The Ballad of the Brothers Barrell - A Figment Story

[legendsport]

June 18, 1934: Egypt, GA:

"Sam Belton's meeting the media today."

Alice Barrell cocked an eyebrow at her husband.

Rufus looked uncomfortable. "I still think it's best that I'm here and not in Washington."

"True," Alice said, a wry look still on her face.

"I mean, I don't want to steal his thunder. The media did get word of the job offer somehow," he said.

Alice frowned. "I still think that was Thomas' doing."

Rufus shook his head. "I don't think so. Thomas isn't sneaky - or savvy - enough to pull that off."

"And I don't think you give him enough credit," Alice retorted.

Rufus shrugged. It was a moot point. He'd turned down the offer to be the next FABL President. The man the owners had ultimately chosen, Sam Belton, was, like William Stockdale, a former military man who had served in the Great War as an artillery captain. But he was also a lawyer by trade, and had been Bob Owings' attorney. And that ultimately was why he'd been hired. He was only in his mid-40s so the thinking was that he could serve for about twenty years. Rufus knew he'd be long gone from the OSA, and baseball in general by then. He felt a brief flare of regret at having turned down the opportunity, but he knew in his heart of hearts that it had been the correct call.

"What's done is done. You made the right decision, Rufus," Alice said. Despite all the years they'd been married, Rufus was still caught off-guard by his wife's intuitiveness when it came to his own thoughts.

"I know," he said with a sigh. "But I will always wonder."

"You're a scout, Rufus. And a superb one, by all accounts. That really does seem to be what the good Lord put you here to be."

Rufus gave his wife a kiss on the cheek. "When you're right, you're right," he said.

Alice shook her head, but gave her husband a fond look. The spell was soon broken however as they heard the sound of a car pulling up outside.

Rufus stepped out onto the porch. A green and black Oakland sputtered to a halt in a cloud of dust. Rufus frowned as he waited for the dust to settle and the driver to emerge.

When the door finally opened, Rufus squinted at the tall young man who stepped out.

"Can I help you?" he asked, having no idea who this could be.

Alice stepped out onto the porch beside him. The young man gave them a friendly smile. "Mr. and Mrs. Barrell?" he asked.

Rufus opened his mouth to reply, but before he could speak, the screen door burst open and his daughter shot onto the porch, nearly skidding to a halt beside her parents.

"Hello Betsy," the young man said, his smile having grown even wider.

Rufus looked at his daughter, a question in his eyes. Alice was looking too, and her mouth was set in a thin line that Rufus knew indicated she was not happy with whatever was going on.

"Uh, hi, Tom," Betsy said. Then she looked at her mother, noted her expression, and said, "Relax, Mama, this is Tom Bowens."

Alice's frown was replaced by a look of surprise. Rufus, for his part, was simply baffled.

"Who?" he asked.

The young man stepped onto the porch. "Tom Bowens, sir. I know your daughter from St. Blane."

He offered his hand and a visibly perplexed Rufus shook it.

"Good grip," he muttered and looked at Betsy.

"So, you're Tom," Alice said as if that explained everything.

Rufus threw his hands into the air and said, "Can someone please tell me what's going on here?"

Alice, Betsy and Tom looked at each other and laughed. Rufus' face grew red as he was starting to become frustrated.

"Pop, Tom's the young man who told me about Gus."

Rufus looked even more confused. "Told you what about Gus?" he asked.

Betsy looked at Alice. "You didn't tell him?" she asked.

Alice shook her head. "No. He's been all het up about the FABL Presidency and I didn't want to distract him."

Betsy wore a put-upon look on her face as she explained what had happened. Tom, who knew Gus Goulding from the basketball team, had discovered that Gus had been seeing another girl. Neither girl knew about the other. That is until Betsy confronted Gus in the presence of the other young lady.

"So Gus is..." Rufus said.

"No longer my boyfriend, Pop, that's right," Betsy said.

"And Tom is..." Rufus asked with a cocked eyebrow.

"My friend," Betsy said. Then she gave Tom Bowens a smirk and added, "For now."

Rufus shook his head. He had never quite understood Alice. And now his daughter was befuddling him as well. He sighed and shook his head. Seeing this, both Alice and Betsy laughed. Rufus was at least glad to see that Tom Bowens looked as confused as he himself felt.

Rufus gave the young man the once over. "So, Tom, you look like an athlete yourself. Basketball, I believe Betsy said."

"Well... I do play basketball, but I consider myself more of a football player, Mr. Barrell," Tom replied.

Rufus smiled and said, "Call me Rufus. Let's go inside and have a chat."

.

[legendsport]

July 10, 1934: New York, NY:

"This was a fantastic idea, Claudia," Jack Barrell said.

Beside him, Claudia Slocum smiled and nodded. On Jack's other side, Marie nodded too and patted Jack's hand. "It certainly was," she said.

On Claudia's right sat her son, James and beside James sat Marie's daughter Agnes. Other Barrells filled the row on either side. In fact, row 3 of section 5 of Riverside Park was completely occupied by Barrells on hand for the second edition of the FABL All-Star Game.

The mid-season event had been held first at Chicago's Whitney Park the year before. It had been a runaway success and one of the last big decisions Robert Owings had made was declaring the All-Star Game should be an annual event.

The 1934 edition was special for several reasons. First, it was to be the final game at the Riverside Park, the home of the New York Stars for several decades, but now targeted for demolition to make way for the Harlem River Drive. The Stars' had a brand-new baseball palace ready for them further north called Dyckman Stadium and they would begin playing there immediately after the All-Star game.

The other big reason this event was special was that four of Rufus and Alice's sons were playing in the game. Bobby was there to represent the Philadelphia Keystones for the Federal Association team while Fred, Tom and Harry all were on hand to represent the Continental Association as members of the Brooklyn Kings. Claudia's husband, Powell Slocum, had been asked to be a coach for the Continental, who were being managed by the recently-fired former Chicago Cougars manager Dick Pozza.

But the game provided an easy excuse to get Agnes Barrell and James Slocum together and reveal to them that they were, in fact, half-siblings, sharing the late Jimmy Barrell as their father. This was not news to James - he had always known Jimmy was his father, though Jimmy himself had died before his birth. Agnes on the other hand had always believed that Jack was her father. The two did not resemble each other - James was a blond-haired boy whose coloring came from his German mother and whose features came from Jimmy. Agnes on the other hand, could never have been mistaken for anything but the brunette Marie Barrell's daughter.

Claudia had brought James to the hotel where Jack and Marie and their three daughters were staying in Manhattan. There, while Jack sat with his two biological daughters, Marie and Claudia had brought James and Agnes together and told them that they shared a father. Though Jack had been concerned, Agnes took this news with surprising equanimity. James was briefly stunned and then thrilled to find that he had a sibling.

Jack had been pleased that Agnes had given him a hug and called him Papa, just as she had always done, before they left the hotel.

Now, as they sat in the ballpark, they were essentially oblivious to what was taking place on the diamond, and had their heads together, talking. Agnes, who knew very little about Jimmy (a touchy subject to Marie for obvious reasons), was soaking in as much information as James could provide. James, for his part, was thrilled to share what he had learned of their father, which was as much as could pull out of his mother and uncles. Jimmy Barrell was James Slocum's favorite subject.

Claudia gave a cheerful wave to her husband. Powell had emerged from the dugout and was peering into the seats. The crowd was still filing in on a beautiful summer day in New York City. Claudia would always prefer football (or soocer as it was known in the U.S.) but she had put a lot of effort into learning the intricacies of baseball for her husband's sake.

At the end of the row, Dan Barrell sat with his wife Gladys, who was bouncing their infant son Michael on her knee and chatting with Fred's wife Tillie, who was similarly holding her son Freddie Jr (who was actually sleeping somehow). Suddenly she muttered to Gladys, "Excuse me a moment," put one hand over each of her son's ears and shouted, "Go get 'em, Fred Barrell!"

On the field, Fred had emerged from the home dugout and was stretching near the on-deck circle. When he heard his wife's familiar shout, he grinned. The player next to him, wearing a Montreal Saints uniform asked him something. Fred laughed and pointed at his wife. Dan leaned over and told Tillie, "That's Hank Barnett. For some reason he and Fred seem to have hit it off." She nodded; Fred had mentioned this to her.

"I don't really get it. Fred's a little too friendly with some of the opposition sometimes. Maybe it's a catcher thing," Dan said.

"Or maybe you're just a grumpy Gus," Gladys told her husband. He scowled at her and she laughed at him. "Lighten up, Danny," she said.

His brother Harry emerged a moment later and turned to look into the stands as Powell had done. He spotted Rufus and Alice sitting on the other end of the row and waved to them.

"That's Harry," Rollie Barrell said to Tom Bowens. Rollie was sitting between his wife and Tom, who had come down from his home in Massachusetts as Betsy's guest. She sat on the other side of him, with Joe's daughter Gloria on her right.

"Right... the shortstop," Tom said, glancing down at his scorecard. Rollie nodded.

"So, you're an end, I've heard," Rollie said non-chalantly.

"Yep. I really prefer offense to defense, but I hold my own on both sides," Tom said. Rollie saw his sister bend over and give him a frown.

"No football talk," she said.

"Why not?" Tom asked.

"This is a baseball game," she said.

"That makes no sense," Tom replied. Rollie nodded in bemused agreement.

"Yes, it does. Roland will have you talking football all game long. Let me save us all some time. Rollie wants to know if you'll play pro football so he can decide whether to draft you," Betsy said. Then she leaned forward and looked at Rollie. "Am I right?" she asked pointedly.

Rollie laughed and Francie leaned forward and said, "Of course you are."

Rollie and Tom looked at each other and laughed too. "Well, I do hope to play professionally. If someone will have me, that is," Tom said.

"From what I've heard from our scouting department, I don't think that'll be a problem," Rollie admitted. "Although," he continued, bending forward to look at his sister. "The AFA does not, as of now, have a college draft. So I would be trying to sign Tom, not drafting him."

Betsy waved a hand at her brother dismissively. "Well, no matter. We're here to watch our brothers play baseball. So no more football talk."

Rollie shook his head. "You really are just like Mom," he told her, receiving a withering look in return.

Rufus spotted Bobby long-tossing in the outfield, and he waved to them as he trotted in towards the Federal Association's dugout, directly across the diamond from them. Tom was warming up down the line and they didn't get to greet him until he walked in just before the game started. He was all-business and didn't even look into the dugout as he walked slowly in, talking with Fred who had been catching him.

The game was an interesting one, with the high point for Rufus coming in the very first half-inning when Tom was on the mound for his lone inning of work. With Bobby hitting third, Tom would be facing his brother for the first time ever. Tom was always intense when pitching, but he seemed to turn it up a notch for Bobby.

Rufus leaned forward, chin in hand, as he watched. Tom shook off Fred on the very first pitch. Rufus shook his head, "Tom's looking to throw the gas, I'd bet," he told Alice.

Sure enough, Tom fired a fastball that Bobby took for a strike. Rufus, thanks to the excellent view from his seat, could see the smirk on Bobby's face as he straightened up in the left-hand batter's box after his brother's first offering. He touched a finger to his cap and got back in his stance.

Tom rocked and fired. Another fastball. Ball one. Bobby tipped his head to the side and grinned at Tom who just glared back at him.

Behind the plate, Fred muttered, "Better be careful, Bob. I think he'd drill Mom if he thought she was trying to show him up."

Bobby scoffed. "This here's just an exhibition, Fred. I'm simply trying to lighten the mood."

"Nothing's just an exhibition to Tommy, little brother," Fred said as he flashed the sign to Tom.

Saul Gold, the umpire, shook his head. "You Barrells...." he muttered. Fred chuckled as Tom shook him off. He put down one finger. Stubborn fool, he thought.

Tom rocked and fired. This time Bobby was ready for it. Fred was impressed at the quality of his brother's swing, which he hadn't really seen up close in several years.

Luckily for Tom - or unluckily for Bobby - he got a bit under it and lifted a fly ball into right. Tom Taylor of the Cougars drifted back on the deep fly and caught it in a textbook two-handed grab for the final out of the inning.

Bobby, having rounded first gave Tom a wink and said, "I'll get you next time, Tommy boy," as he turned to head out to right field. Tom scowled at him and Bobby shouted over his shoulder, "Lighten up! This is supposed to be an exhibition, remember?" Tom shook his head and walked slowly towards the dugout.

Harry waited a moment, and slapped Bobby on the backside as he ran past. "You tell him, Bob!" he said with a laugh.

Sitting beside his twin sister, Rufus "Deuce" Barrell took note of how Tom handled himself. "He's all business out there, even in an exhibition," he mused to Gloria.

She snorted and replied, "He looks like a sourpuss. I thought baseball was supposed to be fun."

Deuce shook his head. "Oh, it's fun alright. But only when you're winning," he said. Gloria frowned at him.

The rest of the game proved to a good one, though not without controversy. The recently fired Dick Pozza, perhaps because he had no need to fear any repercussions from the Cougars' rivals in Brooklyn, rode the Kings best 'fireman' Del Lyons for three long innings. Lyons, not used to throwing that many pitches, ended up taking the loss as the Feds unloaded on him in the 10th inning and took the victory.

"Oof," Rufus said. "That's going to get under someone's skin."

"Why?" Alice asked. Rufus explained that it looked like Pozza had "burned" Lyons, though he added that since Pozza was no longer managing any FABL team, there wasn't anything the Kings could do in retaliation. That turned out to not be completely true as Pozza (who had already won three titles with three different teams) accepted the Montreal Saints managing job shortly after the All-Star game.

.

[legendsport]

December 17, 1934: Egypt, GA:

Betsy Barrell came into the kitchen, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. She had arrived home for winter break late the previous evening, with Harry picking her up at the train station in Savannah. There had been a brief debate amongst the three Barrell sons who were home regarding who would pick up Betsy. Tom, who was nursing some wounded pride after Millie Schneider had ended their relationship, claimed his status as the oldest exempted him; Bobby, with a wicked gleam in his eye went to his room and returned with his 1934 Whitney Award as the Federal Association's top batter and mentioned how he would be busy polishing it; Harry rolled his eyes at this, but he knew when he was beaten.

Now Harry, looking somewhat bleary himself, was sitting at the table with their father. Rufus, who had gotten a full night's sleep, was looking chipper. Betsy frowned at him and grunted when he wished her a good morning.

"Don't be so grumpy, young lady," Alice Barrell said as she entered the kitchen. Betsy offered a muttered "Sorry" and rubbed her eyes again.

"Rufus, I think Molly's sick," Alice told her husband.

Rufus frowned. "What makes you say that?"

"She seems listless and wouldn't come out of the corner."

Harry snorted. "Probably because she knows you're going to take Wilbur for Christmas dinner."

Rufus looked at his son. "Molly's a pig, Harry. She doesn't know any such thing."

"I don't know, Pop. I suspect pigs are smarter than people think. And Wilbur is Molly's son, after all."

"Ugh... can we talk about something besides the confounded pigs?" Betsy groused just as she saw that Rufus was about to point out that pigs didn't have 'sons' or 'daughters' - a philosophical discussion Betsy wanted to forestall.

Harry winked at Rufus and said, "Sure thing, baby sis. How about we talk about Gus Goulding getting drafted #2 overall."

"Ugh... Harry, if I didn't feel so tired, I'd pound you."

Harry smirked, "You'd have to catch me first, and I know you're fast on the track, but I bet I can beat you in a foot race."

Betsy's frown deepened, but she didn't say anything because she was considering the truth of his statement. Harry was quick and nimble with amazing reflexes, but fast? Bobby was probably faster. Betsy herself, running the 100 for St. Blane had not lost a single race in her college career thus far. She also anchored the school's 4x100 relay but the middle two girls unfortunately weren't all that fast. Still... guys were faster, that was just a fact.

They heard the screen door bang and Alice shot Rufus a look. "I know..." he muttered.

Deuce walked into the kitchen. He and Gloria were both staying with their grandparents for Christmas. Deuce had gone out to help Bobby feed the chickens. Alice didn't care how many Whitney Awards, World Championship MVPs or All-Star Games Bobby (or Dan, Harry or Tom for that matter) had. He had to pitch in around the farm, just like anyone else. That Deuce was back before his uncle probably meant he'd lost interest in that particularly mundane task.

"What's this about Goulding?" Deuce asked.

"Ugh," Betsy muttered again.

"I was just reminding my sulky sister that her old beau had been drafted second overall."

"By who?" Deuce asked.

"Whom," Alice said.

Deuce looked at his grandmother, confusion written on his face. "Huh?" he asked.

"It's by whom, Rufus," she said. Alice was the only Barrell who refused to call him 'Deuce' despite his preference for the nickname his late father had bestowed upon him.

"The Cannons," Harry said after rolling his eyes at his mother.

"Poor guy. That team is terrible," Deuce said.

Harry nodded in agreement. His Kings had manhandled the hapless Cannons all season long.

"Good teams don't typically pick second," Rufus pointed out to his grandson.

"It's no less than he deserves, that heel," Besty muttered.

Deuce nodded, then grinned and said, "Well, I'm going to be a #1 pick. Just like Uncle Harry," he said and slapped his uncle on the shoulder. Rufus thought his grandson might very well be right - his 1934 high school season had seen him post dominant numbers that included a 12-0 record, 0.81 earned run average and 185 strikeouts in 122.2 innings. As OSA head, Rufus knew his bureau already had Deuce pegged as the best pitcher in the 1935 draft class, a status unlikely to change.

"Let's hope that's the only thing you'll have in common with Harold the Terrible," Betsy said testily, and followed it up by sticking her tongue out at Harry.

"Hey! I picked you up at the train station. You could be at least a bit grateful," Harry said.

"Oh, alright. Thank you, dear brother," she said.

"What's that you're holding?" Rufus asked his daughter.

Betsy raised her right hand, which held a small magazine. "It's a football program. St. Blane versus Annapolis Maritime. I found it in my bag, I must have thrown it in there after the game and forgotten about it." She threw it onto the table and told Rufus, "I thought you might like to look at it."

Rufus reached for it, but Harry's hand shot out and grabbed it first. "Sorry, Pop," he said, not sounding the least bit apologetic. Rufus sighed and shook his head.

Harry flipped through the pages quickly, then stopped and said, "Ah, here we are."

He gave his sister a mock-serious look and read aloud, "Thomas Valentine Bowens." His lip curled in a smirk and he looked at Betsy, "Valentine, eh? Anything... erm, interesting behind that middle name?"

Betsy glared at Harry. "It's his father's name, you..." she growled then saw Alice's raised eyebrows and stopped short.

Harry chuckled and looked back at the program. "Hmm. Ok, Thomas Valentine Bowens beat Rome State last year on a blocked punt and recovery in the end zone." He stopped and nodded, saying, "Nice."

Betsy shook her head, but Harry continued to read, "This was a fitting climax for one of the best sophomore campaigns in Saints annals." He paused again and said, "Nice college word there, 'annals' - they teach you that at good old St. Blane?"

"Harry..." Rufus said.

Harry ignored his father and read some more, "May this year and next find him as rough, ready and sporting."

He closed the program and tossed it back onto the table.

He gave his sister an innocent look and said, "So, Bets. In your opinion is Mr. Tom Valentine Bowens, rough, ready and sporting? And if so, do you like him that way?"

Betsy growled and grabbed the rolling pin off the kitchen counter. Laughing, Harry bolted out of his chair and sprinted from the kitchen. Betsy took two steps, then shook her head and handed the rolling pin to her mother. "If I actually caught him, I might end up in the electric chair, so...." she trailed off and sat down in the seat Harry had just left.

The screen door banged again and Tom walked into the kitchen. He looked like he was ready to spit nails. He gazed at Betsy and growled, "Where is he?"

"Who?" Alice asked her son. Deuce whispered to Betsy, "Shouldn't she say 'whom'?" Betsy stifled a laugh and shook her head.

Tom turned to his mother and said, "Harry."

"What's he done now?" Rufus asked in a tired tone.

"I went out to chop some wood. I stuck my hand in my glove and found it filled with maple syrup," Tom explained. Then he turned to Betsy and told her, "He's too fast for me. You catch him and I'll whip his tail."

"Sounds like a plan," Betsy replied with a grim smile and stood up.

Wide-eyed, Deuce looked around at his grandparents, his uncle and aunt and asked, "Is it always like this around here?"

"Only when Harry's here," Rufus said.

Deuce shrugged and asked, "So... maple syrup... how about some breakfast?"

.

[legendsport]

April 25, 1935: Philadelphia, PA:

"So you are going all in on this are you?" Dan Barrell asked.

What he got in response was a quirked eyebrow so reminiscent of Alice Barrell that he chuckled.

"What's so funny?" Betsy asked, scowling.

Dan figured discretion was the better part of valor so he shook his head, "Ahh, it's nothing."

Betsy narrowed her eyes for a moment, then her face cleared and she answered his question. "Yes. I aim to go to Berlin."

Dan's face cracked in a wide smile. "That's fantastic, Betsy," he said and pulled her into a hug. "The Olympic experience..." he began, but petered out with a faraway look in his eyes.

Betsy put a hand on Danny's shoulder, "I know missing a chance to go to Amsterdam in '28 was a big disappointment, Dan."

He nodded, a sad look on his face. Without apparent thought he rubbed a hand on his right leg. His limp was barely perceptible these days, but it was there, and probably always would be.

Harry walked up, a hot dog in his hand. He took a bite and said, "They play anything here beside... track and field?"

Betsy pulled a face. "First of all, that's disgusting," she said. Harry grinned in reply, still chewing. She shook her head and continued, "How you can be older than me and about five years less mature is a real wonder, Harold." His grin grew even wider. She shook her head and finally answered his question. "You don't 'play' track and field, but yes, this is also Liberty College's football stadium. The baseball team plays somewhere else, I think."

Harry looked around. "Well, this is pretty big," he said, then finally swallowed. He pointed at the second deck. "I bet this place holds more than Kings County," he told Dan.

Dan looked around and nodded, "Yeah, probably," he agreed. Then he looked at Harry and asked, "Where are Tommy and Fred?"

Harry shrugged. "Fred's talking to some reporter. Tommy..." He looked around, then pointed, "He's over there. Talking to a skirt... as usual." Noticing Betsy's frown, he added, "Sorry."

Betsy and Dan both turned and sure enough there was Tommy, talking to one of the other competitors.

The event was the Liberty Invitational, the biggest collegiate meet for women and one of the largest for the men, who would run the next day. Betsy would be running for St. Blane, and also competing in both shot put and discus. She had quit both the tennis and golf teams to concentrate on track and field. Her goal was the 1936 Olympic Games in Berlin, just as she had told Danny. Her brothers were there to suppoort her - the Kings were scheduled to start a series with the Sailors the next day. Unfortunately, with the Sailors home, the Keystones - and Bobby - were out of town.

Betsy narrowed her eyes, "Oh, for crying out loud..." she moaned.

Harry, his mouth full of hot dog again, managed to ask, "What's the problem?"

Betsy nodded her chin towards Tommy. "He's talking to Annette O'Boyle."

"So?"

"So, she's my biggest competitor. She's from Chicago, runs for Whitney College." Harry shrugged again, but Danny was nodding. "She's got a gold medal, Harry," he told his brother.

"Oh..." he said. Betsy shook her head and said, "She ran the first leg of the 4 by 100 at Los Angeles. And yeah, they took the gold."

Harry shrugged again and said, "Well, if you want to be the best, you've got to beat the best. Isn't that what Pop always says?"

Betsy snapped, "That's true and I will beat her... I think... the point is Tommy shouldn't be... whatever that is... with my competition."

Harry laughed. "Don't worry about it. Maybe he's doing you a favor with his Casanova act. He'll get her distracted and you can wipe the track with her."

She shook her head, still looking displeased.

Fred walked up, a rumpled looking fellow beside him.

"Guys, you remember John Brinker?"

Danny groaned, but did it at such a low volume that Betsy wondered if he had really done it at all. Harry shrugged but then nodded, "I think so," he said.

Brinker put out a hand and Danny shook it. Then Harry. "Where's Tom?" Brinker asked.

Betay sent a pointed look over to where Tommy was still amiably chatting with Annette O'Boyle.

Brinker chuckled, and Betsy thought he looked like an evil little troll. "I see," he said. He gave a small shake of his head and muttered what sounded like, "Gol-dang ballplayers..."

He gazed for a bit longer, and Betsy had the feeling he was admiring Annette's long, athletic legs, then he seemed to mentally shake it off and turn his attention to Dan and Harry. "You fellows ready for the Sailors?" Philadelphia was consistently one of the Continental's better clubs. But the Kings' main competition - and the focus of the club - was on the Cleveland Foresters who had edged them out by a game for the 1934 pennant.

"We'll handle the Sailors just fine," Harry said. Dan's mouth was set in a tight line, but he nodded in agreement.

Brinker had pulled a notebook out of his pocket. "I heard a rumor that the Kings were looking to add a big outfield bat," he ssid.

"We're pretty well set, I think," Harry replied.

"What if that bat was, say, Bobby Barrell?" Brinker asked.

Dan openly scoffed. "Have you been drinking, Brinker? There's no way the 'Stones would trade Bobby."

Brinker looked like the cat that ate the canary but he simply replied, "They might, if the price was right."

Fred looked doubtful too. "I don't think so. Like I told you before, Brinker, I think the Dynamos would be a better partner. If our front office could land Al Wheeler...."

Brinker shook his head. "The new man in Detroit isn't a fool. Wheeler's the cornerstone of that team."

"And Bobby isn't?" shot back Harry.

"Not so long as Philly has Rankin Kellogg he isn't," Brinker replied calmly.

The three Barrells were all frowning, but no one said anything else.

"No comment?" Brinker asked.

Fred shook his head. "We're ballplayers, Brinker. We have zero say in what the front office says or does."

"You wouldn't welcome Bobby?"

Danny, anger clouding his features, snarled, "Of course we would. Aside from the fact that he's our brother, he's also a great ballplayer. But I don't see it happening."

"What he said," Harry added.

Brinker shrugged.

Betsy had a twinkle in her eye and pointed towards Tommy. "Why don't you go ask him?" she said with a smile.

Brinker looked over and bobbed his head. "That's a good idea, Miss Barrell," he said. He tipped his hat at them and walked away.

"That was a low blow, Betsy," Harry said with admiration.

"Hey, if it gets Tommy away from Annette, it works for me," his sister replied.

.

[legendsport]

June 4, 1935: Baltimore, MD:

Harry Barrell was standing, his right leg on the top step of the dugout, his left two steps below. This had become a ritual for him of late.

Beside him was manager Walt Bailey, in the same pose. The only difference being that the skipper was chewing tobacco, a habit Harry found appalling. But Harry noticed that good things seemed to happen when he perched himself next to the skipper - even though he had started doing it as a way to tweak the nose of the stodgy old man. Bailey, a former catcher, had once mentioned that he had taken a lot of foul balls off his mask as a player (this was said to Fred - Bailey was telling him to stop bellyaching about the aches & pains of being a catcher). Harry openly mused that maybe all those foul balls had knocked the personality right out of the skipper, cracking up most of the clubhouse. Bailey was not amused.

Scowling, Bailey shot a sidelong glance at his young shortstop, saying nothing, then shot a stream of brown juice onto the dirt fringe between the top step and the start of the grass.

Harry wasn't sure why the manager was scowling. The Brooklyn Kings were 31-16 and the lowly Baltimore Cannons were not likely to derail things. This Monday afternoon contest was the first of three for Harry's Kings in Baltimore and he and his team mates were already looking forward to a sweep.

At the plate was the prize acquisition of the season: outfielder Al Wheeler. Wheeler, pitcher Jack Beach and third baseman Frank Vance had all been dealt to Brooklyn from Detroit for a slew of prospects and draft picks on May 13. Since then, the Kings had been on a tear, despite Beach seemingly having forgotten how to pitch. Vance had been installed at first base, shifting Danny to the bench. Needless to say, this decision by Bailey was not popular with the Barrell brothers. It was Vance who had led off the third inning with a single to bring Wheeler to the plate.

Wheeler waggled his bat and waited on the delivery from Cannons pitcher Pinky Conlan. Harry, unfortunately, didn't hit Conlan particularly well and had already been set down twice by the Cannons righty.

Conlan checked on Frank Vance. The 3B-turned-1B was no speedster and was nearly hugging first base. Seeing this, Conlan turned back to the batter. Harry could really only see his profile, but Conlan looked nervous. He had walked Wheeler on four pitches in the first and it didn't look like he really wanted anything to do with pitching to the slugger. Nevertheless, he went into his delivery and sent a much-too-flat curveball towards the plate. As Wheeler unloaded on it, Harry already had a grin on his face so wide it almost hurt.

Wheeler's blast soared into the air towards the right-field bleachers. RF Abel Man didn't even really move. He simply straightened up and watched as the ball zipped by forty feet over his head and into the empty seats, rattling around a bit before rolling down the aisle. As Wheeler rounded first, Harry bounded out of the dugout, a plan forming in his mind. He found a likely looking kid and offered him a buck to go fetch that baseball.

Vance soon crossed the plate with the game's first run; he then took a few more steps and turned around, waiting for Wheeler.

As Vance shook Wheeler's hand, giving him a smile and nod, Harry was watching the boy he'd offered to pay racing towards the empty seats where the baseball had landed.

As he was wont to do, Harry had begun planning to "prank" Beach, Wheeler and Vance soon after they arrived in Brooklyn. Beach was no problem - he was a laid-back Southerner like Harry who liked to talk about fishing. So Harry had stuffed minnows into both of Beach's spikes. The pitcher was startled, but handled it well, shaking his head at Harry and telling him, "Alright, you got me good." Tommy, whose locker was beside Beach's, actually complained more than Beach himself. Mostly because the stink of fish hung around Beach's locker for a few days after Harry's prank.

Vance proved tougher. He was a tireless worker and getting to the park before him proved a challenge. So Harry resorted to his tried-and-true hotfoot and got him in the dugout at Dyckman Stadium. Vance hopped around in pain and snarled at Harry, warning him to "never do that again. Or else." Nothing he hadn't heard before, but Vance was... intense and Harry silently vowed that he would henceforth leave Vance alone.

That left Wheeler. To Harry, the slugger seemed so straight-laced and tightly wound that he almost squeaked when he moved. He was single and devoted to his mother sometimes even writing letters to her after games. Many players would be mercilessly ribbed for this - but not Wheeler. He was quietly intimidating. Harry had a couple of inches of height on him, but Wheeler was at least 10 pounds heavier, and all of that was muscle. He had forearms like Popeye (Harry - unsurprisingly to anyone who knew him - was a big fan of comic strips).

Harry had wracked his brain for weeks trying to come up with the prank of all pranks to play on Wheeler. And so far, had come up dry. But today... it felt like today was the day and the home run had given him an idea. He slapped Wheeler on the back as he clomped down the dugout steps behind Vance. Bailey spat again and said, "Good swing," to Wheeler.

As Wheeler sat down beside Powell Slocum and the two men put their heads together to talk hitting, Harry saw that the kid had grabbed the ball, beating three other boys to it. He quickly ducked into the dugout and ran up the tunnel and into the clubhouse. Fred, sitting at the end of bench beside Tom - today was another All-Barrell battery day - told him that if he needed to use the facilities he'd better make it quick.

Harry was quick. He grabbed a dollar bill and was back in the dugout by the time the kid had returned, leaning over the rail. "Got the ball!" he said. Harry paid the kid, and stashed the ball in the dugout, hoping no one would notice it. For what he had in mind any ball would do, but using the actual ball would make it just a bit sweeter for him.

Wheeler hit a second homer in the fifth, a solo shot on the second pitch he saw after fouling off the first offering. Harry had the kid chase that one down too. Then he belted a third one off Conlan in the seventh, again on the first pitch. Danny, sitting behind Harry on the bench shot out of his seat, came up beside Harry and whistled. "Wheels owns this guy!" he said. Harry ducked out of the dugout and nodded at the kid, who took off for a third time.

Returning to his spot, Harry looked at his brother and asked, "Did you stop at that place you like?"

Danny looked a little abashed, worried Harry might sell him out to his wife. "Yes, and you'd better not say anything to Gladys about it. She gives me a hard enough time about what I eat already."

Harry shook his head. "My lips are sealed. But only if you share some with me."

Dan raised his eyebrows. "I thought you didn't care for it."

Harry smiled and in a near whisper, said, "Oh, I think it's just perfect."

Danny looked confused and then shrugged. He figured Harry was up to something. He usually was.

The game ended in a 7-2 win for the Kings. Tom, unsurprisingly was fuming after the game. He had won, and pitched well, allowing just the one earned run. Both John Langille and Frank Vance avoided the pitcher - they'd both had errors in the game. But, four hits and no walks in a complete game win... that was nothing to sneeze at in Harry's opinion. Still, he wisely avoided his scowling brother. Only Fred could talk to Tom when he was like this.

Dan stopped by Harry's locker, a small bag in his hand. He handed it over and whispered, "I know you're not going to eat this. So what are you up to?"

Harry smirked. "Oh, you'll see..." he said.

When Dan had left, Harry sat on his stool, and took the first baseball out. He opened the bag Dan had given him, reached in and grabbed something. Then he rubbed it on the ball. Licking his fingers clean, he grimaced a little, then stood and walked over to where Wheeler was sitting. A couple of writers were asking him questions - one was Jiggs McGee and the other some guy Harry didn't recognize.

He waited, hiding his impatience, and held the ball between two fingers. Finally after a few minutes that felt like hours, the writers moved to try to talk to Tommy, whose ruffled feathers would most likely have been smoothed over by Fred by now.

Harry walked up to Wheeler. "Hey, Wheels, that was some show you put on today," he said.

Wheeler looked up at him, and he said "Thanks, Barrell," though his expression was wary. He had had a front row seat for both the Beach and Vance pranks. He'd also seen him get Walt Layton several times. Layton was Harry's favorite target.

Harry noticed that Dan was watching, and so were Vance, Langille and Shadoan. Apparently Dan couldn't keep his mouth shut. But Wheeler had his back to them, so it was still a green light for Harry.

He held out the ball, still held somewhat awkwardly between his thumb and index finger. "I paid a kid to grab the home run balls for you," he said.

Wheeler looked at the ball, then back at Harry's face. "Really? Why?"

Harry managed to look uncomfortable and said, "Well, I figured you might want to give one to your mother. You know, as a memento."

Wheeler still looked dubious. Harry could almost hear the gears turning in the guy's head.

"That's really the home run ball?" he asked.

Harry crossed his heart with his empty hand and said, "Cross my heart, Al. It's the real deal."

Wheeler shrugged and Harry pushed the ball into the hand of the slugger.

Harry smiled and watched as confusion dawned on Wheeler's face. He dropped the ball, which rolled away and looked at his hand.

There was a brown smear on his palm. Wheeler's eyes widened as he looked at his hand. Then his face turned red. The players who were standing around watching had a variety of reactions from disgusted moans to howling laughter. Harry began backing up as Wheeler took a step towards him.

"I'm going to kill you, Barrell," he snarled. Then he emitted a string of profanity that no one had ever heard from him.

Harry had raised his own hands and was saying, "Whoa, whoa!" as Wheeler started coming for him.

Dan Barrell jumped in between Wheeler and his brother and Fred jumped up and came up behind Wheeler. "It's just fudge, Al," Dan said. Wheeler raised his hand and sniffed at his palm, which drew some disgusted noises from some of the guys.

Dan pointed at Harry and said, "You nearly got yourself in a world of hurt, Harry."

Harry was laughing. "It's just chocolate!" he shouted. "I got you, Al!"

Wheeler lowered his hand. His face was still red and his left hand was still clenched in a fist. But then a smile slowly emerged on his face and after a moment he laughed.

The clubhouse was in an uproar as Harry explained that he had gotten Dan to give him some of the fudge he always bought when visiting Baltimore. "There's this little place a couple blocks from here," Dan explained. "My wife doesn't let me eat many sweets, so I usually cheat a little when we're on the road."

Harry pulled the other two balls out of his locker and handed them to Wheeler, saying, "These are clean - and they're really the home run balls."

Tommy was laughing, but also shaking his head. Jake Shadoan sauntered up to Danny and asked him if he had any of that fudge left.

Harry grabbed the fudge-smeared ball and held it up. "There's still some right here, Jake," he said with another laugh.

.

[legendsport]

June 20, 1935: Macon, GA:

"Hey, y'all!" they heard as they took their usual seats in the rickety bleachers.

Gloria Barrell, her mother Edna Daniels, stepfather Roscoe Daniels and half-brother Jim Bob Daniels all turned at the sound of the familiar voice.

Possum Daniels, a huge grin creasing his weathered face, was waving from behind the backstop.

"Uncle Rollie? What are you doing here?" Roscoe Daniels asked. Roscoe's father Cletus "Cooter" Daniels was the younger brother of Roland "Possum" Daniels.

"Shoot, son, I'm a-scouting, what do you think I'm here for?" was Possum's reply as he ambled over.

Gloria had met Possum several times. She knew he was not a blood relation to the Barrells but she also knew she was Grandpa Rufus' oldest and best friend - and an uncle in all but blood to Rufus and Alice's children.

"Hey there Gloria Jean!" Possum said. Gloria found his odd walk fascinating. He tipped from side to side as he walked, as if his legs didn't quite work the way everyone else's seemed to. Deuce had once told her it was because Possum spent a couple decades as a catcher. He called it "crouch walking." Frankly Gloria thought her brother had just made that up.

"Who you here to scout?" Gloria asked, figuring she already knew.

"Why, Rufus Barrell, a' course," was the expected reply she received. Then he added, "Well, and this here boy, Henderson that's pitchin' against Deucey."

That would be Tom Henderson of Oglethorpe High School, Gloria knew. She knew this because Deuce and Henderson had been rivals for three years now and though her brother was clearly the better prospect, Henderson knew how to get under Deuce's skin. Both were likely to be drafted highly in the upcoming draft, which explained why Possum was there.

"Henderson?" Edna asked. She too knew about her son's rival from Oglethorpe.

"Yup. He's on my list," Possum said with a nod. "I think your Granddaddy would have come hisself, but sometimes he has to act like the director of the scouting bureau and leave the actual scouting to us scouts," Possum said to Gloria with a wink. She was a little sad that her grandfather couldn't make it down for this, the final game of Deuce's high school career. But she understood - he was a big shot, after all. She briefly wondered if their father would have come, a thought that set off a pang of sadness. Joe Barrell was never much of a baseball fan, but Gloria knew he loved his kids. He just wasn't always great at showing it.

Deuce and his team mates strolled onto the field, heading for the dugout where they dropped bats, gloves and other assorted paraphernalia. Moments later they began trickling onto the field, playing catch, some of them stretching or running. Deuce spotted his family and threw them a wave. For Possum he added a big old grin - he knew why the old scout was there.

Possum wobbled back to his perch behind home plate, telling Gloria that was the best spot for him because he "could best spectate the pitchers from back there" as he put it.

Gloria had a job too. She kept the stats for the baseball team. But she had her book and pencil with her and could do her "job" while sitting with her family. As had become usual of late, 7-year-old Jim Bob sat at her side, "helping" - which had begun with her explaining the rules of the game and how to keep score and now evolved to his sometimes trying to correct her assessment of errors and hits. Her brother was turning, like Deuce, into a baseball-mad fanatic and played a little with other young boys. Edna had once told Gloria that she wished there was an organized league for the youngsters so Jim Bob could be a part of something like Deuce was. Jim Bob also wasn't a Barrell - and was young - so unlike Deuce he didn't get to work with their uncles who were honest-to-God professional ballplayers.

After the game began, with Deuce striking out the side in the top of the first, Roscoe told his wife he was going to go sit with his uncle for a bit. Gloria's stepfather was so unlike Possum, she reflected. Where Possum was talkative and boisterous, Roscoe was quiet and spoke softly - and with good grammar she realized with a chuckle. She wondered what he wanted to talk with Possum about as she watched him walk towards the seats behind the backstop.

"I wonder if Deuce will let those other guys hit the ball," Jim Bob said.

Gloria laughed. "Not if he can avoid it, he won't," she told him.

Tom Henderson took the mound for the bottom of the first. The Oglethorpe righty was nearly as tall and skinny as Deuce. Gloria wondered if you had to be a tall, gangly sourpuss to be a good pitcher. Her brother and this Henderson sure were. He threw pretty hard too, if not quite as hard as Deuce. Henderson promptly returned the favor on Macon, sriking out the side just as Deuce had done. Jim Bob fidgeted and asked her if anyone would get a hit. His opinion was if no one did, this was going to be boring and no one would win.

"I'm sure someone will get a hit, Jim Bob," she told him.

Henderson led off the top of the second. Not only was he Oglethorpe's best pitcher, but he - like Deuce - was a pretty good hitter too.

Gloria could tell Deuce wanted to strike Henderson out. He threw his hardest, maybe too hard, as Henderson patiently waited, bat on shoulder and took two balls.

Looking over at Possum, she saw him frowning. She could tell he wanted to shout something, but as a supposedly neutral scout, his professional pride wouldn't allow him to offer advice. He said something to Roscoe, who did yell: "Stop trying to throw it through a wall, Deuce!"

Deuce heard his step-father alright. He scowled, but his next pitch did seem to have a little bit less velocity - and it was a strike.

On the fourth pitch - another fastball - Henderson swung and made contact, hitting a two-hopper to shortstop. The boy there was named Chuck Brecker, and he fielded it cleanly and threw Henderson out. Gloria noted the clear frustration on her brother's face at not whiffing Henderson. She rolled her eyes, thinking "an out is an out."

The pitcher's duel continued. Henderson failed to strikeout Deuce, who was hitting over .400 on the season, and neither pitcher allowed a hit through four innings. In the top of the fifth, Henderson singled off Deuce for the game's first hit. Now Gloria could see that her brother was ready to spit nails. He bore down again, and threw a couple of balls before Roscoe again yelled at him. He struck out the next three in a row to end the inning.

Macon finally got to Henderson in the home half of the fifth. Brecker, a fellow senior and a pretty good player himself, singled to lead off the inning. Deuce, hitting fifth, came up. He hit lefthanded and Gloria, sitting on the third base side, could see his face was screwed up in concentration. Henderson fired a fastball and Deuce swung, mistiming it a bit and shooting a foul ball past first base.

He took a deep breath and his bat stilled over his left shoulder. Uncle Bobby, also a lefty, had worked with Deuce on his stance and though Deuce didn't hit the ball as hard as Bobby did, he was a good hitter. And he showed that on the second pitch, sending a screming liner into the gap between the right and center fielders.

Brecker was off at contact, and he had good speed. Deuce, who had just one triple on the season, was running for all he was worth too. By the time the Oglethorpe right fielder had retrieved the ball and thrown to the second baseman, Brecker was crossing the plate and Deuce was sliding into third. 1-0 Macon. Edna and Jim Bob were on their feet cheering as were the fifty-or-so people there rooting for Macon. Gloria was writing in the scorebook. Afterwards she looked over to see Roscoe cheering and Possum sitting there with a smile on his face, gripping his battered notebook.

The game ended at 1-0 with neither Deuce nor Henderson relenting. Deuce finished with a 1-hit shutout, striking out 14. Henderson allowed just the two hits and a walk and struck out 12.

"That was some pitching!" Possum exclaimed when he returned to them after the game. Gloria gave Possum a hug and went to turn in her scorebook to the coach.

Possum and Roscoe sat on either side of Edna and Possum told her he had a suggestion for Deuce, and that Roscoe also thought it was a good idea.

"There's this team, Farmers Union. It's what you might call a semi-pro outfit, but really they're amateurs and unpaid, though the team covers room and board for the players. Possum thinks Deuce could benefit from playing with them this summer," Roscoe told his wife.

"And just where is this team?" Edna asked.

"Atlanta," Possum said. "But a'fore you say no, I know the coach from my playing days. He's good and unlike here, they'll straighten out Deuce's... erm, proclivities towards overthrowin' the ball."

Possum grinned and said, "He's just like his grandpappy. My buddy Rufus did the same thing. It took me and Ol' Joe Reid near two seasons to break him of that habit, but when we did.... hoo boy!"

Edna was shaking her head. Roscoe took her hand. "Listen, Ed, Deuce is going to be leaving us regardless. But this will be a step up for him. I think that Henderson kid is going to play there too. With those two anchoring their pitching that team has a shot to win the National Amateur Championship. And like Possums says, the coach will get him prepped for pro ball better than hanging around home all summer will."

Edna still looked reluctant. "Have you even asked Deuce about this?" she asked.

"Asked me about what?" they heard from behind them. Deuce was standing on the field, leaning on the fence.

"How would you like to play some semi-pro ball, son?" Possum asked him.

Deuce's face lit up. "Semi-pro? That mean I get paid?"

Possum explained how it worked. They couldn't be paid and remain amateurs, but the team did cover their food and housing. And he'd get to tour around, mostly in the South, and if they were good enough, could make the National Tournament in Cincinnati. When he mentioned that Tom Henderson was playing, Deuce frowned, but then straightened up with a determined look and said, "Count me in. If that busher can do it, so can I."

Possum laughed and said, "Well, that 'busher' is gonna be your team mate, son, so you might want to try to tone down the negativity a'fore you get to Atlanta."

.

[legendsport]

July 20, 1935: Evanston, IL:

Rufus Barrell was nervous. His leg bobbed up and down, bouncing the bleacher. Beside him, Alice gritted her teeth and kept her silence; she fully understood why her husband was antsy. She simply wished he could exhibit it in a way that was less... bouncy.

The Barrells were in Evanston, and in the stands of Whitney College's on-campus stadium for the National Amateur Union's Track & Field championship. Betsy was running. So were many other Olympic hopefuls. The NAU Championships was the primary measuring stick the U.S. Track & Field team would use in determining the athletes who would go to Berlin the following year for the Olympics. In fact, the 1936 edition of the NAU Championship Meet would serve as the Olympic Trials for the women. The men, with a much larger team competing in many more events, had their own separate trials.

To take her husband's mind off the upcoming events, Alice asked him about their two oldest grandsons - one on the cusp of a professional career and the other having just finished his first year of high school. The eldest, Deuce, was doing very well for the Farmers Union team, Rufus reported. He had Possum checking in on them periodically whenever he happened to be in the area while doing his "regular" scouting trips. The NAU teams didn't keep official statistics but scouts did follow the teams around. Deuce's level of performance had scouts salivating and he was, Rufus felt, certain to be one of the top two picks in the draft. His only real competition was a slugging first baseman out in Oregon. Rufus said his name was Robert Johnson, but everyone called him 'Red' and he looked to be a surefire star as well.

One of Rufus' other scouts had seen James, who had just completed his first year at Xaverian High School in Brooklyn and written a glowing report. James had hit .469 and struck out only three times in 113 at-bats in his freshman season. His stepfather Powell Slocum had done an amazing job of teaching James how to be selective at the plate. He'd also taught him to hit left-handed, though James threw right-handed. This was exactly what Powell's father had done for him, and James seemed to have really taken to it.

Rufus and Alice had visited Philadelphia a couple weeks earlier, for the 1935 FABL All-Star Game, which featured Bobby playing in his home park for the Federal team and his brothers Harry and Tom playing for the Continental. Fred didn't make the team, which was a disappointment for him. Dan was angry with his current lack of playing time. The acquisition of Frank Vance had moved Dan to a pinch-hitting role which chafed him. Rufus had, as usual, stressed patience. Rufus and Alice both believed that Dan was still embittered about his leg injury and were thankful Powell was back with the Kings so Dan had someone aside from his brothers with whom to talk - and in Powell's case - to help him as a hitter. "If you produce at the plate, the club will find a place for you in the lineup," Rufus had told his son.

"I hope Bobby can make it to dinner," Alice said, changing the subject.

Rufus looked at her and said, "I'm sure he will. The game with the Chiefs should end by four or five. That'll give him plenty of time to get showered and meet us at the restaurant."

Bobby's Keystones were in town for a big series with the Chicago Chiefs. Both clubs, along with Pittsburgh, were chasing the Gothams and St. Louis Pioneers for the Fed pennant. Bobby was enjoying a great season and so was Rankin Kellogg - the Keystones' problem was a lack of great pitching, something the front-running Gothams had in abundance with Rabbit Day, Jim Lonardo, and Hardin Bates. Rufus wouldn't say so to Bobby, but he felt the race was the Gothams' to lose. But then, as a former pitcher, he was always biased towards good pitching over good hitting.

There were only 9 events in this meet, and Betsy was competing in four of them: the 100 and 200 yard races, the discus throw and the shot put. "I hope she doesn't tire herself out," Alice told her husband.

She had a point - they would be running preliminaries, semi-finals and finals which meant potentially six races to run, on top of the throwing events.

In the end, they needn't have worried: Betsy won the running events and the discus and was second in the shot put. In the finals of both the 100 and 200 yard races, she edged out Annette O'Boyle, the local favorite (she was a Whitney College student).

Rufus, as he was wont to do, meandered down onto the field after the final event. He made his way to his daughter who was talking to an older, well-dressed man.

"Oh, Pop!" Betsy cried as she saw him, then gave him a hug. "This is the NAU President, Mr. Bertram Scanlon," waving at the smiling man beside her.

"Mr. Barrell, congratulations," Scanlon said he shook hands with Rufus. "Your daughter is a shoo-in for Germany, I would say."

Rufus raised his eyebrows. "Really? That's over a year away."

Scanlon was nodding before Rufus had even finished speaking. "Oh, with certainty. She's the the fastest woman in the country. She should be one of the favorites at Berlin. With her anchoring and Miss O'Boyle running one of the other legs, our 4-by-100 relay team should be the one to beat as well."

Betsy was nearly jumping up and down in excitement. Rufus knew the Olympics were a big dream of hers. "Mr. Scanlon is part of the selection team, Pop," she told him.

Rufus admitted to himself that he really didn't have any idea how good Betsy was. His field was baseball, after all, and even Dan's track and field career hadn't prepared him for this. Betsy an Olympic favorite?

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

Rufus had made reservations for four at Augustus Hoch's Steakhouse. Hoch himself greeted them at the door. The German-born restauranteur was one of Chicago's wealthiest men with one of the nation's largest meat-packing empires as his core business. He also owned the Chicago Packers hockey club and Jack Barrell had played for him at one time.

"Welcome, Mr and Mrs Barrell and Elizabeth," he said warmly, with a thick German accent. Rufus grinned as he shook Hoch's hand. Jack had told him that Hoch's accent grew thicker when he was excited. The man had been in the U.S. for over forty years now and in normal conversation Jack said he sounded "more Chicago than Berlin."

Hoch asked after Jack, escorted them to what he said was his finest table and congratulated Betsy on her win, then left them, making his way to his private dining room.

"Wow, talk about first-class treatment," Betsy gushed to her parents.

Rufus had cocked an eyebrow and wryly said, "According to Jack that guy is a bear. But it appears he can play the gracious host as well."

Bobby bustled in a few minutes later, his hair still damp. He kissed his mother's cheek, gave Rufus a slap on the shoulder and hugged Betsy. His first question was to his sister, asking how she did.

'You look well," Alice told her son. And he did, he looked happy and dapper in his suit, tailored for his muscular frame. Where Harry and Tom were lean, Bobby was built more like Joe and Jack, with a thick chest, powerful arms and wide shoulders. Rollie, Fred and Dan fell somewhere in between.

Bobby was talking about the game. His Keystones had narrowly lost to the Chiefs, though he had gotten a pair of hits and was currently on a 10-game hitting streak. Rufus started to ask about Ron Coles, the Chiefs pitcher - he liked to talk to his sons about how pitchers worked them, then give his insight from a pitcher's perspective on how to counteract it. Alice, well aware of what was coming, was turning to Betsy when she noticed that a tall, pretty young woman was walking up to the table.

"Hello, Elizabeth," the young woman said with a friendly smile.

"Oh..." Betsy said, startled. "Annette. How are you?"

Annette O'Boyle ran her gaze across the four Barrells at the table; Betsy noted that her eyes paused for an extra beat on Bobby before looking at Rufus. "I'm sorry to interrupt," she said and then added, "I wanted to congratulate you, and your parents."

"Thank you," Betsy said, just a hint of wariness in her tone. She and Annette had clearly been the two best sprinters at the meet and for that reason they were rivals. Betsy supposed that might change when they became Olympic team mates, but that day was over a year in the future, if it happened at all. Hence, she was wary.

Rufus gave Annette a friendly nod; Alice, sensing her daughter's reaction, was more subdued and gave Annette a tight-lipped smile.

"Is this another of your brothers?" Annette pointedly asked.

With a slight frown, Betsy said, "Yes, this my brother Bobby."

Annette smiled at Bobby and he smiled in return. "It is nice to meet you, Annette," he said.

"Likewise," she replied. "I met your brother Tom in Philadelphia last month. I must say, he was a... friendly young man."

Bobby chuckled and nodded. "Yes, he certainly can be that," he said. Alice shook her head with a scowl on her face. Rufus simply looked a bit uncomfortable and Betsy was getting angry.

"Are you a ballplayer too?" Annette asked Bobby.

"Yes, that I am. I play for the Philadelphia Keystones. My team is here in Chicago for a series with the Chiefs. The timing was, I guess you'd say, just right to spend some time with my parents and sister."

Annette's smile widened a bit. "Yes, the timing of your visit was perfect." She gazed into Bobby's eyes for a few moments and then said, "I won't take up any more of your time. Congratulations again. Good evening," she finished and walked off.

Betsy noted with not a little aggravation that Bobby watched her walk across the room with a slight grin on his face. Betsy fought down the urge to punch him in the arm.

.

[legendsport]

September 2, 1935: Cincinnati, OH

"You ever wonder what might have been, son?" Possum Daniels asked his oldest friend.

Rufus, busy buying a newspaper, told the newsboy to keep the change and turned to look at Possum. His friend was staring up at the brick wall of Monarchs Field, a wistful look on his rugged face.

"Huh? What are you on about?" he asked.

Possum pointed. "This park is one of the old 'uns. Old Johnny Tice built her back when you and I were just young pups. You ever wonder what might have been... you know if Tice hadn't died?"

Rufus gave it a moment's thought, then shrugged and said, "No." Then after another second or two added, "Well, not about that, at least."

Possum tipped his head to the side, acknowledging Rufus' comment. Then he said, "I've wondered some. But I gots to say that I don't know how things would have been different."

Rufus gave a small chuckle and said, "Well, one thing's for sure. Tice and Whitney hated each other, so FABL wouldn't be FABL, I suppose."

Possum sighed. Rufus folded his newspaper and tucked it under his arm. "Let's go on in, hey?" he said to Possum.

The pair were at Monarchs Field for the NAU's baseball championship. The Farmers Union club of Atlanta was playing against the Columbian Club of Oregon. Rufus was familiar with several players on each club, but of acute personal interest for him, of course, was a certain pitcher for Farmers Union who just happened to bear his name and was his grandson.

"Deucey's gonna handle these boys, you watch," Possum said as they made their way towards their seats. They were officially working. Being a scout sometimes had its benefits, after all. And Possum would be taking notes on some of the players.

"You haven't seen this here Red Johnson, have you, son?" Possum asked.

Rufus shook his head. "No, but I've read the reports."

Possum snorted and said, "Reports don't do this boy justice."

Rufus was more interested in Deuce, of course. And the guy pitching for the Columbian Club - Bill Sohl.

"Since we're here, supposedly on the job, I'd like reports on Sohl, Vic Frazier and Don Schneiderman. I figure we have Deuce covered pretty well. If Henderson's playing, we can make some notes on his hitting ability." Rufus had his own kit with him: binoculars, notebook, stopwatch and pencils.

"Well, Henderson and Deucey usually alternate - when the one's pitchin' the other's in the outfield. And vicey-versey," Possum replied.

"You know who's running this here Columbian Club?" Possum asked.

Rufus nodded. "Sure. Enoch West," he replied. West had been someone Rufus had scouted, long ago. The Kings had passed on him, largely due to Rufus' report - he'd felt West's talent was good but he had some personality issues, which is why the Kings had passed. He'd pitched one season for the Washington Eagles before spending a decade bouncing around various minor circuits. He wasn't a big fan of Rufus Barrell. Possum's point, unspoken, was that West might somehow take out his long-held grudge against the elder Rufus Barrell on young Rufus Barrell II.

Possum gave his friend a pointed look. Rufus frowned and said, "He wouldn't dare. And if he did, Deuce isn't without his own options for payback."

Rufus opened his paper while they waited for the game to start. The Kings were in the thick of a pennant race, again with the Foresters, in a nip-and-tuck battle. Tom was on the shelf with an injury, and the Kings missed their ace. At least he was due back soon.

The Keystones were fading from the race despite outstanding seasons from both Rankin Kellogg and Bobby Barrell. Pitching... that was the 'Stones achilles heel.

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

The game began with the western club as the home team, meaning the Farmers Union boys got to hit first. Henderson was playing, hitting third and in right field, while Deuce was pitching and hitting fifth. Between them in the cleanup spot was a third baseman from Bayou La Batre, Alabama by the name of Davey Robicheaux.

"What's Robicheaux's story?" Rufus asked.

Possum flipped through his notebook and said, "He's a good ballplayer. Not much for school though. A boy after my own heart, you might say, son." Possum laughed and Rufus shook his head. "Good hitter. I hear tell that there are a few schools trying to get him eligible for college ball."

Rufus rubbed his chin. He sometimes wondered how many good ballplayers slipped through the cracks by not playing high school or college ball. Sure, sometimes scouts found these hidden gems, but oftentimes there were simply overlooked and toiled in obscurity.

Bill Sohl was on the hill for the Columbian Club. He was just 16 years old, but polished beyond his years. He set down the top two hitters in the Farmers Union order, bringing Tom Henderson to the plate. As Rufus watched the tall, thin boy from Oglethorpe dig in, he smiled to himself thinking of what Deuce's sister had told him - that Tom Henderson was "cute." The friction between Henderson and Deuce was still there, but on a low boil now that they were playing on the same team.

Henderson took a strike and then shot Sohl's second offering back through the box and into centerfield for a single.

Robicheaux stepped up to the plate. An 18-year-old, he'd never played high school ball and had been with Farmers Union for two seasons now. He too, took the first pitch - again a strike. The second pitch was wide to even the count. On the third pitch, Rufus finally got to see the kid swing the bat, sending a long, looping fly to left that was tracked down for the third out.

As Deuce walked out to the mound for the bottom of the first, he looked over at his grandfather and gave him an almost imperceptible nod. Rufus noted the obvious influence of Tom Barrell on Deuce - the same serious, sometimes scowling visage and businesslike approach. His motion had been honed by both Tom and Rufus himself. And both Tom and Deuce threw hard. But there were several big differences between Tom Barrell and Rufus Barrell II. For one thing, Deuce was a good five inches taller. He was, in scout-speak "long and lean" and had his father's big hands. Those hands, Rufus knew, were what separated him from the herd. The final difference was simply that Deuce threw left-handed.

Deuce's tendency to try to throw too hard didn't crop up in the first frame, and he set down the side in order: strikeout, groundout to short and the last out coming on a three-pitch strikeout of Don Schneiderman. Red Johnson, Columbian's fearsome slugger was left in the on-deck circle.

Deuce led off the top of the second, but was retired on a nice play by the second baseman and the Farmers Union went down in order. In the home half, with Johnson at the plate, Deuce fell into his bad habit of overthrowing and walked the slugger, who worked the count full and showed a lot of patience for someone whose 18th birthday was still a month away. Deuce, visibly angry, managed to settle down and erased Johnson on a double-play, then struck out the third batter of the frame.

"Lookin' like a pitcher's duel, son," Possum told Rufus.

And that was exactly what unfolded. Sohl impressed both Rufus and Possum with his poise and control for such a young pitcher. Deuce rode his natural talents which were more than good enough in amateur ball, but Rufus' honest assessment was that whichever FABL team selected his grandson would need to work on taming the boy's emotions - a trait inherited from Joe Barrell that was more curse than gift.

Farmers Union managed to load the bases in the fourth inning but Sohl retired Farmers' first baseman Eddie Cobb on an easy fly to center to end the threat. And on it went - each pitcher posting zero after zero on the scoreboard.

In the home eighth, with Deuce having faced the minimum number of batters thanks to a pair of double-plays that erased Red Johnson after his walk and Vic Frazier who had Columbians' lone hit, Red Johnson came to the plate to lead off in a still-scoreless game.

Johnson's line was officially 0-for-1 with a walk and a strikeout. He still hadn't laid wood on anything Deuce had thrown him. Of the five strikes Deuce had dealt Johnson, the slugger had swung and missed at four of them, with the other a called strike. That was a monumental feat - in Johnson's senior season of high school ball he'd struck out once, while batting .500 with 10 home runs in an injury-shortened 17 game campaign for Portland's Central Catholic.

Rufus, and many others, figured that the two young men facing off here would be the top two players selected in the upcoming draft. This meant that in all likelihood they'd end up in opposite associations - the first pick would go to the Continental Association's eighth-place club while the second would go to the Federal's last-place team. In the Continental, that top pick looked like it would belong to either the Cannons, Wolves or Cougars. On the Federal side, the Detroit Dynamos were having a dismal season and would be last by a mile. If Deuce ended up in Detroit, he'd be going to an organization headed up by Eddie Thompson and George Theobald and that would suit Rufus just fine. Something he would never admit out loud was that he hoped that if Deuce did go first overall, it would be to anyone but the dysfunctional Baltimore Cannons. Toronto... would be nice - Jack was there, for one thing. And the Cougars were a well-run organization in a rebuild and that would also be a good destination. Unfortunately, all of it was out of their hands.

Rufus' musing was interrupted by Deuce's first delivery - a sizzling called strike on the outside corner. Deuce, smartly, was trying to work Johnson away, where it would be more difficult for him to hit the ball hard in the air.

The second pitch missed by a hair, in nearly the same spot to even the count. The third pitch was a good one as Deuce changed tactics and threw a changeup that was inside and belt high - dangerous, but Johnson was out ahead of it for a swinging second strike.

On the 1-2 pitch, Deuce made what was his only mistake of the game. Later on, his grandson would admit to Rufus that he'd fallen into his old habit of trying to throw the ball too hard. There was nothing wrong with the velocity on the pitch, and it was certainly a strike. The problem was the location as it was near centered on the plate and right in Johnson's wheelhouse. One thing that Red Johnson could do was hit a fastball. And hit it he did, sending it soaring out of the park, a rising liner that reminded Rufus of a right-handed Rankin Kellogg.

Deuce hung his head immediately after the swing, not even turning to look. He threw his glove down in disgust as the crowd's "oohs" and "aahs" filled the ballpark before erupting into cheering from the fans, many of whom were essentially non-partisan and all of whom were impressed by Johnson's blast.

Sitting beside Rufus, Possum emitted a low whistle before turning to Rufus and saying, "I think our boy just learned a big ol' lesson."

"I sure hope so," Rufus replied, shaking his head.

The game ended 1-0. Aside from the one mistake, Deuce was phenomenal, pitching eight innings with 14 strikeouts, one walk, two hits and one very big home run allowed. Bill Sohl went the distance for Columbian, tossing a six-hit shutout and striking out eight with two walks. Possum and Rufus both were most impressed by the youngsters ability to dance through the rain drops and not allow any of those baserunners to cross the plate.

As Rufus stood after the final out, turning to head up the aisle to the concourse he saw George Theobald, in his typical homburg hat, seated about five or six rows behind him. FABL's elder statesman, greatest manager and part-owner of the Detroit Dynamos stood and tipped his hat at Rufus. He wondered what Theobald was thinking - would his club stand pat at #2 and take whichever player was not taken by the Continental? Or would they trade up, to ensure they got whichever player they preferred. And which would they prefer? The hard-throwing lefty or the big slugger?

.

[legendsport]

September 12, 1935: Detroit, MI:

"Jack, my friend, please come in and have a seat," John Connolly Jr. extended a hand towards the chair on the other side of his desk.

Jack Barrell took in the room, noting with a wry smile that the wall sconces were still shaped like bulldog heads.

Connolly followed his friend's eyes and chuckled. "As you can see, we've not quite finished with the redecorating yet."

Jack reached across the desk to shake hands with Connolly, then began to sit down in the chair. Connolly came around his desk and pointed to a pair of armchairs in a corner. "Let's go sit there, it'll be more comfortable," he said.

Jack followed Junior and seated himself opposite him. The chair was comfortable and he smiled again - the arms ended in, yes, bulldog heads.

"When an office comes furnished..." Connolly said with a gleam in his eye.

Jack looked around. He'd never been in these offices before, though he'd been in the building itself many times over the years. "I'm still not sure how you got approval from the Board of Governors, Junior," he said.

The gleam in Junior's eye took on a predatory glint and he said, "Well, I am my father's son."

Jack laughed, but Junior had pulled off something he would never have predicted - moving his Quebec Champlains hockey club to Detroit where they took over the offices of the defunct Detroit Bulldogs in a corner office suite within the Thompson Palladium where the erstwhile Champlains would soon take the ice for their first season as the Detroit Olympians.

"Regardless of how you pulled it off, the fact that you did deserves congratulations," Jack told his friend.

"Thank you," Junior said with a nod. "Although I will admit they nearly tarred and feathered me on the way out of Quebec City."

"I saw some of the newspaper stories about it," Jack said, adding, "Even in Toronto we keep an eye on what goes on in Quebec."

"I suppose I should congratulate you as well. Back-to-back Cup wins. I'm sure they fairly well despise you in Quebec as well," Junior said. Jack's Toronto Dukes had twice beaten the Montreal Nationals in the Challenge Cup Finals.

"Thanks," Jack replied. "It's no mean feat to win it once, let alone two times in a row."

"Oh, I know," said Junior.

Jack paused a moment, then asked, "So why did you want to see me? If I recall, we open our home season with you. Couldn't wait a couple months?" He laughed.

Junior had a serious look on his face. "I want you to run the club for me," he said.

Jack's face wore an expression of surprise so evident that Junior laughed. "I'm serious," he added. "I want a clean start here and your track record as a coach speaks for itself. But I'd want you to wear two hats and handle the General Manager's duties as well."

Jack said nothing. He could see where his friend was coming from - last season Quebec won a measly nine games and hadn't had a winning record so far in the 1930s. It was no small wonder people weren't coming to games in the tiny rink the Champs had called home. But Toronto was Jack's team and he'd poured his heart and soul into helping them become champions.

"I know this won't be an easy decision," Junior told him. "You can name your price. I mean it when I say I want a clean start. And I also mean it when I say I want to win championships here in Detroit."

Jack shook his head slowly. "I don't know, Junior," he said. "I'll need to think this over."

Junior smiled at him. "Well, we have just under two months til the season begins. So think it over, but please let me know as soon as possible. If you're staying with the Dukes, I'll need to find someone else."

"Of course," Jack said, his mind swirling with various possibilities. As GM, he could shape the roster and that was an enticing thought. He'd also be in the same city as his brother Rollie - another point in favor of accepting Junior's offer. But it would likely be a slow build in a division that boasted his current club and both Montreal clubs, each of which was very talented, especially the Nationals.

He spent another fifteen minutes with Junior, who filled him in on the state of the club and its players before they moved on to talking about their personal lives, their families and other things of which friends would talk.

There was also the issue of his contract with the Dukes which ran through the end of the 1935-36 season. He expected an extension offer any day now. He mentioned this and Junior nodded, saying he would work something out with the Dukes if Jack accepted.

Jack left with his head spinning. As he stepped out onto the sidewalk he gazed across the street where the red brick facade of Thompson Field rose. In that building was Rollie's office. Jack was having dinner that night with Rollie and realized there was no one he'd rather talk this over with than his older brother.
.

[legendsport]

September 20, 1935: Toronto, ON:

"Jack, come on in," Charles Tattler said, stepping back and sweeping an arm towards the open door to his office.

Jack Barrell was a bit nonplussed. He had requested a meeting with David Welcombe, the Toronto Dukes' owner and instead was "invited" to a meeting with Charles Tattler who was, officially, the General Manager of the club. Unofficially, it was rumored that he was the true power in the organization and that Welcombe had given him stock, making him a minority owner. Jack... well, Jack had not been given stock.

Jack said, "Thanks, Charles," knowing better than most that it was always Charles with Tattler - never Charlie and heaven forbid, absolutely, positively, never ever Chuck.

Tattler was a former player like Jack himself was. Tattler had been a centerman, and a well-traveled one, at that. His first pro club had been the Toronto Silver Skates, owned by John Connolly - Senior, not Junior. He'd also played with the New York Shamrocks in Connolly's 'rebel' USHA and then Boston, Chicago and the Montreal Nationals before finishing his career in Des Moines, Iowa of all places. He and Jack had briefly been team mates in Chicago, though Jack had been on the top line and Tattler, fading by then, had been on the third. For whatever reason, Jack had always felt that Tattler disliked him.

Tattler closed the door and asked Jack to take a seat. As Jack settled himself, Tattler moved behind his desk and seated himself, then placed his folded hands in front of him on the desktop.

"I suppose I should mention that I know why you're here," he said.

Jack tried to read his face, but Tattler would have made an excellent poker player. Whatever he thought about Jack and his talks with Junior Connolly, he wasn't showing it.

"The hockey community is a small one," Jack said with a lopsided grin.

Tattler gave a quick, almost imperceptible bob of his head. "That it is," was his reply.

Jack decided not to beat around the bush. "Does David know?" he asked.

Tattler frowned and said, "Yes, I informed Mr. Welcombe myself. We discussed it and decided that it would be best if you met with me, rather than him." Tattler paused and stared Jack in the eye. "Frankly, he was hurt by what he sees, rightly I might add, as a betrayal on your part."

"Betrayal? I hardly think..." Jack said, but Tattler raised a hand and interrupted. "It doesn't matter what you think, Jack. All that really matters is how Mr. Welcombe sees it, right?" He spread his hands.

Jack frowned, but said, "Yes, I suppose that's true."

Tattler gave that tiny nod again and continued, "He was of a mind to refuse to let you go. You are under contract for this coming season and Mr. Welcombe sees no reason why the Dukes should release you from your contract."

Jack had assumed that would be the case. He said, "I'm aware of my contract. And that's why I told Junior no."

Tattler couldn't keep the surprise off his face. Jack chuckled and said, "I guess the hockey community might be a little behind on that particular piece of the puzzle."

"You said no," Tattler said, disbelief coloring his tone.

"I did. I don't break contracts," Jack replied coolly.

Tattler sat back, lost in thought. "Hmm. I see," he murmured, the fingers of his right hand tapping on the blotter.

Jack decided to let the other shoe drop. "But I did tell him that I would be interested when my contract does expire," he said.

Tattler frowned again. "Well... so one lame duck season and then you'll leave us high and dry, is that it?"

"That's not how I'd put it, but... well, the offer from Junior was quite generous."

"Yes, well owning several silver mines does tend to put money in your pocket," Tattler said, the wry tone back in his voice. "Precious metals being somewhat... Depression-proof," he added.

Jack's lips compressed in a near frown but he held his tongue. Everyone was aware of just where the Connolly family's fortune rested.

Tattler sat forward again and grinned. There was no joy in that grin that Jack could see. It looked... feral.

"That being the case," he said and the grin widened. "You're fired," he said.

Now Jack was surprised. Firing him meant that they'd have to pay him for the balance of his contract, for one thing, and for another... "Who's going to coach the team?" he sputtered.

Though Jack had thought it wouldn't have been possible, Tattler's grin somehow grin even wider. "I am," he said.

.
[NOTE: If you're interested in reading about the hockey piece of the Figment Universe, there are seasonal recaps going back to the beginning on Legendsport.com]

[legendsport]

September 29, 1935: Brooklyn, NY:

"I'd stay away from him, if I were you," Fred Barrell told his brother.

Harry smirked and shook his head. "Worse than usual?" he asked.

Fred barked a short, humorless laugh, "Yeah," he said. Then he seemed to ponder for a second and asked, "You know how he is on days he pitches most of the time?"

Harry nodded, said, "Sure, we all know that," sweeping an arm around the Kings clubhouse. He shot a glance at the corner stall where his brother Tom sat rubbing a baseball.

Fred followed his gaze and said quietly, "Well... it's like that, only about five times worse."

Now it was Harry's turn to laugh, but his had a touch of nervousness to it. "Makes sense," he began, "since we absolutely need to win this game."

Fred didn't reply. He didn't need to - everyone knew the situation: last day of the season, Brooklyn trailing the Cleveland Foresters - again! - by one game. They absolutely needed to win, and also needed the Philadelphia Sailors to do them the favor of handing the Foresters a defeat. A tough ask - that game was in Cleveland.

Harry nodded at Tom with his chin. "You ever find out why he does that?"

Fred looked at Tommy rubbing the ball. "He says it helps him focus. I figured I'd just take him at his word," he added with a raised eyebrow.

Walt Bailey stumped out of his office, stopping with his legs splayed out in his inimitable way in the dead center of the room. Every eye in the room was on him... except Tom's. He just kept rubbing at the baseball.

"I'm not a big one for speeches," Bailey began and then paused to glare at Harry who had snorted. "Sorry skip," Harry muttered.

Bailey frowned in silence for a moment before continuing, "Right... so, as I was saying... everyone in this room knows our situation. Let's go do our part. Whatever happens in Cleveland... happens. So let's go get it!"

There were a few exclamations from some of the more exciteable fellows but most of the team followed the lead of Al Wheeler who just scowled and nodded once, firmly. Wheeler had enjoyed a monster season, entering this final tilt with an average of .359, 34 homers and 129 RBIs. Harry himself was hitting .351, Doug Lightbody .354, Frank Vance .354... and despite all that alongside a fantastic pitching staff (Tom himself was 22-10, Joe Shaffner had 24 wins and Mike Murphy 20)... and they still couldn't quite get past those guys out in Ohio.

Harry felt tight, and he worried that his team mates did as well. Vance and Wheeler had their game faces on, but even the unflappable Vance was giving off a whiff of nervousness. Wheeler.... he was hard-wired and as straight an arrow as you could find. He was essentially unreadable. Tom was as bristly as a porcupine and Fred looked nervous. Harry shot a look at Dan. The oldest of the baseball-playing Barrell boys was sitting quietly at his locker. He didn't look nervous, just bitter. It was a familiar look for a guy who'd lost his starting job.

The team hit the field. Harry looked across at the New York Stars dugout. The Kings' cross-river cousins were down on the luck and that was all to the good in Harry's opinion. But... they did still have John Lawson, Dave Trowbridge and Pete Layton. Down the right-field line Harry watched for a moment as 23-year-old Rollie Beal warmed up for the Stars. He had no fear of Beal, he wasn't particularly effective.

As he stretched, Harry looked over at Tom. He was warming up and throwing hard already, making Fred's glove pop. Fred yelled something out to Tom and Harry saw Tom raise his glove and waggle the fingers of his throwing hand in a "come on" gesture. Fred frowned, shook his head and threw the ball back. When Tom wouldn't listen to Fred at all that was typically a bad sign.

Harry and his team mates went through the rest of their pre-game routine. Finally it was game time. The organist played the national anthem and Harry bounced up and down on his toes, unable to stand still. At least he kept his hand over his heart. When the last note faded and the umpire yelled "Play ball!" Harry was a bundle of nervous energy and more than ready to just get the game going.

Tom climbed the mound from the back side. He already had the ball in his glove. Stars CF Mike Mason was the leadoff man. Mason was a left-handed hitter so Harry shaded a bit towards the bag at second. Tom rocked and fired his first pitch, a letter-high fastball that Mason fought off for a foul ball into the stands on the first base side. Vance, playing 1B as usual, gave it a look but hardly moved.

The second pitch was another foul, again into the 1B stands.

Fred flashed the sign, and Tom bobbed his head. Harry, able to see the sign knew a third-straight heater was on the docket. This time Mason was unable to catch up and whiffed on it. One down.

Tom was still stone-faced as he raised his glove to take the throw from Vance after the Kings tossed it around the horn. Bill Rich, the Stars SS was next. Tom kept the diet of heaters going, but he began overthrowing and he ended up walking Rich on four pitches.

Harry heard his brother swear as he caught the return throw from Fred after the fourth straight ball. John Lawson headed to the plate and Harry settled into double-play position after signaling his keystone partner Jake Shadoan that he himself would take the throw should Rich attempt a steal.

Tom got ahead of Lawson 0-2 after the veteran third sacker fouled off the first two pitches. This was followed up by a pair of balls... both close. Harry could almost hear Tom's teeth grinding in frustration. Harry wasn't sure whether his brothers' frustration was with himself or the umpire. Lawson fought off a good 2-2 pitch, took ball three and then fought off a good 3-2 pitch too. On the eighth pitch of the at-bat, Tom missed off the corner and Lawson tossed his bat and trotted down to first. Harry heard another swear word from Tom.

First sacker Dave Trowbridge was hitting cleanup. Trowbridge was, to Harry's eye, pretty much the epitome of the professional hitter. Tom's pendulum swung back to effectiveness; after dealing a first-pitch ball, he came right back with a beautiful slider for a called strike. He got a rare swing and miss from Trowbridge on a fastball and then put him away on a nice change. Fred pushed his mask back and shouted some encouragement to Tom before throwing the ball back.

Two on, two out.

Harry moved out of double-play depth, waggling his right hand with two fingers raised to let his team mates know there were two outs. "Get this guy, Tommy," he said to his brother as the latter took a few steps behind the mound while Larry Colaianni walked to the plate. Harry saw Fred say something to Colaianni, who Harry knew was one of the smarter players around, and although he himself was a friendly sort too, he privately wished his brother wouldn't talk to the opposition, today of all days. Harry eased behind Rich who was leading off second, looking to keep the guy honest. Rich looked, but didn't move. Harry slid back out.

Colaianni fouled off the first pitch, back over the screen then took a changeup off the plate to even it up 1-1. Fred flashed through a series of signs, Tom nodded, checked Rich over his shoulder, then delivered a fastball that caught a little too much of the plate. Colaianni rifled it back through the box, nearly taking Tom's foot off. Harry flashed his quick reflexes, shooting toward the bag, but the ball had been smoked and zipped by a couple of feet to the left of the second base bag and into center.

Harry popped up as fast as he could and went towards the bag as Shadoan went to take a potential relay throw. Meanwhile, Rich was busting it around third base and Lawson was steaming towards Harry at second.

Center fielder Bill May scooped up the ball and in the same motion threw it high and hard towards home plate. The throw was a bit off-line and Fred came up the first base line to snag it as Rich slid across the plate. Tom had run to backup Fred and Harry could see the rage on his face. Lawson stopped at second, gave Harry a smile and said, "How you doin' Barrell?"

Harry nodded back, saying, "John," in as friendly a voice as he could muster given the overwhelming desire to beat these guys that filled him head to toe.

Tom was still steaming and went down 2-0 to the very dangerous Pete Layton. Harry mused that even though the veteran keystone was 35 and hadn't had a particularly good season, he knew more about hitting than most men playing the game and he knew how to work an emotional pitcher. And that was exactly what Tom Barrell was at that moment.

Sure enough, after a swing and miss on the third pitch, Layton shot a clean single past Shadoan into right-center. Lawson scored as May's throw was again late and the only thing it accomplished was allowing Colaianni to advance to third. 2-0 Stars.

Tom's face looked like an incoming thunderstorm and he grooved the first pitch to the next batter, the RF Owen Murdock, who repeated Layton's hit by shooting it right past Shadoan in nearly the same spot to score Colaianni. Layton held at second, looked at Harry and said, "Looks like we're giving May's arm a workout today, eh Barrell?"

"Funny," Harry said with a frown.

The eighth-place hitter was catcher Hughie Fletcher whose nickname was Turkey. Harry just hoped Tom would settle down and get this guy out before any more damage was done.

Fletcher fouled the first pitch into the screen and whiffed on a nice fastball on the second pitch. Harry took a deep breath as he watched Tom deliver the third pitch. As he watched Fletcher unload on what was a clear mistake by Tom, Harry's heart dropped into his stomach.

Behind the plate, Fred swore after watching Fletcher put a rock solid swing on a fastball that was supposed to be outside corner and instead was right over the heart of the dish.

The ball soared towards left field. Wheeler looked up and began backpedaling towards the 386 sign on the left-field wall. Harry watched Wheeler, an old trick he had learned long ago - watch the way the outfielder tracks the ball and you can usually figure out if it's going out. Harry figured Wheeler had this as he watched him circle towards the line, his glove out to feel the wall. It was going to be close....

The wall was only seven feet high but Wheeler still needed to leap. Every eye in the park was on the ball as it dropped towards, and then over, the glove of Wheeler and into the second row of the left-field seats. There was a collective groan from the crowd and Harry clearly heard Fletcher shout "Yes!" as he ran past behind him, circling the bases after putting the Stars up 6-0 before the Kings had even had a chance to hit.

The Kings did show a bit of fight. After Harry flew out leading off the home first, Doug Lightbody hit a rare home run to put Brooklyn on the board and a two-run double by Wheeler in the third cut the Stars lead to 6-3. Bailey elected to have Danny hit for Tom in the home fourth with no one on and two out which may have been a mistake: Dan lined to short to end the inning and Art White came on in the fifth to immediately surrender a couple runs to make it 8-3 Stars. A two-run triple by Bill May in the home sixth ended up being the final tallies of the game, and season, for the Kings.

The 8-5 defeat officially ended Brooklyn's shot at tying Foresters, who did lose to the Sailors in Cleveland.

As Harry dressed in a clubhouse that was as quiet as a tomb, he knew this was going to be a long offseason.

.

[legendsport]

November 2, 1935: Detroit, MI:

Jack Barrell looked at the clock and blew his whistle.

"That's it, guys!" he shouted as he skated towards center ice. "Good practice everyone. Don't forgot... same time tomorrow!"

Jack watched the players as they skated slowly over to the edge of the rink and exited. He was still getting used to these guys. After years in Toronto his familiarity with these players was mainly on the level of seeing them play against the Dukes. Now he was learning about them on a personal level.

He was also getting a close-up look at their skill level, or in many cases, their general lack thereof. This was a far cry from his Dukes teams.

Jack was looking at his goalies as they walked off, heads together, talking when he heard someone shout "Jock!" from behind him.

He turned and saw Junior Connolly leaning on the boards. The practice rink was just a skating rink that Junior had booked for practices. One more contrast with the Dukes who owned their own practice rink. Jack forced a smile onto his face and slowly skated over towards his friend, and now boss.

He skated to a stop and leaned on his stick. Though he was now approaching his 38th birthday, Jack still liked to mix it up with the players at practice. His knees and back couldn't handle the pounding of playing in the NAHC, not anymore, but he was still good for working personally with his guys.

"Junior," he said with a light tone. "What brings you by?"

Junior gave him a keen-eyed look before replying, "I just thought I'd stop in and see how things are going." Then he sighed and added, "Judging by the look on your face... I'd say not all that well."

Jack shook his head. "I'm still getting used to these guys," he said apologetically.

"And they're nowhere near as good as the guys you left back in Toronto, right?"

Jack grimaced, then he looked over his shoulder to make sure all the players were out of ear shot. "Yeah, it's different, that's certain," he said.

Junior rubbed his chin. "Look, I know how competitive you are. Hell, I'm the same way. And we will win a Cup, I promise you." Then he laughed and shook his head. "I know, I know, you don't need to say it," he added.

Jack's grin was genuine now. "I have to hand it to you, Junior. You're always optimistic."

"One thing I learned at an early age from my father," Junior said, "was never let them see you sweat."

Jack laughed. "My pop would probably say, it's ok to know you're going to lose, but you owe it to yourself, your team mates and the game to fight as hard as you can."

Junior nodded and said, "I knew I liked your father even before I met him. I just wish that had been under better circumstances." Junior had only recently met Rufus Barrell for the first time... at Joe Barrell's funeral.

Jack sighed and gave his head a small, sad shake.

Junior slapped him on the shoulder and asked, "So... give it to me straight. How bad is it?"

Jack took a deep breath and collected his thoughts. "Well... on the positive side, I think we'll be solid in goal and on the blue line. So defensively, we should be extremely stout."

"But..." Junior prompted.

Jack tipped his head and his lips compressed into a thin line before he continued, "But... we're going to struggle to score."

Junior looked mildly surprised. "What about Chris Schneider?" he asked.

Jack wanted to be tactful - Schneider had twice scored over thirty goals for the New York Shamrocks, had well over 200 career goals and he was a good guy too. "He looks washed up," Jack said, electing to be brutally honest. "He's 36... almost 37 and he's got a lot of mileage on that body and I can tell you from experience, this game is hard enough when you're feeling great."

Junior frowned. He'd purchased both Schneider and Paul Padula from the Boston Bees back in September - before Jack had arrived. To Jack's practiced eye Schneider looked like he was over the hill and Padula was, at age 28, still rough around the edges because he'd spent most of his time in Boston sitting on the bench. Jack explained this, adding that Padula would have been better served playing minor league hockey the last few seasons.

Junior shook his head and then smiled. "So... our defense is going to be good, huh?"

Jack laughed despite himself. "Yes, it will be. Murphy is pure, solid gold. I know you prefer silver, but don't sell or trade my goalie now."

"Oh, I think I'll abstain from any roster moves without consulting you from here on out, Jack. I hired you for your coaching skill and knowledge of the game and league, not for your good looks."

The two men laughed. Then Junior offered to buy Jack lunch and Jack headed off to grab a shower.

.

[legendsport]

December 11, 1935: Chicago, IL:

Dan Barrell was tinkering with the radiator in the living room when the doorbell rang.

Gladys' head popped into view from the kitchen. "Can you get that before the noise wakes up Mikey?" she asked.

Dan stood up and dusted his hands on his pants. He nodded at his wife and walked into the entry way. He peered through the sidelight and was briefly taken aback, then swung the door open.

"Bobby? What in the world are you doing here?" he asked.

"Ain't you glad to see me, Dan?" his brother asked with a wide grin.

"Well... sure, but I thought you were back home."

Bobby shrugged. "Sure, I was home. But I had something I wanted to do here in Chicago, and now that you've moved here..." he trailed off and looked... sheepish? Dan couldn't rememeber the last time Bobby looked sheepish. Probably not since he and Harry had been up to some shenanigans back on the farm and were trying to avoid Alice's temper.

"Can I come in?" he asked.

Dan snapped out of his reverie. Shaking his head, he stood back and said, "Yeah, come on in. Gladys is in the kitchen and Mikey's upstairs asleep."

Bobby came in, shivering. "Lord it is cold here," he said.

Dan chuckled and nodded. "That it is. Welcome to Chicago, Bob," he said with a light chuckle.

Dan and Gladys had just moved here after the Kings' season had ended in September.

"Speaking of which, how are you liking it here?" Bobby asked.

Dan shrugged and lowered his voice. "Oh, it's fine. Gladys wanted to be closer to her family, and it really doesn't matter where I live when it's the offseason, you know," Bobby nodded - he did know. "And we got a good deal too," he added with a smirk.

Indeed they had, having purchased the house from Jack. Jack had kept it after he moved back to Toronto, renting it out in his absence. He was glad to have Danny take it off his hands though, noting that he wasn't much of a real estate mogul, no matter how much advice Rollie gave him.

Gladys appeared in the hall. She was now visibly pregnant, a change from the last time Bobby had seen her, back in New York when they'd dinner while his Keystones were in town to play the Gothams in August.

"Why Bob! This is certainly a surprise," she said and came over. Bobby pecked her on the cheek and grabbed her hands. "Everything going well?" he asked.

Gladys nodded and gushed, "Oh yes, everything's just peachy. Although I can't wait to meet this little guy, or gal."

"Hopefully a girl this time," Dan said with a twinkle in his eye.

"Bah, either one is fine, so long as the baby's healthy," Gladys said.

Then she narrowed her eyes and gave Bobby a penetrating look. "So... you're here because of that girl, aren't you?" she asked.

Bobby's eyes popped wide-open. Dan's too.

"Oh, close your mouths you two. You look like fish," Gladys said. "You can't show up here and think you're going to sneak one past me, Bobby Barrell."

"Uh, I guess not," Bobby said, that sheepish look back on his face.

"What on earth are you talking about?" Danny asked his wife.

She shook her head at him. "You have eyes, don't you? Haven't you seen the way he looks at... what's her name again?" she asked Bobby.

"Uh... Annette," Bobby said in a near whisper. "Annette O'Boyle."

Danny's face was screwed up in confusion for a moment longer then his eyes widened and he asked, "Isn't that the girl that Betsy ran against?"

"Yes," Gladys said.

Dan looked alarmed. "Uh, Bob. Have you uh, talked to Tommy lately?" he asked.

Now Bobby looked confused. "No. I thought he stayed in Brooklyn. Something about getting flying lessons for James or some such."

Dan nodded. "Yes, that's true. He did stay in Brooklyn. For a while." He paused and then added, "Until Claudia ran him off. She's not really a fan of the idea of James learning to be a pilot."

Bobby shook his head, still confused. "So?"

Dan clamped a hand on Bobby's shoulder, "Tommy's here. In Chicago."

Bobby was still plainly confused, "Here? Why?"

A look of realization crossed her face and Gladys shook her head. "For the same reason as you are, apparently."

Dan nodded sadly. Bobby closed his eyes and sighed. "Oh brother," he said.

"Yes, literally," Gladys said.

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

An hour later, Bobby Barrell was walking across the campus of Whitney College, a piece of paper in hand.

He stopped, confused. There were a lot of buildings here and they all looked the same. Bobby thought it was probably a good thing he skipped college. It was easier hitting 35 homers for the Keystones than slogging through some boring class for a semester. And it was so dang cold here. The wind never stopped blowing. Why on earth would anyone go to school here?

A co-ed stopped next to him. She eyed him for a second and he looked up. She was cute and looking at him like she knew him somehow. But he was a man on a mission. He never thought he'd have his own brother as a rival for the affections of a girl, but brother or not, Bobby Barrell wasn't going down without a fight.

"You need some help?" the girl asked.

"Uh, yeah, I guess so," Bobby admitted. He showed the paper to the girl. "I'm looking for Grover Hall."

"Oh, I can show you," the girl said brightly. "I live there myself. Are you visiting someone?" she asked.

"Yes indeed," Bobby said with a smile.

The girl's smile dimmed a bit, but she gamely stuck out a hand and said, "I'm Lucy," she said, then quickly added, "Lucy Traynor," as Bobby shook her hand, doing his best to go lightly at it. Years of swinging bats had given him a grip that could probably break every bone in the girl's hand. She was on the smallish side, with bright green eyes and auburn hair pinned neatly under a hat. Bobby had no idea what kind of hat (women's fashion wasn't something he thought about much). It was boxy, but it looked good on her.

"I'm Bobby," he said, and then taking his cue from her, added, "Bobby Barrell."

"Bobby Barrell you say?" she asked, and gave a small nod, as if to herself.

"Uh, yep, that's what I said."

"The baseball player?"

Now Bobby got it and he grinned despite himself. He still wasn't completely used to people knowing who he was - outside of Philadelphia at least.

"Yes, that's me," he said, trying to sound humble.

"Wow," she said and stared open-mouthed. "Do you know that you're my favorite ballplayer?"

"What? You're joking," he said.

She had a serious look on her face. "No, not at all. I'm not a Chicago girl, you know," she said proudly.

"Oh no?" Bobby asked.

"No, I am from Frankford." This too was said proudly.

Bobby decided to have a little fun with her. "Really? That's in Philadelphia, isn't it?"

Lucy gave him a skeptical look. "Yes, it's in Philadelphia. You've been playing for the Keystones for five years, you should know where Frankford is," she said, her hands on her hips.

Bobby laughed at the serious look on her face, "Oh, I know where it is. I have an apartment on Frankford Avenue."

She slapped his arm playfully, "You were putting me on! That's not nice," she scolded, but there was a happy light in her eyes.

"I've been to so many games. I meant it when I said you're my favorite. Better than that old Rankin Kellogg. He never smiles, you know," she said.

"Oh Rank's ok. He's just real business-like, I guess you'd say." Then he quickly added, "And he's not that old."

"He looks like a sourpuss, and he's over thirty," she said firmly.

"Sourpuss or not, that fellow can flat-out hit," Bobby pointed out.

"That's true," Lucy offered in return. "But you did hit 33 home runs this year and..."

Bobby cut her off, saying, "And Rankin hit 45."

She shook her head at him and then eyed the piece of paper Bobby held in his hand. "Say, don't you have someone to meet over at Grover Hall?"

Bobby crumpled the paper. "I'd say I have met someone from Grover Hall, and I'm enjoying her company quite a bit."

Lucy beamed at him and blushed. Bobby thought she was about the cutest thing he'd ever seen. "How about you and me go find some lunch?" he asked and stuck out an arm.

She hooked her arm through his and said, "I have a class in an hour, so no dawdling, Mr. Pro Baseball Player."

"I'll do my best," Bobby said with a smile.

"So... what kind of hat is that?" he asked as they turned around and headed off-campus.

.

[legendsport]

December 27, 1935: Egypt, GA:

"What are we going to do about this, Rufus?" Alice Barrell asked her husband as she climbed into bed.

"Hmm..." Rufus replied, head bowed over a pile of papers as he reclined on the bed.

Now that Christmas Day had come and gone, Rufus was poring over the recent FABL draft. This had become something of a routine for him: he looked at who was chosen by whom and mentally compared this to the "mock draft" his staff had begun working up. He wasn't sure if the FABL GMs even bothered to look at this, and he himself only had peripheral input into the mock itself (he believed in the "too many cooks in the kitchen" theory of spoiling things so stayed hands-off... mostly). But it was an interesting mental exercise. Especially when your grandson had been the first overall pick.

"Can't argue with the first couple of picks," he murmured, thinking that Deuce and Red Johnson were clearly the cream of the crop. "Oww!" he shouted a moment later. Alice had slapped him - hard - on the shoulder.

"What was that for?" he asked, rubbing his shoulder.

Alice stuck a finger in his face. "We need to talk about this thing with Tom and Bob and you've got your head stuck in.... whatever that is!" she exclaimed, waving her hand at the mess of paper.

"They're prospect reports," Rufus said.

"We have two of our sons not speaking to each other and you're looking at prospects reports." She paused and glared at him. "In late December."

"Well.... yes," Rufus said sheepishly.

"Put that mess away and talk with me, Rufus," she insisted.

Rufus sighed heavily and began to neatly pile up the various pages. Truth be told, he wasn't really aware of any problems between Tom and Bobby. But he couldn't admit that to his wife. Well he could, but he didn't want to deal with the heavy consequences of such an admission.

"Okay," he said mulishly, "let's talk."

"Don't pout," Alice replied.

"I'm not," he said, defensively.

"You were," she said then held up a hand. "Not important," she added and then asked, "You are aware of the problem?"

Oof. Rufus hated lying to Alice. Time to fess up. "Actually... no," he admitted.

She shook her head. "You can still be such a rube sometimes..."

"That's not fair. We have a big family... you can't expect me to be up on everything."

The head shaking continued. "Maybe not, but you should be able to observe when two of your sons... who normally get on pretty well... are pointedly ignoring each other," she said. "Except for the occasional glare, that is."

Rufus spread his hands. "And why are they... I don't know... not talking?"

"I wasn't sure myself, not at first. Then Betsy clued me in."

"And...?" Rufus asked.

"It's a girl. Annette O'Boyle to be exact," Alice said.

Rufus racked his brains - and came up empty. "Who?" he finally asked.

Exasperated, Alice blurted out, "You can tell me the entire starting lineup of some team no one's heard of, but you can't remember people you've actually seen."

As Rufus opened his mouth, she added, "Unless they're ballplayers, of course."

Rufus took a deep breath. "So tell me who this girl is, then, since I'm so absentminded."

"She's one of Betsy's competitors in the sprints. Runs for Whitney College?" Rufus still looked blank. She huffed out a frustrated breath and added, "We saw her last year? She finished second to Betsy in the 100?"

Rufus had a vague memory of an attractive young woman that Betsy seemed to dislike, so he nodded and said, "Okay."

"Well apparently both Tom and Bobby took a liking to her. Both actually went to Chicago to see her."

"And now they're fighting over her?" Rufus asked.

Alice shook her head and a mildly bemused look crossed her face. "No," she said, "actually Bobby met another girl there and never even saw Annette."

Now Rufus looked confused. "So? What's the problem?"

"Well... apparently when Tommy went to see her, Annette told him that she was interested in Bobby, not him."

"Ohhh..." Rufus said.

Alice nodded and said, "And so Tommy is angry with Bobby for, as he put it, 'stealing his girl' and Bobby's angry at Tom for accusing him of something he says he didn't do."

"I don't see the problem," Rufus said.

"The problem, Rufus, is that Tom is still emotional about the way the season ended and having this girl he likes snub him for his brother, particularly when that brother says he's no longer interested, is tearing Tommy apart."

Rufus shrugged. "He's a grown man. He should just deal with it. Every pitcher gets his block knocked off sometimes, and lord knows that boy has had plenty of luck with women."

This was all true, Alice admitted to herself. But it didn't solve the problem and she told Rufus so.

"I don't see what you want me to do about it," Rufus told her.

"Talk to Tommy and explain what you just said."

So the next day, Rufus did. Tommy didn't take it well. For one thing, he scoffed at Rufus' advice on getting past the brutal end to the '35 season. "You never pitched in a FABL game, so what do you know?" he snapped at his father. Rufus' feelings were hurt by this, but he tried not to show it.

"So talk to Danny Goff then. He'll tell you the same thing," Rufus pointed out. "You need to put that stuff behind you and move on," he snapped, showing anger for the first time.

Tom wore a sulky look but after a moment, he nodded.

"And this thing with Bobby and that girl..." Rufus began.

Tom raised a hand. "I don't want any advice on women, Pop," he said and turned his back.

Rufus shook his head and replied, "Well that was blunt. But want it or not, you're going to get it. Bob did nothing wrong. From what he told me, he met this girl and yes, they seemed to hit it off, but when he was in Chicago he didn't even see her. He found someone else. He's not a competitor for this girl. Either give it up, or keep trying, but stop blaming Bobby for something he didn't do." As Rufus finished speaking, Tommy turned and looked his father in the eye.

"Yeah, that's right," Rufus continued. "You don't have to give up. But don't be pushy. Sometimes, it takes time, and effort" Rufus said with a smile. "I learned that a long time ago with a girl who at first wouldn't give me the time of day."

"Uh huh, sure," Tommy said, clearly not believing it. "You wooed this girl... and won her over?" he asked with a mocking smile.

Rufus slapped him on the shoulder. "I sure did. You even know her... you call her Mom," he said and laughed.

.

[legendsport]

March 3, 1936: Bradenton, FL:

"I wish I could say something poetic," Deuce Barrell heard, as he stood outside the Baltimore Cannons' minor league spring training site, with his back turned to it as he gazed across the road.

Deuce turned and looked at the fellow standing next to him.

He turned back to look across the road once again then asked, "How's that?"

"It's just, I don't know, ironic or something... we're on this side of the road and the place we want to get to... is just... right over there," the other fellow said.

'Over there' was the big league camp.

Deuce stood silently for another moment, then he turned his gaze to the young man who'd been speaking to him.

"I suppose you're right," Deuce said. "I'm not much for poetry myself, but... yeah, I guess someone who was could up with something witty to say."

The other guy stuck out a hand. "I'm Clay Bomgardner," he said.

"Rufus Barrell, but everyone calls me Deuce," was the reply. Deuce shook Clay's hand.

"We're both number one picks, did you know that?" Bomgardner asked with a twinkle in his eye.

Deuce smirked and remarked, "Oh? How's that? No offense, but I've never heard of you, Clay," he said.

Clay laughed. "Well... to be clear, you were the first pick of the first round. Me, I was the first pick of the 20th round."

Deuce joined in the laughter. "You got me there," he said.

The smile on Clay's face faded, just a bit, and he said, "I thought I should introduce myself. I'm figuring on being your catcher."

Deuce raised an eyebrow. "Is that so?" he asked.

"Well, sure. Someone has to do it. I figure we're both going to Burlington anyway, and I don't know about you, but I'm not planning on sitting on the bench all season long."

Deuce frowned. Burlington was the Class C affiliate of the Cannons. Deuce knew only two things about Burlington: it was in Iowa, and he didn't want to play there. "I'm gunning for Erie," he told Clay.

Clay whistled. "Double-A? You're setting your sights pretty high, my friend," he said good-naturedly.

Deuce shrugged. "Maybe so. But I'm hoping the Cannons fast-track me. I mean, a team that won 55 games last year needs all the help it can get, right?"

Clay looked skeptical as he replied, "True. And I've heard that left arm of yours is magical, but that's Merlin-level wizardry to go from high school to FABL in anything under two or three years."

"We'll just see, won't we?" Deuce shot back with a smirk. Then he added, "Shouldn't you be kinder to me, seeing as you're hoping to be my catcher?"

Clay barked a short laugh. "Sure, but I wouldn't be doing my job if I didn't try to keep you grounded. Pitchers being somewhat flighty, in my experience."

"Oh... flighty is it? What about catchers and all that tools of ignorance stuff?"

Clay waved a hand. "That's just people talking. People who don't know anything."

A car pulled into the dusty lot and a tall, good-looking guy jumped out. He started walking towards the gate, then eyed Deuce and Clay and stopped. He stared for a moment, then sauntered over, looking cocksure.

"You're Barrell, right?" he asked.

Deuce frowned at him, thinking he looked familiar somehow. "Sure, that's me," he said.

"You don't remember me, I guess. It's been a couple years and you were just a kid," the guy said, then added, "Well... you still are a kid, but that's neither here nor there."

Deuce's frown deepened as he bristled at being called a 'kid' so he said, "No, I don't remember you, so you must not have made a big impression."

The guy laughed. "OK, fair enough, Mr. Number One Pick." He stepped up and shot out his right hand. "I'm Gus Goulding."

Now Deuce did remember. This was the guy who'd dated his aunt... and cheated on her. His face darkened. His size wasn't the only thing he'd inherited as Joe Barrell's son. He didn't bother shaking hands.

Goulding held out his hand for another moment then dropped it, looking disappointed. "Well, I guess you remember me now."

"Yep," was all Deuce said in reply.

"Look, I figure you're sore about Betsy, and you have every right to be, but look... we're likely going to be team mates someday, if you're as good as I've heard. So... I thought we might want to start from square one." He paused a moment, looked over at Clay, who was staring with his mouth open, and then finished, "After all, I didn't do anything to you, personally, right?"

Deuce's brows were still knitted as he continued to glare. Then he seemed to relax - just a bit - and he nodded. "I suppose you're right." He stuck out his hand and Goulding smiled and shook it.

"Well, I'm here to pick up my stuff," Goulding said, "And head over there," he pointed his chin across the street. "See you fellows... someday," he finished and headed through the gate.

Deuce's scowl returned. "I'm not sure I'm ever going to like that guy," he told Clay.

Clay just shook his head and frowned. "Pitchers," he said. Deuce turned to him, still glaring.

"Just sayin'," Clay told him. Then he slapped him on the shoulder and he too headed towards the gate.

Deuce paused a moment, then called out, "Hey! Bomgardner, who's this Merlin guy? He a pitcher too?"

.

[legendsport]

July 4, 1936: Cranston, RI:

"Good luck, Betsy."

Betsy Barrell heard the well-wishes, and she'd heard many of them already. She automatically began to thank the woman who'd said it this time, turning as she did, and saw it was Annette O'Boyle. So it came out something like, "Thaaa....nks, Annette. You too!" The last tacked on with as much fake enthusiasm as she could muster.

For her part, as usual, Annette was the very definition of confidence. Betsy couldn't wait to wipe that smirk off her face. Of course, after that they would in all likelihood be team mates, so she'd need to amend her thinking. But until the end of this, the United States Olympic Trials, were over, Annette was an opponent - and an annoying one at that.

"I don't suppose your brothers are here," Annette asked, her gaze straying into the stands.

"Sure, some of them are," Betsy replied, knowing full well which brothers Annette had meant - and also full well that those brothers were not there - it being not only baseball season, but Independence Day as well. Both Tommy and the Kings and Bobby and the Keystones were playing double-headers.

Annette brightened briefly, then saw the smirk on Betsy's face. "Oh... stop," she said. "I know they're playing today," she said.

"Then why'd you ask?" Betsy snapped.

Instead of answering, Annette put a finger on her chin as if thinking and said, almost as if talking to herself, "I suppose it must be the older brothers... Jack and... Roland is it? Too bad they're married." Then she looked Betsy in the eye and added, "I wonder if they're both..." a pause, "happily married." She put particular emphasis on the word 'happily.'

Betsy's teeth were practically grinding and if looks could kill....

"Ah... I'm just trying to get your goat. I need every edge when it comes to racing you, Barrell," Annette said, smiling sweetly.

So, now it was 'Barrell' Betsy thought. The gloves were definitely off. "Tell me something, Annette," she said matter-of-factly.

"I suppose that would depend on what you ask," Annette replied. She wasn't going to make it easy - and that was no surprise.

"Why are you doing this?"

"What... running track? Because I'm good at it," Annette replied.

Betsy's temper flared. "No... not that. Why are you toying with Tom's emotions?"

Annette smirked again and she said, innocently, "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"You know all too well what I mean. If you're interested in him, then say so. Don't torture him for your own amusement."

Annette put a thoughtful look on her face, one that Betsy was sure was a put-on. "I'm not torturing him. I told him I'd prefer to date Bobby. He didn't take it well, but he sends me flowers and telegrams and when the Kings are in Chicago he shows up at my doorstep with more flowers. He even brought me candy until I told him I don't eat that stuff. I'm in training after all."

"And you've never told him straight out to just stop. You know Bobby's not interested in you," Betsy said, a note of satisfaction in the last sentence.

Annette frowned now and she said, "Yes, he told me so. He's dating that ditzy Lucy Traynor. I can hardly stand seeing her around campus, let alone listening to her when I see her in Grover Hall." She pitched her voice high and said, "Oh, Bobby is soooo sweet, and soooo handsome." Her voice returned to its normal timbre, leavened by a good dose of hostility as she finished, "I'd like to throttle her."

Betsy raised her eyebrows at this outburst. "I'd say it's to Bobby's benefit to be with her and not you," she pointed out and then said, "And as far as my brother Tommy goes... show him some respect. I've never seen him so... over the top about anyone." This last was more for Tom's benefit as it galled her to say anything even peripherally nice about Annette, particularly to her face. "He's a good man and lord knows what he sees in you, but please, stop tormenting him. Either tell him to go away for good, or give him a real chance."

Annette's face softened a bit - but just a bit. "Oh, all right," she snapped. "He does deserve some credit for his persistence. Maybe I'll let him take me out the next time he's in Chicago."

"Thank you," Betsy said.

"They're in town this coming week. I believe Tom should be pitching against the Cougars on Thursday..." Annette said. Then she waggled her fingers at Betsy, whose mouth had dropped open, and she walked away.

Betsy stared after her a moment, wondering if all of this was truly just to throw her off-balance. Maybe she needed to rethink her assessment of Annette O'Boyle.

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

As Betsy had said, her baseball playing brothers Dan, Tom, Fred, Bobby and Harry were not on hand. And as Annette had guessed Jack and Rollie were there, as well as their parents. Gloria and Deuce were in also in attendance - Deuce only because he'd suffered a season-ending shoulder injury at Burlington in May and was done for the season and like his sister staying with his grandparents for the summer. He'd had surgery and his arm was in a sling as he sat beside his grandfather who was, as usual, giving him advice on pitching. Advice to which Deuce was barely listening.

When the meet started, all eyes turned to the track here at the home stadium of the Ellery College Bruins. Betsy was competing in both the 100 meters and the discus. Annette, who Rufus kept an eye on, knowing how much Tom seemed to care for her, was also in the 100 and was in the high jump as well.

"That Annette is a fine-looking young lady," Rufus told his wife. Alice gave him an icy stare. He shrugged and told her, "She is. Giving me the evil eye ain't gonna change that fact, either." Alice huffed out a frustrated breath and turned her eyes back to the track.

It turned out to be a long but very rewarding day for the Barrells. Betsy won easily in the heats, the semis and the final of the 100 meters. Her time of 11.7 seconds in the finals was an American record and nearly a half-second better than Annette's 12.1. The four-woman relay, announced at the end of the meet was Betsy, Annette, Lottie Dotson (who was third) and the 1928 Gold medalist in the 100, Lizzie Williams, who finished fifth but raised eyebrows by even competing at all after nearly being killed in a plane crash in 1932.

Betsy also won the discus while Annette won the high jump. And to round it off, Betsy won the shot put as well, though this was not an Olympic event for women, but was part of the program as the Trials doubled as the National Amateur Union championships.

As his daughter hugged - surprisingly - Annette O'Boyle after the 100 meter final, Rufus turned to Alice and said, "Looks like we're going to Germany."

.

[legendsport]

July 15, 1936: Lakehurst, NJ:

The six of them stood in a line, looking out at the gigantic airship. Rufus looked at Rollie and asked, for about the twentieth time, "You sure about this, Rollie?"

Rollie shook his head and replied, "Pop, this thing's been going back and forth for months. It's luxurious and safe and best of all, fast. We'll be in Frankfurt in two days. We'll a whole week more in Germany than if we went by sea."

"And no seasickness," Alice Barrell pointed out sourly. She had bad memories of the crossing to - and back from - France for the '24 Olympics.

Rufus still had his doubts. After what happened to Joe... still, this wasn't an airplane.

James Slocum clearly had no reservations of his own. Rufus' grandson was nearly bouncing off the walls of the terminal as they waited for boarding. Claudia had already scolded her son several times, but the 16-year-old's enthusiasm simply couldn't be dampened.

He rattled off everything he knew about the Hindenburg. "It's 803.8 feet long, and the diameter is 135.1 feet. It has a gas capacity of over seven million cubic feet of hydrogen," he told his mother for what must have been the fiftieth time. She shook her head. If it weren't for the speed of the crossing and her desire to see her homeland again, she would have had them sail to Germany. But Rollie had generously purchased four tickets for the July 15th flight, and he'd done so before the Olympic Trials, so certain had he been that Betsy would make the Olympic team. His original hope was for Rufus & Alice to accompany him and Francie, but Rufus was not willing to do so. They'd be going by ship, despite Alice's problems with seasickness.

"You do know the Nazis financed this thing," Francie Barrell told her nephew. She, like Rufus, was uncertain about the trip but in her case it was not because she felt the airship was unsafe (as Rollie had said, it had made many crossings without incident). Her issues were political in nature. She felt the Nazis were nothing short of evil and that they'd end up causing another war in Europe. Rollie admitted he had no fondness for Hitler and his fellow Nazis, but the Olympics were apolitical by design. And flying to Europe this way was so.... exciting.

Francie had given Rollie more than a little grief about this trip - the cost alone ($400 per ticket, one-way) was extravagant. They'd be sailing back to the States after the Games, which was less than half the cost. But even she had to admit, seeing James' excitement, that it might well end up being well worth the cost.

Rufus and Alice would be leaving Philadelphia the next day for a ten-day crossing by sea. Betsy, along with the rest of the U.S. Olympic team, had left New York earlier that day on the SS Manhattan. That was the entirety of the Barrell contingent for these Olympics. With five sons playing baseball and Jack busy moving his family to Detroit (Marie and the girls had stayed in Toronto for the 1935-36 season), no one else was able to attend.

With a series of hugs and back-slapping, Rufus and Alice said goodbye to Rollie, Francie, Claudia and James and watched as they joined the group of about fifty people walking across the tarmac towards the gigantic airship. Rufus eyed the tail, with the Nazi flag on both the upper and lower fins, a swastika inside a white circle on a blood-red field. The airship was certainly impressive he thought, and the Nazis made sure everyone knew who'd built her...

James continued to be a bundle of nervous energy as they approached the airship. Some of the crew waited on the ground. They were generally formal and stoic, though one was taken aback when James greeted him in clear, precise German.

Once aboard, the passengers were guided to the promenade deck where slanted windows, open to the air at the top, let them gaze out into the night as the airship finished preparations and drifted upward. James was surprised at the silence of the ascent. Searchlights on the bottom of the airship shone brightly down on the field. Somewhere down there, James knew his grandparents were among those waving. He waved back, just in case they could tell it was him.

"4300 miles to Germany," James told his uncle. Rollie smiled and got a bit choked up as he looked at his nephew's excited face; at 16, James was the spitting image of Jimmy Barrell at that age - the age at which he'd convinced Rollie to go racing on the beaches of Florida. Jimmy had been Rollie's favorite brother (something he'd never admitted to no one) and he knew his brother would be just as excited about this as his son clearly was.

The airship rose and headed north-northeast, where it would pass over New York City before heading out over the North Atlantic. James, who had gleaned as much information about the airship's operations and planned flight path as was humanly possible, was explaining to his uncle about the engines ("they hang off the airframe on their own gondolas!") when a reporter sidled up beside Rollie and and didn't let James' glare stop him from asking Rollie about football of all things. James knew football was his uncle's business, but this was July and they were on an airship bound for Germany for cripes' sake.

Disappointed, James turned to look for his mother. Claudia had a bit of a fear of heights. She had seated herself at a table against the wall about as far from the windows as it was possible to get without leaving the promenade. She was speaking with one of the cabin crew. James made his way over to her.

"This is my son, James," Claudia said to the young man. She was speaking German.

"Are you certain you wouldn't rather speak English, Mrs. Slocum," the crewman replied in English.

"I appreciate the offer and your English is excellent, but it's been so long since I've spoken our native tongue," she replied, still in German. James smiled and said, "Aside from teaching me, that's true," he said.

James, Claudia and the crewman chatted for only a few moments, but it was long enough for James to make an impression. He mentioned his interest in aviation and asked pointed, and well-considered questions about Hindenburg. The young man, impressed, told him he'd see if he could arrange a tour of some of the airship's non-public areas. "Captain Lehmann is usually happy to oblige," he told them.

They watched the brightly lit city of New York pass below them; some of the taller buildings as they crossed over lower Manhattan seemed almost close enough to touch. A few minutes later, James looked down on Brooklyn and thought he spied Kings County Stadium in the distance, though he wasn't completely certain as it was dark and the ballpark was not lit up.

When land had slipped behind them and the searchlights made white circles on the waves of the Atlantic far below, Claudia took her son's arm and dragged him off to their cabin. "Time for you to go to bed, young man," she told him. He asked why they left their shoes outside the door. Claudia shrugged and said that's what passengers on ships did, and the custom must have carried over.

The next day, as the ship passed only four or five hundred feet above the Atlantic, they were served a breakfast of fruit, sausages, jam, toast and coffee. Rollie remarked at how smooth the flight was, chuckling that his mother would certainly have enjoyed this more than she was going to enjoy the crossing by ship. James was explaining why the airship flew so low (better for navigation and avoiding potential storms) when the young crewman from the night before stopped at their table and told them that the captain had offered to give James a tour of the airship.

"I have heard you speak German, young man," the Captain said, meeting James in the corridor outside the promenade deck after breakfast.

"Yes, sir, my mother is German," James explained, adding that she had taught him the language and they still practiced several times a week. "I think she hopes for me to become a diplomat," he explained.

"A fine career," Captain Lehmann replied. James then had to explain that what he wanted was to become a pilot, or maybe a baseball player.

"Baseball? I don't know much about that," the captain said with a smile. "Aviation? Now that is a career of which I obviously approve," he said and laughed.

"I think I read somewhere that you flew zeppelins in the war and dropped bombs on London," James said.

The captain's smile faded a bit, but for just a moment. Then it returned and he laughed and said, "That was a long time ago, young man."

"My father was a pilot in the war. He was shot down and captured. That's how he met my mother," James said and then explained how his father was with the 94th Aero Squadron in France and had been shot down, badly injured and his mother, a young nurse, had fallen for him while he recuperated in a prisoner-of-war hospital. When the captain asked about his father, James explained that he'd died while racing an automobile months before James himself had been born. The captain nodded somberly and clapped James on the back. "And now you wish to be a pilot, to follow in your father's footsteps?"

"Yes, exactly," James said with a sad smile.

"Very good. Let me show you how this lighter-than-air airship operates, then," the captain said and took James on a tour. "Did you know we have had several of your United States Navy's officers on board taking the same tour I am about to give you, and observing our flight observations. Perhaps you can fly a zeppelin yourself in the service of your country as I have." Captain Lehamann grasped James by the shoulder and said, "Let us begin..."

They walked a thin catwalk to the rear of the airship, its fabric skin just below their feet as they headed towards the enormous tail fin, the sixteen giant bags of hydrogen filling the immense space above them. Captain Lehmann told James that the gas inside those bags was so inflammable that a mere spark could cause the whole craft to explode and that was why the smoking room on board was hermetically sealed, and also why they took great pains to avoid thunderstorms in flight. Lehmann pointed out the girders and beams and thick cables which gave the airship its shape and held everything together. Around the catwalk were tanks holding diesel fuel for the engines, water tanks, food bays and holds for both the passengers' luggage and vast amounts of mail. Lehmann pointed out that the carrying of the mail was a little-heralded but key part of the airship's mission.

They went into the control cabin, under the belly of the ship and Lehmann showed James both the rudderman's station where the ship was steered and the elevator station where it's pitch was maintained. "We try to keep it within five degrees of level," he explained. "At eight, glasses and plates would slide off tables, and we can't have that, now can we?"

The view from the control gondola was spectacular, a near 360-degree expanse of ocean, and the giant body of the airship above and around them. James saw the shadow of Hindeburg passing across the waves far below. In the distance he even saw a steamship. The captain pointed out that they were currently following the route typically used by steam ships traveling between the U.S. and Europe. James saw the apparatus that maintained the ballast and managed the gas, which had to be bled off for landing. The captain also explained that if they were to fly through a rain storm, the ship would capture as much water as possible, so they could vent less gas when landing. "The gas is expensive," he explained, "so if we can keep as much of it on board as possible, it saves money."

The weather charts, the navigator's station and more were shown to James. He asked about visiting the engine gondolas. The captain shook his head. "I don't think so, James," he said. He explained that the gondolas were reached by ladder and the high winds caused by the ship's motion through the air, could tear a man off the ladder where he would fall into the ocean far below. Crewmen did go out to the gondolas, and one was on station in each all throughout the flight, but they were trained on how to traverse the retractable ladders over open space. "It's simply too dangerous," he finished.

James thanked the captain for the tour and spent the rest of the day going over it with both his aunt and uncle and his mother. To their credit, they listened patiently, though James suspected only Rollie was genuinely interested.

The rest of the trip over the ocean was nice, though somewhat monotonous for James, coming on the heels of that tour. They played cards, chatted with some of the other passengers, and there was even a grand piano that Aunt Francie played on the second night, to applause from the other passengers. James hadn't known she could play. Uncle Rollie watched her with a great big smile on his face.

Finally, the coast of Europe was sighted. James knew, because the captain had told him, that they would pass over the English Channel because France refused to let the airship cross its airspace. As they did cross over the Channel, he looked first out at the French coastline, then went to the other side of the ship and looked at England. Eventually, they turned right, heading southeast, and began to follow the Rhine River into Germany.

Just under sixty-one hours after leaving Lakehurst, the Hindenburg slowed and began descending, landing with virtually no forward motion at all and the softest of touch downs on the field at Frankfurt.

James held his mother by the hand as they descended the steps and he saw that there was the glistening of a single tear in her eye as she set foot on German soil for the first time since she'd left almost eighteen years earlier.

.

[legendsport]

August 3, 1936: Berlin, Germany:

It had been unreal... or maybe surreal was a better term, Rollie Barrell thought as he, his wife, Claudia and James, and Rufus and Alice made their way into the gigantic Olympic Stadium in Berlin.

Though Rufus and Alice had arrived 10 full days after the others, joining them in Hamburg on the 26th of July, they had been together for nearly a week, the last five days of that in Berlin itself. None of them had ever seen anything like it. And that included Claudia, who had been born and raised in Germany under the Kaiserreich. This new "Third Reich" of Hitler and the Nazis was something for which none of them could have been prepared.

Though there had been plenty of talk over the past months about the possibility of the Americans boycotting the Berlin Games due to the Nazis mistreatment of Jews, that had not come to pass. And, surprisingly (or not if you were blessed with a healthy dose of skepticism as Rollie was), there was absolutely no sign of anti-Semitism to be found anywhere in the various cities they had visited on their circuitous route to the German capital.

Their trip had begun in Frankfurt, which happened to be the location where Claudia had served as a nurse in a hospital for prisoners-of-war... and where she had met Jimmy Barrell. The building was still in use as a hospital. Claudia had cried as they stood outside looking at the brick building where she had spent the most difficult two years of her life. James had given her a hug, his own emotions a confusing stew as he saw the place where his father had been taken after being shot down and seriously injured back in 1918.

From there, Rollie had offered to visit Bad Hersfeld, where Claudia had been born and raised. But her entire family was dead, her father and brother killed in the war, her mother an indirect casualty as well, who probably died from a broken heart; all of them gone before the madness ended in November 1918. Instead the group went first to Coblenz, then Cologne, Dusseldorf and Dortmund before finally going to Hamburg to meet Rufus and Alice. In several places, Claudia had been asked, in a vexed tone why her blond-haired, blue-eyed son wasn't wearing the brown uniform of the Hitler Youth. "Because's he's American, not German!" she had invariably shot back.

Of those brown-shirted youths (and their adult counterparts) there was no shortage in any of the cities they visited. The swastika was prominently displayed everywhere. In general the people they met, when they realized that the group was American were overbearingly nice (which didn't always happen right away since at first blush Claudia both looked and spoke like a German - for obvious reasons - and James did as well). Claudia eventually figured out that the government had put out a nationwide demand that until the Olympics ended the German people were to be unfailingly kind and friendly to all visitors. Rollie, for his part, admired the slickness of the propaganda machine, while at the same time despising the regime that had conceived it and which it was promoting.

Eventually, they reached Berlin, where the propaganda machine was in full voice. Every street was lined with swastika flags, with an occasional Olympic flag thrown in for good measure. They were in the stadium on August 1st for the "opening ceremony" of the Games, one of several innovations the Nazis had added to the program. The ceremony included having all the teams march into the stadium in a "parade of nations" and also included the culmination of a Nazi innovation called the "torch relay" - a torch manufactured of Krupp steel, lit in Olympia, Greece and hand-carried by a series of runners through several nations, with the last runner entering the stadium along a route lined hundreds deep by Hitler Youth to finally light a cauldron at one end of the massive Olympic Stadium, filled with 105,000 spectators, the vast majority of whom spent the bulk of the ceremony on their feet with their right arms extended in what had been known in previous Olympic games as the "Roman salute" but had since been co-opted first by Mussolini in Italy and then the Nazis in Germany as a fascist salute.

On the night of the first of August, they'd met up with Betsy, whose experience mirrored their own. Being less suspicious than Rollie, Betsy found the Germans charming and the pomp and pageantry of the opening ceremony thrilling... right up to the moment when 20,000 pigeons were released into the air, and cannons boomed. The noise frightened the birds, who proceeded to drop a mess of guano, most of which landed on and around the American team. Betsy herself avoided being splattered, but Annette was not so lucky. Now Betsy - and Annette - were simply looking forward to competing. Her only comment aside from chiding Rollie for his smirking about the pigeons, was on the prevalence of Nazi symbology everywhere they looked - this even included signs with the Olympic rings grasped in the talons of a Nazi eagle. "And there are so many people in uniforms," she noted.

By the third, it fell to all the Barrells that it was well past time for the simple pleasure or rooting for a family member in an athletic event: the running of the women's 100 meters. There were to be six heats, with Betsy running in the first heat. Everyone was standing for the event, one thing that had become evident was that the majority of the time, the majority of the stadium would be on their feet. Rufus and Alice, both now in their late fifties, found this somewhat exhausting, but soldiered on.

"The one thing I can't get over is just the scale," Rollie said to his father. "I mean, this stadium is enormous for one thing, but the Nazis don't do anything by half-measures, do they?"

"No, they sure don't," Rufus replied.

Francie placed a hand on Rollie's arm and said, "You know I wanted to bring the girls with us," she paused and Rollie nodded, "But looking at this," she waved a hand around the stadium, "I think leaving them with Dick was the right call." Marty Barrell, 13 and Allie, 6, were staying with Francie's brother Dick York and his family in Detroit. Rollie sighed and nodded in agreement.

"I wish our seats were better. My eyes aren't what they used to be," Alice groused. And it was true, they were really far from the track. Rufus thought he recognized one of the specks warming up near the track as his daughter, but he couldn't be sure. Many of the teams were wearing white uniforms.

"You did bring your binoculars, didn't you?" Rollie asked his father.

Rufus' expression was so surprised it was nearly comical. "Why, yes! I did!" he exclaimed and reached under his seat. "I'd forgotten," he said, red-faced.

Alice shook her head, but privately wondered if Rufus was beginning to go senile. He'd always had a mind like a steel trap when it came to baseball... and it seemed to her he still did, but he had also always been somewhat absentminded about everything else too.

Rufus handed the binoculars to his wife, who peered down and verified that Betsy was there. "And there is that Annette O'Boyle," she said, the disapproval in her voice evident. Betsy had relayed Annette's promise to treat Tommy with more respect, but neither Rufus nor Alice had heard from Tom before leaving for Berlin, and didn't know if anything had changed on that front.

"From the way Tommy's been pitching, I don't think his infatuation with her is having much impact," Rufus told his wife. She sniffed in derision but didn't say anything further. And it was true - Tom was having arguably his best season ever. On the day they'd left for the Olympics, Tom was 15-5 with a 3.44 ERA and was leading the CA in strikeouts as well. He wasn't alone in starring for the Kings either, Harry was hitting .375, With Powell Slocum taking over as manager Danny was back at first base (with Frank Vance moving back to third) and was hitting .380 and Fred was at .319 - the Kings themselves were 55-29 and in first place.

Rufus let Alice keep the binoculars for the race. Betsy was in prime form; she ran an 11.4 to easily win her heat and advance. In heat four, Annette ran a 12.8 and also moved on to the semifinals. Also advancing was a Polish runner named Stefania Szymanska, who had been the cause of some controversy just prior to the games: there was a nasty rumor going around that she was, in fact, male. In the wake of the accusation, a Polish newspaper had suggested that Betsy herself might be a male too. Nothing came of it, and it didn't matter: Betsy had run against "Steff" in the U.S. several times, and always won. Aside from a briefly considered "examination" by German doctors prior to the race, which came to nothing, the whole thing had been a tempest in a teapot.

In the first of two semifinals, Betsy would be racing against two of three Germans to have advanced out of the heats, while in the second, Annette would be facing both Szymanska and the other German. With Alice yelling herself hoarse, in the course of just over 11 seconds, Betsy won her heat with a time of 11.5; the Germans finished 11.9 and 12.2 for second and third, to be the first three runners to make the final. In the second semifinal, Annette finished third, barely beating a British runner to take the last spot in the final with a time of 12.1, behind the German competitor and Szymanska who finished in a dead heat just ahead of her with identical 12.0 times, though the photo finish gave the edge to the German.

That set up a Final in which the field was comprised of two Americans, three Germans and a lone Pole. With Alice again cheering so loudly that some of the Germans around her began staring, Betsy led wire-to-wire and won with an 11.5 mark, two-tenths ahead of Szymanska with the fastest of the German trio, Elizabeta Warner, taking bronze at 11.9. Annette O'Boyle finished fifth with a time of 12.2.

Rufus stood, hand over heart and tears in his eyes, during the medal ceremony as his daughter received her gold medal. Rollie, standing beside his father, also hand over heart, couldn't help but notice the thousands of spectators who had their right arms straight out, even with an American standing atop the medal stand. Rollie could see Hitler's box across the way and his impression was that the German dictator had the entire country firmly in his hands. Surreal... and more than a little frightening.

Alice, complaining of a headache, rose to leave after the women's 100, with Rufus accompanying her. They would return the next day when Betsy would compete in the discus. Rollie, Francie, Claudia and James stayed to watch the men run. Rufus wanted to stay as well because one of the American runners was the older brother of a baseball prospect named Roosevelt Brewer about whom the OSA had issued a glowing report after the youngster's outstanding 1936 season as a high school junior. The elder Brewer, Marcus, was an electrifying runner and expected to challenge for at least a silver in the 200 meters. The favorite was his fellow American, Jack Powell who was generally considered the best athlete in the world and likely to put a finger in the eye of Hitler's "Aryan supremacy" schtick.


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Author's note: This post had a lot of exposition instead of my usual preference for dialogue-drive story. That was largely because of the size and scope of the topic (this post could have been much longer had I included everything I thought about including). The 1936 Olympics were in many ways both a gigantic propaganda exercise by Nazi Germany and also the first truly modern games in that the spectacle put on by Hitler's minions in the last Olympics before World War II became something of a blueprint for the postwar Games, and these elements persist to today. If you want more background on the Berlin Games, I heartily recommend this video on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d9whmFSYXps

For those who don't watch the video, a lot of the things mentioned in this post actually happened in Germany, including the incident with the pigeons and the artillery fire at the close of the opening ceremony.

And if you're wondering, 'Jack Powell' is indeed based on Jesse Owens, just as FABL's 'Roosevelt Brewer' is based (albeit much more loosely) on Jackie Robinson and Rosie's brother Marcus is based on Jackie's older brother Mack Robinson who won silver behind Owens in Berlin. In keeping with the fictional nature of Figment itself, I changed the names, but the heroic and historic accomplishments of Owens & Robinson at "Hitler's Olympics" represent something larger than sport.

.

[legendsport]

August 9, 1936: Berlin, Germany:

"It was just about the most ridiculous thing I've ever seen," Rollie was telling his father as they walked up the steps to their seats in the Olympic Stadium.

Rufus chuckled and shook his head. Even he, who didn't really know much about any sport aside from baseball, could see it was a bad idea.

"The key part of moving the ball is dribbling," Rollie was saying. Rufus turned to him with a skeptical look on his face. "Dribbling? Like drooling?" he asked.

Rollie paused a moment and then burst out laughing. "No, no, no," he sputtered. "Dribbling just means bouncing the ball on the court."

"Well, they should call it that then," Rufus said.

Rollie smirked and said, "Why do they call Harry's position shortstop, Pop?" he asked with a quirked eyebrow.

Rufus said, "Well..." and then stopped, a look of frustration crossing his face and said, "OK, I see your point." Then he added, "I still think calling it dribbling is nonsense."

Rollie steered the conversation back on topic: these Games were first the to include basketball in the competition. Some "wool-headed fool" as Rollie put it, had decided to try the game outdoors on courts that had originally been intended to be either lawn or dirt tennis courts. Rollie had watched a couple of the first round games - the United States had a bye and wouldn't compete til the second round. He'd seen Estonia defeat France 34-29 and Canada defeat Brazil 24-17. The first on dirt and the second on grass. The dirt court was better, but neither was as good as the polished hardwood courts on which the games were typically played.

Just behind Rufus and Rollie, Alice and Francie were having a conversation of their own.

"Betsy told me that when they were on the SS Manhattan, a reporter had approached her about this story about her actually being a man," Alice said, the anger evident on her face. "Betsy's figure isn't voluptuous by any means," Alice added, "but a man... the very nerve!"

Francie nodded in agreement. Alice continued, "So... Betsy said she was about to slap this reporter when Annette O'Boyle of all people, saunters up and asks this reporter if he thinks she's a man too."

Alice grinned - no one with eyes would mistake Annette for a male. She was... athletic, Rufus would say, but she had curves in the right places, is what Alice would have added. Francie laughed.

"The reporter was sputtering and Annette took Betsy by the arm and told him that Betsy was every bit as much a woman as she was." Alice stopped and grabbed Francie by the arm and then said, "And then she added that she knew this because they'd shared locker rooms many times over the past couple of years. Betsy said the fellow turned beet red and scampered off while Annette and Betsy started laughing."

Both Alice and Francie were laughing too. Francie said, "So maybe this Annette isn't the she-devil she's been made out to be."

Alice, still smiling, said, "Well, Betsy did tell me that the day after the hundred meter final, Annette convinced her to crash an international banquet. They met Goering, and he kissed their hands, which they thought was oh-so-gallant," Alice pursed her lips and finished, "So... Annette's not exactly a great influence suggesting stunts like that, but maybe not all bad after all."

Behind them, Claudia held James by the hand, despite his clear lack of enthusiasm for this. He was 16 years old and felt he was far too old to be holding his mother's hand. Claudia was angry and that was why she'd grasped her son's hand. Yet another woman had come up to her asking why her clearly Aryan son wasn't in the Hitler Youth. Claudia had told her that he was American, not German, and even if he had been, he was far too intelligent to ever get involved with "Hitler's gang of lawless ruffians" at which point the other woman stomped off, shaking her head and muttering about disrespectful foreigners. Claudia had laughed at this - born in Germany, she had come home after 17 years to find that she was now a "rude foreigner" to the people she'd left behind.

"Thank God your father rescued me from this... this..." she stammered at James then threw her left hand in the air and exclaimed, "Insanity!"

Down on the infield, Betsy Barrell was stretching with her relay team. The preliminary heats had been run the day before, with the U.S. quartet that included Annette O'Boyle running second and Betsy as the anchor, competing in the first heat and the favored Germans running in the second. This afforded the U.S. women the opportunity to see how the Germans ran. And what they saw was, frankly, quite impressive. The U.S. had run against Canada, the Netherlands and Austria in heat one, winning easily with a 47.1, almost a full second ahead of the Canadians. The Germans had likewise won their heat, but did it in a world-record time of 46.4 seconds with the British finishing second (47.5) and Italy third. Of the eight countries who ran, only two did not qualify for the final - the Austrians and the Finns.

"We really need to be perfect," Annette was telling Betsy as they watched the four Germans stretching nearby while also keeping a close eye on the American quartet. Betsy frowned, but she knew Annette was right. "Then perfection it is," she said. The lead leg for the Americans would be run by Lottie Dotson, who had only been able to get to Berlin through a fund-raising campaign after being told the U.S. Olympic Team couldn't afford to bring her along. And the third runner was Lizzie Williams, who had been a prodigy at the '28 Games in Amsterdam where she'd won the 100 meters and took a silver as part of the 4x100 relay - all while being just 16 years old. Her promising career had been derailed when she'd been in a plane crash a year before the '32 Games in Los Angeles. But despite life-threatening injuries that left her unable to kneel for a sprint start, she had fought back to earn an invite to the '36 Games as part of the relay where she could run without the kneeling start.

The runners took their places, staggered along the track, with Betsy in the final slot. She looked up into the stands, but had no idea where her family was sitting. One box she could find easily enough was the one that held the Nazi bigwigs. Hitler was there, sitting beside the propaganda minister Goebbels. She had seen Goering earlier too, a hard-to-miss large man in a voluminous white suit. Hitler, as usual, was wearing a uniform. She frowned for a second, then took a few deep breaths, trying to calm her nerves, which were running riot. "Calm down, it's only the biggest relay you'll ever run," she told herself. The anchor of the Canadian team, just a lane away, but further back because of the stagger, gave her a friendly smile and Betsy returned it with a nod and muttered "Good luck."

At the gun, she turned and watched as Lottie ran the first leg. As expected, the German woman got out to a lead, but Lottie seemed to be holding in second, just ahead of the British and Canadian runners. The handoffs to the second runners went smoothly and she watched Annette's long-strides as she pushed hard, but the Germans still held a clear lead. The baton was passed to the third leg, and Betsy tensed herself, getting ready to start the run for her own transfer from Lizzie Williams. The Germans, one lane inside Betsy, botched their handoff just as Lizzie slapped the baton into Betsy's palm.

Betsy didn't realize this at the time focused as she was on getting a clean pass from Lizzie; she only really noticed that the German anchor had slowed as she blew past her. Now in the lead, all Betsy needed to do was run her hardest. She did so, crossing the finish line to claim the gold medal with a time of 46.9. The British took the silver and Canada the bronze. The Germans had disqualified themselves by dropping the baton during the final handoff. Italy finished fourth and the Dutch fifth.

The crowd in the giant stadium visibly deflated - no one expected the German relay to do anything other than win the gold. It was quiet enough that Betsy thought she could actually make out her mother yelling from across a great distance. Or maybe, she wondered, it was just her mind playing tricks on her. Either way, she was soon swamped by her relay team and the four of them celebrated their victory, exchanging congratulations with the Brits and Canadian teams as well.

After the medal ceremony Betsy was sitting on the infield grass and talking with Jack Powell, who had already claimed three gold medals, having won the 100 and 200 meters and the long jump. He and his relay mates would be competing in the men's 4x100 shortly. Powell was relating how he had struck up an unlikely friendship with the German competitor in the long jump, who took the silver (with a Japanese athlete claiming bronze). Powell was opining that you could find good in any people when an Olympic official walked up to them.

"Miss Barrell? The Fuhrer would like to congratulate you personally on your victories," the man said in perfectly clear, though German-accented English.

Powell looked at her and raised his eyebrows. He'd already noted that Hitler had not personally congratulated him on any of his three golds.

Betsy looked at the official, then turned to Powell and asked, "You think I should go, Jack?"

The official bristled at this, but kept his silence. Powell grinned and said, "Shoot, why not? I suppose meeting Hitler's kind of like meeting the President or something."

Betsy clapped him on the shoulder. "Well, if I don't make it back before the race, good luck," she said.

Powell nodded his thanks as Betsy rose and followed the man. They went into one of the tunnels and eventually, up some stairs and into a private reception room behind Hitler's box. Betsy was surprised when she finally saw Hitler up close. For one thing he was surprisingly short, about her height, though he had boots on that boosted him a bit while she only had her tennis shoes. The official remained to act as translator. Hitler gave her a firm Nazi salute, to which Betsy, unsure, reacted by thrusting out her right hand for a handshake. Hitler did shake her hand, then barked some German that the official translated as congratulations on her victories. He added that Hitler said she was a fine example of an Aryan young woman and that he wished she were German. She watched as Hitler signed an autograph and handed it to her. Betsy, uncomfortable with all this, muttered a thank you. A flash-bulb went off as a young photographer took a shot of her standing beside Hitler. The German dictator turned and, his face red, berated the photographer at length, and then two uniformed guards clubbed the man with truncheons.

Hitler apologized to Betsy for the unauthorized photograph, his flash of temper gone in an instant. Discretion being the better part of valor, Betsy thanked him again, this time noting that she knew how busy he must be and that she felt she shouldn't take up any more of his time. To her vast relief, Hitler accepted this at face value, not recognizing that she simply wanted to get out of there.

As she walked back out into the open air, she reflected on overall Olympic experience: two gold medals, a thrashing in the discus (she'd finished ninth), crashed a party and met Goering, and then gotten to meet Hitler and receive his autograph (and witness him berate some poor kid photographer who'd also gotten a couple of lumps on his head for his trouble). She'd also made a new, thoroughly unexpected friend in Annette O'Boyle, and gotten to watch Jack Powell prove the Nazis' race theories a bunch of hoakum. All-in-all a once-in-a-lifetime experience. Unless... maybe she could come back for the '40 Olympics in Tokyo.


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Here's a link to a video showing basketball at the '36 Games - on an outdoor, dirt court: https://olympics.com/en/video/berlin-1936-basketball

[legendsport]

August 29, 1936: Philadelphia, PA:

Rufus Barrell was seated in the front row, just behind the home dugout at Broad Street Park. Not for the first time, he was reflecting on how nice it was to have friends in high places. He'd taken the train up from DC, ostensibly to watch his son play, but really to meet this girl who had bowled that same son over. A quick phone call to Keystones owner Ed Meachum and he had two first-row tickets. No need to bother Bobby, who easily could have gotten him tickets - Rufus just went straight to the man in charge.

"Here you are, miss," Rufus heard, drawing his attention away from the field, where he had been watching some of the players warming up. Turning his head he got his first glimpse of Miss Lucy Traynor.

He caught her in an unguarded moment, her face turned to the usher, thanking him for his help. She had auburn hair and lively green eyes and was wearing a dress that was a near-perfect match for the blue in the Keystones' uniform.

Rufus was now standing and smiled as she turned and saw him. "Mr. Barrell?" she asked, a note of shyness in her voice.

"That's what they tell me," Rufus said with a laugh. "Please, call me Rufus," he added.

"I'm Lucy," she said and stuck out her hand. Rufus shook her hand then sat down as she took her seat beside him. "These are really fine seats," she said with a note of wonderment.

Rufus chuckled and admitted that he'd called the team's owner. Her eyes widened and she mentioned that she'd been to many games that summer, sometimes using tickets Bobby procured for her. "But they're never this good," she explained, putting specific emphasis on the last two words.

That comment sparked a conversation about Bobby's season. While the Keystones themselves were limping through the Federal Association schedule in seventh place with a 52-74 record ahead of only the dismal Detroit Dynamos, Bobby Barrell was having himself a year. He'd already belted 44 home runs, had put together a 35-game hitting streak that'd ended just the week before and was hitting over .350 - a truly career year. For the first time, Keystone fans were openly saying that Bobby Barrell just might be better than long-time favorite Rankin Kellogg (who was himself having a typically productive year).

"But the pitching..." Lucy said and rolled her eyes. Rufus smiled; he could see why Bobby liked this young lady so much.

"I know what you mean," Rufus said, shaking his head. "Frank Crawford is a good pitcher, but even he's been bad this season," he said.

"Bobby said you know more about baseball than anyone," Lucy told him, that twinkle back in her eye.

Rufus shook his head and said, "Well, that's probably an exaggeration, but the sport of baseball has been my business for... oh, over forty-five years..." he paused, eyes wide. "Holy smokes, I'm getting old," he groaned.

Lucy patted his arm and said, "Oh, I think you look fine, Mr. Barrell."

He laughed, "I definitely see why Bobby likes you, my dear," he said.

As the game began, Rufus found himself explaining some of the nuances of the game to his young companion. "See how Gentry's fingers twitch?" he pointed out. Lucy nodded and he went on to explain that the young Gothams pitcher, just 23 and a rookie, twitched that way when he was going to throw a fastball. "That's a tell, if the hitter's observant enough to pick up on it."

"I bet Bobby does," Lucy said, with a note of pride in her voice.

Rufus grinned. "Yes, he probably will. If he hasn't noticed, you can bet Rankin Kellogg has and those two are thick as thieves," Rufus explained.

Lucy frowned and said, "That I know is true - Bobby's always defending that old grump to me."

Rufus raised his eyebrows and asked, "Old Grump? Rankin Kellogg's a lot of things, but he's not grumpy."

Lucy waved a hand. "He never acknowledges the fans and always has a scowl on his face," she explained.

"He's just serious about the game. For a player like him, this is more than a game." Rufus tapped his chin with a finger as he thought and then added, "It's a vocation, you might say."

Lucy's mouth had thinned into a line. She said, "Well, Bobby at least looks like he's having fun. And he's good to the fans, too."

Rufus agreed and said so, explaining, "Bobby was a fun-loving kid. Between him and Harry..." he shook his head. "They drove their mother crazy. I wasn't home a lot of the time, and those two were a real handful." He chuckled a little and then added, "But they're good men, both of them, and you're right - they love to play the game, and so it stays a game for them. That's a big deal, because for a lot of players, this becomes more work than fun, and that's just a plain shame."

When Bobby came up in the third with two on and one out, tipping his cap at his father and girlfriend as he left the dugout, he promptly smashed a three-run homer to erase what had been a 2-0 lead for New York.

Lucy clapped her hands and told Rufus, "You were right! Bobby did see that pitch coming!"

Rufus inclined his head in acknowledgement and joined her in applauding as Bobby trotted around the bases.

Bobby added a solo homer in the fifth, his 46th on the season, but by that point the Gothams had added five runs to their tally and the homer only served to cut New York's lead to 7-5.

Lucy was telling Rufus that she had twice gone to Sailors games to see Bobby's brothers play with the Kings. "I really like Harry," she said. "He plays hard, and he's a great shortstop too."

"That he is," Rufus said. "Harry's always been the most athletic of my boys, and that's saying something. He doesn't hit for power, but he's what those of us in the scouting game would call a 'toolsy' player."

Rufus had to explain what that meant. Then he asked, "Have you seen Tom pitch?"

"Yes," Lucy said, and reluctantly added, "he's a grumpy Gus too." She paused, making sure Rufus wasn't offended. "Sorry," she added. Rufus burst out laughing and told her that his sons fell into just a few different personality types. Bobby, Harry and the late Jimmy, were fun-loving and competitive, but in a good-natured way. Then there was the more level-headed type, a group into which Dan, Fred and Rollie fell. Then, Rufus said, there were the "Reid types" as he put it. His wife's side of the family, he explained. "Don't ever tell her I said this, or she'll skin me alive," he said with a grin. "But Tom fits that type, as did my son Joe and, to a lesser extent, Jack too." They'd just as soon scrap as play and took every defeat as a personal affront and both motivation and something to be avenged. "So Tom is oftentimes too competitive for his own good," Rufus explained.

"That's why I was so glad that Bobby dropped his pursuit of Annette," Rufus added, as an afterthought.

Lucy was taken aback. "Annette?" she asked.

Rufus, watching Don Attaway throw a 2-1 curve to Bud Jameson, nodded absently and said, "Yes, Annette O'Boyle. She had both Tom and Bobby chasing after her."

"So... that's who he was there to see..." Lucy muttered. "I'll gut her like a fish," she growled.

That got Rufus' attention. He turned to her and quietly said, "I beg your pardon, but did you just say you'd gut her like a fish?"

Lucy's eyes were nearly glowing and her pretty features was twisted in a frightening rictus. "That's right," she snarled. "Bobby is my man," she said, and Rufus saw her hands were clenched into fists.

His eyes widened as he wondered what had come over her. "Bobby never mentioned her?" Rufus asked.

"No, he most certainly did not."

Rufus took a deep breath. "Well, he's not interested in her anymore," he said, then regretted adding that last word. Lucy's green eyes flashed again - causing Rufus to think "Green-eyed monster indeed" and she snarled, "He'd better not be interested in her."

"He's not. And she told my daughter in Berlin that she's giving Tommy a chance," he explained, wisely deciding not to mention that she had also told Betsy that she was more interested in Bob than Tom.

"Just wait til I see her at school..." Lucy said, her voice dripping with menace.

Rufus swallowed. He knew that Lucy was heading back to Chicago the next day to be there for the start of the fall semester at Whitney College. He racked his brain a moment, thinking... was Annette done with school? He vaguely half-remembered Alice telling Francie exactly that in Berlin... and he hoped for her sake that she was done.

The Keystones ended up losing in 10 innings as Wilbur Dennis got torched for five runs and the Keystones managed to plate just one of their own in the home half.

Rufus found himself dreading dinner - he was taking Bobby and Lucy out - at least as much for seeing Bobby's reaction to his father letting that particular cat out of the bag as seeing what Lucy would say about it herself.

"Sometimes I have a big mouth," he muttered as he tromped up the aisle towards the exit, Lucy stomping up the steps just ahead of him, clearly still angry.

.