Same Song, Different Tune - The Barrells in the Modern Era

[legendsport]

For those who read The Ballad of the Brothers Barrell, this is a continuation of that story, focusing on the later generations and beginning in 1968.

I'll be updating this post with the status of many of the characters from the original story.

⚾ THE FOUNDING GENERATION

Rufus Barrell
Born: June 13, 1873 – Egypt, Effingham County, GA
Died: September 9, 1948 – Egypt, GA (Age 75)
The patriarch of the Barrell family and one of the foundational figures of early professional baseball. A onetime pitcher whose career was cut short by injury, Rufus reinvented himself as a scout and mentor for the Brooklyn Kings, discovering countless players and shaping the early decades of the Federally Aligned Baseball Leagues. Though he achieved fame far from home, Rufus always remained a country boy at heart, eventually returning to Egypt, Georgia, where he lived out his final years in peace.
"He saw promise in others and lived by it."

Alice (Reid) Barrell
Born: October 7, 1872 – Philadelphia, PA
Died: December 6, 1948 – Egypt, GA (Age 76)
The matriarch of the Barrell family and Rufus’s equal in both intellect and resolve. Born to a baseball man herself, Alice balanced education, refinement, and an iron will. Her quick wit and deep compassion shaped ten children who each carried her quiet strength into their own lives. She died just three months after Rufus, her passing marking the true end of the first Barrell generation.

THE SECOND GENERATION
The children of Rufus & Alice Barrell.

Joseph “Joe” Barrell
Born: August 10, 1894 – Brooklyn, NY
Died: February 25, 1934 – Utah (Age 39)
A gifted multi-sport athlete and the family’s first national sports star, Joe rose to fame as both a prizefighter and football player before turning to coaching. As head football coach at Coastal California University, he built a powerhouse program and earned a reputation as a fiery motivator. His life ended tragically when his plane crashed in the Utah mountains during a snowstorm on a scouting trip.
Married twice — first to Edna Farmer and later to Dorothy Bates — Joe left behind a legacy of brilliance, volatility, and daring unmatched even within the remarkable Barrell clan.

Roland “Rollie” Barrell
Born: June 17, 1896 – Brooklyn, NY
Died: August 11, 1963 – Detroit, MI (Age 67)
A pioneer of professional football from within the front office, Rollie’s impact as an executive spanned decades and made him a Hall of Famer as a builder. Alongside his wife Francine “Francie” York, he transformed the Detroit Maroons into one of the premier franchises in the American Football Association. His sudden death from a heart attack in 1963 shocked the league and family alike.
As of 1968: Francine, age 71, continues to serve as Maroons owner and grand matriarch of the Detroit branch of the family.

John “Jack” Barrell
Born: February 20, 1898 – Brooklyn, NY
Age: 69 (as of 1968)
The quiet craftsman of the family, Jack found his calling in hockey, first as a defenseman and later as one of the most respected coaches in the North American Hockey Conference. His measured demeanor and steady principles earned him a spot in the NAHC Hall of Fame.
As of 1968: Jack and his wife Marie Dupuis live in Montreal, where he enjoys a peaceful retirement and occasional advisory work for the league.

James “Jimmy” Barrell
Born: June 6, 1900 – Brooklyn, NY
Died: May 31, 1919 – Indianapolis, IN (Age 18)
Brash, fearless, and utterly captivating, Jimmy lived—and died—a daredevil. After distinguished service as a pilot during the Great War, he turned his appetite for risk toward the racetrack. His fatal crash at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway ended a life that burned too brightly to last. Through his children, Agnes Barrell Pollack and James Slocum, Jimmy’s adventurous spirit endures.

Daniel “Dan” Barrell
Born: September 5, 1904 – Brooklyn, NY
Died: March 22, 1964 – Chicago, IL (Age 59)
A thoughtful and moral man, Dan balanced intellect and discipline, first as a decathlete, then as a ballplayer and later as a respected figure in collegiate athletics. His death from a heart attack—just months after that of his brother Rollie—led to quiet speculation that weak hearts might run in the family. He married Gladys Summers in 1928 and raised two sons: Mike, a decorated Army officer, and Steve, a professional basketball star.
As of 1968: Gladys, age 64, resides in Chicago, proud matron of her sons’ very different paths.

Frederick “Fred” Barrell
Born: September 12, 1905 – Brooklyn, NY
Age: 62 (as of 1968)
The intellectual of the family, Fred’s baseball career led him naturally into the world of strategy and intelligence. After wartime service, he became a key figure in postwar intelligence operations and now serves as a CIA station chief in West Berlin. His wife Tillie Hobart manages family affairs with characteristic poise.
As of 1968: Fred is nearing retirement, still posted in Berlin, while Tillie spends part of each year in the United States.

Thomas “Tom” Barrell
Born: February 14, 1908 – Brooklyn, NY
Age: 59 (as of 1968)
The last of the Barrell children born in Brooklyn, Tom combined natural talent with single-minded competitiveness and professionalism. A Hall of Fame pitcher turned executive, he spent decades in the Kings organization before retiring to Hickory, North Carolina. There he was drawn back into sports through his nephew James Slocum and the North American Racing Federation, lending his organizational mind to motorsport.
As of 1968: Tom and wife Marla Fitzgerald Barrell live in Hickory, where Tom serves as a senior consultant to NARF.

Robert “Bobby” Barrell
Born: July 22, 1910 – Egypt, GA
Age: 57 (as of 1968)
The most charismatic of Rufus’s sons, Bobby was a larger-than-life slugger who became a national icon. A man-child with a godlike swing, he thrilled fans on the field and entertained them later as a broadcaster. Married to Olympic runner Annette O’Boyle, Bobby remains as jovial and unpredictable as ever.
As of 1968: Living in Los Angeles, Bobby anchors NBC’s Game of the Week and proudly cheers on his sons Ralph (LA Stars) and Bobby Jr. (Kansas City Cowboys).

Harold “Harry” Barrell
Born: March 1, 1913 – Egypt, GA
Age: 54 (as of 1968)
A gifted shortstop and brilliant manager, Harry is as tortured as he is talented. His first marriage to Sarah Goodhue ended in scandal, and though later vindicated, the damage to his family and reputation was lasting. Now married to Ruth Barton, Harry manages the Pittsburgh Miners with the same intensity that made him a star player. His inner demons and dependence on alcohol remain his greatest rivals.
As of 1968: Living in Pittsburgh, Harry’s genius keeps him employed—but his temper and vices keep him haunted.

Elizabeth “Betsy” (Barrell) Bowens
Born: February 11, 1914 – Egypt, GA
Age: 53 (as of 1968)
The youngest of Rufus and Alice’s children and their only daughter, Betsy grew up surrounded by athletes and carried that same drive into motherhood. Married to football coach Tom Bowens, she balanced the demands of family and fame with her parents’ trademark pragmatism.
As of 1968: Betsy and Tom live in Los Angeles, enjoying the success of their children while remaining the moral anchors of the family’s West Coast branch.

⚾ THE THIRD GENERATION
The children of Joseph “Joe” Barrell (1894–1934)

Joe Barrell was a man of contradictions: a world-class athlete who disdained what he called “stick sports”—baseball, tennis, and golf—believing only games demanding toughness truly mattered. Football and boxing were his proving grounds, and hockey, with its bruising pace, earned a rare exemption. Ironically, all three of Joe’s sons would go on to play professional baseball, carrying their father’s competitive fire into the very sport he mocked. Each, in his own way, bore both Joe’s brilliance and his stubborn defiance.

Rufus “Deuce” Barrell II
Born: June 3, 1917 – Egypt, GA
Age: 50 (as of 1968)
The firstborn of Joe Barrell, “Deuce” grew up on the family farm in rural Georgia before following his grandfather Rufus’s footsteps to the pitcher’s mound. A durable southpaw with pinpoint control and endless stamina, Deuce became one of the winningest pitchers in FABL history, compiling 359 victories—still third all-time and the most ever by a left-hander. Despite his monumental achievements, he remained something of a lovable space cadet, his innocent self-centeredness and easy smile making him a fan favorite across the league.
As of 1968: Living in Euclid, Ohio, with his wife Deborah “Debbie” Scanlon Barrell, Deuce coaches youth baseball and occasionally calls games on regional radio. Their son, Rufus “Ace” Barrell III, is a rising minor-league pitcher in the Montreal Saints organization, hoping to match his father’s calm under pressure—and perhaps his flair for comic timing.

Gloria Barrell McCullough
Born: June 3, 1917 – Egypt, GA
Age: 50 (as of 1968)
Deuce’s twin sister, Gloria inherited her father’s charisma and her mother’s grace. She married fiery baseball man Charley McCullough, now manager of the Los Angeles Stars, and quickly became one of the most recognizable women in the FABL orbit. Sharp-witted and unflappable, she bridges the gap between family loyalty and public life with poise and humor.
As of 1968: Residing in Los Angeles, Gloria is active in civic causes and occasionally pens sports columns. Her son Billy McCullough, a third baseman in the Seattle Kings organization, is a scrappy, blue-collar player in the mold of his father—a grinder destined to win teammates’ respect even if not headlines.

Roger Cleaves
Born: January 27, 1924 – Hoboken, NJ
Age: 43 (as of 1968)
The product of Joe Barrell’s brief affair with Charlotte Cleaves, daughter of the legendary manager George Theobald, Roger grew up ignorant of his lineage, discovering it as a teenager. Because Joe had died before Roger knew of him, his grandfather Rufus stepped in as a surrogate father, instilling discipline and self-worth in a boy prone to trouble. A rebellious youth gave way to heroism: Roger served with distinction in the U.S. Marine Corps during the Pacific War, emerging a decorated veteran and a man forged by hardship.
In baseball, Roger’s tactical mind and steady leadership carried him from the minors, to a solid career as a slugging catcher, to his current post as manager of the Washington Eagles (FABL).
As of 1968: Living in Arlington, Virginia, with his wife Evelyn Wilson Cleaves, Roger has two sons following his path—Dwayne, a promising outfielder, and Richard “Dick” Cleaves, a high school ballplayer with his great-grandfather Rufus’s quiet determination.

Charles “Charlie” Barrell
Born: July 11, 1930 – Los Angeles, CA
Age: 37 (as of 1968)
The youngest of Joe’s children, Charlie was born of Joe’s second marriage to Hollywood actress Dorothy Bates, whom Joe met while portraying Tarzan opposite her Jane in a 1928 adventure film. After Joe’s death, Dorothy remarried Los Angeles Stars owner Thomas X. Bigsby, whose well-meaning but overbearing attempts at fatherhood left Charlie resentful and fiercely independent.
Gifted beyond measure, Charlie remains the only athlete ever to compete professionally in baseball, basketball, and football—a true throwback to his father’s era of ironmen. Injuries eventually pushed him to focus solely on baseball, where he enjoyed a solid career that might have been legendary had he specialized earlier. His swan song came in 1967, when his Chicago Chiefs defeated his former Los Angeles Stars club in the World Championship Series.
As of 1968: Retired as a champion, Charlie lives in Los Angeles with his wife Anna Czerwinska Barrell and their children Joe II, Teresa, and Paul. He now runs a successful sporting-goods distributorship and remains a well-known figure in the Southern California sports scene.

The Third Generation – The Rollie Line
Roland “Rollie” Barrell
Born: June 17, 1896 – Brooklyn, NY
Died: August 11, 1963 – Age 67

Named for his father’s old friend and catcher Roland “Possum” Daniels, Rollie Barrell was the opposite of his namesake in temperament — serious, meticulous, and laser-focused. Though he showed great promise as a golfer in his youth, his dreams of athletic stardom ended abruptly after being beaten by a pair of thugs seeking his brother Joe. The injuries left him with lifelong migraines and vision problems, but Rollie turned his disciplined drive toward business and sports management. He became one of the most successful executives of his era, owning both professional basketball and football clubs. Admired for his steady hand and his gift for working with strong personalities like Detroit sports magnate Eddie Thompson, Rollie earned a reputation as a rare figure beloved in both the boardroom and the locker room.

Francine “Francie” York Barrell
Born: August 22, 1896 – Los Angeles, CA
Alive as of 1968 – Age 72

Stylish, socially adept, and confident, Francine York Barrell balanced her husband’s seriousness with her own charm and wit. The daughter of a Los Angeles businessman and sister to a pro catcher and later manager (Dick York), Francie brought a touch of Hollywood glamor to the Barrell family. Though she could be domineering at times, she was a devoted wife and mother, fiercely protective of her two daughters and her husband’s legacy. After Rollie’s death in 1963, Francie assumed majority ownership of the Detroit Maroons football club, guiding the organization with grace and determination while leaning on her daughters Marty and Allie to carry on the Barrell family’s sporting legacy.

Martha “Marty” Barrell McCarver
Born: 1919 – Detroit, MI
Alive as of 1968 – Age 49

Rollie and Francie’s elder daughter, Marty was a “girly girl” growing up — stylish, self-assured, and closely modeled after her mother. Though she initially seemed distant from her father’s world of sports, life had other plans. Marty married Jack McCarver, a football coach, and became deeply immersed in the game. When Rollie’s health began to decline, it was Marty who stepped forward to help her mother run the Detroit Maroons. After Rollie’s death, she became Francie’s right hand in the organization, proving to be as capable as she was compassionate. Her marriage to Jack, marked by mutual respect and shared passion for football, remains one of the more stable among the Barrell kin.

Alice “Allie” Barrell Bertram
Born: 1923 – Detroit, MI
Alive as of 1968 – Age 45

The younger of Rollie and Francie’s two daughters, Allie was a tomboy who shared her father’s analytical mind and love of competition. Gifted with a head for numbers and an eye for athletic potential, she once dreamed of succeeding Rollie as owner of the Maroons. Rollie initially discouraged her ambitions, but her talent proved undeniable. After working under her father in Detroit, Allie took a job in the San Francisco Sailors’ front office, where she learned the business side of sports from Matilda Johnson — FABL’s only female owner. It was in California that she met and married Victor Bertram, a local businessman. Though she traded sports management for family life, Allie’s influence on Detroit’s front-office culture — and her role in recommending her cousin Freddy Barrell as Maroons president — remains significant.

Jack McCarver
Born: 1918 – Dallas, TX
Alive as of 1968 – Age 50

Jack McCarver, Marty’s husband, is a respected football coach whose dedication to the game mirrors his wife’s to the family legacy. A no-nonsense tactician with a gift for motivating players, Jack has built a reputation as a reliable sideline presence both in the college ranks and the pros. Known for his calm under pressure and steady leadership, he and Marty are viewed as one of the most stable couples in the Barrell family — a rare feat amid generations of passionate personalities.

Victor Bertram
Born: 1928 – San Francisco, CA
Alive as of 1968 – Age 40

Victor Bertram is a successful San Francisco businessman whose life took a turn when he met Allie Barrell while she was working in the Sailors’ front office. Easygoing yet ambitious, Victor was drawn to Allie’s intelligence and spark, and their partnership has proven mutually supportive. While Allie once followed her father’s path into the sports world, Victor’s world of West Coast commerce and culture has given her a new sphere to influence. Together, they represent the blending of the old Barrell traditions of sport and the modern drive of business and innovation.

THE THIRD GENERATION
The family of John “Jack” Barrell (1898– )

John “Jack” Barrell
Born: February 20, 1898 – Brooklyn, NY
Age: 69 (as of 1968)
The third son of Rufus and Alice Barrell, Jack grew up idolizing his older brothers Joe and Rollie, blending Joe’s toughness with Rollie’s intelligence and poise. His path took a decisive turn when his grandfather, Joe Reid, gifted the three eldest Barrell boys a set of hockey gear. Joe and Rollie quickly lost interest—but Jack was captivated. What began as a novelty became his calling.

A gifted two-sport athlete, Jack played both baseball and hockey into his twenties, spending time in the Boston Minutemen organization as a second baseman before finally choosing the ice over the diamond. His career in the North American Hockey Conference spanned two decades; first as a rugged, stay-at-home defenseman and later as a bruising right winger with a knack for clutch scoring. He earned a reputation as one of the game’s toughest and most cerebral players—respected, feared, and admired in equal measure.

When injuries caught up to him, Jack transitioned seamlessly behind the bench, where he built a second career as one of the NAHC’s finest coaches. A master motivator and disciplinarian, he molded championship-caliber teams with the same mix of grit and grace that defined his playing days.

As of 1968: Jack and his wife Marie Dupuis Barrell live in Montreal, where Jack enjoys semi-retirement and the quiet pride of watching his former players join him in the Hall of Fame.

Marie (Dupuis) Barrell
Born: April 3, 1900 – Rouen, France
Age: 67 (as of 1968)
Marie arrived in Montreal from France as a young woman with a secret—she was pregnant with Agnes Barrell, the daughter of Jack’s late brother Jimmy. Heartbroken after Jimmy’s death, she found solace in Jack, who offered her protection, stability, and eventually love. Their marriage became one of mutual respect and quiet strength. Together, they raised Agnes as their own alongside two daughters of their own—Jean and Vera.

Agnes “Aggie” Barrell Pollack
Born: June 25, 1919 – Montreal, PQ
Age: 48 (as of 1968)
The daughter of Jimmy Barrell and Marie Dupuis, Agnes inherited her biological father’s fair hair and charm, as well as her mother’s sensitivity. She grew up believing Jack was her father and adored him as such. The truth—discovered later in life through meeting her half-brother James Slocum—shook her deeply, but ultimately strengthened her bond with Jack, whose unwavering love defined her sense of family.

Agnes married William “Billy” McCullough, brother of Charley McCullough (Gloria Barrell’s husband), in late 1941. A U.S. Navy officer stationed at Pearl Harbor, Billy was killed on December 7, 1941, leaving Agnes widowed and shattered. In time, she rebuilt her life and found lasting love with Quinton Pollack, a soon-to-be hockey legend who had played for Jack. Together, they built a warm, stable family that restored the joy Agnes had long been denied.

As of 1968: Agnes and Quinton, now billed by sportswriters as the "first family of hockey," live in Toronto with their children, Mary and Billy, while their eldest, Jack, is poised to be drafted into the NAHC—a new generation of Barrell blood taking to the ice.

Jean Barrell Lee
Born: May 30, 1923 – Montreal, PQ
Age: 44 (as of 1968)
Dark-haired and quick-minded like her mother, Jean grew up feeling overshadowed by her luminous sister Agnes. Her creative streak became her refuge. Encouraged by her grandfather Rufus, she developed a passion for art, sketching portraits of ballplayers—including one of FABL slugger Sal Pestilli that found its way to the man himself, courtesy of Rufus.

Jean later moved to New York City, joining an advertising agency where her talent and drive found fertile ground. There she met Eugene “Gene” Lee, a former ballplayer turned ad man. The two became partners in both business and life, known in creative circles as “Jean and Gene,” a pair as stylish as they were inseparable.

As of 1968: Jean and Gene live in Manhattan with their young son George, balancing high-powered careers with family life amid the bright lights of Madison Avenue.

Vera Barrell Gauthier
Born: June 25, 1929 – Montreal, PQ
Age: 38 (as of 1968)
The youngest of Jack and Marie’s daughters, Vera was named after her great-grandmother, a woman whose memory Jack cherished deeply. Unlike her namesake, Vera is reserved and methodical, possessing her mother’s elegance and her father’s quiet confidence. She grew up close to her sister Jean, though their personalities diverged—Jean was outwardly expressive while Vera preferred the calm of order and structure.

Patient in all things, Vera took her time finding love, marrying Maurice Gauthier shortly after her 30th birthday. The couple settled in Montreal, where Vera now balances family life with volunteer work and the social circles of Quebec’s hockey elite.

As of 1968: Vera and Maurice are raising two young children—Jacques and Marie—in a bilingual household that blends her father’s legacy with her mother’s heritage.

THE THIRD GENERATION
The family of James “Jimmy” Barrell (1900–1919)
James "Jimmy" Barrell
Born: June 6, 1900 - Brooklyn, NY
Died: May 31, 1919 - Indianapolis, IN (Age 18)
Jimmy Barrell was the family daredevil and idealist. This led him to automobile racing at an early age (assisted by Rollie) which got him, as usual, into hot water with his parents, particularly Alice. Rufus was highly susceptible to Jimmy's charm, whereas the ever-practical Alice was terrified by Jimmy's reckless nature. This same recklessness caused him to enlist in the U.S. Army while still underage using a doctored birth certificate. Shipped off to France, Jimmy utilized his charm - and his stubborn nature - to eventually become a pilot. He made ace before being shot down over German-held territory. Injured, and later sick with the flu, Jimmy was interned in a POW hospital where he met and fell in love with nurse Claudia Neumann. At war's end they made their way to the American forces, were married and returned to the U.S. to the delight - and surprise - of Jimmy's family. Their marriage was short-lived as Jimmy was killed in a fiery crash at Indianapolis on May 31, 1919. Their son, James Barrell Jr., was born after his father's death, left only with a few photos and stories of Jimmy Barrell's adventures & exploits.

Claudia (Neumann) Barrell Slocum
Born: March 1, 1899 – Bremen, Germany
Age: 68 (as of 1968)
A German nurse who lost her entire family in the Great War, Claudia met the wounded Jimmy Barrell in a POW hospital in her homeland of Germany in 1918. Their brief, intense wartime romance ended with marriage in France—unaware that Jimmy had left behind Marie Dupuis, who was pregnant with his first child, Agnes. When Jimmy brought Claudia home to America, the reunion stunned his family. Yet Claudia’s dignity, resolve, and devotion to Jimmy gradually won over Rufus and Alice.

Barely weeks after Jimmy’s death in the fiery Indianapolis crash of 1919, Claudia discovered she was pregnant. With no family left in Europe, she stayed in the United States, settling in Washington, D.C., where Rufus’s Polish-born scouting partner Thomas Potentas offered her lodging and work. She and Potentas also tutored several of the Barrells (most notably Fred) in languages, allowing Fred Barrell to become an OSS agent during the Second World War. Dan Barrell had a teenage love for her, and though the age difference prevented anything coming of it, held a lifelong closeness with Claudia.

It was during those difficult years that she met Powell Slocum, baseball's hits king and future Hall of Famer. Their shared resilience and love of baseball forged a deep connection. They married in 1923, and Powell formally adopted her son, making him James Slocum.Claudia returned to Germany during the 1936 Olympics, and was horrified to see the Nazi regime in action.

As of 1968: the twice-widowed Claudia resides quietly in Charlotte, North Carolina, near her son James and his family. Though her accent remains, her heart and home are firmly American.

James Barrell Slocum
Born: February 11, 1920 – Washington, D.C.
Age: 47 (as of 1968)
Born James Barrell Jr., the posthumous son of Jimmy Barrell and Claudia Neumann, he was adopted by baseball legend Powell Slocum, taking both his stepfather’s surname and much of his steady temperament. Unlike his half-sister Agnes, James never wrestled with questions of legitimacy—his mother’s strength and his uncles’ affection gave him a grounded sense of belonging.

Growing up in Brooklyn while Powell managed the Kings, James was surrounded by baseball yet drawn toward the skies. He idolized his father’s bravery as a pilot and, with quiet encouragement from his uncle Tom Barrell (and against his mother's wishes) pursued flying. Through Tom, he met his father’s old wartime comrade, Bill Merlon, who became both mentor and friend.

James joined the U.S. Army Air Forces during the Second World War, flying B-17 Flying Fortresses over Europe and later B-29 Superfortresses in the Pacific. The destruction he witnessed from the air haunted him deeply; he was conflicted about saving American lives at the cost of dropping bombs on cities.

On Saipan in 1945, James met his cousin Roger Cleaves, then a U.S. Marine, and the two formed a bond rooted in shared loss, discipline, and the understanding that courage often comes with a cost. He also spent time with his half-sister Agnes, who worked in Hawaii for Naval Intelligence, developing a strong and lasting sibling bond.

After the war, James married Rose Winfield, the mechanically gifted daughter of legendary driver Jack Winfield, who had known Jimmy Barrell personally and was trackside the day of his fatal crash. Rose introduced James to auto racing, and together—with Jack Winfield in an advisory role—they co-founded the North American Racing Federation (NARF), a professional stock car circuit built on precision, safety, and spectacle.

James proved an adept businessman and a skilled (though occasional) driver; his calm under pressure echoing both his father’s daring and his stepfather’s steadiness.

As of 1968: James and Rose live in Charlotte, North Carolina, where NARF has become one of the fastest-growing sports organizations in the country. They have five children—Brenda, Paul, James Powell (J.P.), Edward, and Susan “Sissy”—each carrying forward the blend of Barrell boldness and Slocum resolve.

THE THIRD GENERATION
The family of Daniel “Dan” Barrell (1904–1964)

Daniel “Dan” Barrell
Born: September 5, 1904 – Brooklyn, NY
Died: March 22, 1964 – Chicago, IL (Age 59)
The “middle boy” among Rufus and Alice Barrell’s nine sons, Dan grew up balanced between the fiery ambition of his elder brothers and the youthful exuberance of those who came after. A gifted athlete and thoughtful student, he carried a quiet intensity that defined his life both on and off the field.

Dan’s early years were marked by heartbreak and resilience. In his teens, he fell deeply in love with Claudia Neumann, the young widow of his brother Jimmy, only to lose her when she married Powell Slocum. Later, his courtship with the daughter of an English diplomat ended just as abruptly when she returned home to London. These disappointments left Dan cautious in love, though not defeated.

A natural athlete, Dan represented the United States in the 1924 Paris Olympics as a decathlete, finishing respectably but outside the medals. Returning home, he became a college football star and was widely expected to make the 1928 Olympic team—until a devastating knee injury ended those hopes. Believing his athletic career over, he focused on rehabilitation, guided by the very man who had unknowingly broken his heart years earlier: Powell Slocum.

Through determination and Slocum’s mentorship, Dan found a second act in baseball. Switching from the gridiron to the diamond, he became a capable first baseman despite his injury, rising through the minors and ultimately joining his brothers in the Brooklyn Kings organization. While his playing career was shortened by the same troublesome knee, his intelligence and leadership soon found another outlet: management.

Dan later married Gladys Summers, a sharp and independent basketball scout working for his brother Rollie Barrell. The two shared a deep bond built on mutual respect and a shared understanding of competition. After retiring as a player, Dan joined his father’s scouting agency and eventually rose to become President of the Federally Aligned Baseball Leagues (FABL). His tenure was marked by progress and integrity, though his unwillingness to compromise with certain club owners cost him political allies and, ultimately, the presidency.

In his final years, Dan served as Athletic Director of Chicago Polytechnic Institute, his alma mater. Those who knew him say the stress of that demanding position may have contributed to his fatal heart attack in 1964. What’s certain is that Dan Barrell died as he lived—devoted to sport, to excellence, and to family.

As of 1968: His widow, Gladys Summers Barrell (b. 1903), lives in Chicago, Illinois, proud of her sons: Mike, a U.S. Army officer serving in Vietnam, and Steve, a professional basketball star for the Detroit Mustangs.

Gladys Summers Barrell
Born: February 17, 1903 – Fort Wayne, IN
Alive as of 1968 – Age 65

Strong-willed, intelligent, and endlessly perceptive, Gladys Summers Barrell has always been a force in her own right. The niece of AFA co-founder Jack Kristich, she first met the Barrell family through Rollie Barrell, for whom she worked as a basketball scout. Her keen eye for talent made her one of the earliest women to find success in the male-dominated world of sports management. Fate — and a spilled gravy boat — introduced her to Dan Barrell while on a scouting trip to Wichita, Kansas. The accident led to laughter, then to love, and the two married in 1928.

Gladys complemented Dan perfectly — his calm balance to her directness, his warmth to her sharp instincts. She was his confidante through his years as FABL President and later as Athletic Director at Chicago Poly, where she became affectionately known as “the power behind the throne.” Widowed since Dan’s passing in 1966, Gladys has remained deeply devoted to her family, taking pride in her sons Mike and Steve while quietly worrying for Mike’s safety as he serves in Vietnam.

Michael “Mike” Barrell
Born: November 22, 1933 – Chicago, IL
Age: 34 (as of 1968)
The elder son of Dan and Gladys Barrell, Mike grew up in the shadow of his father’s athletic fame but forged a path all his own—one of discipline, service, and quiet courage. A natural leader and three-sport athlete at Rome State College, he starred as a quarterback, third baseman, and forward, guiding the football team to a 9–0 regular season and a #6 national ranking in 1953. He was an efficient passer, completing 55 percent of his throws for 872 yards, and hit .302 for the baseball team while anchoring the defense on the hardwood.

Graduating with honors in 1955, Mike bypassed opportunities in professional football to join the U.S. Army. His athletic discipline translated seamlessly to military life, and he rose steadily through the ranks. By 1968, now a Major, he serves as Executive Officer of the 3rd Battalion, 7th Cavalry Regiment, 1st Cavalry Division (Airmobile) in South Vietnam.

An idealist at heart, Mike believes deeply in duty and honor, though the war’s moral ambiguities have begun to weigh on him. His wife, Ruby Lee Brown Barrell, and their three young children—Douglas, Bradley, and Elizabeth Ann—live in Macon, Georgia, awaiting his safe return.

As of 1968: Stationed near Pleiku, South Vietnam, Major Barrell commands the respect of his men and maintains regular correspondence with his brother Steve, whose celebrity life in Boston feels a world apart from Mike’s muddy outposts.

Steven “Steve” Barrell
Born: April 19, 1936 – Chicago, IL
Age: 31 (as of 1968)
If Mike Barrell inherited his father’s discipline, Steve took after his uncle Bobby’s charisma. A natural athlete with film-star looks and an effortless smile, Steve was a standout in both football and basketball at Chicago Polytechnic Institute, where he played under his father’s tenure as Athletic Director.

As a football quarterback, he was known for poise under pressure and a sharp, accurate arm. But it was on the basketball court that Steve truly shined, guiding the Catamounts to their first-ever Top 25 ranking (#22) and a 20–11 record in 1957–58. Drafted 2nd overall in the 1958 Federal Basketball Association draft by the Boston Centurions, he quickly established himself as one of the league’s premier young guards—averaging 14.3 points, 8.2 rebounds, and 4.1 assists in his rookie season.

Now entering his athletic prime, Steve is as thoughtful as he is talented. The ongoing war in Vietnam has strained his easy confidence; he struggles privately with guilt over living a life of luxury while his brother faces combat. His conversations with his wife, Shirley Rose Cowan Barrell, and his mother, Gladys, often center on the question of what it means to serve one’s country—and one’s conscience.

As of 1968: Living in Cambridge, Massachusetts, with Shirley and their two young children, Mark and Lisa, Steve remains the Centurions’ emotional core and one of the FBL’s brightest stars. Though fans adore his effortless grace, those closest to him see a man quietly haunted by the widening distance between the playing field and the battlefield.

The Third Generation
The family of Frederick “Fred” Barrell(1905– )

Frederick “Fred” Barrell Sr.
Born: September 12, 1905 – Brooklyn, NY
Alive as of 1968 – Age 62

The sixth son of Rufus and Alice Barrell, Fred Barrell was a dependable catcher who played thirteen seasons in FABL, most notably with the Chicago Cougars and Brooklyn Kings. A cerebral player known for his leadership and calm presence behind the plate, he became the ideal battery-mate to his younger brother Tom. When his playing days ended in 1943, Fred answered a different kind of call — joining the OSS and operating behind enemy lines in Nazi-occupied Europe, working closely with the French Resistance. After the war, he returned to baseball as a scout and manager, but in 1952 he was recruited into the newly formed CIA. Stationed first in Canada and later in West Berlin, he rose to Station Chief, a post he still holds in 1968, navigating the dangerous tensions of the Cold War with the same quiet steadiness that once guided pitchers on the mound.

Matilda “Tillie” Hobart Barrell
Born: May 30, 1908 – Hartford, CT
Alive as of 1968 – Age 60

Tillie Hobart Barrell has always been a free spirit — artistic, intelligent, and compassionate. Married to Fred since 1929, she has spent much of her adult life balancing domesticity with adventure, following her husband’s assignments across North America and Europe. Though she is supportive of Fred’s work, Tillie is the family’s emotional anchor, serving as a counterbalance to the secrecy and stress that come with intelligence work. Living in divided Berlin during 1968, she is both fascinated and troubled by the youth movements sweeping the West, particularly through the eyes of her daughter Loretta.

Frederick “Freddy” Barrell Jr.
Born: August 6, 1932 – Brooklyn, NY
Alive as of 1968 – Age 35

The eldest of Fred and Tillie’s children, Freddy Barrell followed in his father’s early footsteps, starring as a high school athlete in Detroit during Fred’s tenure with the Dynamos. Drafted by Detroit after graduation, Freddy played catcher in the minors for the Biloxi Billies before retiring from baseball in 1952. Turning his competitive drive toward golf, he became a respectable touring pro under the mentorship of his uncle Tom Barrell. Later, through his cousin Allie’s recommendation, he was appointed President of the Detroit Maroons football club following Rollie Barrell’s death. By 1968, Freddy has grown into a thoughtful, capable executive — the quiet leader of the Maroons’ front office.

Benjamin “Benny” Barrell
Born: 1937 – Ottawa, Canada
Alive as of 1968 – Age 30

A fiery, passionate player, Benny Barrell inherited both his father’s competitive streak and his uncle Joe’s temper. A talented hockey player from a young age, Benny left home at sixteen to play for the Hull Hawks, becoming one of Canada’s top junior prospects. Drafted fourth overall by the Detroit Motors in 1956, he has spent his entire NAHC career with the club, playing center alongside his younger brother Hobie. Though often overshadowed by Hobie’s brilliance, Benny is a respected veteran and locker room leader — the glue that keeps the Motors’ roster steady through success and hardship alike.

Hobart “Hobie” Barrell
Born: 1940 – Ottawa, Canada
Alive as of 1968 – Age 27

The youngest son of Fred and Tillie, Hobie Barrell is the most naturally gifted athlete in the Barrell family since the days of Joe and Jimmy. A prodigy in multiple sports, Hobie’s passion for hockey made him a household name in Canadian junior circles. Drafted first overall by Halifax in the CAHA junior draft, he shattered records before being selected second overall by the Detroit Motors in the 1960 NAHC Draft. Joining the Motors straight out of juniors, he became a superstar almost overnight. By 1968, Hobie is the face of the NAHC — a scoring dynamo, multiple MVP winner, and certain future Hall of Famer.

Loretta Barrell
Born: 1947 – Toronto, Ontario
Alive as of 1968 – Age 21

Intelligent, idealistic, and strong-willed, Loretta Barrell takes after her mother Tillie in spirit but carries her father Fred’s determination. Growing up in diplomatic circles, she has seen the best and worst of human nature — and as a college student in West Berlin, she is increasingly drawn to the youth movements challenging authority across Europe. She loves her father deeply, but their relationship is marked by ideological friction: Fred represents the establishment she mistrusts, while Tillie plays peacemaker between them.

The Third Generation
The family of Thomas “Tom” Barrell(1908– )

Thomas “Tom” Barrell
Born: February 14, 1908 – Brooklyn, NY
Alive as of 1968 – Age 60

Hard-headed, intense, and relentlessly competitive, Tom Barrell was every inch the pitcher he appeared to be from boyhood onward. The seventh son of Rufus and Alice Barrell, Tom grew up idolizing his older brothers and vowing to outdo them. Blessed with a powerful arm and a fierce work ethic, he was both a gifted hitter and one of the best pitching prospects of his generation. Choosing to focus on the mound, Tom debuted with the Chicago Cougars before being traded to Brooklyn, where he reunited with his brothers Dan, Fred, and Harry on the Kings’ roster.

A perfectionist to the core, Tom was notoriously anti-social on days he pitched, refusing to talk about anything not directly related to baseball — with the lone exception of his brother Fred, who happened to be his catcher. Despite recurring injuries that hampered the second half of his career, Tom reinvented himself as a control artist and finished strong with the Cincinnati Cannons, sharing the rotation with his nephew Deuce Barrell. After his retirement, the onetime “iron man” of the Kings became a successful manager, amateur golfer, and later a public relations troubleshooter for his nephew James Slocum’s NARF racing organization. Now semi-retired, Tom lives a quieter life in Hickory, North Carolina, mentoring his young son — a budding pitcher who shares his father’s intensity and fire.

Maureen “Marla” Fitzgerald Barrell
Born: May 11, 1920 – Pittsburgh, PA
Alive as of 1968 – Age 48

The daughter of Pittsburgh Miners owner Daniel Fitzgerald, Maureen “Marla” Fitzgerald Barrell grew up in the midst of baseball royalty. Strong-willed, independent, and charismatic, she worked in the Miners’ front office during her father’s later years of ownership, where she met a host of players — none more intriguing than Tom Barrell. Known around the league as a “skirt chaser,” Tom found in Marla someone who refused to be impressed by reputation or charm. The unlikely pair fell hard for each other, marrying in February 1946.

Marla’s steadfast confidence and intellect balanced Tom’s volatility, transforming him from a brash bachelor into a devoted husband and father. She remains his equal partner — both in life and spirit — and is often credited by family as the one who helped Tom find peace after a turbulent playing career.

Donald “Don” Barrell
Born: February 8, 1952 – Hickory, NC
Alive as of 1968 – Age 16

A bright and determined teenager, Don Barrell idolizes his father and has inherited both his stubbornness and competitive drive. A multi-sport athlete at Hickory High, Don has shown particular promise on the pitcher’s mound, where his natural poise and powerful arm have local scouts already whispering that “he’s a Barrell through and through.”

Maureen “Mo” Barrell
Born: August 11, 1954 – Hickory, NC
Alive as of 1968 – Age 13

The youngest of Tom and Marla’s children, “Mo” Barrell is energetic, sharp-tongued, and fiercely curious. A tomboy by nature, she idolizes her father and brother but shares her mother’s free spirit. Still too young to know where her path will lead, Mo’s lively presence and boundless enthusiasm keep the Barrell household anything but quiet.

The Third Generation
The family of Robert "Bobby" Barrell (1910 - )

Robert “Bobby” Barrell
Born: July 22, 1910 – Egypt, GA
Alive as of 1968 – Age 58

A larger-than-life figure both on and off the field, Bobby Barrell is among the greatest hitters in baseball history. Nicknamed “The Georgia Jolter,” the left-handed slugger smashed his way into the FABL record books with 3,815 hits, 639 home runs, and 2,328 RBIs over 21 seasons, all with the Philadelphia Keystones. A six-time Whitney Award winner and 1957 Hall of Fame inductee, Bobby’s combination of raw power, easy charm, and boundless charisma made him a national icon.

He was adored by Philadelphia’s “Bleacher Babies” — the kids who packed the outfield seats, calling his name and often going home with autographed balls, candy, or a story about the day Bobby Barrell smiled at them. His popularity was unmatched, and his humor and optimism masked a deeply competitive spirit.

Off the field, Bobby’s life had its share of drama: he famously feuded with his brother Tom over his future wife, Olympic star Annette O’Boyle, and later survived being shot by a jealous admirer while protecting her. He returned to the field undeterred, eventually transitioning into a second career as a beloved NBC broadcaster, turning his gift for connecting with fans into a new legacy behind the microphone.

Annette O’Boyle Barrell
Born: October 14, 1913 – Philadelphia, PA
Alive as of 1968 – Age 54

Before she became Mrs. Bobby Barrell, Annette O’Boyle was already a household name. A decorated Olympic track and field athlete who competed in the 1936 Berlin Games, Annette captivated audiences with her grace, speed, and strong-willed personality. She and Bobby were rivals in spirit — fiercely competitive and magnetic in their own ways — and their marriage became one of sport’s great love stories.

After retiring from competition, Annette became a respected advocate for women’s athletics, lending her voice to broadcasts and youth programs while supporting her husband’s career. Elegant, articulate, and fiercely independent, she remains an icon in her own right and a pillar of the Barrell family.

Ralph “Butch” Barrell
Born: April 13, 1940 – Philadelphia, PA
Alive as of 1968 – Age 28

The eldest of Bobby and Annette’s two sons, Ralph Barrell exploded onto the scene as a 19-year-old rookie with the Los Angeles Stars in 1959, joining his cousin Charlie Barrell in the heart of the lineup. A right-handed slugger with his father’s powerful swing and a calm, analytical demeanor, Ralph made an immediate impact, posting several strong seasons to begin his career and emerging as one of FABL’s brightest young stars.

But injuries and inconsistency plagued him from 1965 through 1967, testing his resolve and reputation. Entering 1968, Ralph has rededicated himself, transforming his physique through intense offseason workouts with his younger brother, football star Bobby Jr. With renewed strength and focus, Ralph is determined to reclaim his place among the game’s elite and help lead a loaded Stars team back into contention.

Robert “Bobby” Barrell Jr.
Born: September 19, 1943 – Philadelphia, PA
Alive as of 1968 – Age 24

While his father conquered baseball, Bobby Barrell Jr. took a different path. A towering, 6'4", 290-pound defensive end, Junior plays for the Kansas City Cowboys of the AFA, where his combination of brute strength, quickness, and intelligence has made him one of the league’s premier pass rushers. Drafted in the second round in 1966 after a standout career at Coastal Carolina, Bobby Jr. has already earned a reputation for sheer dominance, leading the league in sacks and striking fear into quarterbacks across the country.

Despite his intimidating size, Junior possesses the easy confidence of his father and a sharp wit that’s made him a fan favorite. His grueling workout routines — legendary even by pro standards — have become part of his lore, and he’s been credited with helping his brother Ralph rebuild his body for his baseball comeback.

Unmarried but hardly unnoticed, Bobby Jr. has parlayed his athletic fame into occasional professional wrestling appearances, where his combination of athleticism and charisma draws crowds as large as any Sunday crowd at the gridiron.

�� THE THIRD GENERATION
The family of Elizabeth “Betsy” Barrell Bowens (1914– )

Elizabeth “Betsy” Barrell Bowens
Born: February 11, 1914 – Egypt, GA
Alive as of: 1968 (Age 54)

The youngest of Rufus and Alice Barrell’s children, Betsy Barrell inherited her father’s steel will and her mother’s grace. A natural athlete, she excelled in both tennis and track & field, ultimately representing the United States at the 1936 Olympic Games in Berlin. There, she competed alongside Annette O’Boyle—later her sister-in-law and close friend—but the two began as fierce rivals, especially after Betsy became convinced Annette’s flirtations with her brothers Tom and Bobby Barrell were designed solely to get under her skin.

In time, Betsy and Annette found common ground, their shared competitive streak turning into mutual respect once Annette married Bobby. Betsy herself wed Thomas “Tom” Bowens, a handsome and driven football star from St. Blane University, on Christmas Day, 1937, at the Barrell family farm in Egypt, Georgia.

Throughout her husband’s military service, pro football playing and later coaching career, Betsy remained his steadfast partner and the emotional anchor of their family. She adapted easily to life on the West Coast when Tom joined the staff at CC Los Angeles (CCLA), where she raised their three children—George, Tom Jr., and Wilhelmina “Billie”—while maintaining her passion for sport and competition.

Even in her fifties, Betsy remains active and spirited, often spotted at CCLA games cheering on her sons or sparring playfully with sportswriters who dare to underestimate her understanding of the game.

Thomas “Tom” Bowens
Born: June 10, 1913 – Dayton, OH
Alive as of: 1968 (Age 55)

A driven and disciplined man both on and off the field, Tom Bowens earned his reputation first as a standout end for St. Blane University and later as one of the AFA’s premier receivers with the Boston Americans. Known for his quiet toughness and professionalism, Tom’s leadership helped the Americans win the 1945 AFA Championship before he retired and transitioned to coaching.

Following a successful stint as an assistant, Tom eventually became the head coach at Coastal California University (Los Angeles campus), better known as CCLA. His teams were known for balance, precision, and an unrelenting focus on fundamentals—reflecting his philosophy that “discipline wins more games than talent.”

By 1968, Bowens had compiled a respected record, leading the Coyotes to regular conference contention. His coaching style—structured yet adaptable—has earned him a reputation as a “player’s coach,” particularly given that both of his sons played under his tutelage. At home, Tom remains a loyal husband and proud father, balancing family legacy with a professional demeanor that has made him one of the most respected figures in collegiate football.

George Bowens
Born: September 1, 1940 – Boston, MA
Alive as of: 1968 (Age 27)

The eldest child of Tom and Betsy Bowens, George Bowens grew up immersed in football—coached by his father at home and later on the field. A natural athlete, George played wide receiver for CCLA, where he became one of the school’s most reliable pass-catchers. His combination of strong hands, intelligence, and route-running precision helped anchor the Coyotes’ offense during the early 1960s.

Drafted in the second round of the 1963 AFA Draft by the Los Angeles Tigers, George continued to develop as a dependable possession receiver at the professional level. Though never a flashy star, his consistency and professionalism earned him respect in locker rooms and press boxes alike. George embodies his father’s discipline and his mother’s composure—a steady presence both on and off the field.

Thomas “Tom Jr.” Bowens
Born: April 14, 1947 – Los Angeles, CA
Alive as of: 1968 (Age 21)

The younger son of Tom and Betsy Bowens, Tom Jr. has followed closely in his father’s—and brother’s—footsteps, playing wide receiver for CCLA under his father’s coaching. Taller and leaner than George, Tom Jr. brings a mix of athleticism and raw speed that makes him a dangerous deep threat.

Despite the challenges of being both “the coach’s son” and “George’s little brother,” Tom Jr. has carved out his own identity as a clutch performer, particularly noted for his hands and composure under pressure. His senior year campaign has drawn the attention of AFA scouts, and a professional future seems likely once he graduates.

Those who know him describe Tom Jr. as quieter and more introspective than his brother, but with the same unshakable competitive streak that defines every member of his remarkable family.

Wilhelmina “Billie” Bowens
Born: May 10, 1950 – Los Angeles, CA
Alive as of: 1968 (Age 18)

The youngest of the Bowens children, Billie inherited her mother’s fiery independence and athletic grace. A talented tennis player in her own right, she’s preparing to attend college in the fall, with ambitions to play competitively. Though not as sports-obsessed as her brothers, Billie is fiercely proud of her family’s legacy—especially her mother’s—and carries the Barrell determination into everything she does.

More to come!

[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.

[legendsport]

Same Song, Different Tune
1 — New Year’s Fire

Camp Evans, Quảng Trị Province — January 30, 1968

The generators never stopped their low mechanical growl. Inside the 3rd Battalion, 7th Cavalry’s operations tent, the sound blended with the hiss of radios and the clatter of typewriter keys. Major Mike Barrell leaned over a map pinned beneath empty coffee cups and rain-spotted acetate.

“Looks quiet out there, sir,” Sergeant Collins said, stifling a yawn. “Maybe this Tet truce thing’s for real.”

Mike smirked. “I’ll believe that when Charlie sends flowers.”

He signed a logistics report for Lieutenant Colonel Hal Kurtz and rolled his shoulders. The air felt heavy enough to bend steel. He checked his watch—just past 2100. Back home in Georgia it would be morning. Ruby Lee would be starting her day—packing Sarah’s lunch, chasing Jake to finish his cereal before the bus came down the dirt road. He pictured sunlight through the kitchen window, the way it caught in her hair when she turned to wave goodbye. For a heartbeat he could almost smell the coffee. Then his nose had its say as the smell of damp canvas and diesel fuel reasserted itself.

A dull pop echoed from the hills—artillery or thunder, hard to tell. He took a drag from his cigarette, the ember flaring, and exhaled into the canvas gloom. Mike had been in and out of Vietnam since 1965 and he knew it almost as well as he knew his home back in Georgia. This stillness felt wrong. Quiet never lasted here.

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

Chicago, Illinois: Morning, January 30

Snow rimmed the windows, muting the city below. Gladys Barrell poured coffee and opened the Chicago Tribune. The headlines spoke of weather and politics, not war, and she was grateful.

On the sideboard three photographs stood in a neat row:
• Dan Barrell, presenting the Whitney Award to his brother Bobby back in the Forties - baseball’s golden age caught in silvered paper.
• Mike, square-jawed in uniform, sunlight glancing off his helmet brim.
• Steve, grinning in his Boston Centurions warm-up, one hand on a basketball, all energy and promise.

She straightened each frame—a morning ritual of order against the day’s uncertainty. WGN radio chattered about lake-effect snow and last night’s scores. When the announcer mentioned that the Centurions were facing the St. Louis Rockets tonight, she smiled faintly. “Play well, Stevie,” she murmured. Then she turned off the radio and let the silence settle.

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

St. Louis, Missouri: Afternoon, January 30

The Rockets’ old barn smelled of popcorn grease and damp concrete. Steve Barrell dribbled once, twice, feeling the pull in his taped finger. A month on the injured list had dulled his timing; tonight he needed to shake off the rust and remind everyone—including himself—that he still belonged.

“Good to have you back, Barrell,” Coach O'Connor called. “Let it fly early.”

Steve nodded. The finger throbbed as he rose for a jumper, but the ball kissed the rim and fell clean through. The sound eased something inside him.

A trainer nearby skimmed the Post-Dispatch. “Another story about peace talks,” he said. “Guess they never talk long enough.”

Steve didn’t answer. He’d stopped believing the headlines months ago. The war was chewing up boys even younger than the rookies jogging past him now. Saying it aloud never helped; better to keep shooting.

By tip-off, the ache in his hand had faded beneath the rush. Boston jumped ahead early and never looked back. Steve hit four of seven from mid-range, the finger screaming by the final buzzer. In the locker room, teammates joked and sprayed liniment; the trainer flipped on the TV for the late news.

“Breaking news from Saigon tonight... enemy forces have launched surprise attacks on several cities across South Vietnam…”

The laughter died. The screen showed tracers streaking across a black sky, smoke rising from the Embassy wall. For a moment no one moved. Then someone switched channels, the same pictures everywhere.

Steve wrapped his hand in ice, staring at the screen long after it turned to commercials. The world had changed between one headline and the next.

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

Camp Evans — Near Midnight, January 30 (Vietnam time)

Rain drifted in from the hills, turning the dust to mud. Inside the Tactical Operations Center - the TOC - the radios crackled with overlapping voices: reports of rocket fire at Phu Bai, mortars pounding Quảng Trị City.

Mike bent over the map again, marking each contact with a grease pencil. “Confirm coordinates. See if Brigade’s hearing the same at Huế.”

Another transmission broke in, jagged and frantic: “…enemy inside the wire... repeat, inside...” then static.

Outside, their own artillery thundered in reply, shaking the ground underfoot. The Tet truce was over. Mike ordered full alert and stepped into the rain. The horizon pulsed with red light. Somewhere out there his companies were already in the fight.

He thought of Ruby Lee again—probably making lunch now, maybe catching the news on the radio after feeding the chickens. He wondered if she’d felt the earth shift, the way he just had.

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

St. Louis: Late Night, January 30 (U.S.)

The locker room steamed with sweat and liniment. Reporters scribbled notes about Boston’s win. Steve sat at his locker, unwrapping the tape from his finger, eyes on the flickering TV in the corner. The anchor’s calm voice carried an edge he’d never heard before.

“Fighting is reported in Saigon and other major South Vietnamese cities tonight…”

Players drifted closer, silent. When the broadcast cut to commercials, someone muttered, “Hell of a way for them to celebrate New Year’s.”

Steve shut off the set, slung his bag over his shoulder, and walked out to the quiet tunnel. Outside, sleet tapped the pavement like static. He whispered to no one, “Hang in there, Mike.”

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

Chicago: Morning, January 31 (U.S.)

Snow whispered against the window as Gladys turned on the radio. The announcer’s voice was clipped, uncertain.

“In Vietnam, widespread fighting continues this morning in Saigon, Huế, and Quảng Trị…”

Her coffee went cold in her hand. She turned up the volume, straining for details, but the sentences blurred into static.

The phone rang; she snatched it up.
“Mom, it’s me,” Steve said, his voice tinny from a hotel line.
“Oh, Stevie—thank God. I saw the news.”
“Yeah. Nobody knows much yet. They said Huế and Quảng Trị.”
“Your brother’s near there, isn’t he?”
“Yeah,” he admitted softly. “I think so.”

A pause, long and heavy.
“I’ll call again when I’m back in Boston,” he said.
“Do that,” she whispered. “And pray.”

After the click, she set the receiver down and looked at the photos again: Dan & Bobby, Mike, Steve - generations caught between pride and worry. She reached out and touched Mike’s picture. “Hold on, son,” she said.

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

Quảng Trị Province: Dawn, January 31 (Vietnam)

Gray mist hugged the paddies as the helicopters dropped low. Major Mike Barrell clutched the doorframe, headset pressed tight, rotor wash whipping his face.

“Two minutes!” the crew chief shouted.

“Copy,” Mike answered. “Red Three, stay tight; we’re going in hot.”

The Huey flared over the landing zone; bullets sparked off tree trunks. Mike jumped, hit the mud hard, and waved the men forward. Another chopper corkscrewed down trailing smoke. He sprinted to it, dragging the wounded crew chief clear, calling over the net, “Evac priority; two urgent, one routine.”

Gunships roared overhead. The air smelled of fuel and burning leaves. He shouted orders until his voice vanished in the noise, until there was nothing left but motion and command.

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

Boston Logan Airport: Evening, January 30 (U.S.)

Steve stepped off the plane into a swirl of sleet. Every television in the terminal blared the same images: smoke, gunfire, chaos. Passengers stopped mid-stride. An older man muttered, “My boy’s over there.”

Steve adjusted his grip on his duffel and caught his reflection in the glass, healthy, free, carrying a gym bag instead of a rifle. Guilt flickered through him, uninvited. He pushed through the crowd toward the taxi stand as the announcer’s voice chased him down the concourse:

“American commanders call the attacks widespread and coordinated. Casualties remain unconfirmed…”

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

Chicago: Night, January 31 (U.S.)

Gladys sat in her armchair, the television casting cold light across the room. Walter Cronkite’s voice filled the silence.

“The situation remains confused tonight. Fighting continues in Huế and Quảng Trị…”

She pulled her shawl tighter. The wind rattled the windowpane. In the blue glow, Dan’s photograph seemed almost alive. She could almost hear him say, “It’ll work out, Gladie. It always does.”

She clasped her hands and whispered, “Please, Lord. Bring him home.”

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

Quảng Trị Province: Dusk, January 31 (Vietnam)

The light faded to a bruised violet over the ridge. Mike crouched behind a sandbag wall, helmet tipped back, notebook balanced on his knee.

We’re holding near Quảng Trị. Heavy contact but spirits good. Tell Ruby Lee not to worry.

He folded the page, slid it into his breast pocket, and watched a medevac Huey lift off in the fading light. The rotor wash scattered dust and ashes, turning the horizon to haze.

When the sound finally died, the jungle closed in again. Somewhere across the ocean, his mother might be watching those same blades on her television, hearing the same dull rhythm in her chest.

Mike exhaled, exhaustion catching in his throat. “Same song,” he murmured, “different tune.”

The jungle answered with silence.

[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.

[legendsport]

Chapter 3 — Echoes

Quảng Trị Province, South Vietnam: February 25 1968

By late morning the fog had burned off, leaving the air bright and hard-edged. Major Mike Barrell picked his way through a block of shattered houses on the outskirts of Huế, boots crunching glass and roof tile. A week ago they’d been fighting for the city; now the job was clearing it - booby traps, deadfalls, wire that glinted just enough to tell you you’d missed the first one.

“Tripwire under the frame,” the corporal said, crouched in the doorway. His voice was almost casual. “Grenade in the rafters. Whoever set it knew we’d come in low.”

Mike marked the house with chalk - "DON’T ENTER" - and nodded the squad down the alley. Chickens scratched in a busted courtyard. A bicycle lay on its side with a bent front wheel, the back tire still somehow full of air. On the sill of a window blown clean out of the wall, a child’s tin truck waited as if its owner had just set it there and run off to wash for supper.

They worked slowly, house to house. At a schoolroom missing one wall, the blackboard still read Ngày Tết nghỉ học. The corporal uncovered what they’d been told they’d find, bones and cloth and the dumb, stunned silence that followed. Mike wrote coordinates and a brief note for Graves Registration, his pencil lead snapping halfway through recovery. He didn’t try twice.

At midday he walked the squad back toward their temporary command post, a half-collapsed shopfront where the battalion map was thumb-tacked to a bare plank. The radio hissed with Armed Forces Radio between sit-reps — a crooner from home, then a clipped announcer promising stabilization, progress, pacification. The words sounded as if they’d been left too long in the sun.

He ducked into shade, pulled out his notebook, and started a letter.

*Ruby Lee,
We’re on the back side of it now. The city’s a mess but we’re working through it, block by block. The men are holding up. I’m fine. Tell Mom I’m fine. Tell Sarah I still owe her that story about the tilting windmill. Tell Jake I saw a truck here that could outrun his back down the dirt road. We’ll be all right. Don’t worry.*

He stopped, crossed out Don’t worry, and folded the page. He couldn’t bring himself to write about the pit at the school or the house where the dog still waited by a door that didn’t exist.

A corpsman waved him over. Inside the poncho-strung aid station, Sergeant Herrera managed a grin despite the fresh bandage where his leg had been.
“Sir, you should see the other guy,” he said.
“I've seen them,” Mike answered, squeezing the sergeant’s shoulder until the grin looked real.

Outside, a woman in a blue dress, the color startling amid the ruin, picked through rubble with a stick, tapping, tapping, then lifting a pot as if it might still hold supper. She looked at him once, not afraid, not thankful, just measuring. He didn’t know what he hoped she’d find.

He caught sight again of the toy truck on the windowsill, slipped it into his pocket, and felt its edges bite his palm.

As dusk came on, a radio from brigade backline bled through static: “…student demonstrations reported today in several European capitals protesting the Vietnam War…” He almost laughed at the absurd distance of it; the world protesting a war that here had already burned itself into the ground.

The guns had stopped, mostly. The maps said the city was theirs again. But the quiet felt thin, a skin stretched over something that hadn’t finished speaking.

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

West Berlin, Federal Republic of Germany: February 18-19 1968

The chants came first: low, rhythmic, swelling until the cobblestones vibrated underfoot. Loretta Barrell pushed forward with the crowd spilling from the Technische Universität into the gray winter light. Banners rose like sails: USA RAUS AUS VIETNAM! SOLIDARITY WITH THE VIETNAMESE PEOPLE! The air smelled of diesel, cold, and adrenaline.

Students beat drums made from paint cans. Someone pressed a leaflet into her hand; she read Freedom for all peoples and felt the words flare like a match. Fifteen thousand, the papers would say later. She believed every voice counted double.

Police vans edged the perimeter. Helmets gleamed. When the first flare went up, the chant faltered, then surged higher. Loretta shouted until her throat scraped raw. For once she wasn’t Fred Barrell’s daughter or anyone’s pupil, just another voice in the tide.

Then came the push: gas, batons, confusion. A student grabbed her wrist, “Hier! Komm!” and dragged her into a café where others huddled, coughing through tear gas. On the café radio, a BBC bulletin reported renewed fighting near Quảng Trị. Her stomach turned; her father had mentioned that that was where her cousin Mike was stationed. She pressed her sleeve to her mouth and tasted ash.

By nightfall she walked home through puddles filmed with soot. Police sirens still echoed off the buildings.

The Barrell Apartment, West Berlin: Early Morning

The door slammed hard enough to shake the hallway mirror. Fred Barrell, still in his trench coat, stood in the entryway, fury barely contained. Tillie looked up from the kitchen doorway, her expression a mixture of worry and weariness.

“Do you have any idea what kind of spectacle you made of yourself?” Fred demanded, waving a photo. “Out there with Communist agitators!”

Loretta dropped her scarf on the table. “They’re not all Communists, Dad. They’re people who still believe freedom means something!”

“Freedom?” He laughed without humor. “Freedom doesn’t come from mob rule. It comes from men willing to stand a post and defend it.”

“You mean die for it.” Her voice rose. “You call it defending liberty, but it’s just killing with better slogans!”

“Watch your mouth,” he said, finger stabbing the air. “You think Moscow cares about liberty? They’re using fools like you.”

He threw the photo down, and Loretta saw her face, mouth open in a shout, her head circled in red ink. "I never thought I'd raise one of Lenin's 'useful idiots.'" The disappointment in Fred's voice was evident even through the anger.

Tillie stepped between them. “Please, both of you. Fred, she’s upset. Loretta...”

Loretta’s eyes flashed. “He’s supposed to defend liberty. How can he hate people for using theirs?”

Fred’s voice dropped to a hard, tired growl. “You don’t know what hate is. I’ve seen what happens when people think marching is the same as sacrifice.”

“You’ve seen too much,” she shot back. “That’s your problem.”

He pointed toward her room. “You will not go to another demonstration. That’s an order.”

She met his eyes. “You’re not my commanding officer.”

“Loretta!” Tillie’s voice cracked, half plea, half command. Silence followed. Loretta’s throat burned; she turned, went to her room, and shut the door.

At her desk she began to write.

*Dear Dad, You think you’re defending freedom. I think you’ve forgotten what it means.*

She folded the page and slid it into her journal. Outside, her parents’ voices murmured — Tillie’s calm, Fred’s anger ebbing into exhaustion. She opened the window; the night smelled of rain and tear gas. Somewhere a siren wound down into quiet.

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

Bethesda, Maryland: April 8, 1968

The smell of coffee and newsprint filled the Cleaves’ kitchen. The radio hummed with political news; outside, the forsythia were beginning to bloom. Roger Cleaves had just returned from Florida camp, suntanned and restless. His eldest, Dwayne, sat with one leg propped on a chair, a fresh bandage wrapping a strained hamstring. Evelyn flipped pancakes while the youngest, Dick, watched her nervously.

“Go on,” Roger said, catching the look. “Spit it out.”

Dick took a breath. “I’m eighteen now. I’ve decided to enlist. Marines.”

Evelyn froze, spatula mid-air. “You what?”

Roger grinned, clapping his son on the shoulder. “That’s my boy. Hell of a choice.”

Evelyn turned, pale. “A choice? Roger, after everything we’ve seen on television?”

Roger’s grin faded but his pride stayed. “Discipline, purpose. The Corps made a man out of me.”

“Made a stranger out of you for two years,” she said. “And you want that for him?”

Dwayne looked up from his plate. “Maybe he just wants to do his part, Mom.”

Evelyn shook her head. “Your ‘part’ could get him killed before he’s even lived.”

Roger’s voice hardened. “This country’s worth a damn sight more than sitting around worrying. Somebody’s got to stand up.”

“Then go yourself!” she snapped. “Leave my sons out of it!”

The room fell still. The radio announcer’s cheerful voice about Opening Day sounded obscene.

Roger finally said quietly, “If this country’s worth anything, it’s worth serving.”

Evelyn pushed past him into the hallway. The bedroom door closed like a verdict.

Dwayne exhaled. “Dad…”

Roger held up a hand. “Save it.”

A few hours later he sat alone in the garage, tools untouched, a half-packed duffel from camp on the bench beside him. He picked up a framed photo from an old Marine reunion and saw himself, twenty years younger, square-jawed and certain. He studied it until his eyes blurred.

“It did make a man of me,” he muttered, “just not a better one.”

He set the photo down. Through the open garage door came the crack of a bat from a neighbor’s yard and the faint call of the radio: “And that’s the ballgame…”

Roger closed his eyes, hearing instead the echo of a distant helicopter and the argument he hadn’t finished.

[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.

................................

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.

................................

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.

................................

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.

................................

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.

................................

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.

................................

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.

................................

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.

................................

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.

................................

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.”

................................

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.

................................

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.”

................................

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.

................................

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.

................................

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.

................................

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."

................................

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.

................................

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.

................................

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.

................................

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.

................................

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.”

................................

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.

................................

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.

................................

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.

................................

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.”

................................

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.

................................

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

................................

[Lord Byron]

Mike Burrell's birthday--talk about the worst 30th birthday ever (and all birthdays after), given what happened on that date...

[legendsport]

Yes, it's been a long time since I wrote Mike's birth into the story, and I typically draw the birthdays randomly, so that could be an accident of fate.

[legendsport]

Chapter 6 — The Long Season (1969)

JANUARY 1969

Harry & Ruth Barrell — Oahu

Waikiki glittered like a postcard, and for once Harry Barrell matched it. He body-surfed clumsy little waves with his boys, came up sputtering and laughing, and never once reached for anything stronger than pineapple juice. On the hike up Diamond Head he took the stairs slow, hand in Ruth’s, breathing the salt air like medicine. At the USS Arizona Memorial he fell quiet, fingers curled around the rail as oil freckles stippled the water below.

“Be happy for what you have,” Ruth whispered, leaning into him. “Stop counting what you lost.”

He nodded. “I’m trying.”

Inside, he knew the hole where Sarah and Barbara lived would never close. But the sun was warm, his sons were loud, and Ruth’s hand was steady in his. He let the day hold him up.

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

Mike Barrell — Georgia

Major Mike Barrell stepped off the plane into winter light that felt too soft. Ruby Lee was there with the kids, and the hug turned into a tangle of arms and breath and tears he blinked away before anyone saw. At home, the house smelled of coffee and clean laundry; the yard fence still needed mending; the dog barked like it remembered the exact sound of his boots.

He laughed in the right places, told the tame versions of the hard stories, and caught himself staring at the kitchen window as if jungle would grow there if he waited long enough. That night, when the house went quiet, he sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed the callus where his watch had worn his wrist raw.

Ruby Lee slid beside him, head on his shoulder. “You’re here,” she said.

“I’m here,” he answered, and wished the words felt heavier.

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

Ralph Barrell — Los Angeles

On the campus of CC Los Angeles, off-season sun slanted through the cage as Ralph Barrell set his feet and let the first pitch in ride to the hands, fouling it back on purpose. Timing drill. Again. Then he started lining balls into the gaps, same swing, same breath, the old rhythm settling into his bones.

“Still polishing last year’s trophy?” a beat writer called from the rail. The writers had sniffed out Ralph's secret workout sessions, courtesy of his uncle, Tom Bowens, CCLA's head football coach and athletic director.

Charlie Barrell, helping his cousin with his workout by pitching BP, frowned at the writer.

Ralph grinned without looking up. “Awards don’t hit in April.” He took the next pitch and sent it screaming past the L-screen. “Work does.”

He finished with grounders at third until his thighs burned, then jogged the warning track alone, the ocean somewhere beyond the outfield berm, the season already whispering its demands.

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

Brenda Slocum — Charlotte

The Slocum dinner wobbled on the edge of civil. Brenda picked at her food while James updated everyone on Paul’s car—“We’ll have the new engine in by the weekend”—and J.P. and Edward tossed in commentary like they were already part of the pit crew. Sissy watched Brenda with wide, hopeful eyes.

“You come home just to tell us what’s wrong with us?” James finally asked, fork scraping the plate.

“What’s wrong is you’re proud of a world that keeps breaking people,” Brenda shot back. “You’re all just kids wearing neckties and pretending it’s meaning.”

J.P. bristled. “We’re trying to be adults, Bren. Somebody has to keep the lights on.”

“Somebody has to change them,” she said.

Rose spoke in a tone that all the children recognized as trouble, "Brenda..." she growled.

Sissy’s lower lip trembled. “Please don’t fight.”

The chair legs shrieked on linoleum when Brenda pushed back. “I can’t breathe in here,” she said, and was gone down the hall, front door banging soft in her wake.

James stood up, started to follow his daughter, then didn’t. He wiped his hands on a shop rag he’d carried in from the garage. “I’ll be with the car,” he said to no one in particular, and the house sagged into silence except for the radio in the living room murmuring about “peace with honor.”

FEBRUARY 1969

Harry Barrell — Clearwater, Florida

The Florida sun baked away the last trace of Montreal frost as Harry Barrell stepped onto the practice field. Palms swayed beyond the outfield fence, gulls crying overhead, and the smell of fresh-cut grass hit him like a tonic. He had his customary cup of coffee in hand, but this time no need to cut through a hangover with it.

“Not a bad office,” Roger Cleaves said beside him, clipboard in hand.

“Beats a barstool,” Harry answered with a grin.

The Saints stretched across the diamond, laughter mixing with the crack of bats. Dixie Turner was already sweating through his undershirt, fielding grounders with the sharp, compact movements of a man who knew what he wanted. Harry leaned on the railing, eyes narrow with approval.

“Keep ‘em loose, keep ‘em honest,” he murmured. “The winning’ll take care of itself.”

For the first time in years, he felt the familiar pull of baseball without the weight of the bottle. He saw Roger eyeing the field with a strange look on his face.

"Going soft on me, Marine?" Harry cracked.

Roger grinned and said, "I always get a little emotional at the start of spring training. Everything is fresh and full of promise."

Harry shook his head. "I brought you here to help whip these boys into shape. I want Sergeant Rock, not Tiny Tim tiptoeing through the tulips."

Roger laughed out loud, then jogged out to start the workout in earnest.

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

Ralph Barrell — Tucson, Arizona

Desert wind blew through the practice fields at Ed Bennett Park, carrying dust and the smell of mesquite. Ralph Barrell tugged at his cap, eyes squinting against the sun as he watched the ball leave the pitcher’s hand. The pop of his line drives cracked like rifle fire across the empty bleachers.

Reporters gathered by the fence, murmuring about a “Whitney hangover” and whether the Stars’ dynasty had peaked. Ralph ignored them, as he always did.

“Same thing every year,” he told a rookie beside him. “They talk; we play.”

Another pitch came in and he turned on it, sending it arcing toward the far berm. The rookie just shook his head. “Doesn’t sound like hangover to me.”

Ralph grinned. “That’s ‘cause I’m already thinking about October. This club's a machine, and we're just warming up.”

Charley McCullough, the skipper, in his customary spot behind the cage, growled, "Don't be filling these kids' heads with nonsense, Barrell."

"Aye-aye,skipper," Ralph replied with a grin.

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

Mike Barrell — Washington, D.C.

At the Pentagon debrief, the fluorescent lights hummed overhead. Major Mike Barrell sat straight-backed while a colonel outlined the promotion track, the commendations, the possibility of command.

“Another tour could set you up for colonel,” the colonel said.

Mike nodded politely but heard only the words *another tour.* “Sir, with respect, I think I’ll take some time with my family.”

“Of course,” came the answer, but both men knew he’d be back. They always came back.

Outside, the February wind cut through his uniform, but the cold felt almost good. He lit a cigarette he didn’t really want and thought about Ruby Lee, about the kids, about the silence he carried like a stone.

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

Brenda Slocum — Gulf Coast Tour

The Transients rattled along the Gulf Coast in a dented van that smelled of patchouli and gasoline. Brenda stared out at the water flashing silver through pine trees, notebook on her knees. The pages were full of half-finished lyrics—hope tangled with exhaustion.

In New Orleans, someone passed her a tab of LSD before a gig. The colors blurred, the music stretched, and she felt as if the ceiling was breathing. When the show ended, she sat barefoot in the alley behind the club, giggling at the moon until tears ran down her face.

Her bandmates thought she’d found inspiration. Brenda thought she’d found the edge of something terrifying and beautiful.

MARCH 1969

Harry Barrell — Clearwater, Florida

March sunlight hit the practice field like a flashbulb, and Harry Barrell loved every second of it. The Saints were crisp, sharp, and laughing through drills. The Montreal-based reporters had already sent word north—“Barrell seems a new man.” He didn’t disagree.

During infield practice, Dixie Turner made a diving stop behind second, popped up, and threw a laser to first. Harry clapped once, hard. “That’s how you make the Whitney voters earn their keep!”

Roger Cleaves ambled over, sweat darkening his cap. “You realize you just jinxed him for three errors tomorrow.”

Harry smirked. “Then I’ll bench him and call it leadership.”

By the end of the day, he was sunburned and grinning, joking with players on the bus back to the hotel. The temptation to unwind with a drink still lingered somewhere in the shadows—but he’d learned to keep those doors locked.

That night, alone on the balcony, he watched the Gulf sunset melt into orange and violet. “One good year,” he whispered. “Just give me one more good year.”

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

Ralph Barrell — Tucson, Arizona

Ed Bennett Park buzzed under the desert sun as Ralph Barrell pounded another batting-practice pitch deep to left. The Stars’ camp felt different this spring—new kids hustling, old veterans relaxed, a sense of purpose humming beneath the dust.

“Feels like we’ve been here before,” said teammate Ed Bogan.

“We have,” Ralph replied, lining another ball to right-center. “That’s what makes it dangerous. Start thinking you’ve got it all figured out, that’s when this game smacks you in the mouth.”

Manager Charley McCullough barked from the dugout, “If you’re done sermonizing, preacher, you can shag a few flies.”

Ralph tipped his cap and jogged to the outfield, still grinning. He liked the kids, liked the energy. Liked knowing that every swing was a small reminder to anyone listening that the Stars' dynasty wasn’t dead—it was just catching its breath.

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

Mike Barrell — Georgia

Routine should have soothed him. Mornings at the base, afternoons at home, evenings helping with homework or fixing the fence. But Mike Barrell found himself staring out windows, hearing echoes of rotor blades that weren’t there.

Ruby Lee noticed. She’d catch him standing still, lost in thought, and ask, “You okay?”

He’d smile that practiced soldier’s smile. “Just thinking about paint for the porch.”

At night, when the kids were asleep, she’d lie awake beside him and count the seconds between his breaths. She didn’t say it out loud, but she already knew—he wasn’t all the way back.

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

Steve Barrell — Louisville, Kentucky

Spring meant another chase for a title. Steve Barrell watched the film from last season’s Finals loss, rewinding the final minute twice, then shutting it off with a quiet grin. Louisville was smaller than Boston, but its fans were louder, hungrier.

Coach John Robinson walked by the gym door. “You still practicing leadership by watching film, Steve?”

“Just making sure I remember what winning looks like.”

“You’ll remember. Just keep those knees working.”

The team was talented, deep, and favored, and Steve could feel the weight of expectation. At home, Ellie teased him when he came back late from practice. “You planning to win another trophy before we start a family?”

“That’s the plan,” he said, kissing her cheek.

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

Paul Slocum — Charlotte, North Carolina

In the garage behind the house, the smell of oil and hot metal hung thick. Paul Slocum climbed out of his car, face streaked with grease, while his father looked over the engine.

“She’s coming together,” James said.

Paul wiped his hands. “She’s gonna fly.”

Brenda’s old room upstairs was dark and silent. The brothers barely mentioned her name, but every now and then James would look toward the stairs like he was listening for music that wasn’t there.

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

Brenda Slocum — Northbound

The Transients’ van rattled up the Appalachian foothills, half-broken and running on fumes. Brenda leaned her head against the window, watching the pines blur by. The gigs were getting better—college coffeehouses, small festivals—but she felt like she was being carried rather than driving herself.

One night, after a show, she wrote in her notebook:
*Can you find yourself in the noise,
Or do you get lost in the song?*

When she mailed a postcard home, it just said, *Playing in Virginia. Don’t worry. Love, Bren.*
No one in the van saw her slip it into the roadside mailbox.

APRIL 1969

Harry Barrell — Clearwater, Florida

The Montreal Saints broke camp sharp and confident. Harry Barrell stood near the dugout rail, cup of coffee in hand, and watched his players take infield under the morning sun. The infield dirt shimmered in the heat, but his mind felt cool, clear, focused.

Dixie Turner had picked up right where he left off, spraying line drives to every corner of the field. Reporters hovered like seagulls, snapping photos of the newly serene Barrell and the smiling, swaggering second baseman.

“Feels like we could play a doubleheader every day,” Dixie said, grinning as he trotted past.

“Good,” Harry replied. “You can start by hitting one out today.”

When Opening Day arrived, Turner did just that — first pitch, bottom of the first, a thunderclap over the left-field wall. The Saints bench exploded. Harry just folded his arms and said, “Welcome to the new season, boys.”

That night, in his hotel room, he allowed himself a rare beer. One. He stared at it a long while before opening it, then poured half down the sink. “That’s enough,” he muttered, smiling to himself.

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

Ralph Barrell — Tucson, Arizona

In the desert, the Stars’ workouts gave way to travel and Opening Day flights. Ralph Barrell loved that moment when the plane lifted and the season truly began — the quiet hum before the noise.

L.A. papers were full of skepticism: “Has the dynasty lost its edge?” “Can Barrell lead again?” He clipped one headline, folded it into his wallet, and carried it with him like a dare.

The Stars opened flat, losing three of four to Seattle. In the clubhouse, McCullough slammed the lineup card on his desk. Ralph just smiled. “Relax, skip. It’s April.”

By week’s end, the Stars reeled off six straight wins. When reporters asked what changed, Ralph shrugged. “The season started.”

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

Mike Barrell — Fort Benning, Georgia

Major Mike Barrell was back in fatigues, this time as an instructor. He ran morning drills with the reserve officers’ candidates, his voice carrying across the field.

“Eyes up! Shoulders straight! If you’re here to be average, there’s the gate.”

They respected him instantly — the ribbons, the scars, the quiet intensity. But when he dismissed them and the noise died down, something hollow remained.

That night, Ruby Lee found him sitting on the porch, watching the stars. “You could come to bed,” she said softly.

He didn’t look over. “I like the quiet.”

She knew better than to press him. Inside, she wondered if the quiet was what he missed most — or what he feared losing.

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

Steve Barrell — Louisville, Kentucky

The Spirits entered the Continental Basketball League playoffs like a storm front. Steve Barrell led warmups, barking encouragement, the captain in every sense.

“Ball movement,” he shouted during practice. “No hero stuff.”

Coach [b]John Robinson/b] smiled on the sideline. “That’s why they listen to you, Steve — you think like a coach, not a star.”

“Stars fade,” Steve said, flipping a towel over his shoulder. “Teams win.”

At home, Ellie was knitting booties in the soft glow of the television. She looked up when he came in late, still in his warm-up jacket. “Another win?”

“Another step,” he said, bending to kiss her forehead.

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

Brenda Slocum — Virginia to New Jersey

The road blurred into one long setlist. Brenda sang in tiny clubs and student unions, the Transients growing tighter, louder, hungrier. She jotted notes in her lyric book:
*If peace is a promise, who’s keeping it?
If love is the answer, why are we still fighting?*

A college reporter interviewed her in Richmond and asked, “So are you a protest singer?”

She laughed. “I’m just trying to tell the truth, whatever it sounds like.”

By month’s end, they crossed into New Jersey, bound for New York. Brenda stood on the turnpike rest stop, wind whipping her hair, and thought, *Maybe this is what change feels like — the world moving faster than you can catch it.*

MAY 1969

Steve & Mike Barrell — Louisville, Kentucky

The Louisville Spirits played their hearts out in the CBL Finals, a hard-fought, bruising series that stretched nearly into summer. Steve Barrell limped into the locker room after Game Five, his knee aching, his lungs burning, and a smile spread across his face as his teammates doused him with water instead of champagne.

They were champions.

Earl Arsenault, the team’s MVP, raised the trophy and pointed toward Steve. “He made us believe,” he told the reporters crowded near the benches. “He made every one of us better.”

That night, the victory dinner was loud and bright. Ellie Barrell, radiant in a blue dress that couldn’t quite hide her growing belly, laughed with other players’ wives. “Our kids will be cousins so close in age they’ll be best friends,” she said warmly to Ruby Lee, who was visiting from Georgia.

Ruby Lee smiled but said little. Later, while Steve and Mike slipped out to the hotel patio, the conversation turned heavier.

“The game’s easy compared to what you’ve been through,” Steve said, lighting a cigarette.

Mike shrugged. “Easy’s not the word I’d use for anything lately.”

“You’re not thinking of going back, are you?”

“I’m thinking of duty,” Mike said evenly. “Of the men who still need good leaders.”

Steve exhaled hard. “You’re an idiot.”

“And you’re lucky,” Mike replied, tone softening.

They stared at the city lights below them until Gladys came out, her voice steady and tired. “You both want peace,” she said. “You just spell it differently.”

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

Harry Barrell — Montreal, Quebec

The Saints came out of April like a freight train and kept rolling. Dixie Turner was locked in — home runs, doubles, walks, and that same electric smile that made him the heartbeat of the team.

Harry watched him from the dugout rail, taking in the way the younger players looked to Turner for cues. When a reporter asked what had changed for Montreal, Harry said simply, “Belief. We believe again.”

In the clubhouse afterward, Roger Cleaves caught Harry’s eye and grinned. “Guess you got that one good year after all.”

Harry shook his head. “Still a long road to October, Marine.”

But he couldn’t stop smiling.

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

Ralph Barrell — Los Angeles, California

A trip to San Francisco flipped the switch. The Stars won three straight, then four more. Ralph Barrell hit .368 for the month, driving in runs by the handful and flashing the sure glove that made him one of the best at third.

When a reporter asked about his early slump, he waved it off. “Season’s a long song. You just have to find your key.”

In the clubhouse, McCullough slapped his shoulder. “You’re humming again, kid.”

Ralph grinned. “Just getting warmed up.”

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

Brenda Slocum — New York City

New York in spring smelled like gasoline, pretzels, and possibility. Brenda Slocum busked in Washington Square Park between club gigs, barefoot on the stone, hair loose in the breeze.

Her voice drew small crowds, students and dreamers and drifters. “That girl’s got lightning,” someone whispered to a friend.

Onstage at the Café Whirlwind in Greenwich Village, she debuted a new song — The Machine Song — a jagged, hypnotic anthem that ended with her shouting into the mic, “We build the gears that grind us down!” The applause went on for minutes.

When she came off stage, a promoter offered her a slot at a summer festival in upstate New York.

“What’s it called?” she asked.

“Woodstock.”

She smiled, already half convinced the universe was finally listening.

JUNE 1969

Mike Barrell — Columbus, Georgia

The VFW fundraiser drew a full house — veterans in pressed jackets, wives in floral dresses, a brass band stumbling through “Stars and Stripes Forever.” Major Mike Barrell stood at the dais while the mayor called him “a hero of quiet strength.”

He smiled, shook hands, accepted the applause.

Later that night, back home, Ruby Lee placed the folded program on the counter. “They look at you like you’re a statue,” she said softly. “But statues don’t come home for supper.”

Mike kissed her forehead. “I’m here now.”

But when she woke at midnight, his side of the bed was cold. He was out on the porch again, cigarette glowing in the dark, staring at nothing.

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

Harry Barrell & Roger Cleaves — Montreal, Quebec

The Saints closed out June with their best record in two decades: forty wins, twenty-four losses, first place in the CA East. Dixie Turner was unstoppable — eleven home runs in the month, batting .330, a swagger in every at-bat.

“Hell of a team,” said Roger Cleaves, leaning against the dugout rail.

“Hell of a player,” Harry replied, nodding toward Turner as he ripped another double into the gap.

When a reporter asked what had changed for Montreal, Harry said, “We stopped looking at the standings and started looking at ourselves.”

Later that night, he walked past the hotel bar on the way to his room. The laughter spilled out into the hall. He hesitated, then kept walking, hands in his pockets, whistling a tune that only half remembered its own melody.

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

Ralph Barrell — Los Angeles, California

The Stars roared through June like they had something to prove. Ralph Barrell hit .340 with eleven homers, found his timing again, and his teammates followed suit.

In the locker room, Charley McCullough slapped a lineup card on the wall. “That’s nine straight, gentlemen. Don’t let it go to your heads.”

“Too late,” Ralph said, deadpan, tying his cleats.

The room broke into laughter, the easy kind that only comes when winning feels inevitable.

When asked if the dynasty was dead, Ralph told a reporter, “You can’t kill what doesn’t sleep.”

--------------------
Reid & Harry Barrell — Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania / Montreal, Quebec

Reid Barrell knew something was wrong the moment he swung. The crack of the bat came late — pain streaked from his shoulder down his arm like lightning. He dropped the bat, clutching at his chest, the crowd at Three Rivers murmuring as he stumbled toward the dugout.

“Trainer!” someone shouted.

Later, in the clubhouse, ice numbing his shoulder, the team doctor broke the news: partial labrum tear. Seven weeks minimum. Reid stared at the floor. “That’s the season, then?”

“Maybe not,” the trainer offered. “But you’ll need patience.”

He managed a weak grin. “I’ve been a Barrell my whole life. Patience ain’t really our thing.”

That night, the phone rang in his hotel room. “You sound like a man with too much time on his hands,” Harry said from Montreal.

“Too much time, too much ice,” Reid replied. “Feels like someone shoved a knife in my shoulder.”

Harry chuckled softly. “You’ll heal. The good ones always do.”

“You still swinging that serenity around up there?” Reid asked.

“Trying,” said Harry. “Dixie’s hitting like a man possessed, and you were too until that shoulder gave out. Maybe we’ll both still be around in October.”

“Wouldn’t that be something,” Reid said. Then, quieter, “Hey, Dad… thanks for calling.”

“Family first,” Harry replied. “Always.”

When the call ended, Harry sat in the dark of his Montreal hotel room, phone still in hand, thinking how much his son reminded him of himself at that age — tough, proud, and still learning that even the hardest men can break.

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

Brenda Slocum — Northeast Tour

Every night felt like a dream she couldn’t wake from. Brenda and the Transients played to growing crowds — college quads, outdoor fairs, late-night radio shows. Her voice had grown raw and confident, the songs sharper.

At a small festival in Connecticut, a promoter pressed a flyer into her hands:
WOODSTOCK MUSIC & ART FAIR — AUGUST 15–17

He grinned. “You and your crew want in?”

Brenda laughed, eyes wide. “Woodstock? You already invited me to that one.”

The promoter squinted at her, then after a moment, snapped his fingers and asked, "Washington Square Park?"

"You got it," Brenda replied with a grin. "This is the big one, right?"

“Biggest there’ll ever be.”

That night she wrote in her notebook:
*Maybe the world really can hear us now.*

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

Paul Slocum — Raleigh, North Carolina

The little track outside Raleigh shimmered in the heat, and Paul Slocum stood in the winner’s circle for the first time that summer, oil streaked across his cheek.

James handed him a Coke and grinned. “You didn’t flinch once in that last corner. Your old man would’ve lifted.”

Paul wiped sweat from his brow. “Maybe you’re getting soft, Dad.”

Jack Winfield sauntered over, "That was some great driving Paul," he said. Reminded me of your other granddad."

Paul grinned. "So you're saying that you would have lifted too? Good thing I have Jimmy Barrell's sense of daring, then."

"Just don't tell your mother," Jack said, then pointed at James and added, "Or his mother," referring to Claudia Slocum who was strictly anti-racing.

"I may be daring, but I ain't stupid, granddad," Paul cracked.

James laughed, clapping him on the back. For the first time in months, he felt the simple, pure joy of a father watching his son find his stride.

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

JULY 1969

Harry Barrell — Montreal, Quebec

The summer belonged to Dixie Turner. By the All-Star break, he was hitting .333 with 26 home runs and had the entire city buzzing about another Whitney season. Reporters swarmed Harry Barrell daily, asking if this was the best player he’d ever managed.

“He’s got the stats,” Harry said. “But it’s the heart that makes him great. That’s the part you can’t measure.”

After practice one afternoon, Turner lingered by the cage, smacking one last bucket of balls into the gaps. “You ever wish you could still play, Skip?” he asked.

Harry smirked. “Every damn day. But if I did, you’d have to sit.”

Turner laughed. “Not a chance, old man.”

They shared a long grin—teacher and student, both knowing they were making something rare and beautiful together.

That night, Harry flipped through the sports pages in his hotel room. Ralph’s name jumped off the page—*snubbed from the All-Star roster.* He frowned. “Damn fools,” he muttered. “He’s still the best third baseman in the game.” He closed the paper and turned off the light, the pride and ache of family twisting together in his chest.

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

Ralph Barrell — Los Angeles, California

The All-Star rosters were posted in the clubhouse before practice, and Ralph Barrell’s name wasn’t there.

He read it twice, jaw tightening. Around him, teammates offered awkward half-smiles. “They’ll fix it next year, Ralph,” one said. “Everybody knows—”

“They don’t,” Ralph cut in, calm but sharp. “But they will.” This was the fifth straight season he'd been passed over. Granted, there were some lean years, but he won the Whitney last year and still didn't make the cut.

That night in Seattle, he took it out on the baseball. Two homers, five RBIs, both balls disappearing into the Puget Sound haze beyond left field. The reporters called it “Barrell’s quiet revenge.” He just called it Tuesday.

After the game, McCullough handed him a cold towel. “You done proving your point?”

“Not yet,” Ralph said. “Season ain’t over.”

"Damn right," growled the skipper. Ralph grinned despite his anger. McCullough was practically a Barrell... heck, he even married one.

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

Mike & Ruby Lee Barrell — Georgia

Summer heat shimmered over the red clay roads outside Columbus. Ruby Lee was showing now, moving slower but still managing the kids and the house with her usual quiet resolve. Mike repaired the fence, mowed the grass, tried to pretend everything was normal.

One evening, after the kids were asleep, she came out to the porch with two lemonades. “You still haven’t told me,” she said.

“Told you what?”

“Whether you’ve decided.”

He stared at the yard, at the swing set he’d built with his father’s hammer. “I already did,” he said quietly.

Her eyes filled before she could stop them. “Mike…”

He reached for her hand. “There’s work to finish, Ruby Lee. The men over there—they need someone who gives a damn.”

She pulled away, wiping at her eyes. “We need you too.”

He didn’t argue. He just looked out at the horizon, where the fireflies blinked like tracer rounds against the dark.

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

Brenda Slocum — Upstate New York

July was a blur of heat, motion, and anticipation. Brenda and the Transients rehearsed every night in a borrowed barn outside Woodstock, string lights tangled above their heads. Her voice was stronger than ever—raspy, wild, and real.

One night, between songs, the guitarist, Pappy Moon (real name Paul Moore) asked, “You think anybody’ll even remember us after that festival?”

Brenda laughed. “Maybe not. But for three days, they’ll hear us. That’s enough.”

She stepped outside, as usual barefoot, but this time in the grass, the humid air heavy with the smell of rain. She closed her eyes and whispered to no one in particular, “Let this mean something.”

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

Paul Slocum — Charlotte, North Carolina

Back home between races, Paul spent his days in the garage tuning the car that was finally, truly his. James watched him work, proud but cautious.

“You’re fearless,” his father said. “You get that from the wrong side of the family.”

Paul grinned. “Maybe the best side.”

"Well, I'm not running down my own father, but I never got to know the man. He was fearless... and reckless. Be the first, but not the second."

"I hear you Dad. You think I haven't heard Grandma Claudia in my ear since I was driving go-karts?"

James nodded. He choked up, just as Claudia did, when looking at Paul. It was as if Jimmy Barrell had come back in the flesh.

When Paul climbed behind the wheel that weekend and took the checkered flag for his second win of the summer, James barely noticed the heat or the noise. All he could see was motion — the same drive that had carried generations of Barrells and Slocums before them, roaring into whatever came next.

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

AUGUST 1969

Brenda Slocum — Bethel, New York

Rain turned the fields outside White Lake into a sea of mud. Brenda Slocum stood barefoot backstage, jeans soaked to the knees, guitar slung over her shoulder. From the hill beyond, half a million people stretched to the horizon, a living ocean of color and noise.

“Guess this is it,” said Pappy Moon, grinning under a straw hat. “You ready, Carolina?”

“As I’ll ever be,” Brenda said, though her stomach churned. Someone handed her a cup of water. She didn’t ask what was in it.

They went on at dawn, the light soft and strange through the mist. She sang with every ounce of herself—“The Machine Song,” “Silver Rain,” “No More Flags.” The sound rolled out over the soaked hillside, and for a brief moment she believed it really could change the world.

Hours later she sat cross-legged behind the stage, hair plastered to her face, mind adrift in colors and sound. The last thing she remembered clearly was the roar of applause fading into the hum of the universe.

When she woke the next day, the stage was half-dismantled, the fields littered with sleeping dreamers. She didn’t know where Pappy or the rest of the Transients were. She wrote in her notebook, shaky hand:
*The music played, and the world disappeared.*

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

Reid Barrell — Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

Seven weeks after the injury, Reid Barrell stepped back into the lineup. The first grounder tested his shoulder—it held. The first at-bat, he swung through a curveball, grimaced, and adjusted. The second, he ripped a double down the right-field line.

The crowd roared. He tipped his helmet toward the dugout, where his teammates grinned. He felt whole again, or close enough to it.

After the game, he found a telegram waiting in his locker:

FROM HARRY BARRELL — MONTREAL QC
Proud of you, son. Glad to see the Barrell name back in the box scores again.
Keep leading like you always have.
- Dad

Reid smiled as he folded the slip of paper into his wallet. His shoulder still ached, but it was a good ache—the kind that meant you were back in the fight.

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

Harry Barrell — Montreal, Quebec

The Saints clinched another series in Cincinnati and widened their lead. Dixie Turner was on an otherworldly tear, and the Montreal press had crowned him the frontrunner for the Whitney.

After the final out, Harry sat in his office alone, the hum of the ballpark lights echoing in the walls. He took out the paper with the day’s box scores and found Reid’s name near the top: 2-for-4, 2B, RBI.

He smiled and folded the paper neatly. “One good year,” he said under his breath. “Maybe two.”

Roger Cleaves poked his head through the door. “You talking to yourself again, Unk?”

Harry laughed - of all his nieces and nephews, only Roger had ever called him 'Unk' and he, surprisingly, liked it. His brother Joe had a personality like Roger's, and he was thrilled to have Joe's son by his side. “Only way to get a decent conversation around here,” he said fondly.

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

Ralph Barrell — Los Angeles, California

By August, the Stars were a machine. Ralph Barrell was hitting in every way that mattered—loud contact, quiet leadership, and a fire that burned through the long road trips.

One sweltering afternoon, a rookie asked him what drove him this late in his career.

Ralph thought for a long moment - initially due to shock: long career? He wasn't even thirty, but then he gave the kid the benefit of the doubt. “When you’ve been counted out enough times, proving people wrong becomes muscle memory.”

That night he homered twice, both no-doubters. Afterward, McCullough found him packing his glove.

“You know,” said the manager, “you keep this up and they’ll have to name the damn trophy after you.”

Ralph smirked. “They can keep their trophies. I’ll take another pennant.”

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

Mike Barrell — Georgia

The August heat lay heavy over Columbus, the air thick and still. Ruby Lee was starting to get too big to do much work. Mike worked around the house, cleaning what was already clean, fixing what didn’t need fixing, stacking firewood for a winter he might not see.

Late one night, Ruby Lee caught him folding his uniforms into the duffel bag. “I thought you promised—after this one—”

“I did,” he said, quietly. “And I meant it.”

“Then why does it feel like you’re already gone?”

He didn’t have an answer. He set the bag down, took her hand, and placed it over her belly. “Because I need to finish what I started. For them.”

She shook her head through tears. “They need a father, not a soldier.”

“I’ll be both,” he said softly. But even as he said it, they both knew how fragile promises could be.

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

Paul Slocum — Darlington, South Carolina

The track thundered as Paul Slocum pulled into his pit for the final stop of the Carolina Summer Series. The car shuddered, the engine screaming. James leaned into the window. “Two laps left. You’ve got the lead, but don’t get cocky.”

Paul grinned under the helmet. “You sound like Grandma again.”

“Good,” James barked. “She’s usually right.”

When the checkered flag dropped, Paul crossed the line first. The win sealed the regional title, and the crowd in the stands went wild.

Afterward, a reporter shoved a microphone toward him. “You’re the youngest driver ever to win this circuit. What’s next?”

Paul smiled. “Whatever’s faster.”

"NARF?" the reporter pressed.

"You'll need to ask my father that question," Paul said, with a half-grin.

James watched from behind the fence, pride and fear warring in his chest. He could already see the next chapter writing itself—and it was moving faster than he could ever catch.

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

SEPTEMBER 1969

Harry & Roger — Montreal, Quebec

Labor Day weekend brought cooler air and the scent of victory. The Saints stood eight games up in the CA East and still widening the gap. Dixie Turner had gone through a brief slump, then roared back with a vengeance, launching four homers in a five-game stretch that all but buried New York.

In the dugout, Roger Cleaves tossed a ball into his glove and said, “You realize, Unk, this is the first time Montreal fans have smiled since the ’20s.” Both men knew - the papers wouldn't stop talking about it, after all - that Montreal's last postseason appearance had been in 1921.

Harry grinned. “Then let’s keep them grinning through October.”

When the final out sealed another win, fans poured out of Stade Monteal singing “Vive les Saints.” Harry tipped his cap to them, feeling the kind of peace he used to chase in a bottle. This time, he’d earned it sober.

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

Reid Barrell — Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

The Miners clawed their way to the FA East crown, and Reid Barrell was right in the middle of it. Since his August return he’d been scorching—line drives to every field, slick turns of the double play, leadership that steadied the whole infield.

In the final home game, he went 3-for-4 and made a diving stop to save two runs. When the crowd chanted “Reid! Reid! Reid!” he tipped his cap, eyes bright.

In the clubhouse afterward, a reporter asked how it felt after the injury.
“Like I was underwater for two months,” Reid said, grinning. “Now I’m breathing again.”

He called his father that night.

“Good win,” Harry said. “You make it look easy.”

Reid chuckled. “You always said baseball’s simple—hit what they throw, catch what they hit.”

Harry laughed. “You finally listened.”

“Yeah,” Reid said quietly. “Took me a while.”

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

Ralph Barrell — Los Angeles, California

Another year, another pennant race—and Ralph Barrell was right in the thick of it. The Stars reeled off a 12-game streak that clinched the CA West by mid-month. They won 113 games - topping 100 wins in five of the last six seasons. Ralph finished the regular season hitting .275 with 37 homers and 127 RBIs, numbers that silenced every critic left.

After the final game, a reporter asked if missing the All-Star team still bothered him.
Ralph smirked. “Not tonight. Pennants shine longer than plaques.”

In the quiet of the clubhouse, McCullough poured him a paper cup of ginger ale. “To the machine.”
Ralph clinked it. “To October.”

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

Mike Barrell — Georgia

September slipped by in measured days. Ruby Lee’s belly grew heavier, the children more restless. Mike Barrell spent his evenings polishing boots he wouldn’t wear for another three months.

The radio played baseball scores and Vietnam updates in equal measure. One night, Ruby Lee muted it and said, “They say peace talks are happening. Maybe that means—”
“It means nothing till boots come home,” Mike said quietly. Then he softened. “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean it sharp.”

She reached for his hand. “Just promise me—Christmas. You’ll be here for Christmas.”
“I will,” he said. And for once, he almost believed it.

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

Brenda Slocum — Somewhere on the Road

Woodstock had come and gone, but Brenda Slocum couldn’t shake the fog. The Transients were gone—scattered, some chasing new gigs, some lost in the haze of what came after.

She drifted from town to town, hitching rides, playing coffeehouses for meal money. The notebook stayed with her, now filled with half-finished lyrics and a new one she could barely bring herself to finish:
*The music played, and the world began again.*

When a waitress in Albany asked where she was headed, Brenda just smiled. “Home, I think. Maybe I’m done chasing echoes.”

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

Paul Slocum — Charlotte, North Carolina

The off-season came early, but Paul Slocum couldn’t sit still. He was already talking with mechanics about a new chassis for 1970, one built for real speed. James listened, nodding, heart torn between pride and dread.

“You’re gonna burn up the track, boy,” he said.

Paul grinned. “Not the track, Dad. Just the record book.”

James smiled faintly, though inside he thought of Jimmy Barrell’s last drive—brave, reckless, and final. History had a way of repeating itself, and sometimes that scared him more than any race ever could.
--------------------

OCTOBER 1969

Harry & Roger — Montreal, Quebec

For the first time in league history, October baseball came with a new wrinkle — the Association Championship Series. Harry Barrell’s Montreal Saints, surprise winners of the CA East, would face the powerhouse Los Angeles Stars, winners of five of the last six pennants and three World Championships in that span.

The Montreal papers called it “David versus Goliath,” but Harry wasn’t buying it. “We didn’t sneak in,” he told reporters before the series opener. “We earned our ticket. We’ll see who swings the bigger stone.”

In Game One at Bigsby Stadium, Dixie Turner gave the Saints an early jolt — a two-run homer in the top of the first off Floyd Warner. But Los Angeles answered immediately with four runs of their own, punctuated by a three-run blast from Lew Smith. Harry kept his game face, but when the Stars went on to win 7–4, he knew the climb would be steep.

Game Two saw a mirror image of the first — early Saints runs, but this time, they held. Jack Kessler blanked the Stars for seven innings, Dixie went deep again, and Montreal evened the series 3–2. Harry and Roger Cleaves traded grins as the team boarded the flight home. “Maybe miracles still sell in this town,” Roger said.
“Long as we keep the receipts,” Harry answered.

In front of a roaring home crowd, Dixie homered twice more in Game Three, but it wasn’t enough. The Stars’ relentless lineup battered Montreal pitching for an 8–7 win. Game Four brought more of the same — Los Angeles pulled ahead early and never let go, winning 8–5 to clinch the series. Dixie went hitless for the first time in the postseason but still finished with a .294 average and four home runs in four games.

After the loss, Turner sat quietly in front of his locker, hands clasped. “Guess I ran out of magic, Skip.”
Harry put a hand on his shoulder. “You gave ‘em all you had, son. That’s the only kind of magic that lasts.”

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

Reid Barrell — Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

Reid Barrell and the Pittsburgh Miners had clawed their way back from injuries, inconsistency, and doubt to win the FA East at 96–66, but their reward was a collision with the St. Louis Pioneers.

From the start, it wasn’t close. St. Louis swept the best-of-five series in three straight. Reid went 4-for-11 with two RBIs, but it was cold comfort. After the final out, he lingered on the dugout steps, staring across the field at the celebrating Pioneers.

Harry called that night. “Tough break,” he said.
“Can’t win ‘em all,” Reid replied, trying to sound stoic.
“You will,” Harry said softly. “Next time, you’ll be the one shaking hands at the end.”

Reid smiled faintly. “And maybe you’ll be the one on the other side.”
“Wouldn’t that be something,” Harry said.

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

Ralph Barrell — Los Angeles, California

The Stars kept rolling. Ralph Barrell and company moved on to their fourth straight World Championship Series, facing the St. Louis Pioneers, champions of the Federal Association.

Game One in St. Louis belonged to pitcher Bob Hollister, who threw a four-hit shutout and even homered for good measure. The Pioneers struck back in Game Two behind Doc Carver’s eight strong innings and Quinton Vincent’s three-run shot, tying the series 1–1.

Then the series shifted west — and the Stars erupted. Floyd Warner spun a three-hit shutout in Game Three, while Ed Bogan and Ed Moore both homered in a 10–0 rout. Game Four was even more lopsided: 13–3, with Moore and Bob Griffin combining for six hits and six RBIs.

By Game Five, the Pioneers looked spent. When ace Frenchy Mack grimaced on the mound and left with a torn UCL in the third inning, St. Louis’ spirit went with him. Los Angeles rallied from a 4–1 deficit, piling on runs until the scoreboard read 10–4 and the champagne started to flow.

Moore was named Series MVP after hitting .500 with three homers and twelve RBIs, but Ralph was right behind him — .350 with six extra-base hits.

On the field, reporters shouted over the din. “Another title, Ralph! How does it feel?”
He grinned. “Same as the first — too good to ever get used to.”

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

Mike Barrell — Georgia

Fall settled over Columbus, the air cooling just as Ruby Lee’s patience wore thin. Her due date was drawing near, and Mike’s orders loomed in the back of every conversation.

They spent quiet nights listening to the World Series broadcasts on the radio. When Ralph’s Stars clinched the title, Ruby Lee smiled. “Another Barrell with a trophy. You ever wish you’d stayed in baseball?”
Mike shook his head. “I found my field,” he said. “Different game, same rules — you win by showing up for the guy next to you.”

Ruby Lee touched her belly. “Then you better come back to the ones next to you here.”
He nodded. “Count on it.”

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

Brenda Slocum — Charlotte, North Carolina

When Brenda Slocum finally walked through her parents’ front door, the world felt smaller, quieter. Rose hugged her so tightly she could barely breathe. James lingered in the doorway, looking older than she remembered.

Then she saw her grandmother. Claudia Slocum, now 70 years old, but still standing ramrod straight and still beautiful. A tough woman, twice widowed, and completely devoted to her son and his family. She opened her arms and Brenda ran to her, accepting her grandmother's hug just as she had been doing her entire life.

"Welcome, home, dear heart," Claudia said, her German accent still noticeable, even after fifty years in America.

"Oh, Grandma, I've missed you so," Brenda said.

Claudia pushed her to arms' length and gave her an appraising look. "You, look like a hobo. Is this what you.... hippies... are? Hobos?"

Brenda looked momentarily horrified, then started laughing. "You almost got me, Grandma," she said.

"I was only half-joking," Claudia replied.

They went into the kitchen and had a long talk while Rose prepared dinner, listening. James listened as well, from just outside the room. Brenda had always opened up to Claudia about her feelings; things she wouldn't tell her parents.

At dinner, Brenda said it softly: “I’m pregnant.”

Rose’s fork clattered against her plate. “Oh, honey…”
Claudia's hand flew to her mouth, but she said nothing.
James exhaled, heavy but calm. “Then you’ll stay here. We’ll figure it out together.”

Brenda’s eyes filled. “I don’t even know who—”
Her father stopped her gently. “Doesn’t matter. You’re home.”

Upstairs, later that night, she took out her battered notebook and turned to a blank page. In careful script she wrote:
*The music played, and the world began again.*

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

Paul Slocum — Charlotte, North Carolina

Racing season over, Paul Slocum and Jack Winfield were back in the garage, tearing down the motor and talking plans for 1970. James joined them after dinner, watching his son and father-in-law trade ideas like old crew chiefs.

“Faster car, stronger frame,” Jack said.

“Fewer wrecks,” James muttered.

Paul just grinned. “You two worry too much.”

“Somebody has to,” Jack replied.

The three of them worked late into the night, the metallic rhythm of wrenches and sockets echoing through the cool Carolina air — a family of builders, holding tight to the sound of things that still worked.

--------------------
NOVEMBER 1969

Ralph Barrell — Los Angeles, California

The parade down Figueroa stretched for blocks — confetti, brass bands, and fans waving Stars pennants like prayer flags. Ralph Barrell rode on the back of a convertible, grinning for the cameras, but his mind was already drifting toward spring.

His grin grew even wider as his car passed the television stand. Sitting atop it, doing "play-by-play" of the parade was his father Bobby. The old man waved back with a big smile on his fave, while managing to talk the whole time.

At the post-parade banquet, Charley McCullough raised a glass. “To the best damn third baseman in baseball, and to the men who like him who make me look like a genius.”

Ralph stood, shook the manager’s hand. “To the man who taught me you can’t coast uphill,” he said, drawing laughter and applause. Later, when the room had thinned out, aside from his father sitting happily at his table, smoking a cigar, Ralph called his uncle in Montreal.

“You’d have hated it,” he told Harry. “Noise, flashbulbs, champagne everywhere.”

Harry chuckled. “Maybe. But I’d have liked the result.”

“You’ll get your turn,” Ralph said.

“I already did,” Harry replied softly. “I just didn’t recognize how precious it was then.”

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

Harry Barrell — Montreal, Quebec

Montreal turned quiet again once the Saints’ miracle run ended. Harry Barrell sat in his office at Stade Montreal, sorting through player reports and free-agent lists, already thinking about next year’s club.

Roger Cleaves leaned in the doorway. “You ever take a breath, Unk?”

Harry smirked. “Winter’s the time to breathe. I just prefer to plan between breaths.”

Roger tossed him a newspaper. Dixie Turner had just been named the Continental Association’s Whitney Award winner — league MVP. “Guess you built a pretty good one, huh?”

Harry smiled. “No, we did. That kid earned every swing.”

Harry noticed that Roger looked like he had something else to say. "What is it?" Harry asked, hoping it wasn't bad news.

"I was just upstairs talking with Ray," he said, meaning Ray Ruth, the Saints' GM. "He asked me if we should go after Reid."

Harry shook his head. "Obviously, I would say 'yes' but... and this is the rub, I don't think Pittsburgh would deal him."

"Still couldn't hurt to ask, right?"

"Ray's got his job and we have ours. If he wants to try to bring Reid over in a trade, I'm all for it."

He looked out the window at the snow beginning to fall over the empty field. “Regardless of whether Ray can pull it off, we’ll be back,” he said quietly. “And this time, we finish.”

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

Reid Barrell — Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

The Miners banquet felt subdued. Reid Barrell accepted his attaboys and a small team award for leadership, shaking hands with reporters and fans. When someone asked about next season, he said, “We’ll be hungrier. Sometimes you need to get knocked down to remember how to stand tall.”

Afterward, he found his father’s telegram waiting on his hotel pillow.

Proud of you. Tell your boys in black and gold they made the family proud too.
— Dad

Reid folded it neatly into his wallet next to the one from August. The ache in his shoulder had faded, replaced by something steadier — determination.

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

Steve & Ellie Barrell — Louisville, Kentucky

The crisp Kentucky fall air carried the scent of woodsmoke and promise. Ellie Barrell was due in a matter of weeks, and Steve hovered like a man trying to guard the lead in the final minute.

He came home one afternoon to find her standing in the nursery, sunlight slanting through the curtains. “He’s kicking,” she said, taking his hand and placing it against her belly.

“Maybe he’ll play basketball,” Steve said.

“Maybe he’ll paint,” Ellie teased.

“Barrells don’t paint,” he said, then smiled. “But maybe it’s time one did.”

She laughed softly. “You ready for this?”

“I thought I was,” he admitted. “Until I realized there’s no scouting report for fatherhood.”

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

Mike & Ruby Lee Barrell — Georgia

Leaves fell in slow spirals over the red clay roads. Ruby Lee moved carefully now, every step deliberate. Mike split his time between the base and the house, trying to ignore the ticking clock that counted down both to birth and departure.

One evening after dinner, she caught him watching the news — footage of soldiers boarding a transport plane.

“Don’t,” she said softly. “Not tonight.”

He turned off the set, stood behind her, and wrapped his arms around her shoulders.

“I’ll be here for Christmas,” he murmured.

“You’d better be,” she said. “Or this baby’s getting your middle name out of spite.”

He laughed, but the sound caught in his throat. “Fair enough.”

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

Brenda Slocum — Charlotte, North Carolina

November brought morning sickness, gray skies, and a fragile sort of peace. Brenda spent her days helping Rose in the kitchen, knitting with Claudia, and scribbling songs on scrap paper when no one was looking.

One evening, Paul stopped by the porch with his racing jacket slung over his shoulder. “You gonna sing again?” he asked.

“Someday,” she said, thinking of her notebook, brimming with lyrics. “Maybe after the baby.” She didn't tell him about the letter - the one from Paul Moore, aka 'Pappy Moon' asking the very same question.

He nodded, shy. “You were really good, Bren.”

She smiled. “Thanks, kid. Now go wash that grease off before Grandma catches you.”

When he laughed, for the first time in months, she did too.

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

Paul Slocum — Charlotte, North Carolina

The family garage became his sanctuary as the chill set in. James worked beside him, quieter than usual. Jack Winfield, 80-years-old and appropriately cantankerous, supervised, nursing a coffee. The radio hummed out Motown and news of the draft lottery.

Paul didn’t say anything until the song ended. “Guess it’s my turn next year.”

James looked over, startled. “You’re not old enough.”

“I will be soon,” Paul said, tightening a bolt. “And if it comes, it comes.”

Jack set down his cup. “Don’t borrow tomorrow’s trouble, boy.”

Paul nodded but didn’t answer. He just wiped his hands, the metal smell clinging to his skin as the night deepened.

--------------------
DECEMBER 1969

Steve & Ellie Barrell — Louisville, Kentucky

Snow fell in wet clumps against the window of Baptist Hospital. Steve Barrell paced the hallway, clutching a paper cup of cold coffee. When the nurse finally waved him in, he nearly tripped over his own feet.

Ellie lay pale but smiling, a small bundle in her arms. “Meet your son,” she said.
Steve stared down, breath catching. “He’s got your eyes,” he whispered.

Ellie laughed softly. “And your appetite, if the last hour was any indication.”

Steve kissed her forehead, then the baby’s tiny hand. “Welcome to the team, kid,” he murmured.

Outside, the city lights reflected off the snow, and for the first time since the Spirits’ championship run, Steve felt something bigger than victory — a quiet, humbling awe.

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

Mike & Ruby Lee Barrell — Columbus, Georgia

Four days before Christmas, Ruby Lee Barrell went into labor. Mike rushed her to the hospital, hands shaking on the wheel. Hours later, when the nurse placed their daughter in Ruby Lee’s arms, he felt his chest crack open with a joy he hadn’t known he could still feel.

“She’s perfect,” Ruby whispered.

“She’s strong,” Mike said. “Like her mother.”

They named her Melissa Grace Barrell. For one night, the world seemed at peace.

On Christmas morning, Mike sat by the tree in uniform, cradling his newborn. Ruby Lee watched him, tears glinting in the glow of the lights.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” she said quietly.

He kissed her forehead. “This one I intend to keep. One more tour — then home. For good.”

She didn’t argue, but as he walked out to the car that would take him back to Fort Benning, she whispered a prayer to the child in her arms. “Come back to us, Michael. Please.”

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

Harry & Roger Cleaves — Montreal, Quebec

Snow fell heavy over the St. Lawrence, blanketing the city in silence. Harry Barrell sat at his kitchen table with Roger Cleaves, a fire crackling in the hearth. Roger’s face was drawn, his eyes red.

“Dwayne told Evelyn tonight,” Roger said. “He’s joining the Marines.”

Harry leaned back, exhaling. “Following in your footsteps.”

Roger nodded. “He says he’s tired of playing ball for money when men his age are fighting and dying. Said it feels wrong.”

Harry sipped his coffee. “He’s his father’s son.”

“Evelyn doesn’t see it that way. She thinks I pushed him toward it. We had a hell of a fight.”

“You and me both, once upon a time,” Harry said quietly. “You remember how I thought I could save everyone if I just worked hard enough?”

Roger smiled faintly. “Yeah. You were wrong.”

Harry grinned. “Still am.”

The two men sat in silence for a long time, the fire popping softly. Then Roger said, “Dick’s happy in the minors, you know. Says he’s changed his mind. Won’t enlist unless he’s drafted.”

Harry nodded slowly. “Good. Every family needs one who stays home.”

Harry reflected on his own wartime service — unlike Roger, who had been an anonymous juvenile delinquent when he joined the Marines, Harry had been a famous ballplayer and therefore played baseball for the Army. Closest he got to a wound was a sprained ankle sliding into second base. That still ate at him... sometimes.

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

Paul Slocum — Charlotte, North Carolina

New Year’s Eve found Paul in the garage, a space heater humming and a half-built engine waiting on the bench. The radio counted down the last minutes of 1969. His father poked his head in, holding two mugs of coffee.

“Happy New Year, son.”

Paul grinned. “Happy New Year, Dad.”

They stood together as the clock hit midnight, the faint pop of fireworks echoing down the street.

“Whole new decade,” James said. “What do you think it’ll bring?”

Paul shrugged. “Speed. Change. Maybe both.”

He took a sip of coffee, the warmth biting against the cold. “Feels like the start of something.”

“Hopefully the start of something good,” James replied.

Paul gave him a keen look. “That mean you’ll let me join NARF this season?”

James laughed, but he didn’t say no.
--------------------

[Sevsdast]

I was wondering what happened to Charlie Barrell, considering he retired in 1967...

[legendsport]

Originally Posted by Sevsdast

I was wondering what happened to Charlie Barrell, considering he retired in 1967...

Yep, Charlie is retired and living in LA with his wife and young kids. Currently running a sports goods business though he does maintain his friendship with his cousin and former team mate Ralph, as we just saw. We'll be catching up with him again soon.

[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 Ellie, “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 Ellie, 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.

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

[legendsport]

Author’s Note:
This brief interlude bridges the 1970 and 1971 chapters of Same Song, Different Tune. As Paul Crowe begins his follow-up to The Ballad of the Brothers Barrell, he returns to the Barrell family’s ancestral home in Georgia to seek out the woman who, for better or worse, has carried that family’s voice into the modern era. What follows marks both a reckoning and a reunion—the spark that reignites the story in a new time, with new truths waiting to be told.

Intermission - The “WOH”

Barrell Farm, Effingham County, Georgia
October 2025

It was still warm in northeastern Georgia, and Paul Crowe had the top down on his rented convertible. He had only a day to spend in the state—the World Championship Series was about to begin, and he was covering it. Luckily, the television-imposed break in the action gave him a couple of free days.

He pulled up in front of the farmhouse built nearly 120 years earlier by Rufus Barrell. He always felt a sort of reverence when visiting this place. Rufus, surprisingly, had left the farm and the lands attached to it to his grandson, James Slocum. James had developed most of the acreage, but he left the farmhouse, the old barn and ballfield, and the even older barn of the former Patterson farm down the road. In the distance, Paul could see the south stands of the Effingham County Superspeedway—the centerpiece track of NARF and still the headquarters of both Slocum Racing and the National Automobile Racing Federation itself.

The farm now belonged to Brenda Slocum, eldest child of James and Rose Slocum. Also known as “Carolina,” and—less famously—as the mother-in-law of Paul Crowe.

Paul got out of the car, resisting the immature urge to vault over the door instead of opening it. He was in his mid-fifties now, and Cheryl was always chiding him about acting his age.

He walked up the steps and had a feeling no one was home. He knocked anyway. The only response came from a tabby cat perched on the back of the sofa, visible through the large living-room window to his left.
“Well, I guess I need to move up the road a piece,” Paul said aloud.

Back in the car, he began to drive carefully down the unpaved dirt path that wound past the Barrells’ barn and the old, now mostly overgrown ballfield. The path jogged slightly to the right past the barn and continued toward the former Patterson property. Paul saw the bare patch where the Patterson farmhouse had once stood and, beyond it, a weather-beaten old barn in desperate need of not only paint but also a skilled carpenter.

He parked in front of the half-open doors, got out, and walked into the dim interior.

He marveled that the ramshackle old thing was still standing. The air smelled of red clay, oil, and hay—earth and gasoline, memory and time. Then he heard a guitar from the back and strode toward the sound.

Brenda Slocum, now seventy-five years old, was sitting with her back to him on a rickety stool, softly strumming her aged guitar.

“Hello, Paul,” she sang without turning around. Her voice was still strong, clear, and ethereal—the same voice that had briefly made her a celebrity.

“Hello, Brenda,” he replied.

The guitar stopped, and she turned on her stool, her cool blue eyes drilling into him, one eyebrow cocked accusingly.

Paul sighed. “Sorry. I meant, ‘Hello, Carolina Moon.’”

His mother-in-law nodded. Then she exhaled deeply and asked, “How’s my baby?”

“Cheryl’s fine,” Paul replied.

“That it? She’s fine? Too fine to come visit her mama?”

“Carolina… she hasn’t forgiven you yet. For, you know—embarrassing her in front of her coworkers.”

Brenda shook her head, muttering, “That right there’s the story of my life. Perpetual embarrassment.”

She gave him a level look, and he took her in. She looked good for seventy-five, he thought. Her long, unbound hair was silver; her mostly unwrinkled face still pretty; and those knowing, ice-blue eyes still entrancing. She wore a peasant blouse and blue jeans—her usual attire—and was, as ever, barefoot.

“So what do you want, Paul?”

He’d already told her—he wouldn’t have shown up unannounced. “I’m working on my new book,” he said.

“Right,” she said slowly, nodding. “A follow-up to that book about my great-granddaddy and his family.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“I never told you this, but I think you did a fine job with my grandma Claudia,” she said.

“She was a fine woman,” Paul said, though he’d never met her. He knew Cheryl adored her, too.

“The finest,” Brenda agreed. “I look just like her, I’ve been told.”

Paul nodded. “You do—at least based on the photos I’ve seen.”

Brenda fell silent for a moment, gazing at her guitar. Paul knew Claudia had given it to her.

Brenda stood. “See that dark spot over there?” She pointed to a patch on the dirt floor near the center of the barn.

Paul nodded.

“That’s where my granddaddy Jimmy Barrell kept his secret racing car.”

Paul nodded again. He already knew this—but he also knew not to interrupt. Dealing with Carolina was like dealing with a particularly moody volcano; she could flip from flower child to hellion in a heartbeat.

“That tomfoolery is what set my daddy, and my brothers, and their kids, on this foolhardy, money-chasing, bad-for-the-environment stock-car-racing—” She paused, then spat out an epithet.

Paul braced himself. “Still a liberal, I see,” he said—instantly regretting it. Paul himself was liberal; Brenda was… something else.

She chuckled. “Hell, son, I passed liberal, turned left, and walked a couple miles further.”

“Right,” Paul said. “I almost forgot.”

Brenda waved a hand. “I know you’re not here to talk politics.”

“No, I wanted to interview you for the new book. I’ve reached 1971…”

Brenda frowned. “1971?” She chewed her lip, then picked up her guitar and played the opening bars of The Human Cost—the song that had made her briefly famous in ’71 and caused her family no small amount of anguish. “A good year… and a bad year,” she said.

She eyed him keenly. “You gonna record this with your whatchamacallit?” She still refused to acknowledge the existence of smartphones. Like most things technological, she distrusted them innately.

Paul held up his phone. “Yep. My days of using tape—or a notebook and pen—are over.”

He looked down to start his voice-recording app. When he looked up, Brenda was staring out the open barn door at the stadium-like southern stands of the track.

“Sometimes,” she said quietly, “I wish a meteor would hit and wipe this all out.”

The sound of her words seemed to hang in the air, echoing faintly against the wood beams. The low hum of engines from a distant test session drifted through the open door, blending with the final vibration of her last guitar note—a single, mournful E string fading into silence.

Paul glanced at the glowing timer on his phone screen, already ticking upward. He swallowed and slipped it into his jacket pocket, feeling the weight of the story forming in his hands.

“1971,” he murmured. “Guess that’s where the heart of it begins.”

He sighed again. This was going to be a tough day.

[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.