The Ballad of the Brothers Barrell - A Figment Story

[legendsport]

March 13, 1942: West Palm Beach, FL:

"Bobby! Bobby!"

Bobby Barrell, his back turned, looked at team mate Marshall Strickland and rolled his eyes. The players were on one side of the fence, and the shouting newspapermen were - for now - on the other side.

Bobby turned around. "Well if it isn't the gentlemen of the fourth estate," he said. He liked to keep them on their toes and sounding like anything but an idiot athlete was sure to do it. He took great satisfaction in seeing one of the writers blink several times in confusion.

One was quicker to recover than others. "Bobby, word is that you failed your Army physical. Care to comment?" This gem came from Tom Brennan who wrote for the same paper as Johnny Bologna, but wasn't anywhere near as accomplished. Unfortunately, Bologna was visiting the Sailors camp this week.

"There's not much to say, Tom," Bobby said. He pushed his cap back a bit on his head. Annette told him it made him look like a bumpkin, so he did it to keep the state of confusion high with these fellows. Among the writers, only Bologna really got any respect from the Keystone players. He waited a beat, savoring all of the writers hanging on his next word before putting them out of their misery. "You fellows all know the story. A crazy woman shot me in the arm. That wound is the reason the Army disqualified me from service."

"So you're able to play baseball at the highest possible level, but not able to hold and fire a rifle is that it, Bob?" the writer who said this was a new one. Bobby had no idea who he was.

"Different skill set my friend," Bobby said, reining in his temper. Still he knew his voice sounded cold. Who did this joker think he was?

"Oh, hell's bells... what are you doing here Junior," a new voice said.

Bobby recognized that Mississippi twang and turned around. Doug Lightbody, veteran star and 1927 Whitney Award winner, leaned an arm against the fence. "They finally let you out of your gilded cage?" he asked, nodding at the young writer.

The youngster was now wearing a hangdog look. Bobby cocked an eyebrow at Lightbody.

"Aw, shucks, Bob. This here fellow is John Brinker, Jr. Thinks he's going to be a big time 'feature' writer like his daddy," Lightbody said and expertly spat tobacco juice between his own feet. "He was just cutting his teeth back in '39 when I was with the Kings and they let him cover us on occasion. Hoping the experience would help dry out some of the moisture behind his ears."

Bobby smirked. They called Lightbody the Mississippi Mouth and he could go to legendary lengths of oratorical tomfoolery when he had a mind to do it. He was apparently just warming up. "I done told you back in Brooklyn that you have to treat us ballplayers with respect. We are not animals in a zoo. This here is a one hand washes the other situation, you hear?"

Brinker Jr. nodded, still looking like someone had poked him in the eye.

"See now that question, or statement, you just made to Bobby here... that might be construed as being combative. And when I say combative, I mean irritating. I reckon the same type of questions could be pointed at you," Lightbody said and spit again.

"Because, you see, you're of a military age yourself and here you are in the Florida sun asking stupid questions instead of toting a rifle for your good ol' Uncle Sam. Now I think that's just about a cryin' shame."

Lightbody scowled at the young man. "How did your Army physical go?"

He turned to Bobby and a grinning Strickland and asked, "Wouldn't you fellows like to know?"

Strickland was nearly laughing but managed to nod. Bobby, also smiling, said, "Yes, of course."

Brinker Jr. muttered something about an eye condition while Lightbody smirked.

"Now then," Lightbody said and pointed at the young writer. "Do you have any other questions for Bobby? Or perhaps Mr. Strickland? Or I would even say you might strike up the courage to ask me a question or two."

Brinker Jr. appeared to be on the verge of simply running away but instead he visibily steadied himself and asked, "What do you think of your brother Fred announcing he'll be retiring at the end of the season."

Now that was a surprise to Bobby, who hadn't spoken with any of his brothers since reporting to Spring Training. "I wasn't aware that he'd said any such thing," Bobby said and as Brinker opened his mouth, quickly added, "But I support all my brothers 100%. Fred's entitled to step away whenever he's done with the game. I'm sure his family will enjoy having him around more."

Brinker Jr. frowned but wrote in his notebook before desultorily following up with a couple of questions each for both Strickland and Lightbody. His lesson well-delivered, Lightbody even gave what were - for him - relatively terse answers.

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Same day, Vero Beach, FL:

Tom Barrell was not a happy camper. It briefly flashed through his mind that "camper" was an apt description - this being a training camp of sorts.

This was his second spring training with the Pittsburgh Miners after nine of them with the Kings. The guys on the team were fine, but he missed having Harry and Fred around. But that wasn't what had him in a sour mood. What did was finding out that he was going to be working out of the bullpen this season.

The Miners manager, Dan Andrew, was a man Tom respected a great deal. He was a no-nonsense guy, a former first sacker who had never made it to FABL as a player yet had held down coaching and managing jobs for nearly thirty years. But Tom flat-out did not like being sent to the bullpen.

The way Tom saw it, the bullpen was for pitchers who couldn't cut it as a starter. And Tom Barrell, despite a couple of bad seasons, believed he still had it. He didn't believe in making excuses, but still knew that he hadn't been entirely "right" since his right leg - the one he relied on for pushing off the rubber when pitching - had seized up on him back in 1937. The docs said it was his hamstring. All Tom knew was that it kept him out for over two months. And his pitches just didn't have the same sizzle afterwards.

"I can still be an effective starter, Skip," he told Andrew when the older man called him into the cubbyhole that passed for the manager's office at the Miners spring camp.

Andrew sighed and said, "Look Tom, no one is ever going to question your heart. But we have a pennant to chase here and I don't feel like your body can deliver on what your heart's asking it to."

Tom scowled but said nothing.

"I know this is tough," Andrew continued. "Hank thinks you're still favoring the right leg," he said, meaning Hank Lucas, the pitching coach. Lucas had garnered more than his share of praise - in Tom's opinion - because of just how damn good Lefty Allen had been. Tom ruefully thought back to the days when he'd made the Kings' pitching coaches look good.

"Maybe I should have been a hitter after all," Tom said.

Andrew raised an eyebrow. "A hitter? For a pitcher you're good with the bat, Tom, but..." he said.

"Aww, but nothing, Skip. Back on the farm I was every bit the hitter that Bobby was, and look at him now. I just decided I'd rather make up for my father missing out on his career and so I concentrated on being a pitcher," Tom said.

As Andrew sat quietly, Tom frowned as it dawned on him that he'd never vocalized his reasoning for choosing pitching over hitting as a boy. Because the truth was he HAD been as good a hitter as any of the Barrell boys.

"Was that really the reason?" Andrew asked quietly. "I'm no head-shrinker, Tom, but if I was, I'd say you might need to reconcile whether you're living for yourself, or for your Dad."

"Huh," Tom said quietly. He did need to think about that. Was all of it - his choosing pitching, his devotion to it to the exclusion of everything else (including finding a wife like all his brothers had)... was it all because he felt like he had to do it for Rufus?

"Even Harry up and got married," Tom muttered to himself. Andrew smirked a little. Tom's reputation as a "love 'em and leave 'em" kind of guy was well known now in both the Continental AND Federal Associations.

He ruminated on it a bit more. Of all his brothers, he was the only one who had landed on pitching - their father's vocation. Heck, Joe & Rollie didn't play baseball, Jack only did it because he could play any sport well and it wasn't until Dan hurt his knee that he really made baseball his focus. Fred... well, Fred & Tom had paired off, Fred catching because Tom pitched. As for Bobby & Harry... those guys were born hitters though both certainly had the arm strength to pitch.

"Get out of here, Barrell," Andrew said after silently watching Tom for a moment. "You can work on your head while you're out in the bullpen," he said, then softened a bit and added, "I don't mean that the way it sounds, but I have a ballclub here that I think can win the pennant and I'm not going to jeopardize that for your emotional well-being." He blew out a deep breath and added, "No offense."

Tom gave a sad smile. "None taken, Skip," he said and walked out the door.

.

[legendsport]

April 15, 1942: Harding Field, LA:

"Name?"

"James Slocum."

A flipping of papers, a clipboard consulted. Then, "Ah, yes, Lt. Slocum. Welcome to Harding Field and the 324th Bombardment Squadron." A brief pause. "Sir."

James peered out a window overlooking a completely empty flight line. "Where are... you know, the planes?" he asked.

"Yeah, you'd think we'd have some of those, wouldn't you?" replied the sergeant.

"And?" James prompted.

"Scuttlebutt says they'll get here next month. Just in time for us to go to MacDill Field in Florida. We can't really fly those things out of here. Airstrip's not heavy enough to support those monsters."

"Fantastic," James said.

"Err, pardon me for asking sir, but ain't you a little young to be an officer, let alone a pilot?" the sergeant asked.

The guy was older than James and he felt a little guilty about that, so he decided to answer honestly. "I graduated early, got my degree and joined the Air Corps. Specifically so I could fly 'those monsters' as you put it."

"No offense, sir," the sergeant said.

"Don't worry about it sergeant. I'm well aware that I'm a bit young for the role," James said.

"One more question..." the sergeant began and James got a familiar sinking feeling. He held up a hand.

"Let me guess: am I related to Powell Slocum, right?"

The sergeant grinned. "Hey, I'm from Annapolis. I'm a big Cannons fan. Well... was, before they up and moved to Cincinnati." He spat. "You're not from Cincinnati, are you?" His eyes narrowed as he scowled.

"No, I'm from Brooklyn," James replied. "And to answer your question, I'm not actually related, no."

The sergeant looked disappointed. James bent over to grab his duffel bag and then he hooked a thumb over his shoulder and asked, "BOQ that way?"

"Yes, sir," the sergeant said.

As James began to walk away he looked back and said, "I'm not related to Powell, but he is married to my mother."

The look on the sergeant's face was so priceless, James just had to laugh.

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James' laughter turned out to be short-lived. It turned out that word traveled pretty quickly in the military and before long, everyone knew that a) he was the stepson of Powell Slocum, b) the nephew of several big league players and c) a minor league ballplayer himself.

Within a day he had been summoned to the squadron commander's office. Rumor was that Lt. Colonel Michael Thornton was a baseball fan and moreover, determined that his squadron would have the best baseball team in the 91st Bomb Group.

James snapped to attention before Thornton's desk and shot a salute, "Lt. Slocum reporting as ordered, sir," he boomed.

"At ease, lieutenant. Take a seat and let's chat," Thornton said. As James sat, he looked across the desk at the colonel. He was surprisingly young - at least in appearance. James had also heard that he had been one of the first to test pilot the B-17 Flying Fortress - and had crashed it on landing.

"So, Slocum... or should I say Barrell?" the colonel asked.

James said, "Well, I was born James Barrell Jr, sir, but Powell Slocum married my mother, raised me and was kind enough to adopt me. He's been as much of a father to me as any man could ever be... sir."

Thornton nodded. "Fair enough, Slocum. I just wanted to be clear that I am fully aware of your, shall we say, lineage."

"Yes, sir," James replied.

Thornton took a deep breath and asked, "You never met your father, right?" James didn't answer immediately and before he could Thornton shook his head and said, "Reason I asked, is I was wondering if he ever mentioned a fellow by the name of Eddie Grimes."

James frowned and shook his head, "You're right, I never did meet my father, but I do know Bill Merlon, and he did mention an Eddie Grimes. He was a pilot in the 94th, just like my dad and Merlon."

Thornton nodded, "Exactly so. He was also my mother's younger brother and therefore my uncle."

"You said 'was' so I take it he's no longer with us?" James said somberly.

"No, he's not," Thornton said and added, "He never quite got over the war. Essentially drank himself to death. But," and here he paused and pointed a finger at James, "He did say that Jimmy Barrell was a fantastic pilot and a better friend. Said he wouldn't have gotten through the war without him."

James eyes widened and he felt a swell of pride. "I've heard a lot of things about my father - including that he was a natural pilot, and that came directly from Merlon. But that might be the nicest thing anyone's ever told me about him."

"Good. That was one of the reasons I called in some favors to bring you into my squadron," Thornton said with a grin.

James was pleased but Thornton's statement made him ask, "One of the reasons?"

Thornton sat back and eyed James up and down. "I'm a pilot, Slocum, and a damn good one, too. But I am also a big baseball fan. I grew up in St. Louis and would get out to Pioneers Field early to watch Max Morris blast baseballs into the cheap seats."

James thought of his Uncle Dan's opinion of Morris - who was now Congressman Morris - and fought back the urge to smirk.

Thornton narrowed his eyes, almost as if he could tell what James was thinking, then continued, "We'll be pulling up the tent pegs here and heading to MacDill down in Florida before we know it to meet up with the rest of the Group. And when we do, I want us to have the best ballclub in the Air Corps."

"Really?" James blurted out, then remembered himself and added, "Sir."

"Damn straight, Slocum. I've been pulling some strings and found other guys - like yourself - who were ballplayers before they answered Uncle Sam's call. We're going to drop bombs on the enemy and we're going to hit bombs on the diamond." He paused and grinned at James. "You like that? I thought of it myself."

James nodded, all the while thinking the colonel was off his rocker. James was - or had been - a professional ballplayer, but he had climbed no higher than Class A. He wasn't sure the colonel's big plan would actually work. But that wasn't exactly his problem... or at least he hoped it wasn't.

.

[legendsport]

June 22, 1942: Jersey City, NJ:

The judge's scowl was quite possibly the most frightening thing Roger Cleaves had ever seen.

"Mr. Cleaves, you have entered a plea of guilty, perhaps in the hope of getting off lightly, perhaps because you are - as you claim - truly sorry for your actions. But that does not diminish the seriousness of the crime."

Roger bowed his head. He sensed that a response at this point would not only be unhelpful, it would actually hurt his chances of getting a light sentence.

This wasn't supposed to go this way. Roger had turned 18 in January, had enjoyed a solid senior season as the catcher for Hoboken High School, even making the All-State team. Both his grandfathers had assured him that he was going to be drafted - and in fact, the FABL Draft was taking place on this very same day as his court appearance. He had graduated, squeaking by grade-wise, just the previous week and was looking forward to starting his baseball career, and eventually joining his three half-brothers in the big leagues.

Behind him, in the first row of spectator seating, was his mother. Charlotte had been right - his "work" for Big Tony Falcone had been a bad idea. Roger had certainly enjoyed the money and until this most recent arrest, whenever the cops had picked him up, he was a juvenile and received a mere slap on the wrist (though he had spent most of his 16th summer in the Youth House).

He was in court because he had agreed to do one last pickup for Tony. It was straightforward - there was a guy who ran a candy store on Hudson Blvd in Jersey City, near PS #8 where Roger had gone to school. He'd made a bet on the Gothams, and lost big. Roger had gone to collect and the guy had run out the back of his shop, into the alley. There were a handful of kids in the store, and Roger figured the guy was going to lose some merchandise. He knew exactly where the alley ended and his car was right outside. He sprinted to his car, jumped in and drove around the block, screeching to a halt just before the man emerged from the alley.

Roger had jumped out, chased the man down - the guy was middle-aged and slightly overweight, he wasn't going to outrun an athlete like Roger. Roger caught up with the man and shoved him hard, knocking him to the sidewalk. He'd rolled the man over, sighed and shook his head. "Why'd you have to run?" Roger said and then punched him in the face. And that was when two of Jersey City's finest had walked out of the deli on the corner and immediately spotted Roger sitting on the man, fist raised for a second punch.

Roger's attention snapped back to the present as the judge spoke again. "You have an impressive record, young man, which... luckily for you, I can not take into account since they all occurred as a juvenile. But now that you are an adult, you're looking at jail time."

Roger, for obvious reasons, had no desire to spend any time in the Hudson County Jail. His connections with the Falcones would protect him, but the future he had desired for himself and worked hard to achieve would be delayed and possibly destroyed.

His lawyer - provided by his brother George (after Jack had flat-out refused to help saying that perhaps jail would cure Roger of his wild ways) - had been honest about his chances. There had been witnesses and it was obvious to the arresting officers that Roger had assaulted the candy store owner. This had made his chances poor to say the least, causing Roger to enter a guilty plea. It had avoided a trial at least and lessened the media's interest in this younger brother of the famous ballplayers Jack and George Cleaves (Roger's actual father being Joe Barrell was not known outside the family, hence his being Deuce Barrell's half-brother as well was still a secret).

"However," the judge said, and Roger's head rose and he gazed at the old man whose face still bore a serious scowl. Still, 'however' was a great word to hear when everything Roger had heard before it had been so bad.

"We are, as everyone knows, now at war." The judge took his glasses off and stared hard at Roger. "I am giving you a chance, Mr. Cleaves. You are to immediately enlist in the Marine Corps. Not the Army, not the Navy, and certainly not the Coast Guard. The Marines. They will both make you a man of character and also will ensure you provide some service to our nation in its time of need."

Roger's lawyer looked at the judge and raised his eyebrows. The judge nodded once, slowly. The lawyer leaned over and whispered to Roger, "This is a great deal and I strongly suggest you take it. The judge himself was a Marine in the first war, and that's likely why he's offering you this chance."

Roger whispered back, "So I'm supposed to go volunteer to get my *** shot off? What's the alternative?"

The lawyer frowned. Seeing this, the judge spoke again. "Mr. Cleaves, if you are entertaining the thought of refusing this chance, let me tell you this: I will sentence you to the maximum allowable sentence and you will likely spend the next few years in prison. Not the county jail, sir, but Rahway State Prison. So choose wisely," he finished and put his glasses back on.

Roger looked over his shoulder at his mother. She bobbed her head at him. The Marines? It would mean postponing his baseball career, but Roger also knew that even if jail wasn't hanging over his head there was an excellent chance he'd be drafted anyway... "I accept," he told his lawyer.

"My client finds your solution more than fair, your honor and accepts," the lawyer - his name was Ken Williams - said.

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Two hours later Roger had signed on the dotted line - he was going to be a Marine. Mr. Williams agreed to take a copy of the enlistment papers to the judge the next morning. Roger was going to be taking his physical and then heading off to boot camp.

The telephone rang while he was in his room, packing a few meager belongings, knowing the Marine Corps would be giving him virtually everything it believed he'd need for the duration of the war plus six months (that was his term of enlistment - nothing like signing your life away for an indefinite period of time, Roger had thought).

Roger heard his mother answer the phone and she spoke with someone for a few moments. Roger couldn't make out the words. It didn't matter to him anyway. She appeared in the doorway. "That was your grandfather," she told him.

"I take it he heard what happened," Roger said, then bitterly added, "And I'm sure the great George Theobald was more disappointed than words could express..."

"That's not fair, Roger, and you know it," Charlotte snapped. Then after a moment she continued, "And no, it was your other grandfather, Mr. Barrell."

Roger looked at his mother and frowned. "So, same thing, just a different old man being disappointed in me," he muttered.

Charlotte shook her head and her voice was cold when she spoke. "Listen, Roger. That judge may have just saved your life. Not literally, but he may have salvaged it for you. I really hope the Marine Corps does mold you into a good, dependable and mature man. Instead of this," she waved a hand at him.

"What do you mean?" Roger shot back.

"This... boy, who spends all his time feeling sorry for himself," she replied hotly, then she looked down, took a deep breath and when she raised her eyes to meet his again, he saw tears in them. "Roger, I failed you. Your father - both the one you thought was your father and the one who actually was your father - are gone and when they were here neither of them were there for you then either. And that was unfair to you, and I'm sorry for all of it. But you're an adult now and you need to decide if you're going to be a hoodlum, or if you're going to try to make something worthwhile of yourself. That judge gave you the chance to make something of yourself. I hope you take it."

Roger bowed his head. Charlotte turned to leave. She had taken one step when she stopped, turned and added, "And what your grandfather wanted was to congratulate you. The Philadelphia Keystones drafted you in the seventh round of the draft today."

She left the room. Roger sat on his bed quietly stunned, and deep in thought.

.

[legendsport]

July 9, 1942: Cincinnati, OH:

The game ended at 5:40, the nine thousand-or-so fans streaming out the gates of Tice Memorial Stadium, heading home after watching the hometown Cannons defeat the Brooklyn Kings by a 9-4 margin. Rufus Barrell stood in the window of the office of his old friend and current boss, George Theobald, in a building he still thought of as Monarchs Field, watching quietly.

Theobald walked in from the hallway, causing Rufus to turn away from the window. Theobald was nearing his 80th birthday but was still spry in a way that made Rufus, who was feeling all of his own 69 years of late, jealous. And feeling his age was precisly the reason he'd asked to meet with Theobald in the first place. The older man was tall and thin to the point of near emaciation, but his craggy face broke into a wide smile for Rufus.

"Well, Rufus, did you enjoy the game?" Theobald asked. Theobald had watched, as he usually did, from the owner's box. Technically a minority owner, Theobald had worked with the majority owner James Tice back in '39 on the purchase of the club and helped the then-moribund Cannons transition from Baltimore to their new home on the banks of the Ohio River, including managing the club at age 77 in its first Cincinnati season in 1940.

Rufus had watched the game from his preferred vantage point of a seat down low and behind the plate, a vestige of his scouting days. Though he was now the head of scouting for the Cannons, he didn't do much actual scouting himself, instead managing the crew of scouts the team employed to check out everyone from promising amateurs to minor leaguers to the Cannons' big league competition. It was similar to his old role running the OSA, but now he was focused on just one team. As a former pitcher, he loved the behind the plate view where he could focus on the pitcher and his mechanics.

"I did. It was a good win for the boys," he said.

Theobald offered a wink and a knowing smile as he asked, "Even though two of your boys were playing for the visitors?"

Rufus grinned and bobbed his head a couple of times. "Yes," he said, "I did have some divided loyalties there, but I can hope Fred and Harry do well while still hoping we get the win."

"Fair enough," Theobald replied. Then the smile slipped from his face and he asked, "So what did you want to see me about?"

Rufus took a breath. He wasn't nervous, but he also didn't look forward to disappointing Theobald.

"I'm retiring at the end of the season, George," he said. "I figure we're three years deep now and the organization is running quite well so this is the ideal time for me to finally return to the farm. For good."

Theobald's frown was barely noticeable. Rufus wondered if he had disappointed the older man. After all, Theobald had a full decade on Rufus and he wasn't retiring anytime soon (although he had stepped away from managing - his primary vocation, as his all-time best number of wins would attest).

"I assumed as much, and I won't try to change your mind," he replied after a moment.

"Thank you," Rufus said, punctuating the statement with a nod of gratitude.

Theobald raised a hand and added, "But I would like your thoughts on a successor."

Rufus smiled. He had just the man in mind and had been hoping Theobald would ask for his input.

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Later that night, Rufus was enjoying dinner with his sons. Harry and Fred would be in town for four days as the 9-4 loss for the Kings was just the first of a four-game set in Cincinnati. But Rufus never wanted to miss an opportunity to sit down with any of his far-flung - and large - family. There simply was no better way to get caught up.

Rufus was finishing up telling his sons about Roger's enlistment in the Marine Corps. He was currently at New River, North Carolina, going through basic training. Rufus explained that the main East Coast Marine training facility at Parris Island was full and they'd had to send some recruits to New River for training.

Harry shook his head. "I can't believe he'd join the Marines of all things," he said.

"I don't think he had much choice," Rufus said with a smirk. Then he frowned and added, "I hope it settles the boy down. He hasn't had much of a male role model around since his brothers left home."

Fred sighed and Harry nodded, both realizing this wasn't exactly a shot at their oldest brother, but an unfortunate result of bad circumstance.

"And James?" Fred asked.

"Well, he sends letters to Tommy, so this is second-hand, but Tom said that James is in Florida, near Tampa at MacDill Field. They're doing something called First Phase training on the B-17 bomber. They have two more phases after that, apparently to be done somewhere else, and then they're likely going to be sent to England, or maybe the Pacific. James can't provide a lot of details."

"Understandable," Fred noted.

Rufus nodded and then chuckled and added, "He did say that the squadron commander is a baseball nut and has his men playing ball in addition to all their training. James feels like he's being run ragged between flying and baseball."

They talked about a few other things before Rufus brought the conversation around to where he wanted it - his impending retirement.

"I take it that Mr. Theobald didn't love the idea," Harry said.

Rufus tipped his head a bit and said, "Well, he didn't try to change my mind. But he did ask me to recommend a successor."

"You have someone in mind," Fred asked before taking a drink of his water.

Rufus nodded and said, "Yes. You."

Fred almost forgot to swallow and sputtered for a moment before saying, "Me? Why in the world would you do that!"

Rufus was taken aback and it showed. He leaned back and said, "Well, I know you're retiring as a player but figured scouting would be a good next step. Or maybe managing," he added quickly.

Fred's mouth was open and he appeared to be speechless.

Rufus continued, "Look, catchers are the only ones who have the whole diamond in front of them all the time. In my opinion you'd make an excellent scout... or manager."

Harry nodded in agreement. "I think so too," he said.

Fred looked from his father to his brother. "Pop, I can't," he said finally.

"Why on earth not?" Rufus asked, adding, "I think Tillie and the kids would like Cincinnati. This team is going to be a top contender for the foreseeable future, and Deuce is here."

Fred raised a hand and said, "Pop, stop. I can't. Not because I wouldn't want to, but because I've already made a commitment elsewhere."

"Where?" Harry asked. "This is the first I've heard of you having any plans at all."

"Elsewhere," Fred said with a stubborn note in his voice.

Rufus' confusion had only increased. "I think 'where' is a valid question, Fred," he said gently.

Fred blew out a deep breath and shook his head. "Look, I've been sworn to secrecy," he said and held up a hand as Rufus opened his mouth. "And sworn to secrecy by folks that take that stuff very seriously. All I can say is that it's government work, ok?"

Rufus sat back, stunned. "Government work?" he muttered. "You going into the service?" he asked.

"No, not exactly," Fred replied and then said, "Please, let this go. I just can't take the scouting job, Pop. Sorry."

.

[legendsport]

September 13, 1942: Dow Field, ME:

The door to the Quonset hut swung open and a portly red-faced corporal entered. "Mail call, sirs," he said. He took a few steps into the large room and held up a handful of letters.

James Slocum who was sitting on his bed watching a few of the other pilots playing poker, looked up. "Anything for me Jenkins?" he asked.

Corporal Jenkins flipped through the small stack. "Yes, have a letter for you, sir," he said and flipped an envelope towards James. James caught it expertly. "Nice toss, Jenkins, you're getting better at this," James said with a chuckle.

"Practice makes perfect, sir," Jenkins said with a smile. He lifted another envelope and flipped it towards one of the card players. "For you, Captain Wilson," he said. James briefly watched Jenkins flip letters at the other pilots and then looked down at the envelope in his hand.

"Aw, Jenkins, your sweaty palms got this wet," James heard one of the guys complain. The weather was still warm, which surprised James. Dow Field was near Bangor and therefore it would have been difficult to be farther north and remain in the United States. The 91st Bomb Group had been at Dow for about a week, having flown their brand-new B-17s from Gowen Field in Idaho. Well, some of them at least. The rest of the "Forts" would be arriving soon, according to the Army, which James now knew, meant anywhere between tomorrow and next year.

The Group's ground echelon was on its way to Fort Dix in New Jersey and would soon board a ship for the group's ultimate destination: England. The aircrews would fly their aircraft to England in October, following a circuitous route over the North Atlantic with stops in Iceland and Ireland before reaching England. James hadn't been out of the country since the family trip to Berlin for the '36 Olympics. He felt a moment of pause as he realized the next time he'd see Germany was likely to be from the cockpit of his B-17.

The letter James was holding was from Agnes. The envelope was pink, making James wonder why she'd chosen that color. It was sure to attract attention, that was certain.

"Look guys, Slocum, got a letter from a dame," he heard one of the other pilots say, followed by a wolf whistle and then some snickering. James, proven right, shook his head.

"Stow it, Campbell," James snapped. "This is from my sister."

"Is she cute?" Campbell asked.

"You'll never know..." James replied with a grin and tore into the envelope.

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September 14, 1942: Northampton, MA:

Agnes McCullough wondered if her letter had made it to James. She sat on her bed in the dormitory of Smith College, site of the Officer's Candidate School for the United States Naval Reserve (Women's Reserve) which was a lot of military jargon that some wit had re-christened as the equally wordy "Women Accepted for Volunteer Emergency Service" - and that of course had nearly been shortened into the acronym WAVES.

"Yep, I'm a WAVE alright," she muttered.

"What was that?" her roommate Loretta Connaughton asked.

"Oh... nothing. I was just thinking about my brother," Agnes said.

"The pilot, right?" Loretta asked with clear interest in her voice. "He's a cutie-pie," she added a moment later.

Agnes who was facing the window with Loretta at her back, rolled her eyes. Loretta was what Agnes' stepfather Jack Barrell would term "man crazy" and Agnes had made the unfortunate mistake of showing her a picture of James. Her half-brother had sent it to her when he'd graduated flight school, and she had to admit he did cut a rather handsome figure in his Army Air Corps uniform.

"I only have one brother, Rett," Agnes replied, biting off a sigh.

"Do you know where he is, or is that a secret?"

"Not exactly. Still in the States somewhere, I suppose. I would guess it is a secret. Wouldn't want the enemy to find out. Loose lips sink ships, right?" Agnes replied.

"Bah! Like the Germans have spies here," Loretta scoffed.

"You might be surprised," Agnes said. Privately, she agreed with Loretta, but she was on tenterhooks about whether the Navy would give her the assignment she wanted and wasn't in a congenial mood. And she was worried about James, too. Ever since Pearl Harbor, she'd been... well, something of a worry-wort about the people she loved.

Agnes had her back to the door and didn't know they had company until she heard Loretta bark, "Commander Williams! Ma'am!"

Agnes had been a quick study when it came to military discipline and shot to her feet, spinning and coming to attention facing the short and somewhat rotund woman in the door. Commander Williams somehow managed to look imposing despite her height, or lack thereof.

"Ensign Connaughton, give us the room, please," Williams said. Loretta quick-timed it out the door, shooting Agnes an "oh no" look as she did.

Williams closed the door, waved her hand and said, "At ease, McCullough."

Agnes relaxed - but just a bit.

Williams pursed her lips and looked Agnes up and down. "Well, McCullough, it looks like you're getting your wish," she said and sounded as if this was not something about which she was happy.

"Ma'am?" Agnes asked, wanting to hear the words, wanting to be certain.

"You're being assigned to language school. You'll get a crash course in Japanese," Williams told her, still looking like she'd been sucking on a lemon.

"Thank you, ma'am," Agnes said, fighting back a smile.

"Assuming you pass that course, you'll likely be stationed in Hawaii, to help translate decoded enemy transmissions," Williams went on, telling Agnes what she already knew.

"I recommended against this," Williams added after a moment. "Not because I think you can't do the job, but because your personal...." she paused and stared hard into Agnes' eyes before continuing, "experiences at Pearl Harbor might cause you to be emotional and that job will require cold, calculated, precision. I recommended you for German language school and duty at Norfolk. I was overridden."

Agnes was stunned and it probably showed; Williams gave her a somewhat crooked grin.

"Captain Underwood was impressed with you, I'm not entirely sure why," Williams said. Herbert Underwood was the commanding officer.

"Congratulations, McCullough. Don't let us down," Williams said, nodded her head and then spun and left the room.

Loretta shot back through the door a moment later. "So?" she asked breathlessly.

"I got it! I'm going to language school and then back to Pearl Harbor," Agnes said. She realized she ought to be smiling, but instead she knew her face was set with grim determination.

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September 17, 1942: Pago Pago, American Samoa:

The last few months had been a whirlwind for Roger Cleaves. His high school graduation had been attended by a Marine Corps representative, there at the judge's suggestion to ensure that Roger kept his word - and kept himself out of jail. He'd been duly poked and prodded by doctors, taken an oath he barely remembered and then whisked off to a mosquito-infested section of North Carolina for indoctrination into the craziest assortment of men Roger had ever encountered: the United States Marine Corps.

He'd discovered that he was actually well-suited for the Marines which shocked him. He was fit and strong and the physical rigors were no great challenge for him - when others fell out on grueling marches carrying full packs, he plodded on. The disciple, which grated at first, he eventually welcomed as he realized he was used to taking orders without question. The "family" would have it no other way and the Marine Corps was just the same. The drill instructors took notice and he was often used as an example for the other recruits.

After basic training he'd been selected as a machine gunner and given intense training on the use and care of the M1917A1 .30-caliber Browning heavy machine gun. The gun itself was a water-cooled beast that weighed 100 pounds. The squad had five members: the squad-leader, gunner, assistant gunner and two ammo bearers. Roger was a gunner and was confident he'd eventually be a squad-leader and eventually a section-leader in charge of two squads.

Now Roger and his squad had arrived in Samoa - which Roger had never heard of and wasn't quite sure exactly where it was other than somewhere in the gigantic Pacific Ocean - as replacements joining the 8th Marine Regiment, part of the 2nd Marine Division. Everyone was aware that the 1st Marine Division was fighting the Japanese on Guadalcanal and wondered when, not if, but when, the 8th Marines and the rest of the 2nd division would be joining them.

That would mean combat. He wondered how he'd handle that and hoped it would be bravely. He wanted to make his mother proud. And... for some reason... his sister too. Gloria had sent him several letters and though he hadn't replied, Roger often considered it. Having a sister was still a novel experience for him. And given his complete disinterest during school, Roger wasn't sure his rudimentary writing skills would be up to the task of writing letters.

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[legendsport]

September 19, 1942: Brooklyn, NY:

"Come on Vinnie! Keep us alive!" Harry Barrell shouted from the top step of the dugout.

Sitting behind his brother on the bench, Fred Barrell shook his head and gave a small, soft chuckle. Harry turned around and raised an eyebrow.

"What? You don't want to win?" he asked.

Fred shrugged. He was tired. It was hot - late September days in Brooklyn typically weren't in the 80s, but this one was. And it was the 12th inning and the Kings were losing 8-6 to the Montreal Saints. The Saints had entered the game at 73-74 on the year. Even worse, Brooklyn came in at 68-79.

"Aww, he's just melancholy, is all," drawled Frank Lightbody. "Us old fellers, well, we get like that from time to time," he added. Frank, like Fred, was 36 years old and though he hadn't come right out and said so, Fred though that Frank was also going to hang up his spikes at the end of what had been a long and frustrating season for Brooklyn.

The Kings were a team in transition. The days of wine & roses, as Fred now saw them, were over: Brooklyn was - at best - a mediocre club. Sure, Harry was still a great player and the team had Al Wheeler, but Dan had retired due to his bum knee, Tom had got himself dealt to Pittsburgh where he was now working out of the bullpen. Oh, how the mighty had fallen. The Kings' future lay in young outfielder Rats McGonigle, one of the most physically gifted athletes Fred had played with - and he'd played with some greats. McGonigle would be supported, it was hoped, by young slugger Tim Hopkins. Dubbed "Tiny Tim" by Harry - something picked up by the writers too - Hopkins was anything but tiny. And he could hit the ball a country mile.

"I'm not melancholy Frank. I'm just tired," Fred groaned. And he was. This was "Fred Barrell Appreciation Day" at Kings County Stadium and Fred had been feted before the game, given a bunch of gifts and forced to make a speech, feeling extremely uncomfortable the whole time. Tillie, standing beside him, had been thrilled and must have whispered "This is wonderful!" to Fred fifteen times during the approximately fifteen-minute festivities. And now Fred just wanted the game to be over.

Harry groaned as Vince D'Alessandro popped the ball on the infield. Saints shortstop Jake Hughes drifted a bit to his right and caught it two-handed, then clapped McGonigle - who had been on first - on the back as he ran past. The game was over, Montreal had won, and Fred looked forward to a shower and dinner with Tillie, Harry and Harry's wife Sarah.

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Fred's plans were a washout. It turned out that Kings skipper Powell Slocum had booked reservations at the Bigsby Club over in Manhattan. Fred, like most of his family, had a disdain bordering on hostility for the Bigsby family, but their fancy restaurant served some of the best steak on the East Coast. War or no war - or maybe because of the war - Fred wasn't going to turn that down.

So it ended up being a big to-do. Aside from Fred, Harry and their respective spouses, Powell and his wife Claudia (once married to Jimmy Barrell, so long ago it seemed like a dream) were there as was Rollie's daughter Marty, who was attending college at Henry Hudson. Fred was impressed by Rollie's daughters, they were both really intelligent and also driven to make their own place in a man's world. Rollie himself had joked with Fred about younger daughter Allie's determination to follow her father as owner of the Detroit Maroons football club. Fred had countered by noting that both girls apparently took after their mother.

Marty bounced in to the restaurant on the arm of a man in a US Navy uniform.

"Thanks for agreeing to let Jack come along Uncle Powell," she said when she reached the table. Powell, technically, was not her uncle, but as Claudia had once been married to a Barrell, Powell had sort of been grandfathered into the family by most of the Barrell clan.

"No problem my dear," Powell said in his Alabama drawl. Claudia, still a beautiful woman though now in her mid-forties, gave the Naval officer the once-over. "What is your name, lieutenant?" she asked.

"Jack McCarver, ma'am," the man replied. He then proceeded to shake hands with Powell, Fred and Harry in turn. Harry apparently recognized the name because he asked, "The Jack McCarver who plays for the Paladins?"

McCarver gave a lopsided grin and said, "Yep, one and the same."

Harry looked at Fred and explained, "McCarver here is a fullback. He plays for Pittsburgh in the AFA. Probably how Marty here met him," he nodded at his niece.

Marty nodded her head. "Yes, we met because of football. Dad dragged us all to some party for some coach or something and though Allie of course was entranced, I was bored until I met Jack," she punctuated her statement by squeezing the navy blue sleeve of McCarver's uniform.

"Joined up, did you?" Fred asked him.

"Yep. My parents immigrated to the States before I was born and they really drilled it into me what a privilege it was to live in the U.S." He explained that his parents were from different parts of Europe - his mother was from what was now Czechoslovakia, technically part of the Third Reich "at the moment" as McCarver put it while his father was Scottish and would fight anyone who called him "British" or god forbid, "English."

"So what are you doing here in New York?" Harry asked pointedly.

McCarver actually blushed. "Well...." he began before Marty interrupted. "He's here to play football. He plays for Great Lakes Navy, you know," she added.

"Ah," Harry said with a nod. "I guess the football players are getting some of the same treatment the ballplayers are - you know, play for the services, keep up morale, etcetera..."

"You sound like you don't approve," McCarver replied, and sounded a bit aggravated.

"Oh, no, not at all. I think it's important to keep up morale," Harry said. "If I wasn't married and didn't have a toddler I'd have probably signed up."

McCarver nodded and smiled.

Harry nodded his head at Fred, "Freddy here is already signed up."

Fred sighed, wishing Harry could keep his trap shut.

"That so?" McCarver asked.

"Technically, yes. I am going into government service, but not the armed forces. State Department, starting in about two weeks," Fred explained hoping that the boring cover job he was taking would derail this particular conversation.

"State Department? You're going to be a diplomat or something?" McCarver asked. Everyone else around the table looked a bit uncomfortable. Most of the family knew - without anyone explicitly saying it out loud - that Fred would be doing something distinctly different, and more dangerous than, diplomacy.

"Translator, actually," Fred said. "I have an ear, or maybe it's a tongue? For languages," he added. He looked at Claudia, who had helped him get up to speed with German, and winked at her.

"He's actually very good," Claudia said right on cue. "I am from Germany, and he speaks my mother language better than I do," she added with a laugh.

"That's not quite true, but thank you," Fred replied.

"This football thing... I'm going to request sea service after the season," McCarver said and Fred inwardly sighed in relief at the conversation moving away from his "branch of service" and back into safer areas.

"What! You didn't tell me that, Jack!" Marty exclaimed. "What if you get torpedoed by one of those nasty U-Boats?"

Jack patted her arm. "Don't worry Marty, Navy ships have ways of defending themselves you know."

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Marty Barrell with Jack McCarver, 1943

[legendsport]

December 29, 1942: Detroit, MI:

Jack Barrell's head appeared in the frame of the door to Rollie's office.

"Boo!" Jack shouted, and then barked a sharp laugh as Rollie, looking over some papers as he sat behind his desk, nearly jumped out of his seat.

"Jack! What the hell!?!" Rollie said, reaching out to straighten a photo on his desk that he'd almost knocked over in surprise. "You trying to give me a heart attack?"

Jack shook his head, still grinning widely as he crossed the four feet of carpet and sat down across the desk from his brother.

Rollie eyed him suspiciously. "How'd you get in here, anyway?" he asked.

Jack smirked and said, "I flirted with your secretary a little. I think she likes me." He punctuated this statement with a wink.

Now Rollie laughed and said, "That'll be the day." His secretary was a 60-year-old no-nonsense woman. Francie called her the "battle-axe" and thoroughly approved of her because she was able to keep Rollie "in line."

Jack sat back and gave his brother an appraising gaze. "You look pretty good, old boy. How was Georgia?"

"Good. It's always good to get back to the farm," he said, then added, "This year's gathering was a bit melancholy, to be honest."

"How so?"

"Well, for one thing Pop is finally retired and he doesn't like it. Mom, of course, doesn't like that Pop doesn't like retirement. Then there's the war. Both Mom and Pop are worried about more of the family ending up in the service. Fred's off training somewhere in Maryland, though that's all supposed to be hush-hush. James is in England now, flying bombers and presumably dropping bombs on Germans. Roger... well, he's in the Pacific somewhere, my guess is Guadalcanal, but we don't really know for sure. Pop's reluctant to ask his D.C. connections for info, says he 'understands why this stuff needs to be secret.'"

Jack nodded. "Yes, I worry about Aggie and she's just in California at language school. She's hell-bent on getting posted to Pearl Harbor. Who knows if the Japanese will attack there again?"

Rollie shook his head slowly. "You'd think that the two of us, both having only daughters and no sons, would be safe from worrying," he said with a grimace.

Jack tipped his head to the side and asked, "Something going on with your girls?"

Rollie waved a hand. "Marty's been making noise about joining the WAVES. She started dating this fellow - Jack McCarver's his name - he's a back, plays for Pittsburgh. Well, he joined the Navy and now that she sees Aggie out there serving... well, she's thinking about it too."

"Isn't she still in college?"

"Yeah, but she says she can finish school 'after the war' as if we know when that'll be."

"Hmm... yeah. Well, at least Jean and Vera aren't making any noise. Marie has them on a tight leash, and I think that's just peachy." Jack said and chuckled.

Rollie and Jack sat quietly for a moment, thinking. Then Rollie broke the silence. "So, how are things with you? Team's looking pretty good I hear."

Jack nodded. "Yep, we've got a good group. I feel like we have a great shot at winning the Cup this year. Of course, those pesky insects in Boston aren't going away." Jack's Detroit Motors hockey club had reached the Challenge Cup Finals the previous season but lost to the Boston Bees. He explained to his brother that he was looking forward to getting a rematch. "Still a lot of hockey to be played, though," he concluded.

Rollie nodded. "I hear Doug Yeadon is pretty good," he said.

"Indeed he is," Jack agreed. "His father, Bill Yeadon, always did right by me. I'd return the favor with his son regardless, but the fact that the kid is so damn talented makes it a win-win scenario, you know?" he laughed again. He turned serious, "How about you? You guys had a bit of a rough year."

Rollie waved the papers he was looking at. "Yes. I don't know... Yurik is driving me crazy to be honest. He has a partial ownership stake so getting rid of him would be a chore. But we've only got so many chances with Stan Vaught." Frank Yurik had been the Maroons coach since the very beginning and he and Rollie butted heads often, much of it due to the team's star player Stan Vaught.

Rollie explained, "This here is Vaught's contract for 1943. Stan's a good guy and very reasonable. But Yurik thinks he has a big head and is overpaid. I let him run the player personnel side, you know, and this contract..." he waved the papers again, "is an insult to Vaught. I might have to override him on this."

"Does Vaught know about any of this?" Jack asked. He had player personnel input with his team, but Junior Connelly held the purse strings and the Motors' GM was mainly a business-side guy. Junior and Jack worked well together, something that Rollie and Frank Yurik apparently did not.

"Yeah and he's been making noise about retiring."

Jack's eyebrows rose in surprise. "Retire? Didn't he have like 80 catches this year?"

"Yes, 84 to be exact. For over 1200 yards and he scored 17 touchdowns. And he's our best kicker too."

Jack whistled approvingly. "Yeah, you can't let Yurik screw this up, Rollie."

"Tell me about it," Rollie said and groaned.

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Stan Vaught of the Detroit Maroons

[legendsport]

April 21, 1943: Cincinnati, OH:

Rufus Barrell walked into the home clubhouse at Tice Memorial Stadium. Despite the place being "big league" now, the signs of its former use as a Triple-A park were still evident, particularly here. The clubhouse was small by FABL standard, but not overly so, and that was because one of the first thing John Tice had done on buying the place was to knock out the wall between what had been two side-by-side clubhouses to make one bigger (but not really large) clubhouse for his club. The visitors? They were in the old grounds crew room around the bend. Most of them weren't happy about that.

Rufus stood for a moment looking at the visible seam in the middle of the room where the wall used to be. He had a package under his arm, and reveled for a few seconds in the simple fact of once again standing in a FABL clubhouse, surrounded by a baseball club that had just won the season opener and were paying scant attention to the 72-year-old man standing just inside the door.

"Rufus? What the hell are you doing here?" said a familiar voice.

Rufus spun to his right and spied Cannons skipper Ad Doria standing in the doorway of his office. He'd stripped off his shirt and was wearing his uniform pants and a long-sleeved undershirt that had seen better days. Noticing that Rufus was grinning and where his gaze was directed, Doria looked down and said, "Yeah, yeah, this is my lucky shirt. And it worked, didn't it?"

Rufus laughed and replied, "I think my grandson had a lot more to do with this win than your ratty shirt did, Addie."

Doria held up his hand, "Hey, cool it with the 'Addie' - to the boys, I'm Ad and always will be. Can't get 'em to call me 'Skipper' or 'Mr. Doria'... bunch of ingrates..." he trailed off and after a couple of beats smiled and said, "You still haven't answered my question."

Rufus shrugged. "My wife basically kicked me out. Told me to 'go see a game or two, get it out of your system and then come back home for good' - so that's what I'm doing. Starting here, but plan on to see Tom, Bobby and Harry before I go home."

Doria nodded. "Sounds like you're a man with a plan, Rufus. And of course you're always welcome around here."

"Thanks, Ad."

Doria pointed to the corner, "Deucey's in his usual spot. Kid has a lock on that corner locker, right next to Mullins."

Rufus held up the brown-paper wrapped package he was holding. "Pestilli?" he asked.

"Alf? Yeah, he's here," Doria craned his neck and looked around. "Don't see him. Maybe he's in the shower."

"Thanks, Ad. Think I'll go see Deuce. I'll swing by before I head out, if that's ok?"

"Of course, I'll be here," Doria said, nodding at his office. "Me and my shirt, that is."

Rufus chuckled and headed off to see his grandson.

Deuce had been the opening day starter for Cincinnati and pitched well against an always tough Philadelphia Sailors club. Complete game, one run earned, sprinkling ten hits with a pair of walks and three strikeouts. He was still likely knocking some of the rust off, Rufus thought as he spotted Deuce sitting on his stool in his underwear, talking with Adam Mullins. Mullins was a specimen, only 5'8 but 190 pounds of pure muscle, built like a fireplug. Deuce on the other hand was 6'4, gangly and lean, but that left arm was pure magic.

"Hey Deuce... Adam..." Rufus said as he came within earshot.

"Gramps! What are you doing here?" Deuce asked as he stood up. Rufus was always pleased to see the signs of his oldest son Joe in Deuce. He'd certainly gotten his father's height, but not his frame - that willowy frame was more his mother than Joe, who had been built more like Mullins - if Mullins stood 6'1 that is.

"Your grandmother gave me a free pass to do a little tour of the family business one last time," Rufus said with a sad smile. "I'm starting here, but I'll be seeing your uncles over the next couple weeks before heading home to Georgia for good," he explained.

Rufus passed a few minutes with his grandson and they companionably chatted, Mullins included. As was true of many catchers, Adam Mullins was erudite when it came to baseball. In a way he reminded Rufus of Possum Daniels, though without the sometimes corny, down-home-laden double-speak of his oldest friend. They both knew the game, that much was immediately obvious.

Rufus, sitting on the stool at Chuck Adams' locker, rose when Alf Pestilli emerged from the shower, a towel wrapped around his waist. "Excuse me for a second fellows," Rufus said, rising and heading towards Pestilli.

"Hey there Alf... you got a minute?" he asked.

Pestilli was surprised to see Rufus and it showed. But he smiled in a good-natured way and said, "Sure, Mr. Barrell, I always have time for you."

"Thanks, Alf," Rufus said and they walked over to Pestilli's locker.

"I have something for you..." Rufus said, holding out the package. As Alf reached for it, he added, "Well, technically it's for your brother Tony. Now that he's off in the Army..."

Pestilli still wore a look of confusion on his face. "Tony? Yes, he and Sally both are in the Army. Me? No, I was born in Italy so that makes things complicated."

"Really? Haven't you lived here most of your life?" Rufus asked.

"Yes, I was just a bambino when we moved to Rhode Island. Two years old," he said, holding up two fingers.

"Well... that's a shame. But the government? Sometimes it's crazy," Rufus said and laughed uncomfortably.

"True," Alf said. He held out a hand, "What is this anyway?" he asked as Rufus passed the package over.

"It's a painting."

Alf's brow creased in confusion. "A painting? Of what?"

"You, Sal and Tony," Rufus replied.

Alf's eyes widened. "Really?" he asked and then he smiled as he realized what had happened. "Ah, yes, this is from your granddaughter, yes? What was her name... Joan?"

"Jean," Rufus replied with a smile.

"Right... Jean. A very pretty young lady. She and Tony... they really hit it off, eh?"

Rufus' smile widened. "They did indeed. Anyway, she's a bit of an artist. Going to art school, actually. Down in Savannah. She really enjoyed meeting you and your brothers."

"Apparently," Alf said drily.

Three of the four baseball-playing Pestilli brothers had opened a seafood restaurant in Tampa that winter. Alf had groused at the time because it was already planned that Sal and Tony would be joining the Army, leaving him to run the restaurant and he was not only a ballplayer, but had been apprenticed as a stonemason, like their father. "What do I know about fish?" he'd asked at the time. Still, at the grand opening, Rufus and Alice Barrell along with their granddaughters Jean and Vera, visiting from snowy Detroit, had attended and Jean Barrell had taken an immediate shine to Tony Pestilli. He was five years older than her, and Alice clearly disapproved, but Rufus had correctly pointed out that Tony was going to be working for Uncle Sam for the foreseeable future, so he felt the whole thing was harmless.

"May I look?" Alf asked.

"Of course," Rufus replied. He was pleased when Alf whistled as he looked at the picture. It showed Sal on the left and Tony in the middle with Alf at the right. All were dressed similarly in white shirts and tan slacks, Sal & Tony with suspenders and their hands in their pockets, Alf holding the stub of a cigar.

"This is very good," Alf said with real feeling. "I might have to keep it for myself," he added and then smiled and said, "Just kidding. I will keep it safe until Tony comes home."

Rufus was smiling but it faded when Alf somberly added, "Assuming, of course, that he does come home. This damned war...."

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L to R: Sal, Tony and Alf Pestilli

[legendsport]

April 24, 1943: Pittsburgh, PA:

Rufus Barrell met his son in the lobby of his hotel in Pittsburgh. Tom looked happy, which surprised Rufus a bit because he knew his son had been upset at having been demoted to being a relief pitcher. Rufus had attended the Saturday afternoon tilt between the Miners and the visiting Boston Minutemen hoping Tom might pitch, but he hadn't. The Miners had earned a hard-fought 7-6 win however and the game had been entertaining.

"Why the smile? Happy to get the win?" Rufus asked as Tom sauntered over.

Tom, looking casually unkempt as he typically did (something that sometimes drove Alice mad - she liked her children to be neat and tidy even now when they were all adults), slapped his father on the shoulder and said, "Sure, it's nice to win, but that's not why I'm smiling."

Rufus was confused and it showed as he frowned and was about to open his mouth and ask why when a well-dressed young woman emerged from the revolving door, called out "Tommy!" and immediately headed straight for them. The woman was a stunning brunette and Rufus noticed that several men in the lobby gave her a once-over as she walked past.

Tom gave Rufus a lopsided grin and hooked a thumb at the approaching woman. "That's why I'm smiling, Pop," he said.

Rufus didn't have time to ask what was going on - the woman arrived on the scene, pecked Tom on the cheek and said, "So this is your father, the famous Rufus Barrell."

"In the flesh," Tom said with a smile. He draped an arm around the woman's shoulders.

She thrust out a hand and said, "I'm Marla Fiztpatrick, nice to meet you Mr. Barrell."

Rufus shook her hand and asked, "Fitzpatrick? You related to Dan Fitzpatrick?"

"Yes, he's my father," she said with a grin.

"Ah, so that's why you called me the 'famous Rufus Barrell' - no one outside of baseball would know me," Rufus said, feeling sheepish.

"I'm not completely sure that's true, but yes, my father has mentioned you a time or two. It wasn't until Tommy was traded to the Miners that I really learned anything about you, though," she said.

Rufus was about to ask what Tom had told her, and was itching to ask why Tom was being so... forward? Friendly might be a more polite way to put it - regardless it seemed Tom and the Miners' owner's daughter knew each other, which was news to Rufus.

"Let's get a cab before the dinner rush begins," Tom said, steering Marla towards the door.

Rufus plopped his hat on his head and followed, feeling a bit flustered. He figured a phone call with Alice would be required later that evening - assuming he found out what exactly was going on here.

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At dinner, Rufus found out that his son was dating Marla Fitzpatrick and had been since spring training.

"Did you know Tom is a fine polo player?" Marla asked.

This was news to Rufus. "Polo?" he asked. "You mean, like with horses?"

Marla laughed while Tom blushed. "Yes, with horses, Mr. Barrell," she said, and laughed again.

"No... I've never seen Tom anywhere near a horse," Rufus said.

"Well, he did say that even though he grew up on a farm, there weren't any horses around," Marla explained. Then she added, "Nevertheless, he makes a fine horseman, almost a natural in fact."

Tom shrugged and said, "I don't know about that, but I didn't fall off, so that's noteworthy I suppose."

"Didn't fall off? I'd say not only did you not fall off, but you picked up both riding and playing polo with such ease...."

Tom blushed again. "It really wasn't that hard once I knew what was going on," he said.

"Polo?" Rufus asked again. He couldn't wrap his head around it. "My kids have typically been pretty good athletes at whatever sport they've tried, so I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. But polo? I never would have guessed."

Dinner arrived and they ate companionably. Rufus filled Tom in on the highlights of what was going on with the rest of their far-flung family. Bobby and Annette were expecting their second child (Rufus would be visiting them next before moving on to Brooklyn to see Harry). Rufus was pleased to note that Tom showed no reaction other than a smile when he was told - perhaps he'd finally gotten over Annette O'Boyle Barrell. Jack's Detroit Motors had finished second in the NAHC and been bounced in the playoffs, failing to make the Cup Finals. Rollie was supposedly thinking about making another go at pro basketball by starting a team in Detroit. Fred was in Maryland and what he was doing was top secret. Admiral Stockdale had told Rufus that what Fred was doing was "Important. And very secret."

"I heard Dan secured a tryout for that fellow I met at that Georgia Baptist reunion back in February," Tom said. Rufus nodded, he'd heard this from Dan. Apparently a former track star and football player at Baptist, Jerry McElheny, who'd hurt his knee and left the team, had met Tom and the latter had encouraged him not to give up on a career. The knee would keep him out of the military, but Tom suggested the young man talk with Dan about his experiences. He had and Dan had secured him a tryout with the New York Football Stars, who were coached by one of Dan's former Whitney College team mates. "I hope the kid makes it," Tom said.

Betsy was in Boston, where she remained with her son George; her husband, pro football end Tom Bowens, was in the service.

As for the grandchildren: Deuce was off to a good start with the Cannons, and his sister Gloria was studying nursing. They'd received a letter from James who was in England and didn't - couldn't - provide much detail, but they knew he was flying a B-17 bomber. No one knew where Roger was - somewhere in the Pacific with the 8th Marine Regiment. Agnes was in San Francisco at language school learning Japanese. Marty was still in school at Henry Hudson, but making noises about joining the WACs or WAVES, which Rollie did not like. Jack's daughter Jean was studying art in Savannah. Joe's youngest - Charlie - was a promising athlete despite being just 12. The boy's mother, the movie actress Dororthy Bates, seemed willing to let Charlie go to Capital Academy in DC, where he'd be able to play baseball, basketball and football: he excelled at all three. The other grandkids were just that - kids - and all were doing well.

Swinging the subject back to Tom, Rufus asked, "So, I have to ask because your mother will want to know: are you two serious?"

Tom blushed again, but Marla patted his hand and said, "I would say... we are."

"Well that makes me happy and I know my wife will be ecstatic," Rufus said with a big grin. Tom looked embarrassed, but happy.

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Tom Barrell and Marla Fitzpatrick after playing polo, 1943

[legendsport]

April 25, 1943: Philadelphia, PA:

"Don't worry about it Pop," Bobby Barrell told his father.

Rufus was upset - he'd grabbed an overnight train from Pittsburgh to Philadelphia, slept badly and because of engine troubles enroute had still missed the first three innings of Bobby's game. The Keystones had lost 3-0 to the visting Boston Minutemen.

"I could have hitched a ride with the Minutemen," Rufus groused. And this was true - in fact Boston skipper Bill Boshart, who'd seen Rufus on the field after the game had commented about Rufus "following his team around" after also seeing Rufus the day before in Pittsburgh.

"No big deal, Pop," Bobby reiterated. He was pulling his undershirt over his head.

"I need to talk to Sam about this early season scheduling," Rufus muttered. He flung up a hand in derision and continued, "It's dumb to have Boston come in here for one game and then have you boys off to play them again in Boston on Tuesday."

"You'll get no argument from me," Bobby said, grabbing his shirt from the hook in his locker.

Johnny Bologna passed by, slapping Rufus on the back as he did and giving Bobby a friendly nod. The sportswriter sauntered over to the locker of pitcher Pepper Tuttle, who'd taken the loss. Tuttle looked none too pleased at the prospect of talking about it.

Rufus was looking at the long scar on Bobby's arm. "How's that doing?" he asked, pointing.

Bobby shrugged and said, "No big deal, honestly. At least not to me." He frowned.

"What's that mean?" Rufus asked.

"It means that I'm not sure I like being classified 4-F for a gunshot wound that doesn't even keep me from playing baseball," he told his father.

"Now hold on a minute," Rufus said, a look of concern on his face. "You trying to tell me you want to go to war?"

"Well... no, not exactly. But I do feel like it'd be the right thing to do, assuming... you know... if I got drafted."

"You've got a wife, a young son and another baby on the way, Bob," Rufus said gently.

Bobby waved a hand and said bitterly, "So do a lot of guys. That isn't stopping them from serving, Pop."

Rufus took a deep breath. "It's not your fault that crazy woman shot you," he said. Bobby's hung his head and said nothing. "You do realize that, right?" Rufus added.

Bobby shrugged again. "I suppose so," he admitted before continuing, "I can't say that I hold myself entirely blameless Pop. I knew she was infatuated. Maybe I did lead her on," he said.

"That's bull----," Rufus said. Bobby looked at his father and raised his eyebrows.

Rufus smirked and said, "It is."

Bobby laughed and said, "OK, Pop."

"I can't imagine Annette wants you off in the Army either," Rufus said.

"Ha, you could say that," Bobby admitted. He told his father that Annette had given him a "talking to" when he'd admitted his guilt about being classified 4-F. "She said the same things you did, only she wasn't quite as even-toned about it as you were, Pop."

Rufus grinned and nodded. "I can only imagine how your mother would have reacted if I'd have mentioned serving," he said.

Bobby laughed and said, "Yeah... although in your case it would have been... what? The Spanish-American War?"

"Hey, come on...." Rufus said and laughed too. "Although, yes, I suppose that would have been my war after all. But we already had Joe, Rollie and Jack by then, so..."

Bobby nodded thoughtfully and said, "Yep, kids... they change your perspective on a lot of things."

"That they do," Rufus agreed.

"You should see Ralphie Pop," Bobby said with pride. "Growing like a weed. Going to be a slugger like his old man," he concluded.

"Let's see... he has an Olympic sprinter for a mother and a likely Hall-of-Fame baseball player for a father... yeah, I think he might be an ok athlete someday." Rufus chuckled and added, "But you never know what'll catch his fancy. He's not even three years old yet, Bob."

"I know, Pop. We have told him he's going to be a 'big brother' soon and he's pretty excited about that," Bobby said. "Although I don't know that he exactly understands what it means," he added.

"He'll figure it out," Rufus said.

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Bobby Barrell and son Ralph, 1943

[legendsport]

May 20, 1943: Bassingbourne, England:

"Hey Slocum! You're famous!"

James shook his head and chose to ignore the shout of fellow pilot Charlie McGuire.

"Slocum! You deaf?"

James sighed and said, "Stow it McGuire..."

"Get a load of this guy..." James heard McGuire tell one of the other men in the Quonset hut that served as the Mess Hall for the pilots of the 324th Bomb Squadron. James was eating and thinking about a letter he had started... and stopped several times. The letter was to his mother. James had been thinking lately - flying long missions that often boiled down to hours of boredom sandwiched around minutes of sheer terror when German anti-aircraft weapons and Luftwaffe fighters were tangling with the bomber stream... well, that left a lot of time for thinking.

What he had been thinking about was the fact that he was dropping bombs on Germans. And his mother had been born and raised in Germany. For all he knew some of the Luftwaffe fighter pilots trying to shoot him out of the sky - and whom his crew was trying to shoot down themselves - could be distant relations. Simply put: James felt a little guilty.

"Aww, leave 'im be McGuire," one of the other guys said. "He had a tough one."

"Yeah, yeah, that's what I'm saying!" McGuire said loudly.

James had finally had enough. "What are you talking about Charlie?" he asked, turning to look at the other man.

"This!" McGuire waved some papers at him.

"I think the Army can find you better toilet paper than that, McGuire," someone said and there was some subdued laughter.

"Shut up," McGuire said in a surprisingly good-natured tone. "What I have here," he waved the paper again, "Is the squadron newsletter our Army overlords think our English hosts want to read about our brave flyboys.

"So what's it say?" someone asked.

"Well, apparently whoever Ned Rawlings is," McGuire said and halted when someone piped up, "He's a sergeant in the motor pool."

"Thank you, Lieutenant Villers," McGuire said, rolling his eyes. "Well... apparently Rawlings is also a budding newspaperman because he wrote an article about our friend Jimmy."

James frowned; he hated being called Jimmy. That's what his uncles called James' father and he had always felt he should keep himself distinct from the father he never knew.

But curiosity got the better of James. "Really?" he asked. Then he remembered talking to some eager beaver sergeant asking for details about their most recent raid on the French city of St. Nazaire.

"Yeah, really," McGuire said as he walked over and tossed the paper on the table beside Jimmy's mashed potatoes. "Here, read..." he said and walked away.

The headline read "Youngest Pilot in the 324th Branded a Hero" - Jimmy groaned, knowing he'd never live this down.

He read:

James Slocum is a young pilot with the 324th Bomb Squadron - in fact the youngest pilot currently stationed at Bassingbourn. Since his boyhood in Brooklyn he has always been fascinated by flying, and since joining the Army Air Forces, he's worked tirelessly to become a skilled B-17 pilot.

Last week, Slocum and his crew were assigned to participate in a bombing mission over St. Nazaire, a key industrial target in German-occupied France. The mission was considered high-risk, as the Germans had heavily fortified the city with anti-aircraft defenses and fighter planes.

Despite the dangers, Slocum and his crew were determined to complete the mission. They climbed aboard their B-17, which had been carefully loaded with bombs and ammunition, and prepared to take off.

As they approached St. Nazaire, the plane was hit by heavy anti-aircraft fire. Slocum fought to keep the plane flying and on course, but it was clear that they were taking serious damage. The plane's engines began to sputter, and the crew could hear the whine of bullets and shrapnel ricocheting off the metal fuselage.

Despite the chaos and danger, Slocum remained focused and calm. He made sure his crew was aware of the situation and gave them instructions on how to react in case of an emergency.

With smoke pouring from the engines and holes in the wings, Slocum decided to head back to England. The trip was long and nerve-wracking, as the damaged plane struggled to maintain altitude and speed.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the B-17 made it back to Bassingbourn. Slocum carefully brought the plane in for a landing, using all his skill and training to keep the damaged aircraft under control.

When they finally came to a stop, the crew was overcome with relief and gratitude. They climbed out of the plane, shaken but grateful to be alive. Slocum was hailed as a hero, praised for his skill and bravery in bringing the plane and its crew safely back to England.

Despite the harrowing experience, Slocum was eager to get back into the air and continue fighting for his country. He knew that the war was far from over, but he was determined to do his part, no matter the cost.

"Wow, Jimmy, you're a hero!" one of the guys said in a falsetto, having read over James' shoulder. James groaned again and had a brief daydream that involved beating Sgt. Rawlings over the head with a wrench.

"Oh well, no time to bask in the glory of Jimmy's achievements," Villers pointed out. "The old man wants us on the ballfield. We have a game with the 401st tomorrow."

Good, James thought, he could take out his frustrations with a bat and ball.

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James Slocum, at RAF Bassingbourne, 1943

[legendsport]

May 29, 1943: Auckland, New Zealand:

"Get a load of these guys, would you?"

Roger Cleaves turned to look at Paul Ippolito, who had just spoken and was now pointing at a group of men playing what looked like football, except it clearly had different rules from what everyone back in the States played.

"What are they doing?" Roger asked, genuinely curious.

"Some kind of crazy football, looks like," Ippolito said.

Roger and Paul were squadmates - Roger was the gunner and Paulie was the assistant gunner for their M1917-A1 Browning Machine Gun. The gun itself was a big, heavy, belt-fed beast, water-cooled but with a barrel that could still turn literally red-hot after firing, requiring an asbestos glove to handle it. In April Roger and the rest of his crew had met up with their new unit, Charlie Company, 1st Battalion of the 8th Marine Regiment in New Zealand. They were green replacements, and treated as such by the Marines who'd been there in the thick of it on Guadalcanal from August of '42 through February of the following year.

The 8th Marines were in Auckland, resting, refitting and training. Training for an amphibious invasion - even inexperienced men like Roger could see that - though no one knew where or when that'd be. Or at least, no one who did know was going to tell a wise-cracking PFC from Hoboken like Roger Cleaves.

Roger and Paulie were wandering about Auckland, enjoying the first of two days off. Another off-duty Marine was passing by, with an attractive woman on his arm. Roger tapped him on the shoulder as he passed.

"Hey buddy, what do you reckon that is," Roger asked, pointing at the game.

The Marine shrugged, but his girl answered for him, "That's Rugby Union, dear," she said.

"Rugby Union, you say?" Roger asked. The girl nodded. "You need a union card to play?" he asked.

The girl's brows knit in confusion. "Knock it off wise guy," her companion said, then steered her back onto the sidewalk and they strolled away.

"Rugby Union?" Paulie muttered, busily watching the girl with a keen eye as she walked away. When he turned back, Roger was gone.

He spun around in a circle, trying to find his friend. He finally spotted him, walking towards the men on the field.

"Aww for cryin' out loud, Roger! I thought we were lookin' for dames!" he cried with exasperation before trotting to catch up.

"Ho, there Yank, fancy a go?" one of the players shouted at Roger as he stopped near the field and openly gazed at the proceedings.

"A go?" he asked.

"Yes, a go - want to play?" the man asked. A few of his mates snickered.

"What you think I can't play this game?" Roger asked defensively.

"Do you even know the game?" another of the players asked.

"No, but I bet I could learn it toot sweet," Roger barked back.

"Sure, Yank, whatever you say," the first guy replied.

"OK, buddy. Tell you what, I'll be back in the morning with a bunch of my 'mates'" he said, emphasizing the last word. "How many guys you need to play this game?" he asked.

"Fifteen."

Roger was taken aback. Fifteen? He had a momentary bit of uncertainty - could he scrounge up 15 Marines to take on these loud-mouthed locals? He'd been with Charlie Company about three weeks and some of the guys were warming to him, but many others were still standoffish - they'd seen combat and he hadn't... yet.

Paulie had arrived. "You really going to play these guys?" he asked in a stage whisper.

"Sure," Roger replied and clapped him on the shoulder. "And so are you."

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The next morning Roger was back and he had managed to scrounge up 15 members of Charlie Company (including the company's Executive Officer, 1st Lieutenant Dan Woods) to take on the locals in rugby union. The makeshift field was in a park and a crowd of curious onlookers had gathered to watch their boys play the Yanks. Not a single Marine had any idea how to play, but the Kiwis were good hosts and all too willing to show the newcomers how to play.

The Americans were excited but nervous as they took to the field. They were wearing makeshift "jerseys" that in most cases were just fatigue tops of varied (generally poor) condition, some with the sleeves torn off, and their rugby boots were borrowed from the locals. The rules of rugby union were explained to them, and they were shown the proper technique for tackling and passing the ball.

The game got off to a slow start, with both teams struggling to gain ground. The Americans were a bit hesitant at first, but they quickly found their footing and started to get the hang of the game. The locals, impressed by the Marines' determination, began to cheer them on.

As the game went on, the Americans became more and more confident. They started to work together as a team, passing the ball back and forth and making strategic tackles. Roger, strong and athletic, quickly became a key player for the Marines. The locals were impressed by their progress and especially with the big machine gunner with the big mouth, and the game became more and more exciting as both teams fought to score points.

In the end, it was the locals who emerged victorious, but the Marines played well and the Kiwis congratulated them on being quick studies.

Lt. Woods slapped Roger on the shoulder. "That was a good time, Cleaves. Good for morale too," he said. Woods was limping a little, but he was trying to downplay it and Roger certainly wasn't going to mention it.

Roger smiled and said, "Thank you, sir. But to be honest I just did it to show those loudmouths that a US Marine can do anything he sets his mind to do."

Woods nodded in appreciation and said, "Captain Williams is impressed with your gunnery, Cleaves. And Lieutenant Jacoby says you're the glue that hold your team together."

Jacoby was a wet-behind-the-ears 2nd Lt. who was still learning which end was up, but Roger wouldn't say anything like that - not to an officer at least - and Jacoby was the Weapons Platoon commander.

"Thank you, sir. I'm just doing my best," Roger replied, and was a bit surprised to realize he wasn't shining the lieutenant on - it was the by-God-honest truth.

Woods laughed. "You look like you just had an epiphany, Cleaves," he said.

"Maybe I did, sir. I think I just realized I like being a Marine," he said.

"Glad to hear it," Woods said with a hearty laugh. "Especially since now that you're in, and the Japanese aren't going to beat themselves, you won't be getting out any time soon."

Roger laughed too as he thought about how unlikely it was that a borderline criminal like himself would actually find himself enjoying what he had at first viewed as a harsh punishment.

"It's a strange old world, sir," he said. Woods nodded with a knowing grin and walked off, still trying to hide his limp.

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Roger Cleaves (right) learning rugby union

[legendsport]

June 13, 1943: Detroit, MI:

"I'd like to strangle Yurik," Rollie Barrell griped to his wife.

Francie, busy making breakfast, rolled her eyes and replied, "Don't be so dramatic Rollie. You own the most shares in the club and you are the managing partner. Your opinion matters more than Yurik's."

Rollie sighed. "True, but I've always let Frank have the last word on personnel. He's the coach after all, and has been since we started. The fans love the guy."

Francie scoffed and said, "Only because they don't know how prickly a personality he has."

"True again, but nevertheless, if he goes to the papers with our disagreement, it could be disastrous."

Francie turned and locked eyes with her husband. "Roland, why on earth would he do that?"

"He has this thing about being 'respected' - he sees me as a businessman and himself as a pure football man."

"Well, he has a point about you being business-oriented. And that's a good thing because what he's trying to do here is outright stupidity." Francie didn't like Frank Yurik, and as usual, she made no bones about it when talking with Rollie.

Allie walked into the kitchen. Now 13, she was what Rollie's father would call, "coltish" - long-legged and lean, as she transitioned from the girl she was to the woman she'd ultimately be.

"What are you two talking about?" she asked pointedly. This frank openness too was a new development for her - she sounded more like her older sister Marty every day.

"Yurik's wool-headed desire to low ball Stan Vaught," Rollie groused.

"That's dumb," Allie said.

Rollie smiled and looked at Francie. "She's got it boiled down to the essentials right there," he told her.

"Undoubtedly," Francie said with a half-smile. She plopped a plate of eggs and toast in front of Rollie.

"Where's the bacon?" Rollie asked.

"You don't need bacon. I read that it's bad for you," Francie replied.

Rollie shook his head. How was he supposed to get through his meeting with Vaught without having had bacon with his eggs?

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Rollie found himself behind his desk in the executive offices of the Detroit Maroons an hour later. The club had relocated to a new building situated across the street from Thompson Field due to Powell Thompson's increase in the rent for office space within the ballpark. Rollie had taken matters into his own hands by constructing his own building across the street. He held aspirations of purchasing the ballpark in the event that Thompson sold the Dynamos or passed away. The stark contrast between "Big Eddie" Thompson's younger half-brother and the previous owner of the Detroit Dynamos was so striking that it was hard for Rollie to believe they shared a father. The latter had been affable, generous, and large in every way.

Rollie appreciated the fact that the new offices were modern and spared him from running into Powell Thompson in the hallways. As he was deep in thought, his secretary Betty interrupted, announcing the arrival of Stan Vaught. Rollie had a great deal of respect for Vaught, not just for his skills on the football field, but as a person as well. However, Rollie was concerned about the ongoing conflict with Yurik, which was causing him to feel apprehensive.

After exchanging pleasantries and declining coffee or water, Vaught took a seat. Rollie then delved into the topic at hand, which was Vaught's contract for the next year. Rollie was honest with Vaught, mentioning that the team needed to balance his salary with their budget as they were experiencing financial constraints due to the war.

Vaught's lips thinned as he listened and he replied, "I understand that, but I also know my value. I want to be the highest-paid player in the league, and I think I deserve it."

This was new to Rollie. Yes, in his opinion Vaught clearly was the most valuable player in football. But highest paid? That was going to be tough.

"I hear you, but we also have to consider the team's needs. Coach Yurik thinks we need to cut costs, and he's suggesting that we offer you less than what you're asking for," Rollie said, grimacing inwardly at having to mention Yurik's desire to cut Vaught's pay.

"Less? That's ridiculous! I'm the best receiver in the league, I've broken records left and right, and I deserve to be paid for my past accomplishments as well as my current value."

Rollie decided honesty was the best policy, so he replied, "I agree with you, Stan. But we also have to consider what's best for the team. We don't want to offer you more than we can afford, and we don't want to lose you either. So, what do you think would be a fair offer?"

Apparently Stan wanted to play hardball, because he said, "I think a fair offer would be what I'm asking for. I know my worth, and I don't want to settle for less. If you can't meet my demands, I'm afraid I'll have to retire."

Not what Rollie wanted to hear. "I don't want to see you retire, Stan. You're an important part of this team, and we want to keep you here. Let's try to find a middle ground between what you're asking for and what Coach Yurik thinks we can afford. How about we offer you a slightly lower salary but with some performance incentives that could potentially earn you the same amount?"

Stan sat back in surprise. This was a new tactic, and one that had been suggested by Allie, of all people. Maybe his daughter would make it as a club executive some day.

"Hmm, I suppose that could work. But the incentives would have to be realistic and achievable," Vaught said after a moment.

"Of course, we'll make sure they're fair and achievable. We want to keep you happy and motivated to play at your best."

"Alright, I'm willing to consider your offer. But I want to make sure that I'm being valued and respected for my contributions to this team," Vaught replied, and he seemed a lot more upbeat than he had just a moment ago.

Rollie was just as relieved. He knew he'd have to sell Yurik on it, but the fact that Vaught's play would help determine his salary would appeal to the old warhorse, Rollie believed. He said, "You have my word, Stan. We value you and want to keep you here. Let's work together to find a solution that works for everyone."

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[legendsport]

July 5, 1943: Brooklyn, NY:

Syndicated newspaper article by John Brinker

BARRELL IS BOSTON-BOUND
In a move that is sure to raise eyebrows among fans of the Brooklyn Kings of the Continental Association, 29-year-old shortstop Harry Barrell has been traded to the Boston Minutemen of the Federal Association. In return for Barrell's services, the Kings are receiving a first-round draft pick in 1944 and a promising young shortstop prospect named Billy Bryant.

Barrell has been a fixture in Brooklyn since his debut in 1933 at the tender age of 19. He comes from one of baseball's most storied families, with his father Rufus having cofounded the Omni Sports Association, the official scouting bureau of the Federally Aligned Baseball Leagues. Rufus recently retired in 1942 after nearly 50 years as a baseball scout.

Barrell's older brothers Dan, Fred, and Tom all played alongside him in Brooklyn. Dan hung up his spikes in 1937 due to a knee injury suffered while playing collegiate football, while Fred retired after the 1942 season and is currently serving in the military. Tom was traded to the Pittsburgh Miners in 1942. There is of course, one other Barrell: Bobby, the slugging outfielder for the Philadelphia Keystones. With Harry's departure to Boston, all three of the remaining baseball-playing Barrells are now in the Federal Association.

Kings manager Powell Slocum was visibly disappointed to see Barrell go, admitting that it will be tough to replace his bat and especially his glove. "Harry is the best shortstop I've ever seen, and I've seen a lot of 'em," Slocum remarked. "Boston is getting themselves one heckuva ballplayer."

It remains to be seen how this trade will affect both teams in the long run, but one thing is for certain: the Kings will miss Harry Barrell's steady play and leadership both on and off the field.

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BYE, BYE BROOKLYN - BARRELL IS BOSTON-BOUND

[legendsport]

July 31, 1943: Cincinnati, OH:

Deuce Barrell paced back and forth in the locker room, anxiously awaiting the arrival of their new infielder. He glanced over at Adam Mullins, who was sitting on a bench, polishing his catcher's mitt. "What do you think about this Cleaves guy?" Deuce asked, stopping in front of him.

Mullins shrugged, he was used to pitchers being "high strung" and worrying about every little thing - he distinctly remembered this phenomenon being explained to him by Tom Bird back in Montreal and had seen it firsthand many times over. "I don't know. I've never played with him before. But I know he's one of the best hitters in the league," he told Barrell without looking up.

Deuce nodded. "Yeah, but I've also heard he's a real hard-ass. All-business, you know?"

Mullins chuckled. "Well, we'll just have to see for ourselves, won't we?"

As they continued to talk, the locker room door suddenly burst open, and in walked Jack Cleaves. The two players stopped talking and turned to look at him.

Cleaves was a tall, lean man with sharp features and piercing blue eyes. "Huh, he looks like old man Theobald," Deuce noted referring to the Cannons' co-owner George Theobald.

Mullins chuckled again. "Makes sense, the man is his granddaddy after all."

Cleaves looked around the room, sizing up his new teammates, before walking over to Deuce and Mullins.

"Hey, fellas," he said, his voice deep and gravelly. "I'm Jack Cleaves."

Deuce shook his hand. "I'm Deuce Barrell, and this here is Adam Mullins."

Cleaves nodded at both of them. "Nice to meet you. I've heard good things and am looking forward to playing with you guys."

As they chatted, Deuce couldn't help but notice how serious Cleaves seemed. But then, out of nowhere, Cleaves cracked a joke, and Deuce and Mullins both laughed.

"I guess he's not such a hard-ass after all," Mullins said, grinning.

Over the next few weeks, Deuce and Mullins got to know Cleaves better, and they found that he was indeed serious about the game, but also willing to have fun and lighten up in the clubhouse. They started to see why he was such a legend in the league.

One day, as they were getting dressed for a game, Deuce brought up his half-brother, Roger.

"I don't know if you know this, but you and I share a brother," Deuce said, looking over at Cleaves.

Cleaves raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, I didn't know that you're Joe Barrell's kid. So you mean that knucklehead Roger?"

"Yeah. I know he's a bit of a rogue, but I like him. I haven't heard from him since he joined the Marines. Rumor has it he's in the Pacific somewhere."

Cleaves frowned. "Yes, and that's a damn shame. He's messed around and now he just might be wasting his life, if you ask me."

Deuce was taken aback. "What do you mean? He's fighting for his country."

Cleaves shook his head. "He's got serious talent, a lot like my brother George. But George has his head on straight. Roger could be playing ball, and making something of himself. Instead, he's risking his life in some godforsaken jungle because he'd rather act like a two-bit hoodlum."

Cleaves frowned and added, "George gives the kid a free pass. I don't. I hope the Marines slap some sense into him, if not for Roger himself, then at least for my mother's sake."

Deuce didn't know what to say. He respected Cleaves as a player, but he didn't agree with his views on his brother. What he'd hoped would be something they had in common could instead turn out to be a bone of contention - and he didn't need that in a team mate when they were trying to win a championship.

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Jack Cleaves 1944 Goshen Gum Baseball Card

[legendsport]

August 17, 1943: Bassingbourne, England:

Lt. James Slocum stood outside the briefing room, his heart pounding in his chest. He was about to lead his crew on what was easily the largest - and most dangerous - bombing mission he'd ever flown. This mission - codenamed "Operation Double Strike" was to be a 376 bomber raid targeting two large industrial targets deep in Germany. As James usually did on the morning of missions, he'd walked past his B-17, named "Big Fly" (complete with a painting of a winged insect wearing a ballcap and holding a bomb). As he nodded to the ground crew as they readied the big plane for the mission, he had felt the responsibility for his crew and his squadron settle upon his shoulders.

The mission briefing was intense. "Big Fly" - and the rest of the 91st Heavy Bombardment Group at Bassingbourne would be on the first wave - striking Schweinfurt. The second wave would hit Regensburg. The intelligence officer detailed the target, the defenses, and the risks. Schweinfurt was a key industrial complex producing ball bearings for the German war machine while Regensburg was the site of a large Messerschmitt aircraft factory. The loss of these factories would severely "enemy capabilities." However, the Germans knew the targets were critically important and therefore each was heavily defended by flak guns and fighter aircraft, and the grim-faced intelligence officer noted that losses were expected to "be significant." James listened intently, taking mental notes, and hoping the P-38 Lightnings escorting the bombers would be able to keep the Luftwaffe fighters off the bomber formations.

As they filed out of the briefing room, James and his crew exchanged nervous glances. Most of them had been through the ringer as veterans of over 20 missions, and they knew the risks all too well. For James himself, and bombardier Jack Kinney, this was mission #25 - meaning they'd be finishing their tour. They spent the early morning hours preparing the "Big Fly" for the mission. The ground crew loaded the bombs, checked the engines, and ensured that all the systems were functioning properly. As was the standard, James and his crew went through their pre-flight checks meticulously, going over the mission plan and reviewing emergency procedures.

The sky was still dark as they boarded the B-17. James settled into the cockpit, feeling the familiar hum of the engines as they roared to life. The vibration of the aircraft was strangely reassuring. James looked over his shoulder at his crew, exchanging nods and words of encouragement. He locked eyes with Kinney, both men silently acknowledging that this almost certainly would be their last mission together, good or bad.

As the sun rose, they taxied down the runway, the B-17's engines thundering, and took to the skies. They joined the formation of other B-17s, forming up into the "combat box" formation for protection against enemy fighters. This formation had proven to be deadly for enemy fighters, but the German pilots were good and had adjusted their tactics to mitigate the fearsome of power of the interlocking fields of fire the box afforded the B-17s. The journey to the target was long and nerve-wracking, with flak bursts filling the sky and enemy fighters swooping in and out of the formation. James focused on flying the "Big Fly", skillfully navigating the threats and maintaining their position in the formation. He had to trust his crew to eliminate the threats from the enemy fighters - the flak, well, that was out of their control.

As had become the norm of late, the crew had spent the time over the English Channel talking about baseball. Everyone now knew James' family relations in the sport. Kinney, who was from Dayton, Ohio, was a Cincinnati Cannons fan and was convinced that "his" team was going to win it all. The navigator, Bob Willis, however, was from Boston and was a Minutemen backer. The two were convinced that not only would their teams win their respective pennants, but they'd also win the title. The worst part? James had a cousin - Deuce Barrell - pitching for the Cannons and an uncle - Harry Barrell - playing for Boston. Despite the best efforts of Kinney & Willis, James maintained that he was neutral on the matter - his loyalty lay with the Brooklyn Kings, he told them. Unfortunately, the Kings had fallen on hard times.

As they approached the target, the intensity of German resistance increased. Flak explosions rocked the "Big Fly", shaking the plane and rattling the nerves of the crew. James skillfully maneuvered the aircraft, evading the deadly bursts of flak as best he could, while Kinney dialed in his Norden bombsight and when the moment was right, the veteran bombardier released the bombs. James automatically adjusted to the sudden weight change as their deadly cargo fell towards the target. The sight of the explosions below was both awe-inspiring and terrifying.

But their mission was far from over. As they turned to head back to England, they were hit again by enemy fighters. The crew fought back, manning the guns and exchanging fire with the enemy planes. The "Big Fly" sustained damage, but James remained calm and focused, trusting the tough bird to keep flying, and making evasive maneuvers with his crew returning fire whenever possible. The crew's teamwork and skill were put to the test, and they fought tenaciously to protect their aircraft and each other.

With great relief, they finally crossed the English Channel, their damaged B-17 limping back towards Bassingbourne on three engines with the left inboard having been shredded by a Focke-Wulf 190's 20mm cannons. James and his crew knew had been lucky to make it back. As they landed, the ground crew rushed to meet them, applauding their bravery and skill. The crew disembarked, their adrenaline still pumping, and exchanged weary smiles. They had completed their mission, but not without cost. The "Big Fly" bore many scars from the battle, a testament to the dangers they had faced. The crew chief looked at the missing engine and shook his head, then looked at the fuselage, muttered something about "swiss cheese" and yelled for someone to get him some sheet metal.

James looked around at his crew, grateful for their unwavering courage and teamwork. Their jubilation at completing the mission and making it back without a wounded crewman was tempered shortly thereafter when the word came that the 376 bomber raid had lost 60 aircraft, each of which carried a ten-man crew. 600 of their comrades had not returned to Bassingbourne. Soon thereafter the crews were referring to the mission as "Black Thursday." James had heard some of the RAF pilots refer to the Americans' daylight bombing campaign as suicide - the Brits flew at night as the Anglo-American Allies had committed to a "round the clock" bombing campaign. But now James had begun to wonder if the Brits were right. The Eighth Air Force certainly couldn't afford to lose 60 bombers in a single raid.

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Four days later, James was summoned to the squadron commander's office. He knocked and upon hearing the terse, "Enter!" from the man within, he turned the knob and opened the door.

He felt a wave of sadness come over him as he entered the office that had been Colonel Thornton's. The colonel had been piloting one of the sixty B-17s that hadn't made it home from Schweinfurt. In his stead, Major Tom Reynolds was now commanding the 324th.

"Slocum," Reynolds said with a nod. "Take a seat," he added.

"Sir," James replied and sat down.

"Well, I reckon you know why you're here," Reynolds said, getting right down to business.

James nodded. It was a bittersweet moment.

"Colonel Thornton had already arranged your orders," Reynolds told him. This surprised James; the colonel hadn't said anything to him. "He had some pull with the Personnel folks," Reynolds explained.

"Yes, sir," James said. Reynolds had been the squadron XO and James knew he was no-nonsense, by-the-book type - almost the opposite of Thornton in many ways.

"He was sending you home to be an instructor," Reynolds said.

"Was? Does this mean my orders have changed?" James asked. He had mixed feelings about going home - he'd miss his crew, but he wouldn't miss the strain of combat and landing safely at Bassingbourne only to see who hadn't made it back.

"No, not yet. But I am going to follow the protocol and allow you to request your next duty," Reynolds said.

James had given this a lot of thought - he had, after all, known he was coming up on the magical number 25. He could rotate home - as Thornton had arranged - and train others to fly. He could request reassignment, and end up back in combat with another unit - even in another theater. He could also volunteer to remain with the 324th. He was about to open his mouth to reply when Reynolds raised a hand.

"Don't say anything right now. The... Schweinfurt mission... it's an emotional time for all of us. We lost a lot of friends on Thursday. I'm giving you R&R - go rest, and well, recuperate. Two weeks to think it over. We'll meet again afterwards and take it from there," Reynolds said in a kindly voice.

"Thank you, sir," James replied and stood up. Reynolds stood as well and they shook hands. "You're an outstanding pilot Slocum. My opinion is that it'd be a damn shame to have you doing flight instruction, but that's not up to me. So think things over, and I'll see you in two weeks."

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[legendsport]

August, 21, 1943: Pearl Harbor, HI:

Ensign Agnes McCullough found herself begrudgingly dragged to a baseball game and wasn't particularly thrilled about it. As a WAVES officer, she was expected to root for the Navy team, but she had little interest in baseball, despite it being the "family business" of the Barrell family. Agnes was still mourning the loss of her husband, Bill, and her friend Rita Conroy's attempts to cheer her up by pointing out the cute players on the field, particularly Sal Pestilli, weren't having much effect.

"Come on, Aggie, try to have a good time," Rita told her. "That Sal Pestilli... wow, is he cute. My dopey little brother is wild about him, you know? So I've seen him on those cards? The ones they give out with gum or tobacco? But he's a lot cuter in person."

Rita, who had struck up a friendship with Agnes due to their shared Detroit roots and was more enthusiastic about the game, tried to encourage Agnes to have a good time. But Agnes couldn't shake her somber mood, and Rita's praise of Sal Pestilli's good looks only irritated her further. Though Agnes had spent a good amount of her youth in Detroit, she'd also lived in Montreal and Chicago due to her step-father Jack Barrell's sports career - he'd played minor league baseball for the Boston Minutemen, and pro football in Chicago, but it was his hockey career that had been his best and first love. Jack was now the coach of the Detroit Motors hockey club.

"You can't mourn Bill forever, Aggie," Rita said a moment later when it dawned on her that her praise of Sal Pestilli's masculine charms wasn't denting Agnes' funk.

Agnes shot her friend a glare. "I can mourn my husband for as long as I'd like, Rita," she snarled.

Rita held up a hand and said, "Fine, fine."

They settled into a slightly uncomfortable silence and watched the Navy boys, who had a few FABL players of their own, including pitcher Pete Papenfus, retire the Airmen in order.

Agnes was startled when she felt a tap on her shoulder and turned to see a familiar face. She had thought it was Bill, her late husband, but it turned out to be his brother Charley, who was married to Agnes' cousin Gloria. Charley's voice sounded so much like Bill's that it stirred up emotions in Agnes.

"Charley? What are you doing here?" she asked after a moment recovering from her shock.

McCullough waved a hand at the field. "Came to take in the game," he said. "I know a lot of those guys," he added with a small smile.

"Why aren't you out there?" Aggie asked.

Charley explained that he had come to the game to watch his friends play, but wasn't particularly interested in playing baseball in the Navy. He was in the service to fight the Japanese and was currently involved in testing the feasibility of carrying scout planes on destroyers.

"Oh... so you must be on the Halford, then," Aggie said.

Charley's eyes widened. "How do you know that?" he asked quietly.

Agnes, who had top-secret clearance as a crypto-translator, told Charley about her work and shared some information about her recent success in helping translate an intercepted Japanese message that led to the sinking of Japanese ships. In fact, she was up for a citation for it.

As the game continued, Charley joined Agnes and Rita, and his knowledge and enthusiasm for baseball engaged Agnes. He also shared insights about Sal Pestilli's talent, much to Rita's delight. After the game, Charley headed down towards the field. There was no fence - this particular ballfield was roughly similar to a high school field back home, with limited seating on rickety bleachers. Charley chatted briefly with Papenfus, who himself wanted to be in combat and was ticketed for one of the battleships currently fitting out over on Ford Island. Charley commiserated, mentioning his desire to fight as well, instead of sailing around Hawaii while his ship launched scout planes and then recovered them. He was a gunner - as was Papenfus.

Sal Pestilli sauntered over. He had a graceful way of moving and he was handsome, in a way. His Italian heritage was evident in his complexion and dark hair. Charley introduced him to Aggie and Rita, who stared wide-eyed at the star centerfielder. Sal, unlike Papenfus & Charley himself, wanted no part of combat. "I'm perfectly happy playing ball for Uncle Sam," he told them. This lowered Aggie's opinion of him for a moment, but she supposed she understood. He was serving in his own way. There were plenty of men who could fight, but not so many who could play baseball like Sal Pestilli did - and that was valuable entertainment for those who did the fighting.

"I don't suppose you'd want to have dinner with me," Sal asked Aggie.

Aggie was taken aback and it showed. Charley frowned a bit, but said nothing. Rita shot a dagger-like glare at Aggie. That was what decided it for Aggie who replied, "Sure, why not?"

Sal smiled and told her that he'd only be in Hawaii for about a week before heading back to the mainland. "We'll be touring the West Coast bases," he explained.

Aggie wasn't really sure what she was doing. She still loved, and mourned, Bill McCullough. But she'd made a commitment and Jack Barrell had drilled into her that a commitment, once made, should always be honored.

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Agnes Barrell McCullough, Pearl Harbor, 1943

[legendsport]

September 9, 1943: Brugg, Switzerland:

As the sun set over the picturesque town of Brugg, Switzerland, Fred Barrell, OSS agent and former baseball player, nervously walked towards a nondescript building. His mission was clear: gather intelligence on the Nazi atomic bomb program. It had been a precarious trip for Barrell - he had been landed in France by a British submarine, then had contacted French Resistance who had assisted him across German-occupied France and over the Swiss border. The reason for the trip: the OSS had been tipped off about a Swiss physicist named Paul Trautmann who might have valuable information. Barrell was known for his charm and wit, but this meeting was different. He needed to tread carefully.

Barrell knocked on the door and was soon greeted by Paul Trautmann, a tall and serious-looking man with thin-rimmed glasses. They exchanged pleasantries and entered Trautmann's office.

Barrell: "Thank you for seeing me, Dr. Trautmann. I've heard that you might have information on the Nazi atomic bomb program."

Trautmann: "Yes, Mr. Barrell, I do. Please have a seat."

Barrell sat down, his eyes focused intently on Trautmann.

Trautmann: "As a physicist, I have been keeping a close eye on the scientific advancements of the Nazis. They have been making significant progress in nuclear research and uranium enrichment, which could potentially lead to the development of an atomic bomb."

Barrell: "That's concerning. Do you have any details on their progress?"

Trautmann: "Based on my sources, they have established research facilities in Germany, occupied territories, and even in Norway. They are working on different approaches to achieving critical mass and harnessing nuclear energy for destructive purposes."

Barrell knew about Norway: he had been briefed on Operation Gunnerside, which had involved British Special Operations Executive (SOE) and Norwegian commandos and had successfully destroyed a Nazi heavy water production facility in Vemork in February. Heavy water was believed to be a key element in producing plutonium, which could - in theory - be used for an atomic bomb. The question was how quickly were the Nazis recovering from that setback.

Barrell: "Do you have any information on their timeline or potential targets?"

Trautmann: "I don't have exact details, but it seems that they are aiming to achieve a functional atomic bomb within the next few years. As for their targets, it's difficult to say, but it's obvious that they would be likely to target major cities or strategic locations."

Barrell listened carefully, taking mental notes. He knew that time was of the essence, and any information could be critical in thwarting the Nazis' plans.

Barrell: "Thank you for sharing this information, Dr. Trautmann. Your insights are invaluable. We need to ensure that the Nazis do not succeed in their atomic bomb program."

Trautmann: "I agree, Mr. Barrell. The potential consequences of such a weapon falling into the wrong hands are dire."

Barrell: "Is there anything else you can tell me about their research or their facilities?"

Trautmann: "I'm afraid not. My sources only provide me with limited information, and it's been getting harder to access reliable intelligence lately."

Barrell nodded, understanding the limitations. He knew he had to work with what he had. He asked about Werner Heisenberg, the leading physicist in the Uranverien, the group of German scientists working on the atomic bomb.

Barrell: "Have you heard anything about Heisenberg's role? Some of our sources indicate he is dragging his feet and perhaps deliberately slowing down the research. Others say he is spearheading the effort."

Trautmann: "Nothing specific. It is impossible to speak directly with Werner, for obvious reasons. My gut instinct leads me to be believe that he may well be trying to slow the project, for ethical reasons. If he is doing so, this would obviously be extremely dangerous for him."

Barrell: "Understood. Well, I appreciate your help, Dr. Trautmann. Your insights will be immensely valuable to our efforts."

Trautmann: "You're welcome, Mr. Barrell. I'm glad I could contribute in some way."

As they stood up, Barrell extended his hand to Trautmann, who shook it firmly.

Barrell: "I'll make sure this information gets to the right people. Please stay cautious and keep an eye out for any new developments."

Trautmann: "I will, Mr. Barrell. Good luck with your mission."

With that, Barrell left Trautmann's office and disappeared into the shadows, his mind racing with thoughts of how to utilize the information he had just obtained. He knew he had to act swiftly to prevent the Nazis from obtaining an atomic bomb.

As the meeting ended, Trautmann sat at his desk, deep in thought. He knew that sharing information with Barrell was risky, but he believed it was for the greater good. He hoped that his contribution would make a difference

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Fred Barrell (left) with Paul Trautmann

[legendsport]

November 1, 1943: Atlanta, GA:

"Where did Bobby finish in the Whitney voting?" Sarah Barrell asked her husband.

"Third," Harry replied. Bobby hadn't had a particularly great year by his standards but offense was down, likely due to a lot of the fellows being in the military.

It was a somewhat chilly Monday in Atlanta. Harry was home with Sarah and their son Reid. It was closing in on noon and Harry was watching Reid play with some toy trucks on the living room floor. The boy was now three years old and growing fast. The radio was on and after a Tice Soap commercial, a news report began:

News Anchor: "The Allied forces continue to make progress on multiple fronts. In Italy, General Patton's Seventh Army has been pushing northward as part of the Italian Campaign. Reports indicate that the town of Naples has been liberated, and our troops are now advancing towards the Volturno River, with heavy fighting reported along the way."

[Sound of explosions]

News Anchor: "In the Pacific theater, U.S. forces continue their relentless advance against Japanese-held territories. Just a week ago, American troops launched a daring amphibious assault on the Japanese-held island of Bougainville in the Solomon Islands. Today, we have received reports that our troops have secured a foothold on the island, establishing a beachhead and pushing inland. This marks another significant step towards the eventual liberation of the Pacific from Japanese occupation."

[Sound of aircraft]

News Anchor: "On the Eastern Front, the Red Army continues to push back against German forces. Reports from the Soviet Union indicate that after months of intense fighting, the city of Kiev has been liberated from Nazi occupation. This marks a significant victory for the Soviet forces and deals a major blow to Hitler's eastern front ambitions."

[Sound of marching soldiers]

News Anchor: "Meanwhile, on the home front, the war effort continues with unwavering determination. Rationing and conservation efforts are in full swing, and Americans are urged to do their part in supporting the troops by conserving resources and buying war bonds. War bond drives continue across the nation to raise funds to support our brave men and women in uniform."

[Sound of patriotic music]

News Anchor: "That's all for now. We will continue to bring you the latest updates on the progress of the war as we receive them. Stay tuned to this station for more news on this historic conflict."

Harry shook his head. He wondered where the sound effects came from - he'd one or two radio interviews while he was playing in Brooklyn and remembered being shown some of the crazy ways the radio folks created sound effects for their scripted shows.

Sarah, in the kitchen, shouted that she had just spotted the mailman and asked Harry to go out and fetch the mail. As Harry stood, Reid looked up at him and Harry smiled at his son. He'd been a ballplayer and a cut-up most of his life, never really having had to "grow up" until he married and Reid had been born. His life had changed a lot - and for the better - since he and Sarah had married back in October of '39.

Harry sauntered out to the mailbox and grabbed the several items inside. He began flipping through them as he walked back to the house and suddenly stopped, stunned. He tore open one of the envelopes and a shock coursed through him as he read the contents, informing him that he had been drafted into the U.S. Army. The news shook him up, as he had lately felt a growing sense of duty to serve his country. He felt guilty for not being in the military already; most of his brothers had deferments due to their ages and family status and Bobby had been classified 4-F due to his gunshot wound. Only Freddie was serving. He'd retired as a player just the previous season and turned down several coaching or scouting jobs, instead becoming an OSS agent and was currently somewhere in Europe, everyone believed.

Feeling conflicted as he trudged back to the house, Harry decided to pick up the phone and call his father. Rufus Barrell was now retired, apparently for good this time, and living on the farm. Harry chided himself for not visiting more often - they saw Sarah's parents more than his own, though they'd agreed to move to Georgia in the offseason specifically to be near their respective parents. Harry looked forward to speaking with his Pop - he and his siblings saw their father as wise with a down-home perspective, despite not having finished high school, leaving home and becoming a ballplayer at the age of 16.

"Hey, Pop," Harry said as he heard his father's familiar voice on the other end of the line.

"Harry, boy, how ya doin'?" Rufus replied. Now that he was back in Georgia full-time his Southern drawl had become a lot more noticeable.

Harry took a deep breath and said, "I got my notice, Pop. I've been drafted into the Army."

Harry knew his father wouldn't be thrilled with this news - the memories of Jimmy going off to war, getting shot down and listed as missing (though he had ended up being a POW) were undoubtedly running through his head. Rufus was quiet for a moment, and then he spoke in a calm and reassuring tone. "Son, I understand how you're feelin'. It's natural to feel conflicted about servin' in the military. But let me tell ya, it's likely you won't be sent into combat. With your baseball skills, they'll probably have you playin' ball for one of them Army teams that entertain the troops all over the country."

Harry listened attentively, feeling a glimmer of hope at his father's words. He knew that many of the FABL players who had gone into the service were doing just that: playing ball for Uncle Sam.

"You're a great ballplayer, Harry," Rufus continued. "And playin' baseball for the Army can bring some joy to the boys in uniform, keepin' their spirits up durin' these tough times."

Harry nodded, feeling a sense of purpose stirring within him. He had always loved playing baseball, and the thought of using his skills to bring some happiness to his fellow soldiers lifted his spirits.

Rufus chuckled softly. "Plus, bein' in the Army might just toughen ya up a bit, boy. It ain't gonna be easy, but you've always been a fighter."

Harry smiled, grateful for his father's wisdom and perspective. "Thanks, Pop. I needed to hear that."

Rufus cleared his throat. "Now, don't go worryin' your mama about this just yet. I'll let her know, and remember, we're all proud of you no matter what."

Harry nodded again, feeling a renewed sense of determination. "I will, Pop. Thanks for always havin' my back."

With a heartfelt goodbye, Harry hung up the phone and turned to Sarah, who had been listening in on the conversation. He relayed his father's words to her, and they both felt a sense of relief and purpose in Harry's impending military service.

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Harry and Sarah Barrell, circa 1943

[legendsport]

November 20, 1943: Betio Atoll, Tarawa, Gilbert Islands:

The landing craft rocked violently as it cut through the rough waters towards Betio Island. Roger Cleaves gripped the side rail tightly, his knuckles turning white. He looked around at his fellow Marines, his machine gun team members, as they huddled together in the cramped space. Paul Ippolito, trying to maintain his tough-talking Brooklyn-native image, was checking his gear, while the other two members of their team, Jack O'Brien and Frank Martinez, were exchanging nervous glances.

"We're almost there, boys," shouted Dwayne Hickey, their First Sergeant, over the roaring waves. Hickey was a tall, broad-shouldered Marine from Texas, known for his cool demeanor and sharp shooting skills. He had taken Roger under his wing when he'd joined Charlie Company, and Roger had flourished under his guidance.

The landing on Betio was part of Operation Galvanic, a strategic move to gain control of the Tarawa atoll from the Japanese, and the battle was expected to be fierce.

As the landing craft approached the shore it stuck on the coral reef. The men cursed as Hickey shouted, "Guess we're walking from here, boys! Let's go!!"

They entered the water, lifting their gear overhead while the enemy's heavy artillery fire intensified. Bullets whizzed past them, and the deafening sound of explosions filled the air. The water around them turned red with blood as Marines fell to enemy fire.

"Keep your heads down!" Hickey yelled, leading the team towards the shore. They waded through waist-deep water, dodging enemy fire and struggling to keep their heavy equipment dry.

"@#%%#$& it, this is insane!" Paul shouted as he stumbled through the water. "Just keep moving, boys!" Hickey's voice was calm but determined.

Finally, they reached the shore, but it was nothing like they had expected. The beach was a hellish scene of carnage, with bodies of fallen comrades scattered everywhere. The sand was churned into a mud-like consistency, making it difficult to move.

Roger's heart pounded in his chest as he set up his machine gun, trying to ignore the chaos around him. He remembered his troubled past, how he had found out that his real father was killed in a plane crash long before he even knew about him. But now, he was fighting alongside his brothers in arms, with Hickey, who had become the father figure he never had.

"Keep it together, Cleaves!" Hickey's voice snapped him back to the present. "We've got a job to do!"

The team opened fire, providing cover for their fellow Marines as they pushed forward. The Japanese defenders were entrenched, and the battle was intense. The team moved forward, taking out enemy positions one by one, their training kicking in as they worked like a well-oiled machine.

"Reloading!" Roger shouted, as he quickly swapped out the spent ammunition belt.

"Covering fire!" Hickey yelled, as he laid down suppressing fire to protect Roger.

Paul and the others provided support, taking out enemy snipers and clearing a path for their team. The battle raged on for hours, and fatigue and exhaustion set in, but they kept pushing forward, determined to complete their mission.

At one point, Roger saw a fellow Marine go down, and without hesitation, he rushed to his aid, dragging him to safety amidst a hail of bullets. "You're gonna make it, buddy," Roger reassured the wounded Marine, his heart swelling with pride for his comrades.

Finally, after hours of intense fighting, they reached their objective. The Japanese resistance had been subdued, and they had secured the beachhead. But they had paid a heavy price, with many fallen comrades left behind.

Roger looked around at his team, covered in dirt and sweat, but alive. Hickey clapped him on the back, a proud smile on his face.

"Good job, Cleaves. We did it," Hickey said, his voice hoarse from the battle.

Roger nodded, his chest swelling with a mix of relief and sorrow. They had achieved their objective, but the cost had been high. He thought of the fallen Marines, those who wouldn't be going home, and felt a lump in his throat.

As night fell, they regrouped with the rest of Charlie Company, 1st Battalion of the 8th Marine Regiment. They set up a defensive perimeter, knowing that the enemy could still counterattack. They were exhausted, physically and emotionally drained, but they remained vigilant.

Roger sat down on the sandy ground, his back against a makeshift sandbag barrier. Paul, Jack, and Frank joined him, their faces grim but alive. They had formed a bond through the shared experience of battle, and their camaraderie gave them strength.

"I never thought I'd make it off that hellhole of a beach," Paul said, his Brooklyn accent still evident, but his voice tinged with relief.

"Yeah, it was touch and go for a while," Jack added, wiping sweat from his brow.

"We lost too many good men," Frank said solemnly, his voice cracking.

Roger nodded, unable to find the words to express the weight of their losses. He thought of his fallen comrades, those who had fought alongside him, and those he had come to know as family. He felt a mix of sadness, anger, and determination to carry on their legacy.

"We'll make sure their sacrifice was not in vain," Hickey said, joining them, his eyes red from fatigue and emotion. "We'll push forward and finish this."

The team nodded in agreement, their resolve renewed. They knew the battle was far from over, but they were determined to honor their fallen comrades and complete their mission.

As the sun rose the next day, they continued their advance, facing pockets of resistance but steadily gaining ground. Their machine gun provided crucial cover fire, mowing down enemy soldiers as they pushed forward.

Roger thought of his past, of the troubles he had faced growing up, and how he had found purpose and belonging in the Marine Corps. He knew he had a chance to make a difference, to fight for something bigger than himself, and to honor the memory of his fallen father, Joe Barrell.

Cleaves and his fellow Marines would go on to fight on Tarawa for two more days, enduring fierce resistance from the Japanese defenders. The Marines ultimately prevailed, but the victory had come at a high cost. They had lost many brave men, but they had also formed unbreakable bonds of brotherhood.

As they boarded a ship to be evacuated from the island, Roger looked around at his team. They were battered and bruised, but they stood tall, proud of their accomplishments. Hickey clapped him on the shoulder, a silent understanding passing between them.

"Nicely done, Cleaves," Hickey said, his voice filled with pride.

Roger nodded, a sense of accomplishment swelling in his chest. He had come a long way from his troubled past, and he had found a new family in his fellow Marines. He looked out at the horizon, knowing that more challenges and battles awaited, but with his comrades by his side, he was ready for whatever lay ahead.

As the ship sailed away from Betio, Roger vowed to carry on the legacy of his fallen comrades, to make his mother proud, and to continue serving with honor as a United States Marine. The memories of Tarawa would stay with him forever, a testament to the courage and sacrifice of those who had fought alongside him, and a reminder of the true meaning of brotherhood.

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Roger Cleaves (forward center) setting up his machine gun, Tarawa 11/20/43