[legendsport]

Montreal, PQ: March 10, 1913:

"That American, he hits like a brick wall!"

Vera Reid shook her head. Her French, which she now admitted (only to herself), had not been very good when she and her grandson Jack Barrell had moved to Montreal last year, had improved a great deal. Similarly, she hadn't found hockey to be the least bit interesting when the pair arrived in Quebec - yet now she had an eye for it, and could tell her grandson was quite good. Perhaps his play was a bit too... on the physical side, but she had seen that physicality was very much a part of the sport. Jack Barrell was definitely Joe Reid's grandson in that regard, no doubt about it.

She scowled in the general direction of the complaining player. She muttered "if you can't stand the heat, stay out of the kitchen," in English, assuming it wouldn't be understood.

She was wrong.

"Madame! That boy is this club's best player!"

This came from a stout woman sitting beside her. Vera eyed her with a keen gaze. Her husband had dubbed it the "Hawk" and she had frozen out many a Philadelphia grand-dame with just such a look. It didn't work here.

With the wilting glare a failure, she resorted to an old-fashioned retort: "Really? If he's so good, why can't he take a body check without complaint?"

The other woman harrumphed and slid her backside a foot further away from Vera.

With a narrow-lipped grin, Vera turned her attention back to the ice.The club was owned and operated by the Cartier family - the same Cartier family that owned the FABL ballclub in town. Vera knew that the Barrell-Reid family connections had smoothed the way for Jack's being added to the squad.

Jack, looking older than his fifteen years, was skating quickly up the ice, bearing down on the man with the puck. Vera was struck by how much he reminded her of Joe - not only Joe Barrell, Jack's oldest brother (the physical resemblance was uncanny) - but more like *her* Joe - Jack's grandfather. Seeing Jack's effortless movement around the ice reminded her of Joe's days as a young ballplayer, fearlessly throwing himself at batted balls (few gloves in those days - and definitely not for Joe Reid), flying around the basepaths and generally acting - and looking - like a force of nature. That other boy might be the best player on the team today (she could grudgingly accept this), but Vera knew that wouldn't remain the case for much longer.

A whistle cut through the air and the coach bellowed, "Jock! Get back in your area!"

The coach with his thick accent could not (or maybe would not) pronounce Jack correctly, so it came out sounding more like "Jock" - or Vera supposed, "Jacques." She did give him credit for speaking mostly English to Jack - and gave Jack credit for gamely working on his French as well.

Due to his size and strength, and the raw nature of his stick and puckhandling skills, Jack was playing defence. The fact that he loved to check probably helped as well. But as his skills evolved and were enhanced by his natural athleticism, Jack was starting to chafe against his confinement in the defensive zone. The coach was trying to cure him of this - but like her husband, her daughter, and most of her grandsons, Jack tended to be bullheaded.

"Jock! Please remember, you have... responsibility to cover your area," the coach was explaining. Beside her Vera noticed the other woman sneering - she was clearly enjoying this. The coach continued to explain to Jack that he let the team down by not sticking to his assignment. "We have... how you say? Hole... when you... whoosh." He shot his hand out from his body, apparently indicating Jack's speedy burst.

Vera felt Jack could recover and get back into position if by some miracle the other team managed to get the puck anywhere near the area he'd just left. She knew she was biased, but she'd seen him turn quickly, leaning over on his skates and changing direction in the blink of an eye. He was becoming an excellent skater.

"Yes, coach. I am sorry," Jack replied in decent, if heavily accented, French. He got points for trying at least.

After practice, Vera and Jack walked back towards the small apartment Vera had rented for them near the river. Jack carried his hockey things in a large canvas bag. Vera knew they would smell terrible - the heavy wool soaked up the sweat and despite playing on ice, Jack tended to sweat a lot. She paid a local woman to wash his hockey things (there was a sweater, some shorts and various underthings including leggings). The woman washed them twice a week, and Vera wondered if she shouldn't go to three times. That smell: as the locals might say, "Mon Dieu!"

"I'm telling you Vera, the coach is holding me back," Jack complained. Vera had long ago insisted her grandsons not call her "Grandmother" or... even worse "Granny" but instead by her name. She might have passed her sixtieth birthday, but Vera Reid considered herself young at heart and would not hear of being called anything that might draw undue attention to her age.

"You're still learning Jack, and he is the highest-regarded coach of young players in the city," Vera replied. "And your father pulled some strings to get you on the team."

Alice had given her strict instructions: take excellent care of her son... or else. Finding the best hockey coach in Montreal was part of this, she knew - and keeping him on the team was important.

Vera doted on Jack - she simply adored the boy. Perhaps it was because he reminded her so much of Joe in his youth, but she knew he was earnest, hard-working and intelligent as well. And polite (as evidenced by the manner in which he took his scolding from the coach) - which Joe was definitely not.

"Bah, I know his reputation. And I'm grateful for the chance to learn from him. But he's too hard-headed. I need to be on the wing; I've outgrown defence."

Vera now knew enough about hockey to make an honest reply: "I would tend to agree, but aggressively and purposefully going against the coach's wishes won't work. You need to convince him in a more direct and respectable manner."

Jack was quiet. Vera gave him a sidelong glance - he was deep in thought. She grinned as he finally replied, "You might be right. More flies with honey and all that... Thanks!"

The grin faded a second later when he added with a sly look in his eye, "Granny." Now THAT was pure Joe Reid.


Savannah, GA: March 10, 1913:

Meanwhile, nearly a thousand miles to the south, Rollie Barrell was attempting to show his brother Joe how to putt.

"No! You can't just muscle everything, you big galoot - sometimes you need to use a soft touch."

Joe laughed. "You sound like Edna, bub."

Rollie flushed - for all his smooth-talking ways, he was still a neophyte when it came to girls (and Joe knew this).

"You know, pop told me they were going to name you Francine - if you had been a girl," Joe gave him a narrow-eyed look and said, "That might suit you..."

Rollie refused to rise to the bait: "I'm serious, Joe - putting is an art."

Joe rested the putter on his shoulder, like a baseball bat, and said, "You know, they say boxing's a science. But I'd say it's an art too."

Frowning, Rollie said, "Really? An art? Science... yeah, I can maybe understand that. There's some strategy involved I suppose."

Joe grinned. "Allow me to explain, little brother."

Rollie bowed and said, "Please do, oh sage of the pugilistic arts."

Joe laughed - he missed spending time with Rollie. The two brothers, very different in temperament, got along famously. If Jack and Jimmy had been there with them... Joe had fond memories of their various shenanigans in Brooklyn... but Jack was off in Canada and Jimmy... well, he was different.

There was a clear divide in the Barrell boys - Joe, Rollie, Jack & Jimmy - the four oldest, were almost a unit, all of them within two years of each other in age. But Jimmy was four years older than Danny, and that divide hadn't been overcome yet, though Jimmy seemed to have taken on a mentoring role with his younger siblings, especially now that Jack was away.

The brothers were together because the family had grown - again. Alice had given birth to the ninth Barrell brother (of course it was another boy) on March 1st. Bobby, four months shy of his third birthday, was thrilled to no longer be the baby of the family. Rufus and Alice had named the new arrival Harold.

It was also something of a going away party for Rufus. As Jimmy had noted back in September, Egypt was not a suitable location for the OSA offices. In fact, they weren't even going to be in Georgia. The OSA was to be based in Washington, near the FABL offices. "Potentas will be the one mostly manning the office - I don't plan on spending much time there," Rufus told Alice when he broke the news back in November.

The new scouting agency was now a going concern, with ten scouts on the payroll. Many of them were what Alice termed "Rufus' cronies" - men her husband knew from the "old days" when the minors had still been independent and scouting was like the "Wild West" (according to Rufus, at least).

Jimmy had been impressed by Potentas' family ties. "Is he really royalty, Pop?" he had asked back in the hotel in D.C.

Rufus had chuckled, "I don't think they see it that way. But he does have a lot of money - that's how he got the contract to start the agency. None of the club owners were going to fit the bill. Not even Presley, and he's the guy's uncle."

Rollie said, "Great-Uncle... and only by marriage.I think that means he can't get his paws on old man Presley's dough." That set off some laughter.

Rufus was considering the idea of having the family live in D.C. part of the year and spend winters in Georgia. Alice was reluctant, particularly so with the new addition to the family. Perhaps he'd eventually convince her - but for now, in a scene reminiscent of the old days back in Brooklyn - he was leaving his wife and kids for the bulk of the six-month long baseball season.

The difference was that this time, with the 1913 season about to begin, Rufus was heading to D.C. to get the work of the OSA officially underway.

"My independent contractor..." Alice said with a grin.