said it better myself."

.

[legendsport]

September 19, 1932: Detroit, MI:

"Need a shine, mister?"

Rollie Barrell, preoccupied, almost walked right over the boy. The kid had stepped right in front of him and Rollie, busy looking for Francie in the throng at the station didn't see him until he spoke.

He looked down. The kid had a hopeful grin on his dirty face. "Sorry, kid, I'm looking for my wife."

"What's she look like? Maybe I can help you find her," the hopeful look remained plastered on the boy's face.

"Well..." Rollie ran his gaze over the kid again. His clothes were threadbare and looked as dirty as the kid's face. "His family's probably struggling with this cursed Depression," Rollie thought and figured Francie would be telling him to give the kid a quarter and send him on his way.

He pulled a quarter out of his pocket and tossed it at the kid. The coin disappeared into the kid's pocket in a flash.

"Sure, kid," Rollie said. He pulled his pocketwatch out and noted sadly the kid's wide eyes as he spied the golden timepiece. He flipped it open and showed the kid the picture of Francie on the inside. "She should have my girls with her, one of them's about your age and the other's just a sprout."

The kid nodded and darted off into the crowd. Rollie figured he'd never see him again.

He picked up his bag and started walking through the terminal. He'd just gotten in from Cleveland where his Maroons had opened the AFA season with a road win over the Finches by a 14-0 score. Rollie had a really good feeling about his Maroons this season.

Suddenly the kid was back. "Shine mister?" he asked.

Rollie frowned at him. "Didn't I just give you a quarter to look for my wife, kid?" he asked.

The kid's face wore a confused look. "No. I ain't never seen you before, mister."

Rollie shook his head. "What kind of scam you workin' here, kid? I just talked to you about a minute ago, over there." Rollie pointed back at where he had been standing when the kid first approached him.

The kid shook his head. "That wasn't me, mister."

"Come on, kid. Give over, my memory is pretty good and I definitely remember your face."

The kid shook his head again. "Naw, that was probably Skipper. Or maybe Barty."

Rollie was confused. "Skipper? What are you talking about kid?"

The kid grinned. His teeth looked like they hadn't seen a toothbrush in a year.

"My brothers - Skipper and Barty."

Brothers? Rollie pursed his lips as he realized what must be going on. "You guys triplets or something?"

The kid touched his nose. "You got it mister. My name's Buddy," he said and thrust out a grimy paw.

Rollie mentally shrugged and shook the kid's hand.

"What are you and your brothers doing at the train station? Isn't it a school day?"

Buddy shrugged. "Sure, it's a school day. But my Da left us and Ma can't find any work, so my brothers and me... we need to make some money."

Rollie frowned and was musing on this when he spotted Francie coming towards him, Marty on one side and little Alice, holding her mother's hand, on the other.

"There you are!" he heard Francie exclaim. "I told you to meet us by the clock!"

Rollie wore a chagrined look - he had forgotten. "Sorry, I'm a wool-head," he said.

Francie stopped and looked at the kid standing beside Rollie. Marty was looking too, and Alice as well, her thumb in her mouth and her eyes wide.

"This, uh, is Buddy. He and his brothers are shoeshine boys... I guess," Rollie said.

Buddy bobbed his head. "Ma'am," he said. He gave Marty a wink. Rollie's daughter emitted a small gasp and inched closer to her mother.

"Uh... I think we should be going, Roland," Francie said.

"Hang on a minute..." Rollie said and began digging through his pockets.

He pulled out a business card. "Can you read, Buddy?" he asked.

Buddy looked affronted. "Of course I can read, mister!"

Rollie nodded, saying, "Good, good." He handed the card to the boy. "You and your brothers come see me at that address, tomorrow morning. Say... ten o'clock."

The kid was reading the card. "Thompson Field?" he asked with awe in his voice.

"Yes, that's right. Look for the Detroit Maroons offices on the 3rd Avenue side, you hear?"

The kid nodded. "Sure thing, mister!"

He began to run off, then paused and yelled over his shoulder, "Thanks mister!" And then he bowed at Francie and the girls, threw another wink at Marty and ran off.

Just as Rollie started to walk off with his family, the other kid appeared at his side. Rollie was amazed - they really were identical. He pointed at Francie: "Found her, mister!"

Rollie laughed and shook his head. "So which one are you kid?" he asked with a grin.

"Oh... guess you met one of my brothers? I'm Skipper," the kid said and he too shot out a grime-encrusted hand. Rollie shook it, noting the wide-eyed look of horror on Marty's face, and then told Skipper to find Buddy and Barty, that they'd have news for him.

"See you soon, Skipper," Rollie said.

Francie handed him her handkerchief. "Wipe your hand, Roland," she said. Then she eyed him keenly and asked, "What are you up to now?"

"Just lending a helping hand, my dear," Rollie said. Then he picked up Alice and plopped her on his shoulders. "Let's get on home!"

.

[legendsport]

November 20, 1932: Detroit, MI:

"I will never understand football," Tom Barrell told his brother Rollie. Not getting a response he turned and looked over his shoulder. His brother had his back turned and Tom wasn't sure Rollie had even heard him.

Rollie had heard, but he was busy. He poured two fingers of whiskey into his glass. Eddie Thompson had made some improvements to the owner's box at Thompson Field, and among those improvements was a wet bar hidden within a cabinet. Prohibition was still officially the law of the land, though most people figured it was only a matter of time before the law was repealed. Few were obeying it anyway. He took a small sip and walked over to where Tom stood looking out over the field.

"I've never played here, but it's still strange seeing a gridiron laid out on what is plainly a ballfield," Tom said. He raised an eyebrow at Rollie and asked, "So what, you're a 'Wet' now?"

Rollie smirked. "Bah, you don't need to call yourself a 'Wet' to think the Volstead Act was a mistake," he told his brother. He raised his glass, "Would you like a glass?"

Tom shook his head and pulled a face. "No. I was a kid when it was made illegal and never got a taste for it, so I will pass, thanks."

Rollie took another sip. He smacked his lips and said, "So what's with the jibe about football? This is my business, you know."

Tom frowned. "Yeah, too bad it wasn't basketball."

Rollie shook his head. That was still a bit of a sore subject. He sighed and told Tom, "I think the timing was just wrong. We'll have a pro basketball league that will last... someday. For now, the Depression killed it."

Now it was Tom's turn to smirk. "Nothin's ever gonna top baseball anyway. The 'national pastime' and all that jazz."

Rollie tipped his head. "Maybe so, but I will tell you something. People like violence. That's why they go to prize fights, that's also why they watch football. And... basketball can be pretty rough too." He stopped and a sad smile passed over his face. "Remember how Grandpa Joe would tell stories about the rough nature of baseball 'back in his day' - same thing."

Joe Reid was gone now, and all his grandchildren missed him. Tom was silent for a beat and was just opening his mouth to say something else when there was a knock on the door.

Rollie downed the rest of his drink, put the glass in the cabinet and closed it up, then walked over and opened the door.

"Oh... Mrs. Schneider..." he said, clearly taken aback. "What brings you by?"

Millie Schneider frowned at him, then covered it with a neutral expression. "Might I come inside, Mr. Barrell?" she asked hopefully.

"Oh, sure," Rollie said and stepped back to let her in. She walked in, saw Tom standing there and stopped. "I, uh, thought you'd be alone," she stammered.

Rollie waved a hand, "Not a problem. This here is my brother Tom. He's visiting from Brooklyn. Here to see the Brooklyn Football Kings get steamrolled by my Maroons," he said with a wide grin. And he was right - the Detroit club was manhandling the Brooklyn Kings (named for their baseball cousins for whom Tom - along with Dan and Fred, played).

Tom nodded at Mrs. Schneider, an interested look on his face. Rollie noted this and scowled at him, but Tom either didn't notice, or pretended he hadn't.

Mrs. Schneider put her bag down and turned to Rollie. Tom, standing behind her, raised his eyebrows at Rollie, who gave a small shake of his head, thinking Tommy was as bad as Joe when it came to women.

"I wanted to talk to you about the boys," Millie said.

"What about them? They're doing a fine job," Rollie replied.

"Well... they've been telling stories about some of the things they've seen and heard."

Rollie blushed a bit. "Well, the players can be a little loose with their tongues, I will admit," he said. "I can have a word with the team, if you'd like."

Millie looked uncomfortable. "It's not that I don't appreciate what you've done for them," she told Rollie who had given them jobs as errand boys for the team. During games and practices they acted as water boys, and also acted as messengers for Rollie, his general manager and the coaching staff. "But I received a letter from my husband..."

The shock at this was evident on Rollie's face. Behind Millie, Tom frowned - he knew about Bart, Buddy and Skipper, and had even met the trio the day before. He had also heard from Rollie how Millie's husband had abandoned his family, claiming he was leaving Detroit to try to find work.

Rollie took a deep breath. "That's a surprise, isn't it?" he asked, as diplomatically as he could.

Millie Schneider looked uncomfortable as she replied, "Yes, yes it was a surprise."

"What did the letter say?" Rollie asked, then added, "If I might be forgiven for asking."

Millie waved a hand, "Oh, just that he was coming home to, as he put it, 'round us up' and take us to Mobile."

"Mobile? As in Alabama?" Tom asked.

Millie jumped a bit, but turned and nodded, saying, "Yes. He's working on a fishing boat."

"I played there, you know," Tom said.

Millie's eye widened in surprise. "Really? You played what... exactly?" she asked.

"Oh, baseball. I'm a pitcher. Rollie didn't tell you?" Tom gave his older brother a glare.

"It didn't come up," Rollie explained. "Didn't really seem pertinent, you know?" He finished and frowned back at Tom.

Tom waved a hand, "Yes, I suppose that's true. No reason you'd be interested in my brother's family, really...." he said.

Millie smiled at him. "Rollie did mention that his family was involved with sports, but we never really got into specifics. We mostly talk about, you know, my sons."

"Fine boys," Tom muttered, thinking they reminded him of Bobby and Harry at around age 12... that is, little hellions.

"Thank you, I suppose," she replied. "I do believe they suffer without a good male role model since George left us."

"Well, I'm sure your husband must have had a really good reason to leave such a charming and lovely woman and his three fine sons," Tom said. Rollie rolled his eyes, but secretly admired Tom's ability to say all that with an earnest look on his face.

"Thank you, you're too kind Mr. Barrell," she replied.

"Oh, just call me Tom, Mr. Barrell's my father," Tom said with a grin.

Rollie felt he needed to get the conversation back on track, so he asked, "So, I'm going to need to find new waterboys, then?"

Millie spun around and replied, "Yes. I'm sorry, Mr. Barrell."

Rollie nodded. "Well, they have jobs until such time as you all need to move."

"Thank you again..." Millie began, stopping as Eddie Thompson stormed into the room.

"Barrell! Did you see the receipts? Your boys are drawing damned well..." he shouted in his big, booming voice, before noticing that Rollie wasn't alone.

"Oh, I'm sorry, miss," Eddie said.

Rollie introduced Millie to the owner of both the Detroit Dynamos and Thompson Field itself.

Eddie, never one to beat around the bush, turned a keen eye at Millie Schneider. "You know how to type, Mrs. Schneider?" he asked.

Plainly befuddled and staring up at the tall, wide Thompson, Millie nodded uncertainly. "Yes," she said.

"Uh, Eddie..." Rollie said. Thompson ignored him.

"I need a secretary. My old one up and quit on me. Something about getting too old and her arthritis or some such..."

Rollie shook his head. Eddie's secretary, Mrs. Bundt, was about 70 years old, so that seemed all too plausible.

"Eddie..." Rollie tried again.

Thompson continued to ignore him and explained the duties, and salary, to Millie. Her eyes widened as she listened. Behind her, Tom was grinning like a fool, having never seen Big Eddie Thompson with a full head of steam.

"Eddie..." Rollie said for the third time.

"Not now Barrell, I'm trying to hire a secretary here," Eddie said, waving his meaty paw at Rollie.

"What do you say, Mrs. Schneider?" he asked.

"Well... I say, yes, Mr. Thompson," she said, apparently surprising even herself with her answer.

Rollie stammered, "What?!?"

Millie looked at him and said, "Well, George is just going to have to understand. If I have a job here, and the boys do as well, why should we move all the way to Alabama?"

"Exactly, right," Tom said, smacking his right fist into his left palm.

Eddie Thompson tucked his thumbs into his belt and told Rollie, "You see Barrell, I'm a man who knows how to get things done."

Rollie was too dumbfounded to even reply.

[legendsport]

January 2, 1933: Santa Ana, CA:

"Joe? The boys are waiting..."

Joe Barrell ran a hand through his hair and took a deep breath. He looked up at the doorway. Sam Peck, his top assistant (and the head coach of both the baseball and basketball teams at Coastal California himself) had poked only his graying head into the room. He had one eyebrow raised as he looked at Joe.

"Thanks, Sam, I'll be out in a minute," Joe said.

Sam put on a grin he probably felt was reassuring and said, "Joe? It's just another game. Keep that in mind, and we'll do ok. For you... and most of the boys, this is old hat. We were here last year, remember?"

Joe did indeed remember. The only difference was last year he was an assistant who worked with the backs. Now he was the man in charge.

A shadow filled the doorway behind Sam who disappeared for a moment, speaking to whoever was outside. Joe heard footsteps receding down the hall. This stadium was... enormous, he thought.

Rufus Barrell's head appeared in the doorway. He looked at his eldest son and then walked into the office.

"Those security guys didn't want to let me in," Rufus told his son. "I almost had to set your mother on them," he quipped and threw Joe a wink.

Joe chuckled, grateful for his father's attempt to lighten the mood.

"Pop..." he began, struggling to find words to describe his feelings. "I feel like a fraud," he finally blurted.

Rufus sat down on the edge of the desk. "Fraud? Not a chance, Joe," he said. "You've been playing or coaching football for years now. You know this game better than most - certainly better than anyone I know. Your team is 9-0 - that wouldn't be possible if you were a 'fraud.'"

Joe nodded. He knew his father was right - the university had given him the job, even passing over Sam Peck, who had already proven himself a winner in both baseball and basketball. So they believed in him.

"The players believe in you," Rufus told his son, startling Joe with his insightfulness, something he had an annoying tendency to do from time to time.

"So get off your duff and go out there and talk to your team," Rufus said firmly. "It is your team, Joe. They will listen to you. Heck, just go out and do what you've done all season. Those Pittsburgh State boys won't know what hit 'em." Rufus grinned, slapped Joe on the shoulder and stood.

Joe rose from his chair. "You're right, Pop. As usual."

The two men smiled at each other and Joe left the room, Rufus following him out.

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

Joe's success at Coastal California had scrambled the Barrell clan's holiday plans. With Coastal playing in the National East-West Bowl Game, it was impossible for him to join the family in Georgia. So Rufus decided to have the family come to Joe. Truth be told, the farmhouse in Egypt was a bit cramped for what Alice called the 'teeming horde of Barrells' as their children were now adults with, in many cases, families of their own.

To their credit, most of the family came. Only Jack, busy with his job as the coach of the Toronto Dukes, was unable to make it. But his wife and children did - Marie had never been to California and Jack knew she and the girls would enjoy crossing the continent by rail. Perhaps thinking of Jimmy's days as a pilot, Marie had refused to fly.

Rollie, Francie and their daughters were there. Dan and Gladys flew from Brooklyn. Fred, Tillie and their son also made it, though they took the train from New York, being unwilling to put Freddie Jr on a series of airplanes. Tommy, for some reason, came from Detroit with Rollie's family. Bobby, Harry and Betsy all traveled with Rufus and Alice from Georgia. And best of all, to Joe, Edna had allowed their twins to go. A surprise made bigger by Deuce agreeing to go, though he claimed it was to 'keep an eye on Gloria' since he didn't want her traveling alone. Regardless of the reason, Joe and his parents were thrilled to have them.

1932 had been, in the balance, a good one for the Barrell clan. At age 27, Danny finally had gotten a shot at playing for the Kings and had delivered a .340 batting average in 423 at-bats for Brooklyn, staking a claim as the club's first baseman going forward. Fred and Tom had been regulars for the Kings as well following the trade from the Cougars. Fred made 130 starts at catcher, split between Chicago and Brooklyn, finishing with a composite average of .304 and with 97 RBIs while playing stellar defense. Tom had earned a spot in the Kings' rotation, going 8-3 in 12 starts with a 2.48 ERA in Brooklyn, finishing 10-3, 2.58 overall. Harry, having been the first overall pick in December of '31, had spent his first year of pro ball by playing in every level from Class C to Double-A and playing well at each stop, not bad for a kid who hadn't turned 19 til November 29th.

Then there was Bobby. The lone member of the baseball-playing Barrells to not be in the Kings organization, Bobby continued to develop into what most assumed would be one of the best all-around players in the game. For the Keystones in '32 he had hit .306 with 31 homers, 115 RBUIs, 112 runs scored with 38 doubles, and 7 triples while striking out only 20 times in 607 at-bats. He also played a stellar right field for a team that won the Federal Association pennant. There were only two disappointments for Bobby that season: first and foremost, the Keystones had been swept aside by the New York Stars in the World Championship Series. Secondly, and on a more personal level, he had been playing right field. Center was where he wanted to play. Unfortunately, the Keystones had a glut of smooth-fielding centerfielders in Bobby, Lee Smith and Grover Lee. Bobby had gotten only two innings in center that season.

Amongst the non-baseball playing Barrells '32 had been a pretty good year too. Rollie's Detroit Maroons went 10-2-2 and were the AFA Champions. He was pleased to note that with the league going to a championship game in '33, his club was likely to be the last "outright" champion for the league. In the early spring of '32 Jack had completed his first season as "only" a coach after acting as player-coach the season before. Though he ultimately wasn't pleased that the Dukes didn't capture the Challenge Cup, the team performed well and he was settling into his role well.

Betsy had turned 18, finished high school, and enrolled at St. Blane College where she was playing tennis and golf while also being a member of the track and field team. "My goal," she told her parents, "is to make the '36 Olympic team." When Rufus asked in which sport, she said, "All of them." Betsy was 100% Barrell: as ambitious and talented as any of her brothers.

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

In the Coastal California locker room deep in the bowels of the National Bowl, Rufus watched Joe make a brief speech to his team. The East-West Classic, the oldest and most prestigious of what the public was now calling "bowl games" was now known as the National East-West Bowl Classic, though most still called it either the East-West Game, or the National Bowl. The Coastal squad had played here the previous season, but at that time Joe was just an assistant - now he was the head coach.

Rufus thought his son handled it well - the speech was short and to the point, bereft of hysterics or hyperbole. In essence, Joe Barrell told his team to go out there and play their tails off. He was proud of them, win or lose, though of course, he said, "I expect us to win." The players laughed and left the locker room in good spirits. Rufus felt this was a good sign.

As he returned to his seat, joining Alice and the rest of the family (taking up two full rows of bleachers), he told his wife that Joe was nervous, but did a fine job of talking to the team.

The game began and it was a defensive struggle. Coastal's single-wing offense could do little against Pittsburgh State's tough defense. Similarly, the Pittsburgh State squad's double-wing formation was stymied by Coastal's speedy defenders. In the end, the game finished in a 7-7 tie - disappointing for both squads. Joe's first season as a head coach may have ended on a somewhat sour note, but his team, at 9-0-1 on the year, was national champions. Pittsburgh State, at 8-0-2, was the #2 team in the final poll that came out two days later as Rufus and Alice were boarding a train for the first leg of their long trip back to Georgia.

.

[legendsport]

March 13, 1933: Tyrone, PA:

"It's been a while since I've been on a college campus," Rollie Barrell told his family as they strolled along beneath a row of impressive oak trees.

"St. Blane College does have a beautiful campus," Rufus said. He didn't say it, but he himself had been on more college campuses than almost anyone imaginable over the course of more than 30 years as a baseball scout. And he wasn't lying: St. Blane was gorgeous, even now with spring not having quite begun yet and the trees still bare.

Turning her gaze upon her husband, Francie Barrell cocked an eyebrow and told Rollie, "You just keep your eyes on the scenery and off the coeds Roland."

Rollie grinned and replied, "I only have eyes for you, my dear."

Rufus laughed and told Alice, "Rollie always was the smart one."

Francie muttered something else, too low for Rufus to make out what she said but he noticed Rollie give her a sharp look. "Not here," he said in a near-whisper, and that Rufus did hear.

"What's going on?" Alice asked with a sharp tone of her own - she apparently had heard... something... too.

Rollie sighed. "Francie's got her knickers in a twist about something that is, honestly, none of her business."

Francie stopped and glared at Rollie. "It isn't proper. And your parents deserve to know about it."

Rollie sighed and frowned, replying, "Tommy's an adult, Francie. What he does is his business."

Now Alice was definitely interested. "This has something to do with Tommy?" She fixed Rollie with an intense look and said, "I want to know what's going on, Roland."

Rollie knew when he was beaten, but he wasn't going to be the one to tell the story. He looked at his wife and said, "Francie's the one who won't mind her business. Let her tell you." He crossed his arms and turned to look off into the trees.

Now Francie shook her head and muttered something about pigheaded men. Then she took a sharp breath and told Alice and Rufus that Tommy had "taken up with a married woman."

Rufus dropped his head, frowning. Alice simply looked angry. "Please explain," she told Francie.

Francie spilled the entire story: Rollie had taken three boys under his wing, giving them jobs with the Maroons as, basically, errand boys because their father had run off and they and their mother were destitute. Tommy had visited and met the boys' mother and she was the reason he had spent the offseason in Detroit instead of going home to Georgia.

"I knew he was up to something," Alice muttered. She looked at Rufus and asked, "Did you know about this?"

Rufus shook his head. "No," he said.

"And this woman is still married?" Alice asked.

Rollie turned around and answered. "Yes, technically she is. But her husband's on a fishing boat in the Gulf of Mexico. She hasn't seen him in almost two years."

"That doesn't change a thing," Francie barked.

Alice agreed. "I will need to talk to Tommy," she said.

Rufus shook his head. "He's in Florida with the Kings for spring training, dear. You'll need to wait til we go to Brooklyn." Rufus and Alice planned to visit New York in May. They'd catch Bobby playing with the Keystones at the Oval against the Gothams and then see their other sons playing for the Kings in Brooklyn a few days later. Rufus privately hoped that Harry would show well enough in camp to go north with the Kings, but he knew Dan, Tom and Fred would be with the team.

"Wait til I get my hands on him..." Alice said.

Rollie looked at Francie and shook his head. "Maybe we should get going... Betsy is expecting us," he said, reminding everyone of the reason they were here: to see the youngest Barrell play her first collegiate tennis match.

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

Betsy Barrell was hitting balls with her team mate, Mary Shields, when she heard a mocking laugh behind her.

She spun and glared at a pair of young men standing there watching. "What's so funny?" she asked in a tone that any of the Barrell children would have recognized as eerily reminiscent of their mother Alice.

One of the young men, a bit taller and thinner than the other twisted his mouth in a cock-eyed grin and said, "Girls hitting balls with those racket things. It's ridiculous," he said.

"Really? You think you can do better?" Betsy replied.

The young man shrugged. "Sure," he said. He had a pop bottle in his hand. He set it atop a fence post and strolled towards Betsy. "Let me take over for your friend there," he nodded towards Mary, then continued, "And let's just see, shall we?"

Betsy looked forward to wiping that smug look off the fellow's face. Judging by the way he looked at Mary's racket as if it were something exotic, she figured she'd have no trouble doing just that. She bounced a tennis ball on the tightly manicured grass and was just preparing to serve when she spied her parents and Rollie's family strolling toward them.

She turned and sent them a smile, then turned back to her loud-mouthed opponent, the smile now replaced with a serious expression. "You ready?" she asked. He waved at her and nodded, a look of impatience on his face.

Betsy tossed the ball into the air and brought her racket up, around and through the ball, sending it streaking over the net. To her surprise, Mr. Big Mouth managed to get his borrowed racket on it and sent a somewhat feeble, but moderately respectable return back at her. She was too surprised to get much on her return and he volleyed it back at her, looking more comfortable now.

This time she was prepared and sent a wicked return back that the fellow lunged for and missed. Shock and aggravation passed over his face, which began turning red. He handed the racket to Mary, who was covering her mouth with a hand, hiding a smile. Then he walked back to where the ball had stopped, a good fifty feet beyond the end line (there was no fence on that end of the practice court). He picked the ball up, turned and whipped his right arm back and then forward, unleashing a hard throw that zipped on a line and knocked his pop bottle off the fence, a good hundred feet away.

Betsy heard her father emit a low whistle. She turned back to the young man and snapped, "What are doing? You could have hurt someone!"

He waved a hand dismissively. "Not a chance of that, miss. I hit what I aim at," he said, his face still red.

"You never played tennis before?" she asked.

He shook his head in the negative. She raised her eyebrows. "You did surprisingly well, then," she said.

Rufus had wandered onto the court and was standing beside her. "You say you hit what you aim for, son?" he asked.

The fellow nodded again. "Sure," he said and shrugged. "I could hit a rabbit with a rock at fifty paces back in Indiana," he said in a matter-of-fact tone that did not sound like bragging.

"You ever play baseball?" Rufus asked.

This time he shook his head. "No. I'm a basketball player." He had the height for it, Betsy reasoned. He stood about six feet tall.

"What's your name, son?" Rufus asked.

"Augustus, but my friends call me Augie," he replied good-naturedly.

Betsy snickered and the fellow gave her a hard look. "What's funny?" he asked.

"Augustus? Your parents must have had delusions of grandeur, sir."

The man frowned. "It's just a name. Like I said, people call me Augie, or sometimes Gus."

"Gus?" Betsy said musingly. "I like that better. You look like a Gus to me," she smiled at him and thought he blushed a little.

Rufus broke the spell, saying, "So, Augie... or Gus... can you knock that bottle off again?"

He said he could - and then he did. Rufus watched with a thoughtful look and a hand rubbing his chin.

"Son, I think you might have missed your calling," he finally said with a grin. The young man simply looked perplexed. "You should march right over to the ballfield right now and introduce yourself to the coach." Augie - or Gus - still wore a look of confusion. The grin on Rufus' face broadened into a full-blown smile. "In fact, I will walk you over there myself. The coach and I go way back."

"Uh... ok?" The young man said.

"So, Augustus, you have a last name?" Rufus asked.

Betsy turned to him, as if she too was interested.

"Goulding. My name's Augustus Goulding," he replied.

.

[legendsport]

April 30, 1933: Brooklyn, NY:

Harry Barrell stood, hat in one hand and suitcase in the other, and looked at the address he'd scrawled on a piece of paper in a phone booth back in Knoxville. He gazed up at the large, somewhat seedy-looking building in front of him. Behind him, a horde of kids was playing stickball in the street, their shouts and laughter a fitting soundtrack for Harry's buoyant mood. The big time at last!

He'd gotten the news two days before: the Kings were bringing him up. He smiled as he remembered the scene in the Knights clubhouse.

"Barrell, you must have friends in high places," he heard as he was bent over untying his left spike after a game in which he'd again gone hitless.

He sat up and looked over his shoulder. Knights manager Danny Goff wore a bemused expression on his weathered face. Harry cocked an eyebrow, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"Only you would get called up to the big club despite hitting... what is it?" Goff paused and looked up at the ceiling as if deep in thought. Then he grinned and said, "Oh, yes, .062 - that's it. 1 for 16. I had to work that one out on paper, Barrell. No one hits .062, not even old chuckers like me."

Goff's good-natured ribbing had Harry working on a witty comeback when his brain finally caught up and parsed what the manager had said: the Kings had called him up!

He shot to his feet and turned, nearly tripping over his shoelaces. Goff jumped back quickly, laughed and said, "Don't hurt yourself Barrell. You wouldn't want to start your FABL career on the disabled list, would you?"

Harry had been, for the first time he could ever recall, absolutely speechless.

Just about thirty-six hours later, he was standing in front of what the address indicated was the boarding house where his brother Tommy was living. Harry expected something nicer - Tom was, after all, a big league pitcher now. His brother had ribbed him as well when Harry had called from Knoxville asking if he could stay with him, given that Fred was married and Danny had taken an apartment in Manhattan. Tom's boarding house was only three blocks from Kings County Stadium. Harry had walked past the ballpark before heading over to the boardinghouse.

Everything still seemed surreal.

He walked up the steps and knocked on the door.

Harry had turned and was watching the stickball game, wondering on the fun he'd missed out on when his family had moved from Brooklyn to rural Georgia. Harry himself had been born in Georgia, but several of his brothers had spent some time as kids in Brooklyn.

"Yes?" he heard and turned around. A woman who could only be called formidable stood before him. She must have weighed well north of 200 pounds and held a rolling pin in her meaty right hand.

Harry swallowed and said, "Uh... I'm here to see Tom Barrell. I'm his brother, Harry."

The woman looked him up and down as if he were a side of beef or something. "Barrell? He's in 3F," she said.

Harry waited a moment, wondering if she'd step aside to let him in - there was no way he could squeeze past her. Finally, after what seemed a long time but was probably only a few seconds, she did step back and Harry was able to go past her.

He took the stairs two at a time, hearing the woman yell, "No running!" from below. Chuckling because he knew she'd never be able to chase, let alone catch him, he kept right on running.

He skidded to a stop outside a door that read '3F' and raised his hand to knock. Midway he stopped, hearing his mother's voice from within. She didn't sound happy.

He shrugged, thinking it couldn't have anything to do with him and knocked.

The door was opened by Rufus. He clapped Harry on the shoulder and then reached out and pulled him into a hug. "Congratulations, my boy!" he said.

Then he released his son, gave him a level look and said, "Your mother is tearing into Tommy, so I'd advise you to step carefully until she's worn herself out."

"Rufus! Who's at the door!?!" they heard Alice Barrell shout from inside.

Rufus grinned at his son and then turned and raised his voice to reply, "It's Harry!"

"Oh! Well bring him on in, then!"

Rufus stepped aside and motioned with a hand like a doorman. "You heard the lady," he said with a wink.

Harry entered, gave his mother a hug and slapped an unhappy-looking Tommy on the back. "Thanks for letting me stay here until I find a place," he told his brother.

"No problem, Harry," Tom replied.

Alice gave Tom a glare and told Harry, "It's good you're here. It's unlikely your sinful brother will do anything inappropriate with you here," she growled.

"Uh-oh," Harry thought, but wisely kept his mouth shut.

Alice pointed at Tommy. "I've said all I'm going to about your behavior. You will not be seeing that woman - or any other married woman - again. Do you hear me?"

Tom shook his head and mulishly said, "I'm going to do as I please, mother. I may be your son, but I'm 25 years old."

Alice opened her mouth, preparing for another rant when Tommy quietly added, "I think I love her, Mom."

Alice's mouth snapped shut and she closed her eyes. "Oh, lord," she moaned. "This is an untenable situation, young man," she added.

Tommy shrugged and said, "It is what it is and between us we'll work it out. She lives in Detroit anyway and they're in the other league. It's not like I can go running off to see her anytime I want."

Harry noticed a cockroach crawling across the floor. He stepped on it and said, "Uh, Tom? Couldn't we find someplace... nicer to live?"

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

The next day Rufus and Alice were on hand to see Harry's big league debut at King's County against the visiting New York Stars. The Stars were the class of the Continental, having won the pennant the year before. But the Kings had vastly improved and on this day, Tommy beat them for the second time on the young season (he had twirled a five-hit shutout a week before over in Manhattan). Harry went hitless, but made several nice plays at shortstop, firing the ball across the diamond to his brother Dan at first base each time. He spent most of the game in deep thought: not only was he playing with three of his brothers with Tom on the mound, Dan at first and Fred behind the plate, but he could not believe how well manicured the playing field was. He was used to minor league fields where the ball took tricky hops. But here... everything was true. He figured he could really get used to this.

After the game, Harry asked Fred about the groundskeeper.

Fred gave him a skeptical look and asked, "What? The groundskeeper? I have no idea," he finally said.

So Harry went and asked the manager. Walt Bailey was smoking a cigar in his office and the fumes nearly made Harry choke, but the manager, a former catcher, caught on where Fred, a current catcher did not. "He's got a little office out behind center field," Bailey told him. "His name's McGillicudy."

Harry, still in his sweaty undershirt and uniform pants, clopped through the tunnel under the stands and found the groundskeeper's office.

The man himself was an aged, bespectacled man wearing thick glasses under bushy eyebrows with a dirt-streaked Kings hat perched atop his snowy hair. He tucked his thumbs behind the suspenders he wore over a purple t-shirt and squinted at Harry. "You're the new shortstop, aint'cha?" he asked.

Harry nodded.

"I mowed her extra tight for ya. Wanna know why?"

Harry nodded again, not even realizing he hadn't even spoken yet.

"I remember you from spring training. You've got good range and a strong arm. If'n I mows her too tall, the grass will slow down the ball. Good for fellas whose range isn't too good. But it makes it easier for the batter to beat out the infield hit, see?" He paused and gave Harry an eagle-eyed look.

"Now, with you having excellent range, I needs to mow her tight. This way the ball scoots across it like a hockey puck on ice... didja know I manage the ice for the Bigsby Gardens too?" Harry shook his head but McGillicudy plowed on without even acknowledging this. "So, the ball gets to ya faster, but ya can throw out the batter all the easier, right?"

Harry nodded again.

"Now... Shadoan, his range ain't as good and Mudd, his range is pretty good. Those boys will just have to adapt, though I can shade her a little higher towards second and third. But I likes my field to be uniform, you hear? So you just gobble up all them balls and I won't have to work so hard to make the other boys look good. You'll do it for me...right?"

Harry bobbed his head in agreement yet again. He felt like he'd just had a masterclass in.... something.

The old man squinted at him again and asked, "Now, did you need somethin'?"

Harry smiled and said, "No. I just wanted to say thank you. That was, bar none, the best field I have ever played on."

The old man smiled and nodded. "That's right nice to hear, my boy." His eyes had a sparkle in them and he slapped Harry on the arm. "I think you n' me will get along just fine... just fine."

.

[legendsport]

July 14, 1933: Brooklyn, NY:]

The idea had come to Tommy Barrell while he was in Chicago watching his brothers Harry and Bobby play on opposite sides in the brand-new All-Star Game. He had been sitting with the members of the family who had made the trip: Rufus and Alice (of course), Danny and Gladys, Fred and Tillie, and Claudia and Powell Slocum along with Jimmy's son James.

Tom hadn't spent much time with James Slocum (that last name took some getting used to - the kid was a Barrell by birth) until the '33 season when Powell Slocum had returned to the Kings as the team's hitting coach. Powell had long ago become a mentor of sorts to Danny and that had spilled over to Dan being close with James. Dan's one-time infatuation with Claudia was now firmly left in the past - to Tommy's bemused eyes Dan was as besotted with Gladys as their father was with their mother. And that was saying something.

He had sat next to young James - the kid was now 13 - without thinking much of it. He was a quiet sort, which was amusing based on what Tommy remembered of his brother Jimmy. He supposed he got it from his mother, although Claudia was no shrinking violet. Mentally shrugging, he figured he should at least talk to the kid.

"So, James, you like baseball?" he asked.

"Oh, sure," the kid replied, somewhat unenthusiastically.

"You didn't sound too sure about it," Tom remarked.

James threw a surreptitious glance to his right, where Claudia was sitting right beside him. She was busy talking to Powell about something. James leaned towards Tom and said, "What I'm really interested in is airplanes."

"Airplanes?" Tom asked, remembering to keep his voice low. Apparently the kid wanted this kept a secret from his mother for some reason.

"Sure. My father... my real father... he was a pilot, right?"

Tommy nodded. "Sure. He was a good one too, from what I've heard. Made ace in the war and everything," Tom told him. The kid's eyes were bright. Tom was no head-shrinker, but he figured this was James' way of connecting with a father he'd never met.

"I was just a kid myself during the war," Tom continued. "But I remember how proud my mom and pop were of Jimmy. He was really something else, your father."

James smiled. "That's why I want to be a pilot too." He tipped his head towards his mother. "But my mother.... she's against anything to do with airplanes. 'Too dangerous' she says."

"What about fast cars? Your father liked those too."

"Yep, I know that too. She doesn't like those either."

That was when Tommy had his idea. He leaned towards James and said, "You know... I just bought a second-hand Duesenberg." That was true - Tom had gotten a $7500 raise from the Kings after a strong half-season with them. He was relatively wealthy by the standards of the Depression, and had splurged on a 1929 Duesenberg. The car was fast, though he really hadn't tested that.

"What model?" the kid asked, that sparkle still in his eyes.

"Uh... Model J, I think the fellow said," Tom admitted. He hadn't really cared much. The car was red, it was fast and it was was sure to attract attention from the ladies. That made it worthwhile in Tom's eyes.

James thought for a second. "If I remember correctly, that one should top out well over 100 miles per hour. It has a straight-eight engine, and good horsepower."

Tommy laughed - now the kid sounded exactly like Jimmy. The laugh brought Claudia's attention, she turned and looked at Tom. Seeing him and her son with their heads together she smiled and ruffled James' hair, then went back to her conversation with her husband.

"She probably thinks we're talking about baseball," James explained.

Tom nodded. "Anyway, as I was saying, I have this new car. What say you and I drive out to the field and watch Wiley Post leave for his solo flight around the world?"

Tom thought the kid was going to jump out of his skin. "Yes, that would be great!" he said in a whisper that was trying not to be a shout.

And now they were here, watching with a crowd of fellow onlookers as Post prepared his custom-designed plane (dubbed 'Winnie Mae') for his flight.

On the drive out (the field was in southern Brooklyn so it wasn't a long drive), James had explained that Post had built an 'autopilot' to replace his navigator. It apparently was the first of its kind, and a big deal, according to the kid. Tom had no clue, but he was happy that James was happy.

"How do you know so much about this stuff?" Tom asked his nephew.

"Well... I sneak off to the library and read magazines whenever I can. My mother doesn't know. She thinks I'm reading about baseball or something."

"Take it from me kid, hiding stuff from your mother probably isn't the best idea in the world," Tom said, speaking from experience. Then he added, "I vaguely remember your father and Uncle Rollie getting into hot water with our mother about a car they were supposed to sell and instead went racing in Florida."

James nodded. "Yes, Uncle Dan told me about that."

"Well... I would say, you should, at some point, talk to your mother about the, you know, flying stuff."

James looked unsure.

"Come on, it won't be that bad. You can point out how safe it is now, right? Plus, we're talking about civilian aviation, it's not like you're going into the Army Air Corps - or like there's a war on."

James still looked unsure, but said he'd think about it.

Tom shrugged. He'd done his best. It was up to the kid - he certainly wasn't going to say anything to Claudia about it.

Tom watched with interest as Post finished his preparations, started his engines and took off, wobbling into the air and disappearing over the Atlantic. "Good luck, Mr. Post," he said softly. James looked up at him and grinned.

Tom reflected that maybe the next time he saw Millie Schneider he might not feel like a clod when talking with her sons. They were only slightly younger than James, after all, and he was doing so well with him.

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

July 22, 1933: Brooklyn, NY:

"And he had to stop in Berlin to fix his autopilot. Then he stopped in Königsberg..." James stopped his narration and looked at his mother. They were sitting in the kitchen of their brownstone, just a few blocks from Kings County Stadium.

"Where is Königsberg, mom?" he asked.

"East Prussia," she said. "It was the capital of the old Prussian state," she explained. James nodded happily, he was thrilled that his mother hadn't pitched a fit when he told her about his interest in aviation and was secretly happy that Wiley Post had stopped twice in his mother's native Germany. Claudia's only reaction to James' revelation of his rabid interest in aviation had been "no flying for you" which he had always assumed to be the case anyway, but some persistent wheedling by the boy had earned an addendum of "for now."

"After that he had to stop again in Russia. Moscow first, then someplace called... No..vo..sib..irsk?" James said, his face screwed up in concentration as he tried to phonetically pronounce the city's name. He was reading from the newspaper.

"Wow, he stopped a lot in Russia," he added, having read a bit further and found several more confoundingly spelled placenames.

"Russia is a very large country," Claudia told him.

"Eventually he got to Alaska, and then this morning, he landed here in Brooklyn. The first solo flight around the world!"

Claudia smiled at her son. Though she was certainly not thrilled about his interest in flying, it was understandable. He was a 13-year-old boy whose father had been a pilot and he had never met that father. Jimmy was, to James, almost a mythical figure. And all this despite having a legendary baseball player who had adopted him and treated him as well as any biological father would have. The doctors had said that Powell probably could not have children of his own, so James was the only son Powell would ever have.

As if on cue, Powell entered the kitchen. He looked spiffy in his jacket and tie. The Kings were boarding a train for Philadelphia where they'd play the Sailors before heading down to Baltimore to take on Powell's old Cannons club. After some dismal seasons as the manager in Pittsburgh, Powell was thankful to be working again, even if it was as "just the batting coach" in his words. That he was back in Brooklyn and able to work with not one but four Barrells was the icing on the cake for him.

"I heard on the radio that Post landed this morning," Powell said to James, ruffling the kid's hair. James scowled a bit at the ruffling but happily said, "He sure did! Around the world in eight days, and solo!"

Powell nodded. "That is quite the accomplishment," he said.

Claudia looked at her husband and said, "Please pass along my message to Thomas," she said. She had some choice words for Tom Barrell about driving her son around in a fast car and taking him to an airfield without her knowledge.

Powell nodded - he'd pass along the gist of the message, and avoid the sharp words. His wife had a Teutonic temper and there was no need to pass that along to a young man he really liked.

He bent and kissed Claudia, then grabbed his hat, patted James on the shoulder and said, "I'll be back in ten days."

As the front door closed, James surprised Claudia by asking, "Can we get a dog?"

.

[legendsport]

September 13, 1933: Tyrone, PA:

"Ugh! You're all sweaty! Unhand me, you beast!"

Betsy Barrell managed to get all that out before she burst out laughing. Beside her, a very sweaty Augie Goulding (he insisted on being called Augie despite Betsy consistently calling him 'Gus'), pulled her even more tightly against him.

Finally, her laughter died out and Betsy pushed him away. "OK, that's enough. You really are sweaty," she said. Her nose wrinkled and she added, "And you smell bad too."

Gus ran a hand through his dark brown hair. "Ah, the Pied Piper is working us to the bone, Bits."

Betsy put a hand on her hip and snapped, "Don't call me 'Bits' you cretin."

Gus shook a finger at her and replied calmly, "You stop calling me Gus and I'll stop calling you Bits.... Bits."

She slapped at his hand, but he pulled it back and laughed. "Too slow!"

Betsy took a deep breath. She reflected that Gus looked good, even wearing a sweat-soaked t-shirt reading 'St. Blane Baseball' on it and a pair of green shorts. His white socks were caked in the dust of the pitching mound. And to top it off, he had taken his spikes off and wore his scuffed basketball shoes. It was a good thing he was so cute or she wouldn't even consider putting up with his infuriating antics, she thought.

"So what's Hamelin done now?" she asked.

Frank Hamelin, the head coach of the St. Blane baseball team, had been riding Gus since Rufus Barrell had dragged him over to the ballfield back in March. He was on the team, but didn't pitch a single inning in the '33 season. Hamelin, a former pitcher himself, had determined that Augustus Goulding, ridiculously talented though he might be at throwing just about anything, simply was not ready to actually pitch for his team.

"Ahh... he was going on again about how pitching is not the same as throwing," Gus said. Then he imitated Hamelin's somewhat nasally voice and said, "Goulding! There's more to pitching than being able to throw a rock through a barn door!"

He shook his head. Betsy laughed behind her hand.

"Well... my father said something like that this summer," she told Gus.

"Really?"

"Yes. Not exactly that way, but he did say that while your arm was, in his words, 'fantastic' you needed to learn to throw a baseball."

Gus shook his head, as Betsy continued, "He said something about the seams, and how you need to learn different ways to hold the ball and place your fingers in specific ways on the seams, use wrist snap and twists. It was, honestly, a lot more complicated than I would have thought."

Gus was nodding. "Yes, the Piper says the same kind of thing." The nasally imitation returned: "Goulding! Put your fingers across the seams like I told you! No, not like that you buffoon!"

Betsy laughed again. "Buffoon! I like that," she said. Gus shot her a glare.

A thoughtful look crossed Betsy's face and she said, "You know... you could come to Georgia during winter break. My father and my brother Tom will be there. They could show you some things, I'm sure."

Gus frowned. "I don't know that I'm ready to show up at your family farm and meet umpteen thousand Barrells all giving me the once-over because I'm your boyfriend."

"Boyfriend? What ever gave you that idea?" Betsy asked in a mockingly stern tone.

"Oh come off it, you spend more time around me than my room mate and we actually live together!"

Betsy laughed and said, "Well, be that as it may, my family won't give you too much trouble. Just charm my mother and you will be all set."

Gus rolled his eyes. "Oh, brother," he moaned. Betsy had told him many stories about Alice Barrell, and a large chunk of those had him scared witless. Still, Betsy's brother was a FABL pitcher and Rufus was, Gus had learned through the grapevine, someone known to practically everyone in both college and professional baseball. He'd also supposedly been a very talented pitcher himself back in the dark ages.

"Well... I'll need to talk to my mother about it," he said, deciding to be honest. "She's as much dragon as your mom, so I won't be going unless I can get her go-ahead."

"Fair enough," Betsy replied. Then she grinned and added, "I can always talk to her for you, you know."

Gus shook his head imagining that scene. "No, I don't think that will be necessary," he said and shivered despite the warm weather and his sweaty state.

.

[legendsport]

December 25, 1933: Egypt, GA:

"He's just darling," Alice cooed. In her arms she held the newest addition to the large and far-flung Barrell clan. His name was Michael Daniel Barrell and his parents Dan and Gladys wore gigantic smiles on their faces.

For her part, Gladys was surprised at how deeply she had fallen into the role of mother - she had not originally wanted children. Danny did, and this nearly became a bone of contention between them. Then the basketball league folded and Gladys was suddenly rudderless, her role as a scout for Rollie Barrell's Brooklyn club gone. Michael had been born on November 22 and though she was perpetually tired she realized that she had also never been so happy.

Danny, of course, was over the moon. "I finally feel like things are going my way," he confided in his father. Rufus had put a hand on his son's shoulder and replied, "You deserve it, Dan. As far as baseball goes, you've worked as hard as anyone I've ever seen to get to the big leagues. As for Gladys and the baby... well, that was just plain old good sense in marrying a fine woman."

With his wife monopolizing their newest grandchild, Rufus wandered off into the kitchen. Joe had arrived late the night before, alone, and though Rufus had only seen him briefly, his oldest son had not looked happy.

Joe was leaning against the kitchen sink. In his hand he held a tumbler of whiskey. Prohibition was finally over and Rufus didn't need to hide his liquor in the root cellar any longer. Still, it was barely 10am and seeing his son with a drink was not a good sign. Rollie sat at the kitchen table, with a sad look on his face. He gave Rufus a wan smile when he entered the room.

"What's going on in here?" Rufus asked, the concern plain in both his voice and on his face.

Joe took a quick drink, coughed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Rufus noted that Joe's knuckles were bruised.

He cocked an eyebrow at Rollie, who shrugged and said, "Joe should be the one to tell you, Pop." He looked at his brother. "You probably should tell him, Joe."

Joe's head was bowed and he was glowering at his glass.

"Come on, spill it," Rufus prompted. "Before your mother comes in here and tears it out of you."

Joe's chuckle was mirthless. Finally he took a deep breath and said, "I found out that my wife...."

Rufus had a sinking feeling about this, but he prompted Joe again, asking, "What did she do?"

Joe's hand tightened and the glass and between clenched teeth he said, "She slept with Billy Whitney."

Rufus' eyebrows shot up. To say this was surprising would have been an understatement. Rollie had his head bowed as well and gave it a small shake.

"I suppose I deserve it after what I put Edna through," Joe said softly. "What makes it worse is Dot told me she did it for me." He barked another graveyard laugh. "Can you believe that?"

"I'm sorry, Joe," Rufus said.

Joe took another breath, then downed the rest of his whiskey. "She explained that she was the one who convinced Billy to give me that glove," Joe said. "The one I gave to Deuce on his birthday..."

Rufus didn't know what to say. He simply stood in horrified silence.

Joe held up his right hand. "Obviously I went to, um... see, Billy about this."

"What did you do?" Rufus asked, hoping his son hadn't gone too far.

"Oh... I went there fully intending on blowing out his candle," Joe said. Rufus wasn't 100% sure what that meant; he looked at Rollie, who grimly ran a finger across his throat. Rufus swallowed - that was what he was fearing.

Joe caught Rollie's motion. "Yeah," he said, "Like that." He turned to Rufus. "I didn't do it. What I did do was belt him right in the nose. And when he'd get up, I'd do it again. Finally, he just stayed down."

Rufus opened his mouth, a question on the tip of his tongue. Joe saw this and said, "Oh... he'll live, Pop. He won't be pretty for a while, but he'll live."

Rufus closed his eyes and sighed. "What about you and Dot?" he asked.

Joe shook his head. "I don't know. I chewed on that the whole time I was flying here, and I'll be chewing on it when I'm flying back tomorrow." Joe's stay was very brief - his Coastal California team had once again earned a berth in the East-West Bowl and he needed to be back to prep his team for the big game on New Year's Day.

"I love her, Pop. Maybe all this... is just comeuppance for... you know, Charlotte Cleaves and everything," Joe said. The pain in his eyes broke Rufus' heart.

It was Rollie who stepped in - Rufus was too choked up to say anything. Rollie said, "If you love her, and she loves you, then you'll get through this, Joe."

A stray thought wormed its way into Rufus' mind: in one room of his home there was great joy and happiness and here, in this other room, pain and heartbreak. It must mean something... but he had know idea what that was.

Joe asked Rollie and Rufus to keep everything under their hats. "I don't want to spoil anyone's Christmas," he said. "Especially Mom's. She's so happy with Danny's baby being here and all..."

Rufus and Rollie agreed, and the trio went into the other room.

The screen door banged and Alice cringed. She handed baby Michael to his mother and gave Rufus a scolding look. "I told you to fix that thing, Rufus."

Rufus nodded apologetically. "Yes, you did. I'll get it done this week," he promised.

The banging door heralded the entrance of Betsy and Augie Goulding.

"That boy's as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs," Possum had told Rufus the day before when Goulding had arrived from the train station. Possum was on his way to Savannah where he had bought a house several years earlier for his family. Rufus found Goulding's discomfort amusing, and also somewhat sensible, ke knew Alice could be quite intimidating.

"Pop, you promised you'd work with Gus," Betsy told her father. She peered around the room, and asked, "And where did Tommy get off to?"

Rollie chuckled, leaned over to Joe and whispered, "Gee, Joe, does Betsy remind you of anyone?"

To his credit, despite his generally morose state, Joe cracked a small grin and nodded, as both he and Rollie peered over at Alice.

"I think Tommy is already up at the field," Rufus said. "The whole kit and caboodle are up there, except those of us you see here," he added. All the Barrells, except Jack, were on hand at the farm. Rufus and Alice planned a trip to Toronto to visit Jack, Marie and their girls after New Year's.

Rufus, Betsy and Augie (or Gus as Betsy continued to call him) trooped up to the ballfield behind the barn. Joe and Rollie remained at the house, joining Dan and the various spouses and children who were there: Francie, Tillie, and Gladys, plus Rollie's daughters, Freddie Jr. and the newest addition, Michael. Joe's daughter Gloria was also there, though her brother had gone up to the ballfield with his uncles.

When the trio arrived, they found Fred, Tom, Bobby and Harry standing in a semi-circle around Rufus "Deuce" Barrell. Joe's son was holding a baseball in his left hand. Tommy reached out and moved his fingers. They were talking, but too low for Rufus to hear what was said.

"What's going on here?" Rufus asked.

"Tommy's showing Deuce a better grip for his curveball," Fred explained.

Rufus joined the group. Behind him, Betsy grabbed Augie/Gus by the arm and thrust him forward, beside her father. Then she poked Rufus in the ribs.

He jumped and looked over his shoulder at her. "Oh, yes, sorry," he said.

"This here's uh... Augie... Goulding," Rufus said. "He's a pitcher too. Up at St. Blane. He's Betsy's..." he glanced at his daughter and then continued, "uh, friend."

Fred stuck a hand out and introduced himself. As they shook he pointed, "my brothers, Tom... Harry and Bobby." Then he pointed at Deuce. "This here lanky piece of work is our nephew, Rufus. But we all call him Deuce. Less confusing that way, you see."

Goulding nodded. He had begun following FABL that season and he knew full well who these guys were, by name and reputation if not by face. He looked at Bobby. The kid looked, well, like a kid, not like a guy who had just hit .367 and driven in 137 runs for the World Champion Philadelphia Keystones. Fred, Tom and Harry, the trio of Kings, also looked pretty ordinary but all were regulars, and even stars, at the game's highest level.

Tommy thrust out his hand. "So, you throw right-handed or are you a freak of nature, like this here boy?" he asked with a nod towards Deuce. For his part, Deuce simply had a crooked grin on his face.

"Uh, I'm right-handed," Goulding said.

"Good, that means your brain is wired correctly," Tommy said and laughed.

Deuce was eyeing the guest. Goulding figured it was time for him to make the first move. He stuck out his hand and said, "I'm Augie. Nice to meet you, uh... Deuce." Deuce nodded and shook his hand. Goulding was impressed with the size of Deuce's hands. His long fingers would certainly come in handy as a pitcher too.

"I'd like to see him throw," Harry put in. "To hear Betsy tell it, you're some kind of superman," he added, then ducked as Betsy swung a slap at his shoulder.

Goulding took the mound, with Fred heading behind the plate. Rufus and Tom stood behind him, one on either side, each prepared to critique his pitching mechanics.

"OK, fella, fire it in here," Fred said, and pounded his mitt. Deuce stood behind Fred, where an umpire would typically be. He'd found it was a good place to watch other guys pitch. You got a feel for the velocity and movement on his pitches this way.

Goulding grabbed the baseball in the way Coach Hamelin had shown him for a two-seam fastball. He went into his motion and fired a pitch at Fred. He wasn't fully loose and didn't throw as hard as he could. But the pitch was good, and Fred nodded as he caught it. Behind him, Fred heard Deuce grunt appreciatively.

Goulding threw about twenty pitches. Every so often, Rufus or Tom would stop him and tweak something in his motion or ask him about his grip and they made some adjustments there too.

Bobby grabbed a bat and stepped in. "Throw me your best fastball, Augie," he said. Goulding did, and it sizzled over for a strike. Bobby rested the bat on his shoulder. "That was nice," he said with some admiration. "Now do it again. I'll swing this time... so long as it's a strike."

Goulding delivered again and Bobby uncoiled on it, sending it high and deep out towards the back forty.

Goulding's head whipped around and he visibly deflated as he watched the ball disappear into the distance.

Deuce strolled out from behind the plate. "Don't let it get you down, Augie," he said. "This guy," he pointed to Bobby who was smirking, "likes to do that kind of thing to us amateurs."

Bobby tipped an imaginary cap at his nephew.

Harry had grabbed a bat. "I want a crack at this guy too," he said.

Betsy laughed and said, "Gus! Just think, when you get back to campus you can tell the Pied Piper you got to pitch to not one, but two gen-u-ine all-stars!"

Goulding frowned as the others started laughing.

.

[legendsport]

February 24, 1934: Los Angeles, CA:

"And.... cut!" the director bawled. He stood up and smiled. "That was some good work, everyone. Let's wrap for today and we'll get back to it tomorrow."

Dorothy Barrell walked off the set with a wide smile of her own. She was thinking of Joe.

She reflected that his discovery of her one-time "affair" with Billy Whitney turned out to be a good thing. Maybe not for Billy... his nose had been broken and his vision had only recently returned to normal. Dot had never seen Joe so... angry. It was frightening, but thrilling in a way. It was one of the things she loved most about him... that undercurrent of barely restrained violence. She knew it was what had made him a great football player, and from what she'd heard, a very promising boxer too before his first wife put a stop to that.

Joe had returned from Georgia a chagrined man. He had professed his love for her and his desire to work things out. She had replied that there was nothing to work out: what she did she did for him, in a misguided attempt to help him connect with his son. Since that had worked, she didn't regret it. She only regretted that it had hurt him when he'd found out.

His Coastal California team had been dynamic in the East-West Bowl, defeating Nobel Jones - Joe's old school - by a score of 21-3 and avenging Coastal's lone loss - a 20-14 loss to Noble Jones in Georgia on December 2nd, the only dent in a 12-1 season. That the AP had anointed Bayou State the national championship hadn't dampened Joe's pride in his team's accomplishments.

As she wiped the make-up off her face, Dot continued to think about Joe. He was currently in Wyoming, talking to a promising high schooler he hoped to convince to attend Coastal and play quarterback for him. She frowned in concentration as she tried to dredge up the kid's name, but was drawing a blank. She had chided herself to pay more attention to the things that were important to her husband. He did his best to stay current on her chatter about what was going on at the studio. She knew it galled him to go to studio parties and see people who knew he was a "failed" actor, but she also knew that some of them, at least, liked to be around him because of his success as an athlete and coach. She thought Joe secretly liked that too, and who could blame him?

"Hey, Dot, you need a ride?" asked one of her co-stars. Henry was cute, and young, certainly younger than her and a good decade younger than Joe. But she thanked him kindly, noting she had her car with her. "Joe's off on a recruiting trip, so I have the car," she explained. He gave a wave and nod and was gone.

Dot pulled a piece of paper from her purse. On it, Joe had written his itinerary. He had left the previous morning, flying first to Salt Lake City, where he'd change planes - he was flying on one of the new Boeing 247s - for the flight to Cheyenne. Dot had never been to Wyoming, and in fact, neither had Joe. While he was packing he'd laughed and asked her if she thought he should pack a cowboy hat, "just in case."

She smiled and shook her head, then looked back at the paper. He'd spend one night in Cheyenne, meet the quarterback and his parents and try to sell them on Coastal California. Dot reflected that shouldn't be too hard a sell: Coastal had a winning pedigree and the world's best weather. Who could beat that?

He should be flying back today. A quick "in and out" trip he called it. Similar to the one he'd made at Christmas to his parents' farm. Though this time he was a lot happier when he'd left the house.

Dot put the paper back in her purse. She changed clothes - the elegant gown she'd been wearing was not only inappropriate for driving, it also belonged to the studio.

Fifteen minutes later she was driving back to the bungalow, the top of the convertible Cadillac down. She drew a lot of looks from pedestrians and other drivers. Some she figured recognized her - her list of credits was growing ever larger - and others she knew looked just because she was an attractive woman driving a fancy car.

She arrived at the bungalow and parked in the driveway. She looked up at the blue sky and noted a nearly complete absence of clouds. No need to put the roof up, she thought and walked to the front door.

She opened it and her son Charlie, now going on four years old, gave her a huge smile and came running towards her. He held a drawing in his hands.

"Lookit what I made, Mama!" he cried. She took the paper from him and looked. Three stick figures... "That's our family!" Charlie said. "Papa, Mama and Charlie!"

"It's lovely, Charlie," she said and bent over to kiss the top of his head.

Consuela, the woman who worked for Joe & Dot as a combination housekeeper and nanny, came out of the kitchen. Dot frowned upon seeing the other woman's face. She appeared to be very upset.

"Consuela is sad," Charlie told his mother.

"Consuela? What is it?" Dot asked, a knot of fear forming in her gut.

Consuela, apparently overcome, burst out a stream of words in Spanish, a language Dot didn't happen to speak.

"Wow, slow down dear." Dot looked down at Charlie. He appeared to be perfectly fine and there was no sign of anything wrong in the bungalow. So what had Consuela so upset?

"Did something happen?" she asked.

Consuela nodded and tears ran down her cheeks. "The policia? They come here."

"The police? Why?"

"They say..." she stopped and blubbered. "They say Mr. Joe's plane? It no arrive in Cheyenne."

Dot's blood ran cold. "What do you mean his plane didn't arrive?" she said, her voice a husky whisper.

"The policeman? He leave this..." Consuela handed Dot a card. On it was printed "Sergeant Henry Wilson, Hollywood Division" and a phone number.

Dot felt surprisingly... numb. This had to be a bad dream, or a mistake. Nothing could have happened to Joe. Just a mistake.... those words ran through her mind over and over as she picked up the phone and dialed.

When Sgt. Wilson answered, Dot identified herself in a calm, cool voice.

"I'm sorry to the bearer of bad news, ma'am," Wilson said. "The airline said your husband's plane never arrived in Cheyenne. There was a big snowstorm in the mountains. They're searching for the plane."

"So they can't find the plane?" she asked.

"That's what I've been told. They have other planes up and are looking for it."

"How do you lose an entire airplane?" she asked.

"Ma'am.... they're assuming the plane went down. The last radio contact was just after takeoff. Then... nothing."

Dot heard a whine in her head, and it slowly grew louder. The sergeant said something else about "not assuming the worst; they may have been able to set down somewhere" but the whine grew louder and louder.

The last thing she heard was Consuela's gasp and Charlie's wail as she collapsed in a faint.

.

[legendsport]

February 25, 1934: Egypt, GA:

"Rufus! Can you get the phone!?!"

Rufus was outside, kneeling in the dirt in front of his porch. He was weeding. Though Alice was a city girl, born and bred, she loved flowers. Unfortunately, she was all thumbs - and none of them green - when it came to planting or taking care of anything that grew in the ground. Rufus, the son of a farmer, was capable, and had naturally drawn the duty of planting. Spring would soon be here - both Harry and Bobby had already departed for spring training - and Rufus had weeding to do. With Betsy away at St. Blane, Tom living in Detroit and his other sons all married off and living elsewhere, there was literally no one else to do it. He stood up, brushing his hands on his jeans in preparation for answering the phone, per Alice's bellowed request.

The phone ring again and he heard Alice's frustrated shout of, "I will get it!"

Rufus sighed and kneeled again, wincing at the brief burst of pain in his right knee. Maybe he was getting too old for this. Alice had been after him to just have the gardener do it. They employed someone to handle the garden when Rufus was out of town (which was most of the time between March and October), but he still liked getting his hands dirty on occasion. But with his knees barking at him... maybe Alice was right. He just had to make sure he could finagle a way to make it look like his idea to avoid the inevitable "I told you so."

A few moments went by, Rufus simply enjoying the pleasure of working in the good soil of his native Georgia. He heard the screen door bang close, belatedly realizing he'd never fixed it. Then he heard his wife's voice.

"Rufus... our boy... he's gone."

Rufus stood up, wincing as his knee complained again. He blinked and looked at his wife. She was standing there, both hands tightly grasping her apron, twisting it. Bright tears welled in both her eyes.

"What?" he asked softly.

"Joe. He's dead."

Rufus fell to his knees again, this time in a near faint, his hands going out on their own accord and slapping the dirt. He balled his hands into fists, scraping the dirt as tears filled his own eyes.

Alice came down the steps, and collapsed on top on her husband's back, her arms wrapping themselves around him.

"How?" he asked.

"He was flying to Wyoming to meet with a recruit," Alice said. Her words came in a rush, as if she didn't trust herself to get them out before another wave of sobbing wracked her.

"The plane crashed," Rufus said. It wasn't a question. He just knew.

Alice sniffled and he heard a muffled "Yes."

It took a while, but eventually Alice was able to relate the full story to Rufus.

Joe's plane had taken off from Salt Lake City in snow and sleet, flying east towards Cheyenne. It had never made it to Wyoming, crashing nose first into a canyon wall in Parley's Canyon, not long after takeoff. All eight people on board were killed instantly. The pilot had been a veteran with thousands of hours of flight experience. The investigators, while saying it was too soon to know for sure what had caused the crash, also had offered that they might not ever know what had happened.

Regardless of the hows and whys, the only pertinent fact to Rufus and Alice Barrell was that their first-born son, the self-appointed protector of his many siblings, the hard-headed, tortured, but kind-hearted soul that was Joe Barrell... was no more.

Rufus, kneeling in the dirt, wished the earth would open up and swallow him whole.

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Joe's body, too mangled from the impact for viewing, was flown to Georgia. The closed casket was topped with several framed photographs: Joe with his parents, Joe with Edna and the twins and Joe with Dot and Charlie. Rufus and Alice had requested, and Dot had agreed, that Joe would be buried beside his brother Jimmy.

Unlike Jimmy's funeral, there were no surprises. The turnout was fittingly large - aside from the many people who had known Joe, the Barrell family themselves had connections that reached out across the wide spectrum of the sporting world. There were football players, baseball players, hockey players and basketball players. Golfers, boxers, tennis players and even an Olympic decathlete as well as an assortment of "movie people" as Rufus called them. Billy Whitney had shown up too, which nearly caused a scene as Jack growled about his showing up at the funeral of a man he'd cuckolded. The church wasn't big enough to hold them all, so someone rigged up a microphone and some speakers and many listened to the service from the churchyard.

Rufus and Alice sat in the front row. On one side of them sat Dorothy, with young Charlie swinging his legs beside her, the innocence of youth protecting him from the terrible fact that his father was gone forever. On the other side of Rufus and Alice sat Edna, with Deuce and Gloria beside her. Gloria was inconsolable and Deuce was simply... quiet. He and his father had had a tumultuous relationship but as Deuce grew older, he grew closer to his father, especially after the gift of "Double Al's Glove."

Charlotte Cleaves was there too, but she sat on the other side and five rows behind Joe's widow and ex-wife. Roger Cleaves was there too; he didn't know why, and he wondered at his mother's tears and why she clung to him so much. His brothers Jack and George were there too, and as they were both now FABL players, they simply believed they were there out of respect for both Rufus Barrell and Rollie Barrell, who was a friend of their grandfather's. That grandfather, George Theobald, was there too, sitting beside his daughter. He had every reason to dislike Joe Barrell, but he loved his daughter and grandson and had too much respect for Rufus and Rollie to not be there for them.

Jack Kristich, Carl Boon and many of Joe's former team mates, a slew of oversized men, squeezed into the back pews, along with a handful of Coastal California alumni. All the Barrells were there - Jack had left the Toronto Dukes in the hands of his assistant and Dan, Fred, Tom, Harry and Bobby had all left spring training to be there. Betsy was there too, sitting behind her parents between Harry and Bobby, crying and wishing Gus Goulding was with her (he had remained at school - Coach Hamelin refusing to grant him time away from the team).

Claudia was there with James and Powell. She cried, thinking back to Jimmy's funeral. In the pew in front of her, Marie did the same.

The service was lovely; the preacher said nice things about Joe while deftly avoiding his many sins, noting only that "like so many, Joe Barrell was not perfect." Rollie's eulogy was heartfelt, emotional and humorous as he recounted the various antics he, Joe, and Jack gotten into back in their boyhood, with Jimmy tying himself in knots trying to not be left behind. Now Jimmy and Joe were together, Rollie said, and "they'll have to wait for Jack and I to get there. I know they'll keep things lively in heaven until we join them. Old St. Pete is going to have his hands full for a while."

Outside, as they clustered around the gravesite, Claudia found herself staring at Jimmy's headstone. While time, as it is wont to do, had rubbed the hard edges off her sorrow at his death, she still missed Jimmy. As she was watching she noticed Marie run her hand across the letters of Jimmy's name carved into the headstone. Marie's other hand grasped that of her eldest daughter Agnes who was nearly 15 years old now.

Claudia looked at Agnes, thinking about what a pretty young woman she was becoming, and something about her face tickled Claudia's memory. Suddenly it was as if a light has been switched on in her head. Her mouth dropped open as she realized that Agnes was not Jack's daughter at all. She was Jimmy's.

Jack stepped up behind Marie and rested his hand on her shoulder. His eyes locked with Claudia and she saw that he knew that she had finally made a connection that she had missed for fifteen years. Her first thought was of her son. James was something of a loner, someone who struggled both with the loss of his father and the fact that he had no siblings. Now she knew that he actually had a sister. The question was: should the children be told? For that, she had no answer.

.

[legendsport]

March 26, 1934: New York, NY:

Jack Barrell was busily going over some notes he had made on the train the night before when someone knocked on his hotel door. Jack was in New York for game three of the NAHC Semi-Final series between his Toronto Dukes and the New York Eagles to be played that evening at the Bigsby Gardens.

He briefly considered ignoring the knock. Though his team led two games to none in the best-of-five series, Jack was a perfectionist. Not even a 35-6-7 regular season, best in the league by 16 points over those self-same Eagles, satisfied him: he wanted the sweep, and more than that, he wanted the Cup.

The knock came again. Sighing, he put down his pen, stood up and went to the door.

After swinging the door open, he couldn't keep the surprise off his face. Claudia Slocum stood there. She gave him a nervous smile and said, "Hello, Jack. May I come in?"

Jack nodded, then realized his mouth was hanging open, so he closed it and stepped to the side to allow his erstwhile sister-in-law to enter the room.

Though Claudia was now 35 years old, her beauty hadn't dimmed at all, Jack mused. She had a stately air about her, even now, when she was clearly uncomfortable. Which clued Jack in on what she wanted to see him about.

"I suppose I know why you're here," he said simply.

She nodded and took a deep breath. "Yes, I am sure you do," she replied.

"OK, well.... I spoke with Marie about this," he said. What he didn't say was that they had nearly had a fight about it. Marie felt it was time to tell Agnes about Jimmy. Jack felt there was nothing to be gained by doing so. As far as Agnes was concerned, Jack was her father and there was no need to turn the not-quite-15-year-old girl's world upside down. Marie had grown so exasperated with him, she had berated him in rapid-fire French that he had struggled to understand - and Jack's French had grown to near fluency after years of both playing with and coaching a slew of French-Canadians.

Claudia looked at him expectantly. He sighed and said, "She thinks we should tell Agnes." He paused, a frown on his face, and continued, "Which means James would likely need to be told as well. I have no doubt Agnes will want to get to know her half-brother."

Claudia gave a small, sad smile. "I actually agree with Marie."

Jack's jaw dropped open again. "Really? I thought...." he stammered a bit then managed to get his bearings and continued, "I figured you'd be angry. And well, that you'd want to protect your son."

Claudia shook her head and a faraway look came into her eyes. "I knew that Jimmy had 'a girl' as he put it, in France. I didn't know it was Marie, of course. As a German, I learned at an early age that there was no shortage of French people." She cracked a smile, meaning this as a joke.

Jack returned a smile, though his mind briefly flashed on the inflammatory rhetoric of the new German Chancellor regarding the French. He quickly brought his attention back to the topic at hand as Claudia resumed speaking.

"Jimmy never told me her name. And once we fell in love... well, the war was over, his unit had moved out of the area where he had met his French girl... I never gave it any further thought." Her mouth curled in a frown. "We certainly didn't see or talk about her when we were in France. We married in Paris, so that Jimmy could bring me home. And then..." she didn't finish. She wiped at her eye.

"So why tell them?" Jack asked quietly.

"For one thing, they deserve to know," Claudia replied. "For another, James is terribly lonely. Though he admires and respects Powell, he is not his son. And though he loves me, I am his mother. He believes he has no siblings, and nothing to tie him to his father." She stopped and reached out, grabbing Jack's hand. "Agnes is a tie to Jimmy. I believe it will help James. Help him a great deal... to know he has a sister."

Jack sighed. He had really only thought about how this would affect Agnes. No... how it would affect Agnes... and how it would affect him. He had been the only father Agnes had ever had. He mentioned this to Claudia.

"You are still the only father she'll ever have," Claudia assured him. "I have seen her and know that she adores you. That will not change because you are her uncle, and not her father. Biology makes Jimmy her father, but in every other way, you, Jack, are that girl's father. And she will know and remember this, always." She squeezed his hand again, firmly.

Jack choked up a bit. He knew she was right, but hearing it still impacted him.

"You're right, Claudia."

"I usually am," she said in a serious tone. Jack looked at her and then she burst into laughter.

He laughed too and said, "I can definitely see why Jimmy fell in love with you."

Now she teared up again. "I still miss him," she said quietly. Jack handed her his handkerchief and she dabbed at her eyes. "James is a constant reminder of him. But Powell is a very good man and he loves me and treats James as his own son. I could not ask for a better husband and father for my son." She wiped her eyes again. "But oh, I miss Jimmy so."

Jack was starting to tear up too. His emotions were still raw from Joe's death for one thing, and the stress of the playoffs was weighing on him too. Now, this whole decision-making process on what to tell Agnes and James about their father... it was a lot to handle.

He steeled himself and asked, "So when, and how, do we tell them?"

Claudia had an idea about that - and it turned out that Jack liked it a lot.

Jack went over to his bag and rummaged in it. He pulled out two tickets for the game. "Why don't you and James come to the game tonight? I know Powell's in Florida with the Kings... we could go out to dinner afterwards. I'd love to get to know my nephew better."

Claudia replied that she'd like that very much.
.

[legendsport]

May 21, 1934: Washington, DC:

"Mr. Barrell? Mr. Potentas is here to see you."

Rufus opened his mouth, realized he was about to call his secretary "Ruth" despite his current secretary, whose name was Mary, having been with him for over four years. Nearly two decades with Ruth... Rufus silently chided himself and wondered if he was starting to lose his mental sharpness.

He shook his head slightly, and saw Mary quirk an eyebrow. "It's nothing, Mary. Please send Thomas in," he said and smiled reassuringly. At least he hoped it was reassuring.

His partner, Thomas Potentas bounded into the office. Despite being in his forties now, Potentas oftentimes still acted like an excited boy. Rufus felt an amused grin cross his face.

Then he noticed that what he had thought was excitement on his partner's face was actually concern.

"Thomas? What is it?" he asked.

"It's Mr. Owings... he has passed."

"Passed? You mean he's dead?"

"Yes," Thomas replied. "It is as you say. Died." When he was emotional his grasp of English slipped a bit. Potentas was Polish nobility - if such a thing had still existed, but Poland was a democracy now.

Rufus was stunned. Bob Owings had died? He figured he knew what was on his partner's mind. Owings had been the one who'd green-lighted the OSA and given them a contract with FABL. With him gone....

"I don't think anything will change for us, Thomas," he said, again trying to be reassuring. And again doubtful of whether it had worked.

"I am not sure who they will find to replace him," Thomas said, wringing his hands.

Rufus sat back in his chair and reflected. His largest allies among the FABL powers had been Malcolm Presley and Bob Owings and now they were both gone. He took mental stock: he knew that Charles Bigsby wasn't his biggest fan, but he didn't think any of the other owners had anything against him.

Thomas stood in front of Rufus' desk. And he was fidgeting. Rufus almost smiled, but he put out a hand and said, "Thomas, please sit down. It will be ok, I assure you."

He needed Thomas to calm down so he could think. He picked up the phone and asked Mary to get Bob's son John Owings on the phone. At least he could offer his condolences to the family while he thought about how best to put out some feelers on what the owners might be thinking. Whatever the public thought, the club owners hired the FABL President and he worked for them. Bob had been as skilled a diplomat as he had been an administrator which was why he had been such an excellent FABL President.

Mary told him she had John Owings, so Rufus picked up the receiver and offered his sympathies to Bob's only son. Bob's wife had predeceased him, so John was the only relative.

Having done what he felt was the right thing, Rufus put the receiver back onto the cradle and went back to thinking.

"Perhaps Oscar Banner?" Thomas offered.

Rufus rubbed his chin. Banner... the Cannons owner. He was a cool customer, but he did wield some power in the ownership circles. Sadly, the new blood - guys like the new Kings owner Daniel Prescott and the Minutemen's owner Jesse Barton - were the most active at league meetings. This was sad because Rufus didn't have much of a track record with these new owners, most of whom were successful businessmen and not long-time baseball men like Malcolm Presley, Jeff Edgerton or even Charlie Bigsby.

Banner, though... maybe. He knew Rufus going back to 1913 when the OSA had begun. Then he had a thought of his own.

"What about Eddie Thompson?"

Potentas looked uncomfortable. Thompson was a big man with a big personality. A combination that made Thomas uneasy. Rufus didn't have that problem - and he knew his son Rollie was close with the man they called "Big Eddie" - so Thompson was a possibility.

"Perhaps Mr. Cartier?" Potentas offered.

Jacques Cartier was the Saints owner and he had been a firm supporter of the OSA from the beginning. But of late he had seemed to be overly quiet, often being overridden by the "big market" guys like Prescott & Barton. Rufus frowned and shook his head. Other names ran through his mind - Wash Whitney might be a good choice, he was after all the son of the man who'd founded the FABL.

He was still thinking on which way to jump when Mary poked her head back into the doorway.

"Mr. Barrell, Mr. William Stockdale is here."

Stockdale? He was the Washington Eagles owner, and therefore here in town. But why would he come to the OSA offices?

He looked at Thomas and raised his eyebrows. For his part, Potentas looked even more nervous.

Rufus shook his head and said, "I doubt he's here to pull our charter, Thomas."

To Mary he said, "Please show him in, Mary."

William Stockdale was not a big man and he was 70 years old. He had only owned the Eagles for a few years, so despite his age he was part of what Rufus called the 'new guard.' But he was former military, and old money - and still a formidable presence as he walked into Rufus' office.

"Good morning, Mr. Barrell," he said, then saw Thomas and added, "Mr. Potentas," giving him a nod.

"Mr. Stockdale, welcome. What brings you by?" Rufus asked.

Stockdale took the other chair across from Rufus. He crossed his legs and gave Rufus a piercing look.

"I'm sure you heard the news about Bob Owings?" he asked in a flat tone. Stockdale had butted heads with Bob on a few memorable occasions. But Rufus had always believed the two men respected each other.

Rufus nodded. "Yes. This is a sad day for baseball," he said.

"Indeed," Stockdale said in that same flat tone.

When Rufus didn't say anything Stockdale looked over at Thomas and then back to Rufus and said, "I had hoped we could speak privately, Rufus."

Rufus waved a hand at Thomas and said, "Anything you can say to me, is fine to say in front of Thomas. We're equal partners, Mr. Stockdale."

Stockdale grimaced but said, "Fair enough."

He took a moment and then said, "I had a series of telephone conversations this morning with my fellow owners. Several names were bandied about, but the one that was mentioned most often was yours, Rufus."

Rufus recoiled in surprise. "My name? Why?" he stammered.

Stockdale's face creased in a somehow humorless smile. "Why? Because we want you to be the next FABL President."

Thomas gasped and Stockdale shot him an annoyed look. "You see now why I wanted to speak with you privately?"

Rufus nodded absently. His mind was still reeling. Him... FABL President? The idea was ludicrous.

"I don't know, Mr. Stockdale. While I am extremely flattered..." Rufus began.

Stockdale raised a hand, palm out and said, "Don't say anything, Rufus. I know this is a big decision. Take a few days and think about it. FABL needs a good steward and most of the Executive Board think you're the man."

Rufus was dying to ask which owners thought he should be FABL President - and which didn't - but he couldn't ask that question. Not of Stockdale, at least, though he bet Eddie Thompson would tell him.

"Thank you, Mr. Stockdale. Rest assured, I will give this a lot of thought..." he said.

Stockdale stood up. "I know you will, Rufus." He looked at Potentas and then back at Rufus. "I won't take any more of your time. I'm heading to the White House to see if Mr. Roosevelt wants to attend the funeral." He snapped that off in a matter-of-fact tone as if he talked to FDR everyday. Rufus supposed it was possible - Stockdale had been an admiral and FDR had been Assistant Secretary of the Navy or somesuch during the war. He realized he was woolgathering again.

"Thank you for the visit, sir," he told Stockdale, stood and shook his hand. Stockdale nodded again at Thomas and Rufus escorted him out of the office.

Returning, he plopped into his chair and looked at Thomas with a stunned look on his face.

"You must do this, Rufus," Thomas said.

Rufus shook his head and muttered, "I don't know..." Then he asked Mary to get his wife on the phone. They needed to talk about this.

.

[legendsport]

May 30, 1934: Tyrone, PA:

"And therefore, you can plainly see...." Betsy Barrell's eyes were glazing over and she completely lost the thread of what the professor was saying.

It was the last day of class. Exams would be the next week and then she'd be heading back to the farm for the summer. She blinked a few times, trying to focus. She needed to understand this stuff, despite Professor Throckmorton's droning voice. Throckmorton? What kind of name was that, anyway?

"Focus, Betsy, focus," she told herself. But instead of the professor, her mind focused on how unfair it was that her brothers could earn livings as athletes while she, who was every bit as athletically gifted as any of them - including Harry who even she admitted was nearly superhumanly gifted - well, she was just as gifted but since she was not a man.... Ugh. It was so unfair.

"Psst," she heard from beside her. She ignored it, thinking for the umpteenth time that she needed to focus on Professor Throckmorton's droning, oh-so-boring voice.

"Psst!" she heard again.

Annoyed, she whispered, "Shh!" in return without turning her head.

"Psst!"

Now she was really angry. She turned and opened her mouth, then stopped. The young man sitting next to her was... the best-looking man she'd ever seen. That cut the edge of her anger, though it flared back a bit when he grinned at her. She needed to focus on class, not on some handsome face. Besides... she was with Gus. Although all he seemed to care about lately was baseball.

"What!?!" she whispered fiercely.

"You're Joe Barrell's sister, right?" the guy whispered back.

She was about to reply when she noticed that the droning voice of Professor Throckmorton had halted. She slowly turned her head forward to find the aforementioned professor glaring at her. "Something on your mind, Miss, uh... Barrell?" he asked.

"Oh, no, not at all..." she sputtered. "Sorry Professor...."

He glared at her for another moment, then frowned and continued his lecture. When he had turned away, she turned and glared at the one responsible for this embarrassment. She narrowed her eyes at the pleased expression on his face. "So, are you?" he whispered.

"Am I what?" she whispered back.

"Are you Joe Barrell's sister?"

She nodded, frowning. Why was this guy bringing up her dead brother? Was he trying to make her cry so she could be even more embarrassed.

"Sorry about what happened to him," the guy whispered, managing to look like he actually meant it. "He tried to recruit me, you know? And we've played Coastal both of my years, so...."

Wondering what in the world he was talking about, Betsy shook her head again.

As if reading her perplexed expression, he added, "I'm a football player. Tom Bowens is my name."

Betsy actually recognized his name. He was an end for the football team, and from what she'd heard, a really good one at that.

When she failed to reply he whispered, "I'd like to talk with you. After class...."

She nodded. Now... back to listening to Professor Droney-voice.

After a moment, she realized she had no idea what the Professor was talking about. Exasperated, she stuck her lower lip out and exhaled, lifting her bangs off her forehead. Beside her Tom Bowens saw this and smiled to himself.

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

After class, she went down to apologize to the professor. He accepted her apology stiffly and she realized she'd better ace that exam because he was unlikely to cut her any slack.

Everyone else had left the lecture hall by the time she made it out into the hallway. Tom Bowens was waiting for her.

"So... Elizabeth Barrell," he said.

She glared at him. "I know my name, thank you very much." Then she took a deep breath and said, "Call me Betsy."

He nodded and replied, "Betsy it is."

"Now what do you want with me?" she asked, still aggravated.

"Well... like I said, I met your brother Joe. I liked him, but I'm a New England guy and just couldn't reconcile going all the way to California to play football, you know?"

She shook her head. "What does any of this have to do with me?" she asked, her head tilted to the side.

"Well... I saw you on the sideline last year. When Coastal was in to play us? You were talking to Joe before the game?"

"Yes? He was my brother, so why shouldn't I talk to him?"

"It wasn't that...." he blushed and she again noticed just how good looking he was, then admonished herself again. Gus... you're dating Gus.

Thinking about Gus brought her aggravation back and she snapped, "So what was it then?"

Bowens looked really uncomfortable. "After I saw you, I asked one of the Coastal guys who you were. He said you were his coach's kid sister."

She narrowed her eyes, but said nothing. Bowens swallowed, she saw his Adam's Apple bob up and down. Then he continued, "I then discovered that you were on the tennis and golf teams. And track too..."

She continued to stare at him impatiently. She made a "get on with it" motion with her hands.

"Well... I watched you play. You're really good."

"Good at what? What'd you watch?" she asked.

"Everything," he said. "You're good at all of it."

"Thanks, I suppose," she said. If it was true that he'd watched golf, tennis and track & field... that was something. Not many people watched those sports.St. Blane was all about football and baseball. Basketball too, though that was firmly third in the hearts and minds of Fighting Saints fans.

He took another deep breath and said, "Well, the reason I took Throckmorton's class was because of you."

She shook her head again. "You're still not making much sense, Mr. Bowens. Why all this interest in me?"

He swallowed again, discomfort practically oozing out of his pores. "Well..." he said for the fifth time. "Because I wanted to see if you'd date me."

She nearly laughed, but held back. It was sweet - creepy too - but sweet. And he really was incredibly handsome.

"I already have a boyfriend," she said.

"You mean Augie?"

"Yes, although I call him Gus," she replied, with just a hint of indignation.

"I played basketball with him, before he quit the team to concentrate on baseball," Bowens told her.

"And?" she asked.

He opened his mouth and she barked, "If you say 'well' one more time...."

He closed his mouth then opened it again and said, "He's two-timing you."

"What!?!" she spluttered.

"Sorry to be the bearer of bad news but there are a lot of girls who follow the baseball team around, and one of them has her hooks in him. He's quite the pitcher, if you didn't know."

She did know. And he was 'quite the pitcher' thanks to her father and brother. She was fuming now. If this was true.... she'd break his arm. Let's see if he can pitch left-handed....

Her hands had balled into fists. "Hey you really are Joe Barrell's sister," Bowens said with a grin. She glared at him and he hurriedly added, "Sorry, bad joke."

"You'd better not be lying to me, Bowens," she snarled.

"I wouldn't dream of it, Miss Barrell."

"Ah, call me Betsy, you idiot," she barked. Then she spun on her heel and marched off in search of Augustus Goulding. If he was two-timing her...

.