[legendsport]

Chaumont, France: August 25, 1917:

"Not going to happen, kid," said Lieutenant Bill Merlon.

Arguably America's most famous racing driver, Bill Merlon was now well on his way to becoming a "pursuit pilot" - in other words, someone who flies a machine gun-equipped biplane that pursues the enemy over the battlefield (what today we'd call a fighter pilot).

And Jimmy Barrell desperately wanted to be a pursuit pilot too.

Merlon explained that he had pushed for just that thing. But, he continued, he had run up against the U.S. Army's rule for pilots: you needed to be a "college man." And Jimmy Barrell, at just 17 years of age, hadn't even finished high school.

"Sorry, Corporal, but them's the rules," Merlon finished with a frown.

Merlon's string-pulling as the driver for the American Expeditionary Force's commander (General John "Black Jack" Pershing), had resulted in Jimmy getting assigned to the motor pool and shipping out to France with Pershing's staff while the vast bulk of what would someday be the AEF was still training back in the States. Merlon himself had finagled his way into pilot training - he had a college degree so he qualified.

"I don't see what a college education has to do with flying," Jimmy groused.

Merlon noted that he actually agreed - "One thing has nothing to do with the other. In my opinion you have the two primary requisites for piloting: you are adept at handling speed and the forces it exerts on the body and you're a fine mechanic as well." Merlon paused to light a cigarette - a foul-smelling French brand that made Jimmy's nose wrinkle in disgust. Merlon continued, "But the Army has its own rules."

"Stupid rules."

Merlon nodded. "Again, I agree." He regarded Jimmy over the cloud of foul smoke from the cigarette dangling from his lips. "Listen kid, here's what I will do. I will try to get you transferred to the Air Corps as a mechanic. That'll get you close to the machines at least, and then.... who knows, maybe we can sneak you up and see if you actually do have the capacity for it."

Jimmy grinned and exclaimed, "That sounds swell!"

Merlon made a shushing motion. "Don't get too excited. This doesn't mean you'll be chasing the Hun around in a Nieuport. It'll just open up a crack that with a lot of perseverance and a bit of luck, you might be able to slip through."

Merlon wandered off trailing cigarette smoke, leaving Jimmy grinning like a fool, even as he got back to busily polishing the wheel hubs on the General's staff car.


Sheepshead Bay, NY: August 29, 1917:

Rollie Barrell tapped his club against the toe of his shoe and wondered - again - what the heck he was doing.

Francine York, one of the top amateur female golfers in the U.S., shot a pointed look at Rollie. "Stop that." she chided.

Rollie gave a half-grin. "Does this bother you?" He tapped again.

Francine put a hand on her hip. "That's not particularly gentlemanly, you know."

Rollie tipped his head to one side and grinned. "I never claimed to be one," he said - and then, for reasons he couldn't have explained, he winked at her.

She harrumphed in return and muttered, "That's for sure." Then she returned to lining up her shot.

While Rollie waited for Francine to get on with it, he thought back to the previous month. The national draft lottery had not pulled his number (he chuckled to himself as he remembered his mother's shouted "Praise the lord!" when she heard the news). But the following day he had received a letter from the "Golfing Association of America" which was something a bunch of club pros had put together in 1915 in New York. It was supposed to be an organization for professional golfers - Rollie was still an amateur. Regardless, the GAA's letter said that Rollie had been selected for a "match play exhibition" pitting the top male golfers - both pro and amateur - against top female golfers. The golfers would be paired based on "generally accepted skill level" and they wanted Rollie to participate. The GAA would even pay for his train ticket to New York. Proceeds would go to the war effort. Alice Barrell had encouraged her son to go, saying, "You have time before you go back to school, so why not?"

Rollie had answered, "But I'd be playing against a girl! What kind of challenge is that?"

His mother had cocked an eyebrow and replied, "You might be surprised, buster."

And indeed he was. Granted, the rules gave the women a five-stroke advantage to start and they hit off the ladies tees, but Francine was really good. Rollie expected to win - like all the Barrells he was highly competitive and confident in his abilities (he wasn't quite as arrogant about it as Joe or Jack, but... well, maybe he was - inwardly at least). Thus far, with her advantages, Francine was ahead - but they had nine holes still to go.

The thwack of club hitting ball brought Rollie out of his reverie. He watched as her ball sailed straight and true, gave a rueful shake of the head and said, "Nice shot."

Francine gave him a smug smile in reply.

Nine holes later, Rollie gave a sigh of relief. He'd won - but barely - edging Francine by two strokes.

As they walked together towards the clubhouse he said, "You are one heck of a player, Miss York."

She smiled at him as she replied, "And so are you, Mr. Barrell."

"Hey Francie!" came a shout and a soldily built young man came trotting towards them. Rollie, to his surprise, felt a quick burst of jealousy and tensed up. Who the devil was this guy?

"Hi, Dick! Did you watch?" Francine replied with a wide grin.

The young man stopped before them and gave Francine a quick hug. "I did - and you played very well." He peered at Rollie and said, "Hello, Rollie."

Rollie asked, "Do we know each other?"

"Well, no, but I know your father."

Rollie rolled his eyes. It seemed that everyone knew his father. "Oh?" he asked simply.

The other young man laughed and shook his head. "I guess I'd better explain. I'm a baseball player at Georgia Baptist."

He shot out his right hand and Rollie grasped it and gave him a firm handshake.

"My name's Dick York. Your father scouted me this past spring. I'm hopeful I will be drafted by the FABL this year."

"Ha, you're one of the few fellows around who wants to be drafted..." Rollie started to joke, looked at Francine and then back at Dick and said, "Hold on... Dick... York?"

York nodded. "Yes - I'm Francie's brother!" He laughed again and Rollie chuckled as well.

Rollie felt a wave of relief wash over him. He smiled stupidly, hoped he wasn't blushing and said, "Sorry about that. You're right, I should know you - you fellows trounced us this year."

Francine wrinkled her nose and said, "Ugh, let's not talk about baseball, all right, boys?"