[legendsport]

2 - The Boys of Spring

Pittsburgh Miners Camp, Bradenton, Florida: February 20, 1968:

The sun was barely up when Harry Barrell stepped out of his office, coffee steaming in one hand, a lineup card in the other. The morning air carried the scent of cut grass and liniment - spring training’s own brand of promise. Harry breathed it in - hoping it cut the final edges off his hangover.

He squinted toward the batting cages where Reid Barrell, now twenty-seven, dug in for early work. The kid had filled out — broader through the chest, shoulders set like steel hinges. The next pitch came inside, and Reid turned on it, sending a liner screaming into the right-field seats.

Harry let out a slow whistle. “Thatta boy,” he muttered, pride sliding out before he could stop it.

Clarence Howerton, the Miners' bench coach ambled up beside him. “Kid’s finally figuring it out, huh?”

“About damn time,” Harry said. “Maybe he inherited his mother’s patience.”

The coach smirked. “Speaking of which - any word from Sarah?”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “No.”

He didn’t add that he still kept her letters, or that his daughter Barbara hadn’t returned his calls in two years. They both thought he’d run around on Sarah, but the truth was simpler and sadder — too much road, too many nights away from his family. That, and a now brother-in-law who was a pathetic, lying s.o.b.

Another crack of the bat drew his gaze back to Reid, who launched a ball halfway to the practice parking lot. The kid dropped the bat, grinning, and jogged toward him.

“Morning, Pop,” Reid said, sweat glistening on his neck.

“Morning,” Harry replied, keeping his tone neutral. “If you keep hitting like that, I might just make it through this season without drinking myself blind.”

Reid laughed. “That’d be a first.”

Harry’s smirk twitched, almost a smile. “Don’t push your luck, son.”

For a fleeting second, the old affection between them surfaced — then, as always, Harry buried it under gruffness. Still, when Reid walked off toward the clubhouse, Harry watched him go, feeling a stubborn ache of pride he wouldn’t trade for anything.

-----------------------------

Palm Springs, California: L.A. Stars Camp

The desert sun came up hard over the San Jacintos, baking the outfield grass before breakfast. Ralph Barrell stood in the cage, his newly muscular frame coiled tight, waiting on the next pitch from the batting coach.

“Let’s see that Barrell lightning, kid!” someone called.

Ralph uncoiled. Crack. The ball rocketed off the barrel, caromed off the light-tower pole, and bounded into left. Another pitch, another missile — this one screaming past the screen. A few veterans from the next field stopped their stretch drills to watch.

When it was over, Ralph stepped out of the cage, chest heaving. The coach grinned. “Been eatin’ nails?”

“Just breakfast and bad memories,” Ralph said with a shrug.

He pulled off his gloves, flexing hands that felt stronger than ever. The winter of conditioning with his crazy, muscle-headed little brother had worked. For the first time since his injuries, the bat felt alive in his grip again.

Later, in the clubhouse, he overheard two beat writers talking.
“Kid’s finally hitting like a Barrell again.”
“Yeah, but you think the change’ll stick?”

Ralph smiled to himself. He didn’t answer aloud, but the thought burned clean: Yeah. it’ll stick. I’m just getting started.

-----------------------------

St. Petersburg, Florida: Montreal Saints Minor-League Camp

The morning heat shimmered above the bullpen as Ace Barrell worked through his throwing session. His father, Deuce Barrell, stood just outside the fence, arms folded. The younger coaches gave him a respectful distance — everyone knew he was there as a “volunteer special pitching coach for spring training,” not officially on staff, but no one argued when a 300-game-winner offered to help.

Ace finished his warm-up tosses, then stepped on the rubber for a live sequence. His fastball hissed; the catcher’s mitt popped sharp and true. A couple of scouts took notes behind the backstop.

Deuce waited until the set was over before calling, “You’re overthrowing, Ace.”

Ace turned. “Feels fine.”

“Yeah, it feels fine until you’re missing up in the zone.” Deuce stepped closer. “This isn’t high school anymore. These guys will hit your mistakes farther than you can walk to retrieve ’em.”

Ace smirked. “You saying I don’t know that?”

Deuce grinned back. “I’m saying you haven’t learned it yet.”

For a long beat they stared at each other, mirrors a generation apart.

Then Deuce flipped him the ball. “You’ve got the arm. The rest of it—discipline, guts, control—that’s where you make your name. You don’t need to be the next me, son. Be the first you.”

Ace nodded slowly. “All right, Pop. But I still plan on beating your strikeout record.”

Deuce chuckled. “Then I’ll buy the first round when you do.”

Ace wound up again, the ball whistling toward the plate — a sound that made both men feel, for the first time that spring, like the past and future had just shaken hands.

-----------------------------

Orlando, Florida: Seattle Kings Minor-League Camp

The sun beat down on the infield, and Billy McCullough dove headfirst into second on a steal attempt, coming up dusty and grinning.

“Save it for the season, kid!” the coach barked.

Billy spat a clump of infield grit and yelled back, “Can’t, Skip. I only know one speed.”

As he dusted himself off, a teammate chuckled. “You play baseball like it’s football.”

Billy’s grin widened. “Thanks,” he said. “That’s the best thing anyone’s said all week.”

Later, in the locker room, he opened his locker door and glanced at the small memento lovingly placed inside: a worn football card of Joe Barrell, his grandfather, smiling in an old Akron uniform. His mother, Gloria, had given it to him before he left for camp.

He touched the edge of the card, feeling the old cardboard give slightly beneath his thumb. “Guess I get it honest, eh, Gramps,” he murmured, then shoved the card back into its place and tied his cleats tight. Spitfire, they called him. He liked that fine.

-----------------------------

Clearwater, Florida: Washington Eagles Camp

The highway that split the two Eagles complexes was barely wide enough for a pair of golf carts, but it might as well have been a mile of history. On one side, the big-leaguers; on the other, the hopefuls.

Dwayne Cleaves tracked a high fly to deep left, legs pumping, glove slicing the sunlight. He pulled it down on the run, slid across the warning track, and came up grinning.

From the other side of the fence, his father Roger Cleaves, the big-club skipper, shaded his eyes. “Head down, son! You’re drifting again!”

“Yes, sir!” Dwayne tossed the ball to the cutoff man and jogged in, sweat pouring down his neck. The younger players eyed the sideline whispers — the major-league manager yelling at his own kid. It didn’t happen every day.

During a water break, Roger crossed the asphalt strip, clipboard tucked under one arm.
“You keep chasing ‘em like that, they’ll move you up before summer,” he said, voice quieter now.

Dwayne wiped his face with a towel. “Then you’ll have to find somebody else to holler at.”

Roger laughed. “Don’t worry — every club’s got a rookie who needs it.”

They stood a moment, father and son framed by palm trees and chain link, the noise of both camps swirling around them. Roger nodded toward the big-league field across the road.
“You keep working. That’s where you’ll be sooner than you think.”

“Yeah,” Dwayne said, smiling. “And when I get there, I’m batting cleanup.”

Roger clapped him on the shoulder. “Talk’s cheap, kid. Keep your front foot down and let the bat do the bragging.”

Dwayne grinned. “Yes, sir.”

As Roger walked back toward the major-league field, a scout nearby murmured, “That boy’s the same brand as his old man.”
Another replied, “Must run in the blood around here.”

Dwayne heard them, kicked a divot of turf, and whispered under his breath, “Sure hope it does.”

-----------------------------

Palm Springs, California: Sunset

The sky was streaked pink when Bobby Barrell settled onto the porch with his cigar. A few minutes later, Ralph stepped out, still in workout clothes, a thin sheen of sweat on his arms.

“How’s the swing feel?” Bobby asked.

“Better,” Ralph said, easing into the chair beside him. “Feels like it used to — before I started thinking so much.”

Bobby laughed softly. “That’s the trick, son. The minute you start thinking, you’re late.”

For a moment they listened to the radio drifting from the living room — spring-training highlights, talk of new rookies, the hum of a game that never really stopped.

“You ever wish you could do it again?” Ralph asked.

Bobby took a slow draw from his cigar, watching the smoke curl into the humid night. “Every morning,” he said. “But it’s your game now.”

The words hung between them, not melancholy but proud — an admission that time had done what even the best fastball couldn’t: moved past him.

A moment later, the announcer’s voice rose from the radio: “The Kings’ prospect Billy McCullough lighting up camp today…”

Bobby smiled faintly. “Another one of ours,” he said.

Ralph nodded. “Yeah. Same song, huh?”

Bobby chuckled. “Different tune.”

The waves rolled softly beyond the porch as the scene faded on two generations, bound by the game that had carried them all.

-----------------------------

Bradenton, Florida: The Bar at Closing Time

The jukebox had given up an hour ago. Cigarette smoke hung low, trapped by the ceiling fans. Harry Barrell sat at the end of the counter, his elbows on the varnish, half-finished bourbon warming in his hand.

The bartender wiped down the far end. “You gonna close me out, Skip, or should I just keep the lights dim?”

Harry smirked. “Keep ‘em dim. Makes me look better.”

The man chuckled, left him to his ghosts. On the stool beside him lay the Bradenton Gazette, its sports section folded open to a headline that read:
“Reid Barrell Making Noise in Miners Camp.”

Harry traced the letters with a thumb. He’d watched Reid all morning, seen the strength in that swing. The kid was everything Harry had once been - steady, confident, sober. He should have told him so.

Instead he’d barked about mechanics and hustle, same as always.

He lifted the glass, studied his reflection in the bar mirror — older now, lined and worn. The face staring back looked like every Barrell he’d ever known: stubborn and proud. But Harry had added his own twist: haunted.

He thought of Sarah, her laugh echoing from a life that felt two continents away, and of Barbara, their daughter, the last letter he'd sent her, marked "Return to Sender" and now sitting in the top drawer of his desk.

He took a slow sip and muttered, “You’d think by now I’d have learned when to shut up and just say I’m sorry.” He looked at his glass and added, "Even when I have nothing to apologize for..."

Outside, spring rain began to fall, pattering against the awning.

The bartender flicked off the last row of lights. Harry sat alone in the half-dark, the glow from the streetlamp catching the faint gold lettering of the headline beside him — his son’s name, bright against the paper, the promise of another morning waiting just beyond the door.