December 12, 1949: Philadelphia, PA:
Annette Barrell stood in the kitchen of the home she shared with her husband, Bobby, and their two children, nine-year-old Ralph and six-year-old Bobby Jr., whom they called simply "Junior." She gazed out at the shed in the backyard, lost in thought and remembrance of what had transpired the previous night.
Bobby Barrell had long since established himself as a legend on the baseball diamond. He held the single-season home run record, was the second man to reach 600 home runs, had over 3500 hits, and was at or near the top of a slew of other hitting categories as well. The Philadelphia Keystones had made him the highest-paid player in history—his current salary higher than even the immortal Max Morris back in the latter's 1920s heyday. But Bobby had been in a funk for the past year. Sure, he'd "done his job," as he put it: the 1949 season had seen him hit .289 with 39 homers and 108 RBIs while eclipsing both the aforementioned 600 homer and 3500 hit thresholds. Yet he did it all under a self-inflicted cloud. He was 39 years old, and both his parents had died the previous year. Annette had been worried for a while before the events of the previous Friday.
The boys had come home from school, and Bobby had been puttering around the house. Then he'd disappeared.
"Ralphie, have you seen your father?" Annette had asked as she was finishing dinner.
"Nope, not since I got home from school," her son had replied. Junior had said much the same a moment earlier.
Frowning, Annette had looked out the same kitchen window at the shed. She grabbed her coat off the hook and quietly slipped out the back door of her home, her coat pulled tight around her. Stepping into the crisp air of the backyard, Annette slowly made her way to the shed. This small wooden shed was where Bobby often sought solace amidst the relics of his past. Through the frosted window pane, she glimpsed him, hunched over his worktable, a bat in hand and a weathered bone resting beside it. It was a ritual she had observed countless times, Bobby running the bone along the contours of his beloved bat, lost in thought.
That bat had been a gift from Bobby's father. Rufus had given it to him on the occasion of his first game in the FABL. Bobby had never used it in a game, it was simply too precious to him and he would be devastated if he ever broke it.
An Olympic athlete herself once upon a time, Annette was intimately familiar with the inner workings of an athlete's mind and understood the silent battles Bobby waged within himself. She knew that beneath the veneer of stoicism lay a heart heavy with the weight of impending decisions. Decisions that he probably should make in tandem with her, but she forced down any resentment about this and made a decision herself.
Returning to the warmth of the house, Annette knew she couldn't face this alone. She reached for the telephone, dialing the number engraved in her memory. Tom, Bobby's older brother and the manager of the Brooklyn Kings, was her lifeline in moments like these.
As Annette poured out her concerns to Tom, she felt a glimmer of hope stir within her. Tom's steady voice offered reassurance, a beacon of wisdom in the stormy sea of uncertainty. He promised to come, to lend his ear and his counsel to his troubled brother.
Days later, as the winter sun cast long shadows across the Barrell household, Tom and his wife Marla arrived, their presence a balm to soothe the ache in Annette's heart. Together, they sat with Bobby, sharing stories of triumph and tribulation, reminding him of the indomitable spirit that had carried him through the highs and lows of his career.
"Take it from me, Bob," Tom said in a soft tone that sounded strange to Annette's ear. Tom Barrell was not typically the quiet, stoic type. "You need to make the most of the time you have left," Tom continued.
Bobby looked into his brother's eyes. "You have regrets, Tommy?" he asked.
Tom looked at his wife for a moment, then nodded. "Sure. Sometimes," he said then frowned and added, "Hell, yes, I have regrets. My body broke down on me. You're heading to the Hall when you're done, you galoot, but you get to go out on your own terms."
A moment of quiet fell on the room. Tom teared up a bit. Bobby, seeing this, averted his gaze, but Marla placed her hand on her husband's and he spoke again, this time in a near-croak. "I'd give my left arm to be where you are, Bob. So would Harry, I'd wager, and he's had a fantastic career himself."
Bobby simply nodded, a weary look on his face. Tom took a deep breath and offered his final words. "Look, Bob, you do what you think is right. But when you walk away, it's forever. So if you have any love for it, any thought about how much you'll miss it, then you need to keep playing. The fans, your teammates... none of them really matter. You need to do what's right for you. That's how Pop would want it."
Bobby nodded again and wiped at his own eyes. Then he looked up at Tom and said, "Your left arm, you say?"
Tom grinned and said, "Of course. I'd need the right one to pitch, wouldn't I?"
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Annette Barrell at home, Winter 1949-50
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