[legendsport]

Egypt, GA: December 25, 1921:

Rufus Barrell sat beside his oldest and best friend doing what they usually did when they got together - talking baseball.

"I'm telling you son, this kid's forearms are like tree trunks!" Possum Daniels said, his bushy eyebrows shooting skyward as if in astonishment.

Rufus chuckled - Possum was hyperbolic, you had to give him that much. When he liked something, he really liked it. And the inverse was also true.

"Now... on the other hand, it's not all rosy for this boy."

Rufus recognized what was expected and provided it with a muttered, "How so?"

As Possum opened his mouth to reply, there was the familiar smack of bat on ball as Danny drilled a solid liner to center. He exploded out of the batter's box, rounded first at full tilt and barreled into second with a hard slide, beating the throw.

"Hoo, boy! When did Daniel get so fast?" Possum exclaimed.

Rufus grinned. Danny was indeed fast - and strong. All that track and field work had chiseled his son into a fearsome all-around athlete. He stood on second base, dusting himself off and frowning towards the mound where Powell Slocum stood, gazing back with a smirk on his face.

"Nice hit, Dan!" he called out. Danny's face remained set in a frown, but he did acknowledge the compliment with a short, tight nod.

"That boy looks like he'd like to snap ol' Powell in half," Possum said with a laugh.

Rufus nodded, his face serious, and replied, "Yeah, he hasn't really taken to Powell and Claudia's engagement."

"Heartbreak's a part of life, son," Possum intoned seriously and slapped Rufus on the back. "So... when you going to go see this boy with me?"

Rufus shook his head. "I swear, Possum, you got a bee in your bonnet over this kid." Rufus sighed and asked, "What's his name again?"

"Kellogg... Rankin Kellogg," Possum replied.

"That's a strange one," Rufus replied before asking, "Why haven't we heard of this kid if he's so good?"

"Well... that's the thing. He's had a passel of bad luck, son." Possum rubbed his chin and began to list the litany of reasons no one had ever heard of young Mr. Rankin Kellogg of Memphis, Tennessee. His father had held him out of school to work on the farm, so he was behind in his studies. He'd also forbidden him from playing baseball so his freshman season (where he hit .413 with 7 doubles and 6 homers in 92 at-bats) was followed by a curtailed sophomore campaign where he went 4-for-9 with three homers. As an 18-year-old junior this past spring he'd played with a broken hand when a cart fell on it at the farm, and his stats had suffered accordingly (.260, 2 HRs in 73 ABs).

"But this boy is going to be something, Rufus. You know how Max Morris when he hits the baseball it makes that sound?"

Rufus nodded. Morris' bat did make a distinct sound when he connected.

"Well, Kellogg's bat makes the same sound. But..." and here Possum paused to grin widely before continuing, "where Morris' homers go a mile up and a mile out, Kellogg hits ropes that are still going up as they go out."

He reached out and squeezed Rufus' forearm and added, "I never seen anyone hit the ball as hard as this boy does."

Rufus rubbed his chin. Maybe he would have to go see this kid. The 1921 draft had just concluded, but they'd need to get working on the '22 class - and this Kellogg kid would be eligible for it.

The old friends turned their attention back to the field where Clyde Hinzman now stood at the plate. Rufus had invited some of the better teenaged players in Effingham County to play a Christmas Day game at the farm. The weather was cooperating - high 50s, not too cold. And they'd had a good turnout. Most baseball-mad boys would kill to meet Powell Slocum, let alone play with him. Slocum, for his part, was a good-natured participant who agreed to play only as a pitcher, and to bat right-handed as opposed to his natural - and deadly - left-handed swing. Powell pitched for the "visitors" while Tommy pitched for the home team. Bobby and Harry, deemed too young by their father, were acting as "coaches" - watching young Harry try to tell Danny how to play was, at the very least, amusing. Three Barrell brothers - Danny, Freddy and Tommy - played for the "home" team. Betsy sat with Claudia, watching the game.

"Too bad Jack couldn't make it this year," Rufus told Possum. His third son was busy preparing for the opening of hockey season in Toronto - and his wife was expecting.

Rollie and Francie had made it, as had Joe and Edna. There seemed to be some tension between Rollie and Joe but neither would talk about it. Francie was visibly pregnant and she and Edna had spent most of Christmas Eve with their heads together while Rollie and Joe talked football business despite some evident frostiness between them.

"I wish I knew what was going on with Rollie and Joe," Rufus said.

Possum chewed his lip and replied, "If'n I didn't know better, I'd say it was a girl."

Rufus was visibly surprised and asked, "What do you mean?"

"Well... Rollie's a straight-edged sort. Kind of like someone I know," Possum said and nudged Rufus with a shoulder. "Joe's... well, he's a man's man."

Rufus shook his head. "I still don't follow."

Possum sighed. "Look, Rufus, I ain't saying this is a for-sure. But Joe's a good lookin' guy, a top athlete, and he's on the road a lot. I reckon I don't gots to spell it out for you, son."

Possum gazed out across the field where his wife was sitting with Alice on a blanket spread on the grass. Possum's own son, named for the man sitting beside him and currently chatting amiably with Harry Barrell, was born as a result of the kind of shenanigans Possum had just described.

Rufus rubbed his chin again. "So you're saying Joe's doing something with a woman who isn't his wife and Rollie knows about it... and doesn't approve."

Possum touched his nose. "Just a guess, but yep, that's what I reckon is going on, son."

"Hmph. Well... I hope that's not the case."

Up at the house, Rollie and Joe were talking... but not about Charlotte Cleaves, which was a topic of which they'd agreed to not speak.

"So... Jack Kristich is doing a great job," Rollie was saying.

"Carl says the same thing," Joe replied.

Rollie smiled. "It's a good thing you have Carl as a partner. There's more to running a football club than just running the ball on Sundays, Joe."

"Don't I know it," Joe replied.

Joe's knee was wrapped and stiff. He had his leg stretched out straight before him, resting on a settee. The AFA season had ended earlier that month, but the Wildcats, like most clubs, had done some postseason touring. It was against a local team in Kentucky that Joe had hurt his knee. There were only two good things that had come out of that trip - the gate receipts and the chance to see Charlotte Cleaves.

Rollie continued, "This whole thing with letting any Tom, Dick or Harry in... Jack's right that it needs to stop. And the idea of divisions with a real championship game. It's brilliant."

Joe nodded absent-mindedly.

Rollie gave him a dubious look but soldiered on, "The key thing, and I've had several conversations with Jack about this - is raising our visibility. Right now the papers barely cover the league - it's all about the collegiate game. And we need official statistics. Look at baseball... the fans love the numbers. We need to tap into that, somehow."

He frowned and scratched his head - he felt another headache brewing.

Joe noticed this, "You alright, bub?" he asked with visible concern.

Rollie smiled and nodded. "I'll be fine," he said.

"We gotta get the papers to cover us," he repeated. "But how..." he trailed off.

Joe shrugged, thinking that he was glad that all he really was expected to do was carry the football and run over the opponents. Let Carl, Jack and Rollie figure this other stuff out.