[legendsport]

Chapter 4 - Trials

Charlotte, North Carolina: April 4, 1968

The dormitory hall was full of students, everyone babbling incoherently. It was minutes before Brenda Slocum could wedge her hand between the pay phone's receiver cord and the wall. News crackled through someone's staticy transistor radio: King shot in Memphis… condition critical… She squeezed the receiver harder, as if she could make the voice change the story.

She dialed home immediately. Her father answered on the second ring.

“Daddy... did you hear?”

“I heard.”

“How... how can something like that happen?”

James Slocum sat at his desk in the back of the race-shop, the air smelling of oil and burnt rubber. He sighed. “Because there are hateful, evil people in the world,” he said flatly.

“I’m going to change that,” she declared.

He sighed again; this was exactly what he expected... and feared. “Just don’t get yourself crushed trying.”

“I won’t,” she promised, and hung up.

A moment later he leaned back, staring at the silent phone. Rose Slocum stepped in. “Who was that?”

“Brenda. Wants to change the world.”

Rose smiled sadly. “She gets that pig-headed ‘me-against-the-world’ thing from you... Well, from your father, through you, I guess.”

James huffed a laugh. “Maybe it’s in the blood. Doesn’t make me feel any better.”

“Me neither,” Rose said softly.

Outside, the shop radio switched from country to a bulletin: Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. is dead in Memphis. Neither of them moved.

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Los Angeles, California: April 8, 1968

In the Barrells’ home gym, Ralph Barrell lay on the bench press, arms trembling as the bar hovered above his chest.

“I don’t know if this muscle-head stuff is going to work,” he grunted.

“Stronger is better,” said his brother Bobby Jr.

Their father pushed open the door, followed by Annette O’Boyle Barrell. “What are you boys doing?” he asked.

“Trying to keep up with you,” Ralph said.

Bobby Sr. chuckled, peeled off his shirt, and lay down on the bench. The weights clanged three times... easy, rhythmic. He racked the bar with a grin. “Shoot, that’s easy. Never needed weights to get strong.” He flexed and winked at Annette.

Annette rolled her eyes. “Not everyone’s a genetic freak, dear.”

The sons laughed. Bobby Sr. pointed at Ralph. “See ball, hit ball. That’s how simple it really is, son.”

After their parents left, Ralph wiped his face with a towel. “Easy for him to say.”

Bobby Jr. laughed. “That’s why I hit quarterbacks for a living. They’re a lot slower than a fastball.”

Outside, sirens wailed downtown; the city braced for the riots sweeping the country. Inside, the clang of iron drowned it out... for now.

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Washington, D.C.:April 9 1968

FABL headquarters postponed Opening Day “out of respect.” Across the nation, clubhouses went silent; players watched television coverage of cities burning.

In Pittsburgh, Harry Barrell stared at the lineup card he wouldn’t fill out until the tenth. He poured bourbon into a coffee cup and whispered, “World’s on fire again.”

Across town, Reid Barrell tossed underhand pitches to kids at a youth clinic - one of them his 10-year-old half-brother Leland, all of them lost in the simple rhythms of the game. It was an all-too-brief respite from the ugly realities of the world.

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Los Angeles: April 10 1968

Sunlight broke over a clear Pacific morning as the postponed Opening Day finally arrived. Flags in every park flew at half-mast. Fans stood in uneasy silence for the anthem, the grief of the nation brushing against the ritual of another season.

In the Stars’ dugout, Ralph flexed his hands inside his batting gloves. They seemed smaller than usual. “You ready?” a teammate asked.

He nodded. “Yeah. Time to play.”

Somewhere in Vietnam, Major Mike Barrell caught the game broadcast hours later on Armed Forces Radio, the echo of the crowd a faint hiss through static. He closed his eyes, heard the crack of the bat, then went back to work.

The season rolled forward under a sky no one trusted. The games went on, but something in the air had changed; the rhythm slower, the cheers thinner, the silence between innings suddenly meaningful.

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Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania: May 14 1968

The dugout buzzed as Reid Barrell ripped a double off the wall. Six wins in seven games and the ballpark finally felt alive.

The next day he lingered near the cage after batting practice. “I’m seeing the ball better this year,” he said.

Harry smiled faintly. “You still strike out too much.”

That was the day the flask found its way into Harry’s pocket. He stumbled in the tunnel, bruised his forehead, and managed the game anyway.

Afterward Reid met him in the corridor. “Good thing you have a hard head,” he said. “Hard enough to get help with that drinking.”

Harry stared, swallowed his usual retort, and walked away.

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Boston, Massachusetts: May 30 1968

In the quiet locker room after the sixth - and last - game of the Federal Basketball League finals, Steve Barrell sat alone at his locker while the St. Louis Rockets celebrated across the hall.

Another great season, another empty ending. He chided himself - here he was moping while half-a-world away kids were being killed in Johnson's dim-witted folly of a war.

A week later a letter arrived from Louisville- home of the CBL's Spirits. It seemed he'd caught the attention of the "rebel" league. His eyes widened at the salary offer. He called his mother.

“Listen to this, Mom,” he said and then read the letter aloud.

Gladys Barrell, as savvy a basketball exec as anyone in the country, listened. “I won’t tell you what to do, Steve. My suggestion is give it time... let it play out.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll give it time.”

His eyes strayed back to the salary. That is a big number, he thought.

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West Berlin, Germany: June 5 1968

Early morning in the divided city. Fred enjoyed the bustle, looking out his window in the U.S. Mission. He was sipping coffee when the teletype clacked into life. Fred Barrell read the strip:
*Senator Robert F. Kennedy assassinated in Los Angeles.*

He exhaled. “Feels like the world’s on fire,” he murmured.

“Every week something else burns,” his aide said.

“Maybe it’s all the same fire,” Fred replied.

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Jackson, Mississippi: June 18 1968

The call came after midnight. Ace Barrell had been traded to Pittsburgh. He mentally corrected himself - he was heading to... he thought about it... probably Spokane? He was one of five minor leaguers being traded for star 2B Dixie Turner and a catcher.

“Well,” he said, “at least I’m getting traded for a Hall of Famer.”

He told his father later during their regular phone conversation.

“ERA 4.13, record 4-4,” he said. “Strictly pedestrian. I must be cursed, Pop.”

Deuce Barrell chuckled. “You control what you can, son. Keep plugging, you'll get there.”

After the call ended, Ace stepped outside, tossing a baseball into the yellow streetlight until it vanished and came back down again, over and over, until his arm ached pleasantly.

The summer of ’68 came on like a fever. Games played out against a backdrop of sirens and headlines. The ballparks stayed bright and green, but everywhere else, the colors bled together. Nobody knew what kind of world they’d be playing in by October.

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Louisville, Kentucky: August 3 1968

The contract sat on the hotel desk beside a sweating glass of bourbon.
Steve Barrell read it again. Louisville Spirit wanted him to be their star. Boston hadn’t called. Steve figured that meant they were taking it for granted. But the basketball world had changed and players weren't limited to whatever the FBL wanted to throw their way. He tapped the pen on the glass while he thought.

He signed. The pen made a neat blue line.

Later he called his mother. “I did it.”

“Think it’s the right move?” Gladys asked. Steve had a strong intuition that his mother approved. She was something of a rebel herself.

“I think it’s the first move I’ve made in a while,” he said, watching the river lights tremble below his window.

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Spokanem, Washington: July 10 1968

Seven innings, one run, ten strikeouts, another loss.

"Good game, Ace," the skipper told him as he came into the dugout.

Ace sat on the dugout step. “Not if you check the column that counts,” he muttered.

That night on the phone his father said, “Son, that’s baseball. You control what you can and hope the other guys help you out.”

“Yeah,” Ace said softly. “Easier said than done.”

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Chicago, Illinois: August 15 1968

Harry Barrell watched the kid from Montreal throw in the visitor's bullpen. The "session" was a favor from the Chiefs, whose owner had been a close friend of this particular kid's granddad.

He was smooth, and had a live arm. Reminded Harry of his brother Tom, without the grouchy edge.

“Maybe there’s one more good Barrell left,” he murmured. Ace Barrell - his brother Joe's grandkid - was passing through en route from Spokane to Gary. A deserved promotion for the kid.

That night the “celebration” turned into another half-empty bottle and a missed breakfast.

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Chicago: August 28 1968

The air stung of tear gas and sweat. Gladys Barrell hadn’t meant to wander this close to Grant Park; she’d come downtown to visit a friend from her church group and found herself swept into the tide of chanting students. A helicopter thundered low overhead, its spotlight cutting through the dusk like a blade.

She covered her mouth with a handkerchief as the first canister hissed nearby. People scattered—shouting, coughing, some falling. From across Michigan Avenue came the rhythmic chant: The whole world is watching!

Gladys pressed herself against a lamppost, clutching her purse as mounted police surged past. For a moment she thought of her sons: Mike half a world away in Vietnam, Steve starting over in Louisville, and felt the city, the nation, the entire century wobble beneath her feet.

When the street finally cleared, she looked up at the Hilton windows flashing TV lights and whispered, “Lord, help us find some peace again.”

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St. Louis, Missouri: August 26–29 1968

Hotel bar TV showing Chicago in smoke. The Democratic Convention looked like a battlefield.

Harry stared at the screen. “Same country,” he said, “but it don’t look like the same game.”

Nobody argued.

He raised his glass in a mock toast. "Here's to the freedom fighters," he said disdainfully.

Nobody argued that either.

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Da Nang, South Vietnam - September 1968

Major Mike Barrell sat on a cot outside the temporary HQ tent, watching the last helicopter lift off into the humid dusk. He had three months left on this tour - his third - but the days no longer added up; they blurred into one long nightmare punctuated by the whine of insects and the thump of distant artillery.

He took out a letter half-finished weeks ago.

*Ruby Lee—
I don’t write enough, I know. The days get lost here. Sometimes it feels like I’ve lived three lifetimes since Tet. We call it progress, but the map lines never stay still. Tell the kids I’m fine.*

He folded the page, slid it back into the envelope without signing. Across the camp a transistor radio murmured news from home; protests in Chicago, something about Nixon leading the polls. Mike lay back, staring at the fading contrails overhead, and thought, Maybe that’s all this war is—smoke that never goes away.

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Bethesda, Maryland: September 19 1968

Season over. Dwayne Cleaves sat with his father Roger on the porch. His balky hamstring had him miss about half the season, and the half he did play was no great shakes. He'd groused to his father, for all the good that did.

“Stick it out,” Roger said. “Nothing’s gained by quitting.”

Across the country, Dwayne's cousin Billy McCullough told his father he just needed a chance. He'd been healthy all season, and got into all of 42 games across three different levels - including a humiliating stint in rookie ball. Again.

Charley McCullough laughed. “Every man on that squad is hustling for that chance, son. Make yourself stand out.”

“If being great was easy…” Billy began.

“Then great would be average,” Charley finished.

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Pittsburgh: October 1 1968

Reid Barrell: 17 HR, 87 RBI, .249 AVG, 119 K.

Harry clapped his son’s back. “We’ll get that average up next year.”

“Sure, Pop. Next year.”

Harry wasn't done. "And we'll get those strikeouts down, too."

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Los Angeles: October 1 1968

Ralph Barrell circled the bases after another home run - his 28th, good for the league lead in this offensive desert of a season. It helped cement his team’s 116th win, a new record.

After the game his cousin (and former team mate) Charlie called. “Now that I’ve retired, maybe you can beat the Chiefs.”

Ralph laughed. “Ah, you guys got lucky last year, and you know it, Charlie. This time'll be different.”

Now it was Charlie's turn to laugh. "Go get 'em Ralphie," he said fondly.

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Pittsburgh: October 2 1968

The next morning Harry Barrell got the call from GM Johnny Shaw.

“Harry, we’re going another way next year.”

Harry laughed once, no humor. “Who’s the lucky bastard?”

“Looks like Don Fox.”

“Well,” Harry said, “that guy’s about as much fun as a case of hemorrhoids. Good luck.”

When he told Reid, his son just nodded. “You should take some time, Pop. Get some help. Maybe you and Ruth go someplace warm.”

Harry forced a grin. “We can afford it. She’s got enough money for both of us.”

He didn’t meet his son’s eyes.

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Washington, D.C.: Same Day

Roger Cleaves got the same message in different words.

“Your contract’s up, Roger. We’re going another direction.”

He exploded. “You’re making a mistake!”

The GM sighed. “Your temper’s one of the reasons we’re not renewing. We have ballplayers here, not Marine Corps recruits.”

Roger left without another word, the door closing hard behind him.

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Montreal, Quebec: October 7 1968

The press conference was packed. Harry Barrell, newly hired to manage the Saints, stood grinning behind the microphone.

“We’re going to turn this thing around,” he said. “FABL’s new divisions make it easier to reach the postseason, but I won’t let that stop me.”

The reporters laughed.

That afternoon he called Roger Cleaves.

“Come be my right-hand man. Good cop, bad cop.”

Roger chuckled. “Can I be the good cop?”

Harry laughed, then heard the seriousness creep into Roger’s tone.

“Ease up on the bottle, Harry. The whole league knows.”

“I’ll think about it,” Harry said, knowing he wouldn’t - not yet.

In the end, Roger agreed.

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Los Angeles: October 11 1968

The Stars beat the Chiefs four games to two.
Ralph hit .360, drove in five, and smiled through the champagne.
When the reporters asked what it meant, he said, “It means Dad can stop worrying about me for one season.”

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Los Angeles: October 26 1968

At the Whitney Award banquet, Ralph’s name was called again—his second time, the first since ’64.
His father, Bobby Barrell, was the first on his feet.

He hugged his son afterward. “You got four to go, son.”
Then, quieter: “Proud of you. You worked for it.”

Ralph just nodded, the gold trophy heavy in his hands.

The season ended under gray skies. Players cleared out their lockers, families scattered, headlines shifted from box scores to politics. In the distance, new seasons were already forming: football, basketball, hockey, and the kind of winter only 1968 could invent. But for now, the bats were silent, and the world seemed to wait for its next pitch.

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Kansas City, Missouri - November 1968

Election night. The Cowboys’ locker room was empty except for Bobby Barrell Jr. taping his wrists after practice. A radio played softly: Nixon claims victory… promises peace with honor…

Junior shut it off. He wasn’t sure what “honor” meant anymore. Fourteen sacks so far, the best season of his career, yet he felt like a spectator in the bigger game everyone else was losing. He picked up the wrestling flyer tucked in his gym bag and smiled. “Maybe I’m a showman at heart,” he murmured.

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Detroit, Michigan - November 12 1968

On an arena TV, the hockey highlights played between campaign coverage. Benny Barrell crashed the net for another goal; his younger brother Hobie Barrell followed with a hat trick, grinning beneath his helmet.

In the stands, their mother Tillie whispered to Fred, “At least our boys keep scoring.”

Fred managed a faint smile. “Somebody has to.”

For a fleeting moment, the cold rink felt like the only sane place left in the world.

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Los Angeles - December 1968

A small club off Sunset. The band onstage was called The Transients. At the mic stood Brenda Slocum, barefoot, tambourine in hand, hair down past her shoulders, preaching peace and love to a crowd of college kids and drifters.

A local reporter asked her afterward what she hoped to accomplish.

Brenda smiled, eyes bright. “I’m going to change the world.”

He scribbled something on his pad and muttered, “Guess you’re the world’s most hopeful hippie.”

She laughed. “Then maybe the world’s got a chance.”

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Montreal, Quebec - Christmas Eve 1968

Snow fell soft against the window of Harry Barrell’s rented house. He'd just returned from visiting with Jack and Marie. Ruth was getting ready for bed and the kids were already asleep. He missed Reid... and Sarah... and Barbara. The bottle on the table was still half-full, the phone beside it silent. He stared at both, then reached for neither. Instead he opened the Saints’ roster file, scrawled notes in the margin, and whispered, “One more good year.”

Across the border and hundreds of miles south in Bethesda, Roger Cleaves trimmed the tree with his wife Evelyn and sons Dwayne and Dick. The television played a replay of the Apollo 8 astronauts reading Genesis from lunar orbit. Evelyn took Roger’s hand.

“See?” she said softly. “Maybe we’ll make it after all.”

Roger squeezed back. “Maybe.”

In Georgia, Ruby Lee Barrell set the children’s gifts beneath the tree, then read Mike’s latest letter aloud: *Tell the kids I’ll be home before next Christmas.* She smiled at the words, though the paper smelled faintly of smoke.

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The year had changed them all, but the song kept playing.

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