The Ballad of the Brothers Barrell - A Figment Story - Page 18

legendsport · 10-29-2023, 07:08 AM

Quote:

Originally Posted by Eugene Church

Man, I don't have time to read this... but I think I will just have to... it is brilliantly written.

I just looked at it today for the first time and you got me on the first page.

Superb work, legendsport.

Thanks Eugene! That's high praise coming from you - much appreciated!

legendsport · 10-29-2023, 11:21 AM

December 16, 1948: Statesboro, GA:

Rollie Barrell took a seat across from his parents' attorney. Leland Wells, attorney-at-law, could have been out of central casting for the role of a Southern lawyer. Clad in a white seersucker suit and donning horn-rimmed glasses, Wells exhibited a distinctive blend of gentility and eccentricity. Despite being in his late sixties, he exuded an air of vitality.

For his part, Wells was sitting behind his desk and giving Rollie a practiced appraisal.

"I extend my deepest sympathies for your loss... both your losses... Mr. Barrell," Wells spoke in a honeyed tone, the kind that likely appealed to judges and juries.

"Thank you, Mr. Wells," Rollie replied smoothly, adding, "Please, call me Rollie."

Wells nodded. "Thank you, Rollie." A faint, almost amused hint curved the right corner of his mouth. Then, his smile broadened. "I presume you're here about the farm?"

Rollie inclined his head in confirmation.

"I knew your grandfather," Wells interjected, taking Rollie by surprise with the shift in conversation. A wider grin remained on Wells' face. "John Barrell was quite the character," he continued, maintaining that glint of amusement. "A man of intense passions, possessing a strong moral compass, and a bit of a daredevil, if only verbally, generally-speaking. Your grandmother, well, she supposedly had her hands full reining in old John."

"My father mentioned something of the sort to my brother Joe years ago," Rollie responded. He recounted an instance when Rufus had opened up about his parents and brother Robert, sharing details he typically avoided. Rufus had likened John Barrell to their brother Jimmy - a resemblance in both character and demeanor.

"That's consistent with my own memories and my father's accounts of Johnny," Wells explained. "Let me share some family history with you, if I may?"

Rollie was genuinely curious, having received little about his father's family from Rufus.

"John Barrell was the youngest of Ezekial Barrell's three sons. Ezekial was an obstinate and often cruel man, the owner of a thousand acres of farmland and roughly fifty slaves. John's eldest brother, Phillip, emulated their father. But Robert, the middle son, shielded Johnny from both their father and Phil as much as possible."

"When the war emerged, Zeke recruited locals and marched off to join Bobby Lee in Virginia, taking Phil and Bob along, leaving Johnny, who was underage, at home. It was anticipated that Johnny would join the Confederacy should the war protract."

"Pop mentioned my grandfather serving but surrendering to the first Union soldiers he encountered," Rollie remarked.

Wells wore a solemn expression as he nodded in agreement. "That's the account I've heard too."

"Of the three Barrells who fought with Lee, only Phil survived the war. Bob perished at Antietam, and Zeke fell at Gettysburg. Phil was present at Lee's surrender at Appomattox Court House. He returned home to a thousand-acre farm bereft of workers. Johnny surrendered to Sherman's troops and only came back to the farm in August of '65."

Rollie's expression turned resolute. "Let me guess, his brother didn't exactly welcome him back," he said.

"Indeed," Wells confirmed. "However, Zeke had left a will, granting Johnny a hundred acres, carved from the corner of the property. A hundred acres was insufficient to constitute a full farm, but that's all Johnny had. To his credit, he made do with it. He married your grandmother, had two sons, and though the Reconstruction era was trying, Johnny's unwavering sense of justice and guilt regarding slavery kept him going."

"And what became of Phillip?" Rollie inquired, discovering an entirely new chapter of Rufus' family history.

"Well, Phillip faced difficulties with the Federal soldiers who arrived in Georgia post-war. He was compelled to sell off his nine hundred acres, bit by bit, until it was entirely owned by a certain Thomas Patterson from Indiana. Losing his land to a northerner was a bitter pill for Phil, but he had no choice. Phil never married, and his subsequent whereabouts have remained a mystery. Rumors circulated that he migrated west, but no one knows for certain. Johnny was indifferent and remained disinterested in Phil's fate."

"Why, that's just terrible," Rollie said softy, thinking about how tight-knit the family was now.

"Indeed," Wells concurred. "Rufus was aware of all this, I'm certain, and that's why he eventually bought the Patterson land."

"But," Rollie interjected, recalling his family's discussions about acquiring the Patterson's land, "I remember Possum and even my mother insisting that my father buy the Patterson land, and he refused."

"Because Tom Patterson's son, residing in Indiana, demanded a substantial price," Wells explained.

"Pop waited him out," Rollie deduced.

Wells tapped the tip of his nose. "Exactly. Rufus knew the land lay idle, but Patterson had to pay taxes on it. So, Rufus waited until the old man found it unaffordable and then bought it from him for a reasonable sum," Wells remarked, smiling. "I should know; I negotiated the sale."

"Which brings us to the matter at hand," Rollie pointed out. "My father owned a thousand acres of land, of which ninety percent lay unused, unbeknownst to any of his children."

Wells maintained a solemn expression. "For your father, that land held two significant meanings: firstly, it was Barrell land and his by birthright. His grandfather had owned it and his uncle had lost it through his own cupidity and arrogance. The second reason came later, and you can probably guess what it is, having read your mother's will."

Rollie took a deep breath before speaking. He said, "I appreciate your candor, Mr. Wells. My father never told any of us anything about this. I suppose my mother knew - Pop had a hard time keeping secrets in general, and no ability at all in keeping them from my mother."

Wells smiled and bobbed his head in agreement.

"And I gather the land rightfully goes to the person designated in the will, but..." Rollie trailed off, unable to articulate all the queries brewing in his mind.

Wells sported a sympathetic expression. "Your father, according to your grandfather, bore an uncanny resemblance to his Johnny's much-adored brother Bob. Bob Barrell was fair, kind, somewhat of an idealist, but fundamentally a good man. Your grandfather personally shared this with me. I'm unsure whether Johnny ever mentioned it to Rufus, or that Johnny had intended to name his first son Robert. Your grandmother, whose red-headed father was named Rufus - Latin for red-haired - insisted her son be named after her father, despite having jet-black hair. The second son, therefore, bore the name of Johnny's cherished older brother. Johnny himself shared many traits with Bob, but was more inclined to test boundaries and made remarks and decisions that unsettled many. Your grandmother, quite rightly in my opinion, feared that certain actions of Johnny could incur the wrath of segregationists."

"Segregationists?" Rollie inquired.

"Absolutely. Your grandfather harbored no secret of his desire for equality. In certain areas, even today, there remain people firmly opposed to such notions. You're familiar with the fire, but what you might not know is that many, including me, speculated that it was purposely ignited to silence your grandfather forever."

Rollie's eyes widened as the pieces of the puzzle began to fit together. "My god," he whispered.

Wells sighed and said, "There was no proof of course, and the sheriff was not of a mind to look too hard, either."

"As for your father, I believe he returned to prove that the Barrells couldn't be ousted from their land, even by resorting to deadly measures."

Rollie sat in stunned silence, absorbing the unsettling possibility that his grandparents might have been victims of foul play.

Wells frowned momentarily before resuming, "I met your brother Jimmy only once, if I recall correctly," mentioning that Rollie, Jack, and Joe had all been present during that period.

Rollie nodded, recalling a younger Wells's visit to the farm, around the onset of or possibly during the First World War. At that time, he had no inkling - until now - about the attorney's conversation with Rufus. He conveyed this to Wells, who smiled in reminiscence.

"Yes, your father was acquiring the remainder of the old Barrell land."

Rollie's memory triggered recollections of hiding their "racing car" on the Patterson property. The car was probably still there when Rufus had purchased the land - land that had belonged to his grandfather.

"A thousand acres is an extensive expanse," Rollie remarked.

"Indeed, it is," Wells agreed. "There's also the car, of course," he added.

Rollie's eyes widened again in surprise. "Car? What car?"

"The Buick D-55, naturally," Wells mentioned.

Rollie grinned. "The car is still there?"

"No, it's in storage in Savannah, but it is included in the farm's property," Wells said.

Rollie was still smiling as he thought about the Buick. "That vehicle sure caused quite a stir. But Jimmy adored that car."

"Yes. As I remember, and again, you were all young at the time, but Jimmy was the very essence of his grandfather. Your father knew it," Wells remarked.

"And that's why I'm here," Rollie noted. "I suppose all of this is legally sound, right?"

Wells nodded. "Indeed. Your father was relatively renowned, as you're aware. He even smoothed things over with the governor."

"The governor?" Rollie asked.

"Yes. The state of Georgia had to be informed, and they're going to assist."

"Assist with what?" Rollie queried, thoroughly perplexed.

"Assist with the construction of access roads, among other things," Wells stated.

Rollie was now entirely bewildered. None of these details were in the will.

"It's all delineated in this letter," Wells revealed, displaying an envelope. Rollie recognized his father's handwriting on it, labeled "For James."

"Clearly, we'll need to bring my nephew here," Rollie acknowledged. Wells simply nodded, saying, "Absolutely."

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legendsport · 11-02-2023, 09:22 AM

December 21, 1948: Statesboro, GA

"I don't understand this," James Slocum said, shaking his head in disbelief.

Rollie Barrell could relate as he didn't quite understand it all either. And James still hadn't opened the letter, which, according to Leland Wells, explained everything. Rollie's curiosity was killing him.

It had taken days to get James to Georgia. For one thing, James now lived in North Carolina, but the biggest factor was that his wife Rose was nearly six months pregnant and had been advised by her doctor not to travel. James didn't want to leave Rose's side, and it took a lot of convincing on Rollie's part to get his nephew to make the trip to Georgia.

"The letter explains it all," Mr. Wells said genially.

James looked at the envelope in his hand, frowning. "This explains everything?" he asked, waving the letter to punctuate his words. "How can it?" he asked without waiting for a reply to his first question. "My grandparents are both dead, and apparently they decided to leave me 1000 acres of Georgia farmland...." James' voice trailed off.

Rollie didn't know the answer to the big, unasked question: why? Leland Wells might know, but he insisted on James reading the letter.

"Your grandfather was the one who left the land to you, James," Wells said. "Your grandmother told me that she didn't know about this either, not until after Rufus had passed."

James's frown deepened. "I didn't think Grandad kept secrets from Grandma," he said. Rollie nodded - he didn't think Rufus capable of keeping a secret.

"I'm not sure I'd call it a secret," Wells explained gently. "Alice knew about the land... she simply didn't know that Rufus had it in mind to give it all to you," he continued.

"Mom probably thought it would be split among the children," Rollie opined. Wells nodded in agreement.

Rollie pointedly looked at the envelope in James's hand. "Well, are you going to open it?" he asked.

James took a deep breath and, using a letter opener Wells had placed on the desk, he opened the envelope.

Dear James,

By now, you know that I've left the entire Barrell farm, all 1000 acres of it, to you. What I'm certain you don't know is why I've done that.

The single-most devastating loss in my life, greater than losing my career, or my parents and brother, was the death of your father. I heard from many people, from my wife, to my children, to folks who knew the family, that Jimmy was "different" than the other Barrell boys. That was certainly true. What no one really knew was how much Jimmy was like his grandfather - my father, John Barrell. Ironically, we named Jack after my father, but Jimmy was the one who ended up being like my Pa.

The bigger tragedy is that you and your sister never got to meet your father. Jimmy always went his own way, marched to the beat of his own drummer, or whatever other cliches people use for things like that. He had a very strong moral compass and a singular focus. My father - in my own youth - was much the same way. My mother, and I don't necessarily hold it against her, worked very hard to "tame" my Pa, and though it worked, it left him a quiet and reserved person, which was the antithesis of the firebrand I knew as a boy.

Jimmy was the same. My other sons all had a "type" - Joe, Jack, Danny, and Bobby were/are tough and physical, but not what you'd call deep thinkers. Rollie, and maybe this is why he and Jimmy got along so well, is whip-smart, but he is a pragmatist who adapts to the world rather than trying to shape it. To some extent, Fred is the same way. Tom is pragmatic as well, but he is also moody and volatile - something of a mix of Jack and Rollie. And Harry, well, he's unique. I think he has a bit of the idealist in him, but he hides it, or maybe expresses it (I'm never sure) through his playful, humorous nature. Betsy, being the only girl, has always reminded me of her mother; I'm not sure if that's because she's like her, or I'm just blinded by being a man (which is exactly how your grandmother would state it - or she'd simply call me a rube, haha).

All of this brings me back to you. Your father dying in that race... well, it killed a part of me and your grandmother. But for you and Agnes, it deprived you of ever knowing your father. Aggie, she had the benefit of being raised by Jack, who is, in all the ways that matter, her father. And you had Powell. Powell is a fine man, faithful, hard-working, and salt of the earth despite being the most talented hitter I've ever seen. And he and your dear mother did an outstanding job raising you. But you missed out on the singular man that was your father.

So I gift you this land, the land that belonged to my own grandfather, who was a mean-spirited, bigoted, racist S.O.B. who - according to my father - left a wake of misery throughout his life. My father once told me that if he could find the Yankee soldier who put Ezekiel Barrell in the ground, he'd give him a medal. That was tough to hear for me, I tell you. My uncle Phillip was the same, but my other uncle, Robert, was a good man and my own dear brother was named for him, and of course your uncle Bobby was named for my brother. Sorry for the digression... it's a strange experience writing words you know won't be read until after your death and that of your wife. How long will I have been gone before you read this, I wonder? I hope it has been a long time, for the world will be a much less bright place without my dear Alice in it.

My father inherited 100 acres, and my uncle Phil sold off the rest before disappearing to God knows where. My father scraped hard throughout his life - 100 acres is what they call a subsistence farm. You can live on it, but you aren't going to make any headway in life. That was part of why I left - my brother would have been a much better farmer than I, and I perhaps, like my Pa, had some of that rebel, some of that desire to chase my dreams. Those dreams being baseball, of course.

Baseball gave me a lot, which is ironic given I never played a single inning of FABL baseball. But it allowed me to make enough money to restore my family's land in its entirety. If your father was still alive, he wouldn't want the farm, but I would have been inclined to give it to him anyway, as a kind of repayment to my father, who I can never repay. Now, with him gone too, I give it to you.

I am prouder of you than I can say. You were always a solid citizen, someone who does the right thing even when it isn't the easy thing. And though you look so much like your father, you are a more well-rounded man than he was, less of a tempest, but with the same moral compass, the same drive to do the right thing but tempered by forethought - Jimmy often leaped before he looked. You look before you leap, but if it's right, you leap anyway. Like him, you fought for your country, and I know the moral weight of dropping bombs on cities packed with civilians took a toll on you. Knowing that... is what made me decide to gift you this land. Do something good with it, and do it in honor of John Barrell, and Jimmy Barrell. And do it for me, and your own children and the generations to come.

1000 acres is a lot of land. With your current career, you could put a racetrack on it. You could build a ballpark, you could even farm it, haha!

I know you'll do the right thing. Because you're Jimmy Barrell's son but even more, because you're simply a good man.

With all my love and respect, your grandfather,
Rufus Barrell

James had tears running down his face when he finished reading. Silently, he handed the letter to Rollie, who read it and was also teary-eyed at the end.

Wells, who did know what was in the letter, said quietly, "Rufus told me that he considered splitting the land between James, Agnes, and Roger. He felt that Roger had gotten a bum deal too, but he also felt that Roger wouldn't have known what to do with the land. 'Roger's going to have a great baseball career, and it will keep him away from here too much. He also grew up outside the family, which isn't true of James, and so has no real sentimental ties to the farm.'"

Rollie shook his head. "I never knew Pop was so insightful. Mom did like to call him a rube, and I think he sometimes pretended to be a little dim-witted because it suited his purposes," he said.

Wells grinned and said, "That's true. Rufus Barrell was no fool. He didn't have much schooling, but he never stopped learning at the school of life, as they say."

James wiped his eyes. "What in the world am I going to do with 1000 acres of Georgia farmland?" he asked.

Rollie shrugged but then gave James a shrewd look. "You could do what Pop said: build a racetrack, or a ballpark. Or both, there's plenty of room."

"A racetrack? That's a thought, I suppose," James replied.

"You could farm it," Wells pointed out. Both James and Rollie looked at him for a moment, then looked at each other and started laughing.

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James Slocum, Statesboro, GA, 1948
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legendsport · 11-03-2023, 09:54 AM

January 28, 1949: Toronto, ON:

"This sucks," Freddy Barrell Jr. said. Fred had barely begun to turn to chastise his son when he heard the crack of his wife's palm slapping Junior in the face.

"Ow!" the 17-year-old shouted, rubbing his cheek. He glared at his brother Benny, who was smirking.

"Watch your mouth!" Tillie barked at her eldest child.

Fred grinned at his wife. "What?" she asked, in the same irked tone she'd used on their son.

"I'm impressed," Fred said. "You managed to slap Junior without waking the baby," he pointed out, nodding towards the sleeping seven-month-old Lorette Barrell cradled in her mother's right arm.

She scowled at Fred for a moment, and then let out a small chuckle. "I've learned to multitask with you away so much," she said, this time without the same heat in her words.

The family was looking at their new home. Fred had just been hired as manager of the Toronto Wolves, leaving his scouting job with the Dynamos. Managing had long been a dream for Fred, and though he'd turned down the opportunity to skipper the Cougars after the '47 season, this time the move felt right. Tillie had sarcastically remarked that she'd have hoped he could have found a job with a team in a more southerly climate, a joke that had a hint of truth to it, in Fred's opinion.

Junior, Benny, and Hobie were all in agreement with the sentiment Junior had just expressed. They didn't want to move and made no bones about expressing that sentiment. Leaving their friends behind, they were headed to new schools full of kids they didn't know.

Junior's budding high school sports career would take a left turn as he'd play his final years at Northern Secondary School instead of Pershing High in Detroit. There had been discussions (very brief discussions), sparked by Junior himself, of allowing Junior to live with Rollie so that he could continue at Pershing. The discussion was brief because Tillie wouldn't stand for it. "My son stays with me," she said firmly, which was fine with Fred, but much less so with Junior himself.

"You fellows will adjust," Fred told his sons. They all wore identical looks of disbelief and scorn.

The process of changing jobs had been a challenging one for Fred. Not only because it was a big change for him, but also because it was the first major decision he'd be undertaking without having his father around as a sounding board. Rufus knew virtually everyone in baseball, including the owner of the Wolves, Bernie Millard. Fred dearly wished he could have had Rufus' thoughts on the man who'd now be signing his checks. Powell Thompson was a pain in the neck, but he was a pain in the neck Fred knew how to deal with. As scouting director, he worked mostly for the GM in Detroit, with whom he enjoyed a good relationship. Rumor was that Millard was not above going around the GM to let the manager know what he felt, good, bad, or indifferent. That would be an unwelcome change for Fred.

His brother Dan had given Fred his impressions of Millard. Dan, after Rufus, was probably the member of the family most familiar with the overall landscape of FABL due to his role as the head of the OSA. Dan had said that Millard was "hard-headed, quick to anger, demanding, and a bit of a condescending prig. But you can handle him." When pressed on how, exactly, he might 'handle' the mercurial Millard, Dan had slapped Fred on the shoulder, grinned, and said, "You'll figure it out."

"Hey, look at the bright side," Fred told his sons.

"What bright side?" Benny asked, morosely.

"Well, we had Uncle Rollie and his family in Detroit," Fred said, continuing, "and here in Toronto, we'll have Uncle Jack and his family."

"Sure..." Junior pointed out. "Except that both Uncle Rollie and Uncle Jack only have daughters..."

"And they're all older than us too," Benny added.

"Well, Aggie is married to Quinton Pollack, that's great, isn't it Hobie?" Fred asked his youngest son, who had become a bit of a hockey fan.

"Sure, if I was a Dukes fan. I'm a Motors fan, Dad!" Hobie replied, the exasperated tone in his voice a near-perfect imitation of his mother.

Fred shook his head. "Well, we're living here now, so you're just going to have to get used to it," he said.

Tillie glared at each boy in turn. It worked only on Hobie. Junior and Ben were now old enough that they didn't quail in fear of Tillie. Fred was still a different matter, and he punctuated his wife's look by firmly saying, "No more complaining, or else."

The press conference announcing him as manager had gone well. Millard, who had by all accounts desperately wanted to hire Fred, had been friendly, warm, and enthusiastic, making Fred wonder if Dan had been pulling his leg.

That had lasted until after the press had left the room. Then Millard turned to Fred and said, "That went well."

Fred nodded pleasantly. Millard continued, "It's your job to make sure that the ballclub goes well. I want a winner, Barrell, and that's why I wanted you. Everyone says you Barrells have the magic touch. Your brother Jack won the Challenge Cup for Welcombe, I expect you to win the World Championship for me."

Fred was taken aback, and it showed.

Millard's glare faded, and he said, "Look, Fred. I expect results, and I don't beat around the bush. You're here to win. If you don't, you won't be here very long. I want to make that clear, and I know my delivery isn't particularly friendly, but I'm not your friend, I'm your boss." Then he patted Fred on the shoulder, spun on his heel, and stalked off.

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Fred Barrell at the 1949 Press Conference announcing him as Toronto Wolves manager
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legendsport · 12-27-2023, 03:23 PM

June 9, 1949: Charlotte, NC

On a balmy June day in 1949, the inaugural race of the National Automobile Racing Federation (NARF) commenced at a packed dirt track in Charlotte, North Carolina. The air was charged with anticipation as engines roared and the smell of burning rubber lingered in the atmosphere.

Among the racers stood James Slocum, a man torn between the thrill of the race and the weight of familial history in the sport. He felt a mix of excitement and trepidation as he strapped into the driver's seat of the number 11 Oldsmobile. James was not just any driver; he was the son-in-law of Jack Winfield, the man behind the creation of NARF. Racing ran in his blood, but so did the haunting memory of his late father, Jimmy Barrell, who had met his end on the racetrack years ago. His mother refused to attend, which stung. But Claudia Slocum had watched her husband perish in that fiery Indianapolis crash and could not bear the thought of watching her son tempt the same fate. She had telegraphed a simple message to her son from Birmingham, where she now lived with her retired second husband, baseball legend Powell Slocum. The telegram read simply, "Good Luck."

As the green flag waved, the cars burst into motion, hurtling around the oval track, kicking up clouds of dust in their wake. James pushed the accelerator, aiming to carve his path toward victory, carrying his father's legacy in each turn.

Starting from the 8th position, James swiftly maneuvered through the pack, showcasing his skill and experience gained from years in the Air Force. Lap after lap, he navigated the twists and turns, the Oldsmobile's engine roaring in harmony with his racing heart.

But on lap 195, just five laps short of the race's end, disaster struck. Amidst the chaos and fervor of the race, James's car lost traction in the corner. This was normal - part of the challenge of racing on dirt was handling the slide through the corners. But this time the Oldsmobile spun out of control, the crowd gasped in a mad mix of thrill and horror, and within seconds, the car collided with the track's barriers, sending a cascade of dirt and debris into the air.

Silence fell over the spectators as the dust settled. Concern etched on their faces as they watched the scene unfold. Several onlookers rushed to the crash site, their urgency palpable.

The Oldsmobile bore the brunt of the impact, its once proud frame now battered and crumpled. James emerged from the wreckage, shaken but thankfully unharmed. His dreams of triumph dashed, replaced by a mix of disappointment and relief that he emerged without injury.

Amongst the throng of people, Jack Winfield approached James, his face a blend of concern and paternal pride. "You're safe, son," Jack said, his voice a mix of relief and reassurance.

James nodded, acknowledging the comfort in Jack's words. "I'm sorry, Jack," he said, the weight of the moment heavy in his voice. "I thought I had it, but the car just got away from me."

Jack placed a reassuring hand on James's shoulder. "It happens, son. Racing's about risks and sometimes, things don't go as planned. What matters most is that you're okay." James nodded; his last thought before the car plowed into the makeshift barrier had been of Rosie and their son. The boy, born in March, had been named James Powell Slocum, Rosie having agreed with James' request to name the baby for both his birth father and the man who'd filled that role so capably throughout his life.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, marking the end of the race, James watched from the sidelines as the other cars thundered past the finish line. The number 11 Oldsmobile sat battered but served as a testament to his courage and determination on the track. His mechanic, Roscoe Little, had shook his head upon seeing the car. "Y'all need a new car," he'd said.

Despite the disappointment of finishing in 22nd place after starting strong, James held his head high, knowing that he'd lived through the adrenaline rush, the twists and turns, and the spirit of competition that defined his father's world.

As the crowd dispersed, James walked away from the wreckage, his mind already contemplating the next race, determined to honor his father's legacy, even if the road ahead held its own share of challenges.

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James Slocum before the June 9, 1949 race at Charlotte
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legendsport · 02-01-2024, 10:39 AM

December 4, 1949: Detroit, MI:

Rollie Barrell sat alone in his office at the Detroit Maroons' headquarters, stewing in frustration. The dimly lit room cast long shadows across the walls, mirroring the shadows of doubt that loomed over his mind. It was December 4, 1949, and the Maroons, the football team he owned, had started the season winless. Not just winless, but stuck in the quagmire of a 10-game losing streak that seemed insurmountable. And most of Rollie's ire was directed squarely at one man: Frank Yurik, the crusty curmudgeon who served as the team's minority owner and head coach.

Rollie's daughter Allie, his trusted advisor, had long defended Yurik, citing his deep roots in the community and his storied history with the club. She argued that Yurik's presence was a necessary evil, a link to the past that lent the Maroons a sense of continuity and tradition. But Rollie couldn't shake the feeling that there must be a way to oust Yurik, to usher in a new era of success for the struggling team.

As Rollie mulled over his options, a glimmer of hope pierced through the gloom, which complicated matters. The Maroons had finally clinched a victory, breaking their dismal losing streak with a resounding 24-7 win over the visiting Boston Americans at Thompson Field. Yurik, with his old-fashioned running offense, had finally found success, but Rollie couldn't help but feel that it was a fleeting moment of triumph in an otherwise bleak season.

The victory only served to highlight the shortcomings that Rollie saw in Yurik's coaching style. The Maroons needed to modernize, to adopt a more well-rounded offense that could adapt to the changing landscape of professional football. And Yurik's poor drafting decisions had left the team with a quarterback, Dutch Van Houten, whose skills were better suited to running than passing.

As Rollie weighed his options, a sense of unease settled over him. Should he go to the board and push for Yurik's ousting? It would mean buying out the coach's shares in the club, a move that could strain Rollie's already tenuous relationship with his fellow owners. Despite being the majority shareholder, with just over 50% of the stock, Rollie was wary of appearing to be a dictator.

Compounding that issue was that Rollie's preferred replacement for Yurik would be offensive assistant Tom Bowens. Bowens was a sharp man with a clear vision and experience playing with and later coaching a pass-first quarterback during his time with the Americans in Boston. Ironically, that quarterback was Del Thomas, who had just played against, and lost to Yurik's prehistoric offense. Bowens' credentials were not the issue. The issue was that Bowens also happened to be married to Rollie's sister. The stain of nepotism was one Rollie would prefer to avoid. Yet something needed to be done and Bowens was the obvious, and best, choice.

The decision weighed heavily on Rollie's shoulders as he sat alone in the quiet of his office. The game was long over and everyone had left except for the groundscrew working on the frozen grass field, always a challenge in a Detroit winter with the temperature in the high teens. The flickering light of the desk lamp cast a stark contrast to the darkness that enveloped him, mirroring the uncertainty that clouded his mind. In that moment, Rollie knew that the fate of the Detroit Maroons hung in the balance, and the choice he made would shape the future of the team for years to come.

As the clock ticked away the minutes, Rollie found himself teetering on the edge of a precipice, unsure of which path to take. Would he stay the course with Yurik, clinging to tradition and familiarity, or would he take a bold leap into the unknown, risking everything in pursuit of a brighter future for the Maroons?

Only time would tell. And for Rollie Barrell, time was running out.

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Detroit Maroons coach Frank Yurik in better times
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legendsport · 02-02-2024, 05:33 PM

December 12, 1949: Philadelphia, PA:

Annette Barrell stood in the kitchen of the home she shared with her husband, Bobby, and their two children, nine-year-old Ralph and six-year-old Bobby Jr., whom they called simply "Junior." She gazed out at the shed in the backyard, lost in thought and remembrance of what had transpired the previous night.

Bobby Barrell had long since established himself as a legend on the baseball diamond. He held the single-season home run record, was the second man to reach 600 home runs, had over 3500 hits, and was at or near the top of a slew of other hitting categories as well. The Philadelphia Keystones had made him the highest-paid player in history—his current salary higher than even the immortal Max Morris back in the latter's 1920s heyday. But Bobby had been in a funk for the past year. Sure, he'd "done his job," as he put it: the 1949 season had seen him hit .289 with 39 homers and 108 RBIs while eclipsing both the aforementioned 600 homer and 3500 hit thresholds. Yet he did it all under a self-inflicted cloud. He was 39 years old, and both his parents had died the previous year. Annette had been worried for a while before the events of the previous Friday.

The boys had come home from school, and Bobby had been puttering around the house. Then he'd disappeared.

"Ralphie, have you seen your father?" Annette had asked as she was finishing dinner.

"Nope, not since I got home from school," her son had replied. Junior had said much the same a moment earlier.

Frowning, Annette had looked out the same kitchen window at the shed. She grabbed her coat off the hook and quietly slipped out the back door of her home, her coat pulled tight around her. Stepping into the crisp air of the backyard, Annette slowly made her way to the shed. This small wooden shed was where Bobby often sought solace amidst the relics of his past. Through the frosted window pane, she glimpsed him, hunched over his worktable, a bat in hand and a weathered bone resting beside it. It was a ritual she had observed countless times, Bobby running the bone along the contours of his beloved bat, lost in thought.

That bat had been a gift from Bobby's father. Rufus had given it to him on the occasion of his first game in the FABL. Bobby had never used it in a game, it was simply too precious to him and he would be devastated if he ever broke it.

An Olympic athlete herself once upon a time, Annette was intimately familiar with the inner workings of an athlete's mind and understood the silent battles Bobby waged within himself. She knew that beneath the veneer of stoicism lay a heart heavy with the weight of impending decisions. Decisions that he probably should make in tandem with her, but she forced down any resentment about this and made a decision herself.

Returning to the warmth of the house, Annette knew she couldn't face this alone. She reached for the telephone, dialing the number engraved in her memory. Tom, Bobby's older brother and the manager of the Brooklyn Kings, was her lifeline in moments like these.

As Annette poured out her concerns to Tom, she felt a glimmer of hope stir within her. Tom's steady voice offered reassurance, a beacon of wisdom in the stormy sea of uncertainty. He promised to come, to lend his ear and his counsel to his troubled brother.

Days later, as the winter sun cast long shadows across the Barrell household, Tom and his wife Marla arrived, their presence a balm to soothe the ache in Annette's heart. Together, they sat with Bobby, sharing stories of triumph and tribulation, reminding him of the indomitable spirit that had carried him through the highs and lows of his career.

"Take it from me, Bob," Tom said in a soft tone that sounded strange to Annette's ear. Tom Barrell was not typically the quiet, stoic type. "You need to make the most of the time you have left," Tom continued.

Bobby looked into his brother's eyes. "You have regrets, Tommy?" he asked.

Tom looked at his wife for a moment, then nodded. "Sure. Sometimes," he said then frowned and added, "Hell, yes, I have regrets. My body broke down on me. You're heading to the Hall when you're done, you galoot, but you get to go out on your own terms."

A moment of quiet fell on the room. Tom teared up a bit. Bobby, seeing this, averted his gaze, but Marla placed her hand on her husband's and he spoke again, this time in a near-croak. "I'd give my left arm to be where you are, Bob. So would Harry, I'd wager, and he's had a fantastic career himself."

Bobby simply nodded, a weary look on his face. Tom took a deep breath and offered his final words. "Look, Bob, you do what you think is right. But when you walk away, it's forever. So if you have any love for it, any thought about how much you'll miss it, then you need to keep playing. The fans, your teammates... none of them really matter. You need to do what's right for you. That's how Pop would want it."

Bobby nodded again and wiped at his own eyes. Then he looked up at Tom and said, "Your left arm, you say?"

Tom grinned and said, "Of course. I'd need the right one to pitch, wouldn't I?"

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Annette Barrell at home, Winter 1949-50
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legendsport · 02-09-2024, 10:25 AM

December 31, 1949: Boston, MA

Sarah Barrell peered around the crowded ballroom. "I can't believe you managed to pull this off," she said, turning to look at her husband.

For his part, Harry Barrell looked as if he were born to this. His tuxedo, tailored to fit his athletic frame, gave him a debonair look that Sarah found more than a little amusing. She still saw her husband as the quirky, funny goofball she'd met all those years earlier when they'd been children. And even at 36, she thought he was the best-looking man she'd ever seen.

Harry, somewhat oblivious to the once-over his wife had been giving him, sipped at his champagne as he surveyed the room. Then he looked over at his wife and said, "This really isn't my kind of crowd."

Sarah eyed him speculatively and replied, "Oh, you don't say."

Harry shrugged. "I'm a beer and hot dog kind of guy," he said and waved his hand dismissively. "I'm much more comfortable with, you know, the hoi polloi," he added with a smirk.

"No arguments here," Sarah said, matching his smirk. After a beat she asked, "So why are we here then?"

"Here" being the hottest New Year's Eve ticket in Boston, hosted by the very wealthy and well-connected Barton Gardner. Harry had been very mysterious about the whole thing and Sarah's curiousity was at a fever pitch.

"Oh, you know, friend of a friend kind of thing," he said. She noticed he failed to look her in the eye as he said this.

"What friend?" Sarah pressed. Harry took another sip of his drink and refused to meet her gaze. She grabbed his chin and turned him to look at her.

"Who?" she asked in a hiss.

"Uh," Harry stammered.

"I'm waiting," Sarah said.

Harry sighed. "Fine," he began, "It was Ruthie Barton."

Sarah's eyes narrowed. "I should have known," she said heatedly. "That woman has an agenda, Harold," she said.

Harry swallowed. He was only "Harold" when she was angry. "Look, Sarah, she's the boss's daughter and she offered me two tickets," he explained.

Sarah shot him a dark look. "I still think she wants to get her hooks in you," she growled.

As if summoned by Harry speaking her name, Ruth Barton sailed into view, spotted Harry and with a sparkling grin, made her way to them.

Sarah's eyes narrowed as she watched Ruth make her way towards them, looking stunningly beautiful in a dress that probably cost more than Harry and Sarah's home.

"Why Harry! You made it!" Ruth exclaimed as she pulled Harry into an embrace that looked a little too familiar for Sarah's liking. Harry politely pecked her on the cheek, saying, "Hello, Ruthie."

Ruth turned her attention to Sarah. "Mrs. Barrell, it is so nice to see you again," she said, disingenously in Sarah's view. Ruth appeared to take in Sarah's dress with a small downward turn to the corners of her mouth. "Your dress is lovely," she cooed, obviously not meaning a word of it.

"Thank you for the invitation, Miss Barton," Sarah replied, smiling her own fake smile. Sarah glanced at Harry - as usual he appeared to be clueless, with a small grin on his face. Sarah loved him to death, but he was as obtuse about women as he'd been when they'd met as 10-year-olds.

Ruth engaged them in conversation, one that Sarah felt was pure torture. They were saved when a well-dressed older man glanced their way, then did a double-take at recognizing Harry. Sarah watched as he excused himself and took a well-turned out looking lady by the hand before heading towards Harry.

"Well, well, if it isn't Sergeant Barrell," the man said. Sarah couldn't quite place his face, but she felt as though she'd seen his picture somewhere.

"Colonel Bigsby!" Harry said with genuine delight. He shot out his right hand and shook the Colonel's hand. "It's good to see you, sir," he said, and Sarah knew him well enough to know he meant it.

Sarah noted with some satisfaction that Ruth Barton seemed put out by the interruption. "Colonel Bigsby," she said, extending her hand, "I'm Ruth Barton. I've heard so much about you," she finished with her fake smile.

Bigsby kissed her hand before grabbing Sarah's and repeating the process. "Mrs. Barrell, I presume?" he asked. Sarah smiled and nodded. "Nice to meet you, Colonel," she said, adding, "Harry has told me so much about your time together during the war."

Bigsby was very gracious as he introduced his wife, Martha Gardner. Her father was the very wealthy, old money, host of the party. Harry, trying to be polite, explained that Ruth was the youngest daughter of Jesse Barton, who owned the Minutemen and whom Harry referred to simply as "Boss."

There were a few moments of chit-chat and then Bigsby steered Harry off to the side, asking the ladies to excuse them a moment. Sarah shot Harry a brief look of panic: she was a small-town Georgia girl and felt out of her depth with two very wealthy women, one of whom she felt had designs on her husband. Harry tried to give her a reassuring look as he walked off with Bigsby.

"Harry, I wasn't expecting to see you here," Bigsby said.

Harry grinned. "I could get in trouble for speaking with you, Colonel. You know, on account of me being a FABL player and you being the 'evil' genius behind the Great Western League and all," he said.

Bigsby waved a hand and said, "Well, that might be changing soon."

This was a surprise to Harry and it showed. "Really? How so?" he asked.

Bigsby lowered his voice. "What I'm about to say needs to stay between us, understand?"

Harry nodded. "Sure," he replied.

Bigsby smiled a little and said, "I have a deal in the works. Everyone knows old Sam Belton's a mere figurehead now."

The Colonel went on, explaining that FABL President Belton had essentially delegated his authority to the league's Board of Governors, which was in turn dominated by Chicago Chiefs owner Billy Whitney. Bigsby had been talking with Whitney about making peace. Whitney, for his part, noted that there would be a great deal of pushback to that concept from several owners, most notably Toronto's Bernie Millard and Boston's Jesse Barton.

Bigsby frowned as he said, "Which is one reason I agreed to come to Boston. My wife," he nodded in the direction of the three women chatting nearby (Sarah looked miserable to Harry's studied eye), "is from here and this party is of course, her father's annual shindig. I was hoping Barton would be here, but the man is 82 years old."

Harry nodded. "Well, Ruthie's here," he pointed out.

"Yes," Bigsby replied, still looking at the women. "She's his youngest, right?" he asked. Harry nodded, explaining that Ruth was indeed old man Barton's youngest, the only offspring from the man's fourth marriage, naturally to a much younger, and quite beautiful woman.

"How old is she, anyway?" Bigsby asked.

"Thirty, I think," was Harry's reply.

"And she hasn't married?"

Harry shrugged and shook his head. "My wife thinks Ruthie has set her sights on me," he said sheepishly.

Bigsby laughed and said, "Well that explains why your wife looks like she drank a pint of sour milk."

Harry looked - and felt - uncomfortable, and Bigsby took the conversation back on track, asking, "You think you can get Miss Barton to talk to her father?"

Harry thought it over and said, "I could try."

Bigsby was silent a moment, apparently deep in thought. Then he looked at Harry again and asked, "Your brother Tom, he's the skipper of the Kings?"

Harry nodded.

"I've heard rumors," Bigsby said, "that Prescott might sell the club."

Harry's eyes widened. "I haven't heard anything like that," he said. Then he added, "I did hear from Tom, that he heard that the Stars owner, Mielke?" he paused and Bigsby motioned for him to continue, "Is having it out with that Robert Moses guy. Apparently they have bad blood and Moses wants to turn the lot the Stars ballpark is sitting on into a state park or something."

Bigsby's face took on a thoughtful look, "Yeah," he said, still thinking, "I can see where that would be an issue."

He pulled a small notebook out of his pocket and wrote in it. Harry was wondering what that was all about when Bigsby put the notebook in his jacket pocket and said, "Let's go rejoin the party."

When they reached the women, Ruth was saying how much she was looking forward to a whole new decade.

Harry winked at his wife and said, "You know, Ruthie, I've been thinking about that," he began, and noted that the whole group was listening to him before continuing, "We count one to ten, right? So if that's the case, wouldn't 1950 be the last year of the forties?"

Colonel Thomas Bigsby laughed, his wife wore a look of confusion, Ruthie's brow creased in thought and - best of all to Harry - Sarah grinned and winked back at him.

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Colonel Thomas Bigsby, US Army 1945
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legendsport · 02-10-2024, 10:28 AM

Detroit, MI: January 14, 1950:

"I take no pleasure in this," Rollie Barrell told the shareholders as he stood at the head of the table. He made a point of looking every man in the eye. Off to one side, Allie Barrell sat primly in a chair pushed up against the wall, quietly watching her father.

At the other end of the table sat Frank Yurik. His face was red, and Rollie could tell he was angry. This was understandable. Rollie would be angry in Yurik's position.

Rollie stared into Yurik's eyes, expecting an outburst. He was mildly surprised that there wasn't one.

"There is, of course, the issue of Mr. Yurik's ownership stake," Rollie said. He again paused, expecting Yurik to speak, and again was surprised that the other man didn't speak up.

"The club's bylaws specify that when the coach has an ownership stake, he must sell his shares if his coaching contract is either terminated or is not renewed," Rollie said. None of this was news to the assembled board. Rollie, as the majority shareholder, could do as he pleased, but he wanted to move forward with the support of the board; assuming that support was a possibility.

"This won't look good to the fans, Rollie." The man who spoke up was Charles Summers, who owned less than five percent but always tried to wield it as if he owned more. He was also a friend of Yurik's.

Rollie looked at his daughter. "Allie?" he prompted.

She rose and held a folder. "My father requested we do some market research," she began.

"Market research?" Summers interrupted. Allie frowned, and Rollie glared, but it was Allie who replied, saying, "Yes, we contracted with a firm to do a poll of season ticket holders."

"A poll? And who paid for this?" Summers asked.

"I did," Rollie said firmly. "Out of my own pocket," he added, and when Summers met his glare, finished, "Please allow Allie to finish, Chuck."

Slightly chagrined, Summers, who had been leaning forward, his arms on the table, sat back. Rollie noted that he and Yurik exchanged a glance.

"Allie?" Rollie prompted again.

With a nod, Allie continued, "The poll showed that 42 percent of season ticket holders thought Coach Yurik should be replaced."

"So not a majority," Summers muttered, though everyone in the room heard it.

"Not a majority," Allie confirmed before continuing, "24% thought he should stay on. The other 34% were uncertain."

"Not exactly a resounding vote of confidence, Rollie," Summers pointed out.

"Agreed. But the biggest number in there was the one favoring a coaching change," Rollie replied. He looked around the room. "I'd like a vote on this, even though I can pass it without any support. We need a united front. If we agree that Coach Yurik should be replaced, I will buy his shares in the club, unless he has another buyer."

"How magnanimous of you, Rollie," Summers said. "And if everyone but you votes against?"

Rollie frowned and said, "I hope it doesn't come to that."

Rollie called the vote, and everyone but Summers, and of course Yurik, was in favor.

"The motion passes. Now, Coach Yurik, how would you like to handle the issue of your shares?" Rollie asked.

For the first time, the grizzled coach spoke up. "I will be selling my shares to Charles Summers," he announced.

Rollie couldn't help it, he was surprised, and it showed. According to Allie's research, Summers didn't have enough liquid capital to buy Yurik's 25% stake.

"We have made arrangements," Yurik said, apparently trying to clarify his position, although it did no such thing.

Yurik's stake would make Summers, whom Rollie disliked, the second-largest shareholder in the Maroons. This was not what he had hoped to see transpire, though he wouldn't have to listen to Francie complain about the large debit to their accounts.

As the meeting ended and the shareholders left the room, Allie walked over to stand beside her father. Rollie looked at her and gave a sad shake of his head. "Well, that could have gone better," he said.

Allie pursed her lips. "Yes. But at least Yurik is gone," she said.

Rollie's forehead wrinkled as he thought. "I bet Summers is just a cat's paw. Yurik will be in his ear, telling him how to vote," he said.

"And it won't matter as long as you own 51% of the team," Allie pointed out.

Rollie took a deep breath, then stood and walked to a telephone on the credenza. Picking it up, he said, "Get me Tom Bowens."

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Logo of the Detroit Maroons, circa 1950
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legendsport · 02-12-2024, 07:46 AM

Toronto, ON: January 23, 1950:

Fred Barrell heard a small commotion behind him and, figuring he knew the reason, grinned at his wife. "I guess Jack's here."

Tillie turned her head to look. "Yep, there he is," she said with a smile of her own.

Jack Barrell drew attention wherever he went. Fred felt both relieved and a little jealous of his older brother. While Fred was the manager of the Toronto Wolves, having been in that job for only one season, Jack was both a legendary player and a Challenge Cup-winning coach in Toronto, and it seemed like everyone recognized him.

Sensing his thoughts, Tillie asked, "You're jealous?"

Fred shrugged and admitted, "A little. But it is nice to be able to be out in public and not cause a ruckus everywhere I go."

To be fair, there had been more than a few autograph requests when the parents of Hobie's teammates on his Under-9 hockey team discovered that Hobie Barrell's father was one of -those- Barrells. Fred was old-hat, but having Jack show up for one of the games... that was a big deal.

Fred turned and caught his brother's eye. Jack grinned at him, and Fred returned the smile and nodded.

Fred himself was still getting used to hockey. Hobie had taken to the sport like a fish to water. Jack, who had been to a couple of games when his Toronto Dukes schedule allowed it, said that Hobie's affinity for the sport reminded him of his own childhood. "And to think it was Grandpa Reid who introduced me to the sport," Jack said with a sense of fond remembrance for their maternal grandfather, a man who had been a baseball player, manager, and executive and introduced his grandchildren to sports other than baseball. Boxing for Joe, golf for Rollie, and hockey for Jack.

Tillie grabbed her husband's arm. A line change had brought Hobie into the game. He was still a bit behind some of the other boys in his skating, but he clearly possessed the natural athleticism that ran like a strong river through the Barrell family, and his stickwork, according to Jack, was exceptional for an 8-year-old. And like his uncle, the coaches had put him on defense. Jack believed that eventually, as his skating improved, they'd end up moving him to forward.

Jack managed to make his way through his well-wishing (and autograph-seeking) fans and sat down next to Fred.

"How's he doing?" Jack asked.

"Looks good to me," Fred admitted, adding, "But you'd know better than I would."

Jack, having no sons of his own, was thrilled both to have his brother in town and to have one of his nephews take a shine to hockey. "The kid's a natural," Jack said. "And I wouldn't lie to you about that, Freddy," he added, unnecessarily. Their father's main tenet as a scout had been to never oversell a prospect - honesty was the best policy, as was generally true for everything Rufus Barrell had said or done.

"How are things?" Fred asked.

Jack smiled, and it was a genuine smile. "Good," he said. "Marie's happy, the girls are happy, my team's playing well..." Jack trailed off, then his grin grew wider, and he added, "Living the dream, little brother."

Fred chuckled and shook his head. Jack did look happy, and that warmed his heart.

When Jack asked how he was doing, Fred paused a moment, and it was Tillie who answered.

"It's been tough," she said in her usual, full-steam-ahead, blunt manner.

"Tough how?" Jack asked, turning to her as the grin dropped from his face.

"Mostly the kids," Tillie clarified. "Junior's unhappy, Benny has gotten into one or more scraps at school every week... only Hobie seems happy, and that's only since hockey season started. Even the baby has been driving me crazy."

"It hasn't been that bad," Fred demurred, drawing a sharp look from his wife.

"Oh, yes, it has," she shot back. She looked at Jack and said, "Fred is too proud to say it, but I think he worries that he's gotten himself in over his head with the Wolves."

"That's not true," Fred replied hotly, but his cheeks were reddening in embarrassment.

"It is true. You would never admit it, but I can tell," Tillie told him.

Jack frowned. "Well... it might be working for Millard. That guy is a peach, and not in a good way," he told Tillie.

"Oh, I know," she replied. "But it's more than that. The team underachieved this season, and Fred thinks it's all on him."

Fred was shaking his head, and a grimace creased his face.

"Do you think it was a mistake?" Jack asked his brother. Fred knew what he meant: he'd uprooted his family and moved them from Detroit, where he'd had a job to which he was well-suited and talented as the scouting director for the Dynamos, to trying his hand at leading a ballclub from the dugout. And where Tom - who was managing the Brooklyn Kings - was fiery and emotional, which sometimes resonated with athletes, Fred was reserved and cerebral, which sometimes did not. Jack was more in the fiery vein, and had wondered how Fred's personality would mesh with his ballclub.

Fred ruminated for a moment and then shook his head. "No, it wasn't a mistake," he replied, his mouth set firmly. "I'm going to bring this team around. The kids... that's the bigger issue and one I think will ultimately be sorted out by time and Tillie," he added, smiling at his wife who shook her head, but looked pleased.

"I had some of the same when I moved from Detroit... at least as far as dealing with kids who didn't want to move," Jack said, remembering the reaction of his daughters at leaving their friends behind. Fred also knew that Aggie had suffered through some tough times in the years after the war until she'd found Quinton Pollack who was now her husband as well as the star of the Toronto Dukes hockey club that Jack was coaching.

Jack slapped his brother on the shoulder. "Things at home will work out. Your kids are good kids, and you have the two things you'll need: perseverance and a wife who's smarter than you are."

Fred and Tillie both laughed, and Tillie slapped Jack on the arm fondly.

Jack grabbed his brother's shoulder in a strong grip. "As for your team... if you need someone to come by and whip them into shape, I still have a few body checks left in my old body."

The two brothers turned their attention to the game. Hobie played well, and showed a willingness to be physical when necessary as well as his blossoming talent with the stick, making a strong check, then scooping up the puck and threading a perfect pass through traffic to a teammate, who scored, earning Hobie an assist.

"Like I said," Jack told Fred: "The kid's a natural."
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Hobie Barrell, age 8, 1950
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legendsport · 02-14-2024, 02:47 PM

Feburary 6, 1950: Washington, DC:

OSA Director Dan Barrell was sifting through some expense reports, wearing a frown as he examined one from a scout Gladys had sent to Veracruz, Mexico for an unspecified reason. Did they play basketball in Mexico? He pondered the best approach to address it - the basketball division fell under his wife's jurisdiction, and he typically had little involvement beyond rubber-stamping - when the phone interrupted his thoughts.

Without taking his eyes off the list of itemized expenses, he reached out and picked up the receiver.

"Yes? Barrell here," he said automatically.

"Dan? It's Bill Whitney," he heard. This piqued his interest, prompting him to set the report down on the desk blotter.

"Hello, Bill. What can I do for you?" he inquired amiably. He'd always held the Chiefs owner in high regard, given their shared history through his late brother Joe.

"I have something I need to discuss with you, but I'd prefer to not do it over the phone," Whitney replied.

Dan thought a moment then asked, "You want to meet in person? Sounds serious."

Whitney chuckled before responding, "It's something of significance."

Dan was surprised. "You need me to come to Chicago?" he queried.

"No need," Whitney replied, adding, "I'm in D.C. We can meet for lunch."

The unexpected turn of events continued - Dan knew Whitney had a strong aversion to visiting the capital, despite it being home to the FABL offices.

Arrangements were swiftly made, though Dan's attempts to glean information about the nature of their discussion were fruitless.

With a sigh, he picked up the report and called his wife.

"What's with you sending Wilcox to Mexico of all places?" he asked.

"Ha! I knew that you'd be calling about that," Gladys replied.

They bantered back and forth, with Gladys staunchly defending the necessity of scouting potential professional basketball players globally, while Dan openly expressed skepticism towards those bypassing the collegiate AIAA system. Eventually, Gladys prevailed, stating, "You know they play basketball all over the world, don't you Dan?" Though he hadn't considered it before, Dan conceded she might have a point.

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Dan felt he had achieved a somewhat hollow victory, convincing Gladys not to send scouts to Europe but approving trips to Canada and Mexico, and leaving the door open for a trip to the 1952 Olympics. Dan had been an Olympian in 1924 and they hadn't played at those Games, though he vaguely remembered some kind of exhibition. Gladys assured him they would be playing in 1952 and had been since the '36 Olympics.

As he headed to Claude's, a fancy French restaurant chosen by Bill Whitney for lunch, Dan mulled over these thoughts.

Spotting Whitney as the maitre'd escorted him across the room, Dan couldn't help but notice how the grandson of FABL founder William W. Whitney had retained his youthful appearance into his fifties, reminiscent of the days when he had been Joe Barrell's close friend in Los Angeles during the early 1930s.

Whitney rose to shake hands with Dan. After the maitre'd departed, Dan inquired about Whitney's choice of a French restaurant.

"I thought you'd prefer a steakhouse," he remarked with a grin.

Whitney nodded, saying, "I do, but I believe we can avoid running into any sportswriters around here, you know?"

Dan raised his eyebrows. "So, what's on your mind, Bill?" he asked, unable to contain his curiosity any longer.

Whitney grinned like the Cheshire Cat. "You're as impatient as your brother Joe," he said, still smiling.

"Come on, Bill, there's not a man alive who wouldn't be dying to know what all this cloak and dagger stuff is about," Dan said. He looked at his menu and asked, "Are those snail things on here somewhere? I want to make sure I don't order that."

"Escargot? Yes, you can get that here and it's quite good," Whitney answered.

Dan gave him a frustrated look. "OK, I walked into that deflection, but honestly Bill, what's going on?"

Whitney kept him in suspense a moment longer by taking a sip of his water. Then he finally answered: "Sam Belton's retiring. We're announcing it tomorrow."

This was a surprise, but only a mild one - Belton was in his seventies after all.

"OK, and that needs to be kept a big secret?" Dan asked.

"Well, no, not really," Whitney replied. He leaned forward and said, "There are some other things too, but Belton's retirement is, at least for now, the headliner."

Dan shook his head, feeling he'd never receive a straightforward answer. Millionaires expected everyone to adhere to their schedules. Since that seemed to be the case, he patiently waited, punctuating it with a sip of water.

Whitney smirked. "Touche. I know you're eager for more details, so I won't keep you waiting," he said.

Dan nodded, prompting Whitney to reveal, "We're close to finalizing a deal to shut down the Great Western League."

Now this was something Dan could see keeping close to the vest. His only response was the look of surprise on his face.

"Yes, that's a big deal. Bigsby and Perrone... they're the only ones that matter and we have deals in place to bring them into the fold."

"Into the fold? What, you're expanding FABL?" Dan asked, barely remembering to keep his voice down.

Before Whitney could reply the waiter appeared. They ordered, Dan deciding to try the escargot after all. He'd at least have a story to tell Gladys beyond whatever else Whitney was going to say.

As the waiter walked off, Whitney clarified, "No, we're not expanding. Let me tell you a story involving a man named Robert Moses, a park in Manhattan, and a disgruntled FABL club owner."

It turned out that Moses, who was some kind of New York power broker, was going to tear down the New York Stars' ballpark by using eminent domain. The Stars' owner, Al Mielke, was a sworn enemy of Moses and the feeling was very much mutual. That's where Tom Bigsby entered the picture. As a Bigsby, the GWL founder had a lot of clout in the political circles in New York. Enough to potentially shut down Moses, something few men could accomplish.

"So Bigsby's going to pressure Moses to put his park somewhere else?" Dan asked.

Whitney shook his head. "No, Bigsby wants the Stars, but he doesn't want the ballpark," he said.

"Then what's he want the ballclub for?"

"He wants to move it to Los Angeles."

Dan frowned, considering the implications. "That's a significant move, considering Los Angeles's distance from the rest of the Continental Association," he remarked.

Whitney nodded, and just as Dan was about to ask another question, their food arrived. They began eating, with Dan surprised to find the escargot surprisingly delicious, despite his mental reservations about eating snails. Whitney watched amusedly as Dan savored the dish. "I told you it was good," he remarked.

After a brief pause, Whitney continued, divulging, "Bigsby's been negotiating primarily with me, given Belton's minimal involvement. However, final approval rests with the Board of Governors and our new FABL President."

"Of course," Dan acknowledged between bites.

"We'll need another club to accompany the Stars to California," Whitney added.

Dan raised his fork, speculating, "Doesn't Perrone have a modern ballpark in San Francisco?"

"Indeed, but he lacks a team," Whitney confirmed.

"And it must be a Continental club?" Dan pressed on.

"Yes," Whitney affirmed.

Dan pointed with his fork. "Let me guess... Brooklyn?" he suggested.

Whitney grinned. "Nope."

Dan pondered for a moment before suggesting, "The Sailors?"

Whitney raised his own fork in agreement. "Yes, though Perrone would be a minority owner. Matilda Johnson, the Sailors' owner, won't sell out but is open to moving the team to San Francisco."

Dan nodded in understanding, realizing the complexity of the negotiations.

"Who knows about this?" he asked.

"Only the Board, and Belton, though he's washed his hands of it since he won't be around for long."

The Board was Whitney, Boston owner Jesse Barton, Toronto owner Bernie Millard and Cincinnati owner John Tice. Dan thought about those four men. Whitney was obviously in favor. Millard would be absolutely opposed.

"Thinking this over, with you in favor and Millard no doubt opposed, that means it comes down to Tice and Barton?" Dan asked.

Whitney nodded again. "Yes. We'll never get Millard on board. Tice is open to the idea and Barton was opposed until Bigsby sweetened the deal."

"How'd he do that?" Dan asked. The Minutemen's owner was a cantankerous octogenerian who seemed to thrive on being difficult. He and Millard were a matched pair, in Dan's opinion (and that of many others).

"Dee Rose," Whitney said. Dan frowned. He knew about Rose of course - the disgraced owner of the St. Louis Pioneers who had both the state of Missouri and the Federal government fighting over which would get to imprison him for the rest of his natural life.

"Rose? What's Bigsby going to do about him?" Dan asked after a moment of trying to piece it together himself.

"The GWL is folding if we make this deal. When that happens, only Bigsby and Perrone will be in the FABL circle. There are six other owners...." Whitney said, trailing off to let Dan make the connection.

"Ah, so Bigsby has someone who can purchase the Pioneers...." Dan said, living up to Whitney's challenge.

"Exactly. Two someones in fact. It'll be a partnership of the two men who currently own the Dallas and Houston franchises."

Dan nodded. "OK, I get it, and yes all this is big news," he said. After a brief pause he added, "But I have one more question."

Whitney took a drink and motioned for Dan to go ahead and ask.

"Why me?"

Whitney smiled and replied, "Quite simple: the Board of Governors has agreed to offer you the job of FABL President."

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Dan Barrell at Claude's Restaurant, 1950
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legendsport · 02-16-2024, 12:35 PM

February 20, 1950: Washington, DC:

Dan Barrell had been summoned. So, he took a taxi from the Omni Scouting Association's headquarters on H Street to the Grand Point Hotel on the corner of 3rd and E Streets. The morning traffic around the government area slowed the trip, giving Dan additional time to think.

Upon arrival, Dan stifled a sigh of frustration while paying the driver. Stepping from the cab, the doorman greeted him with the slick politeness of an experienced hotelier, opening the door as Dan nodded his thanks and entered the opulent lobby.

Dan had been in the hotel several times; it was the chosen venue for most of the various owners' and Board of Governors' meetings, located only a few blocks from the surprisingly small offices of the FABL President on North Carolina Avenue. If he accepted the job he'd been offered, that office would soon be his.

As he crossed the immaculate blue carpet towards the elevators, Dan reflected on the choice he was facing.

He thought of the discussions he'd had with both his partner, Thomas Potentas, and his wife.

Potentas, an old and dear friend of Dan's late father, had offered some surprisingly Rufus Barrell-like advice: to do what felt right in Dan's heart. Gladys had been more practical.

"This would mean a larger salary," she pointed out.

Dan nodded in agreement. "True. This is where my father would mention that money isn't everything," he said with a wry grin.

"Yes, he would, and he would be right. But money should be a factor, regardless," Gladys said. "There's also the simple fact that the OSA is your father's legacy. He built it with Thomas and hand-picked you to succeed him as Director," she added.

"That is what is holding me back," Dan admitted. "Pop poured many years of his life into this, and it would almost feel like a betrayal to leave."

"Your father would understand, Dan. In fact," Gladys told him, "I think he'd tell you that you had to accept it for the greater good of the game."

Dan smiled. That did seem like what his father would have told him.

"Yes, he'd probably say, 'think of all the good you could do for the players' or words to that effect," he said with a sad smile as he remembered his father, who always thought of the players as people, not simply assets, as so many of the FABL owners saw them.

Gladys nodded. "And he'd be right," she agreed.

Dan nodded. "The President does work for the owners, dear," he pointed out. "I'm surprised they'd even offer me this job, given my background as a player."

Gladys shook her head and grabbed Dan's hand. "Give yourself some credit, Dan. You've done a fantastic job here at OSA. Everyone knows that Thomas, as well-meaning as he is, could never hold this together alone." She then listed all the accomplishments the OSA had enjoyed under Dan's stewardship.

"Right. And if I leave the OSA, who takes over?" he asked.

Gladys' mouth twisted in a knowing grin. "I can think of someone," she said.

Dan couldn't help himself - he laughed out loud. "You really want this job?" he asked.

She did. And for every negative he pointed out — she was a woman, the club owners wouldn't respect her, etc., etc. — she said she'd prove herself. And Dan knew she would: Gladys was a terrifyingly efficient woman and brilliant to boot. She was probably the smartest person he knew, including his brother Rollie, whom most of the family agreed was a genius.

"It'll be difficult," he said. "Very difficult."

Gladys shrugged. "Just let them try to stop me," she said, and Dan saw grit and determination in her eyes.

"Thomas would have to approve, and he's very Old World," Dan pointed out.

Now it was Gladys' turn to laugh. "I have Thomas wrapped around my finger," she said. "He won't be a problem."

It turned out she was right - Thomas was downright enthusiastic about the idea when Dan broached the subject later that day. Dan almost felt insulted, thinking that perhaps the older man wanted him to leave. Thomas saw the look on his face and went to great lengths to disabuse him of that notion.

All of that had taken place the previous week, and Dan still had not made a decision as he stepped off the elevator and headed for the meeting room.

As he walked towards the meeting room, the door opened, and Sam Belton stepped out. The FABL President had never been a big man, and age had both wizened him and seemed to shrink him as well. He saw Dan coming and smiled.

"Hello Dan!" he said warmly, shaking hands (with Dan being careful not to squeeze too hard).

"They're in there, waiting for you," Belton said. "You know, they offered your father this job once upon a time," he added. Dan did know this and knew Rufus had felt he wasn't up to the challenge and turned it down.

Dan nodded, his mouth set in a line.

"Your father would be so proud," Belton added.

"Thank you, Sam," Dan said warmly, patting the old man on the shoulder.

"They're all here, all sixteen of them, plus the new fellows of course," Belton said.

Dan nodded again, remembering that his decision wasn't the only matter the owners were handling: they were finishing up the details of the dismantling of the Great Western League and voting on not one, but three separate ownership changes.

Belton snapped Dan out of his reverie as he said, "If you can wait here a moment, I'll escort you in." He dropped his voice and added, "I need to use the restroom." Then he winked at Dan and walked stiffly down the hall.

Dan waited silently, lost in thought. Could he really do this?

Ten minutes later, Sam Belton led Dan into the conference room. The twenty people in the room all looked his way as Dan entered. He knew them all by sight, well, almost all of them, he admitted to himself. He recognized Tom Bigsby, though he'd never met him, and figured the men with him were probably the other Great Western League owners. There was a young woman staring at him for some reason. He scanned the room, trying to decipher which club she might be representing, and surmised she must be Jesse Barton's daughter.

This was confirmed a moment later when she joined him at the coffee station as he was making himself a cup.

"You look just like Harry," she said, in a tone that hinted that she either knew Harry well or very much wanted to know Harry better.

Dan kept a straight face as he mentally hoped Harry wasn't going to get himself in a bind with this woman. "I would say he looks like me," he said with a friendly smile, "I'm the older brother, after all."

She laughed, and it seemed genuine. "You're funny too," she said.

"I take it you're Miss Barton?" Dan asked.

"Indeed I am, Ruth Barton, and it is nice to meet you, Mr. Barrell," she said as she thrust a hand out. Dan was taken aback but just for a split-second before he shook her hand.

"Please call me Dan," he said. "I guess you know Harry because he plays for your father?" he asked.

She nodded. "Yes, I have been taking a greater hand in the club," she purred. "My father is 82 years old, you know, and he isn't quite as sharp as he once was," she added.

As he listened, Dan was trying to remember what he knew about Barton's family. He vaguely remembered there being a son.

"Is your brother involved too?" he asked, having decided to take a shot in the dark.

Her face darkened, but briefly, as she quickly recovered. "My half-brother Reginald is... involved, yes."

"Ah-ha," Dan thought, covering it with a sip of coffee. "I won't be so impolite as to ask how you'll vote, but since your father is a board member and approved the job offer, I trust nothing has changed on that front," Dan said, wishing he could extricate himself from the conversation.

"Yes, we are definitely in favor," Miss Barton replied, and then gave him a look Dan would characterize as.... hungry... as she added, "You really do remind me of Harry."

Thankfully Billy Whitney chose that moment to intervene. "Dan, Ruth, what are you two conspiring about?" he asked.

"Oh, we're just getting to know each other," Ruth Barton replied. "Now if you'll excuse me," she said and then walked away. Dan and Whitney watched her for a moment, Whitney remarking, "That is a dangerous woman."

Dan nodded and said, "I did get that distinct impression. She seems to have a fixation on my brother Harry."

Whitney tsked and remarked, "I hope he's got plenty of that famous Barrell moral fiber."

Dan gave Whitney a sidelong look, thought about how Whitney and Joe Barrell had catted around Los Angeles twenty years earlier and said with a smirk, "I certainly hope so."

There was some more chit-chat with various people. Dan met Tom Bigsby — who also knew Harry, causing Dan to think how he and his brothers had always felt their father knew every ballplayer on Earth — and Dan found himself taking a liking to the man, especially when he said, "Don't hold me being a Bigsby against me... I'm the white sheep of the family."

Finally, it was time to discuss his candidacy.

Dan gave an inward groan when Bernie Millard stood up. He glared at Dan as he started speaking: "As most of you know, I was outvoted three-to-one on this matter in the Board meeting. My opposition to Mr. Barrell's candidacy rests on one point and one point only: he is a former player and I want assurances that he will act in the best interests of FABL itself, remembering that he will be working for us. And not against us."

Well, Dan reflected, there it was. And he knew Millard would raise this issue. The man was an inveterate opponent of any and all labor movements. The word 'union' was literally a four-letter word for Millard.

Billy Whitney spoke up, saying, "I believe Dan Barrell will always work in the best interests of the game, Bernie."

Now Millard turned that steely glare at Whitney. "We are the game, Mr. Whitney. And Mr. Barrell will need to assure me that he will always remember that. The players are ephemeral, the game, and the clubs, are institutions."

Whitney looked at Dan, and nodded. Dan stood up and said, "I will always act in the best interests of baseball, without prejudice to any party," he said.

Millard's frown deepened. That probably wasn't the answer he was seeking.

"Anyone else have something they'd like to ask our candidate?" Whitney asked in his role as chairman.

Dan Prescott stood. The Brooklyn owner had, once upon a time, been Dan's employer (along with his brothers Tom, Fred, and Harry). "It's good to see you, Dan," Prescott said. Dan took that as a good sign, so he was surprised when Prescott followed this by saying, "I know the Barrells perhaps better than most in this room, having employed them as players and now employing Tom as my field manager. And I want to remind Mr. Daniel Barrell that the 'B' in FABL does not, in fact, stand for 'Barrell' but instead for 'Baseball,' and he will need to remember that if he is to take on the mantle of FABL President."

The assembled owners began whispering to each other. Dan frowned, unsure where this insulting tidbit had originated. Beside him, Sam Belton whispered, "Prescott, I think, is on his way out. He's gotten bitter in these last few years. This smacks of simple jealousy about the sterling reputation you Barrells have."

Whitney was shooting eye-daggers at Prescott, who glared back at the Chicago owner from under his bushy eyebrows.

Whitney shouted for quiet, and the room gradually died down. The assembled owners wore expressions varying from outrage to amusement at Prescott's little dig at the Barrell family. Cougars owner Mack Dalmer rose. "I'm the new guy hereabouts," he said with a smile, "at least until we admit our new owners," he nodded at the GWL contingent who sat in the back of the room.

Dalmer looked at Dan and said, "As I'm relatively new to this, I wanted to say that I had the honor of meeting Rufus Barrell, and a finer man I have never met. If his son here is half the man his father was, he will serve the FABL well," he paused, and Dan nodded in thanks. "However," he added, "I am also a businessman and in this business for profit as well as bringing another title to the great city of Chicago," (there were a couple of groans from other parts of the room at this), "So I echo the sentiment of Mr. Millard that Mr. Barrell keep in mind that baseball is a business and only profitability keeps the venture alive."

There were other pronouncements - but no real questions - in a similar vein from other owners. Detroit's Powell Thompson was nearly as aggressive as Millard had been; Washington's Calvin Stockdale, on the other hand, had been very nice, also complimenting Dan's father. Even the Sailors' Matilda Johnson, the lone woman to outright own an FABL club, was surprisingly tough in pounding home the idea that Dan must remember that FABL was a business, not "just a sport."

In the end, only outgoing Stars owner Al Mielke and the taciturn Saints owner Jacques Cartier neglected to speak.

Whitney put the motion to hire Daniel Barrell as President of the Federally Aligned Baseball Leagues to a vote. The vote was 14-2 in favor, with the nays coming from Millard (unsurprising) and New York Gothams owner Leland Winthrop, which was somewhat surprising as Winthrop's statement had mostly revolved around encouraging Dan, assuming he became President, to help the clubs negotiate sweetheart leases for ballparks and the land around them.

The 14-2 margin was more than enough for approval. Now it was up to Dan, to accept the offer now that it was formal.

He rose, took a deep breath, and said, "I am honored that you would consider me for the role of FABL President. It is incredibly humbling and also will be a great challenge to succeed Sam Belton who has done such an outstanding job for such a long time." There were some "hear, hears" from the owners, while others frowned. Belton himself beamed.

"So I thank you for the opportunity, and I humbly accept, promising to do my best to foster the continued success and growth of our great American pastime."

The rest of the meeting passed in a whirlwind. Dan, now the heir-apparent, was permitted to stay and watch though he had no official standing until the changeover on March 1st.

The owners approved, unanimously, the sale of the St. Louis Pioneers to the partnership of John Mark of Houston and Paul Burnett of Dallas, removing the stain of Dee Rose's ownership of one of FABL's oldest clubs with "Big John" Mark to act as majority owner.

Next up was the sale of 45% of the Philadelphia Sailors to Robert "Red" Perrone of San Francisco. Millard voted against this, likely out of spite - it was a miracle in Dan's eyes that the man had voted to allow two erstwhile GWL "rebels" to purchase the Pioneers (likely a statement more about how much the rest of FABL disliked Dee Rose than anything else).

This was borne out again when the final vote: for the sale of the New York Stars to Thomas X. Bigsby was brought to the floor. Again, Millard voted against, staunchly ignoring the heated look he received from Al Mielke. Ruth Barton pointedly stared at Dan as she voted in favor, which got a shake of the head and some murmuring from Millard, who no doubt expected a "Nay" from Boston ownership.

The last item on the agenda, formerly tentative and now confirmed, was a goodbye message from Sam Belton. The old man thanked the owners for their trust in him, expressed his belief that he had always acted in the best interests of baseball, and wiped away a tear as the assembled owners - and Dan - gave him a standing ovation.

As the meeting adjourned, Dan stood and realized that in just over one week's time, he would be (theoretically) the most powerful man in baseball.

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Sam Belton makes his final remarks as FABL President, 1950
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legendsport · 02-19-2024, 10:34 AM

February 27, 1950: Toronto, ON:

Fred Barrell was forced to admit: he had been bored of late. Taking the managerial role with the Toronto Wolves left him with an offseason that was a lot less demanding than it had been when he'd been the Scouting Director for the Detroit Dynamos. Sure, he could go to the Cuban Winter League for a bit. But he couldn't - or shouldn't - spend the entire two-month winter season there; for one thing, the club's scouting director would feel he was being slighted at best and begin fearing for his job at worst. And before that... well, there wasn't a lot of what you'd call "downtime" in the wartime OSS. Slinking about occupied France or the heart of the Third Reich had certainly kept him on his toes, even when he was simply observing.

Now... well, it was nearly the end of February. The CWL was done for the year, the January phase of the amateur draft was in the rearview, and things had been too quiet. Spring training was on the cusp, and he was greatly looking forward to that. The rhythms of spring, "boil out" as they'd called it when he was a young player, were as familiar to him as the contours of his own face when he looked in the mirror.

So while Fred pondered what to pack for leisure time in Florida - he'd heard Fred McCormick was renting a boat for some deep-sea fishing - he was surprised when the phone rang and Tillie informed him that it was for him.

"Who is it?" he asked in a low voice as he went downstairs, where Tillie was holding the receiver, her hand over the mouthpiece.

She was smirking, or so he thought until she said, "It's Millard's secretary," providing the proof that Tillie wasn't smirking; she was frowning.

Fred took the phone and said, "Hello."

"Good morning, Mr. Barrell. Please hold for Mr. Millard," he heard. He thought about Millard's secretary: a no-nonsense older woman. He realized he'd never seen her smile and sadly wondered if she was unhappy. Certainly, Millard could be a demanding boss.

"Barrell? I need you to come down to the office," Millard said without preamble.

Fred was taken aback and took a brief moment to gather his thoughts, which were really questions. "Certainly, Mr. Millard, I can be there in an hour."

"Good, see that you are. I have something I need you to take care of for me," Millard said mysteriously, adding, "See you in an hour," and then hanging up.

Fred held the receiver away and gave it a skeptical look.

"What was that about?" Tillie asked.

"No idea," Fred said, as he hung up the phone. "Millard wants me to come in."

"Maybe he's firing you," Tillie said in a deadpan voice.

Fred raised an eyebrow. "Thanks for the vote of confidence," he said.

His wife shrugged. "I wouldn't put it past that man. He was obviously against Dan becoming FABL President. Maybe he'll take it out on you," she said.

Fred shook his head. He wouldn't... would he?

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Two minutes short of one hour later, Fred walked into the downtown offices of the Toronto Wolves Baseball Club and headed straight for Millard's office.

"Right on time, Mr. Barrell," said the secretary. Looking at her solemn expression, Fred briefly wished he had Harry's wit. If anyone could get this woman to smile, it would be Harry.

"Barrell! Get in here," Millard boomed from the inner office.

"Show time," Fred said and walked toward the door. He thought that perhaps the corner of the secretary's mouth had quirked. That hadn't been particularly funny at all, but perhaps she wasn't made of stone.

A moment later Fred had taken a seat across from Bernie Millard. The owner wore his perpetual scowl and seemed to give Fred the once-over.

"You look pale, Barrell," he said. "Ready for some Florida sunshine?"

Fred nodded. "Absolutely. It will be nice to get back to work, Mr. Millard."

"Yes..." Millard said, sounding unconvinced, or perhaps just resentful that Fred had any downtime at all.

"So, if you don't mind my asking... why'd you need to see me?" Fred asked, figuring the direct approach was always best with Millard.

"I'm making some changes," Millard said, and Fred wondered if Tillie had been right after all. He blanched. Noticing this, Millard chuckled - yes, chuckled - and said, "Don't worry, Barrell, I'm not firing you."

"That's a relief to hear, sir," Fred said and attempted to smile while hoping it wasn't a grimace.

"No... no firings. I'm changing the team's logo and uniforms and wanted you to be the first to see them," the owner said and he actually smiled.

"A new logo?" Fred asked, genuinely stunned. He would never have fingered Millard for someone who cared about such things. Marketing wasn't exactly a cornerstone of the mining business.

"Sure. Our current logo... too plain. And I don't like blue."

"Blue?" Fred asked. His mind was spinning - Millard had brought him down here for this?

"Yes, I like red. And black. I like black," Millard said. "Coal's black, you know?"

Fred nodded and said, "Yes, I'm aware, sir."

Millard pushed a portfolio across the desk towards Fred. "Here, look at this," he said.

Fred narrowed his eyes, just a bit. Millard seemed really... eager? He seemed to be wanting Fred's approval of whatever was in the portfolio.

Fred picked up the package and opened it.

He was relieved; it was different, but not bad.

"Who did this?" he asked.

"I found an artist, back in Pittsburgh. He whipped that up in a couple of days," Millard said. He leaned forward and asked, "What do you think?"

Fred examined it. It was circular, but that was about all it shared with the old blue-and-white logo. It was a red double-circle on a black background with the word Toronto arching across the top and Wolves on the bottom. In the center was a rendering of a wolf that could have been pulled out of a horror comic. It looked mean, despite there being a red ballcap perched on its head; the cap was emblazoned with a white 'T' in the center.

"This is our new ballcap?" Fred asked.

Millard frowned. "That's what you focus on? The cap?" he asked.

"Yes, well, if that's what will be perched on my noggin' all season long..." Fred trailed off as he caught Millard's expression. "I like the Wolf... he looks like a man-eater."

Millard beamed. "Exactly. That's what I'm going for. We need to be killers on the field, Barrell. And I wanted a logo to reflect that. We're not howling at the moon any longer. Now we're out for blood."

Fred stared at the owner for a moment, wondering if he was serious with this stuff. They were ballplayers, for crying out loud.

"Uh, yes, sir," he managed to say. He wondered what the players would think of all this. He knew Millard would be there in Florida, making a little speech, which was apparently a tradition for him.

At least the uniform renderings didn't include anything radical. The color scheme had changed, but that was the main difference. Red replacing blue. No black except for the team name on the front of the shirt. 'Wolves' at home and 'Toronto' on the away jersey.

Fred gave a small sigh, trying to keep his dismay hidden. Millard was going off his rocker with this stuff. The logo wasn't bad, but this "killer" stuff.... It was going to be a long season.
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Toronto Wolves Logo, 1950
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legendsport · 02-22-2024, 10:19 AM

March 10, 1950: Hollywood, FL:

Deuce Barrell loved spring training. He'd once made the mistake of admitting this to Charley McCullough. Charley, then just a player like Deuce, had ribbed him incessantly about it. Now, Charley was the player-manager of the Cannons (and more the latter than the former these days), and had stood up in front of the team and told every one of the 47 men there that they should "Be like Deuce. He loves spring training, and you should too." So he'd taken more than his fair share of grief since that first day.

The good news was that today marked the spring opener and Deuce would get the ball against the Toronto Wolves. Even better, the Wolves were managed by Deuce's uncle Fred. Not for the first time, Deuce wondered why his two favorite uncles were Fred and Tom, both of whom managed teams in the Continental Association and were therefore competitors to his own ballclub.

He'd asked Charley about this (manager or not, Charley was still Deuce's best friend, and since he was married to Gloria, also his brother-in-law). Charley of course had replied, "Of course you like those guys. It takes a special man to be a manager, Deuce." Then he slapped Deuce on the shoulder and started walking away. A moment later, Deuce shouted after him, "Oh, stow it, Charley!"

"That's 'Skipper' to you, Barrell," Charley had said without turning around. Deuce thought he was chuckling as he said it.

Debbie and their son were with Deuce in Florida. The little guy, whom they named Rufus Barrell III, was 14 months old and cute as a button. Surprisingly to Deuce he was also a redhead. This made him, according to Gloria, the "first Rufus Barrell to actually deserve that name." Deuce, having brown hair so dark it was nearly black, had wondered about the boy's hair color, particularly because of the incident with Tom Holmes. Gloria reminded him that Debbie was a strawberry blonde, so a redheaded child wasn't specifically a reason for concern. And she added that Holmes wasn't a redhead either.

It was Charley who'd suggested calling the boy "Tripp" instead of Rufus, noting, "No disrespect, buddy, but that name is... a little old-fashioned." Debbie and Gloria had also been skeptical. "What kind of name is 'Tripp' Charley?" his sister had asked her husband.

"Well, you know... like a three-bagger, a triple. If this kid doesn't turn out to be a ballplayer, I'll be a monkey's uncle," Charley had said, adding "And Rufus Barrell is a big name to live up to."

Deuce found himself agreeing - it was his father who'd dubbed him (the second Rufus Barrell) "Deuce" despite some rather vehement protests from Deuce's mother.

"I like it," Deuce announced. Debbie, surprisingly, dropped her opposition, as did Gloria, noting with a shrug, "Hey, it's your kid."

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It was nearly game time, and Deuce was warming up down the left-field line. Deuce was gradually working himself up to game speed, throwing a little harder each time. Behind him, pitching coach Jake Smith noted, "I was always jealous of hard you can throw, Deuce. We lefties aren't supposed to be fast, you know?"

Smith had been Deuce's team mate not that long ago and he was left-handed, but more in the "crafty" mold than Deuce, who'd inherited the strong arm of the Barrell clan.

"I've always been able to throw hard, Jake," he said. He shook his arm out a little.

"Everything all right?" Smith asked. Everyone in the organization remembered the injury problems Deuce had gone through a few years back. Doria and his staff might be long gone, but a ballclub seemed to have a memory all its own; as the pieces came and went, the club just moved forward.

"Yeah, I'm good," Deuce said - and it was true. His arm felt great. He nodded towards the dugout as Charley McCullough emerged and began walking towards them. "Look at how he walks?" he told Jake, referring to the bandy-legged gait Charley now employed. "Is that in the manager's handbook?"

Jake chuckled and Charley arrived narrow-eyed. "What are you two goofing about?" he asked.

"Oh, nothing," Deuce said with a straight face.

"Uh-huh," Charley said. He looked from one to the other, then seemed to shrug it off. "Don't overdo it Deuce," he told his star pitcher.

Deuce rolled his eyes. "Come on Charley," said.

"No, none of that 'Charley' stuff, Deuce, I mean it," Charley said, and his stern look showed he meant it.

"I know you want to go out there and throw it through a brick wall or something," Charley went on. "But rein it in. This here game doesn't mean anything. We're just getting ourselves ready for the real thing," he concluded. Beside him, Jake Smith was nodding. "Couldn't have said it better myself," he agreed.

Deuce shook his head, but said, "Fine."

Charley nodded and walked off with his strange "manager" walk. Deuce wondered if he was just copying Ad Doria who'd walked the same way.

Deuce looked at Jake and said, "The only thing Charley knows about pitching is that it's hard to hit it."

Jake laughed again.

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After the game, which the Wolves won by a 7-0 score, Deuce walked out of the ballpark to find his wife talking with Fred Barrell.

"Hi, honey," Deuce said to his wife and pecked her on the cheek. "Where's Tripp?" he asked.

"With the sitter," Debbie replied. "If we're going to to dinner we don't need the baby there."

"Tripp?" Fred asked with a raised eyebrow.

Deuce grinned. "Sure," he began, "You remember how my Dad named me Deuce to separate me from grandpa?" Fred nodded. "Well, Charley... he thought we should do something like that for Rufus the third. So... Tripp."

Fred tipped his head a little to the side, and thought. "Well, I can see how you'd get there, but if you're Deuce and my Pop is gone, there's no other Rufus Barrell to confuse anyone," he said, with a slight smirk that tipped Deuce to the fact that he was being ribbed.

"True, but what kid wants to go through life stuck with that name?" Deuce replied.

Fred laughed. "Fair enough, I suppose," he said.

Deuce put a mock frown on his face. "Guess you couldn't have your boys go easy on us, huh?"

Fred shook his head. "Not a chance. Besides, you did pretty well," he pointed out. And Deuce had done well: four and two-thirds innings, three hits, one run - earned, two walks and six strikeouts. He'd only gotten a bit of an earful from Charley who'd thought he was throwing too hard. When he told Fred this, his uncle nodded and explained that as a manager your perspective changes and you have to think of the good of the club too, not just cheering on your best friend.

"He's too competitive for his own good," Gloria McCullough noted, walking up behind her twin brother. Charley was right next to her.

"That runs in the family," Fred said with a fond smile. "Let's go eat!"

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Deuce Barrell and his uncle Fred, Florida 1950
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legendsport · 02-23-2024, 11:41 AM

March 20, 1950: Clearwater, FL:

Bobby Barrell lay facedown on the trainer's table, the trainer working some liniment into his sore back.

"Those old bones bothering you, Bob?" he heard a voice ask.

Bobby craned his neck to see who had spoken. Jack Brinker, he thought. That figures.

"What are you doing in here, Brinker?" Bobby asked, adding, "This is players only."

Brinker, the son of the freshly-retired John Brinker Sr., who had been the self-appointed biographer of the Barrell family, shrugged and said, "I have something for you, and Ames said it was okay to come in here."

Bobby sighed. It figured that Carl Ames, the Keystones skipper, would let Brinker in. The guy was too laid-back for his own good—or the team's own good—sometimes. "What do you have?" Bobby said, the words coming in a near groan as trainer Paul Lauderback found a particularly knotty place on his back.

"A copy of my father's book. Signed, of course," was the response.

"Book? What book?" Bobby asked. He hadn't known the elder Brinker was writing a book.

"It's a biography of your father," Brinker explained.

Bobby raised a hand and said, "Hold on, Paul," to the trainer. He sat up and worked a kink out of his neck. He was shirtless, and he noticed that the young sportswriter was staring at his muscled, but bullet-scarred, forearm and scowled.

"What do you mean a book about my father?" he asked, now genuinely annoyed and on the verge of anger.

"My father was working on a bio of your father when he died," Brinker said, then quickly added, "I was sorry to hear about it, by the way."

"Uh-huh," Bobby replied in a vexed tone. "My Pop was okay with this?" he asked.

"Sure, he was involved. My dad did over ten interview sessions with Rufus and a few more with your mother."

"My mother," Bobby said, his frown deepening.

"Yes, well, Dad believed it would be a good idea. No one knew Rufus Barrell better than his beloved Alice, right?"

"Right," Bobby replied and rubbed his chin. "Okay, so where is it?"

"Where's what?"

Bobby shot him a look. "The book?"

"Oh, yeah, sorry." The kid opened his briefcase and pulled out a rather thick book. Then he handed it to Bobby.

Bobby read the title aloud, "The Life and Times of Rufus Barrell."

"Yes, Dad wanted to call it 'Baseball Lifer' but Rufus didn't like that."

Bobby flipped it open. Sure enough, the crusty old newsman had signed it. "Your father's signature is harder to read than mine," he quipped.

Brinker smiled. "He hasn't had as much practice with autographs as you have," he replied.

Bobby nodded. "True," he said. Then he looked at Brinker. "Thanks, and tell your father the same," he said. He weighed the book in his hand. "Pretty heavy. Tell your father it better be good, or I'll find him and brain him with it," he said, smiling.

Brinker stared at him, then blinked twice, said, "Sure," and turned and walked out.

"You really gonna read that?" Lauderback asked after Brinker had walked out.

Bobby shrugged and thought a moment. "Probably," he said, thinking that if he didn't, Annette would, and she could fill him in.

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While Bobby was talking with Brinker, Roger Cleaves was working on a buckle on one of his shin guards.

"Whatcha doin' Rog?" asked the kid in the locker next to his, Don Berry.

"This buckle's loose," Roger said, not looking up.

"Don't we have, uh, equipment guys for that?" Berry asked.

Roger rolled his eyes but reminded himself that he had been a know-nothing rookie not so long ago himself. "Sure," he replied. "But he's not the one who has to wear this thing, and if Joe Quade buries one of his heaters in the dirt and it kicks up into my leg, I need to be sure this is going to hold." He shook the shin guard at Berry. "So I do it myself."

"You learn that in the Marines?" Berry asked. Ever since he'd learned that Roger had seen a lot of combat in the war, he'd been chatting him up every chance he got. Berry was 21 and therefore too young to have gotten the call to duty.

"No," Roger said deadpan. "They didn't hand out shin guards in the Corps."

"How's Evelyn?" the kid asked, surprising Roger with the change of subject.

"She's fine," Roger said, regretting the fact that Bobby, who had the locker on his other side, had mentioned the fact that his wife was nearing her due date and done it in front of Berry.

"Baby's due, right?"

"Right," Roger said. The baby, their second, had been due on the 15th. Evelyn was getting antsy, and so was Roger.

"You worried about Dwayne?" Berry asked.

Roger turned to him and gave him a hard look. "How the hell do you know about my son?" he asked.

Berry looked uncomfortable. "I, uh, asked Bobby if you already had any kids," he explained. Roger's frown deepened. "You know, after he was asking about your wife..."

Roger decided he might have to harm his uncle. Assuming he could, of course. Roger was strong, but Bobby was generally considered one of the strongest players in FABL.

He took a deep breath and reminded himself that Berry was just being friendly. "Look, Don," he said, "I'm kind of a private person, and we just met, you know?"

Berry nodded, but he looked crestfallen.

"To answer your question, we think Dwayne will be fine with his little brother... or little sister. He's a good kid, takes after his mom," Roger said, feeling uncomfortable.

He saw Bobby come out of the trainer's room, carrying his jersey in one hand and a... book?... in the other.

"Look, Don," Roger said, "I heard Robicheaux has some new kind of sunglasses, supposed to help you outfielders find the ball on a sunny day or something..."

Berry perked up. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. The rep from the company was here yesterday, handing them out. You should ask Davey if he has any extras...."

Berry was excited and went off to see Davey Robicheaux. Let the crazy Cajun deal with him, Roger thought.

Bobby plopped down on his stool and tossed his jersey into his locker.

"What's with the book?" Roger asked him. He'd never seen Bobby read anything. On the train, he was a card-player, not a reader.

Bobby held the book up. "John Brinker wrote a book about my father," he said.

Roger's eyebrows went up. "A book about Gramps? I'll want to read it when you're done," he said.

"I don't know if I'll read it," Bobby admitted. "I might just let Annette read it and tell me what's in there."

"Why wouldn't you read it?" Roger asked.

"Well, I know the story, for one thing. Or I know what I feel like I want to know, maybe..." he admitted.

"Huh," Roger said. "I wouldn't think there'd be anything bad in there. I mean, I know I didn't know he was my grandfather till I was a teenager, but if there was ever a straight arrow, it was Rufus Barrell."

Bobby looked thoughtful. "Yeah," he said, but he had a faraway look in his eye as he said it, as if he wasn't quite certain about that.

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Bobby Barrell (center) runs with his team, spring training 1950. Roger Cleaves is at far left.
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legendsport · 05-17-2024, 10:30 AM

December 31, 1950: Augusta, GA:

Charlie Barrell walked off the court, his head down despite his team winning the game against the visiting St. Matthew's College Senators by a final score of 53-31.

He lagged behind his teammates, who jogged towards the locker room in high spirits. The Colonels were 10-2—a good, but not great, follow-up to their undefeated National Championship season, in Charlie's opinion. Currently ranked eighth, Charlie believed his team was good enough to go back-to-back and win another AIAA Tournament and National title. However, he had been distracted for weeks by the weight of a potentially life-changing decision.

The January phase of the FABL Draft was approaching, and Charlie was both eligible and potentially the top pick. A three-sport athlete, Charlie excelled at basketball and baseball and was a good player on a mediocre Colonels gridiron squad. But he had never truly decided which sport he wanted to pursue professionally.

Entering the draft meant leaving school a year early, likely ending his chances of playing in the AFA. Basketball presented a unique challenge; his uncle Rollie had told him that his situation was unprecedented. While no rule explicitly prohibited a junior from entering the FBL, it had never happened, and some FBL clubs would likely protest if Charlie entered the basketball draft early.

As Charlie walked along, the usual shrieks from girls lining the rail rained down upon him. Typically, he basked in the feminine attention (they didn’t call him Heartbreak Kid for nothing), but this time he was too preoccupied to notice.

When he entered the locker room, Coach Bynum congratulated the team on the win and mentioned Charlie by name: "See Barrell here, fellas? He had, by most measures, a bad game offensively... shot 1 for 10 and had three turnovers... but he also had," he paused and looked at assistant Gary Kirby, who showed him a stat sheet, "two blocked shots and five steals. That, fellas, is how you make an impact on the game even when you're not shooting well."

Several of his teammates clapped Charlie on the back as he walked to his locker. He put on a half-hearted smile and nodded his thanks.

Bynum spoke for a few more minutes, wished everyone a Happy New Year, and went into his office with Kirby.

Moments later, the press were allowed into the locker room. Charlie knew they would be coming for him, and he wasn’t wrong.

"Charlie! Have you decided about the baseball draft?" asked the kid from the school’s newspaper. Charlie always answered his questions first. The Atlanta paper was there, along with Augusta (of course), and a couple of faces Charlie didn’t recognize.

"No, not yet, Skip," Charlie replied. "I suspect that I won’t decide for sure until I absolutely have to," he explained.

He gave variations of the same "I don't know yet" answer to the other reporters. Then one of the strangers pushed to the front and asked, "I’ve heard your father wasn’t much of a baseball player... or fan for that matter. Will that impact your decision?"

Charlie frowned. How did this guy know anything about Joe Barrell?

"Sorry, I didn’t catch your name, mister," he replied.

"Oh, I’m John Brinker Jr.," the man replied, "though I go by Jack now."

Charlie remembered now... this must be the son of the man who’d fancied himself the "official biographer" of all things Rufus Barrell. His father and grandfather had both passed on, but the Brinkers apparently weren’t done covering the Barrell clan.

Charlie considered brushing the question off, then decided to answer it. "Well, Jack, I don’t think much about what my father would want. He’s been gone a long time, and I was just a squirt when he passed away. My mother, on the other hand, would very much like for me to enter the draft. My uncles, Rollie, Fred, Bobby, and Harry... they’ve all told me pretty much the same thing: follow your instincts. Which is probably what my dad, and certainly what my grandfather, would have told me. So that’s what I’m doing."

Brinker followed up before anyone else could get a question in. "What about Dan Barrell?"

"I haven’t talked to him," Charlie replied, adding that it wasn’t anything against his uncle, but Dan Barrell was now the FABL President and had a vested interest.

"And your brother?" someone else inquired.

"I haven’t spoken to Deuce since Christmas. We didn’t talk about baseball... just family stuff," Charlie replied. No one asked about Roger: that particular tidbit was a bit of a taboo subject for the reporters. A little too tawdry, Charlie figured.

The school’s media relations guy came over and shooed the press away. Charlie showered, dressed, and left.

He found his mother waiting patiently outside the gym. It impressed him that she, a genuine film star, was spending New Year’s Eve in Augusta instead of attending some glitzy Hollywood party.

"I suppose they asked about baseball," she said, getting right to the point.

"They did," Charlie responded.

"Have you decided?" she pressed.

"Yes," Charlie said. He took a deep breath and said, "I’m entering the draft."

"Good," his mother said and pecked him on the cheek.

"But..." he added, "I have conditions. I can’t sign till June, so I will finish out this year, and I will return to school in the fall. I will play my senior season of football and basketball here at Noble Jones. If whoever drafts me can’t live with that, well... I won’t sign."

His mother looked at him sternly. She stared for a moment, then nodded and said, "Fair enough."

With that, Charlie Barrell took his mother by the arm, and they went off in search of dinner.
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Charlie Barrell talks with his mother on 12/31/50
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legendsport · 06-20-2024, 02:50 PM

June 4, 1951, Philadelphia, PA

Bobby Barrell sat in the living room of his Philadelphia home, staring out the window with a vacant expression. The vibrant world outside seemed to mock his current state of immobility. His back ached fiercely, a constant reminder of the torn muscle that had abruptly halted his career. At nearly 41, he had been contemplating retirement, but this was not the way he had envisioned it.

The front door burst open, and the familiar, chaotic noise of his two sons filled the house. Ralph, 11, and Bobby Jr., 7, charged into the living room, books and lunchboxes dropping to the floor with thuds and clangs.

"Hey Dad, guess what? I scored two goals in soccer today!" Ralph announced, his face flushed with excitement.

Junior, not to be outdone, shouted, "And I got a gold star for my drawing!"

Bobby's temper, already frayed, snapped. "Keep it down, will you?!" he barked, his voice harsher than he intended.

The boys froze, their smiles fading. Annette, who had been in the kitchen, appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on a dish towel. "Boys, go wash up for dinner," she said softly, her eyes darting to Bobby with concern.

"But Mom, I wanted to show Dad my drawing," Junior protested, his lower lip quivering.

Annette gave him a gentle push toward the stairs. "You can show him after dinner. Go on now."

As the boys trudged upstairs, Bobby buried his face in his hands. "I'm sorry, Annette," he muttered. "I didn't mean to snap at them."

Annette sat beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder. "I know, Bobby. It's just... you're frustrated. This injury... it's hard on all of us."

Bobby let out a bitter laugh. "Frustrated? That's putting it mildly. I'm useless. I can't even play catch with my own sons. What kind of father am I?"

Annette's eyes softened, shge knew Bobby had idolized his own father and constantly graded himself against a somewhat unrealistic standard. "You're a wonderful father. You're just going through a tough time. You'll get through this."

Bobby shook his head. "I'm not so sure. I've been thinking about retirement for a while now, but I wanted to go out on my own terms. Not like this."

Annette squeezed his hand. "You'll recover, Bobby. It might take time, but you will."

Bobby's eyes were filled with a mixture of anger and sadness. "And what if I don't? What if this is it for me? I can't just sit around the house all day. I need to be out there, on the field, doing what I love."

Annette took a deep breath. "Maybe it's time to think about what's next. You've had an amazing career. You've done more than most people could ever dream of. But maybe there's a new chapter waiting for you."

Bobby looked at her, his expression softening slightly. "What if I'm not ready to turn the page?"

Annette smiled gently. "Then we'll take it one day at a time. Together."

Just then, the boys came back downstairs, their footsteps tentative. Ralph held a piece of paper in his hand. "Dad, I wanted to show you my drawing. It's of you, playing baseball."

Bobby's eyes welled up as he took the drawing from Ralph. It was a crude but heartfelt depiction of him in his Keystones uniform, swinging a bat. "It's great, son," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "Really great."

Junior climbed onto Bobby's lap, careful not to jostle him. "Dad, can we play catch when you get better?"

Bobby ruffled Junior's hair. "You bet we can, champ. You bet we can."

Soon Bobby was joshing Ralph about soccer. "I still don't get why you'd want to play a game where you can't touch the ball with your hands," he said with a smile. This was an old and common topic with his oldest son. "You trying to turn into a Brit on me?"

As the family gathered around for dinner, Bobby felt a small flicker of hope. It would be a long and grueling recovery, and he wasn't sure what was on the other side. He still loved the game, but deep in his heart, he knew his skills had faded. Accepting that and facing the end of his career would be tough, maybe tougher than his recovery, but with Annette and his boys by his side, maybe he could find a way to face it. His face grew sad as he thought about his father. What would Rufus' counsel be?

He saw Annette looking at him with concern. He brightened up and told her he was just thinking about his father. She nodded, saying, "He left a pretty big hole, didn't he?"

Bobby nodded in agreement.

Bobby Barrell at home with his sons, 1951

legendsport · 06-27-2024, 04:33 PM

July 8, 1951, Boston, MA:

Harry Barrell winced as he shifted in his seat, trying to find a comfortable position despite the nagging pain in his foot. The Boston Minutemen’s three-game series against the Philadelphia Keystones had just wrapped up, and Harry had invited his nephew, Roger Cleaves, over for dinner. They sat at the dining table in Harry’s comfortable suburban home, a testament to his successful baseball career, complete with a well-manicured lawn where Harry's kids, Reid and Barbara, played.

Sarah Barrell walked in with a pitcher of lemonade, offering a warm smile. "Can I get you some more refreshments, Roger?" she asked.

Roger nodded appreciatively. "Thanks, Aunt Sarah."

As she poured the drinks, Harry couldn't help but grimace. "This plantar fasciitis is no joke, Roger. It's like walking on broken glass every step. I can't believe I have to sit out for two weeks."

Roger, his face showing genuine concern, leaned back in his chair. "I can't imagine, Uncle Harry. I'd go stir crazy if I couldn't play for two weeks. It sounds awful."

Harry nodded. "It really is. I try to stay positive, but the pain is just constant."

Roger took a sip of his lemonade and then said, "It reminds me of a guy I served with on Saipan. He got his heel blown off by a Japanese machine gun. They called it a million-dollar wound because it meant he got to go home. But later, I realized he'd never walk without a limp for the rest of his life."

Harry shook his head, the pain in his foot momentarily forgotten. "War does terrible things to a person.I never saw combat, but I saw plenty of the aftermath when we'd visit the hospitals. Makes this injury seem minor in comparison."

Roger changed the subject, his expression turning serious. "I was talking to Annette earlier. Uncle Bob's really struggling with depression after his back injury."

Harry sighed, his eyes reflecting the worry he felt for his brother. "Yeah, Bobby's been through a lot. It's hard seeing him like this. He's always been the strong one."

Roger nodded in agreement. "It’s tough. I hope he finds a way to pull through."

Sarah rejoined them, asking Roger, "How are Dwayne and Dickie doing?"

Roger's face lit up. "They're doing great, Aunt Sarah. Growing up fast, too. Dwayne's getting into baseball just like his old man."

Sarah smiled. "That’s wonderful to hear. Reid and Barbara would love to see them if you and Evelyn visit."

Harry, trying to lighten the mood, said, "Speaking of young ballplayers, have you heard about your kid brother Charlie signing with the Cincinnati Cannons and getting assigned to Class B?"

Roger rolled his eyes. "It's nuts, Uncle Harry. I've watched Charlie play, and I’m convinced he could handle the FABL level right now."

Harry chuckled. "The kid's got talent, no doubt. We'll see him in the majors soon enough."

Roger then brought up the upcoming FABL All-Star game in Toronto. "You know, I'll be backing up George at the All-Star game. Might even face Deuce if he's pitching."

Harry nodded sagely. "We have a big family, don’t we? And your dad," Harry paused and gave a small, sad smile as he thought of his late brother, "Well, Joe was not much for baseball, it'd sure be funny to see how he'd react to all three of his sons being professional ballplayers."

Roger laughed. "Yeah, we're a bit of a baseball dynasty within a baseball dynasty, if you take my meaning." Harry laughed and nodded.

Harry’s smile faded slightly. "I’m disappointed I’ll be missing the All-Star game. I’m closing in on 3,000 hits, and it would have been nice to be there."

Roger leaned forward, curious. "Do you plan on sticking around to chase Bobby's hit record?"

Harry hesitated, then admitted, "Well I sure won't catch his home run record," Roger laughed again. Harry continued, "But to be honest, I’ve been thinking about managing. I know it sounds crazy, but I’ve been trying to be more of a leader and less of a clown. I think it’s working."

Roger looked incredulous. "You? Managing? I didn’t think you had the temperament for it."

Harry laughed. "I didn’t either, but I’m starting to see it differently. I want to give it a shot."

Sarah returned to the room, smiling as she watched Reid and Barbara play in the yard. "Dinner's almost ready. You boys make sure to wash up."

As Harry and Roger rose from their seats, Harry clapped a hand on Roger’s shoulder. "Thanks for coming over, Roger. It's good to talk about these things."

Roger smiled. "Anytime, Uncle Harry. We’re family, after all."

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Roger Cleaves (L) and Harry Barrell (R) at Harry's home, 1951

legendsport · 07-04-2024, 11:06 AM

August 12, 1951, Cincinnati, OH:

The manager's office at Tice Memorial hummed with the familiar sounds of baseball preparations audible through the office's closed door, yet today a different feeling filled the air. Charley McCullough, the Cannons' player-manager, leaned back in his chair, reminiscing as his best friend and brother-in-law, Deuce Barrell, sat across from him.

"You know, Deuce," Charley began with a wistful smile, "I made the All-Star team back in '41. Seems like a lifetime ago, doesn’t it?"

Deuce chuckled, catching the playful jab. "Sure, Charley, but remember, that was your only All-Star appearance. I’ve made it eight times since '43."

Charley laughed heartily, shaking his head. "Alright, alright. You got me there. But '41 was a banner year, wasn’t it?"

Deuce's grin faded as he leaned forward, his tone more serious. "It was, but it’s 1951 now. You've been a solid manager, but this season’s been rough. We're 54-58 and miles behind the Sailors."

Charley sighed deeply, his eyes turning somber. "Yeah, Deuce, the team’s struggling, and so am I. Hitting .168... I’m more of a liability than a help."

Deuce raised an eyebrow, concern evident in his eyes as he finally caught the gist of his friend's somber mood. "If you're saying what I think you're saying... Are you sure about this, Charley? Have you talked to Gloria?"

Charley nodded firmly. "Yes, Gloria knows. She’s been incredibly supportive. Deuce, it’s time for me to hang up my cleats."

Deuce took a moment, absorbing the gravity of Charley’s decision. Something occurred to him - Charley's retirement would open up a roster spot. "What about my kid brother, Charlie? Think he’s ready to take over second base?"

Charley’s eyes brightened at the mention. "Your brother’s got the chops, Deuce. He’s shown real promise. But that’s up to the GM."

Deuce nodded, pride and concern mingling in his expression. "Yeah, he’s got potential. But it’s a big step."

Charley reached across the desk, a mix of gratitude and resolve in his gaze. "Deuce, you’ve been more than a teammate, more than a brother-in-law. You’ve been my rock through all this."

Deuce grasped Charley’s shoulder firmly, thinking about all the ups and downs they'd shared, first as team mates and friends, and later as family. "And you’ve been mine, Charley. We’ll all get through this together."

Charley drew a deep breath, standing up with a newfound determination. "I’ll tell the team after the game and then the press."

Deuce shook his head. "No, Charley. Tell the team before the game. Let them play knowing the truth, and then announce it to the press after."

Charley considered Deuce’s words, then nodded. "You’re right. The team deserves to know first."

As they exited the office, a silent understanding passed between them. Their bond, forged in the fires of countless games and personal struggles, was unbreakable.

Before the game, Charley stood before his team, his voice steady but his heart heavy. The players, seasoned veterans and rookies alike, listened in stunned silence as he announced his retirement. The respect and camaraderie in the room were palpable.

Later, as Charley faced the press, Deuce stood by his side, not as the club's star player (though that was how the press saw it), but simply to lend his support to his best friend.
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Deuce Barrell (R) taking a question about his friend and manager Charley McCullough (C)

legendsport · 07-08-2024, 09:24 AM

August 13, 1951: Washington, DC:

Dan Barrell sat behind the expansive mahogany desk in his office at the Federally Aligned Baseball Leagues headquarters in Washington, DC. The room was fitting for the President of FABL, a title he'd held since February of 1950, and it exuded an air of gravitas with its dark wood paneling, shelves lined with baseball memorabilia, and a grand window overlooking the city.

Dan cradled the phone receiver against his ear, his voice a blend of sternness and concern. "Mike got into a fight at school? What happened, Gladys?"

His wife’s voice crackled through the line, fraught with worry. "He was defending himself, Dan. Some boys were picking on him because of your position. They called him 'the President's kid' and pushed him around. He threw a punch."

Dan sighed, rubbing his temple. "That boy’s got fire in him, just like most of us Barrells. Did he get hurt?"

"No, he's fine. But the principal wants to meet with us. I think they’re considering a suspension."

"Alright, I'll handle it. I'll call the school later today and set up a meeting." He paused, softening his tone. "Gladys, tell Mike he did the right thing standing up for himself, but he needs to learn to control that temper. He can’t just go around throwing punches."

"I will, Dan. Just... talk to him when you get home."

"I will, promise." As Dan was about to continue, his secretary, Helen Johnson, a no-nonsense woman in her fifties with a sharp mind and impeccable manners, poked her head into the office.

"Mr. Barrell, Chester Coleman is on the phone," she said, her tone betraying a hint of exasperation.

Dan nodded. "Thanks, Helen. Gladys, I have to go. Coleman’s on the line. I’ll see you tonight."

He hung up and picked up the other line. "Chester, what can I do for you?"

Coleman's voice was loud and abrasive, like gravel in a cement mixer. "Barrell, I need a date for that ownership meeting. I’ve sunk millions into that new stadium in Kansas City, and the football team’s contract is riding on us being there for the '52 season. I’m not forfeiting my share because of bureaucratic delays."

Dan kept his voice calm and measured, channeling his father’s patient demeanor. "Chester, I understand your urgency, but scheduling a meeting with the other 15 owners is no small feat. They’re all busy men, and getting them in one place at the same time is like herding cats. We still have eight months before the season starts. Rest assured, there will be a meeting well before then."

Coleman was undeterred. "Eight months is nothing, Barrell. I need this settled now. I can’t have this dragging out."

Dan's grip on the receiver tightened. "Chester, the owners will rubber-stamp the move. They understand the financial stakes. I’ll push to get a date set soon, but you need to give me some breathing room."

A pause, then a grudging acceptance. "Alright, but don’t make me regret this, Barrell. I’m counting on you."

"You have my word, Chester. We’ll get it done." Dan hung up the phone, feeling a wave of relief wash over him.

Helen re-entered the room, her expression a mix of curiosity and concern. "Mr. Barrell, you have a visitor. He doesn’t have an appointment, but he insists it’s important."

Dan frowned. "Who is it?"

Before Helen could answer, a large man strode into the office, his presence filling the room. "Last time I checked, you work for us, Barrell."

Dan looked up, recognizing Tom Bigsby, the imposing owner of the New York Stars. Bigsby, a retired U.S. Army Colonel with a brusque manner and a stellar war record, exuded authority.

"Tom, I wasn’t expecting you. What brings you here?"

Bigsby’s face broke into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. "Got something important to discuss. Mind if I sit?"

"Please." Dan gestured to the chair opposite his desk.

Bigsby sat down heavily. "Matilda Johnson and I are planning to move our clubs to Los Angeles and San Francisco, respectively. 1954 is the target."

Dan nodded slowly. "I suspected as much. The rumors have been rampant since the Kings announced their move to Kansas City. But you know the league by-laws require approval from the other clubs before any relocation can happen."

Bigsby waved a dismissive hand. "The approval’s a formality. We’ll seek it for the 1954 season. I wanted you to know, but we won’t make it public until 1953. Need to keep the fannies in the seats in New York and Philly."

Dan raised an eyebrow. "That’s less than honest, Tom. But I understand your reasoning."

Bigsby leaned back, his expression softening. "It’s business, Dan. You know how it is."

Dan nodded. "I do."

Bigsby stood up. "How about we grab some lunch? Got more to discuss, and it’s better over a meal."

Surprised, Dan agreed. "Sure, let’s go."

As they left the office, they chatted about Dan’s brothers Harry and Bobby. Bigsby expressed regret that Bobby’s season had ended due to injury. "Real shame about Bobby. Kid's had a great career."

"He has," Dan agreed. "He’ll bounce back."

"And your nephew Charlie, hell of a player. Was hoping to draft him, but the Cannons snapped him up."

Dan smiled. "Charlie’s got talent. He’ll do well."

Bigsby winked. "Still might get my man. Own a football team too, remember? Kid’s a hell of a quarterback."

Dan chuckled. "We’ll see, Tom. We’ll see."

As they walked out of the building, Dan couldn’t help but feel the weight of his position pressing down on him. The moves, the politics, the constant negotiations – it was all part of the job. And he knew he had to navigate it all with the same calm, steady hand his father had taught him.

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Dan Barrell (R) meeting with NY Stars owner Thomas X. Bigsby (L) in 1951
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10-29-2023, 11:21 AM	#342
legendsport Hall Of Famer Join Date: Jan 2002 Location: Behind The Lens Posts: 2,933	December 16, 1948: Statesboro, GA: Rollie Barrell took a seat across from his parents' attorney. Leland Wells, attorney-at-law, could have been out of central casting for the role of a Southern lawyer. Clad in a white seersucker suit and donning horn-rimmed glasses, Wells exhibited a distinctive blend of gentility and eccentricity. Despite being in his late sixties, he exuded an air of vitality. For his part, Wells was sitting behind his desk and giving Rollie a practiced appraisal. "I extend my deepest sympathies for your loss... both your losses... Mr. Barrell," Wells spoke in a honeyed tone, the kind that likely appealed to judges and juries. "Thank you, Mr. Wells," Rollie replied smoothly, adding, "Please, call me Rollie." Wells nodded. "Thank you, Rollie." A faint, almost amused hint curved the right corner of his mouth. Then, his smile broadened. "I presume you're here about the farm?" Rollie inclined his head in confirmation. "I knew your grandfather," Wells interjected, taking Rollie by surprise with the shift in conversation. A wider grin remained on Wells' face. "John Barrell was quite the character," he continued, maintaining that glint of amusement. "A man of intense passions, possessing a strong moral compass, and a bit of a daredevil, if only verbally, generally-speaking. Your grandmother, well, she supposedly had her hands full reining in old John." "My father mentioned something of the sort to my brother Joe years ago," Rollie responded. He recounted an instance when Rufus had opened up about his parents and brother Robert, sharing details he typically avoided. Rufus had likened John Barrell to their brother Jimmy - a resemblance in both character and demeanor. "That's consistent with my own memories and my father's accounts of Johnny," Wells explained. "Let me share some family history with you, if I may?" Rollie was genuinely curious, having received little about his father's family from Rufus. "John Barrell was the youngest of Ezekial Barrell's three sons. Ezekial was an obstinate and often cruel man, the owner of a thousand acres of farmland and roughly fifty slaves. John's eldest brother, Phillip, emulated their father. But Robert, the middle son, shielded Johnny from both their father and Phil as much as possible." "When the war emerged, Zeke recruited locals and marched off to join Bobby Lee in Virginia, taking Phil and Bob along, leaving Johnny, who was underage, at home. It was anticipated that Johnny would join the Confederacy should the war protract." "Pop mentioned my grandfather serving but surrendering to the first Union soldiers he encountered," Rollie remarked. Wells wore a solemn expression as he nodded in agreement. "That's the account I've heard too." "Of the three Barrells who fought with Lee, only Phil survived the war. Bob perished at Antietam, and Zeke fell at Gettysburg. Phil was present at Lee's surrender at Appomattox Court House. He returned home to a thousand-acre farm bereft of workers. Johnny surrendered to Sherman's troops and only came back to the farm in August of '65." Rollie's expression turned resolute. "Let me guess, his brother didn't exactly welcome him back," he said. "Indeed," Wells confirmed. "However, Zeke had left a will, granting Johnny a hundred acres, carved from the corner of the property. A hundred acres was insufficient to constitute a full farm, but that's all Johnny had. To his credit, he made do with it. He married your grandmother, had two sons, and though the Reconstruction era was trying, Johnny's unwavering sense of justice and guilt regarding slavery kept him going." "And what became of Phillip?" Rollie inquired, discovering an entirely new chapter of Rufus' family history. "Well, Phillip faced difficulties with the Federal soldiers who arrived in Georgia post-war. He was compelled to sell off his nine hundred acres, bit by bit, until it was entirely owned by a certain Thomas Patterson from Indiana. Losing his land to a northerner was a bitter pill for Phil, but he had no choice. Phil never married, and his subsequent whereabouts have remained a mystery. Rumors circulated that he migrated west, but no one knows for certain. Johnny was indifferent and remained disinterested in Phil's fate." "Why, that's just terrible," Rollie said softy, thinking about how tight-knit the family was now. "Indeed," Wells concurred. "Rufus was aware of all this, I'm certain, and that's why he eventually bought the Patterson land." "But," Rollie interjected, recalling his family's discussions about acquiring the Patterson's land, "I remember Possum and even my mother insisting that my father buy the Patterson land, and he refused." "Because Tom Patterson's son, residing in Indiana, demanded a substantial price," Wells explained. "Pop waited him out," Rollie deduced. Wells tapped the tip of his nose. "Exactly. Rufus knew the land lay idle, but Patterson had to pay taxes on it. So, Rufus waited until the old man found it unaffordable and then bought it from him for a reasonable sum," Wells remarked, smiling. "I should know; I negotiated the sale." "Which brings us to the matter at hand," Rollie pointed out. "My father owned a thousand acres of land, of which ninety percent lay unused, unbeknownst to any of his children." Wells maintained a solemn expression. "For your father, that land held two significant meanings: firstly, it was Barrell land and his by birthright. His grandfather had owned it and his uncle had lost it through his own cupidity and arrogance. The second reason came later, and you can probably guess what it is, having read your mother's will." Rollie took a deep breath before speaking. He said, "I appreciate your candor, Mr. Wells. My father never told any of us anything about this. I suppose my mother knew - Pop had a hard time keeping secrets in general, and no ability at all in keeping them from my mother." Wells smiled and bobbed his head in agreement. "And I gather the land rightfully goes to the person designated in the will, but..." Rollie trailed off, unable to articulate all the queries brewing in his mind. Wells sported a sympathetic expression. "Your father, according to your grandfather, bore an uncanny resemblance to his Johnny's much-adored brother Bob. Bob Barrell was fair, kind, somewhat of an idealist, but fundamentally a good man. Your grandfather personally shared this with me. I'm unsure whether Johnny ever mentioned it to Rufus, or that Johnny had intended to name his first son Robert. Your grandmother, whose red-headed father was named Rufus - Latin for red-haired - insisted her son be named after her father, despite having jet-black hair. The second son, therefore, bore the name of Johnny's cherished older brother. Johnny himself shared many traits with Bob, but was more inclined to test boundaries and made remarks and decisions that unsettled many. Your grandmother, quite rightly in my opinion, feared that certain actions of Johnny could incur the wrath of segregationists." "Segregationists?" Rollie inquired. "Absolutely. Your grandfather harbored no secret of his desire for equality. In certain areas, even today, there remain people firmly opposed to such notions. You're familiar with the fire, but what you might not know is that many, including me, speculated that it was purposely ignited to silence your grandfather forever." Rollie's eyes widened as the pieces of the puzzle began to fit together. "My god," he whispered. Wells sighed and said, "There was no proof of course, and the sheriff was not of a mind to look too hard, either." "As for your father, I believe he returned to prove that the Barrells couldn't be ousted from their land, even by resorting to deadly measures." Rollie sat in stunned silence, absorbing the unsettling possibility that his grandparents might have been victims of foul play. Wells frowned momentarily before resuming, "I met your brother Jimmy only once, if I recall correctly," mentioning that Rollie, Jack, and Joe had all been present during that period. Rollie nodded, recalling a younger Wells's visit to the farm, around the onset of or possibly during the First World War. At that time, he had no inkling - until now - about the attorney's conversation with Rufus. He conveyed this to Wells, who smiled in reminiscence. "Yes, your father was acquiring the remainder of the old Barrell land." Rollie's memory triggered recollections of hiding their "racing car" on the Patterson property. The car was probably still there when Rufus had purchased the land - land that had belonged to his grandfather. "A thousand acres is an extensive expanse," Rollie remarked. "Indeed, it is," Wells agreed. "There's also the car, of course," he added. Rollie's eyes widened again in surprise. "Car? What car?" "The Buick D-55, naturally," Wells mentioned. Rollie grinned. "The car is still there?" "No, it's in storage in Savannah, but it is included in the farm's property," Wells said. Rollie was still smiling as he thought about the Buick. "That vehicle sure caused quite a stir. But Jimmy adored that car." "Yes. As I remember, and again, you were all young at the time, but Jimmy was the very essence of his grandfather. Your father knew it," Wells remarked. "And that's why I'm here," Rollie noted. "I suppose all of this is legally sound, right?" Wells nodded. "Indeed. Your father was relatively renowned, as you're aware. He even smoothed things over with the governor." "The governor?" Rollie asked. "Yes. The state of Georgia had to be informed, and they're going to assist." "Assist with what?" Rollie queried, thoroughly perplexed. "Assist with the construction of access roads, among other things," Wells stated. Rollie was now entirely bewildered. None of these details were in the will. "It's all delineated in this letter," Wells revealed, displaying an envelope. Rollie recognized his father's handwriting on it, labeled "For James." "Clearly, we'll need to bring my nephew here," Rollie acknowledged. Wells simply nodded, saying, "Absolutely." ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ __________________ Hexed & Countered on YouTube Figment League - A fictional history of baseball, basketball, football, hockey & more! Want to join in the fun? Shoot me a PM! Read the story of the Barrell Family - A Figment Baseball tale Same Song, Different Tune - The Barrells in the Modern Era

11-02-2023, 09:22 AM	#343
legendsport Hall Of Famer Join Date: Jan 2002 Location: Behind The Lens Posts: 2,933	December 21, 1948: Statesboro, GA "I don't understand this," James Slocum said, shaking his head in disbelief. Rollie Barrell could relate as he didn't quite understand it all either. And James still hadn't opened the letter, which, according to Leland Wells, explained everything. Rollie's curiosity was killing him. It had taken days to get James to Georgia. For one thing, James now lived in North Carolina, but the biggest factor was that his wife Rose was nearly six months pregnant and had been advised by her doctor not to travel. James didn't want to leave Rose's side, and it took a lot of convincing on Rollie's part to get his nephew to make the trip to Georgia. "The letter explains it all," Mr. Wells said genially. James looked at the envelope in his hand, frowning. "This explains everything?" he asked, waving the letter to punctuate his words. "How can it?" he asked without waiting for a reply to his first question. "My grandparents are both dead, and apparently they decided to leave me 1000 acres of Georgia farmland...." James' voice trailed off. Rollie didn't know the answer to the big, unasked question: why? Leland Wells might know, but he insisted on James reading the letter. "Your grandfather was the one who left the land to you, James," Wells said. "Your grandmother told me that she didn't know about this either, not until after Rufus had passed." James's frown deepened. "I didn't think Grandad kept secrets from Grandma," he said. Rollie nodded - he didn't think Rufus capable of keeping a secret. "I'm not sure I'd call it a secret," Wells explained gently. "Alice knew about the land... she simply didn't know that Rufus had it in mind to give it all to you," he continued. "Mom probably thought it would be split among the children," Rollie opined. Wells nodded in agreement. Rollie pointedly looked at the envelope in James's hand. "Well, are you going to open it?" he asked. James took a deep breath and, using a letter opener Wells had placed on the desk, he opened the envelope. Dear James, By now, you know that I've left the entire Barrell farm, all 1000 acres of it, to you. What I'm certain you don't know is why I've done that. The single-most devastating loss in my life, greater than losing my career, or my parents and brother, was the death of your father. I heard from many people, from my wife, to my children, to folks who knew the family, that Jimmy was "different" than the other Barrell boys. That was certainly true. What no one really knew was how much Jimmy was like his grandfather - my father, John Barrell. Ironically, we named Jack after my father, but Jimmy was the one who ended up being like my Pa. The bigger tragedy is that you and your sister never got to meet your father. Jimmy always went his own way, marched to the beat of his own drummer, or whatever other cliches people use for things like that. He had a very strong moral compass and a singular focus. My father - in my own youth - was much the same way. My mother, and I don't necessarily hold it against her, worked very hard to "tame" my Pa, and though it worked, it left him a quiet and reserved person, which was the antithesis of the firebrand I knew as a boy. Jimmy was the same. My other sons all had a "type" - Joe, Jack, Danny, and Bobby were/are tough and physical, but not what you'd call deep thinkers. Rollie, and maybe this is why he and Jimmy got along so well, is whip-smart, but he is a pragmatist who adapts to the world rather than trying to shape it. To some extent, Fred is the same way. Tom is pragmatic as well, but he is also moody and volatile - something of a mix of Jack and Rollie. And Harry, well, he's unique. I think he has a bit of the idealist in him, but he hides it, or maybe expresses it (I'm never sure) through his playful, humorous nature. Betsy, being the only girl, has always reminded me of her mother; I'm not sure if that's because she's like her, or I'm just blinded by being a man (which is exactly how your grandmother would state it - or she'd simply call me a rube, haha). All of this brings me back to you. Your father dying in that race... well, it killed a part of me and your grandmother. But for you and Agnes, it deprived you of ever knowing your father. Aggie, she had the benefit of being raised by Jack, who is, in all the ways that matter, her father. And you had Powell. Powell is a fine man, faithful, hard-working, and salt of the earth despite being the most talented hitter I've ever seen. And he and your dear mother did an outstanding job raising you. But you missed out on the singular man that was your father. So I gift you this land, the land that belonged to my own grandfather, who was a mean-spirited, bigoted, racist S.O.B. who - according to my father - left a wake of misery throughout his life. My father once told me that if he could find the Yankee soldier who put Ezekiel Barrell in the ground, he'd give him a medal. That was tough to hear for me, I tell you. My uncle Phillip was the same, but my other uncle, Robert, was a good man and my own dear brother was named for him, and of course your uncle Bobby was named for my brother. Sorry for the digression... it's a strange experience writing words you know won't be read until after your death and that of your wife. How long will I have been gone before you read this, I wonder? I hope it has been a long time, for the world will be a much less bright place without my dear Alice in it. My father inherited 100 acres, and my uncle Phil sold off the rest before disappearing to God knows where. My father scraped hard throughout his life - 100 acres is what they call a subsistence farm. You can live on it, but you aren't going to make any headway in life. That was part of why I left - my brother would have been a much better farmer than I, and I perhaps, like my Pa, had some of that rebel, some of that desire to chase my dreams. Those dreams being baseball, of course. Baseball gave me a lot, which is ironic given I never played a single inning of FABL baseball. But it allowed me to make enough money to restore my family's land in its entirety. If your father was still alive, he wouldn't want the farm, but I would have been inclined to give it to him anyway, as a kind of repayment to my father, who I can never repay. Now, with him gone too, I give it to you. I am prouder of you than I can say. You were always a solid citizen, someone who does the right thing even when it isn't the easy thing. And though you look so much like your father, you are a more well-rounded man than he was, less of a tempest, but with the same moral compass, the same drive to do the right thing but tempered by forethought - Jimmy often leaped before he looked. You look before you leap, but if it's right, you leap anyway. Like him, you fought for your country, and I know the moral weight of dropping bombs on cities packed with civilians took a toll on you. Knowing that... is what made me decide to gift you this land. Do something good with it, and do it in honor of John Barrell, and Jimmy Barrell. And do it for me, and your own children and the generations to come. 1000 acres is a lot of land. With your current career, you could put a racetrack on it. You could build a ballpark, you could even farm it, haha! I know you'll do the right thing. Because you're Jimmy Barrell's son but even more, because you're simply a good man. With all my love and respect, your grandfather, Rufus Barrell James had tears running down his face when he finished reading. Silently, he handed the letter to Rollie, who read it and was also teary-eyed at the end. Wells, who did know what was in the letter, said quietly, "Rufus told me that he considered splitting the land between James, Agnes, and Roger. He felt that Roger had gotten a bum deal too, but he also felt that Roger wouldn't have known what to do with the land. 'Roger's going to have a great baseball career, and it will keep him away from here too much. He also grew up outside the family, which isn't true of James, and so has no real sentimental ties to the farm.'" Rollie shook his head. "I never knew Pop was so insightful. Mom did like to call him a rube, and I think he sometimes pretended to be a little dim-witted because it suited his purposes," he said. Wells grinned and said, "That's true. Rufus Barrell was no fool. He didn't have much schooling, but he never stopped learning at the school of life, as they say." James wiped his eyes. "What in the world am I going to do with 1000 acres of Georgia farmland?" he asked. Rollie shrugged but then gave James a shrewd look. "You could do what Pop said: build a racetrack, or a ballpark. Or both, there's plenty of room." "A racetrack? That's a thought, I suppose," James replied. "You could farm it," Wells pointed out. Both James and Rollie looked at him for a moment, then looked at each other and started laughing. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ James Slocum, Statesboro, GA, 1948 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ __________________ Hexed & Countered on YouTube Figment League - A fictional history of baseball, basketball, football, hockey & more! Want to join in the fun? Shoot me a PM! Read the story of the Barrell Family - A Figment Baseball tale Same Song, Different Tune - The Barrells in the Modern Era

11-03-2023, 09:54 AM	#344
legendsport Hall Of Famer Join Date: Jan 2002 Location: Behind The Lens Posts: 2,933	January 28, 1949: Toronto, ON: "This sucks," Freddy Barrell Jr. said. Fred had barely begun to turn to chastise his son when he heard the crack of his wife's palm slapping Junior in the face. "Ow!" the 17-year-old shouted, rubbing his cheek. He glared at his brother Benny, who was smirking. "Watch your mouth!" Tillie barked at her eldest child. Fred grinned at his wife. "What?" she asked, in the same irked tone she'd used on their son. "I'm impressed," Fred said. "You managed to slap Junior without waking the baby," he pointed out, nodding towards the sleeping seven-month-old Lorette Barrell cradled in her mother's right arm. She scowled at Fred for a moment, and then let out a small chuckle. "I've learned to multitask with you away so much," she said, this time without the same heat in her words. The family was looking at their new home. Fred had just been hired as manager of the Toronto Wolves, leaving his scouting job with the Dynamos. Managing had long been a dream for Fred, and though he'd turned down the opportunity to skipper the Cougars after the '47 season, this time the move felt right. Tillie had sarcastically remarked that she'd have hoped he could have found a job with a team in a more southerly climate, a joke that had a hint of truth to it, in Fred's opinion. Junior, Benny, and Hobie were all in agreement with the sentiment Junior had just expressed. They didn't want to move and made no bones about expressing that sentiment. Leaving their friends behind, they were headed to new schools full of kids they didn't know. Junior's budding high school sports career would take a left turn as he'd play his final years at Northern Secondary School instead of Pershing High in Detroit. There had been discussions (very brief discussions), sparked by Junior himself, of allowing Junior to live with Rollie so that he could continue at Pershing. The discussion was brief because Tillie wouldn't stand for it. "My son stays with me," she said firmly, which was fine with Fred, but much less so with Junior himself. "You fellows will adjust," Fred told his sons. They all wore identical looks of disbelief and scorn. The process of changing jobs had been a challenging one for Fred. Not only because it was a big change for him, but also because it was the first major decision he'd be undertaking without having his father around as a sounding board. Rufus knew virtually everyone in baseball, including the owner of the Wolves, Bernie Millard. Fred dearly wished he could have had Rufus' thoughts on the man who'd now be signing his checks. Powell Thompson was a pain in the neck, but he was a pain in the neck Fred knew how to deal with. As scouting director, he worked mostly for the GM in Detroit, with whom he enjoyed a good relationship. Rumor was that Millard was not above going around the GM to let the manager know what he felt, good, bad, or indifferent. That would be an unwelcome change for Fred. His brother Dan had given Fred his impressions of Millard. Dan, after Rufus, was probably the member of the family most familiar with the overall landscape of FABL due to his role as the head of the OSA. Dan had said that Millard was "hard-headed, quick to anger, demanding, and a bit of a condescending prig. But you can handle him." When pressed on how, exactly, he might 'handle' the mercurial Millard, Dan had slapped Fred on the shoulder, grinned, and said, "You'll figure it out." "Hey, look at the bright side," Fred told his sons. "What bright side?" Benny asked, morosely. "Well, we had Uncle Rollie and his family in Detroit," Fred said, continuing, "and here in Toronto, we'll have Uncle Jack and his family." "Sure..." Junior pointed out. "Except that both Uncle Rollie and Uncle Jack only have daughters..." "And they're all older than us too," Benny added. "Well, Aggie is married to Quinton Pollack, that's great, isn't it Hobie?" Fred asked his youngest son, who had become a bit of a hockey fan. "Sure, if I was a Dukes fan. I'm a Motors fan, Dad!" Hobie replied, the exasperated tone in his voice a near-perfect imitation of his mother. Fred shook his head. "Well, we're living here now, so you're just going to have to get used to it," he said. Tillie glared at each boy in turn. It worked only on Hobie. Junior and Ben were now old enough that they didn't quail in fear of Tillie. Fred was still a different matter, and he punctuated his wife's look by firmly saying, "No more complaining, or else." The press conference announcing him as manager had gone well. Millard, who had by all accounts desperately wanted to hire Fred, had been friendly, warm, and enthusiastic, making Fred wonder if Dan had been pulling his leg. That had lasted until after the press had left the room. Then Millard turned to Fred and said, "That went well." Fred nodded pleasantly. Millard continued, "It's your job to make sure that the ballclub goes well. I want a winner, Barrell, and that's why I wanted you. Everyone says you Barrells have the magic touch. Your brother Jack won the Challenge Cup for Welcombe, I expect you to win the World Championship for me." Fred was taken aback, and it showed. Millard's glare faded, and he said, "Look, Fred. I expect results, and I don't beat around the bush. You're here to win. If you don't, you won't be here very long. I want to make that clear, and I know my delivery isn't particularly friendly, but I'm not your friend, I'm your boss." Then he patted Fred on the shoulder, spun on his heel, and stalked off. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Fred Barrell at the 1949 Press Conference announcing him as Toronto Wolves manager ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ __________________ Hexed & Countered on YouTube Figment League - A fictional history of baseball, basketball, football, hockey & more! Want to join in the fun? Shoot me a PM! Read the story of the Barrell Family - A Figment Baseball tale Same Song, Different Tune - The Barrells in the Modern Era

12-27-2023, 03:23 PM	#345
legendsport Hall Of Famer Join Date: Jan 2002 Location: Behind The Lens Posts: 2,933	June 9, 1949: Charlotte, NC On a balmy June day in 1949, the inaugural race of the National Automobile Racing Federation (NARF) commenced at a packed dirt track in Charlotte, North Carolina. The air was charged with anticipation as engines roared and the smell of burning rubber lingered in the atmosphere. Among the racers stood James Slocum, a man torn between the thrill of the race and the weight of familial history in the sport. He felt a mix of excitement and trepidation as he strapped into the driver's seat of the number 11 Oldsmobile. James was not just any driver; he was the son-in-law of Jack Winfield, the man behind the creation of NARF. Racing ran in his blood, but so did the haunting memory of his late father, Jimmy Barrell, who had met his end on the racetrack years ago. His mother refused to attend, which stung. But Claudia Slocum had watched her husband perish in that fiery Indianapolis crash and could not bear the thought of watching her son tempt the same fate. She had telegraphed a simple message to her son from Birmingham, where she now lived with her retired second husband, baseball legend Powell Slocum. The telegram read simply, "Good Luck." As the green flag waved, the cars burst into motion, hurtling around the oval track, kicking up clouds of dust in their wake. James pushed the accelerator, aiming to carve his path toward victory, carrying his father's legacy in each turn. Starting from the 8th position, James swiftly maneuvered through the pack, showcasing his skill and experience gained from years in the Air Force. Lap after lap, he navigated the twists and turns, the Oldsmobile's engine roaring in harmony with his racing heart. But on lap 195, just five laps short of the race's end, disaster struck. Amidst the chaos and fervor of the race, James's car lost traction in the corner. This was normal - part of the challenge of racing on dirt was handling the slide through the corners. But this time the Oldsmobile spun out of control, the crowd gasped in a mad mix of thrill and horror, and within seconds, the car collided with the track's barriers, sending a cascade of dirt and debris into the air. Silence fell over the spectators as the dust settled. Concern etched on their faces as they watched the scene unfold. Several onlookers rushed to the crash site, their urgency palpable. The Oldsmobile bore the brunt of the impact, its once proud frame now battered and crumpled. James emerged from the wreckage, shaken but thankfully unharmed. His dreams of triumph dashed, replaced by a mix of disappointment and relief that he emerged without injury. Amongst the throng of people, Jack Winfield approached James, his face a blend of concern and paternal pride. "You're safe, son," Jack said, his voice a mix of relief and reassurance. James nodded, acknowledging the comfort in Jack's words. "I'm sorry, Jack," he said, the weight of the moment heavy in his voice. "I thought I had it, but the car just got away from me." Jack placed a reassuring hand on James's shoulder. "It happens, son. Racing's about risks and sometimes, things don't go as planned. What matters most is that you're okay." James nodded; his last thought before the car plowed into the makeshift barrier had been of Rosie and their son. The boy, born in March, had been named James Powell Slocum, Rosie having agreed with James' request to name the baby for both his birth father and the man who'd filled that role so capably throughout his life. As the sun dipped below the horizon, marking the end of the race, James watched from the sidelines as the other cars thundered past the finish line. The number 11 Oldsmobile sat battered but served as a testament to his courage and determination on the track. His mechanic, Roscoe Little, had shook his head upon seeing the car. "Y'all need a new car," he'd said. Despite the disappointment of finishing in 22nd place after starting strong, James held his head high, knowing that he'd lived through the adrenaline rush, the twists and turns, and the spirit of competition that defined his father's world. As the crowd dispersed, James walked away from the wreckage, his mind already contemplating the next race, determined to honor his father's legacy, even if the road ahead held its own share of challenges. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ James Slocum before the June 9, 1949 race at Charlotte ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ __________________ Hexed & Countered on YouTube Figment League - A fictional history of baseball, basketball, football, hockey & more! Want to join in the fun? Shoot me a PM! Read the story of the Barrell Family - A Figment Baseball tale Same Song, Different Tune - The Barrells in the Modern Era

02-01-2024, 10:39 AM	#346
legendsport Hall Of Famer Join Date: Jan 2002 Location: Behind The Lens Posts: 2,933	December 4, 1949: Detroit, MI: Rollie Barrell sat alone in his office at the Detroit Maroons' headquarters, stewing in frustration. The dimly lit room cast long shadows across the walls, mirroring the shadows of doubt that loomed over his mind. It was December 4, 1949, and the Maroons, the football team he owned, had started the season winless. Not just winless, but stuck in the quagmire of a 10-game losing streak that seemed insurmountable. And most of Rollie's ire was directed squarely at one man: Frank Yurik, the crusty curmudgeon who served as the team's minority owner and head coach. Rollie's daughter Allie, his trusted advisor, had long defended Yurik, citing his deep roots in the community and his storied history with the club. She argued that Yurik's presence was a necessary evil, a link to the past that lent the Maroons a sense of continuity and tradition. But Rollie couldn't shake the feeling that there must be a way to oust Yurik, to usher in a new era of success for the struggling team. As Rollie mulled over his options, a glimmer of hope pierced through the gloom, which complicated matters. The Maroons had finally clinched a victory, breaking their dismal losing streak with a resounding 24-7 win over the visiting Boston Americans at Thompson Field. Yurik, with his old-fashioned running offense, had finally found success, but Rollie couldn't help but feel that it was a fleeting moment of triumph in an otherwise bleak season. The victory only served to highlight the shortcomings that Rollie saw in Yurik's coaching style. The Maroons needed to modernize, to adopt a more well-rounded offense that could adapt to the changing landscape of professional football. And Yurik's poor drafting decisions had left the team with a quarterback, Dutch Van Houten, whose skills were better suited to running than passing. As Rollie weighed his options, a sense of unease settled over him. Should he go to the board and push for Yurik's ousting? It would mean buying out the coach's shares in the club, a move that could strain Rollie's already tenuous relationship with his fellow owners. Despite being the majority shareholder, with just over 50% of the stock, Rollie was wary of appearing to be a dictator. Compounding that issue was that Rollie's preferred replacement for Yurik would be offensive assistant Tom Bowens. Bowens was a sharp man with a clear vision and experience playing with and later coaching a pass-first quarterback during his time with the Americans in Boston. Ironically, that quarterback was Del Thomas, who had just played against, and lost to Yurik's prehistoric offense. Bowens' credentials were not the issue. The issue was that Bowens also happened to be married to Rollie's sister. The stain of nepotism was one Rollie would prefer to avoid. Yet something needed to be done and Bowens was the obvious, and best, choice. The decision weighed heavily on Rollie's shoulders as he sat alone in the quiet of his office. The game was long over and everyone had left except for the groundscrew working on the frozen grass field, always a challenge in a Detroit winter with the temperature in the high teens. The flickering light of the desk lamp cast a stark contrast to the darkness that enveloped him, mirroring the uncertainty that clouded his mind. In that moment, Rollie knew that the fate of the Detroit Maroons hung in the balance, and the choice he made would shape the future of the team for years to come. As the clock ticked away the minutes, Rollie found himself teetering on the edge of a precipice, unsure of which path to take. Would he stay the course with Yurik, clinging to tradition and familiarity, or would he take a bold leap into the unknown, risking everything in pursuit of a brighter future for the Maroons? Only time would tell. And for Rollie Barrell, time was running out. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Detroit Maroons coach Frank Yurik in better times ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ __________________ Hexed & Countered on YouTube Figment League - A fictional history of baseball, basketball, football, hockey & more! Want to join in the fun? Shoot me a PM! Read the story of the Barrell Family - A Figment Baseball tale Same Song, Different Tune - The Barrells in the Modern Era

02-02-2024, 05:33 PM	#347
legendsport Hall Of Famer Join Date: Jan 2002 Location: Behind The Lens Posts: 2,933	December 12, 1949: Philadelphia, PA: Annette Barrell stood in the kitchen of the home she shared with her husband, Bobby, and their two children, nine-year-old Ralph and six-year-old Bobby Jr., whom they called simply "Junior." She gazed out at the shed in the backyard, lost in thought and remembrance of what had transpired the previous night. Bobby Barrell had long since established himself as a legend on the baseball diamond. He held the single-season home run record, was the second man to reach 600 home runs, had over 3500 hits, and was at or near the top of a slew of other hitting categories as well. The Philadelphia Keystones had made him the highest-paid player in history—his current salary higher than even the immortal Max Morris back in the latter's 1920s heyday. But Bobby had been in a funk for the past year. Sure, he'd "done his job," as he put it: the 1949 season had seen him hit .289 with 39 homers and 108 RBIs while eclipsing both the aforementioned 600 homer and 3500 hit thresholds. Yet he did it all under a self-inflicted cloud. He was 39 years old, and both his parents had died the previous year. Annette had been worried for a while before the events of the previous Friday. The boys had come home from school, and Bobby had been puttering around the house. Then he'd disappeared. "Ralphie, have you seen your father?" Annette had asked as she was finishing dinner. "Nope, not since I got home from school," her son had replied. Junior had said much the same a moment earlier. Frowning, Annette had looked out the same kitchen window at the shed. She grabbed her coat off the hook and quietly slipped out the back door of her home, her coat pulled tight around her. Stepping into the crisp air of the backyard, Annette slowly made her way to the shed. This small wooden shed was where Bobby often sought solace amidst the relics of his past. Through the frosted window pane, she glimpsed him, hunched over his worktable, a bat in hand and a weathered bone resting beside it. It was a ritual she had observed countless times, Bobby running the bone along the contours of his beloved bat, lost in thought. That bat had been a gift from Bobby's father. Rufus had given it to him on the occasion of his first game in the FABL. Bobby had never used it in a game, it was simply too precious to him and he would be devastated if he ever broke it. An Olympic athlete herself once upon a time, Annette was intimately familiar with the inner workings of an athlete's mind and understood the silent battles Bobby waged within himself. She knew that beneath the veneer of stoicism lay a heart heavy with the weight of impending decisions. Decisions that he probably should make in tandem with her, but she forced down any resentment about this and made a decision herself. Returning to the warmth of the house, Annette knew she couldn't face this alone. She reached for the telephone, dialing the number engraved in her memory. Tom, Bobby's older brother and the manager of the Brooklyn Kings, was her lifeline in moments like these. As Annette poured out her concerns to Tom, she felt a glimmer of hope stir within her. Tom's steady voice offered reassurance, a beacon of wisdom in the stormy sea of uncertainty. He promised to come, to lend his ear and his counsel to his troubled brother. Days later, as the winter sun cast long shadows across the Barrell household, Tom and his wife Marla arrived, their presence a balm to soothe the ache in Annette's heart. Together, they sat with Bobby, sharing stories of triumph and tribulation, reminding him of the indomitable spirit that had carried him through the highs and lows of his career. "Take it from me, Bob," Tom said in a soft tone that sounded strange to Annette's ear. Tom Barrell was not typically the quiet, stoic type. "You need to make the most of the time you have left," Tom continued. Bobby looked into his brother's eyes. "You have regrets, Tommy?" he asked. Tom looked at his wife for a moment, then nodded. "Sure. Sometimes," he said then frowned and added, "Hell, yes, I have regrets. My body broke down on me. You're heading to the Hall when you're done, you galoot, but you get to go out on your own terms." A moment of quiet fell on the room. Tom teared up a bit. Bobby, seeing this, averted his gaze, but Marla placed her hand on her husband's and he spoke again, this time in a near-croak. "I'd give my left arm to be where you are, Bob. So would Harry, I'd wager, and he's had a fantastic career himself." Bobby simply nodded, a weary look on his face. Tom took a deep breath and offered his final words. "Look, Bob, you do what you think is right. But when you walk away, it's forever. So if you have any love for it, any thought about how much you'll miss it, then you need to keep playing. The fans, your teammates... none of them really matter. You need to do what's right for you. That's how Pop would want it." Bobby nodded again and wiped at his own eyes. Then he looked up at Tom and said, "Your left arm, you say?" Tom grinned and said, "Of course. I'd need the right one to pitch, wouldn't I?" ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Annette Barrell at home, Winter 1949-50 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ __________________ Hexed & Countered on YouTube Figment League - A fictional history of baseball, basketball, football, hockey & more! Want to join in the fun? Shoot me a PM! Read the story of the Barrell Family - A Figment Baseball tale Same Song, Different Tune - The Barrells in the Modern Era

02-09-2024, 10:25 AM	#348
legendsport Hall Of Famer Join Date: Jan 2002 Location: Behind The Lens Posts: 2,933	December 31, 1949: Boston, MA Sarah Barrell peered around the crowded ballroom. "I can't believe you managed to pull this off," she said, turning to look at her husband. For his part, Harry Barrell looked as if he were born to this. His tuxedo, tailored to fit his athletic frame, gave him a debonair look that Sarah found more than a little amusing. She still saw her husband as the quirky, funny goofball she'd met all those years earlier when they'd been children. And even at 36, she thought he was the best-looking man she'd ever seen. Harry, somewhat oblivious to the once-over his wife had been giving him, sipped at his champagne as he surveyed the room. Then he looked over at his wife and said, "This really isn't my kind of crowd." Sarah eyed him speculatively and replied, "Oh, you don't say." Harry shrugged. "I'm a beer and hot dog kind of guy," he said and waved his hand dismissively. "I'm much more comfortable with, you know, the hoi polloi," he added with a smirk. "No arguments here," Sarah said, matching his smirk. After a beat she asked, "So why are we here then?" "Here" being the hottest New Year's Eve ticket in Boston, hosted by the very wealthy and well-connected Barton Gardner. Harry had been very mysterious about the whole thing and Sarah's curiousity was at a fever pitch. "Oh, you know, friend of a friend kind of thing," he said. She noticed he failed to look her in the eye as he said this. "What friend?" Sarah pressed. Harry took another sip of his drink and refused to meet her gaze. She grabbed his chin and turned him to look at her. "Who?" she asked in a hiss. "Uh," Harry stammered. "I'm waiting," Sarah said. Harry sighed. "Fine," he began, "It was Ruthie Barton." Sarah's eyes narrowed. "I should have known," she said heatedly. "That woman has an agenda, Harold," she said. Harry swallowed. He was only "Harold" when she was angry. "Look, Sarah, she's the boss's daughter and she offered me two tickets," he explained. Sarah shot him a dark look. "I still think she wants to get her hooks in you," she growled. As if summoned by Harry speaking her name, Ruth Barton sailed into view, spotted Harry and with a sparkling grin, made her way to them. Sarah's eyes narrowed as she watched Ruth make her way towards them, looking stunningly beautiful in a dress that probably cost more than Harry and Sarah's home. "Why Harry! You made it!" Ruth exclaimed as she pulled Harry into an embrace that looked a little too familiar for Sarah's liking. Harry politely pecked her on the cheek, saying, "Hello, Ruthie." Ruth turned her attention to Sarah. "Mrs. Barrell, it is so nice to see you again," she said, disingenously in Sarah's view. Ruth appeared to take in Sarah's dress with a small downward turn to the corners of her mouth. "Your dress is lovely," she cooed, obviously not meaning a word of it. "Thank you for the invitation, Miss Barton," Sarah replied, smiling her own fake smile. Sarah glanced at Harry - as usual he appeared to be clueless, with a small grin on his face. Sarah loved him to death, but he was as obtuse about women as he'd been when they'd met as 10-year-olds. Ruth engaged them in conversation, one that Sarah felt was pure torture. They were saved when a well-dressed older man glanced their way, then did a double-take at recognizing Harry. Sarah watched as he excused himself and took a well-turned out looking lady by the hand before heading towards Harry. "Well, well, if it isn't Sergeant Barrell," the man said. Sarah couldn't quite place his face, but she felt as though she'd seen his picture somewhere. "Colonel Bigsby!" Harry said with genuine delight. He shot out his right hand and shook the Colonel's hand. "It's good to see you, sir," he said, and Sarah knew him well enough to know he meant it. Sarah noted with some satisfaction that Ruth Barton seemed put out by the interruption. "Colonel Bigsby," she said, extending her hand, "I'm Ruth Barton. I've heard so much about you," she finished with her fake smile. Bigsby kissed her hand before grabbing Sarah's and repeating the process. "Mrs. Barrell, I presume?" he asked. Sarah smiled and nodded. "Nice to meet you, Colonel," she said, adding, "Harry has told me so much about your time together during the war." Bigsby was very gracious as he introduced his wife, Martha Gardner. Her father was the very wealthy, old money, host of the party. Harry, trying to be polite, explained that Ruth was the youngest daughter of Jesse Barton, who owned the Minutemen and whom Harry referred to simply as "Boss." There were a few moments of chit-chat and then Bigsby steered Harry off to the side, asking the ladies to excuse them a moment. Sarah shot Harry a brief look of panic: she was a small-town Georgia girl and felt out of her depth with two very wealthy women, one of whom she felt had designs on her husband. Harry tried to give her a reassuring look as he walked off with Bigsby. "Harry, I wasn't expecting to see you here," Bigsby said. Harry grinned. "I could get in trouble for speaking with you, Colonel. You know, on account of me being a FABL player and you being the 'evil' genius behind the Great Western League and all," he said. Bigsby waved a hand and said, "Well, that might be changing soon." This was a surprise to Harry and it showed. "Really? How so?" he asked. Bigsby lowered his voice. "What I'm about to say needs to stay between us, understand?" Harry nodded. "Sure," he replied. Bigsby smiled a little and said, "I have a deal in the works. Everyone knows old Sam Belton's a mere figurehead now." The Colonel went on, explaining that FABL President Belton had essentially delegated his authority to the league's Board of Governors, which was in turn dominated by Chicago Chiefs owner Billy Whitney. Bigsby had been talking with Whitney about making peace. Whitney, for his part, noted that there would be a great deal of pushback to that concept from several owners, most notably Toronto's Bernie Millard and Boston's Jesse Barton. Bigsby frowned as he said, "Which is one reason I agreed to come to Boston. My wife," he nodded in the direction of the three women chatting nearby (Sarah looked miserable to Harry's studied eye), "is from here and this party is of course, her father's annual shindig. I was hoping Barton would be here, but the man is 82 years old." Harry nodded. "Well, Ruthie's here," he pointed out. "Yes," Bigsby replied, still looking at the women. "She's his youngest, right?" he asked. Harry nodded, explaining that Ruth was indeed old man Barton's youngest, the only offspring from the man's fourth marriage, naturally to a much younger, and quite beautiful woman. "How old is she, anyway?" Bigsby asked. "Thirty, I think," was Harry's reply. "And she hasn't married?" Harry shrugged and shook his head. "My wife thinks Ruthie has set her sights on me," he said sheepishly. Bigsby laughed and said, "Well that explains why your wife looks like she drank a pint of sour milk." Harry looked - and felt - uncomfortable, and Bigsby took the conversation back on track, asking, "You think you can get Miss Barton to talk to her father?" Harry thought it over and said, "I could try." Bigsby was silent a moment, apparently deep in thought. Then he looked at Harry again and asked, "Your brother Tom, he's the skipper of the Kings?" Harry nodded. "I've heard rumors," Bigsby said, "that Prescott might sell the club." Harry's eyes widened. "I haven't heard anything like that," he said. Then he added, "I did hear from Tom, that he heard that the Stars owner, Mielke?" he paused and Bigsby motioned for him to continue, "Is having it out with that Robert Moses guy. Apparently they have bad blood and Moses wants to turn the lot the Stars ballpark is sitting on into a state park or something." Bigsby's face took on a thoughtful look, "Yeah," he said, still thinking, "I can see where that would be an issue." He pulled a small notebook out of his pocket and wrote in it. Harry was wondering what that was all about when Bigsby put the notebook in his jacket pocket and said, "Let's go rejoin the party." When they reached the women, Ruth was saying how much she was looking forward to a whole new decade. Harry winked at his wife and said, "You know, Ruthie, I've been thinking about that," he began, and noted that the whole group was listening to him before continuing, "We count one to ten, right? So if that's the case, wouldn't 1950 be the last year of the forties?" Colonel Thomas Bigsby laughed, his wife wore a look of confusion, Ruthie's brow creased in thought and - best of all to Harry - Sarah grinned and winked back at him. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Colonel Thomas Bigsby, US Army 1945 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ __________________ Hexed & Countered on YouTube Figment League - A fictional history of baseball, basketball, football, hockey & more! Want to join in the fun? Shoot me a PM! Read the story of the Barrell Family - A Figment Baseball tale Same Song, Different Tune - The Barrells in the Modern Era Last edited by legendsport; 02-09-2024 at 10:44 AM.

02-10-2024, 10:28 AM	#349
legendsport Hall Of Famer Join Date: Jan 2002 Location: Behind The Lens Posts: 2,933	Detroit, MI: January 14, 1950: "I take no pleasure in this," Rollie Barrell told the shareholders as he stood at the head of the table. He made a point of looking every man in the eye. Off to one side, Allie Barrell sat primly in a chair pushed up against the wall, quietly watching her father. At the other end of the table sat Frank Yurik. His face was red, and Rollie could tell he was angry. This was understandable. Rollie would be angry in Yurik's position. Rollie stared into Yurik's eyes, expecting an outburst. He was mildly surprised that there wasn't one. "There is, of course, the issue of Mr. Yurik's ownership stake," Rollie said. He again paused, expecting Yurik to speak, and again was surprised that the other man didn't speak up. "The club's bylaws specify that when the coach has an ownership stake, he must sell his shares if his coaching contract is either terminated or is not renewed," Rollie said. None of this was news to the assembled board. Rollie, as the majority shareholder, could do as he pleased, but he wanted to move forward with the support of the board; assuming that support was a possibility. "This won't look good to the fans, Rollie." The man who spoke up was Charles Summers, who owned less than five percent but always tried to wield it as if he owned more. He was also a friend of Yurik's. Rollie looked at his daughter. "Allie?" he prompted. She rose and held a folder. "My father requested we do some market research," she began. "Market research?" Summers interrupted. Allie frowned, and Rollie glared, but it was Allie who replied, saying, "Yes, we contracted with a firm to do a poll of season ticket holders." "A poll? And who paid for this?" Summers asked. "I did," Rollie said firmly. "Out of my own pocket," he added, and when Summers met his glare, finished, "Please allow Allie to finish, Chuck." Slightly chagrined, Summers, who had been leaning forward, his arms on the table, sat back. Rollie noted that he and Yurik exchanged a glance. "Allie?" Rollie prompted again. With a nod, Allie continued, "The poll showed that 42 percent of season ticket holders thought Coach Yurik should be replaced." "So not a majority," Summers muttered, though everyone in the room heard it. "Not a majority," Allie confirmed before continuing, "24% thought he should stay on. The other 34% were uncertain." "Not exactly a resounding vote of confidence, Rollie," Summers pointed out. "Agreed. But the biggest number in there was the one favoring a coaching change," Rollie replied. He looked around the room. "I'd like a vote on this, even though I can pass it without any support. We need a united front. If we agree that Coach Yurik should be replaced, I will buy his shares in the club, unless he has another buyer." "How magnanimous of you, Rollie," Summers said. "And if everyone but you votes against?" Rollie frowned and said, "I hope it doesn't come to that." Rollie called the vote, and everyone but Summers, and of course Yurik, was in favor. "The motion passes. Now, Coach Yurik, how would you like to handle the issue of your shares?" Rollie asked. For the first time, the grizzled coach spoke up. "I will be selling my shares to Charles Summers," he announced. Rollie couldn't help it, he was surprised, and it showed. According to Allie's research, Summers didn't have enough liquid capital to buy Yurik's 25% stake. "We have made arrangements," Yurik said, apparently trying to clarify his position, although it did no such thing. Yurik's stake would make Summers, whom Rollie disliked, the second-largest shareholder in the Maroons. This was not what he had hoped to see transpire, though he wouldn't have to listen to Francie complain about the large debit to their accounts. As the meeting ended and the shareholders left the room, Allie walked over to stand beside her father. Rollie looked at her and gave a sad shake of his head. "Well, that could have gone better," he said. Allie pursed her lips. "Yes. But at least Yurik is gone," she said. Rollie's forehead wrinkled as he thought. "I bet Summers is just a cat's paw. Yurik will be in his ear, telling him how to vote," he said. "And it won't matter as long as you own 51% of the team," Allie pointed out. Rollie took a deep breath, then stood and walked to a telephone on the credenza. Picking it up, he said, "Get me Tom Bowens." ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Logo of the Detroit Maroons, circa 1950 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ __________________ Hexed & Countered on YouTube Figment League - A fictional history of baseball, basketball, football, hockey & more! Want to join in the fun? Shoot me a PM! Read the story of the Barrell Family - A Figment Baseball tale Same Song, Different Tune - The Barrells in the Modern Era

02-12-2024, 07:46 AM	#350
legendsport Hall Of Famer Join Date: Jan 2002 Location: Behind The Lens Posts: 2,933	Toronto, ON: January 23, 1950: Fred Barrell heard a small commotion behind him and, figuring he knew the reason, grinned at his wife. "I guess Jack's here." Tillie turned her head to look. "Yep, there he is," she said with a smile of her own. Jack Barrell drew attention wherever he went. Fred felt both relieved and a little jealous of his older brother. While Fred was the manager of the Toronto Wolves, having been in that job for only one season, Jack was both a legendary player and a Challenge Cup-winning coach in Toronto, and it seemed like everyone recognized him. Sensing his thoughts, Tillie asked, "You're jealous?" Fred shrugged and admitted, "A little. But it is nice to be able to be out in public and not cause a ruckus everywhere I go." To be fair, there had been more than a few autograph requests when the parents of Hobie's teammates on his Under-9 hockey team discovered that Hobie Barrell's father was one of -those- Barrells. Fred was old-hat, but having Jack show up for one of the games... that was a big deal. Fred turned and caught his brother's eye. Jack grinned at him, and Fred returned the smile and nodded. Fred himself was still getting used to hockey. Hobie had taken to the sport like a fish to water. Jack, who had been to a couple of games when his Toronto Dukes schedule allowed it, said that Hobie's affinity for the sport reminded him of his own childhood. "And to think it was Grandpa Reid who introduced me to the sport," Jack said with a sense of fond remembrance for their maternal grandfather, a man who had been a baseball player, manager, and executive and introduced his grandchildren to sports other than baseball. Boxing for Joe, golf for Rollie, and hockey for Jack. Tillie grabbed her husband's arm. A line change had brought Hobie into the game. He was still a bit behind some of the other boys in his skating, but he clearly possessed the natural athleticism that ran like a strong river through the Barrell family, and his stickwork, according to Jack, was exceptional for an 8-year-old. And like his uncle, the coaches had put him on defense. Jack believed that eventually, as his skating improved, they'd end up moving him to forward. Jack managed to make his way through his well-wishing (and autograph-seeking) fans and sat down next to Fred. "How's he doing?" Jack asked. "Looks good to me," Fred admitted, adding, "But you'd know better than I would." Jack, having no sons of his own, was thrilled both to have his brother in town and to have one of his nephews take a shine to hockey. "The kid's a natural," Jack said. "And I wouldn't lie to you about that, Freddy," he added, unnecessarily. Their father's main tenet as a scout had been to never oversell a prospect - honesty was the best policy, as was generally true for everything Rufus Barrell had said or done. "How are things?" Fred asked. Jack smiled, and it was a genuine smile. "Good," he said. "Marie's happy, the girls are happy, my team's playing well..." Jack trailed off, then his grin grew wider, and he added, "Living the dream, little brother." Fred chuckled and shook his head. Jack did look happy, and that warmed his heart. When Jack asked how he was doing, Fred paused a moment, and it was Tillie who answered. "It's been tough," she said in her usual, full-steam-ahead, blunt manner. "Tough how?" Jack asked, turning to her as the grin dropped from his face. "Mostly the kids," Tillie clarified. "Junior's unhappy, Benny has gotten into one or more scraps at school every week... only Hobie seems happy, and that's only since hockey season started. Even the baby has been driving me crazy." "It hasn't been that bad," Fred demurred, drawing a sharp look from his wife. "Oh, yes, it has," she shot back. She looked at Jack and said, "Fred is too proud to say it, but I think he worries that he's gotten himself in over his head with the Wolves." "That's not true," Fred replied hotly, but his cheeks were reddening in embarrassment. "It is true. You would never admit it, but I can tell," Tillie told him. Jack frowned. "Well... it might be working for Millard. That guy is a peach, and not in a good way," he told Tillie. "Oh, I know," she replied. "But it's more than that. The team underachieved this season, and Fred thinks it's all on him." Fred was shaking his head, and a grimace creased his face. "Do you think it was a mistake?" Jack asked his brother. Fred knew what he meant: he'd uprooted his family and moved them from Detroit, where he'd had a job to which he was well-suited and talented as the scouting director for the Dynamos, to trying his hand at leading a ballclub from the dugout. And where Tom - who was managing the Brooklyn Kings - was fiery and emotional, which sometimes resonated with athletes, Fred was reserved and cerebral, which sometimes did not. Jack was more in the fiery vein, and had wondered how Fred's personality would mesh with his ballclub. Fred ruminated for a moment and then shook his head. "No, it wasn't a mistake," he replied, his mouth set firmly. "I'm going to bring this team around. The kids... that's the bigger issue and one I think will ultimately be sorted out by time and Tillie," he added, smiling at his wife who shook her head, but looked pleased. "I had some of the same when I moved from Detroit... at least as far as dealing with kids who didn't want to move," Jack said, remembering the reaction of his daughters at leaving their friends behind. Fred also knew that Aggie had suffered through some tough times in the years after the war until she'd found Quinton Pollack who was now her husband as well as the star of the Toronto Dukes hockey club that Jack was coaching. Jack slapped his brother on the shoulder. "Things at home will work out. Your kids are good kids, and you have the two things you'll need: perseverance and a wife who's smarter than you are." Fred and Tillie both laughed, and Tillie slapped Jack on the arm fondly. Jack grabbed his brother's shoulder in a strong grip. "As for your team... if you need someone to come by and whip them into shape, I still have a few body checks left in my old body." The two brothers turned their attention to the game. Hobie played well, and showed a willingness to be physical when necessary as well as his blossoming talent with the stick, making a strong check, then scooping up the puck and threading a perfect pass through traffic to a teammate, who scored, earning Hobie an assist. "Like I said," Jack told Fred: "The kid's a natural." ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Hobie Barrell, age 8, 1950 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ __________________ Hexed & Countered on YouTube Figment League - A fictional history of baseball, basketball, football, hockey & more! Want to join in the fun? Shoot me a PM! Read the story of the Barrell Family - A Figment Baseball tale Same Song, Different Tune - The Barrells in the Modern Era

02-14-2024, 02:47 PM	#351
legendsport Hall Of Famer Join Date: Jan 2002 Location: Behind The Lens Posts: 2,933	Feburary 6, 1950: Washington, DC: OSA Director Dan Barrell was sifting through some expense reports, wearing a frown as he examined one from a scout Gladys had sent to Veracruz, Mexico for an unspecified reason. Did they play basketball in Mexico? He pondered the best approach to address it - the basketball division fell under his wife's jurisdiction, and he typically had little involvement beyond rubber-stamping - when the phone interrupted his thoughts. Without taking his eyes off the list of itemized expenses, he reached out and picked up the receiver. "Yes? Barrell here," he said automatically. "Dan? It's Bill Whitney," he heard. This piqued his interest, prompting him to set the report down on the desk blotter. "Hello, Bill. What can I do for you?" he inquired amiably. He'd always held the Chiefs owner in high regard, given their shared history through his late brother Joe. "I have something I need to discuss with you, but I'd prefer to not do it over the phone," Whitney replied. Dan thought a moment then asked, "You want to meet in person? Sounds serious." Whitney chuckled before responding, "It's something of significance." Dan was surprised. "You need me to come to Chicago?" he queried. "No need," Whitney replied, adding, "I'm in D.C. We can meet for lunch." The unexpected turn of events continued - Dan knew Whitney had a strong aversion to visiting the capital, despite it being home to the FABL offices. Arrangements were swiftly made, though Dan's attempts to glean information about the nature of their discussion were fruitless. With a sigh, he picked up the report and called his wife. "What's with you sending Wilcox to Mexico of all places?" he asked. "Ha! I knew that you'd be calling about that," Gladys replied. They bantered back and forth, with Gladys staunchly defending the necessity of scouting potential professional basketball players globally, while Dan openly expressed skepticism towards those bypassing the collegiate AIAA system. Eventually, Gladys prevailed, stating, "You know they play basketball all over the world, don't you Dan?" Though he hadn't considered it before, Dan conceded she might have a point. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Dan felt he had achieved a somewhat hollow victory, convincing Gladys not to send scouts to Europe but approving trips to Canada and Mexico, and leaving the door open for a trip to the 1952 Olympics. Dan had been an Olympian in 1924 and they hadn't played at those Games, though he vaguely remembered some kind of exhibition. Gladys assured him they would be playing in 1952 and had been since the '36 Olympics. As he headed to Claude's, a fancy French restaurant chosen by Bill Whitney for lunch, Dan mulled over these thoughts. Spotting Whitney as the maitre'd escorted him across the room, Dan couldn't help but notice how the grandson of FABL founder William W. Whitney had retained his youthful appearance into his fifties, reminiscent of the days when he had been Joe Barrell's close friend in Los Angeles during the early 1930s. Whitney rose to shake hands with Dan. After the maitre'd departed, Dan inquired about Whitney's choice of a French restaurant. "I thought you'd prefer a steakhouse," he remarked with a grin. Whitney nodded, saying, "I do, but I believe we can avoid running into any sportswriters around here, you know?" Dan raised his eyebrows. "So, what's on your mind, Bill?" he asked, unable to contain his curiosity any longer. Whitney grinned like the Cheshire Cat. "You're as impatient as your brother Joe," he said, still smiling. "Come on, Bill, there's not a man alive who wouldn't be dying to know what all this cloak and dagger stuff is about," Dan said. He looked at his menu and asked, "Are those snail things on here somewhere? I want to make sure I don't order that." "Escargot? Yes, you can get that here and it's quite good," Whitney answered. Dan gave him a frustrated look. "OK, I walked into that deflection, but honestly Bill, what's going on?" Whitney kept him in suspense a moment longer by taking a sip of his water. Then he finally answered: "Sam Belton's retiring. We're announcing it tomorrow." This was a surprise, but only a mild one - Belton was in his seventies after all. "OK, and that needs to be kept a big secret?" Dan asked. "Well, no, not really," Whitney replied. He leaned forward and said, "There are some other things too, but Belton's retirement is, at least for now, the headliner." Dan shook his head, feeling he'd never receive a straightforward answer. Millionaires expected everyone to adhere to their schedules. Since that seemed to be the case, he patiently waited, punctuating it with a sip of water. Whitney smirked. "Touche. I know you're eager for more details, so I won't keep you waiting," he said. Dan nodded, prompting Whitney to reveal, "We're close to finalizing a deal to shut down the Great Western League." Now this was something Dan could see keeping close to the vest. His only response was the look of surprise on his face. "Yes, that's a big deal. Bigsby and Perrone... they're the only ones that matter and we have deals in place to bring them into the fold." "Into the fold? What, you're expanding FABL?" Dan asked, barely remembering to keep his voice down. Before Whitney could reply the waiter appeared. They ordered, Dan deciding to try the escargot after all. He'd at least have a story to tell Gladys beyond whatever else Whitney was going to say. As the waiter walked off, Whitney clarified, "No, we're not expanding. Let me tell you a story involving a man named Robert Moses, a park in Manhattan, and a disgruntled FABL club owner." It turned out that Moses, who was some kind of New York power broker, was going to tear down the New York Stars' ballpark by using eminent domain. The Stars' owner, Al Mielke, was a sworn enemy of Moses and the feeling was very much mutual. That's where Tom Bigsby entered the picture. As a Bigsby, the GWL founder had a lot of clout in the political circles in New York. Enough to potentially shut down Moses, something few men could accomplish. "So Bigsby's going to pressure Moses to put his park somewhere else?" Dan asked. Whitney shook his head. "No, Bigsby wants the Stars, but he doesn't want the ballpark," he said. "Then what's he want the ballclub for?" "He wants to move it to Los Angeles." Dan frowned, considering the implications. "That's a significant move, considering Los Angeles's distance from the rest of the Continental Association," he remarked. Whitney nodded, and just as Dan was about to ask another question, their food arrived. They began eating, with Dan surprised to find the escargot surprisingly delicious, despite his mental reservations about eating snails. Whitney watched amusedly as Dan savored the dish. "I told you it was good," he remarked. After a brief pause, Whitney continued, divulging, "Bigsby's been negotiating primarily with me, given Belton's minimal involvement. However, final approval rests with the Board of Governors and our new FABL President." "Of course," Dan acknowledged between bites. "We'll need another club to accompany the Stars to California," Whitney added. Dan raised his fork, speculating, "Doesn't Perrone have a modern ballpark in San Francisco?" "Indeed, but he lacks a team," Whitney confirmed. "And it must be a Continental club?" Dan pressed on. "Yes," Whitney affirmed. Dan pointed with his fork. "Let me guess... Brooklyn?" he suggested. Whitney grinned. "Nope." Dan pondered for a moment before suggesting, "The Sailors?" Whitney raised his own fork in agreement. "Yes, though Perrone would be a minority owner. Matilda Johnson, the Sailors' owner, won't sell out but is open to moving the team to San Francisco." Dan nodded in understanding, realizing the complexity of the negotiations. "Who knows about this?" he asked. "Only the Board, and Belton, though he's washed his hands of it since he won't be around for long." The Board was Whitney, Boston owner Jesse Barton, Toronto owner Bernie Millard and Cincinnati owner John Tice. Dan thought about those four men. Whitney was obviously in favor. Millard would be absolutely opposed. "Thinking this over, with you in favor and Millard no doubt opposed, that means it comes down to Tice and Barton?" Dan asked. Whitney nodded again. "Yes. We'll never get Millard on board. Tice is open to the idea and Barton was opposed until Bigsby sweetened the deal." "How'd he do that?" Dan asked. The Minutemen's owner was a cantankerous octogenerian who seemed to thrive on being difficult. He and Millard were a matched pair, in Dan's opinion (and that of many others). "Dee Rose," Whitney said. Dan frowned. He knew about Rose of course - the disgraced owner of the St. Louis Pioneers who had both the state of Missouri and the Federal government fighting over which would get to imprison him for the rest of his natural life. "Rose? What's Bigsby going to do about him?" Dan asked after a moment of trying to piece it together himself. "The GWL is folding if we make this deal. When that happens, only Bigsby and Perrone will be in the FABL circle. There are six other owners...." Whitney said, trailing off to let Dan make the connection. "Ah, so Bigsby has someone who can purchase the Pioneers...." Dan said, living up to Whitney's challenge. "Exactly. Two someones in fact. It'll be a partnership of the two men who currently own the Dallas and Houston franchises." Dan nodded. "OK, I get it, and yes all this is big news," he said. After a brief pause he added, "But I have one more question." Whitney took a drink and motioned for Dan to go ahead and ask. "Why me?" Whitney smiled and replied, "Quite simple: the Board of Governors has agreed to offer you the job of FABL President." ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Dan Barrell at Claude's Restaurant, 1950 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ __________________ Hexed & Countered on YouTube Figment League - A fictional history of baseball, basketball, football, hockey & more! Want to join in the fun? Shoot me a PM! Read the story of the Barrell Family - A Figment Baseball tale Same Song, Different Tune - The Barrells in the Modern Era

02-16-2024, 12:35 PM	#352
legendsport Hall Of Famer Join Date: Jan 2002 Location: Behind The Lens Posts: 2,933	February 20, 1950: Washington, DC: Dan Barrell had been summoned. So, he took a taxi from the Omni Scouting Association's headquarters on H Street to the Grand Point Hotel on the corner of 3rd and E Streets. The morning traffic around the government area slowed the trip, giving Dan additional time to think. Upon arrival, Dan stifled a sigh of frustration while paying the driver. Stepping from the cab, the doorman greeted him with the slick politeness of an experienced hotelier, opening the door as Dan nodded his thanks and entered the opulent lobby. Dan had been in the hotel several times; it was the chosen venue for most of the various owners' and Board of Governors' meetings, located only a few blocks from the surprisingly small offices of the FABL President on North Carolina Avenue. If he accepted the job he'd been offered, that office would soon be his. As he crossed the immaculate blue carpet towards the elevators, Dan reflected on the choice he was facing. He thought of the discussions he'd had with both his partner, Thomas Potentas, and his wife. Potentas, an old and dear friend of Dan's late father, had offered some surprisingly Rufus Barrell-like advice: to do what felt right in Dan's heart. Gladys had been more practical. "This would mean a larger salary," she pointed out. Dan nodded in agreement. "True. This is where my father would mention that money isn't everything," he said with a wry grin. "Yes, he would, and he would be right. But money should be a factor, regardless," Gladys said. "There's also the simple fact that the OSA is your father's legacy. He built it with Thomas and hand-picked you to succeed him as Director," she added. "That is what is holding me back," Dan admitted. "Pop poured many years of his life into this, and it would almost feel like a betrayal to leave." "Your father would understand, Dan. In fact," Gladys told him, "I think he'd tell you that you had to accept it for the greater good of the game." Dan smiled. That did seem like what his father would have told him. "Yes, he'd probably say, 'think of all the good you could do for the players' or words to that effect," he said with a sad smile as he remembered his father, who always thought of the players as people, not simply assets, as so many of the FABL owners saw them. Gladys nodded. "And he'd be right," she agreed. Dan nodded. "The President does work for the owners, dear," he pointed out. "I'm surprised they'd even offer me this job, given my background as a player." Gladys shook her head and grabbed Dan's hand. "Give yourself some credit, Dan. You've done a fantastic job here at OSA. Everyone knows that Thomas, as well-meaning as he is, could never hold this together alone." She then listed all the accomplishments the OSA had enjoyed under Dan's stewardship. "Right. And if I leave the OSA, who takes over?" he asked. Gladys' mouth twisted in a knowing grin. "I can think of someone," she said. Dan couldn't help himself - he laughed out loud. "You really want this job?" he asked. She did. And for every negative he pointed out — she was a woman, the club owners wouldn't respect her, etc., etc. — she said she'd prove herself. And Dan knew she would: Gladys was a terrifyingly efficient woman and brilliant to boot. She was probably the smartest person he knew, including his brother Rollie, whom most of the family agreed was a genius. "It'll be difficult," he said. "Very difficult." Gladys shrugged. "Just let them try to stop me," she said, and Dan saw grit and determination in her eyes. "Thomas would have to approve, and he's very Old World," Dan pointed out. Now it was Gladys' turn to laugh. "I have Thomas wrapped around my finger," she said. "He won't be a problem." It turned out she was right - Thomas was downright enthusiastic about the idea when Dan broached the subject later that day. Dan almost felt insulted, thinking that perhaps the older man wanted him to leave. Thomas saw the look on his face and went to great lengths to disabuse him of that notion. All of that had taken place the previous week, and Dan still had not made a decision as he stepped off the elevator and headed for the meeting room. As he walked towards the meeting room, the door opened, and Sam Belton stepped out. The FABL President had never been a big man, and age had both wizened him and seemed to shrink him as well. He saw Dan coming and smiled. "Hello Dan!" he said warmly, shaking hands (with Dan being careful not to squeeze too hard). "They're in there, waiting for you," Belton said. "You know, they offered your father this job once upon a time," he added. Dan did know this and knew Rufus had felt he wasn't up to the challenge and turned it down. Dan nodded, his mouth set in a line. "Your father would be so proud," Belton added. "Thank you, Sam," Dan said warmly, patting the old man on the shoulder. "They're all here, all sixteen of them, plus the new fellows of course," Belton said. Dan nodded again, remembering that his decision wasn't the only matter the owners were handling: they were finishing up the details of the dismantling of the Great Western League and voting on not one, but three separate ownership changes. Belton snapped Dan out of his reverie as he said, "If you can wait here a moment, I'll escort you in." He dropped his voice and added, "I need to use the restroom." Then he winked at Dan and walked stiffly down the hall. Dan waited silently, lost in thought. Could he really do this? Ten minutes later, Sam Belton led Dan into the conference room. The twenty people in the room all looked his way as Dan entered. He knew them all by sight, well, almost all of them, he admitted to himself. He recognized Tom Bigsby, though he'd never met him, and figured the men with him were probably the other Great Western League owners. There was a young woman staring at him for some reason. He scanned the room, trying to decipher which club she might be representing, and surmised she must be Jesse Barton's daughter. This was confirmed a moment later when she joined him at the coffee station as he was making himself a cup. "You look just like Harry," she said, in a tone that hinted that she either knew Harry well or very much wanted to know Harry better. Dan kept a straight face as he mentally hoped Harry wasn't going to get himself in a bind with this woman. "I would say he looks like me," he said with a friendly smile, "I'm the older brother, after all." She laughed, and it seemed genuine. "You're funny too," she said. "I take it you're Miss Barton?" Dan asked. "Indeed I am, Ruth Barton, and it is nice to meet you, Mr. Barrell," she said as she thrust a hand out. Dan was taken aback but just for a split-second before he shook her hand. "Please call me Dan," he said. "I guess you know Harry because he plays for your father?" he asked. She nodded. "Yes, I have been taking a greater hand in the club," she purred. "My father is 82 years old, you know, and he isn't quite as sharp as he once was," she added. As he listened, Dan was trying to remember what he knew about Barton's family. He vaguely remembered there being a son. "Is your brother involved too?" he asked, having decided to take a shot in the dark. Her face darkened, but briefly, as she quickly recovered. "My half-brother Reginald is... involved, yes." "Ah-ha," Dan thought, covering it with a sip of coffee. "I won't be so impolite as to ask how you'll vote, but since your father is a board member and approved the job offer, I trust nothing has changed on that front," Dan said, wishing he could extricate himself from the conversation. "Yes, we are definitely in favor," Miss Barton replied, and then gave him a look Dan would characterize as.... hungry... as she added, "You really do remind me of Harry." Thankfully Billy Whitney chose that moment to intervene. "Dan, Ruth, what are you two conspiring about?" he asked. "Oh, we're just getting to know each other," Ruth Barton replied. "Now if you'll excuse me," she said and then walked away. Dan and Whitney watched her for a moment, Whitney remarking, "That is a dangerous woman." Dan nodded and said, "I did get that distinct impression. She seems to have a fixation on my brother Harry." Whitney tsked and remarked, "I hope he's got plenty of that famous Barrell moral fiber." Dan gave Whitney a sidelong look, thought about how Whitney and Joe Barrell had catted around Los Angeles twenty years earlier and said with a smirk, "I certainly hope so." There was some more chit-chat with various people. Dan met Tom Bigsby — who also knew Harry, causing Dan to think how he and his brothers had always felt their father knew every ballplayer on Earth — and Dan found himself taking a liking to the man, especially when he said, "Don't hold me being a Bigsby against me... I'm the white sheep of the family." Finally, it was time to discuss his candidacy. Dan gave an inward groan when Bernie Millard stood up. He glared at Dan as he started speaking: "As most of you know, I was outvoted three-to-one on this matter in the Board meeting. My opposition to Mr. Barrell's candidacy rests on one point and one point only: he is a former player and I want assurances that he will act in the best interests of FABL itself, remembering that he will be working for us. And not against us." Well, Dan reflected, there it was. And he knew Millard would raise this issue. The man was an inveterate opponent of any and all labor movements. The word 'union' was literally a four-letter word for Millard. Billy Whitney spoke up, saying, "I believe Dan Barrell will always work in the best interests of the game, Bernie." Now Millard turned that steely glare at Whitney. "We are the game, Mr. Whitney. And Mr. Barrell will need to assure me that he will always remember that. The players are ephemeral, the game, and the clubs, are institutions." Whitney looked at Dan, and nodded. Dan stood up and said, "I will always act in the best interests of baseball, without prejudice to any party," he said. Millard's frown deepened. That probably wasn't the answer he was seeking. "Anyone else have something they'd like to ask our candidate?" Whitney asked in his role as chairman. Dan Prescott stood. The Brooklyn owner had, once upon a time, been Dan's employer (along with his brothers Tom, Fred, and Harry). "It's good to see you, Dan," Prescott said. Dan took that as a good sign, so he was surprised when Prescott followed this by saying, "I know the Barrells perhaps better than most in this room, having employed them as players and now employing Tom as my field manager. And I want to remind Mr. Daniel Barrell that the 'B' in FABL does not, in fact, stand for 'Barrell' but instead for 'Baseball,' and he will need to remember that if he is to take on the mantle of FABL President." The assembled owners began whispering to each other. Dan frowned, unsure where this insulting tidbit had originated. Beside him, Sam Belton whispered, "Prescott, I think, is on his way out. He's gotten bitter in these last few years. This smacks of simple jealousy about the sterling reputation you Barrells have." Whitney was shooting eye-daggers at Prescott, who glared back at the Chicago owner from under his bushy eyebrows. Whitney shouted for quiet, and the room gradually died down. The assembled owners wore expressions varying from outrage to amusement at Prescott's little dig at the Barrell family. Cougars owner Mack Dalmer rose. "I'm the new guy hereabouts," he said with a smile, "at least until we admit our new owners," he nodded at the GWL contingent who sat in the back of the room. Dalmer looked at Dan and said, "As I'm relatively new to this, I wanted to say that I had the honor of meeting Rufus Barrell, and a finer man I have never met. If his son here is half the man his father was, he will serve the FABL well," he paused, and Dan nodded in thanks. "However," he added, "I am also a businessman and in this business for profit as well as bringing another title to the great city of Chicago," (there were a couple of groans from other parts of the room at this), "So I echo the sentiment of Mr. Millard that Mr. Barrell keep in mind that baseball is a business and only profitability keeps the venture alive." There were other pronouncements - but no real questions - in a similar vein from other owners. Detroit's Powell Thompson was nearly as aggressive as Millard had been; Washington's Calvin Stockdale, on the other hand, had been very nice, also complimenting Dan's father. Even the Sailors' Matilda Johnson, the lone woman to outright own an FABL club, was surprisingly tough in pounding home the idea that Dan must remember that FABL was a business, not "just a sport." In the end, only outgoing Stars owner Al Mielke and the taciturn Saints owner Jacques Cartier neglected to speak. Whitney put the motion to hire Daniel Barrell as President of the Federally Aligned Baseball Leagues to a vote. The vote was 14-2 in favor, with the nays coming from Millard (unsurprising) and New York Gothams owner Leland Winthrop, which was somewhat surprising as Winthrop's statement had mostly revolved around encouraging Dan, assuming he became President, to help the clubs negotiate sweetheart leases for ballparks and the land around them. The 14-2 margin was more than enough for approval. Now it was up to Dan, to accept the offer now that it was formal. He rose, took a deep breath, and said, "I am honored that you would consider me for the role of FABL President. It is incredibly humbling and also will be a great challenge to succeed Sam Belton who has done such an outstanding job for such a long time." There were some "hear, hears" from the owners, while others frowned. Belton himself beamed. "So I thank you for the opportunity, and I humbly accept, promising to do my best to foster the continued success and growth of our great American pastime." The rest of the meeting passed in a whirlwind. Dan, now the heir-apparent, was permitted to stay and watch though he had no official standing until the changeover on March 1st. The owners approved, unanimously, the sale of the St. Louis Pioneers to the partnership of John Mark of Houston and Paul Burnett of Dallas, removing the stain of Dee Rose's ownership of one of FABL's oldest clubs with "Big John" Mark to act as majority owner. Next up was the sale of 45% of the Philadelphia Sailors to Robert "Red" Perrone of San Francisco. Millard voted against this, likely out of spite - it was a miracle in Dan's eyes that the man had voted to allow two erstwhile GWL "rebels" to purchase the Pioneers (likely a statement more about how much the rest of FABL disliked Dee Rose than anything else). This was borne out again when the final vote: for the sale of the New York Stars to Thomas X. Bigsby was brought to the floor. Again, Millard voted against, staunchly ignoring the heated look he received from Al Mielke. Ruth Barton pointedly stared at Dan as she voted in favor, which got a shake of the head and some murmuring from Millard, who no doubt expected a "Nay" from Boston ownership. The last item on the agenda, formerly tentative and now confirmed, was a goodbye message from Sam Belton. The old man thanked the owners for their trust in him, expressed his belief that he had always acted in the best interests of baseball, and wiped away a tear as the assembled owners - and Dan - gave him a standing ovation. As the meeting adjourned, Dan stood and realized that in just over one week's time, he would be (theoretically) the most powerful man in baseball. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Sam Belton makes his final remarks as FABL President, 1950 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ __________________ Hexed & Countered on YouTube Figment League - A fictional history of baseball, basketball, football, hockey & more! Want to join in the fun? Shoot me a PM! Read the story of the Barrell Family - A Figment Baseball tale Same Song, Different Tune - The Barrells in the Modern Era

02-19-2024, 10:34 AM	#353
legendsport Hall Of Famer Join Date: Jan 2002 Location: Behind The Lens Posts: 2,933	February 27, 1950: Toronto, ON: Fred Barrell was forced to admit: he had been bored of late. Taking the managerial role with the Toronto Wolves left him with an offseason that was a lot less demanding than it had been when he'd been the Scouting Director for the Detroit Dynamos. Sure, he could go to the Cuban Winter League for a bit. But he couldn't - or shouldn't - spend the entire two-month winter season there; for one thing, the club's scouting director would feel he was being slighted at best and begin fearing for his job at worst. And before that... well, there wasn't a lot of what you'd call "downtime" in the wartime OSS. Slinking about occupied France or the heart of the Third Reich had certainly kept him on his toes, even when he was simply observing. Now... well, it was nearly the end of February. The CWL was done for the year, the January phase of the amateur draft was in the rearview, and things had been too quiet. Spring training was on the cusp, and he was greatly looking forward to that. The rhythms of spring, "boil out" as they'd called it when he was a young player, were as familiar to him as the contours of his own face when he looked in the mirror. So while Fred pondered what to pack for leisure time in Florida - he'd heard Fred McCormick was renting a boat for some deep-sea fishing - he was surprised when the phone rang and Tillie informed him that it was for him. "Who is it?" he asked in a low voice as he went downstairs, where Tillie was holding the receiver, her hand over the mouthpiece. She was smirking, or so he thought until she said, "It's Millard's secretary," providing the proof that Tillie wasn't smirking; she was frowning. Fred took the phone and said, "Hello." "Good morning, Mr. Barrell. Please hold for Mr. Millard," he heard. He thought about Millard's secretary: a no-nonsense older woman. He realized he'd never seen her smile and sadly wondered if she was unhappy. Certainly, Millard could be a demanding boss. "Barrell? I need you to come down to the office," Millard said without preamble. Fred was taken aback and took a brief moment to gather his thoughts, which were really questions. "Certainly, Mr. Millard, I can be there in an hour." "Good, see that you are. I have something I need you to take care of for me," Millard said mysteriously, adding, "See you in an hour," and then hanging up. Fred held the receiver away and gave it a skeptical look. "What was that about?" Tillie asked. "No idea," Fred said, as he hung up the phone. "Millard wants me to come in." "Maybe he's firing you," Tillie said in a deadpan voice. Fred raised an eyebrow. "Thanks for the vote of confidence," he said. His wife shrugged. "I wouldn't put it past that man. He was obviously against Dan becoming FABL President. Maybe he'll take it out on you," she said. Fred shook his head. He wouldn't... would he? ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Two minutes short of one hour later, Fred walked into the downtown offices of the Toronto Wolves Baseball Club and headed straight for Millard's office. "Right on time, Mr. Barrell," said the secretary. Looking at her solemn expression, Fred briefly wished he had Harry's wit. If anyone could get this woman to smile, it would be Harry. "Barrell! Get in here," Millard boomed from the inner office. "Show time," Fred said and walked toward the door. He thought that perhaps the corner of the secretary's mouth had quirked. That hadn't been particularly funny at all, but perhaps she wasn't made of stone. A moment later Fred had taken a seat across from Bernie Millard. The owner wore his perpetual scowl and seemed to give Fred the once-over. "You look pale, Barrell," he said. "Ready for some Florida sunshine?" Fred nodded. "Absolutely. It will be nice to get back to work, Mr. Millard." "Yes..." Millard said, sounding unconvinced, or perhaps just resentful that Fred had any downtime at all. "So, if you don't mind my asking... why'd you need to see me?" Fred asked, figuring the direct approach was always best with Millard. "I'm making some changes," Millard said, and Fred wondered if Tillie had been right after all. He blanched. Noticing this, Millard chuckled - yes, chuckled - and said, "Don't worry, Barrell, I'm not firing you." "That's a relief to hear, sir," Fred said and attempted to smile while hoping it wasn't a grimace. "No... no firings. I'm changing the team's logo and uniforms and wanted you to be the first to see them," the owner said and he actually smiled. "A new logo?" Fred asked, genuinely stunned. He would never have fingered Millard for someone who cared about such things. Marketing wasn't exactly a cornerstone of the mining business. "Sure. Our current logo... too plain. And I don't like blue." "Blue?" Fred asked. His mind was spinning - Millard had brought him down here for this? "Yes, I like red. And black. I like black," Millard said. "Coal's black, you know?" Fred nodded and said, "Yes, I'm aware, sir." Millard pushed a portfolio across the desk towards Fred. "Here, look at this," he said. Fred narrowed his eyes, just a bit. Millard seemed really... eager? He seemed to be wanting Fred's approval of whatever was in the portfolio. Fred picked up the package and opened it. He was relieved; it was different, but not bad. "Who did this?" he asked. "I found an artist, back in Pittsburgh. He whipped that up in a couple of days," Millard said. He leaned forward and asked, "What do you think?" Fred examined it. It was circular, but that was about all it shared with the old blue-and-white logo. It was a red double-circle on a black background with the word Toronto arching across the top and Wolves on the bottom. In the center was a rendering of a wolf that could have been pulled out of a horror comic. It looked mean, despite there being a red ballcap perched on its head; the cap was emblazoned with a white 'T' in the center. "This is our new ballcap?" Fred asked. Millard frowned. "That's what you focus on? The cap?" he asked. "Yes, well, if that's what will be perched on my noggin' all season long..." Fred trailed off as he caught Millard's expression. "I like the Wolf... he looks like a man-eater." Millard beamed. "Exactly. That's what I'm going for. We need to be killers on the field, Barrell. And I wanted a logo to reflect that. We're not howling at the moon any longer. Now we're out for blood." Fred stared at the owner for a moment, wondering if he was serious with this stuff. They were ballplayers, for crying out loud. "Uh, yes, sir," he managed to say. He wondered what the players would think of all this. He knew Millard would be there in Florida, making a little speech, which was apparently a tradition for him. At least the uniform renderings didn't include anything radical. The color scheme had changed, but that was the main difference. Red replacing blue. No black except for the team name on the front of the shirt. 'Wolves' at home and 'Toronto' on the away jersey. Fred gave a small sigh, trying to keep his dismay hidden. Millard was going off his rocker with this stuff. The logo wasn't bad, but this "killer" stuff.... It was going to be a long season. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Toronto Wolves Logo, 1950 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ __________________ Hexed & Countered on YouTube Figment League - A fictional history of baseball, basketball, football, hockey & more! Want to join in the fun? Shoot me a PM! Read the story of the Barrell Family - A Figment Baseball tale Same Song, Different Tune - The Barrells in the Modern Era

02-22-2024, 10:19 AM	#354
legendsport Hall Of Famer Join Date: Jan 2002 Location: Behind The Lens Posts: 2,933	March 10, 1950: Hollywood, FL: Deuce Barrell loved spring training. He'd once made the mistake of admitting this to Charley McCullough. Charley, then just a player like Deuce, had ribbed him incessantly about it. Now, Charley was the player-manager of the Cannons (and more the latter than the former these days), and had stood up in front of the team and told every one of the 47 men there that they should "Be like Deuce. He loves spring training, and you should too." So he'd taken more than his fair share of grief since that first day. The good news was that today marked the spring opener and Deuce would get the ball against the Toronto Wolves. Even better, the Wolves were managed by Deuce's uncle Fred. Not for the first time, Deuce wondered why his two favorite uncles were Fred and Tom, both of whom managed teams in the Continental Association and were therefore competitors to his own ballclub. He'd asked Charley about this (manager or not, Charley was still Deuce's best friend, and since he was married to Gloria, also his brother-in-law). Charley of course had replied, "Of course you like those guys. It takes a special man to be a manager, Deuce." Then he slapped Deuce on the shoulder and started walking away. A moment later, Deuce shouted after him, "Oh, stow it, Charley!" "That's 'Skipper' to you, Barrell," Charley had said without turning around. Deuce thought he was chuckling as he said it. Debbie and their son were with Deuce in Florida. The little guy, whom they named Rufus Barrell III, was 14 months old and cute as a button. Surprisingly to Deuce he was also a redhead. This made him, according to Gloria, the "first Rufus Barrell to actually deserve that name." Deuce, having brown hair so dark it was nearly black, had wondered about the boy's hair color, particularly because of the incident with Tom Holmes. Gloria reminded him that Debbie was a strawberry blonde, so a redheaded child wasn't specifically a reason for concern. And she added that Holmes wasn't a redhead either. It was Charley who'd suggested calling the boy "Tripp" instead of Rufus, noting, "No disrespect, buddy, but that name is... a little old-fashioned." Debbie and Gloria had also been skeptical. "What kind of name is 'Tripp' Charley?" his sister had asked her husband. "Well, you know... like a three-bagger, a triple. If this kid doesn't turn out to be a ballplayer, I'll be a monkey's uncle," Charley had said, adding "And Rufus Barrell is a big name to live up to." Deuce found himself agreeing - it was his father who'd dubbed him (the second Rufus Barrell) "Deuce" despite some rather vehement protests from Deuce's mother. "I like it," Deuce announced. Debbie, surprisingly, dropped her opposition, as did Gloria, noting with a shrug, "Hey, it's your kid." ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ It was nearly game time, and Deuce was warming up down the left-field line. Deuce was gradually working himself up to game speed, throwing a little harder each time. Behind him, pitching coach Jake Smith noted, "I was always jealous of hard you can throw, Deuce. We lefties aren't supposed to be fast, you know?" Smith had been Deuce's team mate not that long ago and he was left-handed, but more in the "crafty" mold than Deuce, who'd inherited the strong arm of the Barrell clan. "I've always been able to throw hard, Jake," he said. He shook his arm out a little. "Everything all right?" Smith asked. Everyone in the organization remembered the injury problems Deuce had gone through a few years back. Doria and his staff might be long gone, but a ballclub seemed to have a memory all its own; as the pieces came and went, the club just moved forward. "Yeah, I'm good," Deuce said - and it was true. His arm felt great. He nodded towards the dugout as Charley McCullough emerged and began walking towards them. "Look at how he walks?" he told Jake, referring to the bandy-legged gait Charley now employed. "Is that in the manager's handbook?" Jake chuckled and Charley arrived narrow-eyed. "What are you two goofing about?" he asked. "Oh, nothing," Deuce said with a straight face. "Uh-huh," Charley said. He looked from one to the other, then seemed to shrug it off. "Don't overdo it Deuce," he told his star pitcher. Deuce rolled his eyes. "Come on Charley," said. "No, none of that 'Charley' stuff, Deuce, I mean it," Charley said, and his stern look showed he meant it. "I know you want to go out there and throw it through a brick wall or something," Charley went on. "But rein it in. This here game doesn't mean anything. We're just getting ourselves ready for the real thing," he concluded. Beside him, Jake Smith was nodding. "Couldn't have said it better myself," he agreed. Deuce shook his head, but said, "Fine." Charley nodded and walked off with his strange "manager" walk. Deuce wondered if he was just copying Ad Doria who'd walked the same way. Deuce looked at Jake and said, "The only thing Charley knows about pitching is that it's hard to hit it." Jake laughed again. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ After the game, which the Wolves won by a 7-0 score, Deuce walked out of the ballpark to find his wife talking with Fred Barrell. "Hi, honey," Deuce said to his wife and pecked her on the cheek. "Where's Tripp?" he asked. "With the sitter," Debbie replied. "If we're going to to dinner we don't need the baby there." "Tripp?" Fred asked with a raised eyebrow. Deuce grinned. "Sure," he began, "You remember how my Dad named me Deuce to separate me from grandpa?" Fred nodded. "Well, Charley... he thought we should do something like that for Rufus the third. So... Tripp." Fred tipped his head a little to the side, and thought. "Well, I can see how you'd get there, but if you're Deuce and my Pop is gone, there's no other Rufus Barrell to confuse anyone," he said, with a slight smirk that tipped Deuce to the fact that he was being ribbed. "True, but what kid wants to go through life stuck with that name?" Deuce replied. Fred laughed. "Fair enough, I suppose," he said. Deuce put a mock frown on his face. "Guess you couldn't have your boys go easy on us, huh?" Fred shook his head. "Not a chance. Besides, you did pretty well," he pointed out. And Deuce had done well: four and two-thirds innings, three hits, one run - earned, two walks and six strikeouts. He'd only gotten a bit of an earful from Charley who'd thought he was throwing too hard. When he told Fred this, his uncle nodded and explained that as a manager your perspective changes and you have to think of the good of the club too, not just cheering on your best friend. "He's too competitive for his own good," Gloria McCullough noted, walking up behind her twin brother. Charley was right next to her. "That runs in the family," Fred said with a fond smile. "Let's go eat!" ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Deuce Barrell and his uncle Fred, Florida 1950 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ __________________ Hexed & Countered on YouTube Figment League - A fictional history of baseball, basketball, football, hockey & more! Want to join in the fun? Shoot me a PM! Read the story of the Barrell Family - A Figment Baseball tale Same Song, Different Tune - The Barrells in the Modern Era

02-23-2024, 11:41 AM	#355
legendsport Hall Of Famer Join Date: Jan 2002 Location: Behind The Lens Posts: 2,933	March 20, 1950: Clearwater, FL: Bobby Barrell lay facedown on the trainer's table, the trainer working some liniment into his sore back. "Those old bones bothering you, Bob?" he heard a voice ask. Bobby craned his neck to see who had spoken. Jack Brinker, he thought. That figures. "What are you doing in here, Brinker?" Bobby asked, adding, "This is players only." Brinker, the son of the freshly-retired John Brinker Sr., who had been the self-appointed biographer of the Barrell family, shrugged and said, "I have something for you, and Ames said it was okay to come in here." Bobby sighed. It figured that Carl Ames, the Keystones skipper, would let Brinker in. The guy was too laid-back for his own good—or the team's own good—sometimes. "What do you have?" Bobby said, the words coming in a near groan as trainer Paul Lauderback found a particularly knotty place on his back. "A copy of my father's book. Signed, of course," was the response. "Book? What book?" Bobby asked. He hadn't known the elder Brinker was writing a book. "It's a biography of your father," Brinker explained. Bobby raised a hand and said, "Hold on, Paul," to the trainer. He sat up and worked a kink out of his neck. He was shirtless, and he noticed that the young sportswriter was staring at his muscled, but bullet-scarred, forearm and scowled. "What do you mean a book about my father?" he asked, now genuinely annoyed and on the verge of anger. "My father was working on a bio of your father when he died," Brinker said, then quickly added, "I was sorry to hear about it, by the way." "Uh-huh," Bobby replied in a vexed tone. "My Pop was okay with this?" he asked. "Sure, he was involved. My dad did over ten interview sessions with Rufus and a few more with your mother." "My mother," Bobby said, his frown deepening. "Yes, well, Dad believed it would be a good idea. No one knew Rufus Barrell better than his beloved Alice, right?" "Right," Bobby replied and rubbed his chin. "Okay, so where is it?" "Where's what?" Bobby shot him a look. "The book?" "Oh, yeah, sorry." The kid opened his briefcase and pulled out a rather thick book. Then he handed it to Bobby. Bobby read the title aloud, "The Life and Times of Rufus Barrell." "Yes, Dad wanted to call it 'Baseball Lifer' but Rufus didn't like that." Bobby flipped it open. Sure enough, the crusty old newsman had signed it. "Your father's signature is harder to read than mine," he quipped. Brinker smiled. "He hasn't had as much practice with autographs as you have," he replied. Bobby nodded. "True," he said. Then he looked at Brinker. "Thanks, and tell your father the same," he said. He weighed the book in his hand. "Pretty heavy. Tell your father it better be good, or I'll find him and brain him with it," he said, smiling. Brinker stared at him, then blinked twice, said, "Sure," and turned and walked out. "You really gonna read that?" Lauderback asked after Brinker had walked out. Bobby shrugged and thought a moment. "Probably," he said, thinking that if he didn't, Annette would, and she could fill him in. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ While Bobby was talking with Brinker, Roger Cleaves was working on a buckle on one of his shin guards. "Whatcha doin' Rog?" asked the kid in the locker next to his, Don Berry. "This buckle's loose," Roger said, not looking up. "Don't we have, uh, equipment guys for that?" Berry asked. Roger rolled his eyes but reminded himself that he had been a know-nothing rookie not so long ago himself. "Sure," he replied. "But he's not the one who has to wear this thing, and if Joe Quade buries one of his heaters in the dirt and it kicks up into my leg, I need to be sure this is going to hold." He shook the shin guard at Berry. "So I do it myself." "You learn that in the Marines?" Berry asked. Ever since he'd learned that Roger had seen a lot of combat in the war, he'd been chatting him up every chance he got. Berry was 21 and therefore too young to have gotten the call to duty. "No," Roger said deadpan. "They didn't hand out shin guards in the Corps." "How's Evelyn?" the kid asked, surprising Roger with the change of subject. "She's fine," Roger said, regretting the fact that Bobby, who had the locker on his other side, had mentioned the fact that his wife was nearing her due date and done it in front of Berry. "Baby's due, right?" "Right," Roger said. The baby, their second, had been due on the 15th. Evelyn was getting antsy, and so was Roger. "You worried about Dwayne?" Berry asked. Roger turned to him and gave him a hard look. "How the hell do you know about my son?" he asked. Berry looked uncomfortable. "I, uh, asked Bobby if you already had any kids," he explained. Roger's frown deepened. "You know, after he was asking about your wife..." Roger decided he might have to harm his uncle. Assuming he could, of course. Roger was strong, but Bobby was generally considered one of the strongest players in FABL. He took a deep breath and reminded himself that Berry was just being friendly. "Look, Don," he said, "I'm kind of a private person, and we just met, you know?" Berry nodded, but he looked crestfallen. "To answer your question, we think Dwayne will be fine with his little brother... or little sister. He's a good kid, takes after his mom," Roger said, feeling uncomfortable. He saw Bobby come out of the trainer's room, carrying his jersey in one hand and a... book?... in the other. "Look, Don," Roger said, "I heard Robicheaux has some new kind of sunglasses, supposed to help you outfielders find the ball on a sunny day or something..." Berry perked up. "Yeah?" "Yeah. The rep from the company was here yesterday, handing them out. You should ask Davey if he has any extras...." Berry was excited and went off to see Davey Robicheaux. Let the crazy Cajun deal with him, Roger thought. Bobby plopped down on his stool and tossed his jersey into his locker. "What's with the book?" Roger asked him. He'd never seen Bobby read anything. On the train, he was a card-player, not a reader. Bobby held the book up. "John Brinker wrote a book about my father," he said. Roger's eyebrows went up. "A book about Gramps? I'll want to read it when you're done," he said. "I don't know if I'll read it," Bobby admitted. "I might just let Annette read it and tell me what's in there." "Why wouldn't you read it?" Roger asked. "Well, I know the story, for one thing. Or I know what I feel like I want to know, maybe..." he admitted. "Huh," Roger said. "I wouldn't think there'd be anything bad in there. I mean, I know I didn't know he was my grandfather till I was a teenager, but if there was ever a straight arrow, it was Rufus Barrell." Bobby looked thoughtful. "Yeah," he said, but he had a faraway look in his eye as he said it, as if he wasn't quite certain about that. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Bobby Barrell (center) runs with his team, spring training 1950. Roger Cleaves is at far left. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ __________________ Hexed & Countered on YouTube Figment League - A fictional history of baseball, basketball, football, hockey & more! Want to join in the fun? Shoot me a PM! Read the story of the Barrell Family - A Figment Baseball tale Same Song, Different Tune - The Barrells in the Modern Era Last edited by legendsport; 02-23-2024 at 02:43 PM.

05-17-2024, 10:30 AM	#356
legendsport Hall Of Famer Join Date: Jan 2002 Location: Behind The Lens Posts: 2,933	December 31, 1950: Augusta, GA: Charlie Barrell walked off the court, his head down despite his team winning the game against the visiting St. Matthew's College Senators by a final score of 53-31. He lagged behind his teammates, who jogged towards the locker room in high spirits. The Colonels were 10-2—a good, but not great, follow-up to their undefeated National Championship season, in Charlie's opinion. Currently ranked eighth, Charlie believed his team was good enough to go back-to-back and win another AIAA Tournament and National title. However, he had been distracted for weeks by the weight of a potentially life-changing decision. The January phase of the FABL Draft was approaching, and Charlie was both eligible and potentially the top pick. A three-sport athlete, Charlie excelled at basketball and baseball and was a good player on a mediocre Colonels gridiron squad. But he had never truly decided which sport he wanted to pursue professionally. Entering the draft meant leaving school a year early, likely ending his chances of playing in the AFA. Basketball presented a unique challenge; his uncle Rollie had told him that his situation was unprecedented. While no rule explicitly prohibited a junior from entering the FBL, it had never happened, and some FBL clubs would likely protest if Charlie entered the basketball draft early. As Charlie walked along, the usual shrieks from girls lining the rail rained down upon him. Typically, he basked in the feminine attention (they didn’t call him Heartbreak Kid for nothing), but this time he was too preoccupied to notice. When he entered the locker room, Coach Bynum congratulated the team on the win and mentioned Charlie by name: "See Barrell here, fellas? He had, by most measures, a bad game offensively... shot 1 for 10 and had three turnovers... but he also had," he paused and looked at assistant Gary Kirby, who showed him a stat sheet, "two blocked shots and five steals. That, fellas, is how you make an impact on the game even when you're not shooting well." Several of his teammates clapped Charlie on the back as he walked to his locker. He put on a half-hearted smile and nodded his thanks. Bynum spoke for a few more minutes, wished everyone a Happy New Year, and went into his office with Kirby. Moments later, the press were allowed into the locker room. Charlie knew they would be coming for him, and he wasn’t wrong. "Charlie! Have you decided about the baseball draft?" asked the kid from the school’s newspaper. Charlie always answered his questions first. The Atlanta paper was there, along with Augusta (of course), and a couple of faces Charlie didn’t recognize. "No, not yet, Skip," Charlie replied. "I suspect that I won’t decide for sure until I absolutely have to," he explained. He gave variations of the same "I don't know yet" answer to the other reporters. Then one of the strangers pushed to the front and asked, "I’ve heard your father wasn’t much of a baseball player... or fan for that matter. Will that impact your decision?" Charlie frowned. How did this guy know anything about Joe Barrell? "Sorry, I didn’t catch your name, mister," he replied. "Oh, I’m John Brinker Jr.," the man replied, "though I go by Jack now." Charlie remembered now... this must be the son of the man who’d fancied himself the "official biographer" of all things Rufus Barrell. His father and grandfather had both passed on, but the Brinkers apparently weren’t done covering the Barrell clan. Charlie considered brushing the question off, then decided to answer it. "Well, Jack, I don’t think much about what my father would want. He’s been gone a long time, and I was just a squirt when he passed away. My mother, on the other hand, would very much like for me to enter the draft. My uncles, Rollie, Fred, Bobby, and Harry... they’ve all told me pretty much the same thing: follow your instincts. Which is probably what my dad, and certainly what my grandfather, would have told me. So that’s what I’m doing." Brinker followed up before anyone else could get a question in. "What about Dan Barrell?" "I haven’t talked to him," Charlie replied, adding that it wasn’t anything against his uncle, but Dan Barrell was now the FABL President and had a vested interest. "And your brother?" someone else inquired. "I haven’t spoken to Deuce since Christmas. We didn’t talk about baseball... just family stuff," Charlie replied. No one asked about Roger: that particular tidbit was a bit of a taboo subject for the reporters. A little too tawdry, Charlie figured. The school’s media relations guy came over and shooed the press away. Charlie showered, dressed, and left. He found his mother waiting patiently outside the gym. It impressed him that she, a genuine film star, was spending New Year’s Eve in Augusta instead of attending some glitzy Hollywood party. "I suppose they asked about baseball," she said, getting right to the point. "They did," Charlie responded. "Have you decided?" she pressed. "Yes," Charlie said. He took a deep breath and said, "I’m entering the draft." "Good," his mother said and pecked him on the cheek. "But..." he added, "I have conditions. I can’t sign till June, so I will finish out this year, and I will return to school in the fall. I will play my senior season of football and basketball here at Noble Jones. If whoever drafts me can’t live with that, well... I won’t sign." His mother looked at him sternly. She stared for a moment, then nodded and said, "Fair enough." With that, Charlie Barrell took his mother by the arm, and they went off in search of dinner. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Charlie Barrell talks with his mother on 12/31/50 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ __________________ Hexed & Countered on YouTube Figment League - A fictional history of baseball, basketball, football, hockey & more! Want to join in the fun? Shoot me a PM! Read the story of the Barrell Family - A Figment Baseball tale Same Song, Different Tune - The Barrells in the Modern Era

06-20-2024, 02:50 PM	#357
legendsport Hall Of Famer Join Date: Jan 2002 Location: Behind The Lens Posts: 2,933	June 4, 1951, Philadelphia, PA Bobby Barrell sat in the living room of his Philadelphia home, staring out the window with a vacant expression. The vibrant world outside seemed to mock his current state of immobility. His back ached fiercely, a constant reminder of the torn muscle that had abruptly halted his career. At nearly 41, he had been contemplating retirement, but this was not the way he had envisioned it. The front door burst open, and the familiar, chaotic noise of his two sons filled the house. Ralph, 11, and Bobby Jr., 7, charged into the living room, books and lunchboxes dropping to the floor with thuds and clangs. "Hey Dad, guess what? I scored two goals in soccer today!" Ralph announced, his face flushed with excitement. Junior, not to be outdone, shouted, "And I got a gold star for my drawing!" Bobby's temper, already frayed, snapped. "Keep it down, will you?!" he barked, his voice harsher than he intended. The boys froze, their smiles fading. Annette, who had been in the kitchen, appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on a dish towel. "Boys, go wash up for dinner," she said softly, her eyes darting to Bobby with concern. "But Mom, I wanted to show Dad my drawing," Junior protested, his lower lip quivering. Annette gave him a gentle push toward the stairs. "You can show him after dinner. Go on now." As the boys trudged upstairs, Bobby buried his face in his hands. "I'm sorry, Annette," he muttered. "I didn't mean to snap at them." Annette sat beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder. "I know, Bobby. It's just... you're frustrated. This injury... it's hard on all of us." Bobby let out a bitter laugh. "Frustrated? That's putting it mildly. I'm useless. I can't even play catch with my own sons. What kind of father am I?" Annette's eyes softened, shge knew Bobby had idolized his own father and constantly graded himself against a somewhat unrealistic standard. "You're a wonderful father. You're just going through a tough time. You'll get through this." Bobby shook his head. "I'm not so sure. I've been thinking about retirement for a while now, but I wanted to go out on my own terms. Not like this." Annette squeezed his hand. "You'll recover, Bobby. It might take time, but you will." Bobby's eyes were filled with a mixture of anger and sadness. "And what if I don't? What if this is it for me? I can't just sit around the house all day. I need to be out there, on the field, doing what I love." Annette took a deep breath. "Maybe it's time to think about what's next. You've had an amazing career. You've done more than most people could ever dream of. But maybe there's a new chapter waiting for you." Bobby looked at her, his expression softening slightly. "What if I'm not ready to turn the page?" Annette smiled gently. "Then we'll take it one day at a time. Together." Just then, the boys came back downstairs, their footsteps tentative. Ralph held a piece of paper in his hand. "Dad, I wanted to show you my drawing. It's of you, playing baseball." Bobby's eyes welled up as he took the drawing from Ralph. It was a crude but heartfelt depiction of him in his Keystones uniform, swinging a bat. "It's great, son," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "Really great." Junior climbed onto Bobby's lap, careful not to jostle him. "Dad, can we play catch when you get better?" Bobby ruffled Junior's hair. "You bet we can, champ. You bet we can." Soon Bobby was joshing Ralph about soccer. "I still don't get why you'd want to play a game where you can't touch the ball with your hands," he said with a smile. This was an old and common topic with his oldest son. "You trying to turn into a Brit on me?" As the family gathered around for dinner, Bobby felt a small flicker of hope. It would be a long and grueling recovery, and he wasn't sure what was on the other side. He still loved the game, but deep in his heart, he knew his skills had faded. Accepting that and facing the end of his career would be tough, maybe tougher than his recovery, but with Annette and his boys by his side, maybe he could find a way to face it. His face grew sad as he thought about his father. What would Rufus' counsel be? He saw Annette looking at him with concern. He brightened up and told her he was just thinking about his father. She nodded, saying, "He left a pretty big hole, didn't he?" Bobby nodded in agreement. Bobby Barrell at home with his sons, 1951 __________________ Hexed & Countered on YouTube Figment League - A fictional history of baseball, basketball, football, hockey & more! Want to join in the fun? Shoot me a PM! Read the story of the Barrell Family - A Figment Baseball tale Same Song, Different Tune - The Barrells in the Modern Era

06-27-2024, 04:33 PM	#358
legendsport Hall Of Famer Join Date: Jan 2002 Location: Behind The Lens Posts: 2,933	July 8, 1951, Boston, MA: Harry Barrell winced as he shifted in his seat, trying to find a comfortable position despite the nagging pain in his foot. The Boston Minutemen’s three-game series against the Philadelphia Keystones had just wrapped up, and Harry had invited his nephew, Roger Cleaves, over for dinner. They sat at the dining table in Harry’s comfortable suburban home, a testament to his successful baseball career, complete with a well-manicured lawn where Harry's kids, Reid and Barbara, played. Sarah Barrell walked in with a pitcher of lemonade, offering a warm smile. "Can I get you some more refreshments, Roger?" she asked. Roger nodded appreciatively. "Thanks, Aunt Sarah." As she poured the drinks, Harry couldn't help but grimace. "This plantar fasciitis is no joke, Roger. It's like walking on broken glass every step. I can't believe I have to sit out for two weeks." Roger, his face showing genuine concern, leaned back in his chair. "I can't imagine, Uncle Harry. I'd go stir crazy if I couldn't play for two weeks. It sounds awful." Harry nodded. "It really is. I try to stay positive, but the pain is just constant." Roger took a sip of his lemonade and then said, "It reminds me of a guy I served with on Saipan. He got his heel blown off by a Japanese machine gun. They called it a million-dollar wound because it meant he got to go home. But later, I realized he'd never walk without a limp for the rest of his life." Harry shook his head, the pain in his foot momentarily forgotten. "War does terrible things to a person.I never saw combat, but I saw plenty of the aftermath when we'd visit the hospitals. Makes this injury seem minor in comparison." Roger changed the subject, his expression turning serious. "I was talking to Annette earlier. Uncle Bob's really struggling with depression after his back injury." Harry sighed, his eyes reflecting the worry he felt for his brother. "Yeah, Bobby's been through a lot. It's hard seeing him like this. He's always been the strong one." Roger nodded in agreement. "It’s tough. I hope he finds a way to pull through." Sarah rejoined them, asking Roger, "How are Dwayne and Dickie doing?" Roger's face lit up. "They're doing great, Aunt Sarah. Growing up fast, too. Dwayne's getting into baseball just like his old man." Sarah smiled. "That’s wonderful to hear. Reid and Barbara would love to see them if you and Evelyn visit." Harry, trying to lighten the mood, said, "Speaking of young ballplayers, have you heard about your kid brother Charlie signing with the Cincinnati Cannons and getting assigned to Class B?" Roger rolled his eyes. "It's nuts, Uncle Harry. I've watched Charlie play, and I’m convinced he could handle the FABL level right now." Harry chuckled. "The kid's got talent, no doubt. We'll see him in the majors soon enough." Roger then brought up the upcoming FABL All-Star game in Toronto. "You know, I'll be backing up George at the All-Star game. Might even face Deuce if he's pitching." Harry nodded sagely. "We have a big family, don’t we? And your dad," Harry paused and gave a small, sad smile as he thought of his late brother, "Well, Joe was not much for baseball, it'd sure be funny to see how he'd react to all three of his sons being professional ballplayers." Roger laughed. "Yeah, we're a bit of a baseball dynasty within a baseball dynasty, if you take my meaning." Harry laughed and nodded. Harry’s smile faded slightly. "I’m disappointed I’ll be missing the All-Star game. I’m closing in on 3,000 hits, and it would have been nice to be there." Roger leaned forward, curious. "Do you plan on sticking around to chase Bobby's hit record?" Harry hesitated, then admitted, "Well I sure won't catch his home run record," Roger laughed again. Harry continued, "But to be honest, I’ve been thinking about managing. I know it sounds crazy, but I’ve been trying to be more of a leader and less of a clown. I think it’s working." Roger looked incredulous. "You? Managing? I didn’t think you had the temperament for it." Harry laughed. "I didn’t either, but I’m starting to see it differently. I want to give it a shot." Sarah returned to the room, smiling as she watched Reid and Barbara play in the yard. "Dinner's almost ready. You boys make sure to wash up." As Harry and Roger rose from their seats, Harry clapped a hand on Roger’s shoulder. "Thanks for coming over, Roger. It's good to talk about these things." Roger smiled. "Anytime, Uncle Harry. We’re family, after all." ------------------------------------------------------------------ Roger Cleaves (L) and Harry Barrell (R) at Harry's home, 1951 __________________ Hexed & Countered on YouTube Figment League - A fictional history of baseball, basketball, football, hockey & more! Want to join in the fun? Shoot me a PM! Read the story of the Barrell Family - A Figment Baseball tale Same Song, Different Tune - The Barrells in the Modern Era

07-04-2024, 11:06 AM	#359
legendsport Hall Of Famer Join Date: Jan 2002 Location: Behind The Lens Posts: 2,933	August 12, 1951, Cincinnati, OH: The manager's office at Tice Memorial hummed with the familiar sounds of baseball preparations audible through the office's closed door, yet today a different feeling filled the air. Charley McCullough, the Cannons' player-manager, leaned back in his chair, reminiscing as his best friend and brother-in-law, Deuce Barrell, sat across from him. "You know, Deuce," Charley began with a wistful smile, "I made the All-Star team back in '41. Seems like a lifetime ago, doesn’t it?" Deuce chuckled, catching the playful jab. "Sure, Charley, but remember, that was your only All-Star appearance. I’ve made it eight times since '43." Charley laughed heartily, shaking his head. "Alright, alright. You got me there. But '41 was a banner year, wasn’t it?" Deuce's grin faded as he leaned forward, his tone more serious. "It was, but it’s 1951 now. You've been a solid manager, but this season’s been rough. We're 54-58 and miles behind the Sailors." Charley sighed deeply, his eyes turning somber. "Yeah, Deuce, the team’s struggling, and so am I. Hitting .168... I’m more of a liability than a help." Deuce raised an eyebrow, concern evident in his eyes as he finally caught the gist of his friend's somber mood. "If you're saying what I think you're saying... Are you sure about this, Charley? Have you talked to Gloria?" Charley nodded firmly. "Yes, Gloria knows. She’s been incredibly supportive. Deuce, it’s time for me to hang up my cleats." Deuce took a moment, absorbing the gravity of Charley’s decision. Something occurred to him - Charley's retirement would open up a roster spot. "What about my kid brother, Charlie? Think he’s ready to take over second base?" Charley’s eyes brightened at the mention. "Your brother’s got the chops, Deuce. He’s shown real promise. But that’s up to the GM." Deuce nodded, pride and concern mingling in his expression. "Yeah, he’s got potential. But it’s a big step." Charley reached across the desk, a mix of gratitude and resolve in his gaze. "Deuce, you’ve been more than a teammate, more than a brother-in-law. You’ve been my rock through all this." Deuce grasped Charley’s shoulder firmly, thinking about all the ups and downs they'd shared, first as team mates and friends, and later as family. "And you’ve been mine, Charley. We’ll all get through this together." Charley drew a deep breath, standing up with a newfound determination. "I’ll tell the team after the game and then the press." Deuce shook his head. "No, Charley. Tell the team before the game. Let them play knowing the truth, and then announce it to the press after." Charley considered Deuce’s words, then nodded. "You’re right. The team deserves to know first." As they exited the office, a silent understanding passed between them. Their bond, forged in the fires of countless games and personal struggles, was unbreakable. Before the game, Charley stood before his team, his voice steady but his heart heavy. The players, seasoned veterans and rookies alike, listened in stunned silence as he announced his retirement. The respect and camaraderie in the room were palpable. Later, as Charley faced the press, Deuce stood by his side, not as the club's star player (though that was how the press saw it), but simply to lend his support to his best friend. ------------------------------------------------------------------ Deuce Barrell (R) taking a question about his friend and manager Charley McCullough (C) __________________ Hexed & Countered on YouTube Figment League - A fictional history of baseball, basketball, football, hockey & more! Want to join in the fun? Shoot me a PM! Read the story of the Barrell Family - A Figment Baseball tale Same Song, Different Tune - The Barrells in the Modern Era

07-08-2024, 09:24 AM	#360
legendsport Hall Of Famer Join Date: Jan 2002 Location: Behind The Lens Posts: 2,933	August 13, 1951: Washington, DC: Dan Barrell sat behind the expansive mahogany desk in his office at the Federally Aligned Baseball Leagues headquarters in Washington, DC. The room was fitting for the President of FABL, a title he'd held since February of 1950, and it exuded an air of gravitas with its dark wood paneling, shelves lined with baseball memorabilia, and a grand window overlooking the city. Dan cradled the phone receiver against his ear, his voice a blend of sternness and concern. "Mike got into a fight at school? What happened, Gladys?" His wife’s voice crackled through the line, fraught with worry. "He was defending himself, Dan. Some boys were picking on him because of your position. They called him 'the President's kid' and pushed him around. He threw a punch." Dan sighed, rubbing his temple. "That boy’s got fire in him, just like most of us Barrells. Did he get hurt?" "No, he's fine. But the principal wants to meet with us. I think they’re considering a suspension." "Alright, I'll handle it. I'll call the school later today and set up a meeting." He paused, softening his tone. "Gladys, tell Mike he did the right thing standing up for himself, but he needs to learn to control that temper. He can’t just go around throwing punches." "I will, Dan. Just... talk to him when you get home." "I will, promise." As Dan was about to continue, his secretary, Helen Johnson, a no-nonsense woman in her fifties with a sharp mind and impeccable manners, poked her head into the office. "Mr. Barrell, Chester Coleman is on the phone," she said, her tone betraying a hint of exasperation. Dan nodded. "Thanks, Helen. Gladys, I have to go. Coleman’s on the line. I’ll see you tonight." He hung up and picked up the other line. "Chester, what can I do for you?" Coleman's voice was loud and abrasive, like gravel in a cement mixer. "Barrell, I need a date for that ownership meeting. I’ve sunk millions into that new stadium in Kansas City, and the football team’s contract is riding on us being there for the '52 season. I’m not forfeiting my share because of bureaucratic delays." Dan kept his voice calm and measured, channeling his father’s patient demeanor. "Chester, I understand your urgency, but scheduling a meeting with the other 15 owners is no small feat. They’re all busy men, and getting them in one place at the same time is like herding cats. We still have eight months before the season starts. Rest assured, there will be a meeting well before then." Coleman was undeterred. "Eight months is nothing, Barrell. I need this settled now. I can’t have this dragging out." Dan's grip on the receiver tightened. "Chester, the owners will rubber-stamp the move. They understand the financial stakes. I’ll push to get a date set soon, but you need to give me some breathing room." A pause, then a grudging acceptance. "Alright, but don’t make me regret this, Barrell. I’m counting on you." "You have my word, Chester. We’ll get it done." Dan hung up the phone, feeling a wave of relief wash over him. Helen re-entered the room, her expression a mix of curiosity and concern. "Mr. Barrell, you have a visitor. He doesn’t have an appointment, but he insists it’s important." Dan frowned. "Who is it?" Before Helen could answer, a large man strode into the office, his presence filling the room. "Last time I checked, you work for us, Barrell." Dan looked up, recognizing Tom Bigsby, the imposing owner of the New York Stars. Bigsby, a retired U.S. Army Colonel with a brusque manner and a stellar war record, exuded authority. "Tom, I wasn’t expecting you. What brings you here?" Bigsby’s face broke into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. "Got something important to discuss. Mind if I sit?" "Please." Dan gestured to the chair opposite his desk. Bigsby sat down heavily. "Matilda Johnson and I are planning to move our clubs to Los Angeles and San Francisco, respectively. 1954 is the target." Dan nodded slowly. "I suspected as much. The rumors have been rampant since the Kings announced their move to Kansas City. But you know the league by-laws require approval from the other clubs before any relocation can happen." Bigsby waved a dismissive hand. "The approval’s a formality. We’ll seek it for the 1954 season. I wanted you to know, but we won’t make it public until 1953. Need to keep the fannies in the seats in New York and Philly." Dan raised an eyebrow. "That’s less than honest, Tom. But I understand your reasoning." Bigsby leaned back, his expression softening. "It’s business, Dan. You know how it is." Dan nodded. "I do." Bigsby stood up. "How about we grab some lunch? Got more to discuss, and it’s better over a meal." Surprised, Dan agreed. "Sure, let’s go." As they left the office, they chatted about Dan’s brothers Harry and Bobby. Bigsby expressed regret that Bobby’s season had ended due to injury. "Real shame about Bobby. Kid's had a great career." "He has," Dan agreed. "He’ll bounce back." "And your nephew Charlie, hell of a player. Was hoping to draft him, but the Cannons snapped him up." Dan smiled. "Charlie’s got talent. He’ll do well." Bigsby winked. "Still might get my man. Own a football team too, remember? Kid’s a hell of a quarterback." Dan chuckled. "We’ll see, Tom. We’ll see." As they walked out of the building, Dan couldn’t help but feel the weight of his position pressing down on him. The moves, the politics, the constant negotiations – it was all part of the job. And he knew he had to navigate it all with the same calm, steady hand his father had taught him. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Dan Barrell (R) meeting with NY Stars owner Thomas X. Bigsby (L) in 1951 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- __________________ Hexed & Countered on YouTube Figment League - A fictional history of baseball, basketball, football, hockey & more! Want to join in the fun? Shoot me a PM! Read the story of the Barrell Family - A Figment Baseball tale Same Song, Different Tune - The Barrells in the Modern Era