The Ballad of the Brothers Barrell - A Figment Story - Page 17

legendsport · 08-09-2023, 09:35 AM

February 10, 1948: Detroit, MI:

"Well, well, well, the prodigal husband returns," Tillie exclaimed as Fred Barrell walked into their home, clutching his battered suitcase.

"Tillie, darling, I missed you," Fred said wearily. He felt as though he'd been put through the wringer not once, but twice.

"How was your trip?" his wife inquired as he hung his hat and shrugged out of his heavy coat.

Fred let out a short, humorless laugh and responded, "I think I enjoyed my boat ride across the channel in '44 more."

"That bad, huh?" Tillie asked, her tone carrying an edge that made Fred uneasy. He glanced at her and saw her frowning.

"Okay, what happened?" he asked, a mix of resignation, apprehension, and sheer exhaustion in his voice.

"Your sons…" Tillie began, but Fred interrupted, asking, "All of them?"

Tillie had her hands on her hips as she nodded. "Yes, all of them."

"What did they do?"

Tillie proceeded to list the offenses of their three sons, each of whom managed to drive their mother to the brink of madness whenever Fred wasn't around. Fred himself wasn't much of a disciplinarian, but his sons saw him as unbreakable, strong, and unwavering. They listened and respected him. Tillie, however, had a hard time reining them in.

Their oldest, Freddy, was now 15 and a high school freshman. "Junior's grades," Tillie hissed, "are terrible. That boy isn't dumb, but he sure acts like it." She handed Fred a report card, and after a quick glance, he could confirm that the grades were indeed terrible. "I'll talk to him and remind him that school is important," Fred promised. And he would - Junior was definitely not stupid, but like his cousin Charlie (even though both were unaware of this common trait) he had himself pegged as a soon-to-be pro athlete, and exerted no effort when it came to schoolwork.

"Benny got into another fight," Tillie informed him next. Ben at 10 years old, was too young for Junior to want anything to do with him and too old to want anything to do with his younger brother. And he had a lot of Reid in him: a short-temper and was quick to go to his fists to settle disagreements. Much like Fred's brother Joe had been.

Fred raised an eyebrow at his wife, awaiting details. With a sigh, Tillie explained, "Benny was walking Hobie to school, and they came across a bigger boy who was… I don't know, trying to steal some kid's lunch money or something. The details are fuzzy, and Ben won't talk about it - most of this is from Hobie."

Fred nodded. Hobie, their youngest at six years old, was certainly a handful. Tillie continued, "Ben walked up to this kid, who apparently is 13 years old, and punched him in the nose."

Fred shrugged and said, "Well, if this other kid was acting like a bully, I'd say he got what he deserved."

Tillie shook her head and admitted, "I'd agree, except that he's now suspended from school because this happened on school grounds and the boy he punched? His father's a cop."

Fred rolled his eyes and said, "Great." He made a mental note to find out who this cop was - maybe a couple of tickets to Opening Day would soften him up.

He took a deep breath and then asked, "And what did Hobie get into?"

Tillie chuckled and replied, "He decided to paint his bike."

"Paint his bike?" Fred questioned, pointing out, "It's February, and we live in Detroit. The streets and sidewalks are covered in snow or ice."

Tillie agreed with a nod. "Exactly. That's why our industrious Hobart thought it would be the perfect time for bicycle maintenance."

Fred shook his head. Hobart was named after Tillie's maiden name, and he lived up to it. He was flighty and carefree, traits he clearly inherited from his mother.

"So, how did that turn out?" Fred asked hesitantly.

"About how you'd expect when a six-year-old takes on the task," Tillie said with a sigh. "The garage is a mess, and there's red paint on the Lincoln's bumper."

Fred groaned, realizing he'd have to clean up the mess. He loved that car, and it hadn't come cheap.

Tillie fixed him with a look. "Clearly, you need to have a serious talk with them."

"I will, tomorrow. I'm tired," Fred replied.

"Me too," Tillie said, her tone softening. "Are you hungry?"

Fred realized he was, and he nodded. She smiled—cooking for him was something she loved. "Come to the kitchen, and you can tell me about Cuba."

They settled at the table. It was mid-afternoon, and their three boys were at school.

Fred recounted his time in Cuba. The Cuban Winter League had wrapped up the previous week and the Havana Sharks, who drew their players from Fred's employer the Detroit Dynamos as well as the Cincinnati Cannons (each of the Cuban league teams were affiliated with two clubs, one from the Federal and one from the Continental Associations).

"Jackie Harper looked good," Fred noted. Tillie bobbed her head - she still followed baseball, that was how they'd met and she knew that Harper, a minor league catcher, was someone Fred kept an eye on as a former receiver himself. "I gave him a few tips," Fred admitted. Tillie laughed and said, "Oh, I'd have expected nothing less."

Fred also mentioned Hub Bledsoe, an outfielder with good power. "He hit 10 homers which was tied for third in the league, but I don't think he'll hit for enough average to hack it in FABL," Fred explained as he ate his sandwich. "Cuba's one thing, the FABL is something else entirely," he added before taking another bite of his sandwich.

"This sandwich is great, Tillie," he said with a grin that punctuated his statement.

Tillie gave him a level look. "I have some news... unrelated to our hooligan sons, or at least, mostly," she said.

Confusion ran across Fred's face. "News? And that bit about the boys... what's going on?" he asked.

"Well, it appears that you accomplished something before you left for Cuba," Tillie said.

Fred frowned, and thought a moment. "I don't remember anything," he said.

Now she harrumphed and said, "Oh, you did something alright, Fred Barrell." She reached across the table and poked him in the chest. "I'm pregnant."

Fred almost choked on his sandwich. After quickly swallowing, he sputtered, "Pregnant!"

She crossed her arms, her expression a mix of anger and sadness. "Yes, three months along," she said. "I'm thrilled to see how excited you are."

Fred ran a hand across his face. "I'm surprised, that's all," he said honestly. "I didn't see this coming. I mean, I'm 42, and you're 39. I thought we were past the diaper stage."

Tillie smirked and quipped, "So did I. But, you know, we did have that memorable send-off before you left for Cuba."

Fred blushed, remembering that night. He grinned and said, "Guess that's what did it, huh?"

"Apparently," Tillie replied dryly.

As he chewed, Fred mulled over the news. "You know," he said, "maybe this time we'll have a girl."

Tillie laughed and said, "We can only hope."

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Fred and Tillie Barrell at home, 1948
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legendsport · 08-10-2023, 08:44 AM

February 17, 1948: Washington, DC:

Gladys Summers Barrell felt like a spy, a well-placed agent on this particular mission. Unfortunately, her entourage made her stand out more than she would have preferred.

"This place is fantastic," Charlie Barrell exclaimed, trailing behind Gladys, with his latest girlfriend closely attached to his side. Gladys had a soft spot for Charlie, even though he often exuded an excessive amount of self-assuredness. However, the real issue stemmed from the two men following behind Charlie.

Bobby Barrell overheard his nephew's remark and gestured towards the ceiling where elegant crystal chandeliers dangled. The National Auditorium indeed boasted an impressive ambiance. "I wonder if they installed those chandeliers during or after the Depression," Bobby mused.

Walking beside Bobby, Roger Cleaves took a quick glance upward before grinning mischievously. He inquired, "Have you ever spotted such grandeur in a ballpark, Bob?"

"Absolutely. They had, or at least used to have, baseball-themed chandeliers in the rotunda at Kings County in Brooklyn. I remember seeing them when I was a kid," Bobby responded.

Gladys and her companions were at the National Auditorium to witness a basketball showdown between the Washington Statesmen and the visiting Boston Centurions, two of the American Basketball Conference's top-tier teams. Gladys had a dual mission: to escort Charlie, his girlfriend (whose name she had already forgotten), and Gladys' renowned brother-in-law Bobby Barrell, along with his slightly less renowned nephew Roger Cleaves, to the game. However, the second and more critical objective was on behalf of another brother-in-law, Rollie Barrell.

"You attend many games, don't you, Gladys?" Bobby inquired.

Gladys turned momentarily and nodded. "Certainly, I'm fond of basketball," she explained, which was true, though naturally, it was only part of the story. Back in November, Rollie had asked for her assistance in providing him with "some tips," as he put it, regarding the ABC's players. Being the League President of the Federal Basketball League (FBL) and the owner of the Detroit Mustangs, Rollie sought an advantage in the ongoing rivalry between the two leagues, one which often led to player poaching. He sought inside information on the ABC's players, particularly those flying under the radar, who might be tempted by contract offers from the FBL.

Rollie's reasoning made sense to Gladys. Moreover, she missed scouting. While being a mother to two boys consumed much of her time, she had once been a basketball scout for the original FBL. Now, with Dan occupied by his responsibilities at OSA, he had reluctantly consented to her discreet scouting efforts, recognizing her passion for the task.

And now Bobby and Roger had shown up. They had a couple weeks left before spring training, and the Philadelphia to DC trip was a short one. Roger desired to know his brother Charlie better before the youngster embarked on his college journey at Noble Jones in Georgia. Bobby, on the other hand, had joined for the camaraderie with Roger and to reconnect with his brother Dan and his family.

As Dan played host to Bobby's wife Annette and their children back at the house, Gladys guided the group to their seats, strategically positioned in the third row near midcourt. Charlie, being a basketball player himself, was genuinely enthusiastic about witnessing the professionals in action. "I might be competing against these guys in a few years," he boldly proclaimed, fueled by the exuberance of youth.

A former basketball player during high school, Bobby shared Charlie's passion for the sport. Roger, however, was merely tagging along to spend time with Charlie. His wife, Evelyn, who was seven months pregnant, had opted to stay back in Philadelphia. Roger intended to catch a late train back home after the game. Meanwhile, Bobby and his family planned to remain in town for a few more days.

Seated comfortably, a young boy of about twelve approached Bobby, tapping him on the shoulder. "Hey mister, aren't you Bobby Barrell?" the boy asked in awe.

Bobby grinned, and Gladys suspected he might evade recognition as she had witnessed him do on several occasions when he preferred solitude. But this time, his smile was genuine. "Indeed, I am, kid," he answered.

He proceeded to sign the boy's program, and in return, the youngster offered effusive thanks. Amid this brief interaction, the group savored a fleeting respite before word began to spread throughout the arena that the FABL's home run champion was in attendance.

Shortly after, an usher arrived, slightly delayed, along with a gaggle of kids (and a few adults). "What's going on here?" the usher inquired. "You folks need to return to your seats."

Unfazed by his presence, most people paid him no mind. Charlie, however, noticed the usher's reddening face and pointed it out to his girlfriend, sparking her laughter. This caught the usher's attention, and he finally spotted Bobby seated there, two seats away from Charlie, with Roger positioned in between. Gladys could practically see the proverbial lightbulb illuminate over the usher's head.

"Excuse me, Mr. Barrell, are these people bothering you?" the usher inquired.

Bobby shrugged, wearing an apologetic expression. "Nah, it's alright," he replied as he obligingly signed a young boy's forearm, much to Roger's amusement. "All I ask is that you folks return to your seats once the game resumes. It's not just about being considerate to the other fans; it's also about showing respect to the players on the court," he explained. He emphasized that his presence wasn't meant to overshadow the basketball players, as they, too, were professionals like him. His hope was that everyone would acknowledge their dedication as they pursued their craft.

To Gladys' astonishment, Bobby's words had a tangible impact. The group promptly dispersed as the game resumed. She retrieved her notebook from her purse and discreetly placed it inside her open program, ready to jot down notes for Rollie. If anyone inquired, she was prepared to claim she was keeping score—a task that a minority of die-hard basketball fans actually undertook.

The game proved to be riveting. Washington, perched atop the Western Division, was the league's dominant force, while Boston, the pride of the Eastern Division, was their formidable opponent. The Statesmen, with a 14-1 home record, faced a stiff challenge from the Centurions. At halftime, the Centurions held a narrow 48-46 advantage.

"These guys are good," Charlie Barrell noted. Roger snorted and said, "They'd better be, Charlie. They're paid to do this."

The halftime crowd congregated once again in the aisle, and once again the usher attempted, futilely, to disperse them. Bobby interjected, encouraging the crowd to respect the players on the court. This plea resonated, and as the game recommenced, the spectators dutifully returned to their seats.

"You handle that quite adeptly," Gladys complimented Bobby.

Bobby shrugged modestly. "The fans are the lifeblood of sports. We might be skilled in our domain, but the same holds true for other professions. The difference is that we are athletes, rather than doctors, teachers, accountants, and so on. I believe in showing respect to the fans and acknowledging their importance, but I also urge them to extend that respect to the players," he shared. He grinned and glanced at Roger before adding, "However, it doesn't always unfold so smoothly, right Roger?"

Roger nodded, chuckling, as he acknowledged that fans in certain cities—New York being a prime example—relished taunting the visiting team. "It's all part of the game," he concluded, while Bobby nodded in agreement.

The game remained tight through an action-packed third quarter. Charlie locked in on Washington point guard Blake Brooks. "Brooks is something else," he noted as the veteran guard seemed to be everywhere for Washington. The star of the team, center Ivan Sisco, was having a good game, but Brooks was the star on this night. Morgan Melcher, the shooting guard for Boston and team mate Gerald Carter were leading the way for the Centurions. "This is good stuff," Charlie enthused. His girlfriend spent more of the game looking at Charlie with doe-eyed adoration than she did watching the game. Charlie, however, paid close attention to the action on the court.

"The tempo in this game is quite high," Gladys noted. Charlie always listened to his aunt when it came to basketball. Dan he relied on for football and baseball advice, since his uncle had played in FABL and had also played college football. But Gladys had a surprising amount of knowledge of basketball. Charlie was a sponge - aside from girls, and the brand-new Cadillac his mother had given him, sports was the only thing he talked about.

The game went into overtime, and in the extra period, the Statesmen finally pulled away from Boston, winning a hard-fought 130-122 victory. Brooks had scored 35 points with 14 rebounds and 8 assists for Washington, earning raves from Charlie, who played the shooting guard position. Morgan Melcher led all scorers with 37 with 13 rebounds and a couple of assists as well - and he played stellar defense. That was what Gladys focused on, both in her surreptitious scouting and her comments to Charlie.

Exiting the seating area proved to be a slow affair, led by the usher. The tight aisle somewhat deterred the crowd, but it still took considerable time to navigate through. Once free, they encountered a well-dressed gentleman awaiting their presence. "Mr. Barrell," he greeted Bobby, "I'm Jack Jones, the Statesmen's General Manager. Mr. Wright would like to meet you."

Gladys' eyes widened in surprise. William Wright was the team's owner, a fact that Bobby couldn't and wouldn't ignore. She had already stealthily stowed her notebook back in her purse, a decision she was grateful for now.

Minutes later, having been whisked to the arena's upper echelon via a private elevator, the group found themselves in the office of William Wright.

"Hello, Gladys," he greeted as they entered. Wright had been an owner in the original FBL, back when Gladys had officially been working for Rollie, who, at that time, had co-owned the Brooklyn Root Beer Barrels (a name Gladys privately thought was rather absurd—Daniel Prescott, Rollie's partner then and the current owner of both FABL's Brooklyn Kings and ABC's Brooklyn Red Caps, had conceived the idea).

"Mr. Wright, it's a pleasure to see you after such a long time," she responded courteously.

"Indeed," Wright acknowledged. "I've noticed your frequent attendance this season," he added.

Gladys felt guilt creep over her again. "Well, you know my passion for basketball," she replied, her statement carrying partial truth. Rollie had solicited her help in November, requesting insight on ABC's players.

Wright gave her a steady look and his face was expressionless as he nodded and said, "Of course."

Wright shifted his attention to Bobby, and the group spent a few minutes chatting. When it was explained that Charlie was the star guard for the Capital Academy team and would be heading to Noble Jones in the fall, Jack Jones gave Charlie an appraising look. The look turned into a smirk when Charlie boldly predicted, "I'll be playing professional basketball, maybe even here," before adding that assumed FABL or the AFA wouldn't offer more money to play baseball or football, of course.

"It's good to be confident, son," Wright chimed in. "Just don't be overly confident. There's a fine line," he added.

As they were leaving, Wright pulled Gladys aside. "I know you've been scouting for Rollie," he told her.

She swallowed and stared at the older man, unsure of what to say. He frowned for a moment, then said, "It's fine. There's nothing I can do about it, and you're paying for your tickets. Just tell that loudmouth that the ABC is not going to go down without a fight."

Gladys nodded, then she asked, "Did that LIFE article get to you?"

Wright's frown deepened, but he gave a brisk nod in response and said, "It did. In fact, it got to everyone in the ABC."

Gladys turned to leave, and she heard Wright say from behind her, "We've got scouts too, Mrs. Barrell. And I believe in fighting fire with fire."

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Dan and Gladys Barrell, 1948
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legendsport · 08-12-2023, 11:12 AM

February 27, 1948: Egypt, GA:

"Dang it!" Possum Daniels complained as his sons helped him up the steps of the Barrell's farmhouse.

Rufus and Alice were on the porch, both wearing sad smiles.

Possum noticed this and growled, "Why are y'all grinning like gators?"

Getting no reply, as both Rufus and Alice knew he wasn't expecting one, Possum added, "Act like y'all never seen an old man before."

Possum was 77, three years older than Rufus and two older than Alice. Neither of them saw him as an old man, but nearly twenty years as a catcher had worn their old friend's knees out, and he now needed a wheelchair to get around.

Rufus Daniels, Possum's oldest son, was still a professional baseball player at 34. His journeyman career had landed him in the Oakland Grays organization after bouncing around through the Kings, Cannons, Dynamos, and Sailors organizations in FABL. His younger son, Bo, was 26 and much to his father's chagrin, had never played baseball. He was an actuary, something that Possum claimed he couldn't understand. "That boy does nothin' but look at numbers all day, son, and then tells folks what their risk is..." he'd explained to Rufus, who had already known what an actuary did but was curious to see if Possum did.

Possum's daughter Juanita and his wife Betty stood at the bottom of the steps, Juanita with both hands on Possum's wheelchair, wearing a concerned look. Betty was in her late fifties, much younger than Possum himself, and had aged from youthful beauty into a stately matron.

The Daniels clan was visiting the Barrells because Possum had something for Rufus. Something he couldn't deliver over the phone, and the old catcher refused to give his friend any clues. "You're just gonna have to wait on me for a change, son," he'd told Rufus.

When Possum finally made it onto the porch and was settled in his wheelchair, he grinned up at Rufus and said, "This feels right, son," with that old, wiseacre smile.

"What feels right?" Rufus asked.

"You standing there, looking lost, while I'm looking up at you, just like I did back in Savannah all those years ago when I was crouched behind the plate and you were standing on that bump in the middle of the diamond looking down at me."

"We're a lot closer than sixty feet, six inches right now, Rollie," Rufus told his friend. Though he'd long been Possum to the Barrells, Rufus still called him Rollie occasionally since that was his name. Rufus' second son was named after his old friend, which is why the family had taken to using his old baseball nickname, Possum.

Possum grinned, "Well, that's a'right, my point's still valid, son."

"OK, well, we're together now, Rollie," Rufus said. "What was so important that you had to haul your family here from Alabama?"

Possum smirked, reached into his pocket, and pulled out an envelope. "Got somethin' for you, son," he said. Then he stared at the buff-colored envelope for a moment, a strange look on his face, one that Rufus would have said was... wistful? Perhaps. Something he hadn't often seen on Possum's face.

He handed the envelope to Rufus.

"What's this?" Rufus asked, looking at the envelope, which bore no markings, no writing, nothing at all to indicate what was inside.

"Open it 'n see, son," Possum said quietly.

Rufus shrugged, then used his finger to rip the envelope open. He pulled the enclosed single sheet of paper from within, unfolded it, and read. Alice, watching his face, saw the shock register there and felt a brief moment of concern before Rufus' face broke out into a broad smile.

"This is a joke, right?" he asked Possum.

"Naw, I wouldn't do you like that, son. That there is the real deal!" Possum replied.

"What is it?" Alice asked.

Before Rufus could reply, he saw Possum turn to his son and nod, and then Rufus Daniels stepped off the porch, shoved two fingers in his mouth, and whistled.

As Alice's question remained unanswered, everyone's attention was drawn to the lane leading to the house where three cars were driving down the road.

"Rufus? What's going on?" Alice asked again.

Rufus watched the first car stop and saw Billy Whitney step out, followed by John Brinker of all people.

Rufus looked at his wife and held up the paper. "Apparently, I've been selected for induction into the Baseball Hall of Fame," he said.

Alice's eyes widened, and she snatched the paper from her husband's hand. She read it quickly, then grabbed him and pulled him into a hug.

Billy Whitney came up the steps, wearing a broad smile, slapped Rufus on the back after he had finished his hug, and said, "Congratulations, Rufus!"

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Rufus Barrell's official Hall of Fame portrait
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legendsport · 08-15-2023, 03:33 PM

March 13, 1948: Clearwater, Florida:

The night was still and quiet as Roger Cleaves lay in bed, his mind drifting between uneasy sleep and wakefulness. The weight of the nightmares had become heavier with each passing night, and tonight was no different. Evelyn, now eight months pregnant with their first child, slept peacefully beside him, her growing belly a testament to the life they were about to bring into the world.

His nightmares had begun gradually, and for reasons Roger couldn't quite fathom, had begun after he'd learned that he was about to become a father. Recently, they'd been occurring more frequently. Now that spring training had begun, Roger had hoped that the physical activity would leave him too tired for the nightmares. But that hadn't been the case.

Roger also felt like it was affecting his play. He'd played two games thus far, going 0-for-2 in the spring opener versus Washington and then 1-for-3 two days later against the Gothams - and worst of all, he'd struck out three times. He wasn't alone in his cold start: Bobby was 0-for-7 and Hank Koblenz 1-for-7. Keystones skipper Carl Ames wasn't griping - yet - but unless the club's big bats woke up, he soon would be. Roger rolled over, putting baseball out of his mind. He was playing the next day and needed to get some sleep.

Bobby had the other bedroom in the apartment and unlike Roger, he'd left his wife home. The difference there was that Ev was pregnant and Bobby's wife Annette was not. Bobby and Annette also already had two kids.

Thinking about how nice it had been of Bobby to allow Roger and Ev to grab the bigger bedroom in the apartment, Roger finally felt himself drifting off to sleep.

Suddenly Roger found himself back in the darkness of the nightmare, the chaos of battle unfolding around him once more. He was back on bloody Tarawa again, and he was pinned down on the beach by a relentless barrage of enemy machine gun fire. His heart pounded in his chest as he huddled with his fellow Marines, the deafening sounds of gunfire and explosions echoing in his ears. The acrid smell of gunpowder filled the air, and fear gripped his soul.

He looked around, seeing the faces of his comrades, each one etched with determination and terror. They were like brothers, bound together by the crucible of war. Roger's mind raced, worrying about their safety, praying that they would make it out of this nightmare alive.

"Keep your heads down!" he shouted, his voice drowned out by the cacophony of battle. "We'll make it through this! We need to get off this beach!"

But no matter how hard they fought, the enemy's assault seemed unending, artillery blasts sending razor-sharp shrapnel everywhere. Roger watched in horror as one by one, his friends fell, their bodies hitting the ground with a sickening thud. He tried to reach out to them, to pull them to safety, but he was paralyzed by the overwhelming sense of helplessness.

As the nightmare reached its crescendo, Roger's heart pounded in his chest, and he was gasping for breath. He felt trapped, unable to escape the memories that held him captive. But just as it seemed the nightmare would consume him, a warm light pierced the darkness.

As Roger thrashed, Evelyn had stirred beside him, her brow furrowing in concern. She turned on the lamp and gently shook him awake, her voice filled with worry. "Roger, are you okay? You were shouting in your sleep again."

Roger blinked, his heart racing as he returned to the present. He looked at Evelyn, her worried eyes reflecting the love and concern she held for him. Guilt washed over him for disturbing her sleep with his own turmoil.

"I'm sorry, Evelyn," he whispered, reaching out to caress her cheek. "It was just a bad dream, that's all. I didn't mean to wake you."

Evelyn held his hand, concern still evident in her expression. "You don't have to apologize, Roger. I'm more worried about you," she said softly, her voice tinged with emotion.

As they spoke, a soft knock came at the door. Bobby. His uncle had been awakened too by Roger's cries and after knocking, he called out, "Hey, Roger, everything alright in there?"

Roger quickly composed himself and called back, "Yeah, Bobby, it's fine. Just a bad dream, that's all."

Bobby knew about Roger's nightmares; Roger had told him about them while on a road trip the previous season. Now Bobby's voice was filled with understanding as he replied, "Alright, just making sure. Let me know if you need anything, okay?"

Roger thanked him, then turned his attention back to Evelyn. "Great, even Bobby's concerned," he said with a faint grimace.

Evelyn nodded, but her worry didn't fade. "Roger, you don't have to carry this burden alone. I know the war was tough, and those memories won't easily fade, but I'm here for you. We're in this together," she said, her voice filled with determination. She then told Roger about how her father had fought on the Western Front in the First World War and how he'd had nightmares too. "It's nothing to be ashamed about," she told him.

Roger took a deep breath, feeling the weight of his emotions lifting ever so slightly. He knew Evelyn was right. He was, and probably always would be, reluctant to discuss his wartime experiences. Some of what he'd seen... was too barbaric to put into words. But as he thought about it, he realized that he didn't have to face the nightmares and the aftermath of war alone. With Evelyn by his side, he felt stronger, more capable of confronting the ghosts that haunted him.

"You're right," he admitted, a sense of relief washing over him. "I'm so grateful for you, Evelyn. And I promise, I'll try to talk about it more. I won't shut you out."

Evelyn smiled, her love for him shining through. "That's all I want, Roger. To be here for you, no matter what," she said, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to his forehead.

As they settled back into bed, Roger felt a sense of peace enveloping him. He knew the nightmares might not vanish overnight, but with Evelyn's love and support, he could face them head-on. And with the arrival of their child just around the corner, he was filled with hope for the future.

Together, they drifted back to sleep, their hands intertwined, ready to face whatever challenges came their way as a united front. As the first light of dawn painted the sky, Roger reminded himself just how lucky he was. Many guys hadn't come back from the maelstrom of death and destruction that had been the war. And Roger was doubly lucky because he had not only survived the war, but also found someone truly special. The war left him scarred, but it had also brought Evelyn into his life, and for that Roger would always be grateful.

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Roger and Evelyn Cleaves, 1948
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legendsport · 08-16-2023, 11:20 AM

March 19, 1948: Detroit, MI:

Rollie Barrell leaned back in his chair, a faint smile curling on his lips as he concluded his conversation. The fingers of his left hand, adorned by a simple gold wedding band, rhythmically drummed upon the polished surface of his desk. His right hand cradled his chin as he pondered the weighty matters that now rested upon his shoulders.

Moments later, he rose from his seat, the supple leather of his chair groaning in protest. Crossing the spacious office, he swung open the door and leaned out, beckoning to his ever-efficient secretary with a slight nod.

"Could you please get me Jack on the line, Sarah?" he requested in his typically composed manner.

Sarah, a pillar of efficiency herself, immediately got to work. As Rollie returned to his seat, the familiar dial tone in his ear was swiftly replaced by his brother's voice.

"Rollie? This better be important," Jack's voice grumbled with traces of sleep.

Rollie's smile broadened. "Early to rise, my dear brother. But worry not, I haven't called you about the Dukes, not directly at least."

Jack, now more awake, retorted, "I need my rest, Rollie. We've got a back-to-back with Detroit this weekend, and playoffs on the line."

A chuckle escaped Rollie's lips. "After eight is early? You had no game last night and none tonight, and you certainly won't benefit from beauty sleep. But enough about sleeping, I've had quite an intriguing call this morning from a certain Bernie Millard."

A note of curiosity crept into Jack's voice. "Millard? What does he want from you?"

Rollie settled into his chair, his tone now more animated. "Well, it's not so much what he wants from me, but rather the questions he's been asking. Let's pause on the reason for a moment. What can you tell me about the man?"

Jack let out a contemplative sigh before responding. "Not much, really. He's got a finger in various pies, coal mines mostly. Owns Toronto Wolves over here. Met him once, tough and demanding sort."

Rollie's fingers lightly tapped against his chin. "Interesting. Now, let's steer the conversation toward Pittsburgh's basketball scene."

"What's Pittsburgh's basketball scene, as you put it, have to do with anything?" Jack asked.

Rollie explained that the Pittsburgh Falcons, one of the rival American Basketball Conference's clubs, was apparently in the crosshairs of Millard, who owned FABL's Toronto Wolves and wanted in on pro basketball.

As the dialogue continued, Rollie skillfully wove details into his discourse, painting a more vivid picture of the story. The intricate web of personalities, motivations, and alliances came to life under his skillful guidance. Things got really interesting when he mentioned that Millard was also interested in purchasing the Toronto Titans - one of the clubs in Rollie's Federal Basketball League.

"Ah, yes, Millard's got aspirations for the Falcons and the Titans," Jack mused. "A combined team, then?"

Rollie's voice dripped with satisfaction. "Precisely. And the arena issue? Well, that's where your boss David Welcombe enters the stage."

Welcombe owned the Toronto Dukes, and was the former owner of the Wolves before selling them to Millard. The fact that the local media found Millard to be an American loud mouth had mattered little to Welcombe, then or now. But Welcombe did own the Dominion Gardens too.

Jack's voice crackled with realization. "Welcombe and his arena. So, Millard wants to merge the Titans and Falcons and shift the new team, whatever it's called, to Pittsburgh?"

"Welcombe has an iron-clad lease with the Titans," Rollie explained.

"But he also has a history of doing business with Millard," Jack pointed out.

"And let's not forget, Pittsburgh is an ABC team. Millard asked me, as League President, if this combined squad would be permitted to join the FBL," Rollie explained.

"And is any of this legal?" Jack asked.

"For a guy like Millard? I'd say that if he wants it to be legal, he can make it so."

"Money talks, eh?" Jack said with a chuckle.

"Exactly," Rollie confirmed. "Deep pockets and an army of legal eagles on the payroll, that's what we're dealing with."

As the brothers delved deeper into the unfolding narrative, the web of possibilities and challenges continued to expand. Rollie, ever the visionary, knew that this tapestry of intricate moves held the potential to reshape the basketball landscape itself. "The ABC guys would absolutely lose their minds," Rollie told Jack.

"That's as obvious as the nose on my face," Jack replied. Jack's 'large honker' as Rollie called it, had been an inside joke between the brothers since childhood.

In the end, as the clock's hands moved steadily forward, the conversation lingered on. Jack had always been a good sounding board for Rollie. Though he was older and more experienced in business, Rollie knew he sometimes overlooked details that Jack, as a former athlete and current coach, saw immediately. In this case two minds, united by blood and a shared love for competition, were better than one.

As Rollie finally hung up the phone, his eyes gleamed with determination. The journey ahead for his fledgling basketball loop was uncertain, fraught with obstacles and rivalries. But Bernie Millard's money and vision were a weapon Rollie could use in his fight against the ABC. Rollie Barrell was poised to make his mark once more, not just as a team owner, but as a shrewd architect of basketball's destiny.

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Bernie Millard at the railroad siding of one of his coal mines, 1948
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legendsport · 08-17-2023, 11:10 AM

March 27, 1948: Hollywood, FL:

Deuce Barrell stood beneath the invigorating spray of the shower, a rendition of "Hooray for Hollywood" escaping his lips. This tune had stubbornly occupied his mind for weeks, subjecting him to a fair share of good-natured ribbing. The Cannons' clubhouse at Hollywood Stadium had witnessed not only his humming but also his impromptu singing performances of the catchy melody. It wasn't lost on Deuce that the song celebrated Hollywood, California, rather than its Florida counterpart, but the irony amused him.

Meanwhile, in their modest bungalow, Deuce's newlywed wife, Debbie, was in the living room, enveloped in her robe, meticulously folding laundry. Initially excited about accompanying her husband to spring training, her enthusiasm had waned upon discovering the compact size of the bungalow that Deuce had rented. "This place is tiny," she had protested. Deuce had countered, highlighting his and Charley McCullough's years of contentment with adjacent bungalows. However, this comparison had inadvertently touched upon another sensitive topic for Debbie – Gloria McCullough. As Charley was Deuce's best friend, she was intrinsically connected to both men. Yet, it was Gloria's role as Deuce's twin sister that exacerbated matters. The issue lay in Gloria's apparent disapproval of Deuce's marriage to Debbie.

A sudden chime of the doorbell prompted a sigh from Debbie. Discarding a pair of Deuce's underpants onto the unfolded laundry pile, she rose and headed to the door.

Without bothering to inquire who stood on the other side, she swung the door open.

"Hey, sweet cheeks," greeted the young man at the threshold, causing alarm to widen Debbie's eyes.

"Bob! What are you doing here?" she whispered urgently.

Bob Miller, a member of the Cleveland Foresters, frowned. "What do you mean, what am I doing here?" he retorted. "I heard this is where you were staying and I had to come by and see my favorite girl from Cincy."

"You need to leave, now," Debbie hissed with urgency.

Miller's frown deepened, then he caught sight of Deuce emerging from the bathroom, strolling into the living room with a towel secured around his waist and his damp hair defying gravity in all directions. Miller's eyes widened, his mouth gaping in astonishment. "Uh..." he stammered, observing the puzzled expression on Deuce's face and the horrified look on Debbie's.

"Miller, right?" Deuce queried. "What brings you here?"

Miller stumbled over his words, his mind racing. Finally, he managed, "Oh, I'm an old friend of Debbie's. You know Boney Joe, right, Deuce? Joe Crosby... he, uh, informed me that she was staying here, so I thought I'd drop by and say hello."

Deuce's eyes narrowed. Debbie couldn't help but wonder if his temper was about to erupt. Fortunately, neither observational nor analytical skills were among Deuce's strong suits. "Oh..." he mumbled.

"Bob, this really isn't a good time," Debbie interjected, her eyes pleading with Miller to make a swift exit.

However, matters took a nosedive when the door of the McCulloughs' bungalow swung open, and Gloria stepped onto the petite porch. Debbie wished her intrusive sister-in-law would refrain from meddling.

"Just an old friend paying a visit," Debbie replied in response to Gloria's inquisitive look.

Recognition flickered across Gloria's face as she spotted Miller. "An old friend?" she questioned, undoubtedly calculating that Miller was at least five years younger than Debbie and had only joined the FABL in the just-concluded 1947 season.

"Absolutely!" Miller responded with an exaggerated, clearly feigned grin, his anxiety palpable. "Debbie's family and mine go way back. I'm from Lancaster, you know, near Columbus?"

Gloria's brow furrowed. Deuce poked his head out of the door, causing Miller to take a step back. "Hey, Gloria! How's my niece?" Deuce called out.

Miller looked at Debbie, relief washing over his face. He had evidently realized that Deuce remained oblivious to the situation. Gloria, however, was a different story.

"Hey, Debbie, I better get going. Just wanted to say hi. Will I see you guys at the game later?" Miller rushed out, his words too hasty, and he practically dashed to his weathered jalopy parked by the curb. Gloria's frown deepened as she observed his almost frantic departure. She then informed Deuce that baby Linda was asleep.

"Ready to head over, Charley?" Deuce inquired, referring to their customary practice of driving to the stadium together.

"Absolutely!" Charley McCullough affirmed as he stepped out, passing his wife. Catching sight of Miller, who had made it to his car and was waving in their direction, Charley wore an expression that broadcasted his bewilderment. Gloria whispered, "I'll fill you in later."

"Give me ten more minutes, Deuce..." Charley informed his friend. Deuce retreated into the bungalow to change, and Charley followed suit, leaving Gloria and Debbie exchanging uncertain looks.

"I know exactly what this is," Gloria declared with a stern undertone, sending an unambiguous warning. "There better not be anything untoward happening."

Debbie's brow furrowed, deepening into a scowl. Then, she too entered the bungalow and closed the door behind her.

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Deuce was pitching that day, and even in spring, this made him a little manic. He was dressed and out the door, pecking Debbie on the cheek, with two minutes to spare, and he and Charley had driven off.

Now, as game time approached, Deuce was feeling pretty good. He'd made a trio of spring starts already and was happy with his results thus far. He'd gone five innings in all three, beating the Sailors 3-2 in his first - and roughest start. Then he'd thrown five shutout innings against the Stars, allowing two hits while striking out eight. His arm was feeling great, probably the best it had since the injury. He struck out six Cougars in a 5-1 win in his next start, giving him a 1.20 ERA over 15 innings with two earned runs, 12 hits, and 4 walks against 16 strikeouts. Even the normally grumpy Ad Doria seemed impressed.

"We want more of the same today, Deuce," Doria told him. Deuce nodded, then shook his head at the skipper's back as the old man went back to his cubbyhole of an office. Dan Scurlock, a rookie, was catching that day, and Deuce was going over the Foresters lineup with him, explaining how he wanted to attack various hitters - those he'd pitched to in the past... Cleveland, like everyone else, was running out a bunch of minor leaguers too.

At game time, Deuce saw Debbie sitting in the stands. He was disappointed, but not surprised, to note that she was not sitting with Gloria. For whatever reason, they didn't seem to like each other.

Paul Porter led off for Cleveland, worked a full count - which drove Deuce crazy - and then singled to right-center. George Dellinger bunted it back to Deuce, whose only play was to first, moving Porter to second.

Deuce saw Doria signaling to Scurlock. Apparently, the skipper's mistrust of youngsters extended even to catchers. Orie Martinez was next, and Deuce had a lot of respect for the Puerto Rican outfielder, despite generally handling him well. Deuce got him to hit a fastball off the end of his bat, sending a harmless fly to left. Two down.

Lorenzo Samuels stepped in. Deuce had never faced him, but he'd seen him take Charlie Griffith deep three times last season. Samuels was a lefty, and Deuce as a southpaw himself, took full advantage of this, striking out the budding slugger on three pitches.

Deuce was in the groove, and he tossed four shutout innings, allowing just three hits, with no walks and five strikeouts. He was no math whiz, but he'd long ago memorized the formula for earned run average and knew he left the game with a 0.95 ERA.

He took a seat in the dugout to watch the rest of the game. Charley hadn't started, but subbed in for Charlie Rivera at second base in the sixth. Chris Clarke was on the mound in the top of the sixth. Glenn White singled to lead off for the Foresters, and Clarke walked Walter Hendrickson. Constantine Peters, the wily vet, reached on an error by young Nellie Walters playing in center field, allowing White to score. Bob Miller was announced as a pinch-hitter for Cleveland.

Deuce normally tuned out these spring training games once he was done, sometimes just retiring to the clubhouse to play cards. But he watched Miller as he stepped into the batter's box. He didn't know much about him: he'd faced him just once, and retired him on a ground out. Miller showing up at Deuce's bungalow was strange, there was no other way to look at it.

Clarke grooved one on the very first pitch and Miller smoked it over the third base bag and down into the corner. Hendrickson and Peters scored and the 3-0 lead the Cannons had enjoyed was gone. Miller stood on the bag at second, clapped once and then blew a kiss to someone. Someone sitting behind the Cannons dugout.

Deuce frowned. He stood up and poked his head over the top of the dugout. He saw his wife, three rows up. She was blushing.

Deuce pursed his lips in a deep frown. Out on the infield, Charley McCullough sidled up to Miller. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" he asked.

"None of your business, McCullough," Miller retorted.

Charley's eyebrows rose and then a scowl creased his face. "Deuce Barrell is my best friend and my brother-in-law. Stay away from his wife or I'll thrash you within an inch of your life," he snarled.

"Oh, yeah?" Miller challenged. Young Clifton Smith, playing shortstop, ambled over and whispered, "You two better knock it off."

Both men looked and saw first base umpire Paul Kibbens looking at them with a frown on his face. "We have a problem, gentlemen?" he asked.

"No... no problem," McCullough replied. As Kibbens nodded, Charley looked back at Miller and said in a voice too low to carry far, "At least, not yet. You've been warned, Miller."

He went back to his position as Miller frowned, spit at his feet, and took his lead.

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Debbie Barrell in Florida, 1948
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legendsport · 08-21-2023, 12:15 PM

March 31, 1948: Toronto, ON:

Even deep within the bowels of the Dominion Gardens, the players and staff of both teams could hear the fans. To say the fans were fired up would have been the world's biggest understatement. The defending Cup Champion Boston Bees were in town, it was game three of the Challenge Cup semifinals and their Toronto Dukes were one win away from a trip to the Finals.

Jack Barrell walked into the locker room, a game program curled in his fist, an affectation he'd picked up long ago from Max Dewar, one of his first professional coaches. He stopped and turned to address his team.

"Gather 'round boys!" he shouted, quieting the room. He saw Quinton Pollack, his young star, come out of the trainer's room, where he'd been getting a balky shoulder rubbed down by trainer Bert McGowan. Jack nodded at the young man who was to become his son-in-law in the upcoming summer, then slapped his program against the palm of his hand and began speaking:

"Tonight, we stand on the threshold of history. We find ourselves in a moment that has been a long time coming—a moment of destiny, of dreams realized, and of greatness achieved. As we gather in this hallowed arena, our beloved home, the Dominion Gardens, let us remember that there is no better place to hoist the Challenge Cup than right here in our city of Toronto.

I stand before you, a man who has walked these very corridors as both a player and a coach, basking in the glory of triumph not once, but twice. In 1921, I was fortunate to be part of a team that captured this coveted Cup. Then, as a coach, I had the honor of leading the Dukes to victory in 1935. Now, here we are, on the cusp of yet another glorious chapter in the annals of Toronto Dukes history.

Think back to where we were just last season—finished at the bottom, written off by critics, and cast aside by those who believed our glory days were long behind us. But look at us now! Against all odds, we have fought our way through adversity, silenced the naysayers, and carved our path to the cusp of our goal: a chance to play for the Challenge Cup. We stand here not by chance, but through determination, heart, and unity.

While we need just one win to seal the sweep, we cannot let the prospect of victory cloud our focus. We must not rest on our laurels, thinking we can take care of business "the next time" if we falter tonight. No, men, we must play each shift, each pass, each shot as if our backs are against the wall. We must fight with a hunger that surpasses all else. That team across the hall? They're the defending champions. Do not for one second think that if we leave them an inch of opening, they will not shove the door wide and seize the initiative. We must not let that happen.

Tonight, we ride on the shoulders of Terry Russell, the man who has stood tall between the pipes, guiding us with his skill and resilience thus far this series. But let it be clear that our faith in Terry does not diminish our regard for Gordie Broadway, whose steady presence has been the foundation upon which our journey was built. Without Gordie, we wouldn't have even earned our ticket to these playoffs.

Our forwards led by Bobbie Sauer, Quinton Pollack, and Les Carlson, have proven themselves time and again with their passion, drive, and unyielding determination. They carry the weight of our aspirations on their shoulders, knowing that they are the embodiment of our collective will.

And let us not forget our defenders— men such as Chad Roy, Philippe Dubois, and J.C. Martel —warriors who stand tall on the blue line, ready to repel any challenge that comes our way. Their strength and resolve have fortified our defense, making our fortress impenetrable.

We are a team that plays hard on both ends and when we do that, and do it well, we can beat any team at any rink in this league. This is our time and this is our rink.

My friends, our journey to this point has not been without its struggles, its sacrifices, and its challenges. But we are here, united in purpose, bound by the shared dream of etching our names into the annals of hockey history and onto that big silver cup. As we step onto the ice tonight, let us remember the countless hours of preparation, the sweat and determination poured into every practice, and the belief that has brought us this far.

Look around you, at the sea of faces adorned in maroon and white, and out on the ice, look up at the thousands who believe in us, who have faith in our abilities, and who rally behind our cause. Let this electrifying energy be the wind at our backs, propelling us forward to victory.

So, my fellow Dukes, let us seize this moment. Let us play with all our hearts, leaving nothing behind but the echoes of our triumph. Let us rise above the challenges, reach for the stars, and remind the world that the spirit of Toronto Dukes hockey is alive and thriving.

Together, we are invincible. Together, we are unstoppable. And together, we will give ourselves a chance to play for that cup.

Onward to victory, boys! Let's make our city, our fans, and ourselves proud. For the Challenge Cup, for Toronto, and for the legacy we create tonight!"

Jack hadn't spoken loudly, and his words didn't echo through the room. A silence reigned within the locker room for several heartbeats; every man in the room could clearly hear the cacophony of the fans out in the seating bowl. But the silence in that room lasted only a moment, then Wilbur Chandler led a whooping cheer that the entire team took up. Soon every man in the room was banging his stick on the floor.

As the players hustled out of the room, Jack turned to assistant coach Carl Beirne with a tight smile and said, "I almost feel sorry for the Bees. We are going to kick their ass."

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Jack Barrell in the Dukes locker room, 1948
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legendsport · 08-22-2023, 10:02 AM

April 17, 1948: New York, NY:

Champagne in the eyes... it stings. It's also sticky. Jack Barrell believed sane people would try to avoid being intentionally sprayed with it. But sanity went out the window when you'd just won the Challenge Cup.

Gordie Broadway, the Dukes' stellar goaltender, had been cleared to play in the Cup Finals. Jack had faced a tough decision. Broadway had been the Dukes' netminder since bursting onto the scene as a 22-year-old phenom in 1936. Though he didn't win the McLeod Trophy as the NAHC's top rookie that year (those laurels had been awarded to teammate Bobbie Sauer), he'd been a finalist for both that and the Juneau Trophy, though no one was beating Ottawa's Newt McCotter that year.

Ultimately, despite Broadway's continued status as one of the franchise's two "faces" (the other being Sauer), little-regarded veteran backup Terry Russell had led the way in the surprising sweep of the Boston Bees. Jack had always been a believer in riding the "hot hand" (that he'd picked up from Bill Yeadon). So he'd elected to stick with Russell.

In game one of the Finals against the surprising New York Shamrocks, who'd somehow knocked off the vaunted Chicago Packers, the NAHC's best team (by a significant margin) in the just-completed regular season, Russell had performed well. The Shamrocks had come out aggressively on offense and peppered Russell with a whopping 40 shots. He'd turned back all but one of them, and the Dukes had triumphed by a 2-1 margin.

The wheels came off in game two, however, as the Shamrocks managed a more palatable (to Jack) 29 shots against the Dukes. Russell had let five of them slip past, leading to a 6-3 loss at home, evening the series and giving home ice advantage to New York. That the sixth goal had been an empty-netter didn't make Jack feel any better. Giving up six goals in any game was, to the man who'd been a stellar blue-liner, completely inexcusable.

Quinton Pollack had complained to Agnes, Jack's daughter and Pollack's fiancée, about how hard "the old man" had ridden the team in the practice between games two and three. He should have held his tongue because the practice after game three and before game four was even tougher. The Dukes were swamped 6-0 before a rabid crowd at the Bigsby Garden in New York.

Jack hated the Bigsby Garden. It was always full of cigar smoke, the lighting was terrible (it was sometimes - to Jack - too dark to see in the corners, making it hard to chase the puck into those corners), and the fans were loud and nasty. Jack knew he'd love it if he had played for the Shamrocks, but he hadn't, and so he hated it. The Dukes players all knew this, and they knew they were in trouble when they went down 2-0 in the first period. Jack had refused to speak to them between periods, leaving Carl Beirne to do it for him. Russell had looked shell-shocked, and Jack had toyed with putting Broadway into the game. Gordie was still feeling the effects of a week-long bout with influenza that left him weak. Only his desire not to embarrass the veteran netminder had stayed Jack's hand.

Down two games to one and on enemy ice, Jack had ripped into the team and put them through a grueling practice on April 12, heading into a must-win game four on the 13th in New York.

Even the ability to spend time with his daughter Jean hadn't improved Jack's mood. Jean Barrell was now living and working in New York, doing illustrations for an advertising company. She'd even met a young man - Gene Lee - a former ballplayer who was now "in the ad game," as he put it. Jack liked Gene Lee well enough, and Marie approved, so that made Jean happy. But even her happiness - and that of Marie, Aggie, and Vera, who had been overjoyed at the opportunity to spend four days in New York - couldn't lift Jack's spirits.

Jack's message had been simple: no more firewagon hockey. Get back to basics. Buckle down and play defense. Hit the Shamrocks and knock them off the puck.

It worked. In game four, Quinton Pollack, a center with a very well-rounded game, turned into a defensive demon. Winger Maurice Cherette served up six hits, two of them bone-jarring. Those things brought a smile to Jack Barrell's face. Now they were playing his brand of hockey. Though Pollack played the best all-around game of the forwards, Bobbie Sauer and Les Carlson, Jack's other star forwards, played their best games of the series. It wouldn't have been obvious to the casual observer since neither had scored a goal, and each posted a single assist apiece. But the results on the scoreboard were a 5-2 win for the Dukes. The hard work on the defensive end had paid off - yes, the Shamrocks, in growing desperation, had fired 43 shots at Terry Russell. But they weren't what Jack termed "quality shots." Many were from bad angles and long distances, and Russell was more than capable of turning aside such efforts. Tying the series at two apiece and heading back to the friendly confines of Dominion Gardens had Jack whistling a happy tune on the train north.

Things were even better in game five. "It's a new series, boys!" Jack had told his team, going on to remind them that they needed to win this game and then one more, hopefully the one back in New York for game six, to hoist the Cup.

Pollack was again the star of the show for Toronto. He remained a defensive stalwart, checking fiercely and laying out a couple of hits as well. But he brought it on the offensive end as well, scoring the last of three Toronto goals in a wild first period that saw the goal lamp light up five times between the two teams. Pollack also assisted on the other two Dukes goals that period. Winger Les Carlson scored a pair of goals, Bobbie Sauer had a tally and a helper, as did Kurt Walz, while left-winger Herb Burdette got the most attention from the press in the locker room after the game with two goals and two assists. In all, it was a 7-2 victory for the Dukes, a solid win that put them on the cusp of a championship.

Jack tried to rein in his enthusiasm in his postgame remarks to the team. He congratulated them on one of the best all-around efforts he'd seen from them all season, but reminded them, as he had before that third game against Boston: not to rest on their laurels. The Shamrocks were more than capable of winning, particularly in New York. Take care of business in game six because even though everyone loves a game seven, anything can happen in one game. "Finish the job," was his final remark.

Jack, Marie, Agnes, and Vera enjoyed the train ride back to New York. Jean and Gene (that one made Jack laugh - how would that work if they ended up getting married?) were waiting for them and would be in attendance at the game. At the hotel, Marie had pointedly told Aggie that she had better not sneak off to see Quinton. "That young man needs his sleep," she chided and took it a step further, asking a wide-eyed Vera to keep an eye on her older sister. Jack pretended not to hear any of this. He had Pollack rooming with Al Cote, one of the team's biggest busybodies. Pollack knew this and knew that Cote would rat him out if he snuck off to see Aggie.

"It's only one night," Jack told his young centerman. "You'll have your entire lives for that stuff once you get hitched in June." Pollack nodded, but he didn't look happy about it. Still, Jack trusted that the knowledge of the importance of game six would outweigh the young man's hormones. At least, he hoped so.

Game six was on a Saturday. Jack rose early, turned on the radio, and listened to the news. A Pan Am flight had crashed Thursday in Ireland; fighting continued in Palestine, and the United Nations had elected a new President. In sports, the city was buzzing about the upcoming start of the baseball season. All three New York clubs were expected to contend, and a couple of hundred fans had waited at Grand Central Station for the arrival of the Gothams from spring training on Thursday night. Jack shook his head - what about hockey?

Finally, the newscaster mentioned that the Bigsby Garden was sure to be hopping that evening as the Shamrocks took to the ice with their backs to the wall against the Toronto Dukes. Kurt Stone, the Shamrocks coach, was quoted as saying that his team was "well-aware of our present situation," and he expected that they would "leave it all out there on the ice."

Jack nodded. He'd have said much the same thing if the situation were reversed. He was glad, eternally so, that his team held a three-to-two edge. He expected to win the game, but it was nice knowing that they had a game seven at home in their pocket if they needed it. He'd never utter words to that effect in front of the team, of course, but it was good to know.

At the arena, Jack kept his pregame remarks short.

"We all know we're standing on the precipice of history, and that no one gave us a chance to be here. The same is true for the guys on the other side," he said. As was his wont in situations like this, he kept his voice level and tried to exude confidence. He continued, "Let's keep it simple. The game plan remains the same: keep it simple, play defense first, and use that to spark our offense, hit hard, and win the puck. This is the same game we've all played since our pee-wee days," Jack said with a small smile. "We all love it, or we wouldn't be here. Use that love, let that passion give you the energy and strength to see this through. Go out there, work hard, have fun, and the result will come. I have faith in you. Now let's go win this thing."

The players cheered and banged their sticks as they had against Boston. Jack was a little less confident of victory, but he had a good feeling. The defense-first mentality had been restored - that firewagon stuff only played to the Shamrocks' strength. Jack was happy he'd gotten his team out of that mindset. He put a hand on Carl Beirne's shoulder, "Well, Carl, this is going to be a really memorable night, one way or the other," he said.

It was memorable all right. The Dukes came out fast - really fast - with Alex Lavelliere beating Shamrocks goalie Étienne Tremblay just twenty-two seconds into the first period. Pollack had done his usual job of backchecking, tapped the puck to defenseman Philippe Dubois, who'd shuffled it along to Lavalliere, and the 22-year-old winger had done the rest. 1-0 Toronto. The quick goal quieted the raucous New York crowd, but they were soon back in full voice when Lavalliere mixed it up with the Shamrocks' Jim Macek just thirty seconds later. Jack liked the fire, but he wished Lavalliere had kept it short of punching.

The first period ended with the Dukes holding that 1-0 lead. Jack praised his team's effort in the first and reminded them to keep up the intensity. The game was getting chippy - New York was facing elimination, their fans were keeping the emotions in the building high, and Jack told his men to keep a level head.

That became a little bit harder when New York's Tommaso Brescia knotted the game at one apiece on an unassisted goal 2:04 into the second period. "New game, fellas, new game. Let's get it back," Jack told the players on the bench.

Herbert Burdette gave the Dukes the lead again three minutes later on his fourth goal of the playoffs, on another example of good defense turning into good offense for the Dukes. Jack looked at Beirne and said, "See? I tell these guys all the time: play defense and the offense will come."

Beirne replied, "And sometimes they even listen."

The second period ended 2-1 in favor of the Dukes. "Twenty more minutes, no letdowns," was all Jack said to his players after they'd all reached the locker room. He preferred to let the team rest in the second intermission and wouldn't do much coaching unless he felt it was necessary. He knew it wasn't necessary here.

In the third, Quinton Pollack was whistled for roughing just under five minutes in. Jack gave the referee an earful, careful to keep his comments clean. His wife and daughters were sitting right behind the bench. Aggie joined in, and Jack looked at her over his shoulder. She'd never been much of a hockey fan, but then again, she'd never before been about to marry a hockey player either. He winked at her, and she gave him a funny half-frown, half-smile in return. He thought she was embarrassed and catching Marie's eye, he raised his eyebrow and smiled.

With Pollack in the sin bin, Jack exhorted his men to redouble their efforts on the penalty kill. A Shamrocks goal here would be disastrous. To Jack's pleasant surprise, Al Cote managed to get the puck, sent it cross-ice on a nice pass to Bobbie Sauer, who led Trevor Parker into the Shamrocks' zone as the New York blue-line tandem sought to catch up. Sauer drove toward the net, then slipped the puck to Parker, who got off a nice wrist shot that sailed over Tremblay's blocker and into the net.

The fans groaned as the red goal lamp lit up. 3-1 Toronto on a short-handed goal! Jack nodded and fought a successful battle to keep a grin off his face.

As the penalty ended and the shift change was going out on the ice, Jack shifted his strategy: defense first and defense second, electing to play it safe with a two-goal lead.

That may have been a mistake. The Dukes seemed to lose some of their concentration, and New York took advantage. 11:09 into the final period, Joe Martin scored on a nice backhander past Russell, making it 3-2 and making the butterflies in Jack's stomach take flight.

Jack told his men to play conservatively but look for opportunities. As the clock ticked down towards zero, the Shamrocks grew more desperate, but the Dukes' defense-first mentality really locked in. Ultimately, despite giving it their best, New York could muster only six shots in the entire third period, while Toronto got off 17 (many of them lackluster efforts to keep the Shamrocks honest and allow shift changes for the players who were exerting a lot of energy keeping the Shamrocks away from the goal).

Stone pulled Tremblay with 43 ticks left on the clock. Jack waved his left hand in the air, the program in it rolled up as always as he exhorted his men. When the final horn sounded, the arena was strangely quiet. The Shamrock fans were quiet, their disappointment understandable and palpable. Then the minority of Dukes fans in the building, many of them friends and family of the players, began cheering. And yes, it wasn't a large sound, but it compounded the joy the players and staff felt as they poured onto the ice to celebrate winning the Challenge Cup.

Afterwards, Jack would tell the assembled press: "This team can do it all. It's the best group of players I've ever had the privilege to be a part of." The reporters pressed Jack on that statement: some of his previous clubs had been extremely talented. Jack nodded, "Yes, they were. And those were great teams. But this team came back from a last-place finish just a year ago and had its ups and downs during the regular season. We were expected to be the sacrificial lambs - just like the guys across the hall," he pointed towards the Shamrock locker room, "for the expected Packers-Bees final everyone wanted to see. Well, these boys - and those guys over there - were having none of it. And that's why I say that this is the best group of players I've ever been around."

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Jack Barrell with the Challenge Cup, 1948
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legendsport · 08-24-2023, 08:14 AM

April 19, 1948: Boston, MA:

The atmosphere at Minuteman Stadium was electric - Opening Day had arrived and as Harry Barrell told Buddy Schneider, "Today, everyone is in first place."

That bon mot, and others, were dropped by Harry as he patrolled the clubhouse, chatting up his team mates. A common one was that for the first time in recent memory, Opening Day featured a double-header. "Extra baseball today boys!" Harry said, apparently not understanding that some players might not be thrilled at the prospect of eighteen innings of ball on the very first day of the season.

Catcher Bill Van Ness shook his head at Harry's retreating back after he'd passed by, and turned to 36-year-old first baseman Bill Moore, saying, "I wish Barrell would put a sock in it."

Moore frowned, but said nothing. He looked around to make sure none of the coaching staff was nearby. New manager Bill Steffen had been adamant: there was to be no grumbling, no "lollygagging" as he put it. Moore wasn't entirely sure what lollygagging was - he thought it might just mean being lazy. And he knew that applied to Van Ness. "You might want to keep that down, Bill," he said, reminding the catcher of the new skipper's mandate that everyone "keep it positive."

"I wish Barrell hadn't taken that directive to heart," Van Ness grumped, adding, "I liked him better when he was just pranking people. Now he acts like he's the team captain or something."

Moore shrugged. "He probably should be," he pointed out. Van Ness scowled at him, but Moore shrugged again and said, "I'm just saying."

"Well... don't." Van Ness said.

Van Ness' mood wasn't helped when the team dropped the first game of the double bill by a 5-4 score to the Pittsburgh Miners. In extra innings no less. And the Miners were generally considered the worst team in the Federal Association after shipping both Lefty Allen and George Cleaves to the New York Gothams in the offseason.

Harry remained upbeat in-between games. Van Ness thought that Moore might be right: maybe Harry really was trying out for the position of team captain. Harry had gone 1-for-4 in the opener, and he'd also wasted several opportunities, as he ended up leaving seven men stranded.

Jiggs Jackson got the start behind the dish in game two, so Van Ness spent the game on the bench, quietly steaming about Barrell's continued "positive" attitude. The guy couldn't take anything seriously for his entire career, now sudddenly he was Mr. Professionalism? Van Ness wasn't buying it.

For his part, Harry was actually trying to be a leader for the team. This was partially the result of a conversation he'd had with Bobby in the offseason. As usual, Bobby had mentioned that Harry could take the game more seriously. "You're a veteran now Harry," he'd told him. "Like it or not, the young guys are going to look up to you." Harry had countered that Boston was likely going to bring a veteran club north, but Bobby said that the kids would likely arrive sooner rather than later and so he - meaning Harry - should start acting like a leader now.

Harry figured he'd give it a try. He planned on throwing in the occasional hot foot to make sure everyone knew the "old Harry" was still there.

In the second game Duke Hendricks pitched very well. Harry went 1-for-3 with a sacrifice bunt and the Minutemen won by a razor-thin margin of 2-1. Harry did make an error in the seventh, booting a grounder off the bat of Luke Berry and allowing the potential tying run to reach second. He apologized to Hendricks, who gave him a strange look in return - everyone was still getting used to the "new" Harry, he supposed, and Hendricks had probably been expecting Harry to just crack wise.

In the clubhouse, Steffen praised his team, noting their professionalism. Harry privately wanted to make a crack - but he was still trying to figure out Steffen. He was a short, stumpy guy at 5'7 and about 190 pounds. He'd been a middle infielder who'd topped out as a part-timer in AAA. Then he'd been out of baseball for a while before becoming a radio announcer for the Minutemen's AAA-affiliate in Columbus, Ohio. The front office boys had surprised everyone by hiring him to skipper the Minutemen. Like Harry, none of the players knew much about Steffen, although those who'd recently passed through Columbus had spoken with him in his duties as the Titans' radio voice.

"It's going to be an interesting season," Buddy told Harry. Harry looked over at his double-play partner - at 27, Buddy Schneider was coming into his own as a legitimate star (his triplet brother Skipper was already there, starring for the Chicago Cougars).

"That it is. And I hope we can make things interesting for the other clubs too," Harry replied.

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April 19, 1948: Washington, DC:

On a clear, 64-degree day in Washington's Columbia Stadium, the atmosphere was charged with excitement as the 1948 FABL baseball season's first game was about to commence. President Harry Truman himself was present to toss the first pitch, adding to the anticipation. The US Army band played the national anthem, and the fans were in for a thrilling afternoon of baseball.

Roger Cleaves, the starting catcher for the Philadelphia Keystones, stood on the field, his heart pounding with both excitement and nervousness. His uncle Bobby Barrell, the league's most popular and famous player, was starting in right field. Bobby had set a record the previous year by hitting 64 home runs, making him a major draw for fans.

Roger's thoughts were divided between the game and his new responsibilities as a father. His wife Evelyn had given birth to their son Dwayne just a week earlier, and even though both mother and baby were healthy, Roger couldn't help but worry about them while he was on the field.

As the game began, Roger's focus shifted to the task at hand. The Keystones were up to bat first, facing off against the Washington Eagles and their star pitcher, Buckeye Smith. The first few innings were uneventful for both teams, as the pitchers dominated the game.

In the fourth inning, Roger stepped up to the plate and managed to hit a single, getting on base. However, the Keystones couldn't capitalize on the opportunity, and the score remained tied at 0-0.

As the game progressed, Bobby Barrell struggled at the plate, striking out twice and going hitless. On the other hand, Roger Cleaves managed to make an impact in the sixth inning, hitting a single that drove in a run. The Keystones were finally on the scoreboard, but they were still trailing the Eagles.

The game took a turn in the bottom of the fifth inning when the Eagles' Sig Stofer hit a two-run home run, giving his team a 2-0 lead. The Eagles continued to build their lead in the sixth inning, capitalizing on the Keystones' pitching struggles and defensive errors to score six more runs.

Despite the score, Roger's determination never wavered. He continued to give his best behind the plate, working to support his team's pitchers and trying to keep the Eagles' runners in check.

In the eighth inning, with the Keystones trailing 8-3, Billy Woytek hit a double, giving the team a glimmer of hope. However, the Eagles' defense held strong, and the Keystones couldn't rally a comeback.

As the game came to an end, the final score was 8-3 in favor of the Washington Eagles. Though the Keystones had faced a tough defeat, Roger Cleaves knew that it was only the beginning of a long season. He walked off the field with mixed emotions, proud of his efforts but also eager to see his wife and newborn son.

The game had been a rollercoaster of emotions for Roger, filled with the highs and lows of competition, the worries of a new father, and the camaraderie of being part of a team. As he left the stadium and headed to the hotel where he'd have dinner with his brother, he couldn't help but reflect on how the promise of Opening Day could be seen as a reflection on the promise of the new life he and Evelyn had just brought into the world. Hopefully Dwayne's life got off to a better start than the Keystones season had...

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April 20, 1948: Philadelphia, PA:

The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across Sailors Memorial Stadium as the Cincinnati Cannons faced off against the defending champion Philadelphia Sailors on opening day. Rufus "Deuce" Barrell II, known for his powerful left arm, took the mound as the starting pitcher for the Cannons. The crowd was buzzing with anticipation, and Deuce could feel the weight of the game on his shoulders.

The first inning passed in a blur of tension. Deuce's pitches were on point, his fastball sizzling through the air, and his curveball breaking sharply. He struck out the first two batters, and the stadium erupted in cheers. The third batter grounded out, and Deuce walked off the mound with a confident stride, his team ready to back him up.

The Cannons stepped up to the plate, hoping to capitalize on Deuce's strong start. But facing the Sailors' ace, Win Lewis, was no easy task. The inning ended quickly with three consecutive strikeouts, leaving the Cannons searching for their rhythm.

As the game progressed, Deuce's focus remained unshaken. He continued to mix his pitches masterfully, inducing groundouts and pop flies, and even managing to strike out a few more batters. But the Sailors were not to be outdone. In the fourth inning, Harvey Brown connected with a pitch and sent the ball sailing deep into center field. By the time it was retrieved, he stood on third base, and the crowd roared in approval.

The next batter, Les Cunha, slammed a double, driving Brown home and giving the Sailors a one-run lead. Deuce managed to get out of the inning without further damage, but the tension in the air was palpable.

In the top of the fourth, Deuce found himself at the plate. With two outs and a runner on first, he squared up to bunt. The crowd held its breath as he laid down a perfect sacrifice bunt, advancing the runner to second. It wasn't glamorous, but it was a crucial play that showcased Deuce's commitment to the team's success.

In the top of the fifth, Deuce found himself in a sticky situation with runners on first and third. But his determination kicked in. He struck out the first batter, and then induced a groundout to end the inning, leaving the Sailors stranded.

As the game reached the late innings, Deuce's pitch count climbed, but his resolve remained unbroken. He knew he had to keep his team in the game. In the top of the eighth, he managed to get through the inning unscathed, even as the Sailors threatened with a double from Billy Forbes.

In the ninth, the Cannons had their last chance to mount a comeback. Deuce watched from the dugout as his teammates stepped up to the plate, hoping for a rally. But it wasn't meant to be. Two strikeouts and a groundout sealed their fate, and the game ended in a 2-1 victory for the Sailors.

Deuce was aggravated by the loss. As he walked to the dugout after the bottom of the eighth, he was congratulated by manager Ad Doria. Deuce nodded his head, a grave look on his face, but wanting to at least acknowledge that Doria was complimenting him on a good effort.

He plopped himself down next to Charley McCullough. As usual, Charley wasn't playing. Though his role as a reserve had been all but cemented by the rise of Charlie Rivera, Charley was melancholy about it. The Cannons had struggled some in spring training. Deuce and Charley had discussed the possibility - one unheard of in recent years - that perhaps this season would be one in which the Cannons would not compete for the pennant. Neither would voice such an opinion in front of Doria, of course. He'd pitched well - eight innings, two earned runs on four hits with a single walk and four strikeouts. And the offense had give him: one run, which had come on a solo homer by Chuck Adams. Deuce wondered if this was going to be a long season...

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President Truman throws out first pitch, 1948
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legendsport · 08-25-2023, 09:49 AM

April 29, 1948: Detroit, MI:

"Bet you can't do it, Barrell!"

"You don't have to do this, Freddy," Mario Gomez, one of Freddy's teammates, advised. Freddy scowled - a challenge was a challenge. And Jack Davis was notorious for being a loudmouth.

In this case, the challenge was to eat an entire can of pickled jalapeno peppers. According to Gomez, these peppers were incredibly spicy. Freddy was in the dark about them; he had never come across them before baseball practices commenced in February. Given that they had been practicing in the gymnasium at Pershing High School, located in Detroit, the chilly weather had confined the practices indoors.

The whole situation had its roots in Jack Davis' penchant for running his mouth.

Upon learning Freddy's last name, Davis had immediately asked, "Any relation to Miss High-and-Mighty Allie Barrell?"

After confirming that he was indeed Allie Barrell's cousin, Freddy had clarified that he was the son of the former FABL catcher Fred Barrell and the nephew of Maroons and Mustangs owner Rollie Barrell. In response, Davis had mockingly applauded, declaring, "Well, boys, we're destined to win the city championship now. We've got a bona fide Barrell on our team!"

Freddy brushed that off and redirected the conversation. "Why the grudge against my cousin?" he had inquired. Allie, within the family circle, was generally known for her intelligence and kindness.

"Oh, she's just so full of herself," Davis retorted.

"Not at all," Freddy countered.

"Oh, believe me, she is," Davis mimicked in a high voice, "I'm a senior and the head cheerleader," accompanied by a poor jump and leg kick, "I'm too good for you, Jack Davis, you junior peasant."

It clicked for Freddy. Davis harbored a crush on Allie, who had turned him down. Freddy could easily guess why.

And thus, Davis had taken an immediate dislike to Freddy as well—though he kept his animosity under wraps when the coaches were around. The catch was that Davis, standing at an impressive 6 feet 4 inches and weighing 180 pounds, was the star pitcher for Pershing, and a potential draft pick for FABL in 1949 if he didn't opt for college, given that he was also the star quarterback for Pershing.

But then came the jalapeno peppers. For weeks, Mario had been bringing these peppers for lunch. Hailing from Mexico, Mario's family considered these peppers a regular part of their diet. Davis had crinkled his nose at the "stench" of the vinegar-pickled peppers, insisting that he couldn't fathom eating them. Freddy had retorted, "I bet they're alright; I could probably eat the whole can."

In hindsight, that had been unwise. Freddy hadn't the faintest clue whether he could handle even one of those peppers. After all, Gomez had mentioned they were spicy. Yet, Davis' incessant taunting had ignited Freddy's competitive spirit.

And that was how he found himself on the bleachers after baseball practice, can of peppers in Mario's hand and Davis basking in his audience's attention.

Things took an interesting turn when Allie arrived. Freddy didn't see her much, considering that she was a senior and he was just a freshman. Their social circles rarely intersected.

"What's happening here?" she inquired upon approaching the group, her gaze shifting from Freddy to Jack Davis.

"Oh, look who's here..." Davis quipped, but Allie halted him with an upheld hand. "I wasn't addressing you, Jack," she said. Turning her gaze to Freddy, she asked, "Fred, what's going on?"

"I've been dared to eat this can of peppers," Fred admitted, a tinge of embarrassment in his voice.

Allie examined the label and queried, "What are ja-la-pen-os?" She mispronounced the word, emphasizing the hard 'J' and the final syllable like the writing tool.

Gomez corrected her, subtly explaining that they originated from his family's home in Xalapa, Mexico.

"And?" she prompted.

"And your audacious freshman cousin here claimed he could finish the whole can," Davis added with a smirk.

"Freddy... that might not be wise," Allie cautioned.

Freddy took a deep breath. "I'm doing it," he asserted, shaking his head to prevent further intervention. "You can't change my mind, Allie."

She sighed and crossed her arms. "Well, you're stubborn," she remarked, underlining her statement with an unhelpful, "It's your funeral."

Gomez popped open the can and handed it to Freddy. The teammates clustered around. Davis wore an almost gleeful expression. "This will be amusing," he predicted. Allie scowled at him, admonishing, "As team captain, you should know better."

Jack ignored her. "Go on, Barrell. Start eating," he urged.

Freddy swallowed as the vinegary aroma reached his nose. "Here goes," he muttered, and began to consume the peppers.

Initially, it wasn't overly arduous. He attempted to gulp them down without chewing, dreading the repercussions if he chomped into one. But his strategy proved only moderately effective; the peppers were genuinely fiery, and soon enough, his tongue felt aflame. And there were still numerous peppers left in the can.

"Holy smokes, he's actually doing it!" one of the other players exclaimed, earning Davis' glare.

"He's going to puke," another speculated, receiving a hopeful nod from Davis.

Freddy didn't vomit. He felt like he might, yet he powered through the entire can, which remained half-filled with the malodorous liquid.

"Now drink the juice," Davis suggested.

"No, that wasn't part of the deal," Gomez interjected. He turned to Freddy and advised, "Don't. No one drinks it, and if you do, you'll get sick."

Allie placed her hand on Davis' chest. He glanced down at it and responded with a smile.

"Enough, Jack," she scolded. "Freddy ate the peppers, and that was the agreement, wasn't it?"

Davis caught her wrist and pulled her hand away. "Perhaps it was."

Allie pulled her arm back. "Then it's settled," she declared, assertive and unwavering.

Davis shrugged. "I guess so," he conceded.

Freddy was tempted to ask if he looked pale. He felt unwell. He also yearned for the closest bucket of water to quench his thirst.

"That was foolish, Fred," Allie chided.

"I never claimed to be clever," Freddy retorted, mustering a bold smile. He almost succeeded. "That's your domain, Allie," he appended.

"Oh, hush," she retorted. Casting a glance at the other ballplayers, she commanded, "Alright, fellas, show's over." She fixed a firm look on them. "Go shower; you all reek."

"You should clean up as well," she instructed Freddy.

"How about we keep this incident under wraps?"

Allie frowned, then shrugged. "Yeah, alright."

Davis gestured toward the other players. "Let's move, guys," he directed. As he started to turn away, he glanced at Freddy and quipped, "Well done, Peppers. See you tomorrow."

And that's how Fred Barrell Jr. garnered the moniker— which he didn't particularly favor— of 'Peppers.' Allie smirked and shook her head. "You asked for it," she reminded him.

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Fred Barrell Jr. and his cousin Allie Barrell, 1948
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legendsport · 08-28-2023, 08:50 AM

May 4, 1948: Detroit, MI:

Rollie Barrell sat behind his desk, deep in thought. The meeting he was about to have could have massive repercussions on the future of his basketball league. As the sunlight filtered through the large windows, highlighting the opulent furnishings, Rollie waited with a mixture of excitement and caution. His visitor, Bernie Millard, was a man known for his sharp wit and even sharper business acumen. The stakes were high, and the outcome of this conversation could potentially reshape the sports landscape.

"Mr. Barrell," a voice boomed as the office door swung open, revealing a stocky figure in a perfectly tailored suit. Bernie Millard strode in with the kind of confidence that came naturally to those who had climbed the ladder of success. His gaze locked onto Rollie's, his handshake firm and unwavering.

"Mr. Millard," Rollie greeted, his tone cordial but guarded. He gestured toward the plush chairs positioned around a low coffee table. "Please, have a seat."

Millard settled into one of the chairs with the ease of a man accustomed to taking charge. Rollie indulged in a bit of preliminary talk about Millard's main business of coal mining. He listened to Millard complain about John L. Lewis and the United Mine Workers, intimating, in no uncertain terms that he thought Lewis was a communist. Rollie had his doubts, but kept his peace.

The preliminaries having been completed, Millard's piercing eyes fixated on Rollie as he leaned forward, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "You're a busy man, Rollie. I'll get straight to the point."

Rollie inclined his head, intrigued by Millard's directness. "I appreciate that."

Millard wasted no time. "You know I want in on pro basketball, specifically I want into the FBL. And I've got a plan that I believe will not only make that happen but also strike a blow to our competitors."

Rollie's eyebrows lifted slightly, his interest piqued. "Go on."

Millard leaned back, his fingers steepled as he spoke with rapid-fire precision. "I've worked out a deal to purchase the Pittsburgh Falcons of the ABC. Yes, I know we spoke of this before, and that you have reservations about me defecting."

Rollie's expression remained neutral, but curiosity glimmered in his eyes. "Yes. That would be quite a move. But how's this help the FBL? Aside from stealing a club and escalating our fight with the ABC."

Millard's smile widened. "A seat at the winning table, Rollie. I've already secured a deal with David Welcombe, the owner of the Toronto arena. I will buy the Pittsburgh franchise, and the Falcons will move to Toronto. A new beginning in a new city."

Rollie's skepticism was palpable. "That's quite the shuffle. But you have a problem there – the Toronto Titans of the FBL already play there."

Millard's grin did not waver. "Ah, yes, that is true of course. But I've worked out a solution for that potential fly in the ointment. I plan to purchase the Titans from their eager-to-sell owner, Charles Mitchell. That team is barely afloat, Mitchell wants out, and I'll fold it, take it as a tax loss. Voila, space cleared for the Falcons."

Rollie raised an eyebrow. "Bold move. But as I said these moves would exacerbate the issues the FBL already has in dealings with the ABC, so I ask again: how do you propose this benefits my league?"

Millard's eyes glinted with a knowing glimmer. "I'm offering you a sweetener, Rollie. Along with this package deal, I have handshake agreements from three other ABC clubs – the Boston Centurions, New York Knights, and Washington Statesmen – they are all willing to defect to the FBL."

Rollie leaned back, absorbing this bombshell. He knew, from previous discussions with Millard, that the man wanted to purchase Pittsburgh and bring the club into the FBL. But adding the New York, Boston and Washington clubs? Those were three of the ABC's crown jewels. Rollie's mind boggled at the thought. "That would certainly cripple the ABC. But that's a lot of movement. My league would swell to eleven teams."

Millard leaned forward, his tone taking on an almost conspiratorial note. "Ah, but think it through. The ABC will be left reeling. They'll have to replace those clubs, and probably not in those cities. The FBL already has a presence in Philadelphia, Chicago, and Detroit. Where can they go?"

Rollie's lips curved into a thoughtful smile. Millard's logic was sound, a realization that was hard to ignore. "You make a valid point. Losing those four teams... well, they could go back into Pittsburgh. But even then, they'll be left with Hartford, Richmond, Rochester, and," Rollie paused and looked eyes with Millard before saying, "Brooklyn."

Millard's voice remained steady and he hald Rollie's gaze. He knew of Rollie's history with basketball in Brooklyn and his erstwhile friendship with Brooklyn Red Caps owner Daniel Prescott. "This is an opportunity, Rollie. An opportunity to emerge victorious in this so-called basketball war in one fell swoop."

Rollie's gaze met Millard's, a moment of understanding passing between them. "You're right. I almost feel sorry for Prescott."

Millard chuckled, the sound a mixture of amusement and pragmatism. "Prescott's a prig. And this is business. Never let your feelings get in the way of a sound business decision, Rollie."

Rollie tapped his chin as he thought for a moment. "And what if I'd rather have the Falcons stay in Pittsburgh? If nothing else, it blocks that city from the ABC..."

Millard frowned. "I certainly have nothing against Pittsburgh. I was born in Allegheny. But there's a certain... symmetry with my ownership of the Wolves in Toronto."

Rollie pursed his lips. "I'd ask you to at least consider it, Mr. Millard," he said, adding, "Just in case." He explained that Charlie Mitchell was a man prone to changing his mind and he might very well decide to keep the Titans.

Millard smirked as he pointed out that he had a deal with Welcombe, to which Rollie countered that Mitchell could say the same, and his lease was already on record.

Millard's reluctance was evident, but he agreed that should Mitchell prove intractable, he'd be willing to keep the Falcons in Pittsburgh. For now.

Rollie nodded, a sense of resolve settling over him. "Very well, Mr. Millard. You're free to begin your negotiations. If the terms you've laid out are indeed as solid as you claim, then I believe we have a deal."

Millard's smile was that of a man who had achieved his objective. "Excellent. You won't regret this, Rollie. The FBL is about to enter a new era."

The two men stood, their handshake likely sealing the fate of the American Basketball Conference. Millard left, leaving Rollie to ponder what he'd just agreed to do.

Prescott, the only real power left in the ABC if Millard could make good on his claims, would move heaven and earth to keep his league afloat. But could he do it? Losing New York, Boston and Washington... that was a crippling blow. Where could the ABC go? Pittsburgh maybe, Baltimore probably - Rollie knew the FBL's Barons would probably fold, the financial burden of fighting the war with the ABC was hard on the FBL's owners, and surely just as hard on the ABC magnates. Would Prescott have the guts to go head-to-head in one or more cities? That could be a major problem, if that was the path chosen. Would he go into an open market - St. Louis? Milwaukee? These were places Rollie had been considering and going there would give the ABC a midwestern presence it currently sorely lacked.

Rollie stood and looked out the window. There were some issues with this deal... the New York club was owned by Sam Bigsby for one thing. Despite the payoff he'd received from the Bigsbys years earlier, Rollie still held a grudge against them. The current FBL owners might not be thrilled to be absorbing four ABC clubs, all of which had very talented rosters and one of which, the Washington Statesmen, was a juggernaut. But there was no doubt at all in Rollie's mind that losing those four teams would sink the ABC within two seasons.

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Rollie Barrell ponders Bernie Millard's proposal
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legendsport · 08-31-2023, 10:57 AM

May 31, 1948: Cincinnati, OH:

May 31, 1948, marked a turning point for Deuce Barrell in more ways than one. The early part of the Cincinnati Cannons' season had been a rollercoaster, much like that of the entire Continental Association. As the team battled through streaks of wins and losses, Deuce had emerged as a steadfast pillar of strength on the mound.

His pitches sizzled with a controlled anger, a fire that fueled his performance. Ad Doria, the team's manager, watched with satisfaction as Deuce's aggression found its balance, transforming him into a formidable pitcher. It wasn't just the numbers – a 5-1 record, a minuscule ERA of 1.21, and the impressive stats of shutouts and complete games. It was the way Deuce carried himself, a quiet intensity that ignited the entire team. Doria could see his pitcher was angry, and though he had no idea why, the results spoke for themselves.

Yet, behind this façade of controlled fury lay a personal storm. Only his best friend, confidant, and brother-in-law, Charley McCullough, knew the truth. Deuce's marriage to Debbie had hit troubled waters, and the source of his anger and frustration was nothing to do with the baseball field. The field was simply the best outlet for the stew of emotions Deuce had been feeling since spring training.

Gloria, Deuce's sister, could sense the tension. She had always been wary of Debbie, sensing something beneath her polished exterior, and the rumors she had heard from Charley - and even her uncle Tom Barrell, had done nothing to assuage those feelings. It was Gloria who finally confronted Debbie, in a clash of emotions that revealed long-hidden secrets.

Gloria had gone to visit Debbie on the morning of the 31st. The Cannons were returning home that morning from a two-week road trip that had taken them to New York, Montreal, Brooklyn, Chicago and Cleveland. Gloria's stern words pierced the air of the house Deuce had purchased just that winter - only three houses down from the McCulloughs. "You've been causing trouble for my brother," Gloria accused, her eyes unwavering. "I've never seen him this way," she added, explaining that unlike their father Joe Barrell, Deuce had always been calm and self-absorbed. That had changed. Now her brother carried around a sense of barely contained violence, much as Joe Barrell had, but even in Joe's case it had been intermittent. Since Florida, it had been nearly always evident in her brother.

Debbie's defenses went up immediately, but Gloria pressed on. She brought up the name that had been haunting Deuce – Bob Miller, the specter from Debbie's past who had appeared during spring training, casting a shadow over their relationship. Gloria did not go so far as to mention the other names she'd heard had been involved with Debbie; Gloria put no credence in rumors - not without proof. Miller, however, was different.

Debbie confessed to her past involvement with Miller, and intimated there had been others ("I've always liked men," she explained), but she insisted that those chapters were closed long before she married Deuce. The fling with Miller had been a tumultuous relationship that had ended decisively when she chose to be with Deuce. But the accusation still hung heavily between them – had she been unfaithful?

The truth tumbled out eventually, as emotions ran high. "I'm pregnant," Debbie admitted, her voice catching.

Gloria's eyes widened at the revelation. "Is the child… is it Deuce's?"

Debbie's tears fell, and she shook her head vehemently, a bloom of anger appearing briefly. "Yes, it's his. I swear to you, Gloria. He's the only man I've been with since he proposed to me."

Just as the tension reached its peak, Deuce walked in, Charley by his side. The scene before him was unexpected – his wife and sister in earnest conversation, tears evident in their eyes.

"What's going on here?" Deuce demanded, his heart racing, his mind piecing together the puzzle.

Gloria cast a meaningful glance at Debbie before excusing herself, and Charley followed. Left alone with his wife, Deuce's eyes searched hers for answers.

"Well?" he demanded, and seeming to notice that he still held his suitcase, he dropped it to the floor with a bang.

Debbie hesitated, her emotions raw. "Deuce, I'm pregnant."

The silence that followed was profound. It was a revelation that shifted the axis of their world, one that demanded consideration beyond their differences.

Gathering his thoughts, Deuce finally spoke, his voice a mixture of disbelief and awe. "Pregnant?"

Debbie's voice wavered, her eyes locking onto his. "I didn't tell you because we've been fighting so much, and I thought… I thought you didn't trust me."

Deuce's skepticism was evident, but the magnitude of the situation was undeniable. He felt a flash of shame, mixed with anger - his first thought had been to wonder if the child was actually his. A child was on the way, an innocent life that depended on them. As he looked at his wife, the woman he had chosen to marry, he saw her vulnerability, her honesty.

"I've been stewing over that Miller incident," Deuce admitted, the words carrying the weight of his doubts. He recounted the Florida incident when he had seen Miller throw her a kiss and how Charley had confronted him on the field.

Debbie listened, her own tears falling. "Deuce, you're the only man for me. Yes, I dated Miller before, but that ended when I married you. I haven't seen him or talked to him since. I swear it."

He studied her face, searching for any sign of deceit, but all he found was sincerity and the echo of his own doubts. The walls he had built around himself started to crumble.

The upcoming arrival of their child changed everything. Deuce felt a surge of protectiveness, a responsibility that overwhelmed his anger and doubts. He pulled Debbie into a tight embrace, feeling the weight of his emotions dissipate in the face of their shared future.

As they sat together, bound by their mutual commitment, Deuce realized that the journey ahead would be challenging, but the bond they shared was stronger than his doubts. He was no longer just pitching angry; he was fighting for his family, for the love that had brought them together in the first place.

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Rufus "Deuce" Barrell 1948 Baseball Card
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legendsport · 09-06-2023, 11:47 AM

June 19, 1948: Charlotte, NC:

Saturday, June 19, 1948, was a day of radiant sunshine and boundless hope, as Charlotte, North Carolina, embraced the joyous occasion of James Slocum and Rose Winfield's wedding. The sprawling estate of Jack Winfield, adorned with vibrant flowers and the anticipation of new beginnings, hosted the gathering of family and friends.

As guests gathered under the Carolina blue sky, James' heart swelled with happiness. The presence of his beloved mother, Claudia Slocum, brought a unique depth of emotion to the day. Claudia, born in Germany and married to the legendary FABL hit king, Powell Slocum, had raised her son with boundless love and care. Her eyes glistened with tears of pride and happiness as she watched her only child prepare to embark on a new journey, not only as a husband but also as a participant in the daring world of stock car racing.

The large and largely famous Barrell clan was well-represented at the wedding. Only the members of the family still active in baseball were missing: Tom was managing the Brooklyn Kings, embroiled in the Continental Association's pennant race while his brothers Bobby and Harry were playing for the Philadelphia Keystones and Boston Minutemen, respectively. The younger generation, represented by Deuce Barrell (playing for Cincinnati) and Roger Slocum (playing for the Keystones with his uncle) were also unable to attend.

James, clad in his handsome wedding attire, approached Claudia with a loving embrace. "I'm so glad you're here, Mom," he whispered, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

Claudia held her son tightly, her emotions bubbling to the surface. "I'm happy for you, my dear James," she replied, her voice filled with both joy and concern. James was quietly amused; his mother's German accent was much more noticeable when she was emotional, as she was at that moment.

As they stood there, Claudia couldn't help but express the fears that had been weighing on her heart. "You know, James, this sport... it took your father from us. I can't help but worry that it will do the same to you." Even nearly thirty long years after his death, the shadow of Jimmy Barrell - and the way in which he'd lost his life - weighed heavily on Claudia's heart.

James looked into his mother's eyes, understanding her fears but also determined to chase his own dreams. "I know you're concerned, Mom, but I've chosen this path because it's where my heart truly belongs. Just like Dad, I have a passion for racing."

Claudia, her eyes misting, nodded and said, "I remember how your father used to live for those races, the thrill of speed. But it also took him away from us too soon."

James gently cupped his mother's cheek. "I also remember how proud you were of him, Mom, for pursuing his dreams. I'll always cherish those stories you told me about Dad. I want to make my own mark and honor his memory."

Claudia smiled through her tears, realizing the depth of her son's determination. "I understand, James, and I'll support you in whatever path you choose. Just promise me that you'll always prioritize safety."

With a heartfelt promise, James reassured his mother. "I will, Mom. I promise." Thinking of his wartime experiences flying bombers in both Europe and the Pacific, James added, "If the Luftwaffe and the Japanese couldn't take me down, no one can."

Rollie Barrell, Jimmy Barrell's oldest living brother and a witness to those early racing days, joined their conversation. No one had been as close to Jimmy as Rollie had, and Rollie missed his brother every day. With a warm embrace for Claudia, Rollie spoke with compassion and understanding. "Claudia, I know your fears as a parent, but I also know that James embodies Jimmy's lust for life and adventure. We can't protect our children forever. They grow up, make their own decisions, and we must trust in their ability to navigate their chosen path."

Claudia, touched by Rollie's words, nodded in agreement. "You're right, Rollie. I have to let him follow his heart, just as Rufus and Alice did with Jimmy."

Hearing their names, Alice and Rufus Barrell, James' grandparents, approached the group, their concern for their grandson evident in their expressions. Rufus, with his characteristic wisdom, spoke with a reassuring tone. "Jimmy was little more than a boy when he started racing. James is nearly 30 years old now, and he's proven himself to be a responsible and mature young man. He's not making this decision lightly. We should trust his judgment."

Alice, her eyes softening with love for her grandson, added, "We may not fully understand his passion for racing, but we understand his determination. We'll stand by him as a family, just as we always have."

James' uncle Jack Barrell, accompanied by his wife Marie and their daughters Aggie, Jean, and Vera, added to the lively atmosphere. Aggie's fiancé, the hockey player Quinton Pollack, and Jean's boyfriend Gene Lee, fit right into the warm and welcoming Barrell clan.

Jack said, "Hey, we're here for a happy occasion, aren't we? Let's lose the long faces and have a good time!"

As the wedding ceremony approached, the guests eagerly anticipated the arrival of the beautiful bride, Rose Winfield. Jack Winfield, the proud father of the bride, greeted each guest with genuine warmth, his natural charisma on prominent display. Even Rufus felt better about James' upcoming racing career after speaking with Winfield, whose idea this new "stock car" racing circuit had been.

Among the attendees were many friends of Jack Winfield's from the world of auto racing, drawn to witness the union of James and Rose - an event that symbolized both love and the beginning of a new racing era. Old acquaintances and new friends shared stories and laughter, united by their passion for speed and adventure. A handful of weathered drivers made time to speak with Rufus, Alice and Claudia, all expressing their fond memories of Jimmy - to a man they called him one of the "finest natural drivers" they'd ever seen.

Amid the crowd of guests, James' former Air Force buddies, who had flown with him in the war, stood as a reminder of the bond forged in the crucible of battle. Some of his old crew told Rufus and Alice stories of meeting Roger on Saipan, and how surprised they were that the brash young Marine they'd met was now a promising young baseball star.

Finally, the moment arrived. The soft strains of music filled the air, and all heads turned to see Rose, looking radiant in her exquisite wedding gown, walking gracefully towards her groom. James' heart skipped a beat as he caught sight of her, and he felt a rush of emotions overwhelm him. With each step Rose took, she seemed to be drawing the happiness of the day closer to her heart.

Under a picturesque gazebo, surrounded by their loved ones, James and Rose exchanged vows that echoed their profound love and commitment. The ceremony was infused with laughter and tears of joy, a beautiful blending of two families and a celebration of a future united.

After the heartfelt "I do's," the newlyweds shared their first kiss as husband and wife, prompting cheers and applause from the guests. The joyous atmosphere continued as the reception began, with dancing, delicious food, and heartfelt toasts to the couple's happiness.

As the sun began to set, the sounds of laughter and the clinking of glasses filled the air. Amid the revelry, James and Rose took a moment to step back and absorb the love and warmth surrounding them. They felt truly blessed to be surrounded by such wonderful family and friends.

Jack Winfield sidled up behind the happy couple as they stood side-by-side. Placing a hand on the shoulder of both James and Rose, he said, "Enjoy this moment, and the honeymoon. Because when you get back, we have a racing circuit to put together."

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James Slocum and his mother Claudia, 1948
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legendsport · 09-08-2023, 09:34 AM

June 22, 1948: New York, NY:

Rollie's expression was one of sheer disgust as he glanced over at Sam Bigsby. Agreeing to hold the press conference in New York had been a glaring mistake. While it was indeed the media capital of the country, it was also Bigsby's home turf. Rollie, as the president of the Federal Basketball League, felt that he should have had the upper hand.

"We should have held this thing in Detroit," Rollie muttered to Blaine Adkison, owner of the Chicago Panthers, one of the FBL's most successful franchises.

Adkison smirked and retorted, "Well, the Bigsbys have always loved a circus."

The jab at the Bigsbys' ownership of Bigsby Gardens, known as the "showplace of the world," which hosted everything from NAHC hockey (courtesy of the Bigsby-owned New York Shamrocks) to basketball's New York Knights (also Bigsby-owned) and even the circus for three weeks every summer, made Rollie crack a strained smile.

Seated at a long table with Adkison and fellow FBL owners Maynard Adams (Philadelphia), Darryl Croy (Baltimore), and Michael Salmon (Cleveland), Rollie noticed the absence of the other FBL owners. The so-called "big four" of the American Basketball Conference were present, including Bigsby himself (New York), Myles Williams of Boston, Bill Wright of Washington, and the man responsible for this gathering: Bernie Millard, the new owner of the Pittsburgh Falcons.

Rollie's mixed feelings were hard to define. He was elated at the coup for the FBL, with four of the five most important ABC franchises defecting to his league. Only the Brooklyn Red Caps, owned by the stubborn Daniel Prescott, were holding out.

Rollie caught the eye of his wife Francie and their daughters, Marty and Allie, seated in the back. Jean Barrell, Rollie's niece, was also there with her boyfriend Gene Lee. They were representing their advertising firm, hired by Rollie to promote the "new look Federal League" for the 1948-49 season.

As the room filled with media, a TV camera was wheeled in, a relatively new addition to the world of journalism. Rollie was still adjusting to the concept of television, which had gained popularity in postwar America.

Ten minutes later, Rollie made sure everyone was ready and took the podium. "Thank you all for coming."

"I'm Roland Barrell, league president of the Federal Basketball League, and I'm here to make a momentous announcement," he began, his grin revealing a touch of mischief. "Or rather, several announcements."

Rollie proceeded to explain the significant changes unfolding within his league. Four ABC clubs—Boston Centurions, New York Knights, Pittsburgh Falcons, and Washington Statesmen—were joining the FBL. The room buzzed with reporters jotting down the breaking news.

"I'd also like to add that Bernard Millard, who owns the Toronto Wolves of the Federally Aligned Baseball Leagues, has purchased the Pittsburgh Falcons," Rollie announced. Millard's stoic demeanor showed no reaction.

Rollie continued, "He has also purchased the Toronto Titans." The unexpected news caused a stir among the reporters.

Rollie raised his hands to restore order. "Yes, this is unusual, but Mr. Millard has a new owner lined up to purchase the Titans, in conjunction with signing a new lease for the club."

A reporter named John Brinker interjected, "A new lease where, Rollie?"

Rollie answered, "Syracuse, New York."

Brinker followed up, "So this means the Falcons...."

Millard spoke up, saying, "The Falcons will be playing at the Dominion Garden in Toronto."

The news sent shockwaves through the room, and questions came from all directions.

Another reporter, a stranger to Rollie, asked, "And what about the ABC?"

Rollie's genuine smile emerged. "To be completely honest, I am not sure what this means for the ABC. You'll need to take that up with Mr. Prescott."

"But surely the ABC can't go on with just four clubs," the reporter pressed.

Rollie replied, "For obvious reasons, I can't speculate on the future of a rival league. But yes, I would assume this will be a difficult adjustment for the remaining ABC clubs."

During the ensuing Q&A, Sam Bigsby was interrupted as Daniel Prescott dramatically entered the room.

Caught off guard, Bigsby and Millard both sat down, while Rollie hurried to the podium to maintain order.

"Dan? What are you doing here?" Rollie asked.

"I'm here to set the record straight and let the media know what this means for the ABC," Prescott declared.

Rollie, now in control, gestured for Prescott to continue.

Prescott, visibly angry, approached the table. "We're expanding."

A reporter, John Brinker, asked, "What does that mean, Mr. Prescott?"

Prescott's grin held a hint of menace. "It means the ABC is adding clubs in Pittsburgh to replace the Falcons, as well as Milwaukee, Indianapolis, and St. Louis."

Rollie frowned, realizing that his fears were becoming reality.

Brinker inquired, "Do you honestly believe there is room for twenty pro basketball clubs?"

Prescott's shark-like grin returned. "No, I don't, Mr. Brinker. But there's room for eight, and when the dust settles, I fully intend for those eight to be the American Basketball Conference's member clubs."

Prescott cast a final glare at Millard, Bigsby, and Rollie, then stormed out of the room, leaving chaos in his wake as reporters shouted questions simultaneously.

Millard leaned over to Rollie and whispered, "I have to hand it to him; Dan Prescott knows how to put on a show."

Rollie concurred with a grunt. Bigsby, seated on his other side, added, "We'll see who's left standing."

Rollie knew the next year or two would be challenging, as the battle for dominance in professional basketball unfolded.

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Daniel Prescott at FBL Press Conference, 1948
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legendsport · 09-08-2023, 12:28 PM

June 22, 1948: New York, NY:

"Well, that could have gone better," Rollie Barrell remarked to his wife as he loosened his tie. The taxi ride back to the Waldorf after the press conference hadn't allowed Rollie enough time to fully process the chaos that had ensued after Daniel Prescott's dramatic entrance.

Francie harrumphed and commented, "No one ever said that Dan Prescott would go down without a fight, Roland." She was spot on, and Rollie knew it. Yet, the idea of expansion, especially in the wake of losing four top teams, was confounding. Prescott was many things, but crazy wasn't one of them.

"I don't think he can pull this off," Rollie opined. "Where's he going to find players?"

"Oh, there will be basketball enthusiasts in those new cities," Allie chimed in as she walked into the main room of the two-bedroom suite.

"No doubt," Francie agreed.

Rollie successfully removed his tie and tossed it onto the bed next to his jacket. "Sure, there will be players, but the cream of the crop is already signed, and the majority are with the Fed."

"True, but let's not underestimate the love for the game," Allie pointed out, perching herself cautiously on the bed's edge after a warning from Francie not to wrinkle her father's jacket.

With a foot of space between her and the jacket, Allie continued. "People will play, given the chance."

Rollie sensed a knock on the suite door.

He exchanged glances with Francie. The memories of that fateful night in a hotel room in New York, with Bigsby's enforcers searching for Joe Barrell, rushed back. It was a night that had forever altered Rollie's life, but that was long ago.

Francie frowned, and Allie appeared curious, wondering why her father hadn't opened the door yet.

A second knock came, and Bernie Millard's voice called out, "Rollie? Open up, I've got news."

Rollie raised an eyebrow and opened the door.

Millard entered the room in a bit of a disheveled state, his tie askew and hair ruffled. He clutched his familiar bowler hat, his grip twisting its brim.

"What news?" Rollie asked without delay.

"I returned to my room, and a messenger had delivered the ABC by-laws," Millard explained. Rollie wore a puzzled expression. Millard smirked and continued, "Well, I did buy an ABC franchise, and this was just some paperwork that got delayed."

Understanding dawned on Rollie. "And?" he prompted.

"It turns out," Millard revealed, "the rules governing the American Basketball Conference never considered the possibility of teams leaving the league without folding. This means that I, along with Bigsby, Williams, and Wright, retain voting rights. We can veto Prescott's expansion plan into the Midwest."

Rollie's thoughtful look led to a question. "But how can that be true? Didn't you forfeit your franchise rights when joining the FBL?"

Millard's face hardened, displaying a bulldog-like determination. "We haven't officially left yet. We'd need to file paperwork to exit the ABC, and none of us have done so. Until we do, we can deadlock any vote Prescott calls. Basketball season is months away, Rollie. We can make it nearly impossible for Prescott."

Rollie turned and began pacing. Francie and Allie had moved to the bed, his jacket now resting atop the pillows. They watched intently as Rollie mulled over the situation.

"We can leverage this," he finally suggested.

"That's why I'm here," Millard replied somewhat testily. "It's why I rushed over."

Rollie clarified, "You misunderstand. We can use this as leverage to bring all eight ABC clubs, including Prescott's, into the FBL."

Millard's eyes widened, and he shook his head. "Prescott would never agree to that, and honestly, I'm not sure we'd want him. He's a…" He hesitated when he glanced at Allie. "You know how I feel about that man."

Rollie was well aware of the animosity between Millard and Prescott, who each owned a baseball club in FABL's Continental Association. Their rivalry was bitter, and they collaborated only when it came to controlling their baseball players.

"All that's true," Rollie acknowledged, "but if we can bring Brooklyn on board..."

Millard's frown deepened, but Rollie knew he grasped the logic.

Rollie nodded, a faint smile on his face. "We can unite everyone under one umbrella. No more competing leagues... and salaries can be brought down," he trailed off, knowing that the prospect of salary control was Millard's primary concern, given the soaring costs in baseball due to the rival Great Western League, an entity Millard railed against constantly.

Millard still appeared hesitant, but the wheels were turning in his head.

Rollie suggested, "Let's get Prescott on the line."

Rollie went to the phone on the desk, dialed, and asked the hotel operator to connect him to the offices of the Prescott Bottling Company. He knew that's where Dan Prescott would be—Prescott had an office at Kings County Stadium, but he preferred working out of his bottling company office.

A moment later, Prescott's irritable voice growled, "What do you want, Barrell?"

Prescott's sour mood persisted as Rollie explained the situation. Millard joined the conversation on the other extension, asserting that he and the other three owners were prepared to block Prescott's expansion plan. Prescott could either lead the other three clubs—Richmond, Rochester, and Hartford—to join the FBL or find themselves in an untenable position.

"We could take this to court," Prescott threatened.

Rollie responded calmly, "Your own league by-laws don't address clubs leaving the league, Dan. Legally, there's nothing there."

Prescott argued, "Rules can be changed."

"True," Millard interjected, "but you'd still need the votes of all eight clubs."

After much grumbling, Prescott eventually conceded. He would discuss the situation with the owners of the other three clubs and didn't anticipate any significant opposition from them. Rollie figured the three smaller-market clubs would gladly embrace the opportunity to join a larger league, and it would also reduce their operating costs. In the end, the players would have just one choice if they wanted to play professionally.

"I don't like this, Rollie," Prescott admitted, "but you're right. This could end up being the best thing for all of us."

Rollie pumped his fist in the air, and Francie and Allie clapped their hands enthusiastically.

"Looks like the Federal Basketball League just doubled in size," Rollie declared.

Millard added with a smile, "And it's now the only game in town."

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legendsport · 09-13-2023, 10:23 AM

July 19, 1948: Toronto, ON:

Jack Barrell sat in the living room, engrossed in a crossword puzzle from the Mail and Empire. He often solved puzzles after reading Brett Bing's articles. With baseball in full swing, Bing primarily covered the Wolves, but Jack also kept an ear out for basketball news. Bernie Millard seemed to have worked his magic, or perhaps greased a few palms, securing a move for the Toronto Titans to Syracuse. Meanwhile, Millard's newly-purchased team, the Pittsburgh Falcons, would be moving in and tipping off at Dominion Gardens this fall. Jack, who worked for Gardens' (and Toronto Dukes) owner David Welcombe, knew he might occasionally cross paths with Millard. At least he wouldn't answer to Millard directly.

Only nine days had passed since Jack's daughter Aggie's wedding. She had married Quinton Pollack, a center for the Toronto Dukes. Jack had coached Pollack both in Tacoma and now in Toronto. He held the young man in high regard, although he hadn't hesitated to deliver a fatherly warning against hurting Aggie, lest he incur Jack Barrell's wrath.

Amid the tranquillity of his summer break from hockey, Jack pondered a ten-letter word for "brouhaha" when the phone rang. Marie was out, and although Vera was home, Jack wasn't certain she would answer the phone. He sighed, just about to put the newspaper down when he heard Vera's call that she would answer the phone. Not entirely sure if the call was for him or one of the others, Jack bent over the newspaper. "A ten-letter word," he mumbled.

Vera peeked her head around the doorway between the living room and the kitchen. "Dad, it's for you, someone named 'Batcher' or something," she said.

Jack frowned slightly. Batcher? He thanked Vera and picked up the phone. "Hello, this is Jack," he greeted.

"Barrell! Badger Rigney here, how you doing, you old so-and-so?" came the voice on the other end.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't my old pal Dick Rigney," Jack said, attempting to rile up an old adversary from his playing days. In their heyday, Richard "Badger" Rigney had been known as one of the game's most relentless defensemen. If Jack was honest with himself, he'd admit they shared quite a few traits in their playing style. Jack had eventually switched to playing right wing, but he had started his professional career as a hard-hitting defenseman.

"Hey, cut it out with that 'Dick' stuff, will ya? Only my mother calls me Dick," Rigney responded, a hint of amusement in his voice.

"Yeah, I'm just trying to get a rise out of you, Rigney," Jack confessed before inquiring about the reason for the call. While they had been rival players, they held deep respect for each other. Rigney had coached the Brooklyn Eagles during Jack's tenure as Detroit's coach, and their relationship, marked by mutual respect, had continued from there. However, they had never quite become friends.

"I wanted to get your take on something," Rigney explained.

"My opinion? On what?" Jack asked.

"I've been offered the head coaching job in Detroit," Rigney revealed.

Jack nodded, though he knew Rigney couldn't see it. "Let me guess, you want to know what it's like working for Junior?" Jack inquired.

"Hit the nail on the head," Rigney confirmed. He shared that while he had played for Connolly Jr. when the latter owned the Quebec Champlains in the 1930s, his personal dealings with the owner had been limited. He had been a player, and his summers typically involved signing whatever contract the general manager sent his way. Jack could relate; he had followed a similar path.

"Right..." Jack began, pausing briefly to gather his thoughts. "My relationship with Junior is complicated," Jack began explaining. "He's not a bad guy, but as he gets older, he's becoming more and more like his father."

John Connolly Sr. had been a polarizing figure in pro hockey even before the formation of the NAHC. Connolly was a wealthy man, with silver mines and a deep love for competition, especially hockey. He didn't shy away from unscrupulous tactics to win, such as poaching players from other teams—an all-too-common practice in the early days of pro hockey. Even fellow owners found Connolly Sr. insufferable, despite his wealth. Junior, while less extreme than his father, had increasingly meddled in the affairs of the Detroit Motors as time went on. This meddling had led to a falling out between Junior and Jack, who had been the team's coach since Connolly took over. The result was Jack's firing and subsequent exile to the "wilderness" of the Great Western Hockey League. Fortunately, his return to Toronto was swift, thanks to the Dukes' swift action.

"That's my concern... I've heard stories about Junior's father that would make your hair stand on end," Rigney admitted.

Jack had known Connolly Sr., who had met a violent end at the hands of a jealous lover during one of hockey's most scandalous episodes. Jack hadn't liked the man, but he had signed to play for him, much to the dismay of his parents and grandmother. This decision had brought him into contact with Junior, who was close in age. They had become friends, at least until Junior fired him.

"Junior was generally a fair and sometimes generous owner," Jack added. "I'm not sure I'd work for him again, given the history. But I also wouldn't dissuade you from working for him."

Jack paused for a moment before continuing, "Like most owners, he thinks he knows more than he actually does. Profit often takes precedence over winning, even if Junior has historically been more about winning. He has money to spend, but he's mindful of it. His main instruction to the coaching staff has always been 'win first, worry about costs later.'"

Rigney expressed gratitude for Jack's insights. Jack remarked, "I'd wish you luck, but I've got a team of my own to coach. So, I'll wish you luck against everyone but the Dukes." Rigney laughed, and when Jack added, "Especially the Valiants. Feel free to beat them as often as you can," Rigney laughed even harder.

Hearing her father's laughter, Vera reappeared in the doorway. She raised an eyebrow, and Jack smiled as he hung up.

"That seemed like a lively chat," Vera observed.

Jack shrugged. "Just two old defensemen reminiscing, Vera."

Vera was about to return to the kitchen when Jack asked, "Hey... a question for you... a ten-letter word for 'brouhaha.' Any ideas?"

Vera thought for a moment and suggested, "Donnybrook?"

Jack noted it down. "That fits. Thanks, Vera!"

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Badger Rigney, Hamilton Hammers, 1924
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legendsport · 09-30-2023, 09:55 AM

September 9, 1948: Egypt, GA:

On the morning of September 9, 1948, the sun rose over the rolling hills of Egypt, Georgia, casting a warm, golden light over the Barrell family farm. The world awoke to the chirping of birds and the gentle rustling of leaves. It was a serene morning, one that seemed to promise the beauty of a new day.

In the heart of this tranquil countryside, Rufus Barrell lay in his bed, surrounded by the memories of nearly seventy-five years. Born on June 13, 1873, on this very farm, Rufus had crisscrossed America, but his life remained rooted in the soil of Egypt. He had seen the seasons change, tended to the crops, and watched his family grow from generation to generation.

As the first rays of sunlight filtered through the curtains, Alice Barrell, Rufus's beloved wife of nearly sixty years, stirred from her sleep. A sense of peace washed over her as she gazed at the man lying beside her. Rufus had been her rock, her partner through all of life's trials and triumphs. Together, they had weathered storms, celebrated victories, and mourned losses.

In their long and loving journey together, Rufus and Alice had raised ten children: Joe, Rollie, Jack, Jimmy, Dan, Fred, Tom, Bobby, Harry, and Betsy. Their sons and daughter had been their pride and joy, the living testament to their enduring love. But the years had not been without heartache. The memories of losing Joe in a tragic plane crash on February 25, 1934, and Jimmy, who met his end in a fateful auto race in Indianapolis on May 31, 1919, still weighed heavily on their hearts.

The room was filled with the soft rustling of linen sheets and the rhythmic sound of Rufus's peaceful breathing. The lines etched on his face were the roadmap of a life well-lived, a life devoted to family and to a passion that had defined him.

Rufus had been a baseball pitcher, a prodigy of the game, before a cruel twist of fate had cut short his promising career. A freak accident had left him with an injury that robbed him of the pitcher's mound. But Rufus, never one to surrender to despair, had channeled his passion into scouting. With a keen eye for talent and an unwavering dedication to the sport, he became one of the most respected scouts in the business.

He co-founded the Omni Scouting Association, a name now synonymous with excellence in player evaluation. The OSA became the official scouting partner not only of FABL, professional baseball, but also of the AFA, NAHC, and the FBL—professions of football, hockey, and basketball, respectively. Rufus's tireless work had helped shape the landscape of multiple sports, and his name was revered in the world of sports scouting.

Through the years, Rufus had worn many hats. He had served as a scouting director for the Brooklyn Kings, the Washington Eagles, and the Cincinnati Cannons. His knowledge and wisdom had guided these teams to success, and his influence was felt far beyond the boundaries of the baseball diamond.

In the community of the Federally Aligned Baseball Leagues (FABL), Rufus Barrell was not just a legend; he was a beloved figure, a symbol of dedication, and a source of inspiration for countless aspiring athletes.

And now, on this peaceful morning in Egypt, Georgia, Rufus Barrell had come full circle. His life's journey had reached its final chapter. He had left an indelible mark on the world of sports, on his family, and on the hearts of all who had the privilege to know him.

Alice, with tears in her eyes, reached out and gently touched her husband's weathered hand. Rufus, with a serene smile on his lips, had peacefully passed away in his sleep, his spirit now free to join the eternal tapestry of the universe.

As Alice sat by his side, she couldn't help but feel a profound sense of gratitude for the life they had shared—a life filled with love, laughter, and the enduring legacy of a man who had truly made a difference. Rufus Barrell, the man from Egypt, Georgia, had left his mark on the world, and his memory would forever live on in the hearts of those who loved him.

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Rufus and Alice Barrell in Brooklyn, 1906
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legendsport · 10-03-2023, 11:21 AM

September 13, 1948: Egypt, GA:

The private family service for Rufus Barrell on Monday, September 13, 1948, held at his family's farm in Egypt, Georgia, was a solemn occasion that brought together the entire Barrell clan. Gathered to pay their respects, they mourned the passing of their beloved family patriarch, Rufus Barrell.

Rollie Barrell, Rufus and Alice's eldest surviving child, took it upon himself to deliver the eulogy in place of his brother Joe. Rollie recognized that Joe would have humorously claimed he wasn't up to the task of delivering a speech, but he also knew Joe would have done an admirable job if called upon.

The weather on that day was pleasant, and the service took place outdoors, a fitting choice for Rufus, who had always been an outdoors enthusiast. While he had initially resisted farm life as a teenager, his deep-rooted connection to the family's land in Egypt, Georgia, had grown over the years, and he had come to love it.

Rollie had dedicated much of the weekend to crafting the eulogy, a task he found challenging. How could one adequately bid farewell to a man who had played such a profound role in shaping his life? The news of Rufus's passing, conveyed by his mother on September 9th, had left Rollie stunned. Rufus had been a constant presence in his life, much like the sun, providing warmth and energy to his children. Now, that light had dimmed.

Rollie arrived in Egypt on Thursday night, having traveled from Detroit to Atlanta by air, a mode of transportation that had significantly shortened the journey compared to the long train rides of the past. Francie and Allie had accompanied him, while Marty, due to her husband's coaching commitments, would arrive on Saturday.

The Barrell family was fully represented at the service. Joe was represented by his children: Deuce, Gloria, Roger Cleaves, and Charlie. Jack, Marie, and their daughters Aggie and Vera had traveled from Toronto. Jean had flown in from New York. Jimmy's son, James Slocum, attended with his wife Rose. Dan and Gladys had arrived from Washington with their sons Mike and Steve. Fred, Tillie, and their family had flown in from Detroit. Fred's family had grown by one - their daughter Loretta had arrived in July, and Fred tearfully mourned the fact that she'd never get to meet her grandfather.

Tom, Bobby, and Harry, all active with FABL ballclubs, had the day off and attended with their spouses and children. The youngest of Rufus and Alice's children, Betsy, was also present, along with her husband, Tom Bowens, who worked as an offensive coach for the Detroit Maroons.

Possum Daniels and his family, and Tom Pontetas, still a bachelor, were the only non-family invited to the service. Rollie wasn't sure that Possum would make it. The loss of his oldest friend had left the old and wheelchair-bound catcher in a deep depression and he'd spoken barely a word, except to Alice. And that had been done privately.

In total, 54 Barrells had gathered, making it an intimate yet sizable funeral. Some were Barrells by marriage, but in the eyes of Rufus and Alice, they were all family. As Rollie escorted his mother to her seat, he asked her to take a moment to look at the assembly. She gazed out at the crowd, and Rollie remarked, "A mighty brood, and a fitting legacy, Mom."

Standing in front of the large and familiar gathering, Rollie knew he had to remain strong as he delivered the eulogy for his father, who had touched so many lives. He began his speech:

"Ladies and gentlemen, family and friends,

We gather here today on this peaceful Georgia farm, a place of cherished memories for our family, to pay our final respects to a remarkable man, Rufus Barrell. Rufus, born right here on June 13, 1873, lived a life of extraordinary character, dedication, and love, leaving an indelible mark on all of us who had the privilege of knowing him.

Rufus was not just my father; he was a husband, a father of ten, a grandfather, and a friend to many. His journey began on this very land, a testament to his deep roots in this community and his enduring connection to the land that he tilled and nurtured.

As we remember Rufus today, we cannot help but think of the profound losses he endured throughout his life. He and my mother, Alice, shared almost six decades together, facing the challenges and joys that life bestowed upon them. They knew the heartache of losing two of their sons, my dear brothers Joe and Jimmy, under circumstances that no parent should ever bear. Those losses weighed heavily on their hearts, a pain that only the strongest of bonds could weather. But through it all, their love remained steadfast, a testament to their resilience and commitment to each other.

Rufus was a man of many talents and passions. He possessed a remarkable gift for the game of baseball. And baseball loved him too - he found not only his wife - my mother Alice - through the game, but also his oldest and best friend, the man for whom I'm named, though we all just call him Possum. As a young man, my father was a supremely talented pitcher, and it seemed as though his future in the sport was boundless. Fate, however, had other plans, and a line drive in New York abruptly ended his playing career. But Pop didn't let that setback define him. He turned his attention to scouting, and in doing so, he discovered a new path—one that would lead to great success and lasting impact for countless aspiring ballplayers.

He co-founded the Omni Scouting Association (OSA) alongside his dear friend and partner, Thomas Potentas. Together, they revolutionized the world of scouting, not only in baseball but across multiple sports. Rufus was a talent whisperer, uncovering hidden gems and future legends. His work with OSA helped shape the landscape of professional sports, and his keen eye for talent earned him the respect and admiration of colleagues and players alike.

Rufus' journey took him - and our family various places, most notably to Brooklyn where he worked for the Kings, but also to Washington, and Cincinnati. He served as a scouting director and even took on the role of club president of the Eagles during the tumultuous times of World War II. His dedication to the game and his unshakeable integrity made him a beloved figure in the FABL community. Were this not a private, family gathering, we'd need the Bigsby Oval to hold all the people who'd gather to pay their respects to Rufus Barrell.

In this year of 1948, a year that will forever be etched in our hearts in joy and sadness, Rufus received the highest honor any baseball professional can attain: induction into the Hall of Fame. It was a testament to his lifelong dedication to the sport he loved and the impact he had on countless lives.

But beyond his professional achievements, Rufus was a loving father, a guiding presence, and a source of unwavering support to all of us. He instilled in his children the values of hard work, perseverance, honesty, and loyalty, qualities that have defined our family for generations.

As we bid farewell to Rufus today, let us remember the legacy he leaves behind - look around you, it is here and all around us. In fact, it is us. Let us cherish the memories of his warm smile, his wise counsel, and his boundless love. In his honor, may we carry forward the values he held dear, and may we continue to nurture the bonds of family and friendship that were so important to him.

Rufus, you may have left this earthly realm, but your spirit lives on in our hearts and in the stories we share. Your legacy is secure, and your memory will forever be a guiding light in our lives.

Rest in peace, Pop. You will be deeply missed, but never forgotten."

The words echoed across the Georgia farm, a fitting tribute to a man who had left an indelible mark on his family and the world of sports. Rufus Barrell may have passed on, but his legacy lived on in the hearts and minds of those who knew and loved him.

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The Barrell Family Farm, 1948
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legendsport · 10-27-2023, 05:17 PM

December 15, 1948: Egypt, GA:

Alice Barrell lasted just three days short of three months without her husband.

The day after his mother's funeral, Rollie Barrell walked up the steps of the farmhouse, went inside, and paused for a moment reflecting on the eerie stillness. This was a house that had rarely known quiet from the moment Rufus had rebuilt it after the fire and he and Alice settled in to raise their brood of ten children. There would be no Barrell Christmas gathering this year, a suspension Rollie feared might be permanent. He and his siblings were adults now, spread in various cities across the continent with all now having children of their own.

Sighing deeply, Rollie navigated to what used to be his father's study. Despite the ample space in the farmhouse, Rufus had kept the study confined to a small corner, a testament to the habits of a man devoted to a routine. Rollie knew the combination to the safe hidden in that room and the model was the same as his own back in Detroit. Alice had disclosed the safe's code on the day of Rufus' funeral, perhaps realizing that her days on Earth were also numbered. She had passed away peacefully in her sleep, seemingly losing the will to live without Rufus by her side.

A solitary tear threatened to spill from Rollie's eye, and he hastily brushed it away. Focusing on the safe, he swiftly turned the dial, opening it to reveal a copy of the will Alice had drafted after Rufus' passing. She had been the sole beneficiary, yet her practicality led her to arrange the document for the benefit of the next generation.

Removing the paper from the simple, unassuming envelope, Rollie's eyes moved along the lines. The wealth and stock holdings were to be divided among the eight living children. As he continued reading, a look of initial confusion shifted to a faint, wry grin.

Placing the paper back into the envelope, Rollie closed the safe, locking it out of sheer habit, even though it was now empty. He proceeded outdoors, locking the door behind him and securing the key. A quiet gesture of preservation, for now.

Descending the steps slowly, he grappled with the surreal feeling that engulfed him. It had been almost thirty years since he resided with his parents, yet the realization that he would never see them again, even two months after Rufus' passing, was still challenging to reconcile.

Francie waited in the car, as always a steadying presence in his life. Reflecting on their shared history, Rollie remembered the first encounters that felt far from friendly when they had met during a charity golf event.

Seeing his grin as he settled into the driver's seat, Francie raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

Rollie's smile remained as he replied, "Just reminiscing about when we first met."

Her response held a glint of humor. "I guess I should be glad it made you smile."

"Always, my love," Rollie said, leaning over to gently kiss her cheek.

Puzzled by Rollie's somewhat upbeat mood, Francie inquired, "What's going on? Did your parents leave a fortune to you we weren't aware of?"

Rollie shook his head. "No, it's not that. The money is being divided among us. It's something else," he gestured, indicating the farmhouse.

"This?" Francie asked, looking more bewildered. "You mean the farm?"

"Yes," Rollie nodded, a sense of determination in his voice.

"What's about it?" Francie queried.

Rollie shook his head. "Not yet. I need to speak with the lawyer about this. It's... intriguing," he stated, holding the envelope.

Francie sighed, recognizing the familiar look in her husband's eyes. She understood that Rollie was not ready to share the details, and she would have to be patient.

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Eugene Church · 10-27-2023, 06:00 PM

Man, I don't have time to read this... but I think I will just have to... it is brilliantly written.

I just looked at it today for the first time and you got me on the first page.

Superb work, legendsport.

08-09-2023, 09:35 AM	#321
legendsport Hall Of Famer Join Date: Jan 2002 Location: Behind The Lens Posts: 2,867	February 10, 1948: Detroit, MI: "Well, well, well, the prodigal husband returns," Tillie exclaimed as Fred Barrell walked into their home, clutching his battered suitcase. "Tillie, darling, I missed you," Fred said wearily. He felt as though he'd been put through the wringer not once, but twice. "How was your trip?" his wife inquired as he hung his hat and shrugged out of his heavy coat. Fred let out a short, humorless laugh and responded, "I think I enjoyed my boat ride across the channel in '44 more." "That bad, huh?" Tillie asked, her tone carrying an edge that made Fred uneasy. He glanced at her and saw her frowning. "Okay, what happened?" he asked, a mix of resignation, apprehension, and sheer exhaustion in his voice. "Your sons…" Tillie began, but Fred interrupted, asking, "All of them?" Tillie had her hands on her hips as she nodded. "Yes, all of them." "What did they do?" Tillie proceeded to list the offenses of their three sons, each of whom managed to drive their mother to the brink of madness whenever Fred wasn't around. Fred himself wasn't much of a disciplinarian, but his sons saw him as unbreakable, strong, and unwavering. They listened and respected him. Tillie, however, had a hard time reining them in. Their oldest, Freddy, was now 15 and a high school freshman. "Junior's grades," Tillie hissed, "are terrible. That boy isn't dumb, but he sure acts like it." She handed Fred a report card, and after a quick glance, he could confirm that the grades were indeed terrible. "I'll talk to him and remind him that school is important," Fred promised. And he would - Junior was definitely not stupid, but like his cousin Charlie (even though both were unaware of this common trait) he had himself pegged as a soon-to-be pro athlete, and exerted no effort when it came to schoolwork. "Benny got into another fight," Tillie informed him next. Ben at 10 years old, was too young for Junior to want anything to do with him and too old to want anything to do with his younger brother. And he had a lot of Reid in him: a short-temper and was quick to go to his fists to settle disagreements. Much like Fred's brother Joe had been. Fred raised an eyebrow at his wife, awaiting details. With a sigh, Tillie explained, "Benny was walking Hobie to school, and they came across a bigger boy who was… I don't know, trying to steal some kid's lunch money or something. The details are fuzzy, and Ben won't talk about it - most of this is from Hobie." Fred nodded. Hobie, their youngest at six years old, was certainly a handful. Tillie continued, "Ben walked up to this kid, who apparently is 13 years old, and punched him in the nose." Fred shrugged and said, "Well, if this other kid was acting like a bully, I'd say he got what he deserved." Tillie shook her head and admitted, "I'd agree, except that he's now suspended from school because this happened on school grounds and the boy he punched? His father's a cop." Fred rolled his eyes and said, "Great." He made a mental note to find out who this cop was - maybe a couple of tickets to Opening Day would soften him up. He took a deep breath and then asked, "And what did Hobie get into?" Tillie chuckled and replied, "He decided to paint his bike." "Paint his bike?" Fred questioned, pointing out, "It's February, and we live in Detroit. The streets and sidewalks are covered in snow or ice." Tillie agreed with a nod. "Exactly. That's why our industrious Hobart thought it would be the perfect time for bicycle maintenance." Fred shook his head. Hobart was named after Tillie's maiden name, and he lived up to it. He was flighty and carefree, traits he clearly inherited from his mother. "So, how did that turn out?" Fred asked hesitantly. "About how you'd expect when a six-year-old takes on the task," Tillie said with a sigh. "The garage is a mess, and there's red paint on the Lincoln's bumper." Fred groaned, realizing he'd have to clean up the mess. He loved that car, and it hadn't come cheap. Tillie fixed him with a look. "Clearly, you need to have a serious talk with them." "I will, tomorrow. I'm tired," Fred replied. "Me too," Tillie said, her tone softening. "Are you hungry?" Fred realized he was, and he nodded. She smiled—cooking for him was something she loved. "Come to the kitchen, and you can tell me about Cuba." They settled at the table. It was mid-afternoon, and their three boys were at school. Fred recounted his time in Cuba. The Cuban Winter League had wrapped up the previous week and the Havana Sharks, who drew their players from Fred's employer the Detroit Dynamos as well as the Cincinnati Cannons (each of the Cuban league teams were affiliated with two clubs, one from the Federal and one from the Continental Associations). "Jackie Harper looked good," Fred noted. Tillie bobbed her head - she still followed baseball, that was how they'd met and she knew that Harper, a minor league catcher, was someone Fred kept an eye on as a former receiver himself. "I gave him a few tips," Fred admitted. Tillie laughed and said, "Oh, I'd have expected nothing less." Fred also mentioned Hub Bledsoe, an outfielder with good power. "He hit 10 homers which was tied for third in the league, but I don't think he'll hit for enough average to hack it in FABL," Fred explained as he ate his sandwich. "Cuba's one thing, the FABL is something else entirely," he added before taking another bite of his sandwich. "This sandwich is great, Tillie," he said with a grin that punctuated his statement. Tillie gave him a level look. "I have some news... unrelated to our hooligan sons, or at least, mostly," she said. Confusion ran across Fred's face. "News? And that bit about the boys... what's going on?" he asked. "Well, it appears that you accomplished something before you left for Cuba," Tillie said. Fred frowned, and thought a moment. "I don't remember anything," he said. Now she harrumphed and said, "Oh, you did something alright, Fred Barrell." She reached across the table and poked him in the chest. "I'm pregnant." Fred almost choked on his sandwich. After quickly swallowing, he sputtered, "Pregnant!" She crossed her arms, her expression a mix of anger and sadness. "Yes, three months along," she said. "I'm thrilled to see how excited you are." Fred ran a hand across his face. "I'm surprised, that's all," he said honestly. "I didn't see this coming. I mean, I'm 42, and you're 39. I thought we were past the diaper stage." Tillie smirked and quipped, "So did I. But, you know, we did have that memorable send-off before you left for Cuba." Fred blushed, remembering that night. He grinned and said, "Guess that's what did it, huh?" "Apparently," Tillie replied dryly. As he chewed, Fred mulled over the news. "You know," he said, "maybe this time we'll have a girl." Tillie laughed and said, "We can only hope." ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Fred and Tillie Barrell at home, 1948 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ __________________ Hexed & Countered on YouTube Figment League - A fictional history of baseball - Want to join in the fun? Shoot me a PM! Read the story of the Barrell Family - A Figment Baseball tale The Figment Sports Universe - More Fake Sports Than You Can Shake a Stick At!

08-10-2023, 08:44 AM	#322
legendsport Hall Of Famer Join Date: Jan 2002 Location: Behind The Lens Posts: 2,867	February 17, 1948: Washington, DC: Gladys Summers Barrell felt like a spy, a well-placed agent on this particular mission. Unfortunately, her entourage made her stand out more than she would have preferred. "This place is fantastic," Charlie Barrell exclaimed, trailing behind Gladys, with his latest girlfriend closely attached to his side. Gladys had a soft spot for Charlie, even though he often exuded an excessive amount of self-assuredness. However, the real issue stemmed from the two men following behind Charlie. Bobby Barrell overheard his nephew's remark and gestured towards the ceiling where elegant crystal chandeliers dangled. The National Auditorium indeed boasted an impressive ambiance. "I wonder if they installed those chandeliers during or after the Depression," Bobby mused. Walking beside Bobby, Roger Cleaves took a quick glance upward before grinning mischievously. He inquired, "Have you ever spotted such grandeur in a ballpark, Bob?" "Absolutely. They had, or at least used to have, baseball-themed chandeliers in the rotunda at Kings County in Brooklyn. I remember seeing them when I was a kid," Bobby responded. Gladys and her companions were at the National Auditorium to witness a basketball showdown between the Washington Statesmen and the visiting Boston Centurions, two of the American Basketball Conference's top-tier teams. Gladys had a dual mission: to escort Charlie, his girlfriend (whose name she had already forgotten), and Gladys' renowned brother-in-law Bobby Barrell, along with his slightly less renowned nephew Roger Cleaves, to the game. However, the second and more critical objective was on behalf of another brother-in-law, Rollie Barrell. "You attend many games, don't you, Gladys?" Bobby inquired. Gladys turned momentarily and nodded. "Certainly, I'm fond of basketball," she explained, which was true, though naturally, it was only part of the story. Back in November, Rollie had asked for her assistance in providing him with "some tips," as he put it, regarding the ABC's players. Being the League President of the Federal Basketball League (FBL) and the owner of the Detroit Mustangs, Rollie sought an advantage in the ongoing rivalry between the two leagues, one which often led to player poaching. He sought inside information on the ABC's players, particularly those flying under the radar, who might be tempted by contract offers from the FBL. Rollie's reasoning made sense to Gladys. Moreover, she missed scouting. While being a mother to two boys consumed much of her time, she had once been a basketball scout for the original FBL. Now, with Dan occupied by his responsibilities at OSA, he had reluctantly consented to her discreet scouting efforts, recognizing her passion for the task. And now Bobby and Roger had shown up. They had a couple weeks left before spring training, and the Philadelphia to DC trip was a short one. Roger desired to know his brother Charlie better before the youngster embarked on his college journey at Noble Jones in Georgia. Bobby, on the other hand, had joined for the camaraderie with Roger and to reconnect with his brother Dan and his family. As Dan played host to Bobby's wife Annette and their children back at the house, Gladys guided the group to their seats, strategically positioned in the third row near midcourt. Charlie, being a basketball player himself, was genuinely enthusiastic about witnessing the professionals in action. "I might be competing against these guys in a few years," he boldly proclaimed, fueled by the exuberance of youth. A former basketball player during high school, Bobby shared Charlie's passion for the sport. Roger, however, was merely tagging along to spend time with Charlie. His wife, Evelyn, who was seven months pregnant, had opted to stay back in Philadelphia. Roger intended to catch a late train back home after the game. Meanwhile, Bobby and his family planned to remain in town for a few more days. Seated comfortably, a young boy of about twelve approached Bobby, tapping him on the shoulder. "Hey mister, aren't you Bobby Barrell?" the boy asked in awe. Bobby grinned, and Gladys suspected he might evade recognition as she had witnessed him do on several occasions when he preferred solitude. But this time, his smile was genuine. "Indeed, I am, kid," he answered. He proceeded to sign the boy's program, and in return, the youngster offered effusive thanks. Amid this brief interaction, the group savored a fleeting respite before word began to spread throughout the arena that the FABL's home run champion was in attendance. Shortly after, an usher arrived, slightly delayed, along with a gaggle of kids (and a few adults). "What's going on here?" the usher inquired. "You folks need to return to your seats." Unfazed by his presence, most people paid him no mind. Charlie, however, noticed the usher's reddening face and pointed it out to his girlfriend, sparking her laughter. This caught the usher's attention, and he finally spotted Bobby seated there, two seats away from Charlie, with Roger positioned in between. Gladys could practically see the proverbial lightbulb illuminate over the usher's head. "Excuse me, Mr. Barrell, are these people bothering you?" the usher inquired. Bobby shrugged, wearing an apologetic expression. "Nah, it's alright," he replied as he obligingly signed a young boy's forearm, much to Roger's amusement. "All I ask is that you folks return to your seats once the game resumes. It's not just about being considerate to the other fans; it's also about showing respect to the players on the court," he explained. He emphasized that his presence wasn't meant to overshadow the basketball players, as they, too, were professionals like him. His hope was that everyone would acknowledge their dedication as they pursued their craft. To Gladys' astonishment, Bobby's words had a tangible impact. The group promptly dispersed as the game resumed. She retrieved her notebook from her purse and discreetly placed it inside her open program, ready to jot down notes for Rollie. If anyone inquired, she was prepared to claim she was keeping score—a task that a minority of die-hard basketball fans actually undertook. The game proved to be riveting. Washington, perched atop the Western Division, was the league's dominant force, while Boston, the pride of the Eastern Division, was their formidable opponent. The Statesmen, with a 14-1 home record, faced a stiff challenge from the Centurions. At halftime, the Centurions held a narrow 48-46 advantage. "These guys are good," Charlie Barrell noted. Roger snorted and said, "They'd better be, Charlie. They're paid to do this." The halftime crowd congregated once again in the aisle, and once again the usher attempted, futilely, to disperse them. Bobby interjected, encouraging the crowd to respect the players on the court. This plea resonated, and as the game recommenced, the spectators dutifully returned to their seats. "You handle that quite adeptly," Gladys complimented Bobby. Bobby shrugged modestly. "The fans are the lifeblood of sports. We might be skilled in our domain, but the same holds true for other professions. The difference is that we are athletes, rather than doctors, teachers, accountants, and so on. I believe in showing respect to the fans and acknowledging their importance, but I also urge them to extend that respect to the players," he shared. He grinned and glanced at Roger before adding, "However, it doesn't always unfold so smoothly, right Roger?" Roger nodded, chuckling, as he acknowledged that fans in certain cities—New York being a prime example—relished taunting the visiting team. "It's all part of the game," he concluded, while Bobby nodded in agreement. The game remained tight through an action-packed third quarter. Charlie locked in on Washington point guard Blake Brooks. "Brooks is something else," he noted as the veteran guard seemed to be everywhere for Washington. The star of the team, center Ivan Sisco, was having a good game, but Brooks was the star on this night. Morgan Melcher, the shooting guard for Boston and team mate Gerald Carter were leading the way for the Centurions. "This is good stuff," Charlie enthused. His girlfriend spent more of the game looking at Charlie with doe-eyed adoration than she did watching the game. Charlie, however, paid close attention to the action on the court. "The tempo in this game is quite high," Gladys noted. Charlie always listened to his aunt when it came to basketball. Dan he relied on for football and baseball advice, since his uncle had played in FABL and had also played college football. But Gladys had a surprising amount of knowledge of basketball. Charlie was a sponge - aside from girls, and the brand-new Cadillac his mother had given him, sports was the only thing he talked about. The game went into overtime, and in the extra period, the Statesmen finally pulled away from Boston, winning a hard-fought 130-122 victory. Brooks had scored 35 points with 14 rebounds and 8 assists for Washington, earning raves from Charlie, who played the shooting guard position. Morgan Melcher led all scorers with 37 with 13 rebounds and a couple of assists as well - and he played stellar defense. That was what Gladys focused on, both in her surreptitious scouting and her comments to Charlie. Exiting the seating area proved to be a slow affair, led by the usher. The tight aisle somewhat deterred the crowd, but it still took considerable time to navigate through. Once free, they encountered a well-dressed gentleman awaiting their presence. "Mr. Barrell," he greeted Bobby, "I'm Jack Jones, the Statesmen's General Manager. Mr. Wright would like to meet you." Gladys' eyes widened in surprise. William Wright was the team's owner, a fact that Bobby couldn't and wouldn't ignore. She had already stealthily stowed her notebook back in her purse, a decision she was grateful for now. Minutes later, having been whisked to the arena's upper echelon via a private elevator, the group found themselves in the office of William Wright. "Hello, Gladys," he greeted as they entered. Wright had been an owner in the original FBL, back when Gladys had officially been working for Rollie, who, at that time, had co-owned the Brooklyn Root Beer Barrels (a name Gladys privately thought was rather absurd—Daniel Prescott, Rollie's partner then and the current owner of both FABL's Brooklyn Kings and ABC's Brooklyn Red Caps, had conceived the idea). "Mr. Wright, it's a pleasure to see you after such a long time," she responded courteously. "Indeed," Wright acknowledged. "I've noticed your frequent attendance this season," he added. Gladys felt guilt creep over her again. "Well, you know my passion for basketball," she replied, her statement carrying partial truth. Rollie had solicited her help in November, requesting insight on ABC's players. Wright gave her a steady look and his face was expressionless as he nodded and said, "Of course." Wright shifted his attention to Bobby, and the group spent a few minutes chatting. When it was explained that Charlie was the star guard for the Capital Academy team and would be heading to Noble Jones in the fall, Jack Jones gave Charlie an appraising look. The look turned into a smirk when Charlie boldly predicted, "I'll be playing professional basketball, maybe even here," before adding that assumed FABL or the AFA wouldn't offer more money to play baseball or football, of course. "It's good to be confident, son," Wright chimed in. "Just don't be overly confident. There's a fine line," he added. As they were leaving, Wright pulled Gladys aside. "I know you've been scouting for Rollie," he told her. She swallowed and stared at the older man, unsure of what to say. He frowned for a moment, then said, "It's fine. There's nothing I can do about it, and you're paying for your tickets. Just tell that loudmouth that the ABC is not going to go down without a fight." Gladys nodded, then she asked, "Did that LIFE article get to you?" Wright's frown deepened, but he gave a brisk nod in response and said, "It did. In fact, it got to everyone in the ABC." Gladys turned to leave, and she heard Wright say from behind her, "We've got scouts too, Mrs. Barrell. And I believe in fighting fire with fire." ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Dan and Gladys Barrell, 1948 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ __________________ Hexed & Countered on YouTube Figment League - A fictional history of baseball - Want to join in the fun? Shoot me a PM! Read the story of the Barrell Family - A Figment Baseball tale The Figment Sports Universe - More Fake Sports Than You Can Shake a Stick At! Last edited by legendsport; 08-10-2023 at 09:13 AM.

08-12-2023, 11:12 AM	#323
legendsport Hall Of Famer Join Date: Jan 2002 Location: Behind The Lens Posts: 2,867	February 27, 1948: Egypt, GA: "Dang it!" Possum Daniels complained as his sons helped him up the steps of the Barrell's farmhouse. Rufus and Alice were on the porch, both wearing sad smiles. Possum noticed this and growled, "Why are y'all grinning like gators?" Getting no reply, as both Rufus and Alice knew he wasn't expecting one, Possum added, "Act like y'all never seen an old man before." Possum was 77, three years older than Rufus and two older than Alice. Neither of them saw him as an old man, but nearly twenty years as a catcher had worn their old friend's knees out, and he now needed a wheelchair to get around. Rufus Daniels, Possum's oldest son, was still a professional baseball player at 34. His journeyman career had landed him in the Oakland Grays organization after bouncing around through the Kings, Cannons, Dynamos, and Sailors organizations in FABL. His younger son, Bo, was 26 and much to his father's chagrin, had never played baseball. He was an actuary, something that Possum claimed he couldn't understand. "That boy does nothin' but look at numbers all day, son, and then tells folks what their risk is..." he'd explained to Rufus, who had already known what an actuary did but was curious to see if Possum did. Possum's daughter Juanita and his wife Betty stood at the bottom of the steps, Juanita with both hands on Possum's wheelchair, wearing a concerned look. Betty was in her late fifties, much younger than Possum himself, and had aged from youthful beauty into a stately matron. The Daniels clan was visiting the Barrells because Possum had something for Rufus. Something he couldn't deliver over the phone, and the old catcher refused to give his friend any clues. "You're just gonna have to wait on me for a change, son," he'd told Rufus. When Possum finally made it onto the porch and was settled in his wheelchair, he grinned up at Rufus and said, "This feels right, son," with that old, wiseacre smile. "What feels right?" Rufus asked. "You standing there, looking lost, while I'm looking up at you, just like I did back in Savannah all those years ago when I was crouched behind the plate and you were standing on that bump in the middle of the diamond looking down at me." "We're a lot closer than sixty feet, six inches right now, Rollie," Rufus told his friend. Though he'd long been Possum to the Barrells, Rufus still called him Rollie occasionally since that was his name. Rufus' second son was named after his old friend, which is why the family had taken to using his old baseball nickname, Possum. Possum grinned, "Well, that's a'right, my point's still valid, son." "OK, well, we're together now, Rollie," Rufus said. "What was so important that you had to haul your family here from Alabama?" Possum smirked, reached into his pocket, and pulled out an envelope. "Got somethin' for you, son," he said. Then he stared at the buff-colored envelope for a moment, a strange look on his face, one that Rufus would have said was... wistful? Perhaps. Something he hadn't often seen on Possum's face. He handed the envelope to Rufus. "What's this?" Rufus asked, looking at the envelope, which bore no markings, no writing, nothing at all to indicate what was inside. "Open it 'n see, son," Possum said quietly. Rufus shrugged, then used his finger to rip the envelope open. He pulled the enclosed single sheet of paper from within, unfolded it, and read. Alice, watching his face, saw the shock register there and felt a brief moment of concern before Rufus' face broke out into a broad smile. "This is a joke, right?" he asked Possum. "Naw, I wouldn't do you like that, son. That there is the real deal!" Possum replied. "What is it?" Alice asked. Before Rufus could reply, he saw Possum turn to his son and nod, and then Rufus Daniels stepped off the porch, shoved two fingers in his mouth, and whistled. As Alice's question remained unanswered, everyone's attention was drawn to the lane leading to the house where three cars were driving down the road. "Rufus? What's going on?" Alice asked again. Rufus watched the first car stop and saw Billy Whitney step out, followed by John Brinker of all people. Rufus looked at his wife and held up the paper. "Apparently, I've been selected for induction into the Baseball Hall of Fame," he said. Alice's eyes widened, and she snatched the paper from her husband's hand. She read it quickly, then grabbed him and pulled him into a hug. Billy Whitney came up the steps, wearing a broad smile, slapped Rufus on the back after he had finished his hug, and said, "Congratulations, Rufus!" ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Rufus Barrell's official Hall of Fame portrait ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ __________________ Hexed & Countered on YouTube Figment League - A fictional history of baseball - Want to join in the fun? Shoot me a PM! Read the story of the Barrell Family - A Figment Baseball tale The Figment Sports Universe - More Fake Sports Than You Can Shake a Stick At!

08-15-2023, 03:33 PM	#324
legendsport Hall Of Famer Join Date: Jan 2002 Location: Behind The Lens Posts: 2,867	March 13, 1948: Clearwater, Florida: The night was still and quiet as Roger Cleaves lay in bed, his mind drifting between uneasy sleep and wakefulness. The weight of the nightmares had become heavier with each passing night, and tonight was no different. Evelyn, now eight months pregnant with their first child, slept peacefully beside him, her growing belly a testament to the life they were about to bring into the world. His nightmares had begun gradually, and for reasons Roger couldn't quite fathom, had begun after he'd learned that he was about to become a father. Recently, they'd been occurring more frequently. Now that spring training had begun, Roger had hoped that the physical activity would leave him too tired for the nightmares. But that hadn't been the case. Roger also felt like it was affecting his play. He'd played two games thus far, going 0-for-2 in the spring opener versus Washington and then 1-for-3 two days later against the Gothams - and worst of all, he'd struck out three times. He wasn't alone in his cold start: Bobby was 0-for-7 and Hank Koblenz 1-for-7. Keystones skipper Carl Ames wasn't griping - yet - but unless the club's big bats woke up, he soon would be. Roger rolled over, putting baseball out of his mind. He was playing the next day and needed to get some sleep. Bobby had the other bedroom in the apartment and unlike Roger, he'd left his wife home. The difference there was that Ev was pregnant and Bobby's wife Annette was not. Bobby and Annette also already had two kids. Thinking about how nice it had been of Bobby to allow Roger and Ev to grab the bigger bedroom in the apartment, Roger finally felt himself drifting off to sleep. Suddenly Roger found himself back in the darkness of the nightmare, the chaos of battle unfolding around him once more. He was back on bloody Tarawa again, and he was pinned down on the beach by a relentless barrage of enemy machine gun fire. His heart pounded in his chest as he huddled with his fellow Marines, the deafening sounds of gunfire and explosions echoing in his ears. The acrid smell of gunpowder filled the air, and fear gripped his soul. He looked around, seeing the faces of his comrades, each one etched with determination and terror. They were like brothers, bound together by the crucible of war. Roger's mind raced, worrying about their safety, praying that they would make it out of this nightmare alive. "Keep your heads down!" he shouted, his voice drowned out by the cacophony of battle. "We'll make it through this! We need to get off this beach!" But no matter how hard they fought, the enemy's assault seemed unending, artillery blasts sending razor-sharp shrapnel everywhere. Roger watched in horror as one by one, his friends fell, their bodies hitting the ground with a sickening thud. He tried to reach out to them, to pull them to safety, but he was paralyzed by the overwhelming sense of helplessness. As the nightmare reached its crescendo, Roger's heart pounded in his chest, and he was gasping for breath. He felt trapped, unable to escape the memories that held him captive. But just as it seemed the nightmare would consume him, a warm light pierced the darkness. As Roger thrashed, Evelyn had stirred beside him, her brow furrowing in concern. She turned on the lamp and gently shook him awake, her voice filled with worry. "Roger, are you okay? You were shouting in your sleep again." Roger blinked, his heart racing as he returned to the present. He looked at Evelyn, her worried eyes reflecting the love and concern she held for him. Guilt washed over him for disturbing her sleep with his own turmoil. "I'm sorry, Evelyn," he whispered, reaching out to caress her cheek. "It was just a bad dream, that's all. I didn't mean to wake you." Evelyn held his hand, concern still evident in her expression. "You don't have to apologize, Roger. I'm more worried about you," she said softly, her voice tinged with emotion. As they spoke, a soft knock came at the door. Bobby. His uncle had been awakened too by Roger's cries and after knocking, he called out, "Hey, Roger, everything alright in there?" Roger quickly composed himself and called back, "Yeah, Bobby, it's fine. Just a bad dream, that's all." Bobby knew about Roger's nightmares; Roger had told him about them while on a road trip the previous season. Now Bobby's voice was filled with understanding as he replied, "Alright, just making sure. Let me know if you need anything, okay?" Roger thanked him, then turned his attention back to Evelyn. "Great, even Bobby's concerned," he said with a faint grimace. Evelyn nodded, but her worry didn't fade. "Roger, you don't have to carry this burden alone. I know the war was tough, and those memories won't easily fade, but I'm here for you. We're in this together," she said, her voice filled with determination. She then told Roger about how her father had fought on the Western Front in the First World War and how he'd had nightmares too. "It's nothing to be ashamed about," she told him. Roger took a deep breath, feeling the weight of his emotions lifting ever so slightly. He knew Evelyn was right. He was, and probably always would be, reluctant to discuss his wartime experiences. Some of what he'd seen... was too barbaric to put into words. But as he thought about it, he realized that he didn't have to face the nightmares and the aftermath of war alone. With Evelyn by his side, he felt stronger, more capable of confronting the ghosts that haunted him. "You're right," he admitted, a sense of relief washing over him. "I'm so grateful for you, Evelyn. And I promise, I'll try to talk about it more. I won't shut you out." Evelyn smiled, her love for him shining through. "That's all I want, Roger. To be here for you, no matter what," she said, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to his forehead. As they settled back into bed, Roger felt a sense of peace enveloping him. He knew the nightmares might not vanish overnight, but with Evelyn's love and support, he could face them head-on. And with the arrival of their child just around the corner, he was filled with hope for the future. Together, they drifted back to sleep, their hands intertwined, ready to face whatever challenges came their way as a united front. As the first light of dawn painted the sky, Roger reminded himself just how lucky he was. Many guys hadn't come back from the maelstrom of death and destruction that had been the war. And Roger was doubly lucky because he had not only survived the war, but also found someone truly special. The war left him scarred, but it had also brought Evelyn into his life, and for that Roger would always be grateful. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Roger and Evelyn Cleaves, 1948 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ __________________ Hexed & Countered on YouTube Figment League - A fictional history of baseball - Want to join in the fun? Shoot me a PM! Read the story of the Barrell Family - A Figment Baseball tale The Figment Sports Universe - More Fake Sports Than You Can Shake a Stick At!

08-16-2023, 11:20 AM	#325
legendsport Hall Of Famer Join Date: Jan 2002 Location: Behind The Lens Posts: 2,867	March 19, 1948: Detroit, MI: Rollie Barrell leaned back in his chair, a faint smile curling on his lips as he concluded his conversation. The fingers of his left hand, adorned by a simple gold wedding band, rhythmically drummed upon the polished surface of his desk. His right hand cradled his chin as he pondered the weighty matters that now rested upon his shoulders. Moments later, he rose from his seat, the supple leather of his chair groaning in protest. Crossing the spacious office, he swung open the door and leaned out, beckoning to his ever-efficient secretary with a slight nod. "Could you please get me Jack on the line, Sarah?" he requested in his typically composed manner. Sarah, a pillar of efficiency herself, immediately got to work. As Rollie returned to his seat, the familiar dial tone in his ear was swiftly replaced by his brother's voice. "Rollie? This better be important," Jack's voice grumbled with traces of sleep. Rollie's smile broadened. "Early to rise, my dear brother. But worry not, I haven't called you about the Dukes, not directly at least." Jack, now more awake, retorted, "I need my rest, Rollie. We've got a back-to-back with Detroit this weekend, and playoffs on the line." A chuckle escaped Rollie's lips. "After eight is early? You had no game last night and none tonight, and you certainly won't benefit from beauty sleep. But enough about sleeping, I've had quite an intriguing call this morning from a certain Bernie Millard." A note of curiosity crept into Jack's voice. "Millard? What does he want from you?" Rollie settled into his chair, his tone now more animated. "Well, it's not so much what he wants from me, but rather the questions he's been asking. Let's pause on the reason for a moment. What can you tell me about the man?" Jack let out a contemplative sigh before responding. "Not much, really. He's got a finger in various pies, coal mines mostly. Owns Toronto Wolves over here. Met him once, tough and demanding sort." Rollie's fingers lightly tapped against his chin. "Interesting. Now, let's steer the conversation toward Pittsburgh's basketball scene." "What's Pittsburgh's basketball scene, as you put it, have to do with anything?" Jack asked. Rollie explained that the Pittsburgh Falcons, one of the rival American Basketball Conference's clubs, was apparently in the crosshairs of Millard, who owned FABL's Toronto Wolves and wanted in on pro basketball. As the dialogue continued, Rollie skillfully wove details into his discourse, painting a more vivid picture of the story. The intricate web of personalities, motivations, and alliances came to life under his skillful guidance. Things got really interesting when he mentioned that Millard was also interested in purchasing the Toronto Titans - one of the clubs in Rollie's Federal Basketball League. "Ah, yes, Millard's got aspirations for the Falcons and the Titans," Jack mused. "A combined team, then?" Rollie's voice dripped with satisfaction. "Precisely. And the arena issue? Well, that's where your boss David Welcombe enters the stage." Welcombe owned the Toronto Dukes, and was the former owner of the Wolves before selling them to Millard. The fact that the local media found Millard to be an American loud mouth had mattered little to Welcombe, then or now. But Welcombe did own the Dominion Gardens too. Jack's voice crackled with realization. "Welcombe and his arena. So, Millard wants to merge the Titans and Falcons and shift the new team, whatever it's called, to Pittsburgh?" "Welcombe has an iron-clad lease with the Titans," Rollie explained. "But he also has a history of doing business with Millard," Jack pointed out. "And let's not forget, Pittsburgh is an ABC team. Millard asked me, as League President, if this combined squad would be permitted to join the FBL," Rollie explained. "And is any of this legal?" Jack asked. "For a guy like Millard? I'd say that if he wants it to be legal, he can make it so." "Money talks, eh?" Jack said with a chuckle. "Exactly," Rollie confirmed. "Deep pockets and an army of legal eagles on the payroll, that's what we're dealing with." As the brothers delved deeper into the unfolding narrative, the web of possibilities and challenges continued to expand. Rollie, ever the visionary, knew that this tapestry of intricate moves held the potential to reshape the basketball landscape itself. "The ABC guys would absolutely lose their minds," Rollie told Jack. "That's as obvious as the nose on my face," Jack replied. Jack's 'large honker' as Rollie called it, had been an inside joke between the brothers since childhood. In the end, as the clock's hands moved steadily forward, the conversation lingered on. Jack had always been a good sounding board for Rollie. Though he was older and more experienced in business, Rollie knew he sometimes overlooked details that Jack, as a former athlete and current coach, saw immediately. In this case two minds, united by blood and a shared love for competition, were better than one. As Rollie finally hung up the phone, his eyes gleamed with determination. The journey ahead for his fledgling basketball loop was uncertain, fraught with obstacles and rivalries. But Bernie Millard's money and vision were a weapon Rollie could use in his fight against the ABC. Rollie Barrell was poised to make his mark once more, not just as a team owner, but as a shrewd architect of basketball's destiny. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Bernie Millard at the railroad siding of one of his coal mines, 1948 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ __________________ Hexed & Countered on YouTube Figment League - A fictional history of baseball - Want to join in the fun? Shoot me a PM! Read the story of the Barrell Family - A Figment Baseball tale The Figment Sports Universe - More Fake Sports Than You Can Shake a Stick At! Last edited by legendsport; 08-16-2023 at 01:05 PM.

08-17-2023, 11:10 AM	#326
legendsport Hall Of Famer Join Date: Jan 2002 Location: Behind The Lens Posts: 2,867	March 27, 1948: Hollywood, FL: Deuce Barrell stood beneath the invigorating spray of the shower, a rendition of "Hooray for Hollywood" escaping his lips. This tune had stubbornly occupied his mind for weeks, subjecting him to a fair share of good-natured ribbing. The Cannons' clubhouse at Hollywood Stadium had witnessed not only his humming but also his impromptu singing performances of the catchy melody. It wasn't lost on Deuce that the song celebrated Hollywood, California, rather than its Florida counterpart, but the irony amused him. Meanwhile, in their modest bungalow, Deuce's newlywed wife, Debbie, was in the living room, enveloped in her robe, meticulously folding laundry. Initially excited about accompanying her husband to spring training, her enthusiasm had waned upon discovering the compact size of the bungalow that Deuce had rented. "This place is tiny," she had protested. Deuce had countered, highlighting his and Charley McCullough's years of contentment with adjacent bungalows. However, this comparison had inadvertently touched upon another sensitive topic for Debbie – Gloria McCullough. As Charley was Deuce's best friend, she was intrinsically connected to both men. Yet, it was Gloria's role as Deuce's twin sister that exacerbated matters. The issue lay in Gloria's apparent disapproval of Deuce's marriage to Debbie. A sudden chime of the doorbell prompted a sigh from Debbie. Discarding a pair of Deuce's underpants onto the unfolded laundry pile, she rose and headed to the door. Without bothering to inquire who stood on the other side, she swung the door open. "Hey, sweet cheeks," greeted the young man at the threshold, causing alarm to widen Debbie's eyes. "Bob! What are you doing here?" she whispered urgently. Bob Miller, a member of the Cleveland Foresters, frowned. "What do you mean, what am I doing here?" he retorted. "I heard this is where you were staying and I had to come by and see my favorite girl from Cincy." "You need to leave, now," Debbie hissed with urgency. Miller's frown deepened, then he caught sight of Deuce emerging from the bathroom, strolling into the living room with a towel secured around his waist and his damp hair defying gravity in all directions. Miller's eyes widened, his mouth gaping in astonishment. "Uh..." he stammered, observing the puzzled expression on Deuce's face and the horrified look on Debbie's. "Miller, right?" Deuce queried. "What brings you here?" Miller stumbled over his words, his mind racing. Finally, he managed, "Oh, I'm an old friend of Debbie's. You know Boney Joe, right, Deuce? Joe Crosby... he, uh, informed me that she was staying here, so I thought I'd drop by and say hello." Deuce's eyes narrowed. Debbie couldn't help but wonder if his temper was about to erupt. Fortunately, neither observational nor analytical skills were among Deuce's strong suits. "Oh..." he mumbled. "Bob, this really isn't a good time," Debbie interjected, her eyes pleading with Miller to make a swift exit. However, matters took a nosedive when the door of the McCulloughs' bungalow swung open, and Gloria stepped onto the petite porch. Debbie wished her intrusive sister-in-law would refrain from meddling. "Just an old friend paying a visit," Debbie replied in response to Gloria's inquisitive look. Recognition flickered across Gloria's face as she spotted Miller. "An old friend?" she questioned, undoubtedly calculating that Miller was at least five years younger than Debbie and had only joined the FABL in the just-concluded 1947 season. "Absolutely!" Miller responded with an exaggerated, clearly feigned grin, his anxiety palpable. "Debbie's family and mine go way back. I'm from Lancaster, you know, near Columbus?" Gloria's brow furrowed. Deuce poked his head out of the door, causing Miller to take a step back. "Hey, Gloria! How's my niece?" Deuce called out. Miller looked at Debbie, relief washing over his face. He had evidently realized that Deuce remained oblivious to the situation. Gloria, however, was a different story. "Hey, Debbie, I better get going. Just wanted to say hi. Will I see you guys at the game later?" Miller rushed out, his words too hasty, and he practically dashed to his weathered jalopy parked by the curb. Gloria's frown deepened as she observed his almost frantic departure. She then informed Deuce that baby Linda was asleep. "Ready to head over, Charley?" Deuce inquired, referring to their customary practice of driving to the stadium together. "Absolutely!" Charley McCullough affirmed as he stepped out, passing his wife. Catching sight of Miller, who had made it to his car and was waving in their direction, Charley wore an expression that broadcasted his bewilderment. Gloria whispered, "I'll fill you in later." "Give me ten more minutes, Deuce..." Charley informed his friend. Deuce retreated into the bungalow to change, and Charley followed suit, leaving Gloria and Debbie exchanging uncertain looks. "I know exactly what this is," Gloria declared with a stern undertone, sending an unambiguous warning. "There better not be anything untoward happening." Debbie's brow furrowed, deepening into a scowl. Then, she too entered the bungalow and closed the door behind her. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Deuce was pitching that day, and even in spring, this made him a little manic. He was dressed and out the door, pecking Debbie on the cheek, with two minutes to spare, and he and Charley had driven off. Now, as game time approached, Deuce was feeling pretty good. He'd made a trio of spring starts already and was happy with his results thus far. He'd gone five innings in all three, beating the Sailors 3-2 in his first - and roughest start. Then he'd thrown five shutout innings against the Stars, allowing two hits while striking out eight. His arm was feeling great, probably the best it had since the injury. He struck out six Cougars in a 5-1 win in his next start, giving him a 1.20 ERA over 15 innings with two earned runs, 12 hits, and 4 walks against 16 strikeouts. Even the normally grumpy Ad Doria seemed impressed. "We want more of the same today, Deuce," Doria told him. Deuce nodded, then shook his head at the skipper's back as the old man went back to his cubbyhole of an office. Dan Scurlock, a rookie, was catching that day, and Deuce was going over the Foresters lineup with him, explaining how he wanted to attack various hitters - those he'd pitched to in the past... Cleveland, like everyone else, was running out a bunch of minor leaguers too. At game time, Deuce saw Debbie sitting in the stands. He was disappointed, but not surprised, to note that she was not sitting with Gloria. For whatever reason, they didn't seem to like each other. Paul Porter led off for Cleveland, worked a full count - which drove Deuce crazy - and then singled to right-center. George Dellinger bunted it back to Deuce, whose only play was to first, moving Porter to second. Deuce saw Doria signaling to Scurlock. Apparently, the skipper's mistrust of youngsters extended even to catchers. Orie Martinez was next, and Deuce had a lot of respect for the Puerto Rican outfielder, despite generally handling him well. Deuce got him to hit a fastball off the end of his bat, sending a harmless fly to left. Two down. Lorenzo Samuels stepped in. Deuce had never faced him, but he'd seen him take Charlie Griffith deep three times last season. Samuels was a lefty, and Deuce as a southpaw himself, took full advantage of this, striking out the budding slugger on three pitches. Deuce was in the groove, and he tossed four shutout innings, allowing just three hits, with no walks and five strikeouts. He was no math whiz, but he'd long ago memorized the formula for earned run average and knew he left the game with a 0.95 ERA. He took a seat in the dugout to watch the rest of the game. Charley hadn't started, but subbed in for Charlie Rivera at second base in the sixth. Chris Clarke was on the mound in the top of the sixth. Glenn White singled to lead off for the Foresters, and Clarke walked Walter Hendrickson. Constantine Peters, the wily vet, reached on an error by young Nellie Walters playing in center field, allowing White to score. Bob Miller was announced as a pinch-hitter for Cleveland. Deuce normally tuned out these spring training games once he was done, sometimes just retiring to the clubhouse to play cards. But he watched Miller as he stepped into the batter's box. He didn't know much about him: he'd faced him just once, and retired him on a ground out. Miller showing up at Deuce's bungalow was strange, there was no other way to look at it. Clarke grooved one on the very first pitch and Miller smoked it over the third base bag and down into the corner. Hendrickson and Peters scored and the 3-0 lead the Cannons had enjoyed was gone. Miller stood on the bag at second, clapped once and then blew a kiss to someone. Someone sitting behind the Cannons dugout. Deuce frowned. He stood up and poked his head over the top of the dugout. He saw his wife, three rows up. She was blushing. Deuce pursed his lips in a deep frown. Out on the infield, Charley McCullough sidled up to Miller. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" he asked. "None of your business, McCullough," Miller retorted. Charley's eyebrows rose and then a scowl creased his face. "Deuce Barrell is my best friend and my brother-in-law. Stay away from his wife or I'll thrash you within an inch of your life," he snarled. "Oh, yeah?" Miller challenged. Young Clifton Smith, playing shortstop, ambled over and whispered, "You two better knock it off." Both men looked and saw first base umpire Paul Kibbens looking at them with a frown on his face. "We have a problem, gentlemen?" he asked. "No... no problem," McCullough replied. As Kibbens nodded, Charley looked back at Miller and said in a voice too low to carry far, "At least, not yet. You've been warned, Miller." He went back to his position as Miller frowned, spit at his feet, and took his lead. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Debbie Barrell in Florida, 1948 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ __________________ Hexed & Countered on YouTube Figment League - A fictional history of baseball - Want to join in the fun? Shoot me a PM! Read the story of the Barrell Family - A Figment Baseball tale The Figment Sports Universe - More Fake Sports Than You Can Shake a Stick At! Last edited by legendsport; 08-17-2023 at 11:22 AM.

08-21-2023, 12:15 PM	#327
legendsport Hall Of Famer Join Date: Jan 2002 Location: Behind The Lens Posts: 2,867	March 31, 1948: Toronto, ON: Even deep within the bowels of the Dominion Gardens, the players and staff of both teams could hear the fans. To say the fans were fired up would have been the world's biggest understatement. The defending Cup Champion Boston Bees were in town, it was game three of the Challenge Cup semifinals and their Toronto Dukes were one win away from a trip to the Finals. Jack Barrell walked into the locker room, a game program curled in his fist, an affectation he'd picked up long ago from Max Dewar, one of his first professional coaches. He stopped and turned to address his team. "Gather 'round boys!" he shouted, quieting the room. He saw Quinton Pollack, his young star, come out of the trainer's room, where he'd been getting a balky shoulder rubbed down by trainer Bert McGowan. Jack nodded at the young man who was to become his son-in-law in the upcoming summer, then slapped his program against the palm of his hand and began speaking: "Tonight, we stand on the threshold of history. We find ourselves in a moment that has been a long time coming—a moment of destiny, of dreams realized, and of greatness achieved. As we gather in this hallowed arena, our beloved home, the Dominion Gardens, let us remember that there is no better place to hoist the Challenge Cup than right here in our city of Toronto. I stand before you, a man who has walked these very corridors as both a player and a coach, basking in the glory of triumph not once, but twice. In 1921, I was fortunate to be part of a team that captured this coveted Cup. Then, as a coach, I had the honor of leading the Dukes to victory in 1935. Now, here we are, on the cusp of yet another glorious chapter in the annals of Toronto Dukes history. Think back to where we were just last season—finished at the bottom, written off by critics, and cast aside by those who believed our glory days were long behind us. But look at us now! Against all odds, we have fought our way through adversity, silenced the naysayers, and carved our path to the cusp of our goal: a chance to play for the Challenge Cup. We stand here not by chance, but through determination, heart, and unity. While we need just one win to seal the sweep, we cannot let the prospect of victory cloud our focus. We must not rest on our laurels, thinking we can take care of business "the next time" if we falter tonight. No, men, we must play each shift, each pass, each shot as if our backs are against the wall. We must fight with a hunger that surpasses all else. That team across the hall? They're the defending champions. Do not for one second think that if we leave them an inch of opening, they will not shove the door wide and seize the initiative. We must not let that happen. Tonight, we ride on the shoulders of Terry Russell, the man who has stood tall between the pipes, guiding us with his skill and resilience thus far this series. But let it be clear that our faith in Terry does not diminish our regard for Gordie Broadway, whose steady presence has been the foundation upon which our journey was built. Without Gordie, we wouldn't have even earned our ticket to these playoffs. Our forwards led by Bobbie Sauer, Quinton Pollack, and Les Carlson, have proven themselves time and again with their passion, drive, and unyielding determination. They carry the weight of our aspirations on their shoulders, knowing that they are the embodiment of our collective will. And let us not forget our defenders— men such as Chad Roy, Philippe Dubois, and J.C. Martel —warriors who stand tall on the blue line, ready to repel any challenge that comes our way. Their strength and resolve have fortified our defense, making our fortress impenetrable. We are a team that plays hard on both ends and when we do that, and do it well, we can beat any team at any rink in this league. This is our time and this is our rink. My friends, our journey to this point has not been without its struggles, its sacrifices, and its challenges. But we are here, united in purpose, bound by the shared dream of etching our names into the annals of hockey history and onto that big silver cup. As we step onto the ice tonight, let us remember the countless hours of preparation, the sweat and determination poured into every practice, and the belief that has brought us this far. Look around you, at the sea of faces adorned in maroon and white, and out on the ice, look up at the thousands who believe in us, who have faith in our abilities, and who rally behind our cause. Let this electrifying energy be the wind at our backs, propelling us forward to victory. So, my fellow Dukes, let us seize this moment. Let us play with all our hearts, leaving nothing behind but the echoes of our triumph. Let us rise above the challenges, reach for the stars, and remind the world that the spirit of Toronto Dukes hockey is alive and thriving. Together, we are invincible. Together, we are unstoppable. And together, we will give ourselves a chance to play for that cup. Onward to victory, boys! Let's make our city, our fans, and ourselves proud. For the Challenge Cup, for Toronto, and for the legacy we create tonight!" Jack hadn't spoken loudly, and his words didn't echo through the room. A silence reigned within the locker room for several heartbeats; every man in the room could clearly hear the cacophony of the fans out in the seating bowl. But the silence in that room lasted only a moment, then Wilbur Chandler led a whooping cheer that the entire team took up. Soon every man in the room was banging his stick on the floor. As the players hustled out of the room, Jack turned to assistant coach Carl Beirne with a tight smile and said, "I almost feel sorry for the Bees. We are going to kick their ass." ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Jack Barrell in the Dukes locker room, 1948 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ __________________ Hexed & Countered on YouTube Figment League - A fictional history of baseball - Want to join in the fun? Shoot me a PM! Read the story of the Barrell Family - A Figment Baseball tale The Figment Sports Universe - More Fake Sports Than You Can Shake a Stick At! Last edited by legendsport; 08-21-2023 at 12:34 PM.

08-22-2023, 10:02 AM	#328
legendsport Hall Of Famer Join Date: Jan 2002 Location: Behind The Lens Posts: 2,867	April 17, 1948: New York, NY: Champagne in the eyes... it stings. It's also sticky. Jack Barrell believed sane people would try to avoid being intentionally sprayed with it. But sanity went out the window when you'd just won the Challenge Cup. Gordie Broadway, the Dukes' stellar goaltender, had been cleared to play in the Cup Finals. Jack had faced a tough decision. Broadway had been the Dukes' netminder since bursting onto the scene as a 22-year-old phenom in 1936. Though he didn't win the McLeod Trophy as the NAHC's top rookie that year (those laurels had been awarded to teammate Bobbie Sauer), he'd been a finalist for both that and the Juneau Trophy, though no one was beating Ottawa's Newt McCotter that year. Ultimately, despite Broadway's continued status as one of the franchise's two "faces" (the other being Sauer), little-regarded veteran backup Terry Russell had led the way in the surprising sweep of the Boston Bees. Jack had always been a believer in riding the "hot hand" (that he'd picked up from Bill Yeadon). So he'd elected to stick with Russell. In game one of the Finals against the surprising New York Shamrocks, who'd somehow knocked off the vaunted Chicago Packers, the NAHC's best team (by a significant margin) in the just-completed regular season, Russell had performed well. The Shamrocks had come out aggressively on offense and peppered Russell with a whopping 40 shots. He'd turned back all but one of them, and the Dukes had triumphed by a 2-1 margin. The wheels came off in game two, however, as the Shamrocks managed a more palatable (to Jack) 29 shots against the Dukes. Russell had let five of them slip past, leading to a 6-3 loss at home, evening the series and giving home ice advantage to New York. That the sixth goal had been an empty-netter didn't make Jack feel any better. Giving up six goals in any game was, to the man who'd been a stellar blue-liner, completely inexcusable. Quinton Pollack had complained to Agnes, Jack's daughter and Pollack's fiancée, about how hard "the old man" had ridden the team in the practice between games two and three. He should have held his tongue because the practice after game three and before game four was even tougher. The Dukes were swamped 6-0 before a rabid crowd at the Bigsby Garden in New York. Jack hated the Bigsby Garden. It was always full of cigar smoke, the lighting was terrible (it was sometimes - to Jack - too dark to see in the corners, making it hard to chase the puck into those corners), and the fans were loud and nasty. Jack knew he'd love it if he had played for the Shamrocks, but he hadn't, and so he hated it. The Dukes players all knew this, and they knew they were in trouble when they went down 2-0 in the first period. Jack had refused to speak to them between periods, leaving Carl Beirne to do it for him. Russell had looked shell-shocked, and Jack had toyed with putting Broadway into the game. Gordie was still feeling the effects of a week-long bout with influenza that left him weak. Only his desire not to embarrass the veteran netminder had stayed Jack's hand. Down two games to one and on enemy ice, Jack had ripped into the team and put them through a grueling practice on April 12, heading into a must-win game four on the 13th in New York. Even the ability to spend time with his daughter Jean hadn't improved Jack's mood. Jean Barrell was now living and working in New York, doing illustrations for an advertising company. She'd even met a young man - Gene Lee - a former ballplayer who was now "in the ad game," as he put it. Jack liked Gene Lee well enough, and Marie approved, so that made Jean happy. But even her happiness - and that of Marie, Aggie, and Vera, who had been overjoyed at the opportunity to spend four days in New York - couldn't lift Jack's spirits. Jack's message had been simple: no more firewagon hockey. Get back to basics. Buckle down and play defense. Hit the Shamrocks and knock them off the puck. It worked. In game four, Quinton Pollack, a center with a very well-rounded game, turned into a defensive demon. Winger Maurice Cherette served up six hits, two of them bone-jarring. Those things brought a smile to Jack Barrell's face. Now they were playing his brand of hockey. Though Pollack played the best all-around game of the forwards, Bobbie Sauer and Les Carlson, Jack's other star forwards, played their best games of the series. It wouldn't have been obvious to the casual observer since neither had scored a goal, and each posted a single assist apiece. But the results on the scoreboard were a 5-2 win for the Dukes. The hard work on the defensive end had paid off - yes, the Shamrocks, in growing desperation, had fired 43 shots at Terry Russell. But they weren't what Jack termed "quality shots." Many were from bad angles and long distances, and Russell was more than capable of turning aside such efforts. Tying the series at two apiece and heading back to the friendly confines of Dominion Gardens had Jack whistling a happy tune on the train north. Things were even better in game five. "It's a new series, boys!" Jack had told his team, going on to remind them that they needed to win this game and then one more, hopefully the one back in New York for game six, to hoist the Cup. Pollack was again the star of the show for Toronto. He remained a defensive stalwart, checking fiercely and laying out a couple of hits as well. But he brought it on the offensive end as well, scoring the last of three Toronto goals in a wild first period that saw the goal lamp light up five times between the two teams. Pollack also assisted on the other two Dukes goals that period. Winger Les Carlson scored a pair of goals, Bobbie Sauer had a tally and a helper, as did Kurt Walz, while left-winger Herb Burdette got the most attention from the press in the locker room after the game with two goals and two assists. In all, it was a 7-2 victory for the Dukes, a solid win that put them on the cusp of a championship. Jack tried to rein in his enthusiasm in his postgame remarks to the team. He congratulated them on one of the best all-around efforts he'd seen from them all season, but reminded them, as he had before that third game against Boston: not to rest on their laurels. The Shamrocks were more than capable of winning, particularly in New York. Take care of business in game six because even though everyone loves a game seven, anything can happen in one game. "Finish the job," was his final remark. Jack, Marie, Agnes, and Vera enjoyed the train ride back to New York. Jean and Gene (that one made Jack laugh - how would that work if they ended up getting married?) were waiting for them and would be in attendance at the game. At the hotel, Marie had pointedly told Aggie that she had better not sneak off to see Quinton. "That young man needs his sleep," she chided and took it a step further, asking a wide-eyed Vera to keep an eye on her older sister. Jack pretended not to hear any of this. He had Pollack rooming with Al Cote, one of the team's biggest busybodies. Pollack knew this and knew that Cote would rat him out if he snuck off to see Aggie. "It's only one night," Jack told his young centerman. "You'll have your entire lives for that stuff once you get hitched in June." Pollack nodded, but he didn't look happy about it. Still, Jack trusted that the knowledge of the importance of game six would outweigh the young man's hormones. At least, he hoped so. Game six was on a Saturday. Jack rose early, turned on the radio, and listened to the news. A Pan Am flight had crashed Thursday in Ireland; fighting continued in Palestine, and the United Nations had elected a new President. In sports, the city was buzzing about the upcoming start of the baseball season. All three New York clubs were expected to contend, and a couple of hundred fans had waited at Grand Central Station for the arrival of the Gothams from spring training on Thursday night. Jack shook his head - what about hockey? Finally, the newscaster mentioned that the Bigsby Garden was sure to be hopping that evening as the Shamrocks took to the ice with their backs to the wall against the Toronto Dukes. Kurt Stone, the Shamrocks coach, was quoted as saying that his team was "well-aware of our present situation," and he expected that they would "leave it all out there on the ice." Jack nodded. He'd have said much the same thing if the situation were reversed. He was glad, eternally so, that his team held a three-to-two edge. He expected to win the game, but it was nice knowing that they had a game seven at home in their pocket if they needed it. He'd never utter words to that effect in front of the team, of course, but it was good to know. At the arena, Jack kept his pregame remarks short. "We all know we're standing on the precipice of history, and that no one gave us a chance to be here. The same is true for the guys on the other side," he said. As was his wont in situations like this, he kept his voice level and tried to exude confidence. He continued, "Let's keep it simple. The game plan remains the same: keep it simple, play defense first, and use that to spark our offense, hit hard, and win the puck. This is the same game we've all played since our pee-wee days," Jack said with a small smile. "We all love it, or we wouldn't be here. Use that love, let that passion give you the energy and strength to see this through. Go out there, work hard, have fun, and the result will come. I have faith in you. Now let's go win this thing." The players cheered and banged their sticks as they had against Boston. Jack was a little less confident of victory, but he had a good feeling. The defense-first mentality had been restored - that firewagon stuff only played to the Shamrocks' strength. Jack was happy he'd gotten his team out of that mindset. He put a hand on Carl Beirne's shoulder, "Well, Carl, this is going to be a really memorable night, one way or the other," he said. It was memorable all right. The Dukes came out fast - really fast - with Alex Lavelliere beating Shamrocks goalie Étienne Tremblay just twenty-two seconds into the first period. Pollack had done his usual job of backchecking, tapped the puck to defenseman Philippe Dubois, who'd shuffled it along to Lavalliere, and the 22-year-old winger had done the rest. 1-0 Toronto. The quick goal quieted the raucous New York crowd, but they were soon back in full voice when Lavalliere mixed it up with the Shamrocks' Jim Macek just thirty seconds later. Jack liked the fire, but he wished Lavalliere had kept it short of punching. The first period ended with the Dukes holding that 1-0 lead. Jack praised his team's effort in the first and reminded them to keep up the intensity. The game was getting chippy - New York was facing elimination, their fans were keeping the emotions in the building high, and Jack told his men to keep a level head. That became a little bit harder when New York's Tommaso Brescia knotted the game at one apiece on an unassisted goal 2:04 into the second period. "New game, fellas, new game. Let's get it back," Jack told the players on the bench. Herbert Burdette gave the Dukes the lead again three minutes later on his fourth goal of the playoffs, on another example of good defense turning into good offense for the Dukes. Jack looked at Beirne and said, "See? I tell these guys all the time: play defense and the offense will come." Beirne replied, "And sometimes they even listen." The second period ended 2-1 in favor of the Dukes. "Twenty more minutes, no letdowns," was all Jack said to his players after they'd all reached the locker room. He preferred to let the team rest in the second intermission and wouldn't do much coaching unless he felt it was necessary. He knew it wasn't necessary here. In the third, Quinton Pollack was whistled for roughing just under five minutes in. Jack gave the referee an earful, careful to keep his comments clean. His wife and daughters were sitting right behind the bench. Aggie joined in, and Jack looked at her over his shoulder. She'd never been much of a hockey fan, but then again, she'd never before been about to marry a hockey player either. He winked at her, and she gave him a funny half-frown, half-smile in return. He thought she was embarrassed and catching Marie's eye, he raised his eyebrow and smiled. With Pollack in the sin bin, Jack exhorted his men to redouble their efforts on the penalty kill. A Shamrocks goal here would be disastrous. To Jack's pleasant surprise, Al Cote managed to get the puck, sent it cross-ice on a nice pass to Bobbie Sauer, who led Trevor Parker into the Shamrocks' zone as the New York blue-line tandem sought to catch up. Sauer drove toward the net, then slipped the puck to Parker, who got off a nice wrist shot that sailed over Tremblay's blocker and into the net. The fans groaned as the red goal lamp lit up. 3-1 Toronto on a short-handed goal! Jack nodded and fought a successful battle to keep a grin off his face. As the penalty ended and the shift change was going out on the ice, Jack shifted his strategy: defense first and defense second, electing to play it safe with a two-goal lead. That may have been a mistake. The Dukes seemed to lose some of their concentration, and New York took advantage. 11:09 into the final period, Joe Martin scored on a nice backhander past Russell, making it 3-2 and making the butterflies in Jack's stomach take flight. Jack told his men to play conservatively but look for opportunities. As the clock ticked down towards zero, the Shamrocks grew more desperate, but the Dukes' defense-first mentality really locked in. Ultimately, despite giving it their best, New York could muster only six shots in the entire third period, while Toronto got off 17 (many of them lackluster efforts to keep the Shamrocks honest and allow shift changes for the players who were exerting a lot of energy keeping the Shamrocks away from the goal). Stone pulled Tremblay with 43 ticks left on the clock. Jack waved his left hand in the air, the program in it rolled up as always as he exhorted his men. When the final horn sounded, the arena was strangely quiet. The Shamrock fans were quiet, their disappointment understandable and palpable. Then the minority of Dukes fans in the building, many of them friends and family of the players, began cheering. And yes, it wasn't a large sound, but it compounded the joy the players and staff felt as they poured onto the ice to celebrate winning the Challenge Cup. Afterwards, Jack would tell the assembled press: "This team can do it all. It's the best group of players I've ever had the privilege to be a part of." The reporters pressed Jack on that statement: some of his previous clubs had been extremely talented. Jack nodded, "Yes, they were. And those were great teams. But this team came back from a last-place finish just a year ago and had its ups and downs during the regular season. We were expected to be the sacrificial lambs - just like the guys across the hall," he pointed towards the Shamrock locker room, "for the expected Packers-Bees final everyone wanted to see. Well, these boys - and those guys over there - were having none of it. And that's why I say that this is the best group of players I've ever been around." ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Jack Barrell with the Challenge Cup, 1948 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ __________________ Hexed & Countered on YouTube Figment League - A fictional history of baseball - Want to join in the fun? Shoot me a PM! Read the story of the Barrell Family - A Figment Baseball tale The Figment Sports Universe - More Fake Sports Than You Can Shake a Stick At! Last edited by legendsport; 08-22-2023 at 11:52 AM.

08-24-2023, 08:14 AM	#329
legendsport Hall Of Famer Join Date: Jan 2002 Location: Behind The Lens Posts: 2,867	April 19, 1948: Boston, MA: The atmosphere at Minuteman Stadium was electric - Opening Day had arrived and as Harry Barrell told Buddy Schneider, "Today, everyone is in first place." That bon mot, and others, were dropped by Harry as he patrolled the clubhouse, chatting up his team mates. A common one was that for the first time in recent memory, Opening Day featured a double-header. "Extra baseball today boys!" Harry said, apparently not understanding that some players might not be thrilled at the prospect of eighteen innings of ball on the very first day of the season. Catcher Bill Van Ness shook his head at Harry's retreating back after he'd passed by, and turned to 36-year-old first baseman Bill Moore, saying, "I wish Barrell would put a sock in it." Moore frowned, but said nothing. He looked around to make sure none of the coaching staff was nearby. New manager Bill Steffen had been adamant: there was to be no grumbling, no "lollygagging" as he put it. Moore wasn't entirely sure what lollygagging was - he thought it might just mean being lazy. And he knew that applied to Van Ness. "You might want to keep that down, Bill," he said, reminding the catcher of the new skipper's mandate that everyone "keep it positive." "I wish Barrell hadn't taken that directive to heart," Van Ness grumped, adding, "I liked him better when he was just pranking people. Now he acts like he's the team captain or something." Moore shrugged. "He probably should be," he pointed out. Van Ness scowled at him, but Moore shrugged again and said, "I'm just saying." "Well... don't." Van Ness said. Van Ness' mood wasn't helped when the team dropped the first game of the double bill by a 5-4 score to the Pittsburgh Miners. In extra innings no less. And the Miners were generally considered the worst team in the Federal Association after shipping both Lefty Allen and George Cleaves to the New York Gothams in the offseason. Harry remained upbeat in-between games. Van Ness thought that Moore might be right: maybe Harry really was trying out for the position of team captain. Harry had gone 1-for-4 in the opener, and he'd also wasted several opportunities, as he ended up leaving seven men stranded. Jiggs Jackson got the start behind the dish in game two, so Van Ness spent the game on the bench, quietly steaming about Barrell's continued "positive" attitude. The guy couldn't take anything seriously for his entire career, now sudddenly he was Mr. Professionalism? Van Ness wasn't buying it. For his part, Harry was actually trying to be a leader for the team. This was partially the result of a conversation he'd had with Bobby in the offseason. As usual, Bobby had mentioned that Harry could take the game more seriously. "You're a veteran now Harry," he'd told him. "Like it or not, the young guys are going to look up to you." Harry had countered that Boston was likely going to bring a veteran club north, but Bobby said that the kids would likely arrive sooner rather than later and so he - meaning Harry - should start acting like a leader now. Harry figured he'd give it a try. He planned on throwing in the occasional hot foot to make sure everyone knew the "old Harry" was still there. In the second game Duke Hendricks pitched very well. Harry went 1-for-3 with a sacrifice bunt and the Minutemen won by a razor-thin margin of 2-1. Harry did make an error in the seventh, booting a grounder off the bat of Luke Berry and allowing the potential tying run to reach second. He apologized to Hendricks, who gave him a strange look in return - everyone was still getting used to the "new" Harry, he supposed, and Hendricks had probably been expecting Harry to just crack wise. In the clubhouse, Steffen praised his team, noting their professionalism. Harry privately wanted to make a crack - but he was still trying to figure out Steffen. He was a short, stumpy guy at 5'7 and about 190 pounds. He'd been a middle infielder who'd topped out as a part-timer in AAA. Then he'd been out of baseball for a while before becoming a radio announcer for the Minutemen's AAA-affiliate in Columbus, Ohio. The front office boys had surprised everyone by hiring him to skipper the Minutemen. Like Harry, none of the players knew much about Steffen, although those who'd recently passed through Columbus had spoken with him in his duties as the Titans' radio voice. "It's going to be an interesting season," Buddy told Harry. Harry looked over at his double-play partner - at 27, Buddy Schneider was coming into his own as a legitimate star (his triplet brother Skipper was already there, starring for the Chicago Cougars). "That it is. And I hope we can make things interesting for the other clubs too," Harry replied. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ April 19, 1948: Washington, DC: On a clear, 64-degree day in Washington's Columbia Stadium, the atmosphere was charged with excitement as the 1948 FABL baseball season's first game was about to commence. President Harry Truman himself was present to toss the first pitch, adding to the anticipation. The US Army band played the national anthem, and the fans were in for a thrilling afternoon of baseball. Roger Cleaves, the starting catcher for the Philadelphia Keystones, stood on the field, his heart pounding with both excitement and nervousness. His uncle Bobby Barrell, the league's most popular and famous player, was starting in right field. Bobby had set a record the previous year by hitting 64 home runs, making him a major draw for fans. Roger's thoughts were divided between the game and his new responsibilities as a father. His wife Evelyn had given birth to their son Dwayne just a week earlier, and even though both mother and baby were healthy, Roger couldn't help but worry about them while he was on the field. As the game began, Roger's focus shifted to the task at hand. The Keystones were up to bat first, facing off against the Washington Eagles and their star pitcher, Buckeye Smith. The first few innings were uneventful for both teams, as the pitchers dominated the game. In the fourth inning, Roger stepped up to the plate and managed to hit a single, getting on base. However, the Keystones couldn't capitalize on the opportunity, and the score remained tied at 0-0. As the game progressed, Bobby Barrell struggled at the plate, striking out twice and going hitless. On the other hand, Roger Cleaves managed to make an impact in the sixth inning, hitting a single that drove in a run. The Keystones were finally on the scoreboard, but they were still trailing the Eagles. The game took a turn in the bottom of the fifth inning when the Eagles' Sig Stofer hit a two-run home run, giving his team a 2-0 lead. The Eagles continued to build their lead in the sixth inning, capitalizing on the Keystones' pitching struggles and defensive errors to score six more runs. Despite the score, Roger's determination never wavered. He continued to give his best behind the plate, working to support his team's pitchers and trying to keep the Eagles' runners in check. In the eighth inning, with the Keystones trailing 8-3, Billy Woytek hit a double, giving the team a glimmer of hope. However, the Eagles' defense held strong, and the Keystones couldn't rally a comeback. As the game came to an end, the final score was 8-3 in favor of the Washington Eagles. Though the Keystones had faced a tough defeat, Roger Cleaves knew that it was only the beginning of a long season. He walked off the field with mixed emotions, proud of his efforts but also eager to see his wife and newborn son. The game had been a rollercoaster of emotions for Roger, filled with the highs and lows of competition, the worries of a new father, and the camaraderie of being part of a team. As he left the stadium and headed to the hotel where he'd have dinner with his brother, he couldn't help but reflect on how the promise of Opening Day could be seen as a reflection on the promise of the new life he and Evelyn had just brought into the world. Hopefully Dwayne's life got off to a better start than the Keystones season had... ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ April 20, 1948: Philadelphia, PA: The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across Sailors Memorial Stadium as the Cincinnati Cannons faced off against the defending champion Philadelphia Sailors on opening day. Rufus "Deuce" Barrell II, known for his powerful left arm, took the mound as the starting pitcher for the Cannons. The crowd was buzzing with anticipation, and Deuce could feel the weight of the game on his shoulders. The first inning passed in a blur of tension. Deuce's pitches were on point, his fastball sizzling through the air, and his curveball breaking sharply. He struck out the first two batters, and the stadium erupted in cheers. The third batter grounded out, and Deuce walked off the mound with a confident stride, his team ready to back him up. The Cannons stepped up to the plate, hoping to capitalize on Deuce's strong start. But facing the Sailors' ace, Win Lewis, was no easy task. The inning ended quickly with three consecutive strikeouts, leaving the Cannons searching for their rhythm. As the game progressed, Deuce's focus remained unshaken. He continued to mix his pitches masterfully, inducing groundouts and pop flies, and even managing to strike out a few more batters. But the Sailors were not to be outdone. In the fourth inning, Harvey Brown connected with a pitch and sent the ball sailing deep into center field. By the time it was retrieved, he stood on third base, and the crowd roared in approval. The next batter, Les Cunha, slammed a double, driving Brown home and giving the Sailors a one-run lead. Deuce managed to get out of the inning without further damage, but the tension in the air was palpable. In the top of the fourth, Deuce found himself at the plate. With two outs and a runner on first, he squared up to bunt. The crowd held its breath as he laid down a perfect sacrifice bunt, advancing the runner to second. It wasn't glamorous, but it was a crucial play that showcased Deuce's commitment to the team's success. In the top of the fifth, Deuce found himself in a sticky situation with runners on first and third. But his determination kicked in. He struck out the first batter, and then induced a groundout to end the inning, leaving the Sailors stranded. As the game reached the late innings, Deuce's pitch count climbed, but his resolve remained unbroken. He knew he had to keep his team in the game. In the top of the eighth, he managed to get through the inning unscathed, even as the Sailors threatened with a double from Billy Forbes. In the ninth, the Cannons had their last chance to mount a comeback. Deuce watched from the dugout as his teammates stepped up to the plate, hoping for a rally. But it wasn't meant to be. Two strikeouts and a groundout sealed their fate, and the game ended in a 2-1 victory for the Sailors. Deuce was aggravated by the loss. As he walked to the dugout after the bottom of the eighth, he was congratulated by manager Ad Doria. Deuce nodded his head, a grave look on his face, but wanting to at least acknowledge that Doria was complimenting him on a good effort. He plopped himself down next to Charley McCullough. As usual, Charley wasn't playing. Though his role as a reserve had been all but cemented by the rise of Charlie Rivera, Charley was melancholy about it. The Cannons had struggled some in spring training. Deuce and Charley had discussed the possibility - one unheard of in recent years - that perhaps this season would be one in which the Cannons would not compete for the pennant. Neither would voice such an opinion in front of Doria, of course. He'd pitched well - eight innings, two earned runs on four hits with a single walk and four strikeouts. And the offense had give him: one run, which had come on a solo homer by Chuck Adams. Deuce wondered if this was going to be a long season... ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ President Truman throws out first pitch, 1948 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ __________________ Hexed & Countered on YouTube Figment League - A fictional history of baseball - Want to join in the fun? Shoot me a PM! Read the story of the Barrell Family - A Figment Baseball tale The Figment Sports Universe - More Fake Sports Than You Can Shake a Stick At!

08-25-2023, 09:49 AM	#330
legendsport Hall Of Famer Join Date: Jan 2002 Location: Behind The Lens Posts: 2,867	April 29, 1948: Detroit, MI: "Bet you can't do it, Barrell!" "You don't have to do this, Freddy," Mario Gomez, one of Freddy's teammates, advised. Freddy scowled - a challenge was a challenge. And Jack Davis was notorious for being a loudmouth. In this case, the challenge was to eat an entire can of pickled jalapeno peppers. According to Gomez, these peppers were incredibly spicy. Freddy was in the dark about them; he had never come across them before baseball practices commenced in February. Given that they had been practicing in the gymnasium at Pershing High School, located in Detroit, the chilly weather had confined the practices indoors. The whole situation had its roots in Jack Davis' penchant for running his mouth. Upon learning Freddy's last name, Davis had immediately asked, "Any relation to Miss High-and-Mighty Allie Barrell?" After confirming that he was indeed Allie Barrell's cousin, Freddy had clarified that he was the son of the former FABL catcher Fred Barrell and the nephew of Maroons and Mustangs owner Rollie Barrell. In response, Davis had mockingly applauded, declaring, "Well, boys, we're destined to win the city championship now. We've got a bona fide Barrell on our team!" Freddy brushed that off and redirected the conversation. "Why the grudge against my cousin?" he had inquired. Allie, within the family circle, was generally known for her intelligence and kindness. "Oh, she's just so full of herself," Davis retorted. "Not at all," Freddy countered. "Oh, believe me, she is," Davis mimicked in a high voice, "I'm a senior and the head cheerleader," accompanied by a poor jump and leg kick, "I'm too good for you, Jack Davis, you junior peasant." It clicked for Freddy. Davis harbored a crush on Allie, who had turned him down. Freddy could easily guess why. And thus, Davis had taken an immediate dislike to Freddy as well—though he kept his animosity under wraps when the coaches were around. The catch was that Davis, standing at an impressive 6 feet 4 inches and weighing 180 pounds, was the star pitcher for Pershing, and a potential draft pick for FABL in 1949 if he didn't opt for college, given that he was also the star quarterback for Pershing. But then came the jalapeno peppers. For weeks, Mario had been bringing these peppers for lunch. Hailing from Mexico, Mario's family considered these peppers a regular part of their diet. Davis had crinkled his nose at the "stench" of the vinegar-pickled peppers, insisting that he couldn't fathom eating them. Freddy had retorted, "I bet they're alright; I could probably eat the whole can." In hindsight, that had been unwise. Freddy hadn't the faintest clue whether he could handle even one of those peppers. After all, Gomez had mentioned they were spicy. Yet, Davis' incessant taunting had ignited Freddy's competitive spirit. And that was how he found himself on the bleachers after baseball practice, can of peppers in Mario's hand and Davis basking in his audience's attention. Things took an interesting turn when Allie arrived. Freddy didn't see her much, considering that she was a senior and he was just a freshman. Their social circles rarely intersected. "What's happening here?" she inquired upon approaching the group, her gaze shifting from Freddy to Jack Davis. "Oh, look who's here..." Davis quipped, but Allie halted him with an upheld hand. "I wasn't addressing you, Jack," she said. Turning her gaze to Freddy, she asked, "Fred, what's going on?" "I've been dared to eat this can of peppers," Fred admitted, a tinge of embarrassment in his voice. Allie examined the label and queried, "What are ja-la-pen-os?" She mispronounced the word, emphasizing the hard 'J' and the final syllable like the writing tool. Gomez corrected her, subtly explaining that they originated from his family's home in Xalapa, Mexico. "And?" she prompted. "And your audacious freshman cousin here claimed he could finish the whole can," Davis added with a smirk. "Freddy... that might not be wise," Allie cautioned. Freddy took a deep breath. "I'm doing it," he asserted, shaking his head to prevent further intervention. "You can't change my mind, Allie." She sighed and crossed her arms. "Well, you're stubborn," she remarked, underlining her statement with an unhelpful, "It's your funeral." Gomez popped open the can and handed it to Freddy. The teammates clustered around. Davis wore an almost gleeful expression. "This will be amusing," he predicted. Allie scowled at him, admonishing, "As team captain, you should know better." Jack ignored her. "Go on, Barrell. Start eating," he urged. Freddy swallowed as the vinegary aroma reached his nose. "Here goes," he muttered, and began to consume the peppers. Initially, it wasn't overly arduous. He attempted to gulp them down without chewing, dreading the repercussions if he chomped into one. But his strategy proved only moderately effective; the peppers were genuinely fiery, and soon enough, his tongue felt aflame. And there were still numerous peppers left in the can. "Holy smokes, he's actually doing it!" one of the other players exclaimed, earning Davis' glare. "He's going to puke," another speculated, receiving a hopeful nod from Davis. Freddy didn't vomit. He felt like he might, yet he powered through the entire can, which remained half-filled with the malodorous liquid. "Now drink the juice," Davis suggested. "No, that wasn't part of the deal," Gomez interjected. He turned to Freddy and advised, "Don't. No one drinks it, and if you do, you'll get sick." Allie placed her hand on Davis' chest. He glanced down at it and responded with a smile. "Enough, Jack," she scolded. "Freddy ate the peppers, and that was the agreement, wasn't it?" Davis caught her wrist and pulled her hand away. "Perhaps it was." Allie pulled her arm back. "Then it's settled," she declared, assertive and unwavering. Davis shrugged. "I guess so," he conceded. Freddy was tempted to ask if he looked pale. He felt unwell. He also yearned for the closest bucket of water to quench his thirst. "That was foolish, Fred," Allie chided. "I never claimed to be clever," Freddy retorted, mustering a bold smile. He almost succeeded. "That's your domain, Allie," he appended. "Oh, hush," she retorted. Casting a glance at the other ballplayers, she commanded, "Alright, fellas, show's over." She fixed a firm look on them. "Go shower; you all reek." "You should clean up as well," she instructed Freddy. "How about we keep this incident under wraps?" Allie frowned, then shrugged. "Yeah, alright." Davis gestured toward the other players. "Let's move, guys," he directed. As he started to turn away, he glanced at Freddy and quipped, "Well done, Peppers. See you tomorrow." And that's how Fred Barrell Jr. garnered the moniker— which he didn't particularly favor— of 'Peppers.' Allie smirked and shook her head. "You asked for it," she reminded him. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Fred Barrell Jr. and his cousin Allie Barrell, 1948 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ __________________ Hexed & Countered on YouTube Figment League - A fictional history of baseball - Want to join in the fun? Shoot me a PM! Read the story of the Barrell Family - A Figment Baseball tale The Figment Sports Universe - More Fake Sports Than You Can Shake a Stick At! Last edited by legendsport; 08-25-2023 at 11:03 AM.

08-28-2023, 08:50 AM	#331
legendsport Hall Of Famer Join Date: Jan 2002 Location: Behind The Lens Posts: 2,867	May 4, 1948: Detroit, MI: Rollie Barrell sat behind his desk, deep in thought. The meeting he was about to have could have massive repercussions on the future of his basketball league. As the sunlight filtered through the large windows, highlighting the opulent furnishings, Rollie waited with a mixture of excitement and caution. His visitor, Bernie Millard, was a man known for his sharp wit and even sharper business acumen. The stakes were high, and the outcome of this conversation could potentially reshape the sports landscape. "Mr. Barrell," a voice boomed as the office door swung open, revealing a stocky figure in a perfectly tailored suit. Bernie Millard strode in with the kind of confidence that came naturally to those who had climbed the ladder of success. His gaze locked onto Rollie's, his handshake firm and unwavering. "Mr. Millard," Rollie greeted, his tone cordial but guarded. He gestured toward the plush chairs positioned around a low coffee table. "Please, have a seat." Millard settled into one of the chairs with the ease of a man accustomed to taking charge. Rollie indulged in a bit of preliminary talk about Millard's main business of coal mining. He listened to Millard complain about John L. Lewis and the United Mine Workers, intimating, in no uncertain terms that he thought Lewis was a communist. Rollie had his doubts, but kept his peace. The preliminaries having been completed, Millard's piercing eyes fixated on Rollie as he leaned forward, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "You're a busy man, Rollie. I'll get straight to the point." Rollie inclined his head, intrigued by Millard's directness. "I appreciate that." Millard wasted no time. "You know I want in on pro basketball, specifically I want into the FBL. And I've got a plan that I believe will not only make that happen but also strike a blow to our competitors." Rollie's eyebrows lifted slightly, his interest piqued. "Go on." Millard leaned back, his fingers steepled as he spoke with rapid-fire precision. "I've worked out a deal to purchase the Pittsburgh Falcons of the ABC. Yes, I know we spoke of this before, and that you have reservations about me defecting." Rollie's expression remained neutral, but curiosity glimmered in his eyes. "Yes. That would be quite a move. But how's this help the FBL? Aside from stealing a club and escalating our fight with the ABC." Millard's smile widened. "A seat at the winning table, Rollie. I've already secured a deal with David Welcombe, the owner of the Toronto arena. I will buy the Pittsburgh franchise, and the Falcons will move to Toronto. A new beginning in a new city." Rollie's skepticism was palpable. "That's quite the shuffle. But you have a problem there – the Toronto Titans of the FBL already play there." Millard's grin did not waver. "Ah, yes, that is true of course. But I've worked out a solution for that potential fly in the ointment. I plan to purchase the Titans from their eager-to-sell owner, Charles Mitchell. That team is barely afloat, Mitchell wants out, and I'll fold it, take it as a tax loss. Voila, space cleared for the Falcons." Rollie raised an eyebrow. "Bold move. But as I said these moves would exacerbate the issues the FBL already has in dealings with the ABC, so I ask again: how do you propose this benefits my league?" Millard's eyes glinted with a knowing glimmer. "I'm offering you a sweetener, Rollie. Along with this package deal, I have handshake agreements from three other ABC clubs – the Boston Centurions, New York Knights, and Washington Statesmen – they are all willing to defect to the FBL." Rollie leaned back, absorbing this bombshell. He knew, from previous discussions with Millard, that the man wanted to purchase Pittsburgh and bring the club into the FBL. But adding the New York, Boston and Washington clubs? Those were three of the ABC's crown jewels. Rollie's mind boggled at the thought. "That would certainly cripple the ABC. But that's a lot of movement. My league would swell to eleven teams." Millard leaned forward, his tone taking on an almost conspiratorial note. "Ah, but think it through. The ABC will be left reeling. They'll have to replace those clubs, and probably not in those cities. The FBL already has a presence in Philadelphia, Chicago, and Detroit. Where can they go?" Rollie's lips curved into a thoughtful smile. Millard's logic was sound, a realization that was hard to ignore. "You make a valid point. Losing those four teams... well, they could go back into Pittsburgh. But even then, they'll be left with Hartford, Richmond, Rochester, and," Rollie paused and looked eyes with Millard before saying, "Brooklyn." Millard's voice remained steady and he hald Rollie's gaze. He knew of Rollie's history with basketball in Brooklyn and his erstwhile friendship with Brooklyn Red Caps owner Daniel Prescott. "This is an opportunity, Rollie. An opportunity to emerge victorious in this so-called basketball war in one fell swoop." Rollie's gaze met Millard's, a moment of understanding passing between them. "You're right. I almost feel sorry for Prescott." Millard chuckled, the sound a mixture of amusement and pragmatism. "Prescott's a prig. And this is business. Never let your feelings get in the way of a sound business decision, Rollie." Rollie tapped his chin as he thought for a moment. "And what if I'd rather have the Falcons stay in Pittsburgh? If nothing else, it blocks that city from the ABC..." Millard frowned. "I certainly have nothing against Pittsburgh. I was born in Allegheny. But there's a certain... symmetry with my ownership of the Wolves in Toronto." Rollie pursed his lips. "I'd ask you to at least consider it, Mr. Millard," he said, adding, "Just in case." He explained that Charlie Mitchell was a man prone to changing his mind and he might very well decide to keep the Titans. Millard smirked as he pointed out that he had a deal with Welcombe, to which Rollie countered that Mitchell could say the same, and his lease was already on record. Millard's reluctance was evident, but he agreed that should Mitchell prove intractable, he'd be willing to keep the Falcons in Pittsburgh. For now. Rollie nodded, a sense of resolve settling over him. "Very well, Mr. Millard. You're free to begin your negotiations. If the terms you've laid out are indeed as solid as you claim, then I believe we have a deal." Millard's smile was that of a man who had achieved his objective. "Excellent. You won't regret this, Rollie. The FBL is about to enter a new era." The two men stood, their handshake likely sealing the fate of the American Basketball Conference. Millard left, leaving Rollie to ponder what he'd just agreed to do. Prescott, the only real power left in the ABC if Millard could make good on his claims, would move heaven and earth to keep his league afloat. But could he do it? Losing New York, Boston and Washington... that was a crippling blow. Where could the ABC go? Pittsburgh maybe, Baltimore probably - Rollie knew the FBL's Barons would probably fold, the financial burden of fighting the war with the ABC was hard on the FBL's owners, and surely just as hard on the ABC magnates. Would Prescott have the guts to go head-to-head in one or more cities? That could be a major problem, if that was the path chosen. Would he go into an open market - St. Louis? Milwaukee? These were places Rollie had been considering and going there would give the ABC a midwestern presence it currently sorely lacked. Rollie stood and looked out the window. There were some issues with this deal... the New York club was owned by Sam Bigsby for one thing. Despite the payoff he'd received from the Bigsbys years earlier, Rollie still held a grudge against them. The current FBL owners might not be thrilled to be absorbing four ABC clubs, all of which had very talented rosters and one of which, the Washington Statesmen, was a juggernaut. But there was no doubt at all in Rollie's mind that losing those four teams would sink the ABC within two seasons. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Rollie Barrell ponders Bernie Millard's proposal ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ __________________ Hexed & Countered on YouTube Figment League - A fictional history of baseball - Want to join in the fun? Shoot me a PM! Read the story of the Barrell Family - A Figment Baseball tale The Figment Sports Universe - More Fake Sports Than You Can Shake a Stick At!

08-31-2023, 10:57 AM	#332
legendsport Hall Of Famer Join Date: Jan 2002 Location: Behind The Lens Posts: 2,867	May 31, 1948: Cincinnati, OH: May 31, 1948, marked a turning point for Deuce Barrell in more ways than one. The early part of the Cincinnati Cannons' season had been a rollercoaster, much like that of the entire Continental Association. As the team battled through streaks of wins and losses, Deuce had emerged as a steadfast pillar of strength on the mound. His pitches sizzled with a controlled anger, a fire that fueled his performance. Ad Doria, the team's manager, watched with satisfaction as Deuce's aggression found its balance, transforming him into a formidable pitcher. It wasn't just the numbers – a 5-1 record, a minuscule ERA of 1.21, and the impressive stats of shutouts and complete games. It was the way Deuce carried himself, a quiet intensity that ignited the entire team. Doria could see his pitcher was angry, and though he had no idea why, the results spoke for themselves. Yet, behind this façade of controlled fury lay a personal storm. Only his best friend, confidant, and brother-in-law, Charley McCullough, knew the truth. Deuce's marriage to Debbie had hit troubled waters, and the source of his anger and frustration was nothing to do with the baseball field. The field was simply the best outlet for the stew of emotions Deuce had been feeling since spring training. Gloria, Deuce's sister, could sense the tension. She had always been wary of Debbie, sensing something beneath her polished exterior, and the rumors she had heard from Charley - and even her uncle Tom Barrell, had done nothing to assuage those feelings. It was Gloria who finally confronted Debbie, in a clash of emotions that revealed long-hidden secrets. Gloria had gone to visit Debbie on the morning of the 31st. The Cannons were returning home that morning from a two-week road trip that had taken them to New York, Montreal, Brooklyn, Chicago and Cleveland. Gloria's stern words pierced the air of the house Deuce had purchased just that winter - only three houses down from the McCulloughs. "You've been causing trouble for my brother," Gloria accused, her eyes unwavering. "I've never seen him this way," she added, explaining that unlike their father Joe Barrell, Deuce had always been calm and self-absorbed. That had changed. Now her brother carried around a sense of barely contained violence, much as Joe Barrell had, but even in Joe's case it had been intermittent. Since Florida, it had been nearly always evident in her brother. Debbie's defenses went up immediately, but Gloria pressed on. She brought up the name that had been haunting Deuce – Bob Miller, the specter from Debbie's past who had appeared during spring training, casting a shadow over their relationship. Gloria did not go so far as to mention the other names she'd heard had been involved with Debbie; Gloria put no credence in rumors - not without proof. Miller, however, was different. Debbie confessed to her past involvement with Miller, and intimated there had been others ("I've always liked men," she explained), but she insisted that those chapters were closed long before she married Deuce. The fling with Miller had been a tumultuous relationship that had ended decisively when she chose to be with Deuce. But the accusation still hung heavily between them – had she been unfaithful? The truth tumbled out eventually, as emotions ran high. "I'm pregnant," Debbie admitted, her voice catching. Gloria's eyes widened at the revelation. "Is the child… is it Deuce's?" Debbie's tears fell, and she shook her head vehemently, a bloom of anger appearing briefly. "Yes, it's his. I swear to you, Gloria. He's the only man I've been with since he proposed to me." Just as the tension reached its peak, Deuce walked in, Charley by his side. The scene before him was unexpected – his wife and sister in earnest conversation, tears evident in their eyes. "What's going on here?" Deuce demanded, his heart racing, his mind piecing together the puzzle. Gloria cast a meaningful glance at Debbie before excusing herself, and Charley followed. Left alone with his wife, Deuce's eyes searched hers for answers. "Well?" he demanded, and seeming to notice that he still held his suitcase, he dropped it to the floor with a bang. Debbie hesitated, her emotions raw. "Deuce, I'm pregnant." The silence that followed was profound. It was a revelation that shifted the axis of their world, one that demanded consideration beyond their differences. Gathering his thoughts, Deuce finally spoke, his voice a mixture of disbelief and awe. "Pregnant?" Debbie's voice wavered, her eyes locking onto his. "I didn't tell you because we've been fighting so much, and I thought… I thought you didn't trust me." Deuce's skepticism was evident, but the magnitude of the situation was undeniable. He felt a flash of shame, mixed with anger - his first thought had been to wonder if the child was actually his. A child was on the way, an innocent life that depended on them. As he looked at his wife, the woman he had chosen to marry, he saw her vulnerability, her honesty. "I've been stewing over that Miller incident," Deuce admitted, the words carrying the weight of his doubts. He recounted the Florida incident when he had seen Miller throw her a kiss and how Charley had confronted him on the field. Debbie listened, her own tears falling. "Deuce, you're the only man for me. Yes, I dated Miller before, but that ended when I married you. I haven't seen him or talked to him since. I swear it." He studied her face, searching for any sign of deceit, but all he found was sincerity and the echo of his own doubts. The walls he had built around himself started to crumble. The upcoming arrival of their child changed everything. Deuce felt a surge of protectiveness, a responsibility that overwhelmed his anger and doubts. He pulled Debbie into a tight embrace, feeling the weight of his emotions dissipate in the face of their shared future. As they sat together, bound by their mutual commitment, Deuce realized that the journey ahead would be challenging, but the bond they shared was stronger than his doubts. He was no longer just pitching angry; he was fighting for his family, for the love that had brought them together in the first place. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Rufus "Deuce" Barrell 1948 Baseball Card ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ __________________ Hexed & Countered on YouTube Figment League - A fictional history of baseball - Want to join in the fun? Shoot me a PM! Read the story of the Barrell Family - A Figment Baseball tale The Figment Sports Universe - More Fake Sports Than You Can Shake a Stick At!

09-06-2023, 11:47 AM	#333
legendsport Hall Of Famer Join Date: Jan 2002 Location: Behind The Lens Posts: 2,867	June 19, 1948: Charlotte, NC: Saturday, June 19, 1948, was a day of radiant sunshine and boundless hope, as Charlotte, North Carolina, embraced the joyous occasion of James Slocum and Rose Winfield's wedding. The sprawling estate of Jack Winfield, adorned with vibrant flowers and the anticipation of new beginnings, hosted the gathering of family and friends. As guests gathered under the Carolina blue sky, James' heart swelled with happiness. The presence of his beloved mother, Claudia Slocum, brought a unique depth of emotion to the day. Claudia, born in Germany and married to the legendary FABL hit king, Powell Slocum, had raised her son with boundless love and care. Her eyes glistened with tears of pride and happiness as she watched her only child prepare to embark on a new journey, not only as a husband but also as a participant in the daring world of stock car racing. The large and largely famous Barrell clan was well-represented at the wedding. Only the members of the family still active in baseball were missing: Tom was managing the Brooklyn Kings, embroiled in the Continental Association's pennant race while his brothers Bobby and Harry were playing for the Philadelphia Keystones and Boston Minutemen, respectively. The younger generation, represented by Deuce Barrell (playing for Cincinnati) and Roger Slocum (playing for the Keystones with his uncle) were also unable to attend. James, clad in his handsome wedding attire, approached Claudia with a loving embrace. "I'm so glad you're here, Mom," he whispered, pressing a kiss to her cheek. Claudia held her son tightly, her emotions bubbling to the surface. "I'm happy for you, my dear James," she replied, her voice filled with both joy and concern. James was quietly amused; his mother's German accent was much more noticeable when she was emotional, as she was at that moment. As they stood there, Claudia couldn't help but express the fears that had been weighing on her heart. "You know, James, this sport... it took your father from us. I can't help but worry that it will do the same to you." Even nearly thirty long years after his death, the shadow of Jimmy Barrell - and the way in which he'd lost his life - weighed heavily on Claudia's heart. James looked into his mother's eyes, understanding her fears but also determined to chase his own dreams. "I know you're concerned, Mom, but I've chosen this path because it's where my heart truly belongs. Just like Dad, I have a passion for racing." Claudia, her eyes misting, nodded and said, "I remember how your father used to live for those races, the thrill of speed. But it also took him away from us too soon." James gently cupped his mother's cheek. "I also remember how proud you were of him, Mom, for pursuing his dreams. I'll always cherish those stories you told me about Dad. I want to make my own mark and honor his memory." Claudia smiled through her tears, realizing the depth of her son's determination. "I understand, James, and I'll support you in whatever path you choose. Just promise me that you'll always prioritize safety." With a heartfelt promise, James reassured his mother. "I will, Mom. I promise." Thinking of his wartime experiences flying bombers in both Europe and the Pacific, James added, "If the Luftwaffe and the Japanese couldn't take me down, no one can." Rollie Barrell, Jimmy Barrell's oldest living brother and a witness to those early racing days, joined their conversation. No one had been as close to Jimmy as Rollie had, and Rollie missed his brother every day. With a warm embrace for Claudia, Rollie spoke with compassion and understanding. "Claudia, I know your fears as a parent, but I also know that James embodies Jimmy's lust for life and adventure. We can't protect our children forever. They grow up, make their own decisions, and we must trust in their ability to navigate their chosen path." Claudia, touched by Rollie's words, nodded in agreement. "You're right, Rollie. I have to let him follow his heart, just as Rufus and Alice did with Jimmy." Hearing their names, Alice and Rufus Barrell, James' grandparents, approached the group, their concern for their grandson evident in their expressions. Rufus, with his characteristic wisdom, spoke with a reassuring tone. "Jimmy was little more than a boy when he started racing. James is nearly 30 years old now, and he's proven himself to be a responsible and mature young man. He's not making this decision lightly. We should trust his judgment." Alice, her eyes softening with love for her grandson, added, "We may not fully understand his passion for racing, but we understand his determination. We'll stand by him as a family, just as we always have." James' uncle Jack Barrell, accompanied by his wife Marie and their daughters Aggie, Jean, and Vera, added to the lively atmosphere. Aggie's fiancé, the hockey player Quinton Pollack, and Jean's boyfriend Gene Lee, fit right into the warm and welcoming Barrell clan. Jack said, "Hey, we're here for a happy occasion, aren't we? Let's lose the long faces and have a good time!" As the wedding ceremony approached, the guests eagerly anticipated the arrival of the beautiful bride, Rose Winfield. Jack Winfield, the proud father of the bride, greeted each guest with genuine warmth, his natural charisma on prominent display. Even Rufus felt better about James' upcoming racing career after speaking with Winfield, whose idea this new "stock car" racing circuit had been. Among the attendees were many friends of Jack Winfield's from the world of auto racing, drawn to witness the union of James and Rose - an event that symbolized both love and the beginning of a new racing era. Old acquaintances and new friends shared stories and laughter, united by their passion for speed and adventure. A handful of weathered drivers made time to speak with Rufus, Alice and Claudia, all expressing their fond memories of Jimmy - to a man they called him one of the "finest natural drivers" they'd ever seen. Amid the crowd of guests, James' former Air Force buddies, who had flown with him in the war, stood as a reminder of the bond forged in the crucible of battle. Some of his old crew told Rufus and Alice stories of meeting Roger on Saipan, and how surprised they were that the brash young Marine they'd met was now a promising young baseball star. Finally, the moment arrived. The soft strains of music filled the air, and all heads turned to see Rose, looking radiant in her exquisite wedding gown, walking gracefully towards her groom. James' heart skipped a beat as he caught sight of her, and he felt a rush of emotions overwhelm him. With each step Rose took, she seemed to be drawing the happiness of the day closer to her heart. Under a picturesque gazebo, surrounded by their loved ones, James and Rose exchanged vows that echoed their profound love and commitment. The ceremony was infused with laughter and tears of joy, a beautiful blending of two families and a celebration of a future united. After the heartfelt "I do's," the newlyweds shared their first kiss as husband and wife, prompting cheers and applause from the guests. The joyous atmosphere continued as the reception began, with dancing, delicious food, and heartfelt toasts to the couple's happiness. As the sun began to set, the sounds of laughter and the clinking of glasses filled the air. Amid the revelry, James and Rose took a moment to step back and absorb the love and warmth surrounding them. They felt truly blessed to be surrounded by such wonderful family and friends. Jack Winfield sidled up behind the happy couple as they stood side-by-side. Placing a hand on the shoulder of both James and Rose, he said, "Enjoy this moment, and the honeymoon. Because when you get back, we have a racing circuit to put together." ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ James Slocum and his mother Claudia, 1948 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ __________________ Hexed & Countered on YouTube Figment League - A fictional history of baseball - Want to join in the fun? Shoot me a PM! Read the story of the Barrell Family - A Figment Baseball tale The Figment Sports Universe - More Fake Sports Than You Can Shake a Stick At!

09-08-2023, 09:34 AM	#334
legendsport Hall Of Famer Join Date: Jan 2002 Location: Behind The Lens Posts: 2,867	June 22, 1948: New York, NY: Rollie's expression was one of sheer disgust as he glanced over at Sam Bigsby. Agreeing to hold the press conference in New York had been a glaring mistake. While it was indeed the media capital of the country, it was also Bigsby's home turf. Rollie, as the president of the Federal Basketball League, felt that he should have had the upper hand. "We should have held this thing in Detroit," Rollie muttered to Blaine Adkison, owner of the Chicago Panthers, one of the FBL's most successful franchises. Adkison smirked and retorted, "Well, the Bigsbys have always loved a circus." The jab at the Bigsbys' ownership of Bigsby Gardens, known as the "showplace of the world," which hosted everything from NAHC hockey (courtesy of the Bigsby-owned New York Shamrocks) to basketball's New York Knights (also Bigsby-owned) and even the circus for three weeks every summer, made Rollie crack a strained smile. Seated at a long table with Adkison and fellow FBL owners Maynard Adams (Philadelphia), Darryl Croy (Baltimore), and Michael Salmon (Cleveland), Rollie noticed the absence of the other FBL owners. The so-called "big four" of the American Basketball Conference were present, including Bigsby himself (New York), Myles Williams of Boston, Bill Wright of Washington, and the man responsible for this gathering: Bernie Millard, the new owner of the Pittsburgh Falcons. Rollie's mixed feelings were hard to define. He was elated at the coup for the FBL, with four of the five most important ABC franchises defecting to his league. Only the Brooklyn Red Caps, owned by the stubborn Daniel Prescott, were holding out. Rollie caught the eye of his wife Francie and their daughters, Marty and Allie, seated in the back. Jean Barrell, Rollie's niece, was also there with her boyfriend Gene Lee. They were representing their advertising firm, hired by Rollie to promote the "new look Federal League" for the 1948-49 season. As the room filled with media, a TV camera was wheeled in, a relatively new addition to the world of journalism. Rollie was still adjusting to the concept of television, which had gained popularity in postwar America. Ten minutes later, Rollie made sure everyone was ready and took the podium. "Thank you all for coming." "I'm Roland Barrell, league president of the Federal Basketball League, and I'm here to make a momentous announcement," he began, his grin revealing a touch of mischief. "Or rather, several announcements." Rollie proceeded to explain the significant changes unfolding within his league. Four ABC clubs—Boston Centurions, New York Knights, Pittsburgh Falcons, and Washington Statesmen—were joining the FBL. The room buzzed with reporters jotting down the breaking news. "I'd also like to add that Bernard Millard, who owns the Toronto Wolves of the Federally Aligned Baseball Leagues, has purchased the Pittsburgh Falcons," Rollie announced. Millard's stoic demeanor showed no reaction. Rollie continued, "He has also purchased the Toronto Titans." The unexpected news caused a stir among the reporters. Rollie raised his hands to restore order. "Yes, this is unusual, but Mr. Millard has a new owner lined up to purchase the Titans, in conjunction with signing a new lease for the club." A reporter named John Brinker interjected, "A new lease where, Rollie?" Rollie answered, "Syracuse, New York." Brinker followed up, "So this means the Falcons...." Millard spoke up, saying, "The Falcons will be playing at the Dominion Garden in Toronto." The news sent shockwaves through the room, and questions came from all directions. Another reporter, a stranger to Rollie, asked, "And what about the ABC?" Rollie's genuine smile emerged. "To be completely honest, I am not sure what this means for the ABC. You'll need to take that up with Mr. Prescott." "But surely the ABC can't go on with just four clubs," the reporter pressed. Rollie replied, "For obvious reasons, I can't speculate on the future of a rival league. But yes, I would assume this will be a difficult adjustment for the remaining ABC clubs." During the ensuing Q&A, Sam Bigsby was interrupted as Daniel Prescott dramatically entered the room. Caught off guard, Bigsby and Millard both sat down, while Rollie hurried to the podium to maintain order. "Dan? What are you doing here?" Rollie asked. "I'm here to set the record straight and let the media know what this means for the ABC," Prescott declared. Rollie, now in control, gestured for Prescott to continue. Prescott, visibly angry, approached the table. "We're expanding." A reporter, John Brinker, asked, "What does that mean, Mr. Prescott?" Prescott's grin held a hint of menace. "It means the ABC is adding clubs in Pittsburgh to replace the Falcons, as well as Milwaukee, Indianapolis, and St. Louis." Rollie frowned, realizing that his fears were becoming reality. Brinker inquired, "Do you honestly believe there is room for twenty pro basketball clubs?" Prescott's shark-like grin returned. "No, I don't, Mr. Brinker. But there's room for eight, and when the dust settles, I fully intend for those eight to be the American Basketball Conference's member clubs." Prescott cast a final glare at Millard, Bigsby, and Rollie, then stormed out of the room, leaving chaos in his wake as reporters shouted questions simultaneously. Millard leaned over to Rollie and whispered, "I have to hand it to him; Dan Prescott knows how to put on a show." Rollie concurred with a grunt. Bigsby, seated on his other side, added, "We'll see who's left standing." Rollie knew the next year or two would be challenging, as the battle for dominance in professional basketball unfolded. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Daniel Prescott at FBL Press Conference, 1948 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ __________________ Hexed & Countered on YouTube Figment League - A fictional history of baseball - Want to join in the fun? Shoot me a PM! Read the story of the Barrell Family - A Figment Baseball tale The Figment Sports Universe - More Fake Sports Than You Can Shake a Stick At!

09-08-2023, 12:28 PM	#335
legendsport Hall Of Famer Join Date: Jan 2002 Location: Behind The Lens Posts: 2,867	June 22, 1948: New York, NY: "Well, that could have gone better," Rollie Barrell remarked to his wife as he loosened his tie. The taxi ride back to the Waldorf after the press conference hadn't allowed Rollie enough time to fully process the chaos that had ensued after Daniel Prescott's dramatic entrance. Francie harrumphed and commented, "No one ever said that Dan Prescott would go down without a fight, Roland." She was spot on, and Rollie knew it. Yet, the idea of expansion, especially in the wake of losing four top teams, was confounding. Prescott was many things, but crazy wasn't one of them. "I don't think he can pull this off," Rollie opined. "Where's he going to find players?" "Oh, there will be basketball enthusiasts in those new cities," Allie chimed in as she walked into the main room of the two-bedroom suite. "No doubt," Francie agreed. Rollie successfully removed his tie and tossed it onto the bed next to his jacket. "Sure, there will be players, but the cream of the crop is already signed, and the majority are with the Fed." "True, but let's not underestimate the love for the game," Allie pointed out, perching herself cautiously on the bed's edge after a warning from Francie not to wrinkle her father's jacket. With a foot of space between her and the jacket, Allie continued. "People will play, given the chance." Rollie sensed a knock on the suite door. He exchanged glances with Francie. The memories of that fateful night in a hotel room in New York, with Bigsby's enforcers searching for Joe Barrell, rushed back. It was a night that had forever altered Rollie's life, but that was long ago. Francie frowned, and Allie appeared curious, wondering why her father hadn't opened the door yet. A second knock came, and Bernie Millard's voice called out, "Rollie? Open up, I've got news." Rollie raised an eyebrow and opened the door. Millard entered the room in a bit of a disheveled state, his tie askew and hair ruffled. He clutched his familiar bowler hat, his grip twisting its brim. "What news?" Rollie asked without delay. "I returned to my room, and a messenger had delivered the ABC by-laws," Millard explained. Rollie wore a puzzled expression. Millard smirked and continued, "Well, I did buy an ABC franchise, and this was just some paperwork that got delayed." Understanding dawned on Rollie. "And?" he prompted. "It turns out," Millard revealed, "the rules governing the American Basketball Conference never considered the possibility of teams leaving the league without folding. This means that I, along with Bigsby, Williams, and Wright, retain voting rights. We can veto Prescott's expansion plan into the Midwest." Rollie's thoughtful look led to a question. "But how can that be true? Didn't you forfeit your franchise rights when joining the FBL?" Millard's face hardened, displaying a bulldog-like determination. "We haven't officially left yet. We'd need to file paperwork to exit the ABC, and none of us have done so. Until we do, we can deadlock any vote Prescott calls. Basketball season is months away, Rollie. We can make it nearly impossible for Prescott." Rollie turned and began pacing. Francie and Allie had moved to the bed, his jacket now resting atop the pillows. They watched intently as Rollie mulled over the situation. "We can leverage this," he finally suggested. "That's why I'm here," Millard replied somewhat testily. "It's why I rushed over." Rollie clarified, "You misunderstand. We can use this as leverage to bring all eight ABC clubs, including Prescott's, into the FBL." Millard's eyes widened, and he shook his head. "Prescott would never agree to that, and honestly, I'm not sure we'd want him. He's a…" He hesitated when he glanced at Allie. "You know how I feel about that man." Rollie was well aware of the animosity between Millard and Prescott, who each owned a baseball club in FABL's Continental Association. Their rivalry was bitter, and they collaborated only when it came to controlling their baseball players. "All that's true," Rollie acknowledged, "but if we can bring Brooklyn on board..." Millard's frown deepened, but Rollie knew he grasped the logic. Rollie nodded, a faint smile on his face. "We can unite everyone under one umbrella. No more competing leagues... and salaries can be brought down," he trailed off, knowing that the prospect of salary control was Millard's primary concern, given the soaring costs in baseball due to the rival Great Western League, an entity Millard railed against constantly. Millard still appeared hesitant, but the wheels were turning in his head. Rollie suggested, "Let's get Prescott on the line." Rollie went to the phone on the desk, dialed, and asked the hotel operator to connect him to the offices of the Prescott Bottling Company. He knew that's where Dan Prescott would be—Prescott had an office at Kings County Stadium, but he preferred working out of his bottling company office. A moment later, Prescott's irritable voice growled, "What do you want, Barrell?" Prescott's sour mood persisted as Rollie explained the situation. Millard joined the conversation on the other extension, asserting that he and the other three owners were prepared to block Prescott's expansion plan. Prescott could either lead the other three clubs—Richmond, Rochester, and Hartford—to join the FBL or find themselves in an untenable position. "We could take this to court," Prescott threatened. Rollie responded calmly, "Your own league by-laws don't address clubs leaving the league, Dan. Legally, there's nothing there." Prescott argued, "Rules can be changed." "True," Millard interjected, "but you'd still need the votes of all eight clubs." After much grumbling, Prescott eventually conceded. He would discuss the situation with the owners of the other three clubs and didn't anticipate any significant opposition from them. Rollie figured the three smaller-market clubs would gladly embrace the opportunity to join a larger league, and it would also reduce their operating costs. In the end, the players would have just one choice if they wanted to play professionally. "I don't like this, Rollie," Prescott admitted, "but you're right. This could end up being the best thing for all of us." Rollie pumped his fist in the air, and Francie and Allie clapped their hands enthusiastically. "Looks like the Federal Basketball League just doubled in size," Rollie declared. Millard added with a smile, "And it's now the only game in town." ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ __________________ Hexed & Countered on YouTube Figment League - A fictional history of baseball - Want to join in the fun? Shoot me a PM! Read the story of the Barrell Family - A Figment Baseball tale The Figment Sports Universe - More Fake Sports Than You Can Shake a Stick At!

09-13-2023, 10:23 AM	#336
legendsport Hall Of Famer Join Date: Jan 2002 Location: Behind The Lens Posts: 2,867	July 19, 1948: Toronto, ON: Jack Barrell sat in the living room, engrossed in a crossword puzzle from the Mail and Empire. He often solved puzzles after reading Brett Bing's articles. With baseball in full swing, Bing primarily covered the Wolves, but Jack also kept an ear out for basketball news. Bernie Millard seemed to have worked his magic, or perhaps greased a few palms, securing a move for the Toronto Titans to Syracuse. Meanwhile, Millard's newly-purchased team, the Pittsburgh Falcons, would be moving in and tipping off at Dominion Gardens this fall. Jack, who worked for Gardens' (and Toronto Dukes) owner David Welcombe, knew he might occasionally cross paths with Millard. At least he wouldn't answer to Millard directly. Only nine days had passed since Jack's daughter Aggie's wedding. She had married Quinton Pollack, a center for the Toronto Dukes. Jack had coached Pollack both in Tacoma and now in Toronto. He held the young man in high regard, although he hadn't hesitated to deliver a fatherly warning against hurting Aggie, lest he incur Jack Barrell's wrath. Amid the tranquillity of his summer break from hockey, Jack pondered a ten-letter word for "brouhaha" when the phone rang. Marie was out, and although Vera was home, Jack wasn't certain she would answer the phone. He sighed, just about to put the newspaper down when he heard Vera's call that she would answer the phone. Not entirely sure if the call was for him or one of the others, Jack bent over the newspaper. "A ten-letter word," he mumbled. Vera peeked her head around the doorway between the living room and the kitchen. "Dad, it's for you, someone named 'Batcher' or something," she said. Jack frowned slightly. Batcher? He thanked Vera and picked up the phone. "Hello, this is Jack," he greeted. "Barrell! Badger Rigney here, how you doing, you old so-and-so?" came the voice on the other end. "Well, well, well, if it isn't my old pal Dick Rigney," Jack said, attempting to rile up an old adversary from his playing days. In their heyday, Richard "Badger" Rigney had been known as one of the game's most relentless defensemen. If Jack was honest with himself, he'd admit they shared quite a few traits in their playing style. Jack had eventually switched to playing right wing, but he had started his professional career as a hard-hitting defenseman. "Hey, cut it out with that 'Dick' stuff, will ya? Only my mother calls me Dick," Rigney responded, a hint of amusement in his voice. "Yeah, I'm just trying to get a rise out of you, Rigney," Jack confessed before inquiring about the reason for the call. While they had been rival players, they held deep respect for each other. Rigney had coached the Brooklyn Eagles during Jack's tenure as Detroit's coach, and their relationship, marked by mutual respect, had continued from there. However, they had never quite become friends. "I wanted to get your take on something," Rigney explained. "My opinion? On what?" Jack asked. "I've been offered the head coaching job in Detroit," Rigney revealed. Jack nodded, though he knew Rigney couldn't see it. "Let me guess, you want to know what it's like working for Junior?" Jack inquired. "Hit the nail on the head," Rigney confirmed. He shared that while he had played for Connolly Jr. when the latter owned the Quebec Champlains in the 1930s, his personal dealings with the owner had been limited. He had been a player, and his summers typically involved signing whatever contract the general manager sent his way. Jack could relate; he had followed a similar path. "Right..." Jack began, pausing briefly to gather his thoughts. "My relationship with Junior is complicated," Jack began explaining. "He's not a bad guy, but as he gets older, he's becoming more and more like his father." John Connolly Sr. had been a polarizing figure in pro hockey even before the formation of the NAHC. Connolly was a wealthy man, with silver mines and a deep love for competition, especially hockey. He didn't shy away from unscrupulous tactics to win, such as poaching players from other teams—an all-too-common practice in the early days of pro hockey. Even fellow owners found Connolly Sr. insufferable, despite his wealth. Junior, while less extreme than his father, had increasingly meddled in the affairs of the Detroit Motors as time went on. This meddling had led to a falling out between Junior and Jack, who had been the team's coach since Connolly took over. The result was Jack's firing and subsequent exile to the "wilderness" of the Great Western Hockey League. Fortunately, his return to Toronto was swift, thanks to the Dukes' swift action. "That's my concern... I've heard stories about Junior's father that would make your hair stand on end," Rigney admitted. Jack had known Connolly Sr., who had met a violent end at the hands of a jealous lover during one of hockey's most scandalous episodes. Jack hadn't liked the man, but he had signed to play for him, much to the dismay of his parents and grandmother. This decision had brought him into contact with Junior, who was close in age. They had become friends, at least until Junior fired him. "Junior was generally a fair and sometimes generous owner," Jack added. "I'm not sure I'd work for him again, given the history. But I also wouldn't dissuade you from working for him." Jack paused for a moment before continuing, "Like most owners, he thinks he knows more than he actually does. Profit often takes precedence over winning, even if Junior has historically been more about winning. He has money to spend, but he's mindful of it. His main instruction to the coaching staff has always been 'win first, worry about costs later.'" Rigney expressed gratitude for Jack's insights. Jack remarked, "I'd wish you luck, but I've got a team of my own to coach. So, I'll wish you luck against everyone but the Dukes." Rigney laughed, and when Jack added, "Especially the Valiants. Feel free to beat them as often as you can," Rigney laughed even harder. Hearing her father's laughter, Vera reappeared in the doorway. She raised an eyebrow, and Jack smiled as he hung up. "That seemed like a lively chat," Vera observed. Jack shrugged. "Just two old defensemen reminiscing, Vera." Vera was about to return to the kitchen when Jack asked, "Hey... a question for you... a ten-letter word for 'brouhaha.' Any ideas?" Vera thought for a moment and suggested, "Donnybrook?" Jack noted it down. "That fits. Thanks, Vera!" ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Badger Rigney, Hamilton Hammers, 1924 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ __________________ Hexed & Countered on YouTube Figment League - A fictional history of baseball - Want to join in the fun? Shoot me a PM! Read the story of the Barrell Family - A Figment Baseball tale The Figment Sports Universe - More Fake Sports Than You Can Shake a Stick At!

09-30-2023, 09:55 AM	#337
legendsport Hall Of Famer Join Date: Jan 2002 Location: Behind The Lens Posts: 2,867	September 9, 1948: Egypt, GA: On the morning of September 9, 1948, the sun rose over the rolling hills of Egypt, Georgia, casting a warm, golden light over the Barrell family farm. The world awoke to the chirping of birds and the gentle rustling of leaves. It was a serene morning, one that seemed to promise the beauty of a new day. In the heart of this tranquil countryside, Rufus Barrell lay in his bed, surrounded by the memories of nearly seventy-five years. Born on June 13, 1873, on this very farm, Rufus had crisscrossed America, but his life remained rooted in the soil of Egypt. He had seen the seasons change, tended to the crops, and watched his family grow from generation to generation. As the first rays of sunlight filtered through the curtains, Alice Barrell, Rufus's beloved wife of nearly sixty years, stirred from her sleep. A sense of peace washed over her as she gazed at the man lying beside her. Rufus had been her rock, her partner through all of life's trials and triumphs. Together, they had weathered storms, celebrated victories, and mourned losses. In their long and loving journey together, Rufus and Alice had raised ten children: Joe, Rollie, Jack, Jimmy, Dan, Fred, Tom, Bobby, Harry, and Betsy. Their sons and daughter had been their pride and joy, the living testament to their enduring love. But the years had not been without heartache. The memories of losing Joe in a tragic plane crash on February 25, 1934, and Jimmy, who met his end in a fateful auto race in Indianapolis on May 31, 1919, still weighed heavily on their hearts. The room was filled with the soft rustling of linen sheets and the rhythmic sound of Rufus's peaceful breathing. The lines etched on his face were the roadmap of a life well-lived, a life devoted to family and to a passion that had defined him. Rufus had been a baseball pitcher, a prodigy of the game, before a cruel twist of fate had cut short his promising career. A freak accident had left him with an injury that robbed him of the pitcher's mound. But Rufus, never one to surrender to despair, had channeled his passion into scouting. With a keen eye for talent and an unwavering dedication to the sport, he became one of the most respected scouts in the business. He co-founded the Omni Scouting Association, a name now synonymous with excellence in player evaluation. The OSA became the official scouting partner not only of FABL, professional baseball, but also of the AFA, NAHC, and the FBL—professions of football, hockey, and basketball, respectively. Rufus's tireless work had helped shape the landscape of multiple sports, and his name was revered in the world of sports scouting. Through the years, Rufus had worn many hats. He had served as a scouting director for the Brooklyn Kings, the Washington Eagles, and the Cincinnati Cannons. His knowledge and wisdom had guided these teams to success, and his influence was felt far beyond the boundaries of the baseball diamond. In the community of the Federally Aligned Baseball Leagues (FABL), Rufus Barrell was not just a legend; he was a beloved figure, a symbol of dedication, and a source of inspiration for countless aspiring athletes. And now, on this peaceful morning in Egypt, Georgia, Rufus Barrell had come full circle. His life's journey had reached its final chapter. He had left an indelible mark on the world of sports, on his family, and on the hearts of all who had the privilege to know him. Alice, with tears in her eyes, reached out and gently touched her husband's weathered hand. Rufus, with a serene smile on his lips, had peacefully passed away in his sleep, his spirit now free to join the eternal tapestry of the universe. As Alice sat by his side, she couldn't help but feel a profound sense of gratitude for the life they had shared—a life filled with love, laughter, and the enduring legacy of a man who had truly made a difference. Rufus Barrell, the man from Egypt, Georgia, had left his mark on the world, and his memory would forever live on in the hearts of those who loved him. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Rufus and Alice Barrell in Brooklyn, 1906 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ __________________ Hexed & Countered on YouTube Figment League - A fictional history of baseball - Want to join in the fun? Shoot me a PM! Read the story of the Barrell Family - A Figment Baseball tale The Figment Sports Universe - More Fake Sports Than You Can Shake a Stick At!

10-03-2023, 11:21 AM	#338
legendsport Hall Of Famer Join Date: Jan 2002 Location: Behind The Lens Posts: 2,867	September 13, 1948: Egypt, GA: The private family service for Rufus Barrell on Monday, September 13, 1948, held at his family's farm in Egypt, Georgia, was a solemn occasion that brought together the entire Barrell clan. Gathered to pay their respects, they mourned the passing of their beloved family patriarch, Rufus Barrell. Rollie Barrell, Rufus and Alice's eldest surviving child, took it upon himself to deliver the eulogy in place of his brother Joe. Rollie recognized that Joe would have humorously claimed he wasn't up to the task of delivering a speech, but he also knew Joe would have done an admirable job if called upon. The weather on that day was pleasant, and the service took place outdoors, a fitting choice for Rufus, who had always been an outdoors enthusiast. While he had initially resisted farm life as a teenager, his deep-rooted connection to the family's land in Egypt, Georgia, had grown over the years, and he had come to love it. Rollie had dedicated much of the weekend to crafting the eulogy, a task he found challenging. How could one adequately bid farewell to a man who had played such a profound role in shaping his life? The news of Rufus's passing, conveyed by his mother on September 9th, had left Rollie stunned. Rufus had been a constant presence in his life, much like the sun, providing warmth and energy to his children. Now, that light had dimmed. Rollie arrived in Egypt on Thursday night, having traveled from Detroit to Atlanta by air, a mode of transportation that had significantly shortened the journey compared to the long train rides of the past. Francie and Allie had accompanied him, while Marty, due to her husband's coaching commitments, would arrive on Saturday. The Barrell family was fully represented at the service. Joe was represented by his children: Deuce, Gloria, Roger Cleaves, and Charlie. Jack, Marie, and their daughters Aggie and Vera had traveled from Toronto. Jean had flown in from New York. Jimmy's son, James Slocum, attended with his wife Rose. Dan and Gladys had arrived from Washington with their sons Mike and Steve. Fred, Tillie, and their family had flown in from Detroit. Fred's family had grown by one - their daughter Loretta had arrived in July, and Fred tearfully mourned the fact that she'd never get to meet her grandfather. Tom, Bobby, and Harry, all active with FABL ballclubs, had the day off and attended with their spouses and children. The youngest of Rufus and Alice's children, Betsy, was also present, along with her husband, Tom Bowens, who worked as an offensive coach for the Detroit Maroons. Possum Daniels and his family, and Tom Pontetas, still a bachelor, were the only non-family invited to the service. Rollie wasn't sure that Possum would make it. The loss of his oldest friend had left the old and wheelchair-bound catcher in a deep depression and he'd spoken barely a word, except to Alice. And that had been done privately. In total, 54 Barrells had gathered, making it an intimate yet sizable funeral. Some were Barrells by marriage, but in the eyes of Rufus and Alice, they were all family. As Rollie escorted his mother to her seat, he asked her to take a moment to look at the assembly. She gazed out at the crowd, and Rollie remarked, "A mighty brood, and a fitting legacy, Mom." Standing in front of the large and familiar gathering, Rollie knew he had to remain strong as he delivered the eulogy for his father, who had touched so many lives. He began his speech: "Ladies and gentlemen, family and friends, We gather here today on this peaceful Georgia farm, a place of cherished memories for our family, to pay our final respects to a remarkable man, Rufus Barrell. Rufus, born right here on June 13, 1873, lived a life of extraordinary character, dedication, and love, leaving an indelible mark on all of us who had the privilege of knowing him. Rufus was not just my father; he was a husband, a father of ten, a grandfather, and a friend to many. His journey began on this very land, a testament to his deep roots in this community and his enduring connection to the land that he tilled and nurtured. As we remember Rufus today, we cannot help but think of the profound losses he endured throughout his life. He and my mother, Alice, shared almost six decades together, facing the challenges and joys that life bestowed upon them. They knew the heartache of losing two of their sons, my dear brothers Joe and Jimmy, under circumstances that no parent should ever bear. Those losses weighed heavily on their hearts, a pain that only the strongest of bonds could weather. But through it all, their love remained steadfast, a testament to their resilience and commitment to each other. Rufus was a man of many talents and passions. He possessed a remarkable gift for the game of baseball. And baseball loved him too - he found not only his wife - my mother Alice - through the game, but also his oldest and best friend, the man for whom I'm named, though we all just call him Possum. As a young man, my father was a supremely talented pitcher, and it seemed as though his future in the sport was boundless. Fate, however, had other plans, and a line drive in New York abruptly ended his playing career. But Pop didn't let that setback define him. He turned his attention to scouting, and in doing so, he discovered a new path—one that would lead to great success and lasting impact for countless aspiring ballplayers. He co-founded the Omni Scouting Association (OSA) alongside his dear friend and partner, Thomas Potentas. Together, they revolutionized the world of scouting, not only in baseball but across multiple sports. Rufus was a talent whisperer, uncovering hidden gems and future legends. His work with OSA helped shape the landscape of professional sports, and his keen eye for talent earned him the respect and admiration of colleagues and players alike. Rufus' journey took him - and our family various places, most notably to Brooklyn where he worked for the Kings, but also to Washington, and Cincinnati. He served as a scouting director and even took on the role of club president of the Eagles during the tumultuous times of World War II. His dedication to the game and his unshakeable integrity made him a beloved figure in the FABL community. Were this not a private, family gathering, we'd need the Bigsby Oval to hold all the people who'd gather to pay their respects to Rufus Barrell. In this year of 1948, a year that will forever be etched in our hearts in joy and sadness, Rufus received the highest honor any baseball professional can attain: induction into the Hall of Fame. It was a testament to his lifelong dedication to the sport he loved and the impact he had on countless lives. But beyond his professional achievements, Rufus was a loving father, a guiding presence, and a source of unwavering support to all of us. He instilled in his children the values of hard work, perseverance, honesty, and loyalty, qualities that have defined our family for generations. As we bid farewell to Rufus today, let us remember the legacy he leaves behind - look around you, it is here and all around us. In fact, it is us. Let us cherish the memories of his warm smile, his wise counsel, and his boundless love. In his honor, may we carry forward the values he held dear, and may we continue to nurture the bonds of family and friendship that were so important to him. Rufus, you may have left this earthly realm, but your spirit lives on in our hearts and in the stories we share. Your legacy is secure, and your memory will forever be a guiding light in our lives. Rest in peace, Pop. You will be deeply missed, but never forgotten." The words echoed across the Georgia farm, a fitting tribute to a man who had left an indelible mark on his family and the world of sports. Rufus Barrell may have passed on, but his legacy lived on in the hearts and minds of those who knew and loved him. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ The Barrell Family Farm, 1948 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ __________________ Hexed & Countered on YouTube Figment League - A fictional history of baseball - Want to join in the fun? Shoot me a PM! Read the story of the Barrell Family - A Figment Baseball tale The Figment Sports Universe - More Fake Sports Than You Can Shake a Stick At! Last edited by legendsport; 10-04-2023 at 03:49 PM.

10-27-2023, 05:17 PM	#339
legendsport Hall Of Famer Join Date: Jan 2002 Location: Behind The Lens Posts: 2,867	December 15, 1948: Egypt, GA: Alice Barrell lasted just three days short of three months without her husband. The day after his mother's funeral, Rollie Barrell walked up the steps of the farmhouse, went inside, and paused for a moment reflecting on the eerie stillness. This was a house that had rarely known quiet from the moment Rufus had rebuilt it after the fire and he and Alice settled in to raise their brood of ten children. There would be no Barrell Christmas gathering this year, a suspension Rollie feared might be permanent. He and his siblings were adults now, spread in various cities across the continent with all now having children of their own. Sighing deeply, Rollie navigated to what used to be his father's study. Despite the ample space in the farmhouse, Rufus had kept the study confined to a small corner, a testament to the habits of a man devoted to a routine. Rollie knew the combination to the safe hidden in that room and the model was the same as his own back in Detroit. Alice had disclosed the safe's code on the day of Rufus' funeral, perhaps realizing that her days on Earth were also numbered. She had passed away peacefully in her sleep, seemingly losing the will to live without Rufus by her side. A solitary tear threatened to spill from Rollie's eye, and he hastily brushed it away. Focusing on the safe, he swiftly turned the dial, opening it to reveal a copy of the will Alice had drafted after Rufus' passing. She had been the sole beneficiary, yet her practicality led her to arrange the document for the benefit of the next generation. Removing the paper from the simple, unassuming envelope, Rollie's eyes moved along the lines. The wealth and stock holdings were to be divided among the eight living children. As he continued reading, a look of initial confusion shifted to a faint, wry grin. Placing the paper back into the envelope, Rollie closed the safe, locking it out of sheer habit, even though it was now empty. He proceeded outdoors, locking the door behind him and securing the key. A quiet gesture of preservation, for now. Descending the steps slowly, he grappled with the surreal feeling that engulfed him. It had been almost thirty years since he resided with his parents, yet the realization that he would never see them again, even two months after Rufus' passing, was still challenging to reconcile. Francie waited in the car, as always a steadying presence in his life. Reflecting on their shared history, Rollie remembered the first encounters that felt far from friendly when they had met during a charity golf event. Seeing his grin as he settled into the driver's seat, Francie raised an inquisitive eyebrow. Rollie's smile remained as he replied, "Just reminiscing about when we first met." Her response held a glint of humor. "I guess I should be glad it made you smile." "Always, my love," Rollie said, leaning over to gently kiss her cheek. Puzzled by Rollie's somewhat upbeat mood, Francie inquired, "What's going on? Did your parents leave a fortune to you we weren't aware of?" Rollie shook his head. "No, it's not that. The money is being divided among us. It's something else," he gestured, indicating the farmhouse. "This?" Francie asked, looking more bewildered. "You mean the farm?" "Yes," Rollie nodded, a sense of determination in his voice. "What's about it?" Francie queried. Rollie shook his head. "Not yet. I need to speak with the lawyer about this. It's... intriguing," he stated, holding the envelope. Francie sighed, recognizing the familiar look in her husband's eyes. She understood that Rollie was not ready to share the details, and she would have to be patient. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ __________________ Hexed & Countered on YouTube Figment League - A fictional history of baseball - Want to join in the fun? Shoot me a PM! Read the story of the Barrell Family - A Figment Baseball tale The Figment Sports Universe - More Fake Sports Than You Can Shake a Stick At! Last edited by legendsport; 10-31-2023 at 02:44 PM.

10-27-2023, 06:00 PM	#340
Eugene Church Hall Of Famer Join Date: Aug 2002 Posts: 35,107 Blog Entries: 1	Man, I don't have time to read this... but I think I will just have to... it is brilliantly written. I just looked at it today for the first time and you got me on the first page. Superb work, legendsport.