[legendsport]

Toronto, ON: April 3, 1930:

Jack Barrell arrived, hat in hand (literally but also, possibly, figuratively) at the offices of the Toronto Dukes. He was five minutes early. This was a habit he had picked up long ago, inherited from his father, a man who had a perpetual loathing for being late and was therefore always early. Jack shared this habit with most of his brothers with only Joe and Tommy being of the opinion that the world could wait on them.

The offices looked the same (the Wolves and Dukes logos prominently displayed over the main entrance), but many things had changed in the four years since Jack had last set foot in them. The biggest change was at the top, and that was precisely the only reason Jack had agreed to this visit.

Albert "Bert" Thomas, the man who had ruled hockey (and baseball) in Toronto for the entirety of Jack's career, was gone. A victim, like so many others, of the economic disaster currently ravaging the world. Thomas had been forced to sell off most of his holdings and managed to hold onto only two of his hotels - his first, and favorite, in Toronto, plus his newest, built just three years ago in Ottawa. The purchasers varied, but both of his sport franchises went to the same man. And that was the man Jack was here to see.

The 1929-30 hockey season had finished just a month earlier with the Boston Bees winning the Challenge Cup in a three-game sweep of Ottawa. The season was one of change for the NAHC, with scoring up by a vast margin as rule changes had opened up the offensive game to a level not seen since before the war. All Jack took away from it was that the game had passed him by. His creaky knees would have been a legitimate excuse, but Jack made no excuses. His speed was gone and thus with the new, open style of play, he just couldn't keep up. He'd gutted his way through the entire 44-game season, knowing it could possibly be his last. His offensive output was not good: four goals and one assist. Fittingly, his playing time slowly evaporated and he was put on the ice more for his still fearsome checking ability than his once great and now gone offensive abilities.

The meeting he'd had with Bill Yeadon in March had gone so much differently than the one they'd had when Jack signed his contract. Yeadon released Jack, but had the good grace to do it in person and to offer his thanks for Jack's efforts while acknowledging that he simply didn't fit into the New York Eagles' plans going forward.

And then the telegram came from the Toronto Dukes.

Jack knew, of course, that Thomas had been forced to sell. The new owner, David J. Welcombe, was an unknown factor. His business was running a distillery. With the U.S. still under Prohibition, business in Canadian whiskey was very good. If a lot of it somehow ended going south over the border? Well, Welcombe just made the stuff, where it went when someone bought it from him was none of his business. At least that's what Jack had heard.

He entered the executive suite of the Dukes, feeling a surprising amount of trepidation. The first thing he noticed was that Welcombe had replaced the carpet. He'd also replaced the secretary. Gone was the old battle-axe that had served as Bert's gatekeeper. Also gone was Bobby - or Billy - Jack could never remember, a cold young man who had been Bert's personal assistant. Jack found that he didn't miss either of them. Welcombe's secretary was an attractive young woman who greeted Jack warmly and surprisingly even offered him a drink.

A few moments later, the secretary escorted Jack into the owner's office. The room had been redecorated in a more modern style. Bert's office felt like it had been lifted straight out of some Dickens story (Ebenezer Scrooge came to mind) while Welcombe had the curtains wide open, with Toronto's spring sunshine pouring in. The carpet was done in a fancy pattern that contained both the rich maroon of the Dukes and the bright blue of the Toronto Wolves.

"Jack! Welcome, have a seat," Welcombe said with a smile.

He raised an eyebrow and asked his secretary, "No drink for Mr. Barrell, Ruth?"

"He declined, sir," she replied and gave her boss a tight nod that was almost a bow as she backed out of the room, quietly closing the door behind her.

"You don't drink whiskey, Jack?" Welcombe asked. The eyebrow was still cocked.

Jack shrugged and said, "Sure, I drink whiskey. I just thought I might abstain until I heard what you wanted to talk about," he explained.

"Ah, good man," Welcombe said. He walked back behind his desk and took a seat himself.

"I know that you and Bert had a, um, shall we say, contentious relationship," Welcombe said in a matter-of-fact tone.

"True, we had our differences. Largely related to my playing baseball... and later football," Jack replied.

Welcombe took a sip of his drink and then sat back in his chair. "I don't share Bert's opinions on that... or on many things as a matter of fact," he said, his gaze on the tumbler in his hand.

"I don't believe in beating around the bush," Welcombe said. He rose again from his seat behind his desk and stepped to the window.

Jack watched, a somewhat bemused look on his face, thinking how different this man was from his predecessor.

Welcombe had his back turned to Jack, but asked, "What do you know about making whiskey?"

This took Jack by surprise and it was plain to hear in his one-word response, "Nothing."

"I won't necessarily bore you with the details, but I'm sure you've heard of the process, which is called distillation."

"Well, sure, I've heard of it. Might have even learned a little about it in school," Jack said and then added with a smile, "Not that I paid a lot of attention in school."

Welcombe's response was a light chuckle. Then he turned to look at Jack, his features hidden in shadow as he stood in front of the window; a silhouette wreathed in bright light.

"Basically, you take a liquid, boil it, and then cool the vapor so it turns back into a liquid. Alcohol boils at a lower temperature than water, so it becomes vapor first and it's that vapor we condense back to liquid. This separates out the undesired elements." He raised his glass, "I triple distill my whiskey which simply means I repeat the process three times. It's an Irish thing," he said and Jack might have caught a wink, but it was hard to know for sure.

"That's an oversimplification, of course. The process can be quite complex, really, and I've left out a lot of details," Welcombe continued. "I could go on for hours on the process, the mashing, the fermentation, ageing... every step is a carefully monitored and managed process, worked out over centuries, that delivers the finest whiskey a man could hope to find." He raised his glass, and the sunlight from the window gave the liquid it contained a rich, golden hue.

"Now you're making me want to take a drink," Jack said with a laugh.

Welcome chuckled too. He pointed to a cabinet in the corner. "Help yourself," he said.

Jack did and when he returned to his chair, glass in hand, Welcombe said, "The reason I brought up distillation is because I believe something similar happens with people, Jack."

Jack took a sip of his whiskey. It was, as far as his admittedly limited experience could tell, very good. "How so?" he asked with a slight croak in his voice.

"Experience is the distiller. A man, say... someone like yourself... his experiences change him, refine him... distill him into something different. If he handles this process well, it can be an improvement. If not, he can end up not 'making the cut' as we'd say in the whiskey business."

Jack was intrigued by this - Welcombe was completely different than any club owner he'd ever met. He took another sip, and listened as Welcombe continued speaking.

"In your case, you've been a baseball player, a hockey player and a football player. Disparate experiences all, with some commonality, but each offering its own distillation to your character." Welcombe paused, stood, and refilled his tumbler. He sipped before continuing, "I would say you've been triple-distilled Mr. Barrell. And I think you have come out of the ageing barrel - pardon the pun - a better man."

"Thank you, Mr. Welcombe. That's quite the compliment, and if I may say so, the most unique one I've received," Jack had a smile on his face and felt a bit flustered. He also had no earthly idea where this was going.

"I'd like to bring you back to Toronto, Jack," Welcombe said.

"Thank you again. But I am sure you know that last season... didn't turn out all that well," Jack said.

"Ah, too true, too true. I do know that." Welcombe paused and pointed at Jack, "I also know that it was just part of your own distillation, and that you're a finer man for it. Plus," he paused again and took another sip. "I am not asking you back as a player."

Jack, who had been looking out the window, snapped his gaze back to Welcombe who laughed.

"Let me clarify. I do want you to play for the Dukes next season. But... more importantly, I want you to coach them."

"Me? Coach?"

"Sure. You can play as long as you'd like, but at the end of the day, when you hang up the skates... I want you to stay on as coach." Welcombe grinned and added, "That's where I believe you belong, and I want to hire you before anyone else catches on."

Jack's head was spinning - and not simply from the whiskey. A coach? He'd never really considered it.

"Thank you again, sir. I'd be happy to give it a go," Jack said after a moment's contemplation. Marie might not like it, but the idea had a certain appeal to it and he knew he could manage her reservations.

"Oh, and if you'd like to try your hand at baseball again? Just say the word," Welcombe said.

"Baseball? No, those days are behind me. As, most likely, is football. Hockey has always been my first love. Perhaps it's time I gave it all I have," Jack said firmly.


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