[legendsport]

PRELUDE

Maplewood, New Jersey: June 17, 2025

Paul Crowe stared at his reflection in the mirror, frowning at the bags under his eyes. “The old double nickel,” he muttered. One corner of his mouth curled into a wry half-grin. “Old being the operative term,” he added.

Cheryl walked in, slapped him on the rear, and said, “Happy birthday,” as she passed on her way to the shower.

“Thanks,” he replied, then sighed.

“Fifty-five isn’t the end of the world, Paul.” Cheryl had always been good at picking up on his moods. When he mentioned this, she barked a short laugh. “Well, all the sighing tends to provide ample clues.”

Cheryl was two months older than Paul, and her birthday back in April hadn’t fazed her one bit. “Age is just a number,” she’d said when he brought up her nonchalance about aging. Of course, in his opinion, she still looked great. His opinion of his own looks, on the other hand, was far less charitable.

“Stop obsessing,” Cheryl said as she turned on the shower. “And scoot — I’d like to shower in peace.”

Paul sighed again and left the bathroom. The dog, lying at the foot of their bed, raised his head as Paul walked into the room. They’d added the beast during COVID; it had been Cheryl’s idea — she’d been more bothered by being cooped up at home. Now Paul had to take him for a walk several times a day. The dog was a goldendoodle, a breed name that frankly seemed ridiculous to Paul. Designer dogs… what would they think up next?

“Let’s go, Sunny,” he said, and the dog popped up happily, wagging his tail and jumping off the bed. Sunny… that’s what you get when you’re married to a meteorologist, Paul mused. Back in their younger days, he’d once called her a “weather girl” and earned the cold shoulder for a month. She still had her gig at one of the local New York stations, on-air at noon and five p.m.

Later, Paul sat in the kitchen drinking coffee and nibbling bacon, the dog asleep at his feet after their walk around the neighborhood. Cheryl walked in, grabbed a grapefruit, and expertly cut it up before joining him at the table.

“I don’t know how you eat those things,” Paul groused. It was an old habit - but then, they were an old married couple. Thirty years come September.

“And I don’t know how much longer you’ll eat that,” she retorted, pointing to his bacon, “before you have a heart attack.”

Paul munched in silence, debating when to tell her about the book offer.

It had come the week before - a sequel to his Barrell Brothers book. The publisher had been more than pleased with Paul’s self-described “magnum opus,” which had sold well, especially digitally. To say that journalism and publishing had changed since Paul started his career would be an understatement. But The Ballad of the Brothers Barrell had been a success, and now the publisher wanted him to continue the story.

“It’s not like the family has completely faded from the public eye,” his agent had said.

Paul eyed his wife — a member of that family herself, old Rufus Barrell’s great-great-granddaughter — and she was, indeed, in the public eye, albeit not as an athlete. (Though she was a very good golfer and had played tennis in college.)

“What’s going on?” Cheryl asked.

“Huh?” Paul replied, torn from his reverie.

“I can tell when you’re mulling something over,” she said.

“Oh…” Paul trailed off.

Cheryl gave him a stern look and raised an eyebrow.

“I’ve been asked to do a follow-up to The Ballad of the Brothers Barrell,” he said.

Cheryl’s other eyebrow rose to join its counterpart. “Really?”

Paul frowned. “Yes — that’s not exactly shocking. The first book was successful.”

“I know. I’ve seen the checkbook,” Cheryl replied, now frowning herself.

“What’s the hook?” she asked.

“The later generations — the kids of Rufus’s kids, and so on,” Paul said. He knew she wouldn’t like this; it could - would - cut too close to home for her comfort.

“So on…” she muttered.

Paul tried to lighten the mood. “I’ll call it The Song of the Sisters Slocum,” he said with a grin.

Cheryl’s face twisted in anger, and he instantly regretted the jape.

“You’d better not,” she growled.

He held up his hands. “That was a joke,” he said quickly. “I don’t even know if I want to do it,” he added.

She shook her head. Paul knew that despite her complaining about the first book, she had enjoyed talking about her family’s roots and been gratified by the book’s success.

“What’s the scope? Time frame?” she pressed.

“We’d probably start in the late sixties — 1968 has been bandied about,” he said.

Now Cheryl’s frown deepened. “1968?”

Paul nodded.

“That means…”

“Yes, that means I’d need to talk to ‘The World’s Oldest Hippie,’” he said.

Cheryl rolled her eyes. “Oh, she’ll love that,” she said. It was a long-standing joke between them - Paul’s nickname for his mother-in-law, the “World’s Oldest Hippie,” often shortened to “Woh,” pronounced “Woah.”

“You’d better be careful,” Cheryl warned. Then she popped a piece of grapefruit into her mouth, grimaced, and added, “And I want approval on what goes in there about… you know.”

Paul did know. And he nodded in agreement.