Toronto, ON: January 23, 1950:
Fred Barrell heard a small commotion behind him and, figuring he knew the reason, grinned at his wife. "I guess Jack's here."
Tillie turned her head to look. "Yep, there he is," she said with a smile of her own.
Jack Barrell drew attention wherever he went. Fred felt both relieved and a little jealous of his older brother. While Fred was the manager of the Toronto Wolves, having been in that job for only one season, Jack was both a legendary player and a Challenge Cup-winning coach in Toronto, and it seemed like everyone recognized him.
Sensing his thoughts, Tillie asked, "You're jealous?"
Fred shrugged and admitted, "A little. But it is nice to be able to be out in public and not cause a ruckus everywhere I go."
To be fair, there had been more than a few autograph requests when the parents of Hobie's teammates on his Under-9 hockey team discovered that Hobie Barrell's father was one of -those- Barrells. Fred was old-hat, but having Jack show up for one of the games... that was a big deal.
Fred turned and caught his brother's eye. Jack grinned at him, and Fred returned the smile and nodded.
Fred himself was still getting used to hockey. Hobie had taken to the sport like a fish to water. Jack, who had been to a couple of games when his Toronto Dukes schedule allowed it, said that Hobie's affinity for the sport reminded him of his own childhood. "And to think it was Grandpa Reid who introduced me to the sport," Jack said with a sense of fond remembrance for their maternal grandfather, a man who had been a baseball player, manager, and executive and introduced his grandchildren to sports other than baseball. Boxing for Joe, golf for Rollie, and hockey for Jack.
Tillie grabbed her husband's arm. A line change had brought Hobie into the game. He was still a bit behind some of the other boys in his skating, but he clearly possessed the natural athleticism that ran like a strong river through the Barrell family, and his stickwork, according to Jack, was exceptional for an 8-year-old. And like his uncle, the coaches had put him on defense. Jack believed that eventually, as his skating improved, they'd end up moving him to forward.
Jack managed to make his way through his well-wishing (and autograph-seeking) fans and sat down next to Fred.
"How's he doing?" Jack asked.
"Looks good to me," Fred admitted, adding, "But you'd know better than I would."
Jack, having no sons of his own, was thrilled both to have his brother in town and to have one of his nephews take a shine to hockey. "The kid's a natural," Jack said. "And I wouldn't lie to you about that, Freddy," he added, unnecessarily. Their father's main tenet as a scout had been to never oversell a prospect - honesty was the best policy, as was generally true for everything Rufus Barrell had said or done.
"How are things?" Fred asked.
Jack smiled, and it was a genuine smile. "Good," he said. "Marie's happy, the girls are happy, my team's playing well..." Jack trailed off, then his grin grew wider, and he added, "Living the dream, little brother."
Fred chuckled and shook his head. Jack did look happy, and that warmed his heart.
When Jack asked how he was doing, Fred paused a moment, and it was Tillie who answered.
"It's been tough," she said in her usual, full-steam-ahead, blunt manner.
"Tough how?" Jack asked, turning to her as the grin dropped from his face.
"Mostly the kids," Tillie clarified. "Junior's unhappy, Benny has gotten into one or more scraps at school every week... only Hobie seems happy, and that's only since hockey season started. Even the baby has been driving me crazy."
"It hasn't been that bad," Fred demurred, drawing a sharp look from his wife.
"Oh, yes, it has," she shot back. She looked at Jack and said, "Fred is too proud to say it, but I think he worries that he's gotten himself in over his head with the Wolves."
"That's not true," Fred replied hotly, but his cheeks were reddening in embarrassment.
"It is true. You would never admit it, but I can tell," Tillie told him.
Jack frowned. "Well... it might be working for Millard. That guy is a peach, and not in a good way," he told Tillie.
"Oh, I know," she replied. "But it's more than that. The team underachieved this season, and Fred thinks it's all on him."
Fred was shaking his head, and a grimace creased his face.
"Do you think it was a mistake?" Jack asked his brother. Fred knew what he meant: he'd uprooted his family and moved them from Detroit, where he'd had a job to which he was well-suited and talented as the scouting director for the Dynamos, to trying his hand at leading a ballclub from the dugout. And where Tom - who was managing the Brooklyn Kings - was fiery and emotional, which sometimes resonated with athletes, Fred was reserved and cerebral, which sometimes did not. Jack was more in the fiery vein, and had wondered how Fred's personality would mesh with his ballclub.
Fred ruminated for a moment and then shook his head. "No, it wasn't a mistake," he replied, his mouth set firmly. "I'm going to bring this team around. The kids... that's the bigger issue and one I think will ultimately be sorted out by time and Tillie," he added, smiling at his wife who shook her head, but looked pleased.
"I had some of the same when I moved from Detroit... at least as far as dealing with kids who didn't want to move," Jack said, remembering the reaction of his daughters at leaving their friends behind. Fred also knew that Aggie had suffered through some tough times in the years after the war until she'd found Quinton Pollack who was now her husband as well as the star of the Toronto Dukes hockey club that Jack was coaching.
Jack slapped his brother on the shoulder. "Things at home will work out. Your kids are good kids, and you have the two things you'll need: perseverance and a wife who's smarter than you are."
Fred and Tillie both laughed, and Tillie slapped Jack on the arm fondly.
Jack grabbed his brother's shoulder in a strong grip. "As for your team... if you need someone to come by and whip them into shape, I still have a few body checks left in my old body."
The two brothers turned their attention to the game. Hobie played well, and showed a willingness to be physical when necessary as well as his blossoming talent with the stick, making a strong check, then scooping up the puck and threading a perfect pass through traffic to a teammate, who scored, earning Hobie an assist.
"Like I said," Jack told Fred: "The kid's a natural."
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Hobie Barrell, age 8, 1950
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