The Ballad of the Brothers Barrell - A Figment Story

[legendsport]

September 20, 1936: Brooklyn, NY

"Ugh... you stink," Tom Barrell moaned. He punctuated this statement by waving a hand in front of his nose.

Dan Barrell frowned at his brother, but let it pass - Tommy was pitching and he was prickly on those days, even in the best of times. This wasn't the best of times, at least not for Tom.

Dan watched his brother saunter back to his own locker. The smell to which Tom had referred came from Dan's knee, rubbed down and wrapped, just as it always was before he could step onto the field.

The Kings were hosting the Montreal Saints and that was Dan's focus. He was enjoying his best season, something he found bitterly ironic given how much trouble his leg had been giving him this season.

Harry walked over, eyed the wrap job and quipped, "You should see if Doc Seale can go the whole way. I'd love to see you play in full 'Mummy' regalia." He began walking, stiff-legged around the clubhouse, arms out and moaning in his best Boris Karloff imitation - which wasn't particularly good. His act drew a scowl and head shake from Al Wheeler and a sigh from Frank Vance. Most of the other guys just ignored him. Fred threw a towel at him, which hit him in the back of the head and halted his Karloff act.

Dan turned around and started pulling his uniform pants on. He was thankful the uniform was baggy. No one could see how much his knee swelled and he had made an art out of hiding his limp.

Fred sat down next to him and pitching his voice low, he asked, "So... which Tom do you think we'll get today?"

Dan shot a quick glance in Tom's direction. As was his usual routine, he was rubbing a baseball, his brows forming a 'V' as he scowled, gazing off into space.

"Hopefully the good one," Dan muttered in reply. "I'd like to shake him by the neck sometimes," he admitted.

The problem had begun when they swung through Chicago at the start of September. Dan had stayed at his home where Gladys and his boys were (they'd welcomed little Steven Barrell to the family on April 16th) rather than the team hotel. Tom came into town with big plans - plans that revolved around Annette O'Boyle. And plans that were scrapped when she refused to see him. And compounded it by refusing to tell him why. Luckily, this had happened after the first of their two-game set with the Cougars, a game in which Tom notched his 19th victory in a 12-2 laugher. His next start came in Baltimore against the woeful Cannons and he pitched angry, winning another laugher 11-1 to run his record to 20-5.

Then the wheels started coming off. The club returned home, Annette wouldn't return Tom's calls and then he took his turn in the rotation against the scuffling Toronto Wolves. His stuff was only middling, but he battled through eight innings having allowed four runs on 11 hits. Unfortunately, the Kings offense had managed only four runs of their own. So, with Tom due to hit, Powell Slocum lifted him, sending Doug Lightbody out to hit for him. Tom had always prided himself on his ability with the bat - and his brothers all knew he was a pretty solid hitter (for a pitcher) - but the move made sense: Lightbody might be having an off-year, but he was the epitome of a professional hitter. That didn't matter to Tom - he exploded in the dugout, getting into a shouting match with Slocum, his voice so loud that the players on the field, as well as the umpires were all looking into the Kings dugout. Fred had literally had to drag Tom up the tunnel and into the clubhouse.

Four days later, the Kings were in the midst of a crucial series with the Cleveland Foresters. Brooklyn was holding a slim four-game lead on their nemeses from the shores of Lake Erie. Powell Slocum had taken Tom aside before the game, telling him he understood the frustration that boiled over against Toronto. And that he wouldn't stand for it again. "Be a professional," he told him. Or at least that's what Tom angrily relayed to Fred later on that day.

Regardless of the exact words, Tom was subdued... and pitched terribly. In the fourth inning of a game the Kings were already trailing 2-1, Tom surrendered six runs and was pulled from the game without registering an out, Slocum walking slowly to the mound, his head down, while Fred did his best to talk to a visibly smoldering Tom. When Slocum held out his hand, Tom slapped the ball into it and stalked off without a word to anyone, going through the dugout and continuing right into the tunnel in silence. The Kings lost 10-4.

Now... it was Tom's turn again. At 20-6 he was still on track for winning an Allen Award. But his mood was not good.

Dan slapped Fred on the shoulder and said, "Guess you should have gotten a psychology degree to work with these guys, heh?"

Fred chortled, took a deep breath and stood up. "Seems like it, sometimes," he said as he turned and walked off.

It was almost a relief when the game began. The team was tight - they'd come close to the pennant the year before only to blow it. And everyone remembered it - including, maybe even especially, Tom Barrell.

Pablo Reyes led off the game for the Saints, swung at the first pitch and flew out to Wheeler in right. Red Moore also swung at the first pitch, drilling a hard grounder right at Frank Vance at third, who played it cleanly and gunned him out. Dan's balky knee gave him no trouble as trotted over to the bag... something about which to be thankful, he figured.

This brought Jim Watson to the plate and he too swung at the first pitch. But this one was a looping liner that dropped over the head of John Langille for a single.

Watson rounded the bag, then came back and gave Dan a friendly "How do?"

He and Dan chatted amiably for a moment, Dan as always thinking the guy was a little too full of himself. Watson was a good player, no doubt, but he seemed to be unable to believe that others could realize that without him telling them so.

The Saints cleanup hitter was Vic Crawford, and he swung at the first pitch, but fouled it back into the screen. He repeated the feat on the second pitch. Then Tom threw three straight balls, with two of them being close enough that Dan could see his brother scowling and muttering to himself between pitches.

On the 3-2 pitch, Crawford shot a hot one right down the line. Dan, thankful that his glove was on his left hand, went to one knee - his good one, thankfully, to make the stop and then managed to get to the bag, hobbling just a little and waving Tom off as he made the unassisted putout to end the top of the first.

Slocum had penciled Dan into the third spot in the lineup. Both Bill May, hitting leadoff, and Vance, batting second, sent flies out to center that Reyes easily handled; Danny watching Vance's drive from the on-deck circle, admired the way Reyes gracefully glided to the ball. He briefly scolded himself for his bout of jealousy, but he'd have given... well, a lot... to be able to run like that again.

Stepping in against Earle Whitten, Dan got a fat fastball on the first pitch... and fouled it off. The second pitch was a little high, so he took it for ball one. The second, in nearly the same spot, was called a strike, causing Dan to scowl a bit, but he never argued with an umpire - another lesson from the Baseball Gospel According to Rufus Barrell, he mused.

The fourth pitch was a near-repeat of the first and he rifled it over Whitten's head on a line for a clean single to center. A good, solid hit that didn't require busting it out of the box.

Then he botched it up. Wheeler, in his usual clean-up spot, drove one down the first-base line on a 1-2 pitch. Dan took off, two outs, running as hard as his bum leg allowed and raced around second even as the Saints' right-fielder Nellie Dawson was scooping up the ball. Dan, unfamiliar with Dawson's arm, didn't get a stop sign from Slocum in the coaching box at third, so he chugged for third - and was thrown out. It was close, but making the last out at third... he dusted himself off, shaking his head, muttered an apology to Slocum and slowly walked back to first base for the top of the second. Harry didn't help. As he trotted past, his brother joked, "Guess the ol' man plum forgot just how slow you are."

Tom cruised through the second, 1-2-3, striking out Dawson along the way. Whitten ended up getting hurt in the home second, in a bizarre play where he pulled up lame backing up first base on a 4-6-3 double play off the bat of Langille. Harry grounded to second against Dick Parker to end the inning.

In the third, the Saints struck with three straight one-out singles, the first of which was off the bat of Dick Parker the pitcher, which Dan knew would set Tom's temper to a fine simmer. Reyes singled to push Parker to second and then Red Moore drove him home to make it 1-0. Fred gunned down Reyes stealing second for the second out and Watson grounded out to end the inning. 1-0 Saints.

Fred struck out to lead off the third, bringing Tom to the plate. He took a first pitch strike then smoked a liner into the left-centerfield gap and cruised into second with a double. But he ended up stranded there as May and Vance couldn't move him.

The Saints added two more in the top of the fourth to extend their lead to 3-0. Dan led off the home fourth. Feeling pressure to deliver something he instead swung and missed at the first two offerings. Then he fouled off the third pitch, before grounding one hard down the third base line, past a diving Hank Barnett. Hoping his leg would hold up, Dan busted it out of the box and slid in safely with a leadoff double. But, just as Tom had the inning before, Dan ended up stranded as the game remained 3-0.

That is, until the Saints tacked on two more to go up 5-0 in the fifth. The second run scored on a wild pitch and Dan saw Slocum pacing back and forth in the dugout and could almost hear him asking pitching coach Bill Libby if it was time to pull Tom. But Tom got himself under control and whiffed Heinie Buehler.

In the home fifth, Harry led off with a single. Fred followed with a foul pop to first, bringing up the pitcher's spot. Dan, from his spot on the bench, warily eyed Slocum wondering if he would pull Tom for pinch-hitter. From the corner of his eye he saw the Lightbody brothers eyeing the skipper too. But Slocum decided to let Tom hit, going through the signals from his spot in the third base coaching box.

Dan smirked when he saw that Slocum was signaling for a bunt. Tom hated sacrificing. Still, they needed a run and moving Harry into scoring position with May on deck was a smart call.

Tom laid down a good bunt between the pitcher and first base, and ran hard, but Parker tossed to second baseman Moore to get the out at first. Unfortunately, May flew out to end the inning and it stayed 5-0.

In the sixth, Tom quickly set down the first two batters, and it looked as if the pseudo-vote of confidence Slocum had given him the prior inning was paying off. Then Reyes reached on a error by Vance at third and that thunderstorm-y look returned to Tom's face. But he did recover to get Moore on a fly to left to end the threat.

The bottom of the sixth was a key one as the Kings got back into the game in a big way. Vance led off, working a 3-1 count before shooting a line drive between the first and second basemen for a single. Dan came up, took a strike, then Parker bounced one that went to the backstop for a wild pitch, sending Vance to second. Another called strike and Dan was in a 1-2 hole and just looking to make good contact. Parker dealt two sraight balls to fill the count and then served up a nice juicy one that Dan socked into the deepest part of Kings County Stadium, where it rattled off the centerfield wall. He ran as hard as he could, and his eyes widened in shock when he rounded second and saw Slocum frantically windmilling his arms. Dan went full tilt, knowing his leg would be giving him nasty reminders of this for the next week, but he slid into third in a cloud of dust.... safe!

He came home on a sharp single by Wheeler to make it 5-2 and even though Elmer Nolde followed with a fly out and then Langille hit into an inning-ending double play, Dan felt like the Kings were right back in it.

Tom worked around a two-out walk in the home seventh and the Kings got back to business in the home half: Harry led off with a double, went to third on another wild pitch by Parker and came home on Fred's groundout to short. Tom walked and May flew out. A Vance single sent Parker to the showers as Dick Pozza had seen enough. Southpaw Randy Taylor came on to face Dan who drew a walk to load the bases. Taylor's control problems continued as he also walked Wheeler to send Tom home. He got Joe Perret (hitting for Elmer Nolde) to ground out to end the inning, but the control problems of Parker and Taylor had cost the Saints two runs and it was now 5-4.

Tom allowed a run in the top of the eighth, making it 6-4, but the Kings got it back in the home half: a two-out double for Fred caused Slocum to send Frank Lightbody out to hit for Tom. There was no eruption this time, and Tom didn't leave the bench. Lightbody delivered a single to score Fred and bring it back to a one-run contest.

Del Lyons came on to pitch the ninth and worked around a one-out double by Watson. In the home ninth, down to their last licks, Dan led off with his second double of the game, went to third on a groundout to first by Wheeler and then scored on an error by Saints shortstop Tony White. The Kings were unable to further dent Randy Taylor and the game headed into extra innings.

Lyons made it interesting in the top half, surrendering a leadoff single to Buehler and hitting pinch-hitter John Collins. The go-ahead run made it to third but Lyons recovered to whiff Bob Worley to end the threat.

In the home half, Walker Moore came on to pitch, and was greeted by pinch-hitter Jake Shadoan with a single to left. May bunted him over and Vance drew a walk to bring Dan up with two on and one out. Moore's first delivery was just off the plate wide, for ball one - and the fifth straight miss by the Saints' lefty. He proceeded to groove the next one and Dan put a good swing on it, an opposite field screamer that plunked into the seats in right field for a walk-off three run bomb.

As his team mates gathered at home to greet him, Dan realized that the homer had not only won the game, but it had completed the cycle and he had put together a 5-for-5 day with a pair of doubles, three runs scored and four driven in. Even Tommy was grinning when Dan touched home plate. It looked like the Kings might not choke this pennant race after all...

.

[legendsport]

October 4, 1936: Chicago, IL:

"Tom? Phone call for you," the clubhouse guy said.

Tom Barrell was still in uniform. He didn't want to take it off. Granted, it was clean - he'd already done his losing in this series: twice. But taking it off would be shutting the door on a season that had looked like it was going to end in glory. That the season was over regardless of what Tom was wearing didn't even factor in.

"Tom... Mr. Barrell? The phone?" the clubby prompted.

Tom looked up at the guy. Visiting Clubhouse attendant at Whitney Park. Tom realized he didn't even know the fellow's name. He'd started his career in Chicago, but that was with the Cougars; this trip to Whitney for the World Championship Series was his first time taking on the Chiefs... outside of spring training, of course.

"What's your name?" he asked quietly.

"Uh... Bill," was the reply. The poor guy was plainly confused.

"Wouldn't you rather be around the bend... you know... in the other clubhouse?" Tom asked, his eyes still looking at the floor.

"Well... sure," the guy replied, then added, "But this is my job, you know?"

Tom's mouth curled in what might have been a smile... or a grimace. Either way, he wasn't going to torture this guy. "Phone, huh? Well, lead on, Bill," he said and stood up.

His cleats clacked on the concrete as he followed Bill out into the hall where a payphone was attached to the wall.

"I wonder who would call this phone looking for me?" Tom muttered to himself, but Bill must have heard because he answered, "I don't know. It's mostly players and their, uh, friends that call this phone." And by friends, Tom knew Bill meant women... at least mostly.

He thanked the man, and promised to slip him an extra buck on his way out of the clubhouse. Once he got around to taking off his uniform. Heck, even Harry had hit the showers and that kid would sleep in his uniform if he could.

He grabbed the receiver, which was hanging on its cord. "Hello?"

"Tom? It's Bobby," he heard, recognizing his brother's voice.

"Bobby? What are you doing calling? I thought you were at the game with Pop?"

"No... I ended up not making it. Something came up..." Bobby said.

"OK...." Tom replied, drawing it out to make it almost a question.

"Yeah... so..." Bobby said, clearly struggling to put together a coherent sentence.

"What's going on Bob?" Tom asked, exasperation in his voice. Given that his team had just gotten swept by the Chicago Chiefs in the Series, he wasn't in a mood to put up with whatever had Bobby worked up.

"It's uh..." Pause.

"Spit it out Bob," Tom growled.

"Well... I got a note from Annette. At least, I thought it was..."

"Annette? What's she want with you?" Bobby had Tom's full attention now.

"The note, it got slipped under my door here at the hotel..." Another pause. Tom gripped the receiver so hard his knuckles whitened. "Bob...." he said, his voice tight with anger.

"Yeah, sorry," Bob said, and then after a couple of beats, went on, "The note said she wanted to see me in a room here. Upstairs. I wondered why she'd be in the hotel.... I mean she lives in Chicago, you know?"

Tom gritted his teeth. "Yeah, I'm aware..." he said tightly.

"Right... so she said she had something important to discuss and wanted to do it in person, in her room."

Another pause. "So... I'm guessing you went to her room. That's why you didn't come to the game, right?" Tom asked, the anger practically oozing through the mouthpiece.

"Yeah, I did. And when I got there..."

A longer pause. "Bob.., if you were in front of me right now, I'd punch you in the mouth," Tom said. "Spit it out already."

Tom heard his brother take a deep breath. "Well... when I got there, it was Lucy who opened the door."

That one caught Tom off-guard. Lucy? What on earth was she doing there? He was quiet while this sunk in, confusion denting his anger.

Bob waited a beat then went on, his words spilling out more quickly, "She had a gun. She waved me in and I saw Annette in a chair by the window. She was terrified."

Tom was still silent, stunned. His mouth had dropped open.

"Lucy was talking crazy. Said she knew about me and Annette..."

"You and Annette?" Tom said - not a question, really - in a low voice.

"I told her... and this is the truth... there is no 'me and Annette,'" Bobby explained. "But she was acting crazy, waving that gun around... where she got it, I don't know..."

He stopped and Tom heard him sniffle as if he were.... crying? Bobby, crying?

"Go on... what happened," Tom said, choking up himself.

"Uh, yeah, so... she was getting madder by the second. I took a step towards her... I don't know, maybe I was going to grab for the gun..."

Another torturous pause and then... "She backed up, then she swung and..." Pause... sniffle... "She shot Annette."

Tom's eyes closed and he swallowed. His voice cracked as he asked, "And? How bad is it?"

"Well, she was hit in the shoulder. Apparently Lucy's not the best shot in the world," Bob said, adding a graveyard chuckle. "I grabbed at the gun, which was mighty hot, I tell you, and we fell on the floor. Then it went off again..."

"Jeez, Bob, stop pausing all the time and just tell me..." Tom said, but there was no heat left in his voice.

"The bullet hit me in the hand, but length-wise, and went up my forearm." He paused again, and then quietly added, "I punched her in the face, Tom. I hit her... and knocked her out cold... But I had to do it," he said, sounding as if he was trying to convince himself.

"You did what you had to do, Bob," Tom said.

"Yeah... I guess," Bobby said, then wrapped up his story. The police had come, someone having called right after the first gunshot. When they got there, Bobby had been cradling Annette, who was in shock, blood running down his right forearm. The gun was under the bed, where Bobby had kicked it and Lucy was still out. Bobby and Annette had answered questions and the cops had taken Lucy away when she came around. Bobby and Annette shared an ambulance to the hospital. Neither of their wounds were too serious, the gun had been a .22, but they had both been admitted and it was possible surgery was in the future for Annette.

"Lucy... she was acting... completely nuts," Bobby said, now in a more normal tone of voice and plainly disbelieving. "There really is nothing going on with me and Annette, Tom," he said. "She did tell me... in the ambulance that she had been wanting to break it off with you..." he paused and then quietly added, "Sorry."

"Yeah, well... thanks, I guess," Tom replied.

"She also said she hadn't exactly explained it to you..."

Tom shook his head. That much was true, and he didn't trust what would come out of his mouth if he opened it, so he didn't say anything.

"Does Pop know about this?" Tom asked. He had seen Rufus in the stands, so he had come to the game, sitting with Gladys and Tillie.

"No... I told him I'd meet him, but obviously I never showed. I don't know where he is... but I think he said he was going to dinner with Dan and Gladys, and Fred and Tillie."

"Yeah... I heard that too. Fred and Dan are already out of here," Tom said. Powell Slocum had congratulated his team on a great season, even if it "didn't end the way we wanted." Fred and Dan were amongst the first to shower and leave. Harry hung around, disappointment written all over his face.

The fact was, none of the Barrells had done well. Dan hit .133, Harry hit .200 and Fred didn't get a single hit. Tom went 0-2 in his two starts. Even Wheeler had a bad series - only Frank Vance (.429) had done anything for the Kings. And the way it ended... the Kings had scored three runs in the top of the 9th, taking a 4-2 lead. But Joe Shaffner couldn't hold it - a two-run double by Tom Bird had pushed Bob Martin across the plate with the series-winning run. A walk-off win... and sweep for the Chiefs. Ugh.

"I'm coming over there," Tom told his brother. "I'll bring Harry with me and we'll see if we can round up Pop, Fred and Danny too," Tom said, his emotions a stew he would deal with later. "Maybe Harry knows where they were going."

"Thanks Tom..." Bobby replied in a weary tone.

Tom hung up, thinking about how, sometimes, life threw you a curveball that put things in perspective. Yeah, he and his brothers had lost the World Championship Series, but Bobby getting shot? Even if it was minor, that was a big deal. He hustled back into the clubhouse, looking for his youngest brother.

.

[legendsport]

November 1, 1936: New York, NY

"I really appreciate you inviting us to the game, Rollie," Charlotte Cleaves said.

"My pleasure," Rollie said with a smile.

They were in the owner's box at the Bigsby Oval, where Rollie's Detroit Maroons were taking on the New York Football Stars (as they were known, to differentiate them from the baseball club). They had the box to themselves - well, the two of them plus Roger Cleaves. The Stars owner, Jimmy Catledge, was in Philadelphia on business but had graciously offered use of his box to Rollie.

"Yeah, this is great!" Roger shouted with the exuberance of an almost 13 year old boy. "I think Jamason is the best!" he added. Then he looked at Rollie and said, "Sorry."

Rollie laughed. Tom Jamason was a heckuva halfback he told Roger, and given that he and his mother lived just across the Hudson in Hoboken, it was ok to root for the Stars and their best player.

Roger grinned again and stuffed his hand into his box of Cracker Jack, digging around for the prize.

Charlotte leaned over and pitching her voice low so her son couldn't hear, she said, "This means a lot to Roger. Ever since John..." she trailed off. Her husband, John Cleaves, had disappeared. Not left her, just... vanished. Rollie knew that he had ties to organized crime that stretched back into the early 1920s; Joe and Jack had both told Rollie about Cleaves pulling them into bootlegging-related cash smuggling during Prohibition - all of it tied up with the fact that it was Joe, not John Cleaves, who was the father of Roger. Something few knew: a handful of the Barrells, Charlotte's father George Theobald, and John Cleaves. Roger had no idea and neither did his baseball-playing brothers Jack and George.

Rollie cast a glance at Roger, still digging around in his Cracker Jack, the tip of his tongue sticking out. For a moment the resemblance to Joe Barrell was uncanny. Rollie remembered all too well Joe having that same expression on his face when they were kids and he was concentrating on something.

"He has a lot of Joe in him," Charlotte whispered. Rollie nodded. "John hated it, of course, and he treated poor Roger terribly. Jack and George would stick up for him, but they've both been gone for a while now."

Rollie patted her hand, unsure of what he could say. George Theobald was practically a second father to him and he genuinely liked Charlotte. Roger was family, whether the world knew it or not, and with Joe gone, Rollie would see that the boy never wanted for anything.

On the field, Damion Jordan bulled into the end zone for a Maroons touchdown. Rollie pumped a fist and grinned as Roger stood with most of the other fans, and started booing. The score, and point after, made it 14-0 Detroit.

"John owed some bad people a lot of money. They say that John was..." Charlotte said, still whispering. She didn't finish, but Rollie had heard too. He had been looking into getting WPA funds to build his own stadium in Detroit and had heard, through some of his construction contacts, that John Cleaves had been killed and was buried under a new WPA playground on 134th Street in New York. Charlotte had heard the same rumor.

At halftime, the score stood at 17-0 and Roger was glum. Seeing his mother also looking sad, he said, "Don't worry Mom, the Stars can make a comeback." Then he looked at Rollie and added, "Uh.. no offense, Mr. Barrell."

Rollie laughed and said, "We'll see, Roger. We'll see..."

Charlotte spent the better part of the third quarter filling Rollie in on Roger. "He fights at school... a lot," she said with a frown. "Jack and George had some scraps when they were boys, but nothing like this..."

Rollie shook his head, thinking about how pugnacious Joe had been at that age. "Sounds a lot like Joe," he told Charlotte. "When we were kids, he got into scraps almost every day. Usually, he was sticking up for me, or Jack," he said with a fond smile. "He thought he had to protect us. I wasn't much of a fighter myself, but the kids quickly learned to leave me alone. Jack... he'd fight, and sometimes get beat up, then Joe would find the other kid and... you know," he finished with a small, sad grin and a shrug.

Charlotte said, "I know you must miss him."

Rollie nodded. "I do. He had a lot of flaws and a terrible temper," he said, "But he was a good man. His older kids, Rufus and Gloria, they're good kids. Roger is too. Charlie, well, I reckon he'll turn out fine. He's out in California with his mother... so we don't see much of him. I hope he's alright."

Charlotte smiled and said, "You really care a lot about your family," she said.

"I do. Lord knows there are a lot of us, but I will always take care of my family," he said firmly. Then he grabbed her hand and added, "And that includes Roger... and you."

Roger leaped from his seat, shouting. The Stars had finally scored a touchdown. 17-7.

"You like football, eh Roger?" Rollie asked.

Roger's nod was so enthusiastic it made Rollie chuckle.

"Well, your mother tells me you've been fighting at school."

Roger's smile faded and he scowled. "Sometimes the other kids... they talk about me not having a father no more..."

Rollie swallowed. He said, "I tell you what, you can think of me as an uncle, ok?"

Roger looked dubious. "I had an uncle, but he was killed in the war. That's why Gramps hates the Germans," he said. Rollie knew all about this: George Theobald's only son, Charles, had been killed at Chateau Thierry in 1918. And yes, Mr. Theobald, despite his own grandparents being German, had a great dislike for Germany now that Hitler was openly rearming and becoming increasingly belligerent.

"Well, now you have a new uncle," Rollie said. "In fact, I have six brothers, and they're all your uncles too, now."

Roger's eyes widened. "Six!"

Rollie laughed and said, "Yep. You might also tell these boys that not only are your brothers FABL players, but so are five of your uncles."

Roger slapped his forehead - it was actually quite comical. "That's right!" he exclaimed. "I forgot... your brothers play for the Kings. Except Bobby... he plays for the Keystones."

"That's right," Rollie said.

"Who's the other brother?"

"Oh, that's Jack. He coaches the Toronto Dukes. You know the hockey team?"

Roger smirked and he said, "You have any brothers who aren't athletes?"

Rollie laughed. "No, just me, I'm afraid."

Now Charlotte joined in and said, "Oh.. don't listen to him, Roger. I've heard he's quite the golfer."

"Golf!" Roger said, and the look on his face spoke volumes about his opinion on golf. An opinion that he shared with Joe Barrell. One thing was certain: this kid was definitely Joe's son. Rollie didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

"And one other thing," Rollie said. "If you promise to try to stop fighting, I'll take you down after the game and let you meet some of the players."

Roger's eyes were as wide as saucers. "Really? Even Jamason?"

Rollie chuckled and said, "Yeah, I think I can make that happen."

"That sounds swell!" Roger shouted then he paused a beat and added, "Thanks, uh... Uncle Rollie."

.

[legendsport]

November 3, 1936: Chicago, IL:

The trial - if you could call it that - had been a circus. Bobby Barrell was still seeing spots from all the flashbulbs that had gone off in his face.

The newspapers were the reason of course. Some wit had dubbed Lucy the "Femme Fatale of Whitney Hall" and everyone else had taken off and run with it. That Lucy was not a femme fatale and that Whitney Hall was the engineering building on campus (which was nowhere near where the shooting occurred) were deemed of no importance. Plus, it didn't even really rhyme!

Rufus pointed out to his son that a case like this: an attractive 19-year-old coed had shot both an Olympic gold medalist and a professional ballplayer. That was something bound to get people's attention.

Bobby was, to put it bluntly, in a bit of a snit about the whole thing. Harry, who stayed with his brother throughout was of a mind that no publicity was bad publicity. Bobby figured this was because Harry was, at heart, the world's biggest ham.

The time between the shooting and the start of the trial had gone by in a blur. It was a period full of some shocking revelations about Lucille Bea Traynor (she had been quickly arraigned and a $50,000 bail set). The high profile of the case, involving a Philadelphia native shooting a player of the Philadelphia Keystones in Chicago had ensured that the police in Philadelphia would be involved. The Philly cops had duly searched the Traynor residence as they cooperated with their counterparts in Chicago. The police had found that Lucy was a disturbed young woman. Her room was covered in photos clipped from newspapers - some of Bobby, but the majority were of Bobby's team mate Rankin Kellogg.

The star first baseman of the Keystones had been an obsession of Lucy's according to her sister who had been interviewed by the police in Philadelphia. "She was over the moon crazy for him. She'd send him letters all the time, but never heard back. Then she met Bobby, and he replaced Kellogg, who suddenly became someone she 'despised' as being unfriendly. But we never thought she'd hurt anybody."

Bobby found out that the Keystones secretary, acting on a standing request from Rankin Kellogg himself, never passed on the letters to the ballplayer. Rankin Kellogg was a massively popular player in Philadelphia and received a lot of mail. Rankin was happily married and devoted to his wife and had asked the secretary to open his mail and dispose of any "inappropriate letters" from women. As someone who received some... rather interesting letters from women himself, Bobby was not surprised that Rank would have made that request.

When the police interviewed Lucy, which took place while Annette O'Boyle and Bobby were at the hospital being treated for their wounds, the young woman had been joyful. "I showed them!" she exclaimed. "You don't steal my man and get away with it!" Asked why she had called Bobby to the room she said, "Well, he had to see, you know. He needed to know what would happen to anyone who tried to come between us."

"Did you plan to shoot him too?" the detective had asked.

"Well... no, not specifically. Though I was willing to do so if it had proven necessary." All of this said with a small smile and a gleam in her eye.

"And Miss O'Boyle?"

Lucy's eyes had narrowed and she'd said, "Oh, she had to die. There could be no punishment more fitting."

Naturally both Bobby and Annette had also been interviewed. Bobby had given the same report he'd told Tom over the phone. Annette's account supported Bobby's. Lucy, whom Annette knew from school, had left a note in Annette's room at Whitney College, asking her to come to the hotel for "a chat" and had signed it "Affectionately yours, Bobby Barrell." Lucy admitted she did it precisely this way because she believed that if Annette showed up, it would prove the other young woman was trying to steal "her man."

When Annette had shown up, Lucy brought out the gun, forced Annette to sit in the armchair and then had her call Bobby. The rest of the events occurred exactly as Bobby had explained. He'd shown up, gone for the gun, and Lucy had shot Annette in the shoulder. Then, in a struggle for the gun, a second shot had been fired, this one hitting Bobby in the right hand and arm.

The Grand Jury had quickly handed down an indictment for two counts of assault with intent to murder

Bobby sat on the aisle in the first row behind the prosecution table. Next to him was Annette O'Boyle. Both Bobby and Annette had one arm in a sling. On Bobby's other side sat Harry and beside him, Rufus and Alice Barrell. Tommy had elected not to attend - he was back in Brooklyn, ostensibly taking flying lessons with James. Bobby figured Tom had other reasons for staying away.

Lucy, wearing a plain navy-blue dress, sat with her attorney at the defense table. She had pointedly looked at both Bobby and Annette when they had entered, her expression stony. Behind her sat her parents and sister. Bobby had heard that one of the Chicago papers had paid for the Traynor family's train fare and was also footing the bill for their hotel. In return for an exclusive. He didn't want to believe it... but he did.

The judge entered and everyone stood. After muttering, "Please be seated," as he sat himself the judge gazed around the courtroom, staring over glasses he had perched on the end of his nose. He had a sheaf of papers in his hand.

He raised the papers and said, "I've got the report from Dr. Goldstein here." He frowned a bit and quietly sighed. "Though it goes against my inclination to prosecute this case, I am going to follow the doctor's assessment that Miss Traynor is," he glanced down at the papers and read, "Miss Traynor is judged to be legally insane and thereby the recommendation is that the court remand her to a mental institution for treatment."

Lucy's mother began weeping. Lucy herself didn't move and though Bobby's vantage point was off to side and slightly behind her, he thought her expression didn't change one iota. The judge could have been talking about the weather for all she seemed to care.

"Therefore, taking into account the results of Dr. Goldstein's review of the case and examination of the defendant, I am going to declare Lucille Bea Traynor legally insane and remand her to the state hospital at Kankakee until such time as she can be found sane. I also reserve the right for Miss Annette O'Boyle and Mr. Robert Barrell to press charges at that time, if they so wish. Attempted murder is not something this court takes lightly." The judge glared around the courtroom, his thick bushy eyebrows making a vee on his forehead. He picked up his gavel, barked, "This court is adjourned" and banged the gavel.

As soon as the door closed behind the judge, the media circus exploded into action. The bailiff had grasped Lucy by the arm. An intrepid photographer leaped over the rail and sprinted out in front of the court reporter, snapping a shot that ran in dozens of newspapers the next day: Lucy Traynor, a barely perceptible grin on her face, starting at Bobby and Annette, who were standing and looking at her with blank expressions. Even Harry's expression in the photo was stoic. Everyone was too stunned by the abrupt end to the proceedings to show much emotion.

"They cropped me out!" Rufus groused the next day when he saw the picture as he sat at a table in the hotel restaurant. He, Alice and Harry had just come down for breakfast and Rufus had grabbed the paper on the way in.

Alice slapped him on the arm, her left arm was barely in frame in the photo. "This had nothing to do with you!" she snapped at him.

Harry laughed. "Come on Mom," he said. "Any publicity is good publicity, eh, Pop?"

Rufus shook his head, but was smiling. Alice glared at her son. "You're incorrigible," she said.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
I've started a YouTube channel! I'll be talking about OOTP and other sports games (and some wargames too) but also will be focusing on the Figment Universe. I did a post yesterday featuring a complete play of the 1941 Figment All-Star Game. Check it out at the Legendsport channel!

[legendsport]

March 3, 1937: Daytona Beach, FL:

"You sure you really want to do this?" Rufus Barrell asked, leaning on a fencepost and starting out at a group of ballplayers warming up on a sun-drenched field.

Beside him, his oldest and best friend Possum Daniels rubbed a gnarled hand over his lightly stubbled chin and said, simply, "Yup."

"You'll miss it, you know," Rufus said, still not looking at Possum.

"A' course I will, son," Possum said softly.

"Retirement..." Rufus muttered, shaking his head. He heard Possum give another softly spoken "Yup" in reply.

Neither man spoke, each gazing out at the much-younger men spread out before them. It occurred to Rufus that he had been doing this - scouting ballplayers - for forty-plus years. Possum hadn't been a scout as long, but baseball had been his life's work for over fifty years, going back into the 1880s when he'd been a young, loud-mouthed bush league catcher. Possum was only a couple of years older than Rufus himself and though he himself didn't think about retiring from his position as the head of the OSA... Alice Barrell made no bones that she wanted him home for good - and sooner rather than later.

"What will you do?" Rufus asked, and finally turned to look at his friend.

"I reckon I could keep an eye on my oldest boy's career... give 'im advice he won't want and won't listen to anyways..." was the smiling reply he received. Possum's boy Rufus was an outfielder in the Brooklyn Kings' system, playing at the AA level in Springfield, MA. And Rufus knew that Possum wouldn't be following his son to New England - Possum was as Southern as biscuits n' gravy.

"Or...." Rufus prompted with a grin.

"Or.... I can stay home with the rest of my family," Possum said and then winked and added, "And that's what I'm going to do, son."

Possum and his wife Betty had two younger children (Rufus Daniels had been born before the couple married and was three years old before Possum even knew he existed). Their daughter Juanita was 20 years old and their youngest was Beauregard (Possum called him 'Bo') who was 16, rambunctious, and most troubling of all to his father had zero interest in baseball.

Rufus smirked and asked, "Still trying to make a ballplayer of Bo?"

Possum shook his head. "Naw, that dog won't hunt, son. Reckon I got to face up to the fact that Bo is not going to be a ballplayer."

Possum narrowed his eyes as he started out at the mass of ballplayers. "You ever think about the cyclical nature of baseball?" he asked.

If Rufus had liquid in his mouth he would have done a spit-take. As it was, he was shocked to his toes and his eyes nearly popped out of his head. "What did you say?" he asked.

"Aw, come on, son, I ain't as dumb as I make out," Possum said slyly. "I was asking if you ever thought about the cyclical nature of baseball."

Rufus shook his head. "What in the world?" he blurted.

"Well... look at us. Two old dogs still sniffin' around the same tree after a half century."

Rufus frowned; not knowing how to reply, he just gave a small nod in reply.

"Every year we come out to boil out... spring trainin' whatever they call this... and we look at the current batch of hot shots, hopefuls and no-hopers, and..."

Rufus thought he got it. "And around it around it goes?" he asked.

"Exactly," Possum said and he looked proud. "It's cyclical. Old man Whitney started this, and he's been gone a long time. When we leave this here earth, the game will go on. Shoot, son, when these here youngsters," a nod at the field, "are pushin' up daisies, this here game will still go on."

Rufus shrugged and admitted he'd never thought about that before. "You gettin' sentimaental in your old age, Rollie?" he asked.

Roland "Possum" Daniels blinked a couple of times as he thought for a moment. Then he replied, "I reckon I might be at that, son."

[legendsport]

April 9, 1937: Washington, DC:

"The Admiral sends his best," a tall, distinguished man was telling Rufus Barrell when the door to his office opened.

Rufus looked up sharply - his secretary knew better than to interrupt a meeting with this particular guest; a split-second later Rufus realized what was going on.

Max Morris barged into the office, a seersucker suit draped over his massive torso and a cigar in his mouth. Rufus' secretary was hard on his heels, pleading, "Sir! Sir! Mr. Barrell is in a meeting!"

Morris waved a hand at her, "No problem, Miss, I'm sure ol' Rufus has time for me," he said in his now-familiar-to-millions baritone voice.

Across the desk from Rufus, his guest had turned in his seat and was peering back at the intruder.

Rufus shot out of his seat. "Max? What the devil are you doing?" he demanded, his face red with anger.

"Aw, shucks, Rufus, I thought I'd stop in and say hello, is all," Morris told him.

The other man stood up. He was rail thin and tall, dark of hair and eye, and greying at the temples. Rufus shot a sidelong glance at him, weighing his reaction to Morris' intrusion.

"Uh, Congressman, this is Max Morris," he said, irritation still evident in his voice.

"Yes, I thought I recognized the face from all those newsreels," Rufus' guest said. He thrust a hand out and introduced himself: "Congressman Horace Stanley of Georgia."

"Congressman, eh? Pleased to meet ya," Morris said with a grin, swallowing Stanley's hand in his big mitt and giving it a vigorous shake.

"Max... what in the world are you doing here>" Rufus asked.

"Well, my boys are stopping in on our way home from Florida," the big slugger replied. "I figured I'd stop by to see how my favorite scout is getting on," he finished, flashing his famous smile.

Rufus explained to Congressman Stanley that Max was the manager of the Detroit Dynamos ("I'm still playing too," Morris added with a wink). Stanley, who was friends with Admiral Stockdale, the owner of the Washington Eagles, nodded and noted that he knew who Morris was, adding, "I just wish I knew why he'd be visiting you, Rufus."

Rufus sighed - how to explain Max Morris to someone from outside the world of baseball.

Rufus and Stanley went way back - Horace Stanley was, in fact, Rufus' congressional representative and they had met when Rufus returned to the family farm after the fire. At the time, Stanley had been an insurance man and had handled the claim on the fire. He'd come a long way since then, but Rufus reflected the same could be said of him.

"You're a real hard charger, Morris?" Stanley asked with a twinkle in his eye.

Morris eyed the politician with a speculative eye. "Sure, I guess I am at that," he replied.

"Where you from... originally, I mean?" Stanley asked.

"Youngstown, Ohio," was the reply.

A smirk crossed Stanley's face. "Ever thought about serving your country?" he asked.

Morris was plainly taken aback. "I'm too old..." he said, then pointedly looked down and added, "and fat... to join the military, sir."

Stanley chuckled and shook his head. "There are more ways to serve than carrying a rifle, Morris," he said.

Morris looked befuddled. For that matter, so did Rufus who was wondering what was going on here.

"Congress, Morris," Stanley said, adding "You could serve in Congress."

He explained that 1938 would be an election year and if FDR was going to conclude his second term on a successful note (Stanley was a New Deal man to his very core), the Democrats would need as many seats as possible. "And the honorable representative from Youngstown is a Republican, Morris," he finished.

"Congress? Me?" Morris blurted, mouth agape. "I'm not suitably... refined, Congressman," he added with a smirk. A sentiment Rufus certainly shared, though he'd never say so.

Stanley waved a hand. "All you need to be able to do, is first, get elected and second, vote with the party. The first is easy - you're probably as famous as the President himself. The second is even easier - just go along with whatever the leadership wants."

Morris looked dubious. Rufus did too.

Stanley, however, looked triumphant. "Wait til I tell the Speaker that I just delivered him Ohio's 17th. And with you on the team, we'll skunk the Republicans in the Congressional baseball game too!"

"Huh?" Morris blurted. "I never agreed to nothin' here, Congressman," he said.

Stanley waved a hand dismissively, "Ah, you'll come around Morris. You're a born politician - you just don't know it yet," he finished and slapped Morris on the shoulder.

Rufus shook his head in disbelief. Max Morris in Congress? He'd believe it when he saw it.

.

[legendsport]

June 13, 1937: New York, NY:

"C'mon kid, it's chicken salad, not the meaning of life," an exasperated voice said.

James Slocum didn't even bother to turn around. The guy behind him was right, but part of his brain wondered why the guy didn't just grab whatever he wanted from one of the other windows. James never missed an opportunity to visit his favorite Horn & Hardart automat.

"Chicken salad it is," he said and inserted his money into the kiosk, opened the door and grabbed his chicken salad sandwich.

When he turned around, the man behind him gave him a frustrated look. But as James started to walk away, he saw the man turn again and peer back at him, a confused look on his face.

James sat down at a table and was just about to take his first bite when the man approached the table.

James looked up; the man was starting at him, that look of pure confusion still on his face. James was becoming uncomfortable, but as he stared back at the man he felt that there was something familiar about him.

The man seemed to visibly shake himself. Then he offered a small, uncomfortable-looking grin at James and asked, "Mind if I join you?"

James had a mouthful of chicken salad, but he nodded and motioned towards the table's other chair.

"Thanks," the man said, pulling out a chair and putting his cup of coffee and a sandwich of his own down before taking a seat.

The man took a sip of his coffee (Horn & Hardart was known for its coffee). Then he grabbed his sandwich, but before taking a bite, he spoke up, saying, "You look like someone I knew, once."

James swallowed and said, "You seem familiar to me too."

The man smiled and said, "I get that some." He put his sandwich back on his plate and said, "My name's Melton, Bill Melton."

James' eyes widened and he snapped his fingers, "I knew it! Melton! The head of Northeastern Airlines!"

Melton smiled. "That's right. And unless I miss my guess, your father was Jimmy Barrell."

James' eyes widened even further. "Yes, that's right." It all came back to him then - Bill Melton had been his father's commander in France. He was also the highest scoring American ace and a Medal of Honor winner.

Melton sat back, looking satisfied. He took a bite of his sandwich, chewed and swallowed before speaking again. "You look a lot like him. Your hair is lighter than his and your eyes bluer. I'd guess that's from your mother." James nodded.

James was speechless, his mind awash with so many questions that he couldn't quite parse them out enough to actually voice one of them. Melton was one of the very few people who could fill in the pieces of his father's life that no one else could. His mother had told him everything about their time together in the prisoner of war hospital, their marriage and trip back to the U.S. His grandparents and uncles had told him everything they could about his father's youth. No one would really go into the details of his death, but that was okay, James could understand why... and he knew what happened anyway. But his father's experiences in France... no one could tell him about that. No one except someone who'd been there with him. Someone like Bill Melton.

"I met her once, you know," Melton said, bringing James right back to the present.

"Who?" James asked.

"Your mother for one... Marie too," he said after a beat. James, who already knew about his father and Marie - and his half-sister Agnes - nodded.

"She married my Uncle Jack," he said.

Melton looked confused and asked, "Who? Your mother?"

James shook his head and grinned. "No, Marie. She's my aunt. And I have a sister... well, half-sister."

Melton shook his head. "That Jimmy..." he muttered quietly, a far-away look in his eye.

"What's your name kid?" he asked after a moment.

"James Slocum," he replied.

Melton's eyebrows rose in surprise. "Slocum? Your mom get remarried?"

James nodded.

Sympathy was written on Melton's face. He took another sip of his coffee and James wondered if he was unsure of how to proceed. After a few beats, James decided to plow ahead.

"I've learned everything I could about my father. From my mother and my dad's family mostly. What I haven't heard about is the war. Maybe you could tell me about that?" James asked, then added a "Please" at the end.

Melton frowned. "I don't typically talk about that," he said, explaining that because he was the top ace and lone Medal of Honor winner among the fliers, he was constantly asked about his wartime experiences.

"But I'm asking about my father's wartime experiences," James pointed out.

"A fair point," Melton conceded. "Many of my experiences were your father's too," he added, noting that they often flew patrols together.

James blinked a few times as he fought back tears. He needed to hear about his father, but it seemed like Melton was simply gearing up to tell him he wouldn't talk about it.

Melton noticed the watery look in James' eyes. He raised a hand and said, "Look kid, I can tell you things. I was there, I lived with your father and we flew together, fought together and caroused together. But this isn't a happy story." He paused and took a deep breath before continuing. "Look, that war was brutal and just because we weren't in the trenches with the doughboys doesn't mean it wasn't horrible for fliers too. It was."

He took another breath and said, "It's hard to talk about it."

James swallowed and then said, "Anything you can tell me... would be greatly appreciated."

Melton stared into James' eyes and after a moment, he nodded. And started talking.

Melton talked for nearly a half hour. James left the automat knowing nearly everything there was to know about his father's wartime experiences. Melton was honest, or seemed so, and didn't skim over too much, including the fact that his father chased French girls almost constantly when he wasn't in the air chasing Germans (or being chased by Germans). He heard about the brutal nature of air combat. "They called us the knights of the air, but that's just fancy talk. Our business was killing the other guy and theirs was the same, so while some guys may have tried to be fair, most of us were trying to stay alive and that often meant killing without mercy." Melton explained.

His father had been what Melton called an "instinctive pilot, seemingly fearless" who was a real thorn in the side for the Germans. He was also a fantastic mechanic who could fix nearly anything and it was his skill with a wrench as much as anything that helped him become a flier. James knew, from Rollie, that his father was a capable mechanic but Melton explained that his father's skill with a car was not only equaled, but probably surpassed by his skill with an airplane.

Melton told him how everyone thought his father was dead, though hope was restored a bit when the army captured the area in which his plane had gone down and they found no body and no gravesite, before receiving confirmation that Lt. James Barrell had been captured. Melton also said that when he had left for his final flight, his father had seemed to be "very much in love with Marie" and when he turned up after the armistice with a blonde German nurse on his arm, he seemed even more in love with her. "Your father had a way with the fairer sex," Melton said with a smile.

Melton had then pressed James on his own story. James explained that he had just finished his third year of high school, was a star outfielder on the baseball team and his grandfather predicted he'd be drafted and able to play professional ball. He also explained that his Uncle Tommy had paid for flying lessons and was even taking them with him. "I've got over a hundred hours now," James explained with no small amount of pride. Melton smiled and nodded, saying "Good for you. If you're even half the flier your dad was, you'll be great."

Melton then offered some advice. "Look, James, if you want to be a really good pilot, go into the service. You'll get free training, and that training will be the best there is. Then, after you serve, you come see me and I'll give you a job flying for Northeastern."

"Really?" James asked, flabbergasted.

"Sure," Melton said with a shrug. "We can use good pilots and you're Jimmy Barrell's kid."

James slumped in his chair, speechless.

Melton then said, "You'll need some college though. The Army requires two years of college before they'll take you on as a pilot candidate. The Navy has something similar, but I'd go with the Army. I'm biased, I admit, but you'll have a much wider range of planes to fly in the Army. I know you're a ballplayer, but unless you think you can make it to the top, I'd say you should at least go to school in the offseasons and at night... whatever it takes to get two years worth of college."

James nodded thoughtfully. He really enjoyed baseball, but Melton's advice made sense and lined up with what James had been thinking.

"There's going to be another war. That Hitler fellow is going to drag everyone back into the pit, you mark my words," Melton said. "And though I don't particularly care for Mr. Roosevelt's 'New Deal' I do think he'll do enough to get us ready." He stopped and gave James that stare again before adding, "Lord knows I hope I'm wrong, because the planes now are faster and deadlier than what we flew the last go round. It will be nasty, but I'd rather see my friend's only son flying in a war than ending up in that godawful infantry." He punctuated that last statement with a shiver.

James chuckled and Melton offered a reassuring smile in return. "Think on what I said," he said and patted James on the hand. "Tell your mother I said hello, assuming she remembers me. Marie too, the next time you see her."

And then he was gone, leaving James both grateful and stunned by everything he'd heard.

.

[legendsport]

July 17, 1937: Philadelphia, PA:

"There was some amount of tissue damage, you understand," the doctor said.

Bobby Barrell smirked and wryly said, "Yeah, I was there, doc."

The doctor shook his head, muttered, "Ballplayers..." and then told Bobby to make a fist.

Bobby balled his right hand into a fist. As he did, he felt a twinge in the back of his hand, a twinge that ran up his forearm. He looked down at the arm, at the scar that ran in a straight line up the arm, ending a couple inches shy of the crook of his elbow, a brown furrow dug by a .22 caliber slug from the gun of his former girlfriend.

The muscles in the arm bunched up as he squeezed his fisted hand; Bobby, like most of his brothers, had strong forearms, a genetic gift from their grandfather Joe Reid (at least that was the story Rufus Barrell had told his sons - Bobby wasn't sure because he knew his Pop was a strong guy himself). Regardless, the muscles bunched in his right arm seemed a little less defined than those in his left forearm.

The doctor probed at the scar with what appeared to Bobby to be a blunt-headed metal stick. "Does this hurt?" he asked without looking up, or stopping his poking and prodding.

"A little," Bobby admitted, though it was actually more than just "a little."

The doctor grunted. "OK, so that's a yes. I know how you ballplayers are," he said smugly. Bobby rolled his eyes; the doc didn't notice, still looking at the scar and poking around.

"Anyone ever tell you that you're an extremely lucky young man?" the doctor asked.

Bobby wanted to say he'd feel a lot luckier if he hadn't been shot, but opted instead for a grunted "sure" in response.

"I'm serious. A fraction of an inch and the bullet would've torn up your extensor carpi radialis," the doctor said.

"English, doc," Bobby said.

The doctor looked up. "That's a big part of what flexes your wrist. Pretty important for a man who swings a bat for a living, don't you think?" the doctor said with a scowl.

"Oh, right, that extensor carpi-whatever-it-is," Bobby replied.

"Or... it could have hit the artery, in which case you might have bled to death. Most people have no earthly idea how many tendons, ligaments and muscles are involved in something like working your wrists, hands and fingers." He gave Bobby a very pointed look. "As I said, you are very lucky."

Bobby swallowed and replied with a muted "thank you, doctor."

The doctor grunted and nodded. Then he went back to poking and prodding.

This particular doctor was just one of a team of physicians the Keystones employed to handle the myriad injuries their players suffered, mostly on the field, but sometimes as in Bobby's case, off the field too. Bobby sat in silence for a moment, then asked, "You part of the team that's been working with Rank?"

Bobby's power had dropped significantly after his injury and his batting average had as well. But where Bobby fell from the .350s to the .310s, his team mate Rankin Kellogg's numbers had fallen off a cliff. So much so that the reticent star had actually confided in Bobby that he was seeing some "medical fellows" about it.

"No..." the doctor began. Then he looked up and added, "And if I was, I wouldn't be able to talk about it anyway."

"Right, right..." Bobby replied. Well, it was worth a shot.

Bobby figured that he himself would turn out ok in the long run. He wasn't about to let Lucy Traynor's insanity mess up his baseball career. He'd work his way back to full strength... somehow. But Rankin Kellogg? Bobby was really worried about his friend and mentor. Kellogg had long been acknowledged as the most feared hitter in the game behind Max Morris. But this season, at age 34, he suddenly couldn't hit. His bat speed was down, and so were his power numbers but what really got everyone's attention was his batting average which had dipped as far as the .230s. Kellogg was a .340 lifetime hitter, so this was big news.

"I sure hope whatever's going on with Rank turns out well," Bobby said quietly.

The doctor didn't reply for a moment, but then said, "Well... we're all hoping that, Bobby. But we'll have to wait and see."

Bobby sighed. He had been hoping to get a little tidbit there... and failed.

The doctor finished his examination, noting, "Your recovery is coming along. There was no nerve damage - again, you're a very lucky young man - and the muscles seem to be knitting up quite well."

"Thanks, doctor," he replied.

After getting dressed, he stepped out of the exam room and went down the hall to a small waiting area. Annette O'Boyle was sitting there, flipping through a copy of Look magazine. Bobby saw a picture of a lion attacking a man on the cover. "Anything interesting in there?" he asked with a grin.

Annette's head popped up and she smiled at him. His heart sped up a bit at her smile. She sure was something to look at, he thought.

"Sure, this thing's chock full of pictures and light on words. Just perfect for a gal like me," she noted with a twist of her mouth.

"Oh, don't play that 'I'm just a silly girl' game with me, Annette. I know you too well," he joked.

"Oh... well, in that case, I hope you'll get to know me even better," she said and winked at him.

Bobby felt a momentary pang of guilt about his brother Tom who was still head over heels for Annette. But, he had to admit, he too was head over heels and Annette herself... well, she seemed to like Bobby Barrell over Tom Barrell and that was plainly out of his control.

"Let's go get something to eat," he said. "All that poking and prodding gave me an appetite."

Annette dropped the magazine onto the table, stood up and hooked her arm through Bobby's left arm. "Lead on," she said and flashed him that smile again.

.

[legendsport]

September 3, 1937: Jersey City, NJ:

The door to the butcher's shop slammed open and two boys were shoved through, both falling onto the sawdust-covered floor. A large man, wearing a nicely tailored, though slightly rumpled suit followed them in. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and blotted his sweat-covered forehead.

"Hotter'n than the devil's..." he began, then saw an aproned woman standing behind the counter, hands on hips and glaring at him.

"Sorry, Stella," he said.

"And what's this?" the woman said, gesturing at the two youngsters. One of them was already standing, and brushing sawdust off his clothes. The other was holding his face in his hands as he squatted on the floor.

"That's Nicky," the man said, pointing at the kid on the floor. "Apparently he and this other one were going at it in the schoolyard," he continued, a disgusted look on his face.

Another man emerged, stepping through a doorway at the back of the shop. "Nicky?" he asked, a deep frown creasing his forehead. This man was rail thin and dressed just as impeccably as the first man, but he had an aura of command about him. The woman behind the counter pursed her lips and shook her head. Another young man, bearing a strong resemblance to the thin man, stood behind the counter quietly taking everything in.

"Yeah, Tony," the large man said. He folded his hankie and slipped it back into his pocket.

"Get up and stop crying, Nicky," Tony said. The boy on the floor rubbed the back of his arm across his running nose and staggered to his feet. The woman gasped as she saw the boy's black eye.

The other kid stood quietly, his hands balled into fists, saying nothing as he faced the woman behind the counter in a position where he could easily see everyone in the room - the large man to his left, the boy rising to his feet beside him, and the thin man to his right.

"What's your name, kid," Tony - the thin man - asked.

"Roger," was the surly answer.

"Roger what? And don't be disrespectful neither," Tony said.

Roger Cleaves swallowed and gave his full name.

"Cleaves, eh?" the large man said, cocking an eyebrow. "As in Johnny Cleaves?" he asked.

Roger nodded. "Yeah, that's my father."

The young man behind the counter snorted and said, "I think you mean 'was' your father, kid."

Roger glared at him but didn't say anything.

Rocky said, "Your brothers... they're ballplayers right?"

Roger nodded wondering what that had to do with anything. He hadn't seen Jack or George in months.

"So what happened?" Tony asked, getting back on the matter at hand.

Nicky opened his mouth to answer, but stopped with his mouth hanging open as Tony raised a hand and said, "Not you." Then he pointed a finger (one that was sporting a very nice ring, Roger noted) and said, "Him. Cleaves. Talk."

Roger sighed and spread his hands. "Simple. Nick owed me fifty cents and wouldn't pay," he explained.

"So you what? Beat on him?" Tony asked flatly.

Roger shrugged and said, "Yeah. Pay your debts or pay the price is my motto," he finished.

The large man chortled, nodded and muttered, "A good motto, kid."

"Shut up Rocky," Tony snarled. Then he looked at Roger again and said, "You know who Nicky is?" he asked.

Roger shrugged and said, "Well, I know his name and I know he owes me money. Ain't nothin' else I need to know is how I see it."

Tony smirked. "Is that so?" he asked quietly. Then he shook his head. "That kid is my son. You know who I am?"

Roger looked around and said, "I'd guess you're the owner of Falcone Beef by the look of things. And based on that... I'd say Nicky should be able to pay his debts."

Rocky chortled again, then clammed up when Tony shot him a look and raised his eyebrows.

Tony turned his attention back to Roger. "Yeah, right on both accounts. My name is Tony Falcone. And this butcher shop is indeed my business. As are certain.... other things."

Roger frowned. "Like what?" he asked.

Tony shook his head. "Things. You don't need to know no more than that, kid." Then he looked at his son, still sniffling as his eye continued to swell up.

"Is it true, Nicky? You owe this kid money?" he asked in a soft tone that nevertheless seemed to carry a lot of menace.

Nicky shuffled his feet a bit and nodded.

"What for?"

"He bet on the Cougars to beat the Kings yesterday... and they lost," Roger said.

"Pardon me?" Tony asked, astonishment written on his face.

"I said, he bet on the Cougars in yesterday's game. They lost 3-2 and now he's tryin' to welsh on the bet." Roger crossed his arms and tried to glare back at Tony. "I pay when the kids who bet with me win, and I expect to be paid when they lose."

Tony shook his head. Roger noticed that Rocky's eyes were wide with wonder.

"How old are you kid?" Tony asked.

"Almost fourteen," Roger replied.

Tony blew a breath from under his bushy mustache. "Thirteen, and runnin' a sports book at PS #8."

Roger didn't say anything, but the corner of his mouth quirked up in a small smirk.

"You're a prodigy, kid," Tony said with a distinct note of admiration.

"Mrs. Kenneally says I'm too smart for my own good," Roger offered in response.

Tony chuckled and even Rocky risked a small chortle. "I'd wager that's true. And you're your own muscle too, I take it?"

Roger shrugged again. "I know how to take care of myself," he said.

Tony and Rocky exchanged a knowing glance over Roger's head. "Just like Joe B," Rocky said and Tony gave a small nod. Roger frowned, not knowing what any of that meant. Joe B? Who was that?

"You ever seen a Tarzan movie, kid?" Tony asked. Rocky and the young guy behind the counter (Tony's older son?) both laughed but Roger didn't see where the joke was in that question.

Roger shrugged and said, "I guess so. Why?"

Tony smiled for a moment and then said, "Nothin' - nevermind."

Tony told Nicky to go upstairs to "clean himself up." Then he stood for a moment, tapping his chin with that same beringed finger and staring at Roger. Roger fought down the urge to make a break for it, and tried to look as calm and collected as possible. As Mrs. Kenneally had said, he was no dummy, and he knew what Tony's "other businesses" must be.

"You want a job, kid?" he finally asked.

Roger thought for a moment. But just a moment. Then he smiled and said, "Sure, why not."

"Attaboy," Rocky said.

.

[legendsport]

October 4, 1937: Brooklyn, NY:

"I think this might be it," Dan Barrell told his brother.

Fred looked up. He had been busy adjusting the straps on his mask, something he did ritualistically before every game despite it being completely unnecessary. "What are you talking about?" he asked Dan.

Dan took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then he took a quick glance around to make sure no one would overhear him. "I'm going to retire," he said quietly.

"What!?!" Fred blurted, quickly adding a whispered "Sorry" when he saw Dan's eyes widen in alarm.

Dan shook his head. "The knee... I'm just tired of dealing with the pain every day."

Dan watched Fred as his brother processed this information. Dan himself was 33, not a true greybeard in baseball terms, but definitely on the downside of his career. Fred was just a year younger and was barely hitting .210 this season - easily his worst batting performance. Dan suspected Fred was now thinking that he himself was closer to the end of his career than he was from the start of it.

"I'm guessing you talked with Gladys about this?" Fred asked quietly.

Dan quirked an eyebrow in response, saying nothing because he figured Fred should know the answer to that question. Fred did, nodding with a small frown. "What about Pop?" he asked.

Dan shrugged and said, "I haven't told anyone but Gladys... and now you," he replied.

"Wow... well, here I was thinking about dealing with my pitchers and trying to get us to the Series and now you've dropped this on me," he said with a grimace. Then smirked and said, "No pressure, right?"

Dan chuckled but there wasn't any mirth in it. "Yeah, I guess."

The Kings clubhouse was somber. They were about to take the field in the 155th game of the season, a game necessary because they ended the season in a flat-footed tie with the Philadelphia Sailors. The Sailors weren't the team the Kings had figured on being their biggest pennant competition - that role had been ably filled by the Cleveland Foresters who had edged out Brooklyn in both 1934 and '35 by razor-thin margins before the Kings finally claimed the pennant in '36 (only to lose the World Championship Series to Chicago). But the Foresters had stumbled a bit in '37 and finished fourth.

The pressure of that impending Continental Association playoff - a one game, winner-take-all proposition against a hot opponent wasn't something they relished. Fred was, as he typically was, worried about the mental state of the pitchers, ignoring the fact that technically that was pitching coach Bill Libby's job. The staff was, Fred had told Dan, a bit overanxious. The team's top pitcher this season had been Joe Shaffner, whose 20 wins and 2.32 ERA had led the CA and who looked like the likely Allen Award winner. Problem was, he could have sewn up the pennant two days earlier and instead lost a 4-0 decision to the Montreal Saints. So he was pouting. Then there was Tom, who had struggled with a hamstring injury, missed seven weeks and though he'd won in a must-win game the day before, was sulking because the Sailors had also won, forcing this playoff game that Tom would not be able to pitch in, which rankled his uber-competitive brother. The starter was going to be Mike Murphy, a hard-working, blue-collar 29 year old who unfortunately, Fred had confided in Dan, wasn't the brightest bulb in the lamp.

"So call a good game," Dan told Fred matter-of-factly.

"Yeah..." Fred said, then shot up off his stool as Harry, who had snuck up behind him, dumped a bag of ice down the back of his shirt.

Dan shook his head, but was smiling as Fred chased Harry out of the clubhouse. Powell Slocum, the manager, was still in his office, but coach Danny Goff witnessed the whole thing and told Dan, "It's a good thing Harry's a good player, or someone would have knocked his block off by now."

In the end, all the angst leading up to the playoff game was simply fuel as the Kings won by a score of 4-0. The pennant was theirs, now they would square off with the Pittsburgh Miners and their 23-year-old star pitcher Lefty Allen.

After the game, Dan met Gladys outside the clubhouse entrance where she was waiting with the other wives. Beside her was Fred's wife Tillie. Both women were pregnant; this would be just the second child for Fred & Tillie, but the third for Dan & Gladys. Both babies were due in late October and Dan hoped his kid and Fred's would be good friends. He was also hoping for a daughter after two boys. Fred's oldest, Freddy Jr, was seven and he was there fidgeting beside his mother when Dan exited.

"Fred will be out in a minute," he told Tillie after kissing Gladys on the cheek. Their sons, 4-year-old Michael and 18-month-old Steven, were with a sitter. Dan tousled Freddy Jr's hair and asked, "How you doin' sport?"

Normally a quiet kid, Freddy Jr wore a big grin. "Dad said that if you guys won I could go to Pittsburgh for the games there!" he answered. Tillie shook her head, muttering something under her breath about Fred having no sense taking their son out of school. Dan fought back the urge to grin - the kid was in the second grade, missing a few days wasn't going to keep him out of Grafton University.

Fred emerged from the clubhouse, hugged his son, pecked his wife on the cheek and asked her how she was doing. "I'm just dandy, Fred Barrell," she replied.

Fred looked at Dan and said, "I got roped into Tom's campaign to start the first game of the series. He pulled me into Powell's office to help him make his case."

Dan raised an eyebrow. "I'm guessing it didn't go well?"

Fred shook his head, "No, it didn't. Powell pointed out, correctly I must admit, that Shaffner is the team's ace - 'right now' as he put it, and he would be starting in game one. Tom will get the ball in game two."

"Needless to say, Tom didn't take it well..." Dan replied.

Fred tapped his nose. "Right in one," he said.

Dan looked at Gladys, "I told Fred," he admitted.

Gladys nodded and said, "Good. This doesn't need to be a secret, Daniel."

"What doesn't need to be a secret?" Tillie asked.

"Dan's retiring after the Series," Gladys replied before Dan could open his mouth.

Tillie's eyes widened. "Wow, that's a surprise," she blurted.

"Not to me," Gladys said, explaining that she was the one who had to listen to Dan constantly complain about his aching knee.

"Well, now he can complain after doing chores around the house," Tillie suggested with a grin.

"Oh, no..." Dan said, raising a hand. "I plan on asking Pop for a scouting job."

Tillie sniffed and said, "That figures."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Fred asked.

Tillie put her hands on her hips and answered, "It means that you men just want to leave all the domestic stuff to us. You're just as capable as I am of doing laundry, Fred Barrell."

Fred shook his head and told Dan, "This is what I get for marrying a progressive woman."

Tillie slapped Fred on the arm. But she smiled while doing it.

Harry and Tom exited the clubhouse; Harry was beaming, Tom scowling.

"Let's get something to eat, I'm starving!" Harry said.

Dan looked at his watch, "Well... it is after five."

"I wouldn't mind getting off my feet," Gladys said. The she looked at Tom and said, "You give any thought to what we talked about?" she asked her brother-in-law.

Tom shook his head and said, "I appreciate the offer, but I don't know..."

"What's to know? You need to get out there and stop pining after a woman you can't have," Gladys told him.

Dan rolled his eyes. "I told you to leave off with the matchmaking!" he told his wife.

"I agree with Gladys," Tillie threw in.

Now Fred shook his head and told his wife that she shouldn't be butting in either.

Harry's head was turning left and right, following the conversation. Finally he blurted, "Food!"

He clapped his hands and made shooing motions, "Let's go. You gals can pester poor Tommy over a steak just as easily as standing out here on the sidewalk."

"Gals!" Gladys & Tillie barked in unison.

"I... just.... want... to... eat!" Harry shot back.

The look on his face sent Dan and Fred into a bout of laughter and even Tom had to grin.

Dan was suddenly very grateful that his retirement would be postponed just a bit longer.

.

[legendsport]

December 25, 1937: Egypt, GA:

"I still can't believe I let you talk me into this," Betsy Barrell said, hands on hips and a frown on her face.

Tom Bowens threw up his hands in exasperation. "I can't get this thing done up right," he complained. The bow tie around his neck was decidedly... crumpled-looking.

"Are you listening to me?" Betsy asked, hands still on hips. Tom wasn't even looking at her, instead staring at his reflection in the mirror. With a heavy sigh, he attacked his bow tie again.

"Are you aware that your being here is supposed to be bad luck?" Tom replied, avoiding her question entirely.

She shook her head. "I'm not superstitious," she said.

"But I am! Now shoo!" Alice Barrell exclaimed, bustling into the room. Francie Barrell followed in her mother-in-law's wake, her two daughters trailing her.

Betsy glared at her mother, but let Francie grab her by the arm with a muttered "Come on" and was escorted out of the room that had once belonged to her brothers Fred and Tommy.

Alice watched Betsy leave, then shook her head, looked at Tom and said, "Here let me help you with that."

Tom smiled in thanks. "Rufus has never been able to properly do this either, so don't feel too badly about it," Alice said with a grin as she quickly and expertly fixed the bow tie.

"You know, it's going to be confusing having two Toms in this family," she said as she stepped back.

"Sorry. My middle name is Vernal, so I guess you could call me Vern," Tom said, and managed to sound like he meant it.

Alice liked her soon-to-be son-in-law and gave him a fond smile. "That's alright, Tom, it'll be fine," she said. "And don't let Betsy's barking at you take the shine off this day. She just has the wedding day jitters."

When Betsy had told her mother that Tom had suggested they have their wedding at Christmas, Alice had seen the young man's reasoning even before Betsy explained it. It boiled down to two things: Tom Bowens was a football player and his season didn't end until December. He knew that most of the family would be at the farm for Christmas, which also happened to fall on a Saturday, so Tom had figured that would ensure most of the guest list would already be on hand. And he was right.

"He just wants to be able to combine our anniversary with Christmas," Betsy had complained to her mother.

"I doubt that," Alice had replied. "I think he's eager to marry you and realized that most of the Barrells would be here for Christmas, so two birds, one stone, you know?"

Tom had told her as much, but Betsy still had her doubts.

Tom had proposed just that October. He was playing for the Boston Americans of the American Football Association. As Rollie had pointed out, the AFA did not have a draft when Tom finished school in the spring of '36. So he had received offers from several AFA teams: Boston, Brooklyn, Chicago and Rollie's own Detroit Maroons. Boston's offer had been the best, and Tom was a native of Boston, so he'd eagerly signed on the dotted line. The Americans were playing in Detroit on October 10 and Betsy was visiting Rollie and attending the game. After the game, in which Tom had just one catch and the Americans had lost 28-10, Tom had come straight to Rollie's box from the field. His uniform - and face - were dirty and he handed her a football.

"What is this?" she'd asked, with a confused look on her face.

"Take a look at it," Tom said, a note of exasperation in his voice.

Betsy had gazed down and scrawled on the ball in what looked like white marker was "Will you marry me?"

Rollie, looking over her shoulder, had given a little gasp and then a chuckle. Betsy herself was simply speechless.

Tom waited a few moments before prompting her with "Well?"

She shook her head, then saw his eyes widen and a crestfallen look come over his face. She immediately shook her head even more and blurted, "No! I mean.... no, I'm not saying no. I just never imagined this would be how someone would propose to me."

Tom's crestfallen expression was replaced by one of confusion.

Rollie laughed and slapped Tom on the shoulder. "I think what my sister means, is yes, she will marry you," he said.

Betsy spun on him and exclaimed, "I can speak for myself Roland!"

"Oh, I know you can," Rollie said, then chuckled and said, "But you're taking an awfully roundabout way of accepting Tom's proposal, aren't you?"

Betsy blushed and then turned back to Tom. "Well, my brother should mind his own business, but... he's right. Yes, I will marry you Tom!"

And now that the big day had arrived, Betsy was indeed a barrel of nerves.

The ceremony went off without a hitch in front of a large gathering of Barrells and Bowens. Alice had worried about forcing Tom's New England-based family to spend Christmas so far from home, but the groom's father had quickly assured her that "This Georgia weather sure beats the Boston winter!" and that made Alice feel a lot better about things.

Also amongst the guest were several of Tom's team mates, most notably young quarterback Del Thomas, whom Rufus quickly pigeonholed because in addition to playing for the Americans, he also was a minor league pitcher who had recently been traded from the Cougars to the Gothams.

And, on a more concerning note to Alice was the presence of Annette O'Boyle, there as both a friend of Betsy's and the girlfriend of Bobby Barrell. While she was thrilled to see Bobby so clearly happy, Alice worried about "her Tom," who was still according to his brothers and team mates in Brooklyn, still pining away over Annette.

Tom Barrell had a date of his own, a young woman named Clara Williams - they'd dated briefly while in college at Georgia Baptist. Tom had broken things off with her after he'd been drafted and Alice clearly remembered him describing Clara as "too clingy." As Alice made her way around the reception, held under a tent on what was usually the outfield of Rufus' homespun ballpark, she noted that Clara was indeed hanging on Tommy's arm as if afraid he'd disappear if she didn't anchor herself to him.

Harry ran up to his mother, with Dan's sons slung over his shoulders. "Mom! I've got a couple of sacks of taters here for you," he said, giving each boy a squeeze.

"Hey, I'm a boy, not a sack of taters!" four-year-old Michael Barrell squeaked in protest. His brother Steve, not yet two, just giggled in delight.

"The pot's over there," Alice said, deciding to play along. Harry trotted off, and Alice heard Michael saying "No, no, no," while his brother just laughed.

Rufus sidled up beside his wife. He was holding Fred and Tillie's two-month old son Benjamin.

"You finally let that young man be?" Alice asked sarcastically. Then she reached out and stroked her newest grandchild's chin, tenderly, with the tip of her index finger.

Rufus wore a put-upon look on his face as he replied, "Hey, I was just giving him some advice. I used to be a pitcher, you know."

Alice smiled and said, "Yes, I do seem to recall something along those lines."

Rufus put his arm around his wife, pecked her on the cheek and said, "Can you believe this? Look how big our family has gotten!"

Alice gazed around. Harry was still playing with Danny's sons and was now also being chased around by Fred Junior. Bobby was deep in conversation with Annette and Alice well recognized the look in her son's eyes. Tommy was talking with Del Thomas as Deuce Barrell looked on, with Clara still hanging on Tom's left arm while his right arm was being used to show the younger men some kind of pitching grip. Gloria Barrell was watching Clara, and frowning (Alice reflecting that her oldest granddaughter was nobody's fool). Fred and Tillie were chatting with Jack and Marie. Jack himself had flown in the night before and would be flying back to Detroit the next morning to get back to his hockey club. Jack and Marie's daughters, along with Rollie and Francie's, were following Betsy around like puppies. Rollie and Francie themselves were chatting with the bridegroom and his parents.

"And it's only going to get bigger, now that Betsy's married and Bobby looks like he might be next," she told Rufus. Then she slapped him on the chest and added, "Chew on that one for a while." She was laughing as she walked away.

.

[legendsport]

February 19, 1938: New York, NY:

"You're a natural," Bill Melton said. Beside him, Tom Barrell flashed a wide grin. "I mean it," Melton continued, "You might be the most natural pilot I've seen since... well, since your father."

James Slocum squirmed uneasily. He wasn't much on praise; his pragmatic German mother had told him that "words are like the wind - you feel them, they might make you cold or warm, but they're gone in an instant, leaving nothing that lasts." Still, it did feel good to hear something like that from Bill Melton.

"Thanks," he muttered, looking uncomfortable.

Tom laughed and told Melton, "The kid's uneasy hearing compliments."

Melton wryly noted, "So I see." Then he patted James on the shoulder. "Come on, kid, walk me through the post-flight procedure."

James did, Melton grunting occasionally, an unreadable look on his face. Tom followed in their wake, listening but not really paying much attention.

Tom was happy to see that Bill Melton had taken an interest in James' flight training. While he enjoyed helping his nephew, Tom knew that having someone like Melton help was far more useful - the guy ran an airline for cryin' out loud! Tom had no real way of knowing, but he suspected that Melton's praise wasn't a bunch of bunkum - James really did seem to be well on his way to being an accomplished pilot. He was also smart as a whip - more like Rollie than Jimmy, but Tom remembered Jimmy as being a pretty sharp guy, just wired differently from the more straightlaced, focused and reliable Rollie.

The plane James had just landed was a Douglas DC-2. The fact that Melton would let the kid fly one of his airliners said a lot about what the man thought of James' ability. Saying, "Big or small, you need to fly 'em all," to James, Melton had overridden the youngster's aversion to flying something as large as the DC-2 after cutting his teeth on smaller aircraft.

"What'd you think of her?" Melton asked James, snapping Tom out of his reverie.

"She's big," James said, causing Melton to laugh.

"They're only going to get bigger, kid," he said. "This here gal can carry fourteen passengers. I expect before long we'll have planes that can carry three or four times that many passengers."

"I appreciate you handling the shakedown flight for this one. Sometimes I prefer to sit in the co-pilot's seat," Melton told James. Then his face grew serious. "There was another reason I wanted you to fly this plane," he said.

"The Bolo?" James asked.

Melton grinned. "You're a sharp one," he replied and, looking at Tom, explained, "What James here cottoned on to was that the DC-2 here has a military version. The B-18 Bolo is what the Army calls it."

"The 'B' designation means it's a bomber," James told his uncle. Tom had suspected this was the case but grinned at his nephew anyway.

"Right. And I have a strong suspicion we're going to need military pilots in the not-too-distant future and giving James experience in the kind of plane the Air Corps is going to be flying can only be to his benefit."

Tom, thinking of the Olympics in Berlin, nodded in agreement.

James raised an eyebrow and asked, "Any chance you can get a P-36?"

Melton threw back his head and laughed. He shook his head, still chuckling, and said, "No," then reconsidered and said, "At least, not easily. I could pull some strings with my friends at Curtiss, but that's a fighter plane. I doubt they'd just let me borrow one."

James tipped his head to the left and gave Melton a dubious look.

Melton chuckled and muttered, "Just like your father." He raised a hand and added, "I can't make any promises, but it won't hurt to ask, I suppose. I could tell 'em it's for me."

James smiled and Tom raised his eyebrows."'P'?" he asked.

James answered, "The 'P' is for pursuit."

Melton, smiling, said, "Yes, that's the Army for you. We called 'em pursuit planes back in the Great War and the designation hasn't changed even though most people call them 'fighters' now-a-days."

Then Melton's face became serious and he said, "My advice would be to go into the heavies, kid."

"Why?" James asked. Tom wondered the same thing - Melton himself had been a fighter pilot, as had Jimmy Barrell.

"Well... I've seen the new Boeing bomber. Some wit named it the 'Flying Fortress' - and that's an apt moniker because it's got machine guns sticking out of it all over the place. Nothing's going to be able to touch that thing. Boeing's had some problems with it though, that's why the Air Corps went with the Bolo. But the Bolo isn't going to be the main bomber for long. This Boeing B-17... it's the way I'd go, if I was going to be flying in combat again."

James chewed his lip. "Fighter planes..." he murmured.

Melton raised a hand and explained. "Look, kid, I get it. But this is the straight skinny: the P-36 isn't much when you look at what other countries are building. The Germans are using the civil war in Spain as a proving ground and their new fighter, the Bf 109, it's a beast. I can't really talk about what the U.S. is doing... what I know I'm not supposed to talk about for one thing, but I can promise you that I'd rather go into combat with fifteen machine guns covering every approach than trying to take on a 109 in a P-36."

James still looked skeptical.

As they began walking back towards the hangar, Tom leaned over and whispered, "Is all that true?"

Melton nodded, "Yeah. The B-17 would be best choice, if James is going into the Air Corps, of course. Plus, I kind of promised his mother I'd try to keep him out of fighters."

Tom smiled, he well knew how persuasive Claudia could be.

"Fifteen machine guns?" he asked in a louder voice.

"That's a bit of an exaggeration. There are five gun mounts, but that's more than any plane's ever had and that's why they call her the 'Flying Fortress'" Melton replied, then explained that he figured some of the gun stations would end up being twin-mounts. "Regardless of how many barrels they end up with, that plane is going to put out a lot of lead," Melton finished.

He looked at his watch. "We need to get you home, James," he said and threw a wink at Tom. "We wouldn't want to upset your mother."

"True. She's not exactly enthusiastic about all this..." James muttered.

.

[legendsport]

June 11, 1938: Egypt, GA:

"Is this really necessary?"

Alice Barrell huffed out a breath in frustration. She speared her husband with a fierce glare and replied, "Yes, it is. We're going, so stop complaining."

Rufus frowned, then a small, hopeful smile creased his face. "You know, it's my birthday today. Maybe we can skip this and call it my birthday present?"

"Not a chance," Alice replied absently as she bustled around the room. "Where in the world did I put my hat?" she asked herself in a low voice.

Rufus shook his head, then winced.

"I saw that," Alice said, though be what means she had seen it... Rufus had no idea given that she wasn't facing him.

He'd winced because he had a splitting headache, something that had become increasingly frequent of late.

"Ah, there it is," Alice said, briefly standing on her tip-toes to reach up and grab her hat off the shelf in the closet.

She turned to her husband, settling her hat on her head, and giving it a brief adjustment. As always, her movements seemed graceful to Rufus. He briefly thought back to the first time he'd seen her as she sat, a bored look on her face, in the ticket booth outside the old Savannah ballpark. That was.... 48 years ago! Rufus gave a low whistle.

Alice's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "What was that about?"

Rufus snapped out of his reverie and asked, "What was what about?"

"That whistle," was the reply.

He smiled warmly and told her that he'd been thinking about the first time he saw her. "You wouldn't give me the time of day," he said.

"You were such a rube, you still had hay in your hair," she shot back.

He laughed and said, "Well, some things never change," then leaned forward and gave her a quick kiss, adding, "You're just as beautiful now as you were when we met."

Now Alice laughed in return. "Let's go. You must have something wrong with your eyes in addition to these headaches," she replied, though a pleased grin briefly crossed her face.

An hour later they were in the doctor's office in Springfield.

"Says here... let's see if I can do the math... you're sixty-five today, Rufus," Doctor Presley said.

The doctor was about twenty-five years younger than his patient and in fact was the grandson of Rufus' original doctor, who'd retired a good fifteen years earlier. Despite this, "young Presley" as Rufus called him, was a good doctor and Rufus usually enjoyed his banter.

"You don't look a day over sixty-four," the doctor finished and winked at him.

Rufus smiled but the simple fact was, well, he was scared. He hadn't had any issues with his head since the immediate aftermath of being hit in the head at Bigsby Bowl all those years earlier.

"Gee, thanks," he said with a weak smile.

Presley slapped him on the shoulder, and the grin on his face was replaced by a more sober and slightly concerned expression. "Alice tells me you've been having headaches," he said.

Rufus nodded. "Yes, they started a couple months back," he said.

"And you're just now coming to see me? Shame on you, Rufus," the doctor said.

"Well, I was up in Washington, doing my job, you see..."

"They have doctors in DC too, Rufus."

"Alice said the same thing... but I was nervous," Rufus said sheepishly then added, "Shoot, I am nervous."

Doc Presley took Rufus' head in his hands and, to Rufus, it seemed like the doctor began squeezing his skull.

"Everything seems in place," the doctor said, leaned back and threw Rufus another wink.

"In all seriousness, we'll do some tests... you didn't bang it or anything, did you?"

Rufus shook his head, "No. I was just sitting at my desk, going through the spring reports... you know, my scouts, they do a lot of their work in the spring when the schoolboys get back to playing ball... there's a lot go through," Rufus was about to continue explaining when the doctor raised his hand.

Rufus looked at Presley expectantly and the doctor had a serious look on his face. "You have a staff, correct?" he asked.

Rufus was perplexed, but he nodded in reply.

"You need to let them do that... whatever you call it... collating?" Presley told him.

Rufus opened his mouth, but Presley held his hand up again and said, "You're 65 Rufus. It's time to slow down. Hell, it's probably time to retire. Given what you were doing at the time, it could be something simple like needing new glasses. Or it could be related to your old injury. Or it could be stress-related. Please keep in mind that men your age don't typically work as hard as you do."

Rufus swallowed and said, "Doc, I've been involved with baseball for nearly fifty years. The thought of leaving it all behind... I don't know if I can do it. I'm afraid if I leave...." he trailed off.

"You're afraid of what... if you leave?" Presley prodded.

"I'm afraid I'll lose the will to go on," Rufus said in a small voice.

Presley gave him a hard look. "Now listen here," he began, "You have a wonderful wife who loves you and more kids and grandchildren than any man has a right to. So there'll be no talk about death, you hear me?"

Rufus nodded sadly. "Please don't tell Alice what I said," he asked. Presley shook his head a little, but agreed with a final admonishment to think about retirement. "Alice is alone now, Rufus. None of your kids are home anymore and most of them live far away. You've worked hard all your life. Time for you - and Alice - to relax and enjoy some quiet time together."

Rufus sighed and admitted the sense in Presley's words. "It's hard, Doc. I've been doing this my whole life."

"I know, Rufus, but all good things, as they say, must come to an end."

"OK. I'll think about it," Rufus said.

"My grandfather worked til he was 78, Rufus," the doctor told him. Rufus nodded, he'd been seeing old Doc Presley right up until the old man retired. He knew where this was going. Sure enough the "young doc" added, "He died two months after he retired. My grandmother, heartbroken, died three weeks later. Don't be like my granddad, Rufus."

"I hear you, doc," Rufus replied quietly.

"Let's do an eye test, and see if you need new glasses. Then I'll set you up for an x-ray just to check on that old wooden noggin of yours," Presley said, reverting back to his normal manner.

.

[legendsport]

August 3, 1938: Hoboken, NJ:

"Hold your horses! I'll be right there!"

Charlotte Cleaves strode towards the door, a dishtowel in hand. Noticing that her hands were dripping soapy water onto the carpet, she wiped them with the towel, finishing just as she reached the door.

She swung it open to see an older gentleman standing on the porch, holding his hat in his left hand while his right hand was raised in preparation for another knock.

"Can I help you?" Charlotte asked, thinking that this fellow looked familiar.

"Mrs. Cleaves, I'm Rufus Barrell," the man said, then added, somewhat unnecessarily, "Joe's father."

Charlotte nodded. "Yes, I remember you now. I believe we've met before," she said, racking her brain, unsure if that was true, or if she'd only seen photos.

Rufus tipped his head. "Yes, we did meet briefly, frankly I'm surprised you remember."

Charlotte smiled, covering up the uncomfortable fact that she now remembered that they'd met at Joe's funeral. "I would have pegged you regardless. Rollie looks a lot like you," she said quickly.

Rufus was momentarily taken aback, then realized that of course Charlotte had met Rollie - he and her father George Theobald both had offices at Thompson Field in Detroit.

Charlotte took a step back and waved a hand, saying, "Please come in."

"Thank you," Rufus said and stepped over the threshold. "A lovely home you have, Mrs. Cleaves," he said politely.

"Oh, you're too kind. And please call me Charlotte," she replied. She led him to an armchair and after he sat down, she seated herself on the sofa, facing him. Realizing she still had the dishtowel in hand, she dropped it onto her lap, a sheepish and nervous look on her face.

"I suppose you're wondering what I'm doing here," Rufus said.

"Well, yes, I suppose I am," she answered.

Rufus reached into his jacket and took out a pair of glasses. "Sorry, I need these now apparently," he told her as he put them on. Then he reached back into his jacket, on the other side and removed an envelope.

"I wanted you to have this," he said, extending the envelope out to her. "It's, uh, for Roger."

"Roger?"

"Yes, your son," Rufus said and then added in a low voice, "And my grandson."

Charlotte swallowed. She wasn't sure how many of Joe's family knew about Roger being Joe's son. Apparently... they all did. Or at least the ones who mattered.

"What is it?" she asked.

"A check for $5,000."

Charlotte sat back quickly, stunned. A moment later she gasped, "What? Why?"

Rufus took a deep breath. "I know your husband is gone, Charlotte. And your older sons... well, I happen to know them both and they're good men, and I'm sure they help you however they can," he said and shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "But Roger is my kin, and I want you to use this for his college education."

Charlotte blinked a couple of times and then... she laughed.

Now it was Rufus' turn to be shocked. "Why is that funny?" he asked after a moment.

Charlotte waved a hand. "Oh, you haven't met Roger. The chances of that boy going to college... well, let's just say those are very long odds."

Rufus frowned and said, "I see."

An awkward silence took hold. Then Rufus took a deep breath and said, "Well, keep it anyway. Perhaps you can hold it until Roger's older. Maybe he'll have need of it."

"Pssh..." Charlotte snorted. "That boy makes more money than a lot of the men in this neighborhood."

"How is that possible?" Rufus did some quick calculations in his head. "Isn't he... only... fourteen?" he asked.

Charlotte nodded. "Yes. Fourteen going on forty. That boy will be the death of me."

Before she could explain further, the door banged open and Roger walked in. Rufus quickly appraised the grandson he'd previously only glimpsed at a distance, immediately recognizing a lot of Joe in the boy. He was tall, for one thing, his face very like Alice's father Joe Reid (just as Joe's had been) and he looked strong. He also smelled, faintly, of... alcohol?

"What's for dinner, mom?" he asked, and there was a definite slurring in his voice.

"You've been drinking again young man!" Charlotte exclaimed and stood up, hands on hips, to glare at her son.

Ignoring her, he turned and looked at Rufus. "Who's the geezer?" he asked.

Charlotte's face turned red; she was mortified. Of course, Roger had no idea that the "geezer" was his paternal grandfather.

"I'm Rufus Barrell," Rufus said and extended his right hand.

Roger cocked an eyebrow and looked at the offered hand. Instead of taking it, he asked, "Barrell? You related to Rollie?"

"Yes, Rollie is my son. So was Joe," Rufus said. Charlotte's eyes widened in fear. She didn't know if Rufus knew that Roger had no idea about Joe being his father.

"Joe? I don't know no Joe. I do know Rollie. He's a swell fella," Roger said, then tottered over to the sofa and plopped down. He grabbed the dishtowel that had fallen on the floor. "What's this doin' here?" he asked and threw it into the kitchen.

"Roger... go to your room," Charlotte demanded, and pointed her finger for emphasis.

"Naw, I want some dinner first," he said.

"You missed dinner. Again."

"There has to be some leftovers or something. I'm famished, Mom," he said, sounding, for the first time, like the boy he was.

"You should probably listen to your mother," Rufus said, anger in his voice. That a grandson of his would be so disrespectful!

"Beat it bub, this ain't none of your business," Roger shot back.

"Roger!" Charlotte exclaimed again. Roger talked right over her, asking, "Just who do you think you are, anyway?"

As the boy staggered to his feet, Rufus replied in a calm voice, "I'm your grandfather, you fool boy."

Roger looked at him quizzically, then fell back onto the sofa, and stared at Rufus for a moment. Another moment passed in silence. Charlotte was too stunned to speak, Rufus too angry to speak and Roger... well, he just fell asleep and began snoring.

"Oh, dear lord," Charlotte said and began apologizing to Rufus, explaining that Roger had been spending time with some men she believed to be mobsters. Roger claimed they were just businessmen and that his "job" was delivering meat, but he always had a lot of money on him and no one made a lot of money delivering pork chops to the housewives of Hoboken.

"He didn't know, did he?" Rufus asked.

Charlotte shook her head.

"Well... he might not remember this anyway. But if he does, and if you need me to straighten him out... you call me," Rufus said. He handed her his card. "His father was a bit of a hellion too, and my wife and I kept him on the straight and narrow... mostly... I reckon we can help you with this here youngster if need be."

Charlotte looked dubious but thanked Rufus anyway. As she led him to the door, she asked him not to tell her father about what had transpired.

"You sure about that? Your father is one of the best men I know," Rufus told her.

"Yes, he is, and that's why I don't want him to know his youngest grandson is a hoodlum in training," she replied.

Rufus put his hand on Charlotte's shoulder. "He'll be fine. He's half-Theobald and half-Barrell," Rufus said. Then he grinned broadly and added, "And that ain't half-bad!"

Charlotte chuckled despite herself. She prayed Rufus was right.

.

[legendsport]

September 3, 1938: Philadelphia, PA:

"I think the Old Man is going to have a conniption," Bobby Barrell told his soon-to-be-wife. He'd proposed to Annette O'Boyle in Chicago back in July and she'd accepted. They'd be getting married after the season ended. And the way the season was going... there was now more than one reason October couldn't arrive soon enough to suit him.

"You mean the coach, right?" she asked, a quizzical look on her face. He was still patiently trying to teach her about his world of baseball, which was so different from her track and field-based athletic experience.

"Yeah, although in baseball, he's the manager. The coaches... well, they help us with pitching, hitting, stuff like that."

"And what's the manager do then?" she asked.

Bobby ran a finger along her thigh. She was wearing shorts and she had some great legs, in the opinion of Mr. Robert Barrell, at least.

She slapped his hand. "Stop that! Now answer me," she demanded.

"Huh? Answer you about what?" Bobby replied, looking perplexed.

She shook her head. "What's the manager do, if the coaches do all the coaching?"

"Oh, he's like... I dunno, the boss, I suppose. He does the strategizing," Bobby explained, looking pleased at pulling "strategizing" out of his slightly distracted brain.

"Strategizing? How much strategy is there in baseball? See ball, hit ball, right?"

Bobby chuckled and shook his head, "There's more to it than that," he said. Then he asked, "Is that how it is in track? The coach just says, 'run really fast?'"

She laughed and said, "Well, not exactly. I concede the point, I suppose."

Bobby rubbed her leg again - and she slapped his hand again. "Hey! You were trying to tell me something about the manager having a conniption?"

Bobby had a put-upon look on his face and sighed deeply before replying, "Yeah, so old Vance is losing it because his two best hitters both seem to have lost it at the same time."

"One of those hitters being you..."

"Yeah, unfortunately," Bobby replied. His power was largely gone, and his average had taken a big dip too. The doctors told him it was probably a loss of strength in his right arm, where the furrow dug out by the bullet fired by his crazy ex-girlfriend had torn up his muscle. Bobby did exercises trying to get his strength back, but even he could tell that his grip wasn't as strong as it had been. He also thought it was getting into his head too. He explained all this to Annette.

"The other guy, that's Rankin, right?" Annette had met Rankin Kellogg a couple of times. The legendary slugger was a reticent fellow by nature, but he was friendly enough in his own,quiet way and a good friend to Bobby, so that made him all right in Annette's eyes.

"Yeah, he's... I don't know how to describe it," Bobby sputtered. Then he shook his head and said, "Ordinary, I guess. Just like, average. And Rankin has never, ever, been anything less than spectacular. But last year, and this, he's been mediocre."

Annette didn't say reply for a moment. Bobby shook his head and added, "And with me underperforming too... that's the A-number-one reason we've been terrible this season."

Annette did know enough baseball to know that the Keystones were having a bad year. She'd been at the game that afternoon, only to discover that Bobby wasn't playing. He did get in at the end of the game, pinch-hitting and then finishing up in centerfield, but the Keystones had lost 8-2 to the Boston Minutemen, leaving them with a 49-78 record.

Bobby leaned back and said quietly, "I'm going to let you in on a secret, but you have to keep it under your hat."

Annette touched her head. "I'm not wearing one," she replied with a smirk.

"I'm serious."

She pouted for a moment then said, "Oh, fine. Who am I going to tell anyway? I don't know anyone in Philadelphia except you, you big lunk."

"Rankin's sick."

The grin that had still been on Annette's face dropped in an instant. "Sick? What do you mean?"

Bobby shook his head and said, "I don't know... exactly. Rankin confided in me that he'd been to some doctors and they're doing tests. Says he's having some... trouble... physically."

He looked at Annette, a look of deep sadness written all over his face. She knew, as an athlete herself, that part of it was Bobby feeling badly for his friend, but part of it might also be that seeing someone like Rankin Kellogg, arguably one of the two or three best hitters of all time, suddenly laid low... it pointed out that Bobby himself was only human - as if getting shot by that loony-bird Lucy Traynor hadn't done enough in that regard. Annette absently rubbed her shoulder, where she too bore the scar of a gunshot wound.

"He doesn't want anyone to know," Bobby explained. "He told me, because..." he paused and wiped a tear from his eye, before continuing, "well, because he said I'm the best friend he has in baseball."

"Oh, that poor man," Annette said as she began tearing up too.

"He's quiet, but Rank is one of the most proud men I've ever met. This is tearing him up inside. And he's keeping it all bottled up."

"And that's what you meant about the manager having a conniption?"

Bobby nodded and said, "Yeah, he has no idea. I mean, he probably knows that Rank's swing isn't right; heck, we all hear it every time he hits the ball. His hits used to sound like cannon shots, now they're more like pop guns."

Bobby didn't add that the sound of his own hits had changed as well - and not for the better either.

"And he doesn't know what it is?" Annette asked.

"No, not yet. The tests... they take time. He snuck off to some clinic while we were in Chicago."

Annette slapped Bobby on the leg. "Let's go get something to eat. Take our minds off this... maybe we can talk about the wedding," she seemed almost eager. Bobby eyed her, wondering if she was just putting on a brave face for his sake. Even if she wasn't... he loved her for it.

Bobby stood up and Annette noticed him quietly making a fist and releasing it, over and over, with his right arm, a subconcious habit he'd picked up as he worked to rebuild the strength in his arm.

"Aren't you going to change?" he asked her.

Annette looked down at herself. She was wearing shorts - it was summer in Philadelphia. She waved a hand and said, "Nah! Let's be scandalous!"

Bobby laughed and said, "Hey! I have a reputation in this town, you know!"

"Well, let's see if you can't improve it by being seen with a daring woman!"

Bobby kissed her on the cheek. "You're too much, my darling future Mrs. Barrell."

"Ah, I like the sound of that!" she said and kissed him back. "But right now I'm hungry, so let's go eat or the wedding's off buster!"

.

[legendsport]

October 9, 1938: Chicago, IL:

"He's pitching his..." Rollie Barrell shot a glance at his wife, who was scowling at him. The entire row was filled with Barrells, some of whom were children. "His tail off," he finished. Francie gave him a small scowl, and shook her head.

"He" was Tom Barrell, and Rollie was right: he was pitching his tail off. It was game four of the World Championship Series, and a rematch between the Brooklyn Kings and Chicago Chiefs. Tom had been outstanding in game one back in Brooklyn, tossing a complete game in which he allowed one run on four hits with a pair of walks, but most impressive: he'd struck out 11 Chiefs, including living legend Pete Layton three times in a 4-1 Kings victory.

"He finally listened," Rufus opined. Alice snorted derisively and shook her head. "Give the boy his due, Rufus. You don't need to take credit for this," she scolded him.

Rufus frowned and explained, "I wasn't talking about listening to me - that ship sailed long ago. I meant he was finally listening to his coaches."

"Mmm-hmm," Alice replied, clearly not convinced, but not willing to push it.

Bobby, sitting next to Annette, told her, "He's really hitting his spots. When Tommy's got his control working, he's really tough. I'm just glad I don't have to face him."

"I'm glad I don't either," Annette said with a smirk.

"That's not nice," Bobby whispered to her.

She raised an eyebrow and whispered back, "What in the world ever gave you the impression that I'm a nice girl?"

Bobby laughed. Dan, sitting on his other side, leaned over and asked, "What's the joke?"

"Oh, nothing," Bobby replied, a big grin still plastered on his face. "A private thing, is all," he explained.

Dan didn't look convinced. "Sorry you're not out there?" Gladys asked him.

"A little, but I went out on top, and that's all you can ask for," he said, trying to sound more convincing than he actually felt.

"I'm sure," his wife told him, knowing him all too well. "Your legs will thank you for it," she said.

"That's true," he said with a nod. Just sitting in the wooden ballpark seats at Whitney Park was stiffening up his bum knee.

Of all the Barrell kids, only Betsy was absent. It was a Sunday, and she was in Boston where her husband was playing football that afternoon. Fred, Tom and Harry were playing and Rollie, Jack, Dan and Bobby were all on hand.

Jack was sitting with Marie, and was plainly amused by her reactions to the antics of Tillie. Fred's wife was by far the most vocal of the entire group of Barrells and rode the umpire mercilessly.

On the field, the umpire, Bill Drake, was getting fed up with Tillie's catcalls. As Fred stood up at the end of the home fifth, Drake told him, "Barrell, you better get your wife off my back."

Fred smirked at him. "You married Bill?"

"Yeah," the umpire replied, a confused look on his face.

"And does your wife do what you tell her?"

Drake shook his head, frowned and said, "Just ask her to lighten up, will you? I'm doing my job as best I can."

Fred did his best, but Tillie just gave him a stern look and told him, "You do your job and I'll do mine."

Fred grimaced - he knew he'd never be able to convince her to lighten up, but he had to make an attempt. "You'll make my job harder if you set Bill Drake against us, Tillie. Take it easy, ok?"

She frowned and stuck her tongue out at him. Fred sighed - that would have to do.

James Slocum sat with his mother. He was rooting hard for Tom, and the Kings - a situation made much easier by the fact that Brooklyn had drafted him in the fourth round, 54th overall, back in June. 18-year-old James was now a professional ballplayer, having completed his first season just a month earlier. In 59 games for Marshalltown in Class C, he'd hit .258... no great shakes, but he'd shrugged it off. The best part of playing in Marshalltown, Iowa was that it was both flat and home to an airfield. James had wrangled his way into "helping" the local pilot fly his biplane, doing some crop dusting. Time in the cockpit was time in the cockpit as far as James was concerned. He neglected to tell his mother, though his Uncle Tom knew about it.

His cousins Deuce and Gloria were there too. Deuce had made his big league debut that season for the Baltimore Cannons, making 11 starts with what he - and most others - considered dreadful results: a 1-9 record and 6.15 ERA.

"I really don't like it, Gloria," Deuce was telling his sister.

"And I don't think it's any of your business, Rufus," Gloria shot back.

"It" was the fact that she was dating Deuce's team mate and friend, second baseman Charley McCullough. Deuce liked Charley enough, but wasn't sure he was good enough for his twin sister. "He's a bit of a rascal," he told her.

"Is that any way to talk about your friend?" Gloria asked.

"Well... he might be my friend, but he's still a rascal," Deuce replied. Then he frowned and added, "This is precisely why I didn't want you moving in with me."

Gloria waved a hand dismissively. "You can't cook, won't clean and generally haven't a clue about keeping house. Don't get me started on your so-called cooking. I swear, you could burn water, Rufus. You need someone to help you and mother basically forced me to move in with you."

Deuce's frown deepened and he said, "Only because she doesn't trust me."

"Right," Gloria said with a note of triumph in her voice. "She knows that you're a rascal too."

Deuce just shook his head. He knew his sister wasn't wrong - not exactly, anyway - but he still didn't like Charley dating her. This situation required a bit of thinking, something Deuce wasn't all that fond of doing. He sighed and turned his attention back to the action on the field.

In the end, the Kings triumphed by a score of 2-1, the second straight contest in which they'd done that. And in doing so, they'd managed to win the first two games in Chicago. The teams would enter the final game in the Windy City with the Kings leading three games to one and looking like they were about to repeat as FABL champions.

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

A week later, things were completely different. The series was over, and the Kings had blown it. At least that's how Fred, Harry and Tom Barrell saw it. A 3-1 loss in game five was largely shrugged off by the club. Manager Powell Slocum had exhorted his charges not to take the Chiefs lightly - noting that this same team had beaten them in 1936. "This is a good club, boys," he told them. But the team knew they were going home, where their fans would fill Kings County Stadium to capacity and cheer them on to victory.

In game six, the Chiefs won 6-2 with 23-year-old Al Miller wheeling and dealing, striking out eight Kings - both Harry and Fred (and, ominously, Frank Vance) twice apiece. Going into game seven, Harry was hitting .125 and Fred just .190 - only Tom was having a good Series: 2-0 with a 1.08 ERA - and he was even hitting well, too, 3-for-4 overall with a run scored and an RBI. And he'd be getting the ball in game seven.

The pitching matchup was certainly a marquee one: Rabbit Day for the Chiefs and Tom Barrell for the Kings. Neither of them had it that day however: Day went three innings, giving up five runs on eight hits, and surrendered two homers (one to Vance and one to Al Wheeler). But Tom was just as bad, three-and-two-thirds pitched, six earned runs on four hits and three walks, and he too gave up two circuit clouts (to Pete Layton and Hank Barnett). The game devolved into a slugfest, and the Chiefs outslugged the Kings... barely. The final was 11-10 and for the second time in three years, Chicago had triumphed over the Kings. The sting was increased by Brooklyn having held a 3-1 lead after the first four games and subsequently dropping three straight.

To add injury to insult, Tom Barrell broke a toe kicking the water cooler in the home clubhouse after being lifted in the fourth inning.

.

[legendsport]

November 6, 1938: Boston, MA:

It was cold, and wet. And Alice Barrell didn't like it one bit.

"Why in the world would anyone voluntarily sit out here?" she groused, before adding, "I can only imagine what it's like in the winter."

Rufus had popped a peanut in his mouth and chewed a moment before replying. "You grew up in Philadelphia, dear. It's not much better there."

Their daughter, sitting between them, laughed and said, "Mom's lived in Georgia so long she's lost her tolerance for autumn in the north!"

"Well... they do say that Southern weather thins the blood," Rufus replied.

Alice shook her head, shivered and tugged on the lapels of her coat, trying to close what was already closed.

Rufus and Alice were in Boston to visit Betsy and her husband. Tom Bowens was a highly-regarded end for the Boston Americans. The trio was sitting in the stands of Cunningham Field, where the Americans were taking on the St. Louis Ramblers.

"I always get a kick of watching a pro football game played in a ballpark," Rufus said.

"You get a kick out of being in any ballpark, any time and in any weather," Alice grumpily noted.

"True," Rufus said with a laugh. Then he pointed towards the home dugout, empty but for a couple of photographers who apparently liked a low-angle. "I can't believe no one falls into the dugout, though - the whatchamacallit... sideline... comes real close," he added.

"Don't say that!" Betsy said. She lived in constant fear that her husband, to whom she was thoroughly devoted, would suffer some terrible injury on the gridiron.

"Well, it hasn't happened, so maybe it's not really a problem," Rufus said in what he hoped was a helpful tone.

Alice shook her head. "Men don't understand that we worry about them, dear," she told her daughter.

On the field, Tom ran a crossing pattern and the Americans' quarterback, Del Thomas (who also played baseball, Rufus had pointed out smugly), missed him. Unfortunately the linebacker didn't and Tom was flattened.

Betsy uttered a swear word, low, but not low enough that both her parents didn't hear it. She audibly sighed in relief when Tom got to his feet, looking a bit woozy, but quickly recovered and trotted back to his teammates.

"I need to take my mind of this," Betsy said. "Tell me again about that thing with Lucy Traynor."

Alice clapped her hands and said, "Well... as you know, they have Lucy at the loony bin in Kankakee..."

"Alice, that's not nice," Rufus scolded her.

"Nice? She shot Bob, Rufus. A loony bin is too nice for the likes of her," Alice spat. Then she turned back to Betsy and said, "Well, while we were all getting ready for Bob's wedding to Annette, the bride made sure her parents put a big ol' wedding announcement in the paper there in Kankakee. She'd read somewhere that Lucy liked to keep up on current events and took the paper daily." Bobby and Annette had married on October 15th and had only just returned from a two-week honeymoon in Mexico the week before.

"Ha, I'd have loved to have seen the look on Lucy's face..." Betsy laughed.

Alice joined her and said, "Apparently, when she saw it she screamed so loud that it set off a near riot. Apparently they try to keep things nice and quiet at the... institution," she said, and then stuck her tongue out at Rufus before finishing, "They had to put her in one of those straight-jacket things because they were afraid she'd hurt herself."

Both Alice and Betsy laughed. Rufus shook his head and said, "It's not a laughing matter. That young lady is mentally disturbed."

"Oh, pooh on you. Poor Bobby's arm is never going to be the same and you're feeling sorry for that witch?" Alice said.

"Insane people aren't responsible for their actions," Rufus said.

"That's a convenient excuse for all kinds of bad behavior," his wife retorted.

"Let's just agree to disagree, shall we?" Rufus said, wanting to put an end to the discussion.

They sat in silence, watched the Americans punt the ball back to the Ramblers and then Rufus said, "Can you believe it? Max Morris got elected to Congress!"

"I don't like him," Alice said.

"Why not? Have you even met him?" Rufus asked.

"Yes. Twice. And that was enough for me," his wife told him.

Betsy leaned over and told Rufus, "Mom dislikes him because he's a womanizer. Claudia says he had propositioned her many times, even after she was married to Powell."

Rufus scowled. That did sound like Morris, all right.

"I can't believe people were naive enough to send that scoundrel to Washington," Alice groused.

Rufus, thinking of some of the government people he'd met over the years in Washington, smirked, but said nothing.

.

[legendsport]

April 25, 1939: Birmingham, AL:

"Well, well, well... I'll be dipped and rolled in cracker crumbs!"

Dan Barrell, leaning on the rail and gazing out over the field, started laughing. He didn't even need to turn around to recognize that froggy croak.

"Possum Daniels, what in tarnation are you doing here?" Dan asked without turning, figuring he'd give some right back to his father's oldest and best friend.

"Shoot, son! You can kick the old ballplayer out of the park, but you cain't make him stay out!"

Possum grabbed Danny by the shoulder and then as the younger man straightened up, pulled him into a bear hug. "You are a sight for sore eyes, son!" he exclaimed, pounding Dan's back.

"My question stands, Possum," Danny said with a chuckle. "I thought you were retired."

"Aww, hell, ain't no force on Earth can keep me out of the ol' ballyard. I reckon they'll bury me... right about there," Possum pointed to a spot in center field.

"I don't think they'll allow that," Dan said with a gleam in his eye. "Probably some kind of law against it."

"You're probably right and that's a fine how de' ya' do for an old man what's given his whole life to this here game."

Dan's face grew serious. "You're not here to check up on my for my father now, are you?" he asked. Dan wouldn't put it past Rufus to have his old buddy check on his still-relatively-new-to-scouting son.

"Err... no comment," Possum said, looking uncomfortable.

"I knew it!" Dan said and shook his head. "The old man doesn't trust me."

Possum squinted at him and said, "Naw, that ain't it a'tall, son."

"Oh? Then how is it?" Dan asked, plainly skeptical.

"Well... he might skin me alive for tellin' you this, but ol' Rufus plans to retire at the end of this season," he paused and watched Dan's expression morph into one of total bafflement.

"He never said anything..." he started, but Possum held up a hand.

"It's a secret, son. Only your Ma knows... and me a'course."

"Why wouldn't he tell me?"

Possum's gnarled face took on a pleased grin and he said, "Shoot, son! He wants you to take over, that's why!"

Dan spluttered as his mouth worked seemingly independently of his mind, which was racing. Take over? He'd only been a scout for one season!

"Yeah, he knows you're green, son. That's why he asked me to come out and talk to you."

Possum motioned towards the seats. "My old bones... I need to sit down, son," he explained.

Danny nodded absently, still processing the revelation that his father was retiring and wanted to put him in charge of the OSA.

"What about Potentas?" he asked once they were seated side-by-side in the front row.

"Aww, shucks, Thomas is a nice feller, but he ain't no scout, no ways. He's good on the business side and that's where he'll stay. The scouting side... that needs a baseball man." Possum stabbed a finger, lightly, into Dan's chest and added, "And that's you, son."

"I don't know..." Dan said softly.

"Well, your father does, and for what it's worth, so do I," Possum replied. "You have what it takes, Dan. And shoot, you're married to a gal what used to scout too," he added with a chuckle.

"Yeah, basketball," Dan replied skeptically.

"Shoot, boy... scoutin' is scoutin' the rest is just... details," Possum waved a hand dismissively.

Dan rubbed a hand over his face. He had come to scout a kid named.... Lynn Kirk, that was it... and now he'd found out that he was supposed to start running the whole bureau in the fall?

"You ever thought about managing?" Possum asked.

Dan frowned. "Huh?" he asked.

"You ever thought about managing? You know, bein' a skipper, runnin' a team?"

Dan thought for a second. "Sure, I guess so. Why?"

"Well, runnin' the OSA is a lot like managin' a ball club. Look at it this way... when you're the skipper you have to make sure all your ballplayers are prepared to do their jobs. Put 'em in the best position to succeed, right?"

Dan thought about the men who'd run the clubs on which he'd played during his career. He nodded and said, "OK."

"Bein' in charge of the OSA is pretty much the same dang thing. The scouts... well they're just old ballplayers. They're used to having a skipper to help point 'em in the right direction and give 'em marching orders. That's what you'll be doin' - and it ain't much different from runnin' a team."

Dan's face brightened. "I suppose you're right - I just never thought about it like that," he said.

Possum sat back, a pleased look on his face. "This takes me back," he said.

"Huh?" Dan was perplexed again.

"Well... when I first met your Pop, I had to 'splain everything to him, too!"

Dan burst out laughing, and Possum soon joined him.

.

[legendsport]

May 5, 1939: Queens, NY:

"My! That was quite an experience!" Alice Barrell exclaimed. Rufus turned an appraising eye on his wife, unsure of whether she was being sarcastic. While he typically enjoyed riding on New York's subway trains, his wife generally avoided crowds. And this train had been particularly crowded.

The doors of the train opened and they moved out of the car along with seemingly hundreds of others, two of whom were their oldest grandchildren Deuce and Gloria.

"Ugh, I'm not sure this is a great idea, Gramps," Deuce Barrell complained.

"Oh, come on Rufus, it'll be fun," Gloria told her brother.

"It" was the World's Fair and it spread out before them as they exited the new "World's Fair Line" a temporary branch added to New York City's Independent Subway System specifically for the big event in Flushing, Queens.

"Thomas went to a lot of trouble to set this up," Rufus told his grandson. "The least we can do is show up."

Deuce shrugged. Alice frowned at him and said, "No one twisted your arm, Rufus. You didn't have to come along."

"I know, but I wanted to spend some time with you guys," Deuce explained. He had wanted to come along, but he was surprised by the crowds... and he was supposed to catch the late train back to Baltimore where he'd be pitching on Sunday against the Saints. This being a Friday and an end - thankfully - to a short, two-game set at Dyckman Stadium over in Manhattan against the Stars, Deuce had gotten permission to leave the game a little early. No big deal really - the Cannons were terrible and Gus Goulding would be pitching the first game against Montreal, so Deuce hadn't even had to chart the game.

"He's just afraid he'll miss the train," Gloria told her grandparents.

"I'll talk to John Lawrence if need be," Rufus said.

"You will do no such thing," Alice chided. Sometimes her husband was a little too eager to use his connections. And now that he was retiring at the end of the season, he seemed even more eager to show off his "clout" at the slightest excuse.

"Yeah, I can handle the skipper," Deuce told his grandfather.

"OK, fine. But I can help if you need me," Rufus said, and Alice noticed a definite note of disappointment in his voice. She knew he'd miss being around the game, but she felt it was more than time for him to finally step away and leave it to younger men... like their son Dan.

"Let's just get moving and go find Thomas," Alice said.

After paying the 75-cent-each admission, the quartet moved through the crowds gawking at everything, much like the rest of the attendees. Rufus whistled and said, "This Fair sure is something else."

Alice, eyes wide, simply nodded in agreement. Even Deuce had stopped his grousing. "I've heard they have an area with nude girls," he told his sister.

"Yup, the NTG Congress of Beauty," Rufus said. Alice shot him a glare, "And how do you know about this?" she asked.

Rufus, now uncomfortable and regretting his instinctive comment to his grandson, shuffled his feet and said, "Uh, well, Thomas told me about it."

Alice sniffed and said, "I'm sure." Then she turned to her grandchildren. "Regardless... we will not be going there," she said firmly. Deuce smirked - he'd be back in New York a few more times this season... plenty of opportunity to sneak off with some team mates for a visit. Gloria, seeing the smirk, and figuring this was his line of thinking, shook her head in disappointment.

Rufus pointed to a sign and said, "The Hall of Nations is that way."

They turned and started heading towards the international exhibits. Alice was knocked off-balance as someone jostled her hard. Feeling something tug at her handbag, she shot out her left hand grabbed the wrist of whoever was reaching in.

"Hey! Leave off!" she heard as she turned to look at the youngster who'd accosted her.

As Rufus, Deuce and Gloria stopped a few steps ahead of her and turned to see what was going on, Alice did a double-take, but even in her surprise and confusion, she didn't release the young man's wrist. He tugged again, but Alice was surprisingly strong for a woman in her sixties and he couldn't escape her grasp.

"Roger?" Alice heard her husband say as he arrived on the scene.

"You know this rapscallion?" Alice asked.

Rufus looked uncomfortable again. Alice shook her head and exclaimed, not hiding her irritation, "Spit it out, Rufus!"

"This is, uh, Roger Cleaves, Alice," he said, emphasizing the last name.

"Cleaves?" Alice asked, her eyes widening. Rufus nodded. Deuce and Gloria, standing nearby were staring, a look of confusion twinned on their nearly identical faces.

"He looks like..." Gloria muttered while Deuce nodded slowly and whispered, "Yeah, he does."

Rufus grasped Roger by the forearm and Alice released her grip. "Roger, what do you think you're doing?" he hissed.

Roger rubbed his wrist, shot a malicious look at Alice and said, "Nuthin' - I just bumped into her, is all."

"Why you little..." Alice grumbled, oblivious to the fact that the youngster was taller and broader than she was.

"You really need to straighten out your life, son," Rufus told Roger.

Roger turned his glare on Rufus. "You're not my father, you..." he barked.

"No, I'm your grandfather!" Rufus exclaimed in reply, his emotion overriding his commonsense - something he only noted when he heard Gloria's sharp intake of breath.

"Oh my lord!" she exclaimed as a memory came rushing back. A memory of her mother standing on the porch of the farmhouse in Egypt, Georgia, angrily shoving a photo of a baby at her father.

Deuce's eyes widened. He was a beat slower than Gloria, but it was apparent - he now remembered too.

"What's with you?" Roger asked Gloria, then turned back to Rufus and said, "That's baloney. My father left us, but he wasn't no Barrell, old man." He struggled against Rufus' grip on his arm, "And let go, before I slug you."

Deuce stepped forward and said, "I'd be really careful about what you say next, little brother."

Roger's eyes goggled and he exclaimed, "Brother! What are you talking about? I have two brothers, but you ain't either of them."

"No, I'm not," Deuce replied, then waited a beat and added, "I'm your third brother."

Roger shook his head and said, "I've only got two brothers."

"No... you have four. Well, four half-brothers at least," Gloria said and then threw in, "And one half-sister for good measure."

"Four!"

"Yes, four. Our father, Joe Barrell, had four children. Rufus and I, you, and our little brother Charlie." Roger's mouth had fallen open as he listened. "He lives in California with his mother," Gloria added.

Rufus patted Roger on the shoulder. "It's true, Roger. My oldest son Joe, and your mother, well... you know how that works. Anyway... Rufus - or Deuce as we call him - and Gloria, are your half-siblings and as Gloria said, you have another half-brother, Charlie, too."

"So, my... father... is Joe Barrell?" Roger asked shakily. "I thought that was a dream," he muttered.

"No, it wasn't a dream," Rufus confirmed. "You are my grandson, and this is your grandmother, Alice Barrell," Rufus added.

He had released Roger's arm and the youngster had backed up a step. "I'm not sure I believe all this," he said.

Alice had opened her handbag and was rooting around inside it. She pulled out a small photo and handed it to Roger. "This is your father," she said.

Roger took the picture and looked at it. A smiling man was standing with a woman and two children. Roger could easily guess that the young boy and girl with the man and woman were Deuce and Gloria. But the man - Roger had been looking in mirrors all his life and recognized the clear resemblance between the man - Joe Barrell - and himself. He swallowed and started to hand the photo back to Alice.

"Keep it," she said. "I have many more at home."

"And this guy, he's dead?" Roger asked quietly.

"Yes, he is," Alice said sadly.

For a moment Roger appeared to be on the verge of tears. Then he threw the photo down, shouted, "Good! I hate him!" and turned and stalked off, nearly running.

Alice bent to pick up the photo, a tear in her eye. She tucked it away.

"It's ok, it's alot to take in," Rufus told her. "I know where he lives, anyway," he added. "This is a bit of a shock, I'm sure," he said, meaning not only to Roger, but also to Deuce and Gloria.

"Yeah, it sure is," Deuce said. Gloria added, "I thought we were here to see the Polish pavilion and instead we get to meet our long-lost half-brother."

Deuce sighed and said, "I guess this was worth the trip after all."

.

[legendsport]

July 30, 1939: Brooklyn, NY:

"Here you are, Miss Goodhue," the usher said, pointing to an aisle seat in the first row, right beside the home team's dugout at Kings County Stadium.

Sarah Goodhue smiled at the young man and nodded in thanks, then sat down. This was her first time in Brooklyn and first time in a big league ballpark. She'd seen ballgames before, of course, but no ballpark she'd seen in Georgia - not even the Peaches' park in Atlanta - was anything like this.

"Excuse me, sir," she said quickly, stopping the usher as he nearly finished turning to walk back up the steps.

"Yes, ma'am?" he asked, the friendly smile still firmly planted on his face.

"How many people fit in this here ballpark?" she asked, her thick Georgia accent coming through loud and clear.

"Well," the user said, and he chewed his lip for a moment, "I don't know for sure." He leaned down and said in a stage-whisper, "I'm new here, to be honest."

"Oh..." she said, sounding disappointed.

"But..." he began and she looked up at him eagerly. "I have a little book they gave us which has facts about the Kings and the stadium." He pulled out a small, purple-covered book and began flipping through the handful of pages.

His smile grew wider and he said, "Well, it says right here that this stadium holds 32,000 people."

"Wow," Sarah replied.

The usher leaned forward again and said, "Say... if you're free for dinner..."

Sarah laughed and shook her head. "Oh, no, I'm sorry," she said, "but I'm here to see my boyfriend."

The crestfallen look on the face of the poor usher almost made Sarah laugh out loud, but she kept her composure, and smile as he followed up with, "Oh... and where is he? Any man who'd keep you waiting..."

She held up her hand to stop him and said, "He's not keeping me waiting..." she turned and pointed, "he's right over there."

The usher turned and looked. Sarah was pointing out to the infield, where Harry Barrell was standing, glove on his hip, chatting with third baseman Frank Lemieux.

"You mean..." the usher said, wide-eyed.

"Oh, yes, Harry Barrell there..." she said, still pointing.

The usher managed to look both surprised, impressed and disappointed all at the same time. "Well, enjoy the double-header, miss," he said and began to walk back up the steps.

Sarah sat down, and began looking around the ballpark. It really was very large and 32,000 people was certainly a lot.

She enjoyed the first game a great deal. Harry had come over to say hello, and so had his brother Fred, wearing a peculiar smirk on his face. Fred had gone three-for-three and scored all three times. Harry had a couple of hits and drove in one of four Brooklyn runs as the Kings defeated the visiting Toronto Wolves by a score of 4-0.

As the usher had noted, that was the first game of a doubleheader between Toronto and Brooklyn.

Between games, Fred had popped out of the dugout and chatted with her for a few minutes. His wife wasn't at the ballpark, he explained, and he wasn't playing in the second game so he visited with her, asking how her trip was, where she was staying and so forth, killing some time and she knew, helping keep her from feeling too lonesome.

"Most people don't get to sit this close to the action, you know," he told her.

"I would imagine so," she replied sincerely. "But Harry sent me the ticket and told me he had arranged it especially for me."

"Yeah, well, that Harry, he's something," Fred said, smirking.

Sarah again detected a bit of something... not-quite-normal... in Fred's reply. She'd known Harry, and therefore most of the rest of the Barrells, since childhood. She had a clear memory of Fred helping her up after she'd run in fright and tripped, thanks to Harry putting a mouse on her shoulder. That must have been when they were about... nine or ten years old and at least fifteen years ago. Fred had always been a fairly serious young man - nothing like Harry. Bobby.... he was funny too, but not in the same way that Harry was. She'd had a big crush on Bobby for several years as a young teenager. She'd outgrown it, but still felt a twinge of jealousy when Harry had invited her to Bobby's wedding to Annette O'Boyle.

She realized Fred had said something and she'd missed it while thinking about Bobby. She blushed and asked what he'd said.

"Oh, I was just saying that Harry should be by to see you himself. I think he's eating," Fred said.

"Eating?"

Fred laughed. "Sure. Most of us grab a bite between games, although some guys are too keyed up to eat. Harry's always keyed up, though, so he just eats."

"Huh," she said.

"Have you eaten?" Fred asked.

She chuckled and said, "Yes, I had a hot dog."

Now Fred laughed again, "Ah, Brooklyn's best."

"It was good!" she protested.

"Oh, I know. I have a son who demands one every time he's here," Fred replied - and it was true, every time Freddy Jr. was at the ballpark, he wanted a hot dog. Sometimes two. And the kid was still a week short of his seventh birthday.

Fred wrapped up his conversation, saying he needed to get back. He wasn't playing, but he'd be in uniform and available, so he was going to grab a bite to eat himself.

Sarah thanked him for the visit, which really did help kill some time between games. She had three empty seats beside her and the businessman sitting in the fifth seat didn't appear to be the chatty type. Sarah wasn't sure about striking up a conversation with a strange man anyway - particularly in Brooklyn, this being her very first trip "North."

The second game started after a bit. The starting pitcher for Brooklyn was apparently named "Stumpy" of all things. Sarah decided she'd ask Harry what the fellow's real name was - and why on earth anyone would accept a nickname like "Stumpy."

The Wolves went down in order in the top half of the first and Al Wheeler blasted a home run to center field in the bottom of the inning - probably the furthest Sarah had ever seen anyone hit a baseball. She heard the businessman in her row tell someone "that ball must have gone 450 feet!" The two-run homer put the Kings on top 2-0, though Harry, hitting seventh, didn't get to bat.

He was on deck when the inning ended. Before heading out to his spot, he walked over to her and said, "Don't go anywhere, I have a surprise for you!"

Before she could ask where exactly he thought she would go, he was trotting out to shortstop for the second inning.

The pitcher named Stumpy had some trouble. The first batter was Walt Pack and he hit a single between the first and second basemen. She heard someone in the stands make a howling noise... apparently not everyone on hand was a Kings fan. The next batter also singled and Pack ran to second. Harry sauntered over and Sarah saw the two talking briefly. Harry patted Pack on the leg with his glove before heading back to his position.

The next hitter was Tom Frederick. On the first pitch, he hit a hard shot at second baseman Jim Lightbody. Nick Wallace barreled towards second full-tilt. Lightbody fielded the ball smoothly, and sent a sidearm throw to Harry who had come over to cover second.

Wallace slid - hard - and slammed into Harry who went sprawling into the dirt, the ball briefly dropping out of his glove before he grabbed it again. Wallace was safe, but Harry was still on the ground, holding the baseball in his bare hand. She held her breath - he was clearly hurt. Harry finally rose and tossed the ball underhanded to Stumpy. Then he waved at the dugout and began limping towards it, holding his side. An older man, not in uniform (the trainer, she'd learn later) met him halfway and helped him to the dugout.

Harry didn't return to the game. Fred came out to see her in the middle of the fourth inning. "Harry's got a sprain, so he's back in the clubhouse with the trainer," he explained.

"A sprain? What kind of sprain?" she asked, concerned.

"Ribs, is what Doc said," Fred explained - Doc being the trainer and not a real doctor, as she soon found out.

Sarah watched the rest of the game in a bit of a gloomy mood. She hoped Harry wasn't hurting too much. She'd fallen off a horse once and hurt her ribs - she remembered it being a painful experience.

The game ended in a 6-2 victory for the Kings. The players slapped Stumpy on the back after the last out and they were all smiles as they headed into the dugout.

She stood up and prepared to leave, but since she hadn't really spoken with Harry, she was unsure where to meet him. She was thinking she could go to the hotel, if she could find a taxicab when she heard Harry call her name.

She turned and he was standing there, a crooked smile on his face. His jersey was off, but he still wore his uniform pants and long-sleeved purple undershirt. For some reason, he was also carrying his glove.

"Hey, good lookin'" he said with a chuckle.

"Harry? Are you ok?" she asked, ignoring his greeting.

"Oh, I'm alright. Won't be playing for a little bit, though," he said.

"Was that legal? That fellow slamming into you like that?" she asked. She hoped that Wallace would be punished for hurting Harry.

Harry laughed and said, "Ah, that's just baseball. Wallace wasn't trying to hurt me, just trying to break up the double-play."

"It looked dirty to me," Sarah insisted.

"It wasn't..." he replied. Then he smirked and said, "I have something for you."

"What?"

"Here," he said and held out his glove.

"Your glove? What do I need with a baseball mitt?" she asked. She leaned back; the thing looked dirty for one thing. For another, knowing Harry, he'd probably put a snake inside it, or something equally repulsive.

"Yes, my glove," he replied and pushed it towards her. She leaned back even further. "Oh, just take it!" he exclaimed in frustration. "It's not a trick, I promise."

"Not a trick?" she asked.

"I promise," he repeated.

"It better not be," she said, and then, reluctantly took the glove.

She was right - it felt dirty. Her lip curled, just a little, in distaste.

"Oh, for cryin' out loud..." Harry said. "There's nothing wrong with it. Put your hand in it."

"What? No!"

"Yes, put your hand in it!"

She started to reach her right hand into the glove.

"Not that one!" Harry said. "Use your left hand, that's the one that'll fit it."

She sighed and swapped hands. Then she pushed her left hand inside the glove. It was too big for her hand, was her initial impression. Then she felt something hard, and a bit sharp, inside the third finger of the glove.

"What's in here?" she asked sharply. "You promised this wasn't a trick!"

Harry laughed and said, "It's not. See if you can get it out of there."

She wiggled her hand around inside the glove. The finger hole was big enough that she managed to get both her middle and third finger inside the hole and grab the item nestled inside. As she felt it between her fingers, her eyes grew wide. The shape....

"Oh my lord!" she exclaimed as she pulled her hand out of the glove, a gold ring nestled between her fingers, the diamond setting catching the late afternoon light and giving off a sparkle.

Harry clapped his hands like a little boy. "So how about it?" he asked.

"Huh?" she asked, confused as she stared at the ring.

"How about it? You gonna marry me?" he asked.

Sarah shook her head, but the smile on her face gave the answer even before she exclaimed, "Oh yes! I certainly will!"

.