[legendsport]

Chapter 8 - "It Don't Come Easy"

PART ONE (BASEBALL): As the 1971 season dawned, the Barrells were scattered across the baseball world - from the sun-baked fields of Florida to the crowded streets of Nagoya - each chasing their own idea of success, and perhaps a little redemption.

Bradenton, Florida
Ace Barrell spotted his mother waving from the bleachers and felt an inward groan rise in his chest.
If Debbie Barrell was here, that meant his father couldn’t be far behind.

“Hey, Ace!” came Deuce Barrell’s unmistakable voice, carrying over the infield.

Ace waved, smiled dutifully at his mother, then turned to see Deuce chatting with one of the roving instructors. Probably an old opponent. When you’d played twenty-odd years, you’d either faced or teamed with half the league.

Ace grabbed his glove and jogged over.
“Hi, Pop. I thought you and Mom were going to be out west with Aunt Gloria and Uncle Charley,” he said - meaning, out there bothering the California branch of the family instead of him.

“We’re going next week,” Deuce said. “Only reason we’re going at all is that commercial shoot.”

The commercial - for Astro-Burger - had become a running family gag. Deuce claimed to hate the attention, but Ace knew his father liked the paycheck almost as much as he liked performing.

“It’s okay, Pop. I know you’d rather be here coaching me up.”

Deuce grinned at the instructor. “See? I told you he’s smart. Gets it from his mother, not me.”

Everyone laughed, even though the joke was older than most of the prospects on the field.

Still, Deuce’s visit proved useful. In a few days he’d spotted a small flaw in Ace’s mechanics - a subtle hitch in his right-handed delivery that Deuce somehow picked up despite being a lefty himself. Once fixed, Ace’s breaking ball snapped again. He dared to believe he might actually make the big club this spring.

When Deuce finally headed for the airport, his parting words were classic fatherly optimism:
“If you don’t go north with the big club, don’t fret. Your time’s close, buddy - just keep working hard!”

Ace rolled his eyes then, but he’d remember the advice sooner than he expected.

Palm Springs, California
A continent away, Ralph Barrell slid into the players’ lot in his metallic-blue ’69 Camaro, the one he’d received for winning the Whitney a couple of years back. He still loved the car - partly because when his brother Junior won Defensive Player of the Year, he hadn’t gotten a muscle car. That small victory never got old.

He spotted his father talking with a couple near the clubhouse. From behind, the woman had the kind of legs that made a man think about settling down - though Ralph still enjoyed looking more than committing. His interest wilted only when the woman turned and he realized it was Debbie Barrell, his cousin Deuce’s wife. He’d had a crush on her once. Apparently, his tastes hadn’t changed.

“Hey, Ralphie, you remember your cousin Deuce and the lovely Debbie, right?” Bobby Barrell called.

“Sure,” Ralph said, flashing his best hundred-watt grin as he shook Deuce’s hand. “Good to see you again.”

“Deuce is here to do a commercial,” Bobby said - the TV man knowing full well the art of a good plug.

“Yep. Astro-Burger,” Deuce confirmed.

Ralph chuckled. He and Junior had already joked about the chain’s new sandwich, The Big Deuce. Junior’s line - “Not sure if that’s the burger or what happens to you after you eat it” - still made him snort.

“Going to win it all this year, Ralph?” Deuce asked.

“That’s the plan.”

“Pitching looks great, and that lineup - well, I don’t have to tell you.”

“Right,” Ralph said, confident and comfortable in his role as one of the Stars’ anchors.

As his father ushered Deuce and Debbie inside, Ralph lingered, wondering why the actual ballplayer - him - wasn’t the one giving the tour.

Nagoya, Japan
Half a world away, Billy McCullough stared blearily at the small television in his Nagoya apartment. Hank Dunham nudged him with a chopstick.
“Hey, isn’t that your uncle?”

Billy squinted. On screen, a dubbed Japanese voice cheerfully hawked burgers while his uncle Rufus - Deuce - grinned and held up an oversized sandwich.

“Yeah, that’s him,” Billy said. “Didn’t know he was doing commercials for Astro-Burger.”

“The Big Deuce,” Hank said thoughtfully. “Think the genius who named it knows what that means?”

“Huh?”

“Never mind.” Hank dipped into his noodles, chopsticks working with native precision. After nearly a decade in Japan, the Texan moved like he’d been born there.

“You ever think about going home?” Billy asked.

“Nah. Gotten too used to it here,” Hank said. “Going back’d give me reverse culture shock.”

Billy grinned. “I think it’s just culture shock whichever way you go.”

Hank shrugged. “Maybe. I’m thinking I’ll find me a wife and stay for good.”

“In this apartment?” Billy teased.

“What? No - this place smells like sweaty socks.”

“That’s all you, mon frère.”

“No French, Bill. We speak English or Japanese here.”

Billy laughed, shaking his head. Playing baseball in Japan was an education: regimented practices, bowing to umpires, teammates who apologized for striking out. The fans adored him - polite bows outside the stadium, gifts of fruit and folded paper cranes. It was a world away from the noise back home.

He wondered what his cousin Ace was doing - probably grumbling in some Triple-A dugout about his bad luck.

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
By midsummer, Ace Barrell had finally reached the majors. He was proud - and terrified.

He’d bounced between bullpen and rotation, and though he thought he’d finally earned a permanent spot, his tendency to give up home runs haunted him. Every phone call from his father ended the same: “Good game, buddy, but keep the ball down.”

Still, he believed he’d beaten out old Clarence Miller, the 39-year-old relic clinging to a roster spot with spit and tobacco juice.

Then came the summons to Manager Don Fox’s office.

“We’re sending you back to Tucson,” Fox said.

“Why?” Ace tried - and failed - to keep the bite out of his voice.

“Because you need it. We’re here to win ballgames, kid, and you’re not cutting the mustard. It’s more than the homers - it’s the attitude. You need to grow up.”

The words hit harder than any line drive.

Ace packed his things in silence, aware of Miller smirking nearby.

But fate turned quickly. At the trade deadline, the Miners, desperate for pitching, shipped Ace and a Class-A prospect to Cincinnati for veteran Marco Middleton.

Deuce called within hours, practically shouting through the receiver.
“Ace! Going to my old stomping grounds - fantastic!”

“Yeah,” Ace said cautiously. “Figure I’ll start in Triple-A.”

Deuce laughed. “Don’t think so. Talked to Max Smith - they’ll plug you right into Middleton’s rotation spot. Maybe the five-man, maybe the four.”

Ace couldn’t help smiling. Born in Cincinnati, son of a club legend - the symbolism wasn’t lost on him. For once, he listened to his father’s parting words. Maybe Fox had been right. Maybe he did need to grow up.

He promised himself he would.

Montreal, Quebec
“Boys, I think this one’s in the bag!” Harry Barrell roared, his voice echoing through the champagne-soaked clubhouse.

The Saints had done it again - another division title, another shot at Ralph’s juggernaut Stars.

“Congrats, Unk!” shouted Roger Cleaves, tough as nails and still carrying the bearing of the Marine he’d once been. Rumor said he might get a managerial offer soon. Harry would miss him - the old Marine had been instrumental in helping him beat the bottle.

“Couldn’t have done it without you, Rog.” Harry hugged him, startling the stoic Cleaves.

Reid Barrell stumbled over, drenched in bubbly. “I don’t even want to know.”

“Just celebrating a job well done,” Roger said.

“Work’s just starting,” Reid countered. “We’ve got to deal with Ralph and the Stars.”

“Beat ’em last year,” Roger said.

“And we’ll be lucky to do it again,” Harry replied. “But I remain optimistic. We’re champs now, and that experience has tempered us.”

“Tempered us?” Reid laughed. “Dad’s been looking at that dictionary we gave him.”

Despite the jokes, the Saints knew what awaited them: the league’s powerhouse. Reid would finish with a solid .274, 16 homers, 75 RBIs, while Dixie Turner won yet another Whitney after slugging .331 with 49 homers and 136 RBIs. The Stars were looming, and everyone knew it.

Los Angeles, California
“This will never get old,” Ralph Barrell told Bobby Garrison as the Stars’ championship parade wound through downtown LA.

After the heartbreak of ’70, the ’71 Stars were unstoppable - 116 wins, a quick dispatch of Montreal, then a 4-1 trouncing of the Philadelphia Keystones to reclaim the World Championship.

“Sorry, Dad,” Ralph had told his father afterward, grinning.

Bobby had just laughed. “My time’s long passed. I’ll always cherish my days in Philly, but my heart’s with you in LA.”

Ralph had hit .302 with 32 homers and 134 RBIs - stellar numbers, if short of his own lofty hopes. Tom Lorang of Washington claimed the Whitney instead. Still, the Stars lineup was relentless, seven regulars in double-digit homers, and Bill Dunlop (20-5, 3.05) leading a dominant staff.

“It almost felt unfair,” Ralph admitted to Bobby during the parade.

“What was?”

“This season. We just steamrolled everyone.”

Bobby waved dismissively. “That’s the American way - dominate the opposition!”

A reporter nearby piped up, “Like we’re doing in Vietnam?”

Bobby spun, finger out. “No politics, Andy.”

The man shrugged. “I’m writing about the contrast - young Americans celebrating here while others fight over there.”

“Talk to Ed Bogan. He’s our resident peacenik,” Bobby muttered.

Ralph laughed, shaking his head. “You really do know everyone.”

Bobby’s expression softened. “I’m just glad Mike’s home. And I hope Dwight makes it back.”

“Amen to that,” Ralph said. He didn’t take the championships for granted - not when some cousins were dodging bullets instead of fastballs.

That night, away from the noise, Bobby clapped him on the shoulder. “You’ve made the name yours now, Ralph. That’s all a father can ask.”

Cincinnati, Ohio
Back in Ohio, Ace Barrell returned from the World Series trip - guest of Astro-Burger, naturally - feeling almost peaceful. His father’s absurd fame as “The Big Deuce” made him laugh now. Deuce was happy, his mother too, and that was enough.

His kid sister Jo Ann, a college freshman, was less peaceful.
“You should wear a peace medallion,” she told him.

“Why?”

She rolled her eyes. “Because the war’s bad?”

“Is it?” Ace asked, deadpan.

“Ugh. You’re still a Neanderthal.”

He walked off, chuckling. Some battles weren’t worth fighting.

Baseball was. He’d finished strong in Cincinnati - 5-5 with a 3.58 ERA, seven starts, the home-run bug mostly tamed. Deuce still called after every outing to remind him to keep the ball down.

He didn’t mind anymore.

He had a new girlfriend - Daisy Cormier, sister of his teammate Bud Cormier. She was funny, sharp, and refreshingly unimpressed by his last name. Ace liked that.

During the Series trip to LA, he and Billy McCullough had gone to a club where a blonde singer named Carolina gave him the eye - until she heard his name, at which point she turned to ice. Her friend Blossom (or something like that) proved more receptive. A fun night, nothing more.

The whole California scene - the long hair, the peace signs, the talk of free love - amused him. He didn’t buy into the politics, but he couldn’t entirely dislike the energy.

“Next year’s going to be even better,” he told Daisy one night.

And for the first time in his life, Ace Barrell almost believed it.