[legendsport]

Chapter 7 - Hello, Goodbye (1970)

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

Harry & Reid Barrell - Montreal, Quebec

February 1970
The ink was barely dry on the trade papers when Reid Barrell stepped off the train at Windsor Station, wearing his father’s old grin. “Guess I’m back in class,” he told reporters. Harry Barrell just patted his son’s shoulder and said, “Welcome home.”

"Feels like a Miners reunion," Reid told his father with a smile. Jack Barrell was there too, dignified in his bearing, which Reid found to be a change. He'd always remembered Jack as a tightly wound, highly competitive sort who exuded energy and purpose.
"I'm retired now," Jack told his nephew. Looking at Harry, he added, "I'll let my little brother carry the competitive torch for the old-line Barrells."

"Hey, I'm not old," Harry protested. "Just well-seasoned."

"And no longer pickled," Roger Cleaves cracked.

A week later, Harry, Roger, and Reid met up with the rest of the club at spring training in Florida. Harry was immediately impressed with his club's demeanor. "I can feel it," he told Roger. "This is going to be our year."

Reid nodded toward Dixie Turner taking grounders. “That guy drags everyone forward.”
Roger deadpanned, “Correction-he drives them. Dragging’s against the rules.”
Harry chuckled. “So’s hope in February. We’ll risk it anyway.”

And indeed it did seem destined: Reid’s arrival completed the circle - the father fired from Pittsburgh, the son traded away - and together they set about rewriting the Montreal Saints’ story. With Dixie Turner - another former Miner - anchoring the lineup, the team caught fire.

By July, Montreal had erased a sluggish start and turned into a juggernaut. Turner’s bat was a thunderclap (.324, 43, 157), Reid displayed newfound power with 33 homers and 108 RBIs, and the city that hadn’t smiled since 1921 finally had a reason to shout “Vive les Saints!” again.

When the Saints knocked out Los Angeles in four games in the Continental Association Championship Series, Harry told the press, “Last year they called it a miracle. This year it’s just good baseball.”

The World Championship Series against the Chicago Chiefs would test that claim. Montreal fell behind three games to one - then stormed back, taking three straight, including back-to-back shutouts in Games Six and Seven.

"Our bats are good, but our pitching's just as fine," Harry told reporters after the Game Seven shutout.

Reid’s bases-clearing double in the finale broke things open, and as the final out settled into a glove, Harry’s players hoisted him onto their shoulders.

Forty-nine years of frustration ended in champagne and tears. “We didn’t just win for ourselves,” Reid said afterward. “We won for every Saint who ever believed.”

Harry, standing beside him, simply nodded. “And for family,” he added.

A clubhouse kid pressed the cork from the last bottle into Harry’s palm. He slipped it into his pocket beside an AA chip and murmured, “Both kinds of saves count.”

--------------------
Ralph Barrell - Los Angeles, California

While Montreal was finding magic, Ralph Barrell and the Stars still looked every bit the dynasty - 99 wins, a powerhouse roster, and another deep October run. But in the ACS, the Saints flipped the script, taking the first two games in Los Angeles and stunning the baseball world.

When the series ended, Ralph shook Harry’s hand at home plate. “Hell of a team,” he said.
Harry smiled. “Guess I finally built one to beat you.”

Ralph hit .283 with 33 home runs and 128 RBIs on the year - numbers any man would envy - but he knew the torch had passed, at least for the moment. “They deserved it,” he told reporters. “I can guarantee one thing: we’ll be back.”

“Can I print that?” one writer asked.
“You can print it, skywrite it, toss it off Santa Monica Pier if you want,” Ralph said. “We’re champions to the core-and we’ll be back.”

That night, Ralph visited Charlie. "CCLA tomorrow, bright and early?" Ralph asked.

Charlie cocked an eyebrow. "Don't you need a rest?"

"Nope."

Charlie grinned and nodded. "Sure. I feel like I'm rusting away, so what the hell... I'm in."
--------------------
Billy McCullough - Nagoya, Japan

March 1970
After three seasons trying to get the Kings to promote him beyond Class A, Billy McCullough had enough. He packed his spikes, a pair of gloves, and his pride, telling reporters he was heading overseas to “play real baseball again.”

His father, Charley McCullough, didn’t take it well. “You’re burning bridges, son,” he warned. “The Kings hold your rights. You ever want back, you’ll have to crawl.”
Billy just smirked. “When I show what I can do in Japan, the Kings’ll beg me to come back.”

He signed with the Hosho Reliables of the Central League - based in Nagoya, a city where neon lights hummed over narrow streets and vendors sold noodles by the stadium gates. The Japanese game hit him like cold water: five-hour practices, endless infield drills, and pitchers who lived on off-speed breaking stuff that darted like minnows.

“Back home we take batting practice till we’re loose,” Billy wrote his father. “Here, we take it till the bat’s afraid of us.”

At first, the discipline and deference grated. Players bowed to coaches, to umpires, even to the groundskeepers. His new manager lectured on “wa” - harmony - and on putting the team above the self. Billy’s brash jokes landed with silence.

Fortunately, an older teammate stepped in. Hank Dunham, a former Kings and Foresters farmhand who’d been in Japan since ’62, became his translator, drinking buddy, and cultural guide.
“Relax,” Hank told him. “You don’t have to become Japanese. Just stop acting like you’re still in Cincinnati.”

By midsummer, Billy had adjusted to the “small-ball” game - bunts, hit-and-runs, and the constant chase for perfection. He played regularly, mostly at shortstop but also at third and second, and by season’s end was hitting .267 with 13 homers - solid numbers in a league where offense was scarce.

He wrote home in September:
*Hitting .270 here is like hitting .300 back home. You can’t imagine how much these pitchers move the ball. They throw strikes you can’t even see.*

For the first time, Billy stopped feeling like a fish out of water. The crowds clapped in rhythm instead of roaring, the umpires bowed to each bench before the game, and the Reliables fans chanted his name in careful English: “Be-ree! Be-ree!”

By the end of the season, he believed it - maybe, with hard work and patience, the Kings really would come calling someday.

--------------------
Tom Bowens Sr. - Los Angeles, California

Sometimes life just isn’t fair. Tom Bowens, head coach of CC Los Angeles and a former AFA receiving legend, led his Coyotes to an 11–1 season - the school’s best since 1947 - capped with a dramatic Bayside Classic win over College of Omaha, 30–27.

The team celebrated like national champions, but when the final poll came out, St. Blane claimed the crown at 10–2, despite a loss to that same Omaha team.

Tom was apoplectic, startling Betsy - her husband was normally even-keeled. Eventually, he settled down and accepted that the final rankings were beyond his control. He said as much at his final meeting with his players.
“We can still hold our heads high,” Bowens told them. “But we’ve only got ourselves to blame for that first week. Be proud. We did everything we could to be champions. The guys who run the poll-they’re not infallible. We’re champs…” He tapped his chest. “…in here.”

“Those of you who’ll be back next season-remember this feeling. Next time we leave no doubt.”

Betsy squeezed his hand as the room emptied. “You taught them to win twice,” she said. “Once on the field and once when the vote went the other way.”

--------------------
Bobby Barrell Jr. - Houston, Texas

After spending the spring watching his brother shine on the diamond, Junior Barrell threw himself into football training. Even Bobby Sr. was impressed by the maniacal way he prepared for the 1970 season.

Pairing up with linemates John Padgett and Mike Ouverson, the Drillers forged the most fearsome front in pro football. With the AFA and NFA newly merged, there was no debate - every quarterback in America feared them.

Junior notched 66 tackles and 16 sacks, earning Defensive Player of the Year. Houston went 13–1 and rolled into the playoffs as favorites to repeat.

In the tunnel before the conference title game, Junior pressed his helmet to the cinderblock and whispered his father’s old line: “Hands, eyes, feet-then fury.”

The Drillers stormed ahead 20–3, but the Washington Wasps clawed back. “Come on, guys!” Junior barked after another scoring drive cut it to 20–17. A last-second field goal forced overtime, and when Washington won the toss, Junior felt nerves for the first time all year.

They never saw the ball again. The Wasps marched 77 yards for the 26–20 win.

When Kansas City demolished Washington 51–0 in the championship, Junior shook his head. “We’d have given the Cowboys a real fight.”

He turned the television off. “Next year,” he told the dark screen, “you’ll have to come through us.”

--------------------
Steve Barrell - Louisville, Kentucky

May 1970
Confetti fell like snow inside Riverfront Pavilion as the Louisville Spirits claimed their second straight CBL Championship. Steve Barrell smiled for the cameras, but behind the grin he felt the truth - the knee hurt, the lift was gone, and the box scores didn’t lie: 10.9 points per game, down from 19.

After the celebration, he told Shirley, “I think I’m slowing down.”
“You’ll know when it’s time,” she said.
His mother echoed it later: “When the game stops giving, walk away proud.”

That night, he sat alone in the locker room, realizing the end no longer scared him - it just felt close.

Summer 1970
When the Spirits drafted Arnie Bell, a flashy point guard from Lane State, Steve knew what it meant. “They’re getting ready for after me,” he told Shirley, half amused, half wistful.

In September, he called coach John Robinson. “One more year,” he said.
Robinson was honest. “You’ll come off the bench, mentor the kid.”
Steve nodded. “As long as I help us win.”

First day of camp, Arnie tried a behind-the-back laser in scrimmage. Steve caught him at the elbow: “Save the fireworks for late clocks. Early clock? Two feet in the paint and an easy read.” By day’s end, Bell was echoing Steve’s calls.

He hung up his towel that night knowing the end wasn’t waiting anymore - it had already taken a seat beside him.

--------------------
Benny Barrell - Calgary, Alberta

July 7 brought a shock. Benny Barrell, a Motor through and through, was left unprotected in the expansion draft and picked by the brand-new Calgary Grizzlies.
“I figured I’d retire in Detroit,” he said. “Guess the engine needed tuning.”

He’d miss Hobie; playing with his brother had been a dream. The idea of facing him across the dot, though - that was exciting.

In Calgary’s preseason opener on September 25, Benny scored his first goal as a Grizzly at 7:34 of the third, assisted by former rival Tommy Gordon. “Expansion makes for strange times,” Benny joked afterward.

Calgary won 5–2, and as he hung the new sweater in his stall, Benny smiled. Maybe this second act wouldn’t be so bad.

--------------------
Hobie Barrell - Detroit, Michigan

The Motors were still Hobie’s team, but without his brother on the next stool, the room felt hollow. Rehabbing from a ruptured biceps tendon all summer, he spent long hours talking with Freddy Jr., his eldest brother and president of the Maroons football club - and with the woman he was finally ready to marry.

“Look on the bright side,” Freddy said. “When Ben blows his top, you won’t be in the firing line.” They both laughed; even their father admitted Benny had inherited the “Barrell temper.”

The first time the brothers faced off, Hobie tapped Benny’s blade at center ice - once, respectful. Benny won the draw clean and grinned. “Still just a hair quicker,” he chirped. Hobie scored that night anyway.

Hobie returned to action on November 26, firing eight shots with nothing to show but rust. Two nights later he earned an assist, and on November 29, against Montreal, he scored his first goal of the year.

By Christmas, he had 10 goals, 13 assists - and a fiancée. “Guess I’m learning to share the spotlight,” he told Freddy.
“About time,” his brother said.
Hobie thumbed the ring box in his pocket and smiled. “I’m keeping one secret from the beat guys-for once.”

--------------------
Jack & Quinton Pollack - Toronto & San Francisco

Jack Pollack never saw it coming. On June 8, Toronto traded him to the San Francisco Gulls - from legacy to limbo in one call.
His father, Quinton, told him quietly, “Keep plugging. Make them sorry.”
Jack knew that meant Quinton was furious.
“What about you?” he asked.
“One more year,” Quinton said. “Then it’s time.”

By fall, Jack centered the Gulls’ third line under coach Ed McRae, learning the hard way how to be a pro.
“Your dad said you’ve got more talent than he ever did,” McRae told him. “Let’s prove him right. Start by finishing checks and stopping short of the logo - stars skate to the crest, pros skate through it.”

Meanwhile, Quinton - 48 and still lethal - played his final season in Toronto, piling up 19 goals and 30 assists by New Year’s Eve. After his last All-Star Game, he told Agnes, “I’ll miss it - but my body won’t.”

He folded his sweater into tissue like a relic. “I’ll miss the kid who laced this up the first time,” he said.
Agnes kissed his temple. “He grew up. That was the point.”

--------------------
Paul Slocum - Charlotte, North Carolina & the Southern Circuit

Spring 1970
Paul Slocum wanted into NARF, but his father James refused. “You’ve got the talent, but you still need the miles,” he said. So Paul stayed in the minors, piling up wins and impatience.

Then in July, everything went wrong. A blown tire sent his car into the wall at Riverside Speedway. The world narrowed to the taste of copper and the hiss of the extinguisher. Paul saw his father’s boots first, then the sky. “I’m okay,” he lied, counting stars in daylight.

He escaped the flames but not the damage - a broken leg, burns down one arm.

Claudia wept at his bedside. “It’s happening again,” she whispered, remembering Jimmy Barrell’s death in 1919.
James held her hand. “Cars are safer now. Even if we said no, he’d still race.”

By September, Paul was back behind the wheel, limping but fearless. The first idle rumble under his seat shook loose the last of the hospital smell. “Talk to me,” he told the car. It did.

When the season ended, James finally relented. “You’ve earned your shot,” he said. “Just make it worth the risk.”
Paul grinned. “I will, Dad. I promise.”

--------------------
Mike Barrell - Republic of Vietnam

January 1970
Major Mike Barrell returned to Vietnam with the 1st Cavalry Division (Airmobile) - six months of patrols, ambushes, and endless jungle heat.
He learned the night again: the way the jungle inhales at 0200, the way a Huey’s shadow cools your neck before you hear it. Kids with thousand-yard eyes still called him “Sir.” He hated that he needed it.
He wrote home when he could, signing every letter, *All my love - Mike.*

In July, after a firefight near Quang Tri, he rotated out, trading the bush for an office. He was reassigned to Saigon as a staff officer - safer, but lonelier. His pen bled through triplicate forms. He underlined names he knew and traced the indents after, as if pressure alone could raise them back to the surface.

December 1970
When his plane lifted off from Tan Son Nhut, he looked down at the brown ribbon of the Mekong. He’d survived - by luck, by grace, by something he couldn’t name.
He closed his eyes, thumbed Melissa’s smudged photo, and whispered the names of every man he couldn’t bring home.

He was going home to Ruby Lee and the children, to the baby daughter he’d barely held and two children who’d spent half their lives without him. He prayed the war was behind him, but in his chest he felt its pull - a whisper asking if the fight was really over. He’d promised Ruby Lee this was his last tour, but he wasn’t sure he could answer that whisper.

--------------------
Brenda Slocum - Charlotte, North Carolina & California

January–May 1970
Pregnant and restless, Brenda Slocum filled notebooks with songs - lullabies laced with protest. Letters from Pappy Moon came from every corner of the country: *Come west, Carolina. The music’s alive.*

On May 14, she gave birth to Cheryl. The delivery was rough; the aftermath rougher. Rose and Claudia cared for the baby while Brenda drifted through the house like a ghost, guitar in hand, humming to herself.

Recriminations followed; neither mother nor grandmother could understand Brenda’s detachment. Even Sissy, just 13, showed more motherly instinct. One morning Brenda set her guitar in Cheryl’s crib “so she could feel the music.” Rose moved it gently aside and broke down in the hallway.

By September, the call of the road was too loud to ignore. Pappy’s latest letter arrived - *We’ve got a place for you, Carolina.* She left before dawn, leaving a note and a promise: *I’ll send for her soon.*
She paused at the door with a knit bootie in her pocket, then left it on the banister like an apology.

December 1970 - Charlotte, North Carolina
The letter arrived on Christmas week: *Living in a commune in California. It’s beautiful here. Bring my baby to me.*
A pressed wildflower slipped from the envelope, brittle and sun-bleached. Sissy tucked it into a book and didn’t say why.

Rose set the page down slowly. “That’s no place for a child,” she said.
James rubbed his temples. “If we don’t, she’ll just come back herself.”
Claudia spoke last, voice firm. “The child stays. At least until Brenda remembers who she is.”

The discussion, sometimes heated, lasted long into the night, the baby’s soft cries drifting down the hall - another generation caught between holding on and letting go.
James finally said it out loud: “If we send her west, we might not get her back.” No one contradicted him.

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