The Ballad of the Brothers Barrell - A Figment Story

[legendsport]

Toronto, Ontario: April 13, 1925:

"I'm telling you Jock, I don't know how my father put up with all of this..."

Jack Barrell was sitting in the office of his friend Junior Connolly at the Connolly Mining Company headquarters on Richmond Street. Connolly, like many of Jack's hockey teammates, called him "Jock" which was a play on his junior coach's French-accented pronunciation of his name, duly picked up by his teammates and the media.

"Hey, at least you've got the Challenge Cup," Jack said ruefully. In an ironic twist given their friendship, Jack's Toronto Dukes of the NAHC had lost the Challenge Cup series to Connolly's USHA champion Buffalo Bears in three games just a few weeks ago. The loss still stung for Jack.

Junior grinned at him. "Yes, there's that. I'm sure my father would be gloating to beat the band right now."

Connolly leaned back in his chair and continued, "Still, that was one hell of a season you had, Jock."

Jack tipped his head in acknowledgement of the truth of Connolly's words. Yes, he had enjoyed the best season of his career as an individual. He'd led the league with a whopping 44 goals and added nine assists to win the scoring title as well. And though the Dukes had finished second to the surprising Quebec Champlains, they did best Quebec in the NAHC championship series, with Jack scoring five goals over the two games. But not winning the Cup rankled him. Having tasted the sweet nectar of victory once, he ached to have that feeling again, but wondered if he ever would. The loss to Buffalo was a missed opportunity - and he knew it.

"I'd take the Cup over the scoring title every time," Jack said with a slight frown.

"Don't be so tough on yourself. You nearly beat us single-handedly. If Rausse hadn't been hurt? I think you boys would have won."

Jack agreed - losing his centerman, Charles Rausse, had been a big blow and probably was the difference in the series.

He sighed and said, "Oh well, no use crying about it now. And I will say it lessens the sting - just a little bit, mind you - but it does lessen the sting that we lost to you, Junior."

Junior gazed at the wall of his office, where a photo of his father with the Challenge Cup held a place of prominence on the wall.

Jack followed his friend's gaze. "You miss him," he said flatly - not a question, but a simple statement.

Junior waved his hand and said, "Our relationship was complicated. But he was my father and did love me in his own way. And he did leave the lion's share of his money and holdings to me." Junior was the eldest of Jack Connolly's three children. His brother William and sister Victoria had each inherited a quarter of the estate, while Junior received half, which had included the Buffalo Bears hockey club.

"I will say this much about him - he was a man who knew what he wanted and went after it with everything he had," Jack said and didn't bother to hide the admiration in his voice. The elder Connolly had definitely been a "damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead" type.

Junior nodded and said, "That's part of why I wanted to speak with you, actually."

Jack was intrigued and raised his eyebrows in a wordless question.

"I'm sure you've heard about what's been going on."

Jack nodded. The NAHC, having stolen away two clubs from the USHA the previous year, and in doing so having expanded from four clubs to six was angry because Junior's father, in one of his last - and best - maneuvers, had successfully mounted a legal challenge that saw the two clubs who left the USHA (the New York Shamrocks and Boston Bees) be forced to leave their players behind.

The two clubs, which had been two of the best in the USHA, went into the NAHC with no players. They had signed the best they could find, which wasn't particularly good, and suffered a dismal first season, combining for eight wins between them. Meanwhile, Connolly had miraculously enticed the Yeadon brothers (two of his most intractable enemies in the sport) to join the USHA. And in his final snub, Connolly put Bill Yeadon in Montreal with a reborn Montreal Nationals club, and put George in New York as the Eagles, going head-to-head with the NAHC in the sport's two marquee markets. Then he'd been killed by a jealous lover.

"I know that the USHA is putting a club in Chicago," Jack replied.

Junior took a deep breath and said, "Yes. And that took a lot of work, let me tell you. The owner? Augustus Hoch... is a real piece of work, let me tell you. The guy owns a meatpacking business and now some restaurants. Then he went and built an arena, and began looking for an NAHC club to put in it. He tried to buy Quebec, because that outfit is always operating on the razor's edge of financial doom, but no dice there. Then, he asks for a new team. And, this is the best part, the NAHC tells him, 'Sure, you can have a team. For $75,000.'" Junior laughed. "I can only imagine his face. I don't think you've met him, but this guy can squeeze blood out of a penny. So... he's ticked off and he comes to Tom Franklin, our acting President. Franklin is about to fold his Philly team and walk away from the sport, so instead he sells the franchise rights to Hoch - without telling the rest of us, mind you - for $25,000."

"Well, I can tell you that Bert Thomas was not happy about it," Jack said with a lopsided grin. Thomas was the owner of Jack's Toronto Dukes and, reportedly, the guy who had brought the Shamrocks and Bees into the NAHC. He and Jack had a complicated relationship.

Junior pointed at Jack and said, "Just so. And what did the NAHC do in response? They're putting a team in Detroit."

Now Jack nodded. "That, I do know about."

This time it was Connolly who cocked an eyebrow. "Really? Do tell."

"My brother Rollie runs the football club in Detroit, as you know." Connolly nodded and Jack continued, "So he has a business relationship with Eddie Thompson. And Thompson just so happens to be the owner of a brand-new arena right across the street from his ballpark."

Connolly interrupted, "But Thompson took a pass on the hockey team."

"Yep, he did. Rollie told me that Thompson's up to his ears in debt from building the arena and couldn't scrape together the $75,000 that the NAHC wanted. So they asked Rollie."

Connolly was genuinely surprised at this. "Really?"

Jack was nodding vigorously. "Yes. But my sister-in-law was having none of it. My brother is, as you know, trying to form a basketball league. And Francie, his wife, put her foot down. They're not poor by any stretch, but they have no... what do you call it?... liquid assets?" Connolly nodded and Jack smiled and went on, "So he was forced to say no, though he told me he really wanted in, despite the fact that the owner of the New York Shamrocks is Sam Bigsby - who he despises. Anyway, some guy named Caleb Weston ended up buying the team. At least Thompson's going to get rent for the use of his arena."

Connolly shook his head. "That's interesting. I don't know if the sport could have handled having a Barrell as a player and another as an owner." He laughed.

"Well, I guess we'll never know," Jack replied.

Junior's grin widened. "But speaking of your brother Rollie."

He paused and Jack felt inclined to prompt him, asking, "What about him?"

Junior winked at him and said, "I've decided to put a club in his basketball league. We'll play in Buffalo. Already have the building, so why not?"

Jack nodded - this would be great news to Rollie and his partners Jack Kristich and Carl Boon.

Junior snapped his fingers and said, "Well, we got sidetracked. But all that talk about the maneuverings between us and the NAHC? It was all a prelude to another offer."

"Oh? What kind of offer?"

Junior chuckled and replied, "The lucrative kind. Hoch... the new Chicago owner? He wanted me to pass along a contract offer. He figures since you're already spending the fall in Chicago you might consider playing hockey there too."

Jack was shaking his head. "We've been over this, Junior," he said wearily.

Junior put up a hand. "Yes, we have. Ad nauseum. But this is different. Hoch's offer is a whopper."

He passed a sheet of paper across the desk to Jack.

Jack's eyes widened when he saw the number. "This is a joke, right?" he gasped.

Junior laughed and said, "Not at all. Gussie Hoch's a very rich man. You're the best goal scorer in the sport and he wants to win at all costs." He reached out and tapped his index finger on the paper. "That's a legitimate offer."

"Well... I need to think on this and talk to my wife," Jack replied.

Junior chuckled again and said, "I thought you might."

-

[legendsport]

Brooklyn, NY: July 1, 1925:

Independence Day was right around the corner and the Barrells were back in Brooklyn - well, some of them anyway. Rufus and Alice brought their five youngest children and Rollie had tagged along to make a two-pronged business trip of it: he planned to talk with the owner of the New York Lucky Five basketball club and he also wanted to meet with one of the two potential suitors for an American Football Association club in New York.

For Rufus, this trip was decidedly not about business. "Remember when we left?" he asked Alice with a nostalgic twinkle in his eye. They had just gotten off the subway train that had taken them from Penn Station in Manhattan to the Atlantic Terminal in Brooklyn - the final leg of their trip from Georgia.

"What I remember is uprooting the whole kit and kaboodle and moving to the middle of nowhere, all on the spur of the moment," Alice grumbled in reply. Rufus had a hurt look on his face; Alice, seeing this, added in a softer tone, "I know why we did it, Rufus. It was just... sudden."

"I remember Tommy sleeping in a basket under the seat when the wagon got to the farm, and just look at him now," Rollie said with a chuckle as he gave Tom a playful shove.

Rufus, pride in his voice, nodded and said, "Indeed. 11-0 with a 0.41 ERA for Effingham County. I can guarantee you'd go high in the draft if you weren't already committed to going to college, Tommy."

Tommy blushed a little and shrugged.

Rufus turned to where Fred was walking at the rear of the group. "And next year, you'll be with Freddie. The Gators are going to be hard to beat," he said. Fred simply offered a small smile in response. He hadn't been particularly excited about the trip. Freddie had enjoyed a good sophomore season, hitting .331, though the team itself finished 26-24. He'd also apparently acquired a girlfriend - Rufus knew this only because he kept in touch with Ed Allen, the coach of Georgia Baptist. Allen kept a close watch on "his boys" as he called the players, and knew all about Fred and Miss Charlotte Waterston. Therefore so did Rufus, who'd decided, for now, to keep that tidbit to himself. He'd only embarrass Fred and Alice would not be able to avoid butting in once she heard about it.

"Me 'n Harry never got to live in the big city," Bobby complained, snapping Rufus out of his reverie; Harry nodded in agreement.

"Hey! Me neither!" Betsy added. Rufus saw Tommy roll his eyes.

"That's 'Harry and I,' Robert, and that was just the way things worked out," Alice shot back. Rufus knew his wife was a grumpy traveler and going from rural Georgia to the nation's biggest city was a long trip in more ways than simply mileage.

Rollie glanced at his watch. "Are we heading straight to Powell & Claudia's place? I need to be in Manhattan by five."

Rufus nodded. "That's the plan. We can check into the hotel later on."

Alice loudly exhaled in frustration. "No, let's go to the hotel first. We have luggage, Rufus, and I don't fancy carrying it all over Brooklyn."

Rollie grinned as he saw his father accept the wisdom in his wife's suggestion. "Yes, you're right as usual, my dear," Rufus said. Then he looked around the large train station and said, "Let's find some taxis."

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

Powell Slocum had secured a nice brownstone for his family in Williamsburg. Rufus, who had once owned a similar building, was impressed.

Rufus knocked on the door, Alice at his side. Behind them stood Rollie with his younger siblings arrayed beside and behind him on the porch steps.

Rufus and Alice heard running feet and then the door swung open to reveal their grandson. He smiled at them and Rufus heard Alice give a sharp intake of breath and Rufus felt his heart break a little bit himself. The boy's grin was an exact duplicate of their late son's at the same young age.

Rufus forced a grin onto his face, "Well, hello James. How are you?"

James ran outside and hugged Rufus' leg. "Grandpa!" he shouted.

"Well, someone seems to like you," Alice said as she brushed a tear from the corner of her eye.

"James! Let your grandfather be. I'm sure all of our visitors would be more comfortable inside the house," Claudia said as she appeared in the doorway.

The Barrells trooped inside where Alice complimented Claudia on her decorating. Bobby and Harry began poking around, looking for Danny.

"He's not here," Claudia said with a small smile. "He is with Powell."

"Really?" Rollie asked. "That's a bit of a surprise."

Claudia nodded happily.

Rufus snapped his fingers. "That's right, I forgot the Kings are off today. So where are they?"

"They are at the ballpark."

At the word "ballpark," Bobby and Harry froze in near-comical disbelief. Rollie, seeing this, guffawed and told his mother, "Hey, Mom, there's your magic word to get the knuckleheads to stop misbehaving!"

Rufus looked at his youngest sons. "I know I don't need to ask, but do you two want to head over to the park?"

Bobby and Harry began jumping up and down. Rufus saw that Freddie & Tommy were eager as well, but trying to be as nonchalant about it as possible. Rufus gave Alice a questioning look. She smiled and nodded. Rufus looked at Rollie, "You coming?" he asked.

"Sure why not. We'll leave the ladies here to catch up."

Rufus noticed young James looking up at him with a pout on his face. "Hmm... well, if your mother says it's ok, I don't see any reason you couldn't tag along too," he told his grandson.

For a split-second it looked like Claudia was going to say no, but seeing the look on her son's face, she nodded and said, "Certainly. You will be safe with your grandfather and uncles. But be sure to be on your best behavior!"

"Yes, mama," James replied and then grabbed Rufus by the hand. This caused Betsy to ask if she could also go, but Alice was steadfast in refusing. So one of the Barrells was left unhappy.

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

At the ballpark, Rufus went directly to the team offices. As a former Kings employee - even all these years later - he still knew his way around. "I'd like to pop in and see if Mr. Presley's around," he told Rollie as they entered the lobby.

Sure enough, old Mrs. McGillicudy was still on duty at her desk. She remembered Rufus well and gushed over Rollie, who she remembered as a "wee slip of a lad" from all those years earlier.

Unfortunately, Mr. Presley was not in the office, having gone into Manhattan for the day to deal with some of his other business. His grandson - and Rollie's old golfing buddy - Eugene Weston was there however and he and Rollie began catching up.

Rufus asked Eugene to give his regards to his grandfather, gave a friendly smile to Mrs. McGillicudy, and headed for the tunnel, with Bobby and Harry in tow and James still holding his hand. Fred and Tom brought up the rear.

"This here is the best sight in the world," Rufus told his boys as they approached the narrow, sloping tunnel that led into the dugout. "When you walk up this tunnel, the whole park opens up before you. The green grass, the stands full of fans, the wide blue sky - unless it's raining of course - and the smells..." he trailed off and sighed.

From behind him Rufus heard Harry say, "Well, let's go see it, Pop!"

Rufus gave a small, slightly sad chuckle and then started up the tunnel.

For Bobby and Harry it was just as their father described - minus the fans, of course. "It's so big," Bobby said as he gazed around in wonder. Harry's attention was immediately drawn to the home plate area where the batting cage had been set up. Standing on the mound, a bucket of balls at his feet, was Powell Slocum. He gazed over at the new arrivals and grinned. "Rufus! Good to see you!"

Bobby and Harry walked towards the cage as Rufus stepped onto the grass and walked towards the mound, with James still holding his hand.

Danny popped out of the batting cage, a bat on his shoulder. "Hey Pop," he said.

"Danny!" Bobby and Harry exclaimed in unison, both rushing over to hug their brother, whom they hadn't seen in months.

The same was true for Rufus and he paused in his walk, running an appraising gaze over his son.

"You look like you're doing well, Dan," Rufus said, and meant it - this version of Danny was much more like his old self than the bitter and broken young man he'd been at Christmas.

"He is doing well," Slocum said as he ambled towards Rufus.

Powell scooped James up and the boy gave him a hug. "Hi, Dad!" the boy said happily. "I like your baseball clothes."

Slocum laughed. "I like 'em too, James."

Rufus was smiling. He turned from Slocum to Danny and shook his head. "This is not what I expected to see," he said.

Danny, a sheepish look on his face, explained, "Well... I was a pig-headed fool and that's no lie. Claudia and Powell have been great. With Claudia's help my leg and arm are much better. I can run and throw again, though nowhere near as well as I could before, of course."

Powell interrupted and said, "That may be true, but I think you're going to be closer to 100% than you will be to 75, Dan."

Danny looked uncomfortable at this, but nodded in thanks.

"So.... I have to ask," Harry said. "Why are you in the batting cage?"

Danny laughed and cocked a thumb at Slocum. "Well, Powell here thinks he can make a FABL ballplayer out of me."

Rufus raised his eyebrows. "Really?" he asked Slocum.

Powell nodded. "Yes, that's true. I did see him play some at Capital. The talent is raw, but it's there. Let's not overlook the fact that he was drafted. These ballclubs don't just waste those draft picks, eh Rufus?"

Slocum reached out his hand and dropped a baseball in Rufus' right hand. "Don't take my word for it. Go on, see for yourself."

Rufus smirked and shrugged out of his jacket. "Too warm for that anyway," he said, handing it to Fred.

He stepped out on to the mound shaking his arm out, and Danny dug in to the batter's box. Harry and Bobby watched from the side, while Tom and Fred went behind the cage and gazed through the netting.

"Give him something hot, Pop!" Tommy said with a grin.

Rufus shook his head. "Keep in mind, boys, I'm over fifty now."

He did still have it though: his first pitch was arrow straight and right over the heart of the plate. Danny swung and to Rufus' practiced eye, the swing was close to textbook; certainly far better than what he'd been showing back at Capital. Having Powell Slocum as your own personal hitting instructor apparently was paying dividends. The hips opened up a tad too wide, but the stride, the swing, the position of the hands, were all rock solid. And the contact was as well. Danny lined the pitch solidly to left-center.

"Come on Pop!" Tommy yelled again.

Rufus grinned and dialed it up a bit. The next pitch was still over the plate, but he had put a little wrinkle in it. Danny tried to adjust, but only managed a weak dribbler. "We haven't gotten to dealing with the fancy stuff," Powell told Rufus with a grin.

Rufus threw about ten more pitches and Danny handled them fairly well. There was certainly room for improvement, but as Powell had said, the makings of a FABL player might be there after all.

"Not too bad," he told his son. "Keep working and you might have something."

Slocum ambled over and said, "That's right. I'm already working on Mr. Presley to see about getting him signed. The Saints no longer hold his rights so he's up for grabs and could be the best-kept secret in baseball."

"I don't know about that last part," Danny said.

The other four boys had wandered over. "Any chance we could... you know?" Tommy asked, cocking his head toward the mound.

Rufus said, "You better not mess up your clothes. Your mother will kill all of us." Then he placed a baseball in Tommy's hand and walked off the mound. He could already hear Bobby, Freddie and Harry arguing over who would hit first.

"Y'all know that the price for this is going out there and rounding up all them balls afterwards, right?" Slocum said with a grin.

The boys collectively had no problem taking that deal.

_

[legendsport]

New York, NY: July 2, 1925:

Rollie Barrell loved New York City. He just couldn't help it. It had nothing to do with being born and partially raised in Brooklyn, which despite being officially part of New York City, was still populated by people who felt that being Brooklynites separated them from the other New York residents. Those who lived in Manhattan itself were exactly the same. No... what Rollie liked about Manhattan was just how busy it was. And it was growing, with ever-taller buildings appearing every time he visited. There was even talk of building a skyscraper larger than the nearly-800-foot tall Woolworth Building, which was already the tallest in the world.

Moving with a purpose, Rollie fit right in with the bustling denizens of the city as he headed for his meeting with Everett Livingstone. Livingstone's office was, ironically, across Barclay Street from the Woolworth Building in a much shorter, but still nicely appointed 20-story building owned by Livingstone. As Rollie strolled across the southern edge of City Hall Park, he saw a taxi stop and Jack Kristich emerge. As the AFA Commissioner, Jack was the point man for the discussions with Livingstone. Rollie was there as a club owner to offer support to Kristich.

Kristich was waiting in the lobby when Rollie emerged from the revolving door. Rollie gave a low whistle at the marble-appointed lobby of the Livingstone Building. Jack chuckled and said, "Yes, it looks like bookmaking does indeed pay, eh Rollie?"

Rollie nodded and they headed for the elevator. The operator greeted them and took them to the 20th floor. When the elevator doors opened they were greeted by an expanse of red carpet leading to a desk occupied by a young woman, presumably Livingstone's secretary. She greeted them and without further niceties led them directly into the office of her boss.

Livingstone's office, though large, was surprisingly modest. The man himself, in his late thirties, rose immediately and gave them a warm smile. "Gentlemen, welcome. Please have a seat," he extended his arm to the pair of chairs set before his desk.

Jack and Rollie shook hands in turn and then seated themselves. Jack got right down to business.

"Mr. Livingstone, thanks for seeing us. Your friend Dr. Bates suggested you to us as a potential operator of a professional football club here in New York."

Livingstone smiled at the mention of Dr. Emile Bates. Bates had been the first choice of Kristich for a New York football club. He was known to many in the AFA, as he had been the team doctor for the Akron club back when Joe was playing there in the late teens. Now he had a prestigious - and prosperous - practice in New York. Livingstone was one of his friends and when Bates had declined Jack's offer, he had instead suggested they speak with Livingstone.

"Emile is a good man - and a better doctor," Livingstone said. He had a warm baritone voice and wore small, round glasses. He looked rather like an accountant - which was not a bad thing in Rollie's mind as he had trained for that very profession at Noble Jones.

"I'm sure Dr. Bates filled you in. Our proposal is simple, we'd like you to operate a football club here in New York."

"And the entry fee is $500?" Livingstone asked pointedly.

"Yes, we are not seeking to bar entry. We want a club here and we want it to be successful."

Livingstone gave a small smile and replied, "I assume that when you say you don't want to bar entry, you are not including the Bigsby family in that statement."

Rollie frowned. Jack looked at him and nodded, so Rollie replied, "That's true. We would prefer to not have the Bigsby's own the AFA's New York franchise."

Livingstone scratched his nose. "Well... it just so happens that I am not a particular friend of Miles Bigsby or his assorted sons and nephews. But... it is typically not wise to work at cross-purposes with that family. They have extensive contacts in both the city and state governments."

Jack nodded. "We are aware of Mr. Bigsby's contacts. He was instrumental in getting the blue laws amended to allow Sunday football. But we know that was for his own purposes and not to benefit our association."

"True," Livingstone agreed, "Miles Bigsby doesn't often do things that do not in some way redound to his benefit."

Livingstone leaned back and raised his eyes to the ceiling. He spent a moment in apparent thought and then continued, "I have spoken with the owners of the New York Stars. They, as is the case with the Bigsbys, own a ballpark that would be suited to host football contests."

Kristich nodded, as did Rollie who liked where this was going.

Livingstone stopped and looked at each of his guests briefly before grinning and saying, "I've secured a lease on Riverside Stadium. I rather like the idea of tweaking the nose of Miles Bigsby. Gentlemen, I am in."

Rollie was surprised at how easy that had been. But he was also excited. The AFA was growing by leaps and bounds. With the New York entry now assured, the league was also moving into Baltimore, Boston and even Toronto (and had already put a team in Philadelphia). Rollie had some misgivings about the rapidfire additions but Jack Kristich was adamant about growing the league.

There were some formalities: paperwork and so forth to be done, but the rest of the meeting went smoothly and they were on their way to Washington Heights to meet with the owners of the New York Luckies basketball club.

Things didn't go quite as well there - but in the end, Jack and Rollie secured a tentative agreement to have the Luckies participate in their still-unnamed pro basketball circuit that winter.

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

Chicago, IL: November 24, 1925:

"Mr. Boon, Mr. Barrell, it's like this: you need us more than we need you."

Joe Barrell's first thought was, "What's this 'us' stuff. This stuffed suit isn't going to be out on the field." But with restraint that would have made his parents proud, he held his tongue and shot a sidewards glance towards Carl Boon, who sat beside him.

Boon seemed relaxed, but Joe would have bet his house that his partner was seething too. But... unfortunately for them, Joe - and Carl too - knew that Patrick O'Doul was one hundred percent correct. They did need him - well, his "client" at least - more than he needed them.

O'Doul had a smug look on his face as he continued, "You've seen the press clippings. Hell, I know for a fact that Mr. Barrell here has seen Mr. Dane play in person." This was true - Urban Dane of Lincoln College had dealt the stiff-arm that had ended Danny Barrell's football career and both Joe and Jack Barrell had been there.

"No less than Jiggs McGee himself has called Dane the 'Max Morris of football.'"

Joe's temper flared a bit and he snappishly replied, "McGee's a baseball writer, what's he know about football?"

O'Doul flashed his shark-like smile and shot back, "He's a sportswriter, Mr. Barrell. His purview does include things other than our national pastime. Besides, even my blind grandmother would recognize just how talented Urban Dane is."

Carl Boon took a deep breath and audibly exhaled it. He raised a hand, forestalling Joe's pending comeback and said, wearily, "Mr. O'Doul, what you're asking is... too much. We're a business and we barely turn a profit as it is."

O'Doul's grin widened, "That, Mr. Boon, is why you need Mr. Dane's services. He'd put the Wildcats so far above the rest of the AFA clubs that they'd need a telescope to see you."

"Your talent for hyperbole is duly noted, Mr. O'Doul, but numbers don't lie. Here's our counterproposal: $500 per game, plus 25% of gate receipts for the balance of the '25 season, to be followed by a national barnstorming tour under the same terms. That's the best we can do."

O'Doul sat back in his chair, a look of displeasure written on his face.

Joe honestly didn't like this guy. Sure, he looked dapper in his fancy suit and used his Grafton-educated vocabulary like a weapon. But he was shrimpy - Joe was a physical guy and he measured other men on their level of physical threat. And he knew he could demolish Mr. Fancy Pants O'Doul in a couple of heartbeats. But this was neither the boxing ring nor the football field and in a business meeting you had to employ more 'civilized' tactics - which was Carl's forte. So Joe needed to trust that his partner and friend would do the right thing for both of them.

And even though Joe would need to shift to fullback to make room in the backfield for Dane, he'd do it because despite his smug manner, O'Doul was correct about how good Urban Dane was as a player.

O'Doul frowned, hemmed and hawed, but in the end, he agreed: Urban Dane, the most electrifying football player to ever touch a pigskin, would join the Chicago Wildcats right after Thanksgiving and play their last three AFA contests (against Fort Wayne, Boston and Toronto) before they'd embark on a coast-to-coast tour.

Joe briefly wondered what they'd do for a quarterback for the tour: Jack would be returning to hockey right after the Toronto game (he'd even half-joked about riding the train with the Maple Leaf players since they'd be going to the same destination after that final contest). Joe could shift to QB himself - he had a good, strong arm (he was Rufus Barrell's son after all), but he wasn't sure he wanted to switch positions twice within a month.

Still, the competitor in him was growing excited - Urban Dane was joining his team! They'd demolish the competition.
_

[Sevsdast]

What teams are in the AFA? Exciting to see the teams of Barrels working together and this world continue!

[legendsport]

Originally Posted by Sevsdast

What teams are in the AFA? Exciting to see the teams of Barrels working together and this world continue!

Thanks, glad you're enjoying the story!

As of the '25 season, the AFA has been rapidly expanding as part of Jack Kristich's plan to move to a big city league from its more midsize roots. So there are a whopping 20 teams in '25, but many of those are unlikely to last. Here's the list:

Akron Triangles
Baltimore Browns*
Boston Minutemen*
Buffalo Nickels
Chicago Wildcats (Joe & Jack play here, Joe is co-owner with Carl Boon)
Cleveland Finches (the 1925 champs, 12-1-1 record)
Dayton Dusters
Detroit Maroons (Rollie's team)
Duluth Navigators
Fort Wayne Titans (Jack Kristich's team)
Gary Greys
Kansas City Steers
Milwaukee Hawks
New York Stars* (Ev Livingstone's team)
Philadelphia Hornets
Pittsburgh Pros
Rochester Robins
Toledo Tigers
Toronto Maple Leafs*
Youngstown Reapers

* - new clubs in '25

In some cases, the AFA teams took the names of their baseball counterparts (Boston & NY to name two) and even the Wildcats is a bit of play off the FABL Cougars, with whom they share a home stadium.

[legendsport]

Detroit, MI: November 26, 1925:

"Damn those Bigsbys!" Rollie Barrell exclaimed as he hung up the telephone.

It was Thanksgiving Day and Rollie and Francie were hosting a family dinner that included Francie's brother Dick York, his wife Millie and their two sons, Joe and Dick Jr., called Dicky by his brother and Ricky by his mother (Rollie found this funny, Francie thought it annoying). Rollie turned around to see his daughter Marty and both York boys staring at him open-mouthed and his wife scowling at him. Dick wore a smirk on his face and Millie had an eyebrow twitched up in surprise.

"Sorry," Rollie muttered, red-faced. He was angry, and felt he had every right to be. That so-and-so Sam Bigsby was going out of his way to thwart Rollie's plans.

"Little pitchers, big ears, Roland," Francie chided. Rollie scowled at her and replied, "I said I was sorry. I let my anger get the best of me."

"So what's going on sport?" Dick asked. He recognized the stormy look on his younger sister's face and, feeling sorry for Rollie, sought to forestall whatever she was about to say.

Rollie waved his arm in anger, then visibly brought himself under control and replied, in a calmer tone, "Sam Bigsby has pulled the Lucky Five from the basketball league."

Francie's mouth dropped open. "I thought that deal was done," she said.

"So did I," replied Rollie. "But apparently, Bigsby convinced the majority owner of the team that they'd be better off continuing as a barnstorming outfit."

"I'd like to wring his neck," Rollie said, the anger returning to his voice. Then he put his hand out and said, "Sorry, again."

"What you should do, is put your team in New York and show that s.o.b. up," Dick suggested.

Rollie chuckled. "I'd love to, but I've got a lease already set up with Eddie Thompson. You know he's not going to let me out of it," he told Dick.

Dick laughed himself and nodded. "Yes, I know all too well how Big Eddie operates." This was true, Dick played for the man and his moodiness was reknowned around baseball. "Luckily for us, we have George Theobald to act as go-between."

"I thought Theobald was retiring," Rollie said.

Dick nodded and explained, "Oh he is. He broke the news at the end of the season. Our last-place finish did him in. He said that it was time for a younger man to take the reins. But... he still holds a 35-percent stake in the team and will act as a bridge between the new field and general managers and us players with Big Eddie."

"Still, I doubt even Theobald could convince Eddie to let me out of the lease," Rollie said. He pulled out his chair and sat back at the table. He pushed some cranberries around with his fork and mused, "I would love to stick it to Bigsby though."

Dick pointed his fork at him and said with a grin, "What if I help you out?"

Rollie shook his head. "Thanks Dick, but I doubt even you could get Thompson to drop the lease."

Dick also shook his head. "Not what I'm saying. I'm thinking, what if I take over the lease, freeing you to put a team in New York?"

Rollie's face took on an almost-comical look of surprise. Francie, watching this, said, "What are you talking about Dick?"

Millie chimed in as well, "Yes, dear, I am wondering the same thing." Francie shot her a sidelong look of annoyance. Rollie and Dick both knew she didn't care much for Dick's wife.

Dick grinned widely. "Well, I'm saying maybe I should own and operate the Detroit team."

"Whoa, Dick... no offense, but can you afford that?" Rollie asked.

Dick shrugged and said, "Sure. At least I think so. I've done pretty well with some investments. Old man Thompson actually pointed me at some good stocks. We've got a nice nest egg," he finished, looking at his wife.

"You shouldn't touch that money, Dick," Francie said.

"Little sister, that's not really your concern," Dick told her and though his tone was mild, Rollie felt the steel behind his words.

"Sounds like your mind is set on this, Dick," he said, and though he tried, he couldn't keep the gleam out of his eye or conceal his excitement at sticking it to Sam Bigsby.

"It is. I've been a player for a while now. Maybe it's time to try my hand at ownership," Dick said with a smile. "It seems like it's worked out fine for you, Rollie."

Francie was shaking her head back and forth quickly. "It might look like it, but that football team barely turns a profit, Dick," she told her brother.

"Oh, Francie, things are getting better and you know it." Rollie said, then he tipped his head to the side and continued, "But, she's partially right Dick. The first few years are probably going to be tough. We're growing this thing from the ground up and getting the public on board could be a dicey proposition."

"Sounds like you're trying to talk me out of this, Rollie," Dick responded.

Rollie shook his head. "No, not at all. I do think this is a good business opportunity. But I won't mislead you by saying there aren't risks that it'll go belly-up."

Dick's face took on a thoughtful look. Then he came to an apparent decision and said, "Heck, nothing in life is guaranteed. I really want to do this." He paused and looked at Millie again before continuing, "To be honest, I was going to ask you about buying a minority share of your team. Now I can just take on the whole thing. And I know Thompson will let me take on the lease for the Palladium."

Rollie's face broke out in a joyous smile as he said, "Oh, I can't wait til Bigsby gets this news!"

Francie sighed heavily. "You boys and your financial derring-do. I hope you don't ruin us all."

Rollie spoke as if not even having heard his wife, musing, "This is going to happen fast - we're only a few weeks from the start of the season. I wonder if I can scare up a venue for a New York team. The Bigsby Garden is obviously going to be unavailable to me."

Dick winked at him and said, "I'm sure you'll figure it out. You're a smart guy, Rollie."

Rollie chuckled, said, "I won't argue that point!" and laughed. Francie rolled her eyes and sighed again.

Rollie's eyes lit up. "In fact, I have an idea. I need to talk to my father about it, but I do believe I have the solution."

[legendsport]

Brooklyn, NY: November 30, 1925:

"I'm afraid that won't be possible, Rollie," Malcolm Presley said. From the expression on the elderly gentleman's face, he actually meant what he was saying.

Rollie Barrell nodded, his mouth set in a grim line. "May I ask why, sir?" he replied.

Presley, seated behind his massive oaken desk in his office at Kings County Park, leaned forward with his elbows on the blotter. "I simply don't have the money at the moment."

Rollie was taken aback - this was surprising in more ways than one. The shock must have been apparent on his face because Presley gave a shake of his head and muttered, "Yes, it's true. Sad, but true."

Rollie frowned. This was not what he was expecting. His "brilliant idea" had been to seek Malcolm Presley's help in placing a basketball club in Brooklyn. Granted, it wasn't Manhattan, but the former city of Brooklyn, now simply a borough of Greater New York, would still have been the third largest city in the country if still independent. And with his father's ties to the club, Rollie had - foolishly in hindsight - believed that Presley would back him for a share of the basketball club's ownership.

Presley leaned back in his chair and explained. "My grandson... I'm afraid I've given the boy too much leeway. He's made some bad investments and the family's finances have taken a hit. As you may or may not know, we won a pennant just two years ago, but have since had two disappointing campaigns. I am in the process of hiring a hot shot new general manager in the hopes of turning this franchise around, and I want him to have as much budget as is necessary to make the Brooklyn Kings a factor in the Continental Association." He paused, his hands together, tented below his chin. "With those being the facts, it is simply not possible for me to invest in your baketball club."

Rollie nodded slowly. "I appreciate your having taken the time to speak with me, Mr. Presley," he said despondently and started to rise from his chair.

Presley stopped him with an outstretched and raised hand. "Hold on, son. I personally will not be able to help, but I think I know someone who could."

Rollie plopped back into his seat, surprise on his face and hope in his heart. "Really? I'm all ears, sir," he said with a smile.

Presley grabbed a pen and wrote a note. Rollie tried, but couldn't quite make out what he was writing and wasn't willing to crane his neck, despite the suspense driving him crazy.

Finally Presley folded the note and pushed it across the desk. As Rollie picked it up, he spoke.

"There's an address on there for the Prescott Brewery and Bottling Company. The note should gain you admittance to speak with the chairman, Daniel Prescott. He's a good man and a shrewd businessman as well. He's talked with me about purchasing the Kings, so I know he's interested in opportunities in professional sports. I think he might very well be receptive to your offer of a large share of ownership in your club."

"Prescott Brewery and Bottling Company..." Rollie said musingly.

Presley smiled and nodded. "Yes. He's a shrewd one is Daniel. Despite Prohibition shutting down the brewery side of the business he remains profitable by selling root beer and there are rumors he's working diligently on some idea about putting beverages in cans of all things." Presley pointed to the note. "By all means, please speak with him. If he's smart as everyone says, he will jump at this opportunity."

Rollie thanked Mr. Presley and was soon on his way across the borough from Flatbush to Williamsburg, where Prescott had his company headquarters. He stopped on the way for lunch and was pleasantly surprised when Prescott's secretary told him he was expected and to head on in.

Daniel Prescott was a forty-ish gentleman with a full head of neatly combed brown hair and an open, friendly face. Rollie immediately had a good feeling when Prescott stepped out from behind his desk and strode forward, meeting him halfway for a firm handshake and an offer of a drink.

Rollie glanced at the sideboard, and saw a pair of bottles of Prescott Root Beer. He smiled and took Prescott up on his offer.

Once they were both seated, Rollie took a sip of his root beer. "This is very good, sir," he said - and meant it.

Prescott smiled and nodded. "Yes... well, it's not quite as profitable as our former product line, but it pays the bills."

Rollie was about to ask how he had known he was coming when Prescott nodded at the phone on his desk and said, "Mr. Presley called and let me know you were coming."

With a smile Rollie replied, "Mr. Presley is a very gracious gentleman."

"Indeed he is," Prescott replied. "He also mentioned you have a business proposition for me?"

Rollie liked that Prescott was a to-the-point type - much like he was himself. He tipped his head and said, "Yes. I am with a group of businessmen starting a professional basketball circuit and I need a partner."

Prescott was silent and Rollie could tell he was thinking. Finally the older man replied, saying, "I did some checking up on you. I know you run a football club in Detroit."

Rollie nodded but didn't reply.

"And I know that this league has some interesting people behind it. Jack Kristich... he's going to run the league?"

"Yes, sir. Jack has proven to be quite a capable president for the AFA and I'm sure he'll be just as successful with the basketball league."

"This league have a name?"

Rollie chuckled. "Yes, sir. It's the Federal Basketball League."

Prescott smiled, "Taking a page from old man Whitney?"

Now Rollie laughed aloud. "Right in one, sir. Mr. Whitney should be taught in universities - he apparently had the right formula."

"Yes, FABL is certainly doing quite well for itself." He paused and gave Rollie a hawk-eyed look before asking, "I suppose Presley told you I've been after him about getting a piece of the Kings?"

"He did, sir. I suspect what he's hoping is to hand the team over to his grandson."

"Yes, I've heard the same. I've also heard that that particular apple fell so far from the tree it landed on the other side of the river." He tipped his head towards his window through which the East River could be seen, and beyond it, Manhattan.

Rollie chuckled. "I know Mr. Presley's grandson and I would say that's not far from the truth. He does spend a lot of time and money in Manhattan unfortunately."

Prescott nodded. "Fair enough. So... this basketball team. What's in it for me?"

Rollie went into his sales pitch. The offer boiled down to needing capital for the start-up, and hopefully the construction of a permanent building - after securing a lease on somewhere to play. Prescott grinned at hearing this but allowed Rollie to continue.

"I'm willing to offer you a forty percent stake in the team, sir," Rollie said and concluded with a price for the stake.

Prescott didn't flinch at the price, but replied, "Forty percent? We might need to do better than that, Mr. Barrell."

Rollie was prepared for this. "I'd be willing to go as high as 49 percent, Mr. Prescott. But I must remain majority owner."

Prescott narrowed his eyes and Rollie wondered if this was a bad sign.

"Mr. Barrell, here's what I'm going to suggest - I get 49 percent, and I'll throw in an extra five thousand dollars," Rollie nearly sighed in relief and his jaw almost dropped when Prescott added, "And I'll throw in a place for our team to play."

Rollie's eyebrows shot up and Prescott, wearing a pleased look on his face, said, "It just so happens that I purchased the Williamsburg Auditorium just last week. I do believe that would suit, wouldn't you agree?"

Rollie most certainly did agree. It looked like this was going to work out after all.

Noting that Prescott had a wolfish smile on his face, Rollie wasn't all that surprised when his new partner added, "I do have one condition - I get to name the team."

Rollie smirked and replied, "Well... you do have me over a barrel, sir, so that is acceptable, I suppose."

Prescott's grin widened. "It's funny that you mentioned a barrel...."

[legendsport]

Maplewood, NJ: March 21, 2020:

Paul Crowe wearily ran a hand across his face as he stared at his laptop screen. He stood up with a groan and stretched his back, briefly hoping Cheryl wouldn't hear the groan. He didn't want to hear about he needed to give it up and just go see the chiropractor.

Sometimes he thought this book about Rufus Barrell and his brood would be the end of him.

He decided he'd leave off on his research for a moment and go grab a beer. He threw a glance at the baseball clock Cheryl had given him for Christmas. It'd come with a note remarking that he'd now have one less reason to look at his cellphone every five minutes. The pair of bat-shaped hands on the clock's face told him it was 12:15 and therefore no longer morning. So he could - and would - have a beer.

On his way to the refrigerator he passed the small bedroom that Cheryl had converted into her "woman cave" (Cheryl's terminology, not Paul's). He heard the sewing machine going and decided to poke his head in.

"Whatcha doin'?" he asked.

Cheryl stopped the machine and turned to him. "Making masks."

Paul's brow furrowed in confusion. "Huh?" he blurted.

She reached out and grabbed some fabric with a pair of elastic hoops on each side. "Masks."

"Umm, ok," Paul remarked, the furrowed brow deepening.

Cheryl gave him an exasperated look and said, "I know you've got your head in the book, but do you ever look at news that isn't a hundred years old and related to the Barrells?"

He pursed his lips. "Of course I do and you know it."

"Well... then you'd know that this virus is a serious issue and we both need to start wearing masks when we leave the house."

"Really? It's going to be getting warm and that's just going to make my face hot."

"Better than getting sick, you big doofus."

Paul shook his head and said, "OK, whatever. I'm going to get a beer. If the world's going to hell, that seems like the least I can do."

"That's not funny!" Cheryl shouted back as he walked into the kitchen and grabbed a beer from the fridge.

Paul pulled out his phone and read the latest news on the COVID-19 virus while he drank his beer. When he was finished, the news had him wanting to down a second beer, but instead he forced himself to go back to work.

The clock had just ticked over to 1 pm when Cheryl showed up at his office door.

"You going to eat lunch or was that beer your lunch today?" she asked.

Paul sighed. "Yes, I'll be out in a few minutes. I'm going through these newspaper stories from the 1925-26 winter and spring. Lots going on in the Barrells' lives that made the news."

Cheryl tipped her head to the side. "Really? Like what?"

Paul put his glasses on and looked at his browser. "Let's see.... December 1925, 'Dane and Barrell lead Wildcats to California win'... that was Joe on the Wildcats national tour..." He clicked another tab... "1925 FABL Draft results... Clyde Hinzman, shortstop, drafted by the Chicago Cougars in the sixth round..." Another click: "Brooklyn Cagers Debut... that one was, let's see, December 28. Rollie's basketball team. They ended up having a pretty bad debut season actually..." Another click... "Georgia Baptist: Double-Barrelled... that one, obviously about Tom joining Fred on the Baptist baseball team, that was March 3, 1926..." Yet another click... "Effingham County High School suffers loss... and they didn't mean a game - Bobby hurt his ankle playing basketball and missed his freshman season..." Paul smiled and said, "This one I like a lot: 'Kings sign former Olympian... that was Powell Slocum talking old man Presley into signing Danny after he helped him recover from that knee injury."

"That was more Claudia's doing," Cheryl pointed out.

"What?!? No, that was Slocum... and the GM."

"No, I mean the knee rehabilitation. That was all Claudia. You better get that straight in the book."

"Ah, yes, you're right about that. I'll make sure your great-granny gets her due." Paul managed to keep a straight face while saying this. Being married to Jimmy Barrell's great-granddaughter was never dull, he reflected.

"What else you got?" Cheryl asked. Despite sometimes acting like the book was a giant burden, Paul knew she was secretly heavily invested in a project that was, in the final analysis, all about her own family.

Paul gave her a crooked smile and then looked at his screen again. "OK... June 3, 1926: Georgia Baptist falls in Semis... Fred & Tom both had good years, but lost to Chicago Poly one round short of the title series." He glanced at Cheryl and said, "I bet Danny gave his brothers a hard time about that!"

"Well, he never played baseball there, but I take your point," Cheryl replied.

Paul looked back at his screen and said, "Oh... I found a wedding announcement... April 3, 1926 Edna Farmer Barrell weds Roscoe Daniels... I think you know this, but Roscoe was Cooter's son. And I know from an interview I did with one of Joe's grandsons that Joe showed up smashed at the wedding and got into a fight with his own brother. Jack, if I recall correctly."

Cheryl got a thoughtful look on her face. "I think that's right. At least it sounds like what Jack would do. He tried to be a peace-maker. Joe was a hothead by all accounts and I can see him showing up and making a scene."

Paul nodded, then asked, "What?" when he saw a smirk appear on Cheryl's face.

"I was just thinking... 1926... that was Dan's first year as a pro ballplayer, right?"

Paul nodded. "Yep, he started in Omaha but he did make it all the way to Houston. That was AAA back then. Quite an accomplishment." An openly admiring look came over his face and he added, "Of course, considering Danny was playing on one leg, everything he did was quite the accomplishment. Can you imagine? They didn't have arthroscopic surgery back then. The guy was playing bone on bone in his knee; the cartilage and ligaments were basically torn to shreds."

Cheryl nodded again, "Yep. Those guys were tough, I would definitely say that about the whole group though Danny might have been the toughest."

She pointed at him and grinned again, "But, I was thinking that '26 would have been when Dan met Gladys Summers."

Paul chuckled. "Ah, yes, that is a good story."

Cheryl put her hands on her hips again. "Well, why don't you tell me the story and I'll let you know if it matches what came down the family grapevine."

Paul gave her a smirk of his own. "Sure thing." He paused and looked at the ceiling for a second then began, "We have to go back a little bit, first. Gladys was Jack Kristich's niece. He was the guy who was running both the AFA and Federal Basketball League." He paused and noted, "That in itself is something else."

"No argument here," Cheryl said.

Paul went on, "So Rollie comes off this incredibly disappointing season for his basketball team. And he's got Daniel Prescott giving him hell about how the team was supposed to be good, blah, blah, blah. Then he goes and hires Jack Kristich's niece out from under him to be a scout of all things."

Cheryl was nodding. "Right so far... keep going."

"Yeah, so Rollie got some grief from Francie about that. 'What are you doing hiring this attractive young woman to scout basketball players,' and so on, and Rollie is in hot water there for a bit. But he was right, Gladys turned out to be an excellent scout. She could look at a guy and determine if he could actually play. So, Rollie sends her to the midwest with a directive to find him some live ones before Prescott pulls the plug on him. And... while she's doing just that, she walks into a restaurant in, uh, I think it was... Des Moines?"

"Nope, Wichita," Cheryl replied with a gleam in her eye.

Paul snapped his fingers and said, "Right. Wichita. I have it in my notes... somewhere. Anyway, who's eating in that restaurant but Danny Barrell. The Omaha Cowboys, for whom Dan is playing left field, are in town and he's there with a couple of his team mates. They end up meeting and well... you know the rest."

Cheryl nodded. "OK, you got most of it right. Do you know how they met, specifically?"

"It's in my notes. I don't have total recall here, you know," he replied and pointed to his head.

Cheryl guffawed and said, "That I do know."

"Very funny."

Cheryl picked up the story: "Yes, well, the way they met was that Gladys was not the shy and retiring type. Her gravy was cold, and she decided to go to the kitchen and complain. As she was carrying the gravy, one of the guys at Dan's table tripped her up accidentally. She dumped the gravy boat all over Danny. He was very gracious about it, though his jacket was ruined. As he talked to her, Gladys noticed that he both looked and sounded a lot like Rollie. So she tells Dan he reminds her of her boss. Dan asks her 'what's this guy's name?' and she tells him Roland Barrell. Now Danny starts laughing and Gladys is confused. Dan explains that Rollie is his older brother. Then Dan throws in, 'I didn't know Rollie had such an attractive young lady working for him,' which was a good and effective line. They ended up talking for a bit, and then they met again later in Omaha." She smiled and added, "I heard that Gladys went to Omaha purportedly to scout basketball players, but she really went just to see Dan."

"Yes, and that was the end of Emily Talbot, and Dan's infatuation with Claudia, too," Paul said.

Cheryl nodded and said, "Yes. I'm not sure that the thing with Emily would have gone anywhere regardless. I believe she ended up going back to England in the summer of '26 anyway. By then Dan had fallen for Gladys pretty hard."

Paul smirked and said, "That's sweet but this isn't a romance novel, you know."

"Well... it'll sell more copies if you go beyond all the sports stuff, you know."

Paul nodded. He knew Cheryl had a point. "I hate it when you're right," he said.

She threw something at him and Paul surprised himself by catching it. When he looked at it, he saw it was a fabric mask she had just sewn together. On it was the logo of the New York Gothams. "Uh... thanks," he said.

[legendsport]

Toronto, ON: July 13, 1926:

Jack Barrell was angry. Marie had tried to calm him down, but the truth was he'd been on the edge of rage for three months, ever since the fight with Joe at Edna's wedding. To Jack, family was of paramount importance, and the fact that he and his brother were not on speaking terms bothered him. But he was also stubborn - and so was Joe - and so he wouldn't forgive his brohter until he apologized, which he knew Joe was unlikely to do anytime soon.

Bert Thomas' assistant (Jack thought the kid's name was Bobby... or maybe Billy?) told him he could go on in.

With a deep breath and a silent reminder to himself to keep his cool, Jack stood, strode across the carpet to the thick door of Bert's office, opened it and walked in.

The office was dim. It was a cloudy day in Toronto and Bert had also drawn the curtains, severely curtailing whatever light was available. The rotund owner of both the Toronto Wolves baseball club and Toronto Dukes hockey club, as well as a thriving hospitality business (he owned five hotels), sat behind his desk, hands clasped on his round midsection. He remained silent as Jack strode across the room and took a seat.

"Well, Mr. Thomas, you wanted to see me. Here I am," Jack said, not bothering to hide the disdain in his voice. He had a feeling he knew precisley what this meeting was about and he wasn't in a frame of mind that was going to be receptive to being bullied.

"Yes, Jack. Thank you for coming in," Thomas said in a flat tone. Just getting the pleasantries out of the way, Jack thought as he waited for Thomas to get to the point.

Thomas took a deep breath and then said, "No sense beating around the bush. I just traded you."

Jack was shocked and though it was evident on his face, he did manage to ask in a reasonably calm tone-of-voice. "Traded? Where?"

"Chicago. I believe that will fit in with your second career." He threw a newspaper down on the desk.

Jack glanced down at the paper. It was the sports section, folded over to page three where a story on the formation of the Continental Football Association was boldly headlined.

"Ah, I didn't know that would actually qualify as news here in Toronto," Jack replied.

"That's a Buffalo paper," Thomas explained. "I have a fellow who brings it to me, so I can keep tabs on that other league."

Jack knew he meant the rival hockey outfit where his friend Junior Connolly was running a team in Buffalo. He nodded but, "I see," is all he said in reply.

"So... now you think you can run a team too?" Thomas asked scornfully.

Jack's temper was already running high, but he forced himself to take a breath before he replied. "This was a great opportunity for me. I'm not going to be able to play forever, you know."

Thomas, surprisingly, agreed, saying, "True. And I'd welcome it if you had kept it in the family so to speak."

"Was I supposed to wait for you to... what? Make me the Dukes coach?"

Thomas spread his hands. "That's not - or rather wasn't - out of the realm of possibility Jack."

Jack chewed his lip. This was surprising news. But it didn't really change anything.

Thomas frowned and said, "Well, now you're Gussie Hoch's problem, not mine."

"I suppose I should say that you'll regret this," Jack said hotly.

Thomas shrugged. "Possibly. I've tried to keep you in the fold Jack, but you refuse to even meet me halfway here."

Jack's face felt hot as his temper threatened to boil over. "Meet you halfway? This has been one-sided from the very beginning. First you tell me, 'quit baseball, Jack, you're no good because if you were I'd have drafted you' and then you tell me, 'don't play football either Jack' - and I've done quite well there. You didn't want me to meet you halfway, you wanted me to cave to your demands."

Thomas again spread his hands, "And that attitude if why you're no longer a part of the Dukes family."

Jack scoffed, "Family? You treat us like indentured servants and if you think I'm the only player who thinks that, you need to talk to some of the other guys."

Thomas sighed and shook his head. "There's that bad attitude again. You, and the other players, are replaceable. The institution - the team - will go on. Without you and the others. Hell, it'll go on without me too, but I alone have the power to kill it." He gave a rueful chuckle and added, "Unless it kills me first, of course."

Jack barked a short, mirthless laugh and said, "As if you'd ever kill the goose that lays the golden eggs." Then he shook his head and ground his teeth. "You just don't get it Bert. You want loyalty from the players but show none in return. I hope someday you'll learn to treat your players better."

A humorless smile creased Thomas' face and he said, "Enjoy Chicago, Jack."

Biting back a scathing reply that would have contained language of which his mother certainly would not approve, Jack shot to his feet and growled, "Well, I'll play my role and say, 'You will rue this day.'" And then he spun on his heel and stomped out of the office.

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

When he returned home, Marie told Jack that someone from New York had called. "Agnes, she answered the phone," his wife informed him. Now seven years old, Agnes had begun to assert herself in interesting ways. It reminded Jack of Jimmy in many ways that were bittersweet to say the least.

"Did she take a message?" he asked.

Marie nodded firmly and handed him a piece of paper with Agnes' nearly illegible printing scrawled on it. "At least she's trying," Jack said with a smile. Jack saw that the call had been from Urban Dane's manager, Patrick O'Doul. Jack noted that Agnes had spelled his name Odool and his smile widened.

Jack pulled out his wallet where he had tucked O'Doul's card. He picked up the phone and had the operator patch him through long distance to the small office O'Doul had opened on Madison Avenue in New York.

After two rings, the man himself answered the phone.

"What, no secretary O'Doul?" Jack asked smugly.

O'Doul's reply was a dry laugh followed by a simple statement: "Secretaries are a waste of money, Barrell."

Jack shared a laugh with O'Doul with whom he got along a lot better than did his brother Joe or Carl Boon. That was one reason he was working with O'Doul, and by extension Urban Dane, on this rival football league. As things currently stood, there was no way he could share a backfield with Joe.

Dane had, as advertised, drawn massive crowds across the country when he toured for almost two months with the Chicago Wildcats starting in early December. The success had caused O'Doul to immediately seek a better deal with Carl & Joe to keep his "client" a member of the Wildcats. Not surprisingly given their animosity towards O'Doul, the Wildcats owners had told him where to stick his offer.

So O'Doul was going to create his own league. A league built around Urban Dane. Dane himself would coach and play for the brand-new league's New York entry. And despite some grumbling from the baseball team, O'Doul had boldly named the team the New York Gothams... and then gotten the okay from the Bigsbys to let his team play in their stadium (for a sizeable fee, of course). But a league needed more than one team, and O'Doul had quickly sought out and found seven other people to run clubs. Jack had been approached and given the ongoing bad blood between him and his brother Joe, Jack had readily accepted a franchise to play in Chicago. He'd partnered with the same man who gave him use of an automobile while in Chicago to handle the business side (and provide some much-needed cash). Jack would both coach and quarterback the CFA's Chicago entry, which he had dubbed the Chiefs after negotiating a lease with Wash Whitney to use Whitney Park for the team's home games. He figured imitation was the sincerest form of flattery. Or maybe it was just monkey-see, monkey-do. Either way he was doing the exact thing Dane and O'Doul had done with the Gothams.

The other CFA clubs would be located around the country. There were teams in Boston, Brooklyn, Cleveland, Newark, Philadelphia, Youngstown and even Los Angeles. That latter entry was in reality a traveling team that would never play a home game, but it made headlines nevertheless. And with Urban Dane in the fold, hopes were high that the upstart circuit could knock out the AFA and take over as the nation's sole pro football league.

"I heard you were traded from Toronto to Chicago," O'Doul said. "In hockey, I mean. I still can't used to your being a player in two different sports, Jack."

Jack chuckled and said, "Then it's probably a good thing you didn't meet me when I was a struggling minor league baseball player."

O'Doul snorted and then noted, "I think Bert Thomas did you a favor. Being in town for the hockey season will allow you to keep your hand in with the football team in the offseason."

That aspect of it hadn't actually occurred to Jack, but he couldn't disagree with the assessment.

"Perhaps you're right, Pat," he said thoughtfully.

As the conversation continued, O'Doul filled Jack in on the progress the other clubs were making in things like finding a place to play, scheduling games and the other minutiae that few thought about when starting up a professional sports outfit. By the time the call ended, Jack was feeling better and some of his anger had shifted to an uneasy guilt about trying to stick it to his own brother. "Well, he started it," Jack muttered to himself.

[legendsport]

Egypt, GA: December 25, 1926:

The Barrell brood was once again all in one place. Well, mostly. Rollie and Francie were in Brooklyn in preparation for the second season of the Federal Basketball League. The "Root Beer Barrels" had finished 11-17 in the 1925-26 season, good for a seventh-place finish in the nine team league. Rollie's partner, Daniel Prescott, was not happy. So Rollie had hired an entirely new staff of scouts including the first known female scout in pro sports in Gladys Summers and turned them loose looking for new talent. And Claudia and James were with Powell Slocum in Alabama, visiting with his family.

"Gladys said that she thinks they've really improved this season," Danny Barrell told his father. Over Danny's shoulder, Rufus saw Jack smirking at his brother's remarks and forced down a smile of his own. It did appear that Dan was smitten and best of all, this time the object of his affection wasn't his brother's widow or the daughter of an English diplomat who spent months at a time on other continents.

Alice was in the kitchen trying to talk sense into her oldest child.

"You need to stop being so pigheaded. You know... I know that you know... that you were out of line at the wedding," she told Joe Barrell as he sat at her table, a full glass of unspiked egg nog sitting before him and wearing a scowl on his face.

"You're right... I do know. But Jack should also know to mind his own business," he said in a surly tone. Alice cocked an eyebrow at him. Joe saw this and grimaced. "Fine, I'll make peace. But only because it means so much to you and Pop."

She kissed him on the top of his head and said, "Thank you. But you should be doing this because it's right and also because Jack is your brother."

On the porch, Fred and Tom were sitting on the steps.

"I think you signed too quickly," Tom said. Fred was picking his teeth with a piece of straw. "If Ma sees you doing that, she'll hit the roof," Tom added, nodding at the piece of straw.

"Good thing she's focused on setting Joe straight, then, eh?" Fred replied with a grimace. "She needs to put fewer seeds in the bread. I'll be picking the things out of my teeth for a month," he groused.

"You're avoiding the issue," Tom prodded.

Fred shook his head. "Talk to me after you get drafted. The Cougars made me the third overall pick for cripe's sack. What am I supposed to do? Spit in their faces and say, I won't sign for that? $6400 is a lot of money, Tommy."

"Well, I wouldn't have taken it. You have leverage - coach would take you back for your senior season in a heartbeat," he pointed out.

Fred knew this was true and then Tom threw in an additional argument, "Plus Charlotte's still got another year of school regardless. Aren't you afraid someone will steal your girl?"

Fred smirked. "Well... I do have a brother who will be there and I expect him to keep an eye on her for me."

"Pssh. I have my own life to live, my brother."

"That's as may be, but I still expect you to keep an eye on my girl. I expect Charlotte to be my wife some day, so keep that in mind, please."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! What are you talking about? Marriage?!? Are you nuts?!?"

"No, I'm not nuts. But I do know a good thing when I see it. Which is more than I can say about you, little brother."

Tom frowned and shot back, "What's that supposed to mean?"

Fred pointed at him with the piece of straw and said, "You know what I mean. You're at school to learn and play baseball, not chase after every co-ed on campus."

Tom's mouth curled in a lopsided grin. "But they're so easy to catch..."

"That's not the point. Look at what happened to Joe... You need to think of girls as more than just sex objects, Tom."

"Pssh. Maybe that's what you think, but not everyone is such a prude. I bet you won't be so sure of yourself when you're off in some minor league burg a million miles from Charlotte and surrounded by other good looking girls."

Fred shook his head. "Mark my words, you'll regret that cavalier attitude someday."

Out behind the barn, Bobby and Harry were having a conversation of their own. Holding a basketball in his hands, Harry was scoffing as Bobby was attempting to explain the finer points of the sport to him.

"I'm not going to listen to you, Bob," Harry said, open disdain on his face. "You busted up your ankle and missed baseball season because of this stuff."

"Yes, and that's why I'm trying to get you to listen to me. I've learned from my mistake and want to pass that knowledge along to you, you idiot."

Harry, now 13, was in dutch with his parents for a stunt he'd pulled at school that had gotten him thrown off the football team.

Bobby at 16, felt it was his duty to pass along helpful information to his only younger brother.

"I don't want to hear it. You're such a know-it-all these days," Harry replied.

Bobby absentmindedly picked up a stick and tossed it as far as he could... which was plenty far indeed. The dog, Blue, looked up and whimpered, then trotted off after the stick, which landed far out in the post-harvest, thoroughly empty field.

"You should listen to somebody. What were you thinking with that stunt at school?"

Harry held up a hand. "Stop right there. That was funny, and you can't tell me it wasn't. Plus it would have been fine if Miss Carmen Robicheaux wasn't so stuck up."

Bobby shook his head and fought to keep a smile off his face. Harry was half-right: it was funny. But he should have known better because Carmen Robicheaux was guaranteed to go running to the teacher and rat him out.

"Aww, it was just a bullfrog," Harry said when Bobby explained this to him.

Bobby shook his head. "Harry, let me give you the facts. Girls... I reckon they don't like having bullfrogs shoved into their dresses. You're just lucky Pop got Mr. Robicheaux calmed down. I heard he had his shotgun in the truck when he drove up here."

Harry had a pouting look on his face again, "Aw, he wouldn'ta done anything."

Bobby was shaking his head again. "You're thirteen now, Harry, time to stop acting like a kid. Girls your age... they think they're women for cripe's sake. They don't take to the tomfoolery like they used to."

"There you go, acting like you know everything," Harry complained.

"Well... I do know more about girls than you do. Just wait another year or two, and you won't want to be stuffing frogs in their dresses anymore... I guarantee it."

Blue loped up to Bobby and dropped the stick at his feet.

Harry reached out and grabbed the stick. "Too bad girls aren't as simple as ol' Blue here," Harry said and threw the stick back out into the field. Blue whined at him but didn't move, so Harry gave him a shove and said, "Go get it, boy!" The dog looked like his heart wasn't really in it, but he did trot off after the stick.

"See?" Harry asked Bobby. Bobby just shook his head and grabbed the basketball. "Let me show you the right way to dribble. You know that Rollie's league has disallowed the double-dribble, right?"

Harry grinned and pointed out, "Well, shoot Bob, if'n I can backhand one of your rifle shots off one bounce at short, I reckon I can dribble with one hand, don't you think?"

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

Later that afternoon, Jack and Joe were quietly talking in the living room. Alice hugged Rufus as she peeked in to see the brothers back on speaking terms.

"Joe finally ran up against someone more stubborn than he is," Rufus joked. Alice pinched his arm, causing him to yelp and jump a bit.

"Hey, you two, get a room!" Jack shouted out and both he and Joe started laughing. Soon Rufus and Alice were laughing too.

"So, where are my girls?" Jack asked his mother.

Alice said that she had seen Betsy leading Agnes and Jean up the path to the barn. "I think Betsy's trying to teach Agnes how to play lawn tennis," Rufus said.

"Tennis? Is this new?" Jack asked.

Joe chimed in and asked, "And does this mean you're carving another chunk out of the back forty for a tennis court, Pop?"

Rufus now had a sheepish look on his face, which set everyone to laughing again.

Alice explained that Betsy, who was now 12 and becoming what Alice considered to be "willful" and Rufus secretly considered "just like her mother" had now decided that since she could not play baseball like her brothers, tennis was the next best thing. "She still gets to swing something and whack a ball around," Rufus added.

"Hmm. I wonder what Marie will think of that," Jack mused. Alice laughed and said that Marie had gone with them and was up at the barn swinging a racket herself. That set everyone to laughing again.

"If Agnes is anything like Jimmy, those tennis lessons could be interesting," Joe pointed out. Everyone looked at him in surprise.

"What? Claudia's not here and neither are Marie and the girls. We don't need to hide it amongst ourselves, do we?" Joe asked.

Jack gave a small, sad smile and said, "Joe's right. No need to act like that's a forbidden topic. And both Marie and I have noticed that Agnes does take after Jimmy in some ways."

"I need to get started on supper," Alice said and headed off to the kitchen. Rufus frowned at her back, wondering if she was upset at the sudden mention of Jimmy.

After a moment, Rufus looked at Jack and asked, "So, this league you were in... it's going under?"

Jack nodded, a grim look on his face. "Yes. I think O'Doul was a little too ambitious. His team did well, they had the best drawing card in the sport. My team...." he wagged his hand back and forth. "We did okay, but we were going up against Joe and the Wildcats for fans and I'm no Urban Dane. Some of the other teams, they just outright gave up the ghost before the season was even finished."

Joe nodded along and added, "Carl predicted that it would go just that way."

Jack sighed and replied, "Yes, Carl has a good, solid head for business. Among us Barrells, Rollie's probably the only one that can play in that forum."

"I don't know that's true," Rufus said. "I think all you kids are plenty sharp. Rollie just applies it differently."

Joe gave a rueful chuckle and said, "Lord knows I don't use it that way, if I have any smarts at all, that is."

"So what now?" Rufus asked Jack.

"Well... I still have my hockey career, of course. I'm a Chicago Packer now and I aim to stick it in Bert Thomas' craw."

Joe had a thoughtful look on his face. "You could come back to the Wildcats, Jack," he said.

Jack raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Really? That'd be okay with both you and Carl?"

"Carl is the one who suggested it. His exact words were, 'go apologize to your brother and get him back on our team.'"

"Well, that's nice to hear," Rufus said as Jack nodded his agreement.

[legendsport]

Lincoln, NE: July 15, 1927:

"Hey, number six!"

Fred Barrell tried to tune the voice out. Even at home games... hecklers. He turned his attention back to the pitcher.

Fred's team, the Lincoln Legislators were the Class A affiliate of the Chicago Cougars. He was getting his first taste of pro ball and hadn't found it too difficult. Danny, who'd played in the same league (the Heartland League) the prior year for Brooklyn's affiliate in Omaha, had told him that it would get harder as he moved up the chain. That made a lot of sense, but Fred was confident he'd be up to the challenge.

The Legislators were taking on the Peoria Pastimers. Lincoln held the top spot, but were locked in a three-way race with Wichita right on their heels and Peoria just behind them. The Pastimers pitcher was a hard-throwing right-hander named Jim Cioffi. Cioffi was a college guy too, but undrafted and had a chip on his shoulder the size of Gibraltar. Fred had already gotten a couple of hits off Cioffi this season, one of them a home run and knew the scowling pitcher, who fancied himself a real prospect, was hoping to send a message.

Sure enough, the first pitch buzzed in high and tight. Fred, expecting it, had no trouble dodging the pitch. He looked down at the Peoria catcher and said, "You know, our guy throws hard too. We can both play this game, bub."

Gus Williams, the Pastimers catcher was, like Fred, a first year player. Unlike Fred, he wasn't considered a top prospect, having been drafted by the Sailors in round 5. Still, he knew Fred was right. "This guy doesn't listen to me, friend," he said ruefully.

"All right, we'll see if he can take it as well as he hands it out," Fred muttered and dug back in.

Cioffi buzzed him again.

"If you're trying to get under my skin, it's working," Fred said, raising his voice just enough to know the pitcher could hear him quite well without shouting it to the whole ballpark.

"Go get him six!" came the voice from behind him again.

Figuring he might get one to hit this time, Fred took a deep breath and concentrated. Picking up the spin as soon as it left the pitcher's hand, Fred knew he was getting a fastball and this one was a strike.

He turned on it, made good, solid contact and knew it was going out. He didn't even watch it, instead looking at Cioffi as the pitcher turned and watched the ball soar over the left field fence. He threw his glove down and glared at Fred while he trotted around the bases. Fred tried to be a good sport and didn't slow his trot or otherwise gloat, but inside he was savoring every moment of the glare he was getting as he circled the bases.

As he crossed the plate and turned towards his dugout, he saw a good looking young woman sitting beside the dugout. "Good job, number six!" she shouted.

He grinned at her, and trotted towards the dugout. As he dropped down the steps he heard the young woman ask, "What's his name, anyway?"

The guy hitting behind Fred, a good young outfielder named Vince York, grinned and told her, "That there is Fred Barrell, miss."

As Fred sat down on the bench, he saw York walking towards the plate, looking over his shoulder at Fred. When their gazes locked, York grinned and winked at Fred, then tipped his head towards the stands.

Fred shook his head and gave a soft chuckle.

"Hey, Fred Barrell, come over here," he heard as he came out of the dugout for the bottom half of the third.

He turned, and looked at the young woman. She was certainly attractive, but he had no idea why she was pestering him.

"Yeah, come over here," she said.

"Listen, miss, I need to get out there and warm up my pitcher. I can't be socializing, you know...." he said with a shrug and threw his mask on.

After the inning as he came back towards the dugout, his mask pushed up on his head, she called out again, saying, "You're a cutie pie, Fred Barrell."

Fred blushed a little bit and got into the dugout as quickly as he could.

"Looks like Tillie has set her cap for you, Fred," Vince York told him as he plopped down beside Fred on the bench.

"Excuse me?" Fred asked.

"That girl out there? That's Tillie. She was here last year too, and gave me the business."

"She's here all the time? Why haven't I seen her before now?" Fred asked.

York smirked. "She goes to college somewhere out of state, so she misses the start and end of the season, but she'll be here all summer, mooning over you, so get used to it, Barrell."

Fred rolled his eyes. "Oh, brother," he moaned. "I don't need this."

By the eighth inning Fred was determined to put an end to it, so he actually did stop to talk to the girl on his way back to the dugout before the start of the ninth inning. He had been stranded at third and had run home just in case the outfielder dropped the flyball that ended the home eighth, so he was near her and the game was all but over anyway (Lincoln was up 8-2).

"Hey, Fred Barrell, come over here," she said for about the fiftieth time. He got a kick out of seeing her surprised look when he did in fact walk over to where she sat right beside the end of the dugout.

"Look, miss, I appreciate you being friendly and all, but I'm trying to help the team win out here," he said in as friendly a tone as he could.

"Ooh, you're cuter up close, Fred Barrell," she said. She looked better to Fred up close too. He swallowed involuntarily and tried to keep his thoughts pure - he had Charlotte waiting on him back in Georgia, after all.

"Uh, miss... what's your name anyway?" he asked.

"Tillie Hobart," she replied and thrust out her right hand. "Pleased to make your acquaintance, Fred Barrell."

"Why do you always use my full name?" he asked, genuinely puzzled.

"Well, I don't know what you prefer. Fred? Or Barrell? Mr. Barrell seems too formal, and I don't know if you have a nickname." This all came out in a rush.

Billy Tribe's head popped out of the dugout. Tribe was a cantankerous manager even when his team was winning big and at the moment did not look happy with his young catcher. "Barrell! Get your tail in here and get your gear on, we have another three outs to get!"

Fred swallowed again. "Uh, I need to get back to work, Tillie."

"OK," she said. "So what is it?" she asked.

"Huh? What's what?" Fred asked, feeling stupid.

"What do you prefer to be called?"

"Oh... that. Just call me Fred, I guess," he said and ducked into the dugout. He put his shin guards on in record time, the manager glaring at him all the while, and made it out there in time to take a few throws from his clearly amused pitcher.

After the game, Billy Tribe stopped by Fred's locker and congratulated him.

"Thanks, skip. Why are you congratulating me?" he asked, hoping it wasn't going to be a jibe about Tillie Hobart.

Tribe gave him a befuddled look. "Don't tell me you go five-for-five so often that you take it for granted." The befuddled look morphed into a steely-eyed glare. "That's not it, is it Barrell?"

5-for-5? Fred quickly went over his at-bats in his head and realized that yes, he had gone 5-for-5 with a homer, a double and three runs scored. He reddened and replied, "Oh, no, skip. I was just so... happy about the win, is all."

Tribe glowered at him for a moment as if suspecting something wasn't quite right, then nodded and patted him on the shoulder. "Don't let it go to your head, kid," he said and stomped off. Fred was left wondering if he meant the 5-for-5, or the pretty girl who had been chatting him up.

[legendsport]

Detroit, MI: November 20, 1927:

The three oldest Barrell brothers were together and while this was a rare occasion, it was also a somewhat somber one. That afternoon, Jack, playing with Joe for the Chicago Wildcats against Rollie's Detroit Maroons, had hurt his knee and the trio were now sitting in Jack's hospital room.

"Gus Hoch is going to blow his top," Jack muttered and shook his head sadly. The meat packer turned restauranteur and hockey team owner was not known for his patience or even temper.

"And Bert Thomas is probably going to laugh himself silly," Rollie added. Jack frowned, but knew his brother was right. He could almost see the Dukes owners patting himself on the back.

"Bah, the hell with him. Jack... you'll be back in no time," Joe suggested.

They all knew that there would be a long recovery from this injury. Though nowhere near as serious as the multiple injuries that had nearly cost Danny his leg, Jack's injury was serious enough that the doctors were talking about doing ligament repair surgery - a very new and largely unproven technique that would necessitate a long recovery. Jack was leaning towards simply wearing a brace, though he knew this would severely impact both his skating and his running - the two skills he most needed in hockey and football respectively.

"I just spoke with Marie," Francie said as she entered the room. "She was upset, of course, but I tried to stress that you would be fine."

"Well, that's the hope, anyway," Jack said. Then, feeling bad about the grumpy tone in his voice, he added, "Thanks, Francie. No sense in worrying Marie. I'm sure she'd like to catch the next train here, but she needs to take care of the girls."

Francie nodded in agreement, then looked at Rollie. "Speaking of which... I need to get home before Marty drives the sitter crazy."

Rollie gave her a peck on the cheek and she left. Then he looked at Joe. "So... how are you doing, Joe?"

Joe shrugged and said, "I'm ok. Hearing that Edna had a baby back in May threw me for a loop, to be honest."

And it had... Edna and her new husband had welcomed their first child, whom they named James Robert Daniels. The news had sent Joe into a drunken spiral and he spent far too much time and money in the speakeasies before Jack helped raise his spirits and get him back to an even keel.

"I've actually been thinking..." Joe began.

"That's never a good sign," Rollie joked, causing Jack to laugh and Joe to scowl, then nod and say, "Yeah, I guess that's true."

Jack looked at Joe and asked, "Thinking about what?"

Joe took a deep breath. "Well, I'm 33 now and I am starting to realize that my best playing days are behind me. I'm thinking about going to Carl and telling him that this is my last season as a player."

Rollie and Jack looked at each other, both surprised, but neither said a word.

"Yeah... I'm surprised too," Joe said with a small, sad smile. "But I'll keep my piece of the team and though I won't interfere with Carl, I'll keep my hand in somehow."

Jack looked at his heavily wrapped leg and said, "I might be joining you."

Joe waved his hand dismissively. "Nah, you'll be back. You might be a half-step slower, but you're a tough bird, Jack. You've got a few years left."

Jack looked at Rollie and asked, "So... Francie seems to be ok. I thought she was going to brain you with a frying pan after you hired Gladys Summers."

Rollie smirked and replied, "Yes... well, that young lady has a keen eye for talent. I just had to bring Francie around to the reality that I hired her for her talents, not her looks."

"Well, from what I hear, that keen eye has been looking an awful lot at our brother Dan," Joe said, raising his eyebrows comically.

Jack laughed and added, "Yep. I spoke with Danny last week on the phone. He's back home with Mom and Pop, but he said that he and Gladys have been seeing each other as often as they can. They're not often in the same place, given he spent half the baseball season in Knoxville and half in Houston. I think he might actually get to Brooklyn next year."

Rollie smiled. "Wouldn't that be something? Of course, he's going to have to beat Freddy to the finish line. That kid had a heckuva year himself."

Jack nodded in agreement. "True, but Pop says he thinks the Cougars will take it slow and Fred will probably play at Mobile next year. Still, just two steps from the big time."

"Speaking of Fred," Rollie said. "I talked to Tommy and he said that Freddy's girl... Charlotte... something, I forget." He shook his head and then continued, "Well, she decided to go see Fred this summer when he got to Mobile. She was done with school and hadn't found a job yet. Anyway... she gets to Mobile, finds out where Fred's living and when she gets there, finds him with this other girl. Tillie something-or-other."

"I thought you were smart, Rollie, can't you remember these girls' names?" Jack joked.

"Ah, not important. Anyway, Charlotte makes a scene, throws a book or something at Fred and the landlord had to call the police. Apparently these two girls were ready to fight it out for Fred."

Joe was surprised. "Huh, I didn't know the kid was some kind of Casanova."

"Well, I tell you this: Tommy got a big kick out of it. He told me he'd warned Freddy that something like this was going to happen. And Fred, naturally, being a Barrell, scoffed because he figured he knew better," Rollie finished.

"Our kid brothers are growing up," Jack said with a small smile.

Rollie nodded and said, "Yep. Even Harry's going to high school now."

"I'm a little disappointed that he decided to stay home and attend Effingham," Jack said. "That kid should be playing in Atlanta. Get some better competition, and he could help Bobby keep an eye on Gramps, too."

Bobby Barrell was living with his grandfather Joe Reid in Atlanta.

"I think Bobby's the reason Harry stayed home. I think they've developed a bit of a sibling rivalry," Joe said.

Rollie chuckled. "I wouldn't be surprised. Both of them are really talented and being the youngest of a brood of talented athletes, they both have had something to prove their entire lives. I can't wait to see what they do when they finish growing up."

Jack smiled and nodded in agreement.

[legendsport]

Westerly, RI: April 20, 1928:

"It'll be twenty years this September," Rufus Barrell said into the phone.

The long-distance connection had a faint buzz (as it nearly always did - Rufus made a lot of long-distance telephone calls), but he clearly heard his wife softly reply, "I know, dear."

There was a pause. It wasn't uncomforable - Rufus and Alice had been married a long time. Even their silences held meaning for both of them. Finally, he heard her add, "I told you that I think this is a great way to honor them."

Rufus nodded, then remembered she couldn't see him and thanked her, adding his standard message of love and hung up.

He stood at the desk frowning and lost in thought. Across the desk, the hotel clerk watched him a moment then asked, "Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?"

Rufus shook his head and thanked the man. Then he picked his hat up and plopped it onto his head and stepped outside to find a taxi.

He was in Westerly, Rhode Island on business. Not baseball business, but family business. The 20-year anniversary of the fire that had claimed his parents and brother was approaching. Rufus had decided to place a memorial stone on the site of the old farmhouse in Egypt. The once-blackened spot had, over the years, morphed into just an empty, vaguely rectangular area that remained largely bereft of greenery about forty feet from the larger home that Rufus had built for his family back in 1908.

The stone was the reason he was in Westerly. One of the benefits of being around professional baseball for nearly 40 years was that Rufus knew people from all over the U.S. One of those people was the former star second baseman of the Cleveland Foresters. His name was Jack Arabian, and he had been one of the very first players Rufus had scouted, back in the 90s. Arabian was originally from Woonsocket, and returned to Rhode Island after his career ended in 1916, settling in Westerly, a nice little coastal city right on the border of Connecticut, where he bought a company that mined and worked the town's famous pink granite.

The taxi deposited Rufus on the curb outside the Arabian Stone Company. The company headquarters was a squat building, fronted as expected, in the company's main product. Rufus ran a hand over the stone and thought that it would be a good material from which to fashion his family's memorial stone. He entered the building and was promptly ushered into the office of Jack Arabian.

Arabian's handshake was still firm and though he was now in his fifties, the former ballplayer had retained the trim and athletic build that had helped him play over 2500 FABL games and record almost 3400 hits.

The two men got caught up - Arabian asking Rufus many questions about the current state of the game. "Now that I'm out, I have to admit that I haven't followed the game as much as I thought I would," Arabian admitted sheepishly. "I get up to Boston for a game maybe once every couple years."

Rufus nodded. "Probably tough for you to sit through a game, having played so many of them," he said with a knowing smile.

Arabian bobbed his head in agreement. Then he got down to business.

"So, you want a memorial stone... have you given any thought to how you'd like it shaped? Or what you'd want inscribed?"

Rufus grimaced a bit. "I was hoping you could help with that... this is your business after all."

Arabian thought for a moment. "You know our stone is pink. That's from the potassium feldspar - our rock has more of it than most. Granite's really made up of several different elements..." Arabian trailed off as he noticed Rufus' confused look and then he laughed and added, "Sorry... not everyone enjoys geology; I sometimes forget that."

Rufus gave a small grin in return. Arabian thought for a moment and then asked, "Maybe an obelisk? We can make a nice plinth with a plaque, and then place an obelisk atop it. Something eight to ten feet high, perhaps?"

Rufus thought that sounded nice and the two men got down to brass tacks.

Once the business had been settled, Arabian brought Rufus out into the quarry yard, to introduce him to the stonecutter who'd be making his obelisk.

"This here is Salvatore Pestilli," Arabian said, introducing Rufus to a smallish man with a bushy mop of graying black hair and a thick Italian accent.

Arabian placed a hand on Pestilli's shoulder. "Sal is the best stonecutter I've ever seen. He's third-generation, learned it in Sicily. He and his family emigrated here back in '15. He was one of the first people I hired when I started the company."

Rufus shook the man's hand. Unsurprisingly his grip could have been granite itself. His forearms were heavily muscled and his smile beneath his bushy mustache was open and friendly. The smock he wore was covered in pinkish dust.

Arabian explained to Pestilli what Rufus was purchasing and why. The little man nodded, smiling the whole time. "Is no problem," he said with a grin. "I make you a nice monument," he added as the grin dropped and his face became serious.

A younger man sauntered over. He too had strong-looking hands and forearms. He carried a chisel in his left hand. He gave Rufus a sidelong glance and smiled at Jack Arabian. "Mr. Arabian, it is good to see you, sir," the young man said. Then Sal Pestilli said something quickly, and in Italian, to the young man, who frowned and replied in the same language.

"Sorry... my son, he is rude," the elder Pestilli said to Rufus.

Rufus grinned and said, "No, that's quite alright, Mr. Pestill."

"This is Alfie Pestilli, Rufus," Arabian said. "You might be interested to know to that this young man is a ballplayer," Arabian said and nearly laughed out loud when the elder Pestilli's face clouded over at the word "ballplayer."

Noting this, the younger Pestilli shook his head and said, "My papa doesn't like me playing baseball."

"Is stupid," the elder Pestilli spat. Then he looked down and said, "Sorry, Mr. Arabian," in a quiet voice.

Arabian shrugged it off. "Sal here has five sons, and they all play baseball."

"Really?" Rufus asked.

Alf spoke up, "Yes, I am the oldest, but my brothers Paul, Sal Junior, Joe and Tony all play."

The older man shook his head and his eyebrows were knitted in clear disapproval, but he didn't say anything.

"You in school?" Rufus asked.

Alf nodded and said, "Yes, I manage to get to class most of the time. My mother hopes to see me go to college. I think baseball might be my ticket there."

"That is a good idea," Rufus replied.

Arabian, smiling broadly, told Alf and his father that Rufus was the head of the FABL scouting bureau. "He spends all year looking at young ballplayers."

Alf's eyes widened and he shyly asked, "You going to be in town for a bit?"

"I'm heading out tomorrow," Rufus said.

"Well... I'm playing in a game after work, if you'd be interested in seeing me play," Alf said.

Sal Pestilli shook his head and muttered something in Italian. Alf gave his father a sour look but said nothing.

"High school?" Rufus asked.

"Naw, this is a town game. I'll be playing, but so will my brothers Paul and Sallie," Alf replied.

Now the older man spoke up again, "Salvatore is too young!" he exclaimed.

Alf shook his head, "No, he isn't Papa. He's almost thirteen."

Rufus raised his eyebrows and said, "Wait a minute... your brother is playing town ball, and he's only twelve?"

Alf nodded. "Yes, but he plays a lot older than that."

Now Arabian chimed in. "That's true. You should see this kid, Rufus."

Rufus rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

[legendsport]

Port Wentworth, GA: May 30, 1928:

It was a bit of a tradition for the Barrell brothers, started by Jack more than a decade earlier. On the next-to-last day of May, an informal holiday around the country (particularly in the North, but also in parts of the South) that would one day in the future become the national Memorial Day holiday, as a celebration of the end of school and the start of summer, one or more of the Barrells would head to Port Wentworth for a baseball game. The game had become something of an event and drew some of the better semi-pro players who would take on a team comprised of the best of Chatham and Effingham counties (typically the latter was almost exclusively a Barrell or two).

This year, thanks to a long fly ball and a brick wall, Bobby Barrell would not be playing. The high-speed collision between Bobby and the wall in a mid-season game had cost the youngster the second half of his senior season. It had also frightened him; Bobby was concerned that his scholarship to play at Noble Jones would be revoked. That fear had so far proven to be unfounded. Rufus was of the opinion that Bobby would go near the top of the FABL draft that winter, so whether he attended college was still very much up in the air.

With Danny, Tommy and Freddy all playing professionally now, that left only Harry to carry the Barrell flag in the Memorial Day contest. The home team was a motley looking bunch, donning a wide variety of uniforms. Harry wore his Effingham County High School uniform, the knees so heavily patched by Alice that the boy almost felt as if he were wearing kneepads. "You've torn so many holes in the knees that it's a miracle the legs haven't just come apart," Alice had told her youngest son. Harry, whose style of play was daredevil to say the least, continued to slide with reckless abandon.

Though he could have worn something else (he had his own "town ball" uniform that Rufus had purchased for him precisely for this type of contest), Harry wore his Effingham duds as a salute to his old school. He'd played his freshman year there, but had already decided to play in Atlanta the next season - he needed better competition, and Grandpa Joe needed a roommate now that Bobby was bound for either the pros or college.

Bobby was there, with a cast on his leg, sitting beside their grandfather. The old man, now nearly 75 and looking increasingly frail, wore a scowl on his face and even as he played catch some fifty feet away, Harry could Gramps grousing to Bobby about how none of "these no count rascals will amount to a hill of beans" and go on about how players in his day were tough, hardscrabble men who'd rather die on the field than lose. Bobby, to his credit, just nodded. None of the rest of the family were there - Rufus was out scouting somewhere, his older brothers were scattered all over the continent and his mother was with Betsy, who was playing at a tennis tournament.

Harry's heart leapt into his throat as he caught a glimpse of Sarah Goodhue, sitting two rows up the ramshackle bleachers from Bobby and Gramps. The black-haired, blue-eyed Sarah had caught Harry's attention at church and he was determined to somehow, some way make her his girlfriend. The other team began trickling onto the field. They were a weathered group, older than expected. They moved slowly, but with loose limbs - they looked like players, but they also looked worn-out. As they made their way onto the field to warm up, while Harry and his team mates trotted off to their own side, Harry kept a keen eye on them, looking, as usual, for an edge or some kind of tell.

His attention was drawn to the opposing shortstop - since Harry played there, he always made a point of observing the opposition at his spot. He wasn't a big man and his legs looked a bit lumpy and fragile, but as he watched, Harry realized they were really just full of knotty muscle. Harry spied some gray hair under his cap and wondered how old this guy really was. He moved deliberately, but scooped the ball easily and made accurate but somewhat soft throws to first. Harry watched him hit too; he tapped four balls lightly through the infield and Harry, with the easy confidence of his youth, figured he could outplay this guy any time, any day.

The umpire showed up about five minutes before game time and promptly took charge. His partner was a no-show so a man Harry recognized from around town was conscripted to handle the field umpiring duties. The opposition groused a bit about this, but as they were getting paid, their hearts weren't really in it.

The game started and Harry took his position, playing his usual deep short (he was fast, had great range and a strong arm, so he played deep and figured he could get to anything in his area). He'd watched all of the opposition's batting practice and saw them hit a lot of Texas Leaguers. He figured the deep positioning would let him take that away from them a bit.

The pitcher for Harry's team was a lefty and didn't throw hard, but had good control. The older guys on the other team probably wouldn't give him too much trouble. The visitors' leadoff man sauntered to the plate, tapped it twice with his bat and then got into his stance. The lefty, named Bill Smithers, rocked and fired a dead straight and none-too-fast fastball. The batter flicked his bat at it and tapped a little dribbler in Harry's direction. Harry, playing deep, charged it hard, scooped it and despite being off-balance, fired a perfect strike to first. The runner beat the throw by two feet.

"Hmm, that guy's faster than I thought," Harry mused with a wry smile as he trotted back to his spot. He then took a step forward, just to be safe.

The second batter did the same thing, and again beat the throw - this time by a half-step. "They suckered us," Harry muttered as he passed Smithers. He decided to play the next batter straight. No more hanging deep.

The next hitter was the opposition's shortstop. He pulled off his cap, ran a gnarled hand through his greying locks and then spit at this feet, stepped in and settled into a straight stance, the bat perched perfectly still over his right shoulder. Harry edged forward, thinking, "just let this guy try to lay one down on me and we'll turn the double play on them."

Smithers rocked and threw his best pitch, a biting curve that broke fast and downward with a lot of spin. The old man at the plate waited so long on it that Harry's brain started telling him he was going to take it for a strike. Before the thought could reach fruition, the batter blurred into a picture-perfect swing and the bat connected with a resounding thwack. The ball shot over the second baseman and into the gap between the right and center fielders. Harry went to back up second base, noting with amazement as he did that the shortstop was already halfway to second and showed no signs of slowing as he rocketed around second while the throw was coming in to the second baseman. The keystone spun and fired it to third, but the old man dropped into a textbook hook slide and the tag missed him by three feet. A two-run triple and Harry was as stunned as his team mates.

Smithers worked himself out of trouble with a couple of short pops to center and an easy bouncer to second to strand the grey-haired guy on third. Harry tossed his glove onto the grass and headed in; he'd be leading off and was itching to get back at these guys. As he passed the other shortstop the guy said, "Kind of a slow infield you got here, son."

Harry was a bit confused by the man's words and didn't put it together until the fourth inning. The game had settled into a pitcher's duel by then. The other team was no longer playing possum and Smithers was keeping them in check. Unfortunately the Chatham-Effingham boys were having no success at the plate themselves. In the fourth, the old guy was coaching third. Harry had edged in closer, and thrown the first two batters out on almost-identical slow rollers off Smithers' curve. The next batter stepped in, and Harry noted that he held the bat with his hands far off the knob. He read this as a sign the guy was going to try to chop it towards second and Harry edged towards the bag. The old guy at third called out, "All right, Ralphie!" and Harry saw that as Smithers delivered, the hitter moved his hands down, shortening his grip and chopped the ball into the hole between third and short - precisely where Harry would have been if he hadn't cheated towards second.

The next guy flied out to end the inning. As Harry headed off the field, the old guy said, "Your catcher crossed you up, son," and jogged slowly out to Harry's just-vacated spot at short. Harry then realized that this older guy was giving him tips and trying to help teach him some of the nuances of the game. Harry recognized that the old guy knew the game and decided to take his lessons to heart.

Harry led off in the home fourth and caught a nice, fat curveball that didn't have quite enough spin on it. He stroked it into the gap and sped into second easily. The old guy caught the throw from the outfield and tossed it to the pitcher. As he walked back out to his spot, he asked, "Nice hit, son. How'd you guess it?"

Harry smiled and nodded towards the pitcher. "He waggles his glove when he's going to throw the hook. I've been watching him for three innings."

"Good eyes," the old man said approvingly and moved off.

Harry was smiling and glancing to see if Sarah Goodhue was watching him as he took his lead. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a blur of motion and dove back for the bag. The old man had crept in behind him and the pitcher fired a peg that had him picked off. His cheeks reddening in embarassment, he trotted off. He saw his brother shaking his head and his grandfather muttering with a disdainful look in his eyes.

Harry's team got a run in the sixth, but still trailed 2-1. Harry had grabbed the scorebook from the skipper and read the old guy's name: Jim Meyer. The name rang a distant bell... but he wasn't sure if he knew this guy.

After they retired the opposition in the top of the seventh, Harry sauntered over to the stands and asked Bobby, "You ever hear of a Jim Meyer?"

To his surprise, it wasn't Bobby who answered, but rather Joe Reid. "Jim Meyer the shortstop? I know him, and so does your father. Was a damn fine ballplayer a-ways back. Great gloveman, not much of a hitter," his grandfather said. Then he froze Harry with a gimlet eye and asked, "Why you askin?"

"I think that's him," Harry said and nodded his head towards shortstop where the old guy was rubbing his glove.

"Huh, that so?" Gramps mused and squinted his eyes as he gazed out at the field. "Guess that could be him. Been awhile..."

The visitors added a run in the eighth and the game went into the bottom of the ninth, 3-1 and Harry's team ready for last licks in a do-or-die situation. Harry led off and the first pitch came in high and tight. He dropped into the dirt, got up, and glowered as he dusted himself off. Angry now, Harry took a strike and then a ball. Then, on a 3-1 count, he laced a rocket into the gap between left and center and sped out of the box. He saw the centerfield lope after the ball as he rounded first and accelerated, determined to stretch to a double.

The throw came in, hard and on target. Harry slid, spikes high, as the throw came in. He felt his feet hit the shorstop and saw the ball bounce off Meyer's glove. Safe! Harry jumped off and dusted himself, then noticed that Meyer was sitting in the dirt, with blood running down his socks.

The opposing manager ran out onto the field with the first aid kit. Meyer rolled his pants up and Harry reddened in embarrasment as he saw the gashes his spikes had left in the older man's legs. And then he saw the old scars from previous spikings. He turned away, leaning on his knees, ashamed, as they bandaged Meyer up. As the game started back up, Harry saw that Meyer was still bleeding through the bandages and visibly limping. He felt about three inches tall.

The next batter stroked a single to left and Harry trotted home, scoring the second run of the game for the home team. Harry ran to the makeshift dugout, glancing out at short where Meyer was still bleeding as he took the throw from left.

A pair of walks loaded the bases and Harry was caught up in the excitement of a big ninth-inning rally. But the next guy popped to first. A run down, bases loaded and one out. Harry felt his eyes drawn to Meyer. The old guy was leaning over, his glove poised in mid-air and his gaze locked on the batter. The pitcher delivered a strike and the batter roped a rising liner towards center. Harry saw Meyer blur into motion, leap off his wounded legs, stick out the glove... and snag the liner. He took two steps and touched second and just like that the game was over.

Afterwards, as Meyer left his celebrating team mates, Harry walked out to meet him on the infield grass. "Great game, Jim," he said and thrust out his right hand.

Meyer grinned and shook his hand. "You figured out who I am, huh?"

Harry shrugged and replied, "Not really. My grandfather clued me in," he nodded towards Joe Reid, who was shakily rising to his feet.

Meyer smiled, "Yep, Joe Reid. Still as feisty as he used to be?" he asked with a chuckle.

Harry laughed too, "Oh, yes," he replied.

Meyer patted Harry on his shoulder. "You've got the stuff, kid. You'll make the old-timers forget all about me. Just keep working hard and never, ever neglect your fielding work. Study the hitters, know your pitchers and the other guys' and you'll be a great one."

Harry, choked up, replied, "Thanks, Jim."

Meyer winked at him and said, "Give my best to your dad. Take care, Harry."

And then he was gone.

[legendsport]

Los Angeles, CA: June 27, 1928:

"Hey, Pop! Over here!"

Rufus Barrell's eyes hadn't yet adjusted to the dim interior of the restaurant and he squinted as he gazed around. Finally as his eyesight recovered from the bright sunshine, he spied his eldest son waving from a table in the back of the room.

Smiling, Rufus nodded his thanks to the maitre'd and started walking.

Joe stood up as his father reached the table and thrust out his right hand. "Hey, Pop, it's great to see you," he said.

Rufus quickly sized him up and was pleased at what he was seeing. Joe looked healthy and more importantly, he looked happy. The last few years had been a rollercoaster for Joe and Rufus was relieved beyond measure to finally see some of the old spark back in his son's eyes.

"This is Dorothy," Joe said, motioning towards a striking blonde woman sitting across from Joe.

"Dorothy, this is my father, Rufus," Joe said.

Rufus couldn't quite keep the surprise off his face and with a slightly raised left eyebrow said, "It's nice to meet you, Dorothy."

"Likewise, I'm sure," the blonde replied in a sultry voice.

Joe's grin took a wolfish turn and he added, "Dorothy was Miss California last year."

Rufus didn't know what to say, so he simply sat down. As he did he noticed a fourth place setting at the table. "Is someone else joining us?" he asked Joe.

Joe nodded. "Yes, Bill Whitney will be joining us." He looked at his watch and frowned a bit, adding, "I thought he'd be here by now, to be honest."

As if on cue, a young man hustled over and apologized for being late. "We had a bit of a problem at the distribution center," he said.

Rufus immediately saw the family resemblance. This had to be William W. Whitney III, grandson of the FABL founder and son of the Chicago Chiefs' owner Wash Whitney. Rufus was gifted with a prodigious memory and did some quick calculations.... Bill Whitney was just about the same age as Joe. The question was how they'd hooked up.

As Whitney sat down, Joe looked at his father and as if reading his mind, explained. "I looked Bill up when I got to town. I had talked to his father about leasing their ballpark in Chicago for the Wildcats. Nothing came of that, but he did say he'd be willing to let us lease Knights Stadium for our postseason tour." In one of the more bizarre situations in baseball, the Chicago Chiefs owned the stadium in which the Los Angeles Stars played their games - and the Stars were the top minor league affiliate of the New York Stars. Just another of the original William Whitney's better business moves.

Bill Whitney spoke up, saying, "It turns out the tour never happened, but Joe and I hit it off. I was pleased when he decided to stay here in LA."

This last remark was news to Rufus. He turned to Joe and asked, "Stay here? As in permanently?"

Joe shrugged and nodded. "Yeah, I'm staying here. My playing career is done and Carl Boon doesn't need my help in running the Wildcats. I've retained my percentage in the team, but I won't be going back to Chicago to play."

Rufus saw Joe shoot a glance at the strikingly attractive woman across from him (she was stirring her drink and looked bored - Rufus idly wondered if the drink was alcoholic). His son continued, "I'm actually thinking about going into the film business."

"Really?" Rufus asked, surprise written all over his face.

Bill Whitney laughed and said, "Yes, Joe actually had a bit part in our most recent picture."

"You make movies? I thought your business was fruits and vegetables..." Rufus replied.

Nodding, Whitney explained that he had taken the money he'd be left by his grandfather, which he'd received when he turned 25, and used it to open his own motion picture studio. "We're small potatoes at the moment, but I have big plans," he finished.

"The picture I was in was Bill's fast talkie, Pop," Joe said with pride. "I play a cowboy, get gunned down in a shootout and fall into a water trough."

Bill was smiling again and said, "Joe's a natural, Mr. Barrell."

Joe nodded at Dorothy. "Bill has Dorothy here under contract. She's a fantastic actress."

Bill again put in an addendum to Joe's statement saying, "Now that we've got sound, I needed someone with a voice and looks. Dorothy here has both. We did need to do something about her name, though."

Dorothy raised her glass and took a drink. She gave a faint smile and murmured, "Thanks, Bill." Rufus definitely agreed... she did have a great voice.

Joe leaned over and whispered, "Dorothy's real name is Myrtle. Bill said that was a no-go for a movie star so Myrtle Bates became Dorothy Bates."

Rufus looked at Whitney. "What's your father think about all this?"

Bill waved a hand dismissively. "He's skeptical. His focus is on the produce business... and the basbeall team, of course. And I know that's the family legacy. But a man's got to carve his own path, am I right?"

Rufus nodded in agreement. He was still a bit stunned... Joe's football career was over... and now he wanted to be an actor?

Joe leaned over and with a wide grin, told Rufus, "Bill's going to have me play Tarzan, Pop!"

"Tarzan? Really?" Rufus tried - and failed - to keep the disbelief out of his voice.

"Yes," Dorothy said. She was looking at Joe with a small grin on her face and continued, "He certainly has the physique for it."

Joe actually blushed a bit. Rufus was bewildered by all this. Bill jumped in and added, "There are some legal niceties to take care of, and Joe needs some lessons. Luckily the part doesn't require a lot of speaking," Joe grimaced a bit at this, "and it's an athletic-type role, so Joe will be a great fit."

"Wait til I tell your mother about this," Rufus told his son.

Their food arrived and the quartet set about eating. As he ate, Rufus filled Joe in on Danny's engagement to Gladys Summers. "He actually proposed to her at a Five and Dime lunch counter in Nashville. He's with the Knoxville Knights now," Rufus explained. Joe shrugged; he still didn't care much for baseball.

"That Danny... he was probably terrifed she'd say no. But couldn't he come up with something more romantic than a Woolworth's?" Joe asked. Rufus saw Dorothy watching Joe with a wry grin.

Rufus laughed. "I guess not. He's too much like me, I suppose. The way I proposed to your mother..."

Joe raised a hand and chuckling said, "I've heard the story, Pop. And yes, he must take after you."

Joe looked at Dorothy and added, "I'm more of the direct, take charge type myself."

[legendsport]

Egypt, GA: August 5, 1928:

The Model T chugged up the drive, a plume of dust in its wake. It braked to a stop as the screen door on the Barrell farmhouse swung open and Harry Barrell stepped onto the porch.

Harry's mouth curled in a crooked grin as he saw his brother Bobby hop down out of the car.

"The deed is done, Harry," Bobby said and held up his right hand, which was clutching a bundle of papers. "I am officially on scholarship to attend Noble Jones College."

Harry bobbed his head and said, "That will make Ma happy."

Bobby tugged at the collar of his shirt. "I need to get out of this monkey suit. I'll lose half my body weight in sweat standing out here."

He mounted the steps, patted Harry on the back, and the brothers went into the house.

Alice was sewing. The needle stopped in midair as she eyed her sons. "So?" she asked, her eyes narrowing.

Bobby held up his papers."It's done. I'm about to be a college man, Ma."

Alice dropped the bundle in her lap into the basket at her feet and stood up, beaming with joy. "That is the best news I've heard in weeks!" she exclaimed.

Bobby got a wicked gleam in his eye. "I can't wait til we play Baptist. Tommy's gotten too big for his britches down there."

Harry looked skeptical. "Be careful what you wish for, Bob. Pop says Tom's got the old gasser tuned up. It ain't gonna be like it was on the back forty."

Bobby waved a hand. "I can hit Tommy any place, any time."

Alice shook her head. "You boys all need to remember. College isn't just about baseball. I expect you to get a degree." She pointed at Bobby and said, "What if you get hurt and can't play baseball professionally, like your father?"

"That's not gonna happen, Ma," Bobby protested.

"Oh? You have a crystal ball I don't know about?"

"And I think there's still a dent in that wall in Macon," Harry said with a smirk. Bobby had spent eight weeks in a cast with a broken kneecap after that collision with the brick wall. It had cost him the second half of his senior season and was the reason he and his parents had been fretting about a scholarship from Noble Jones or Georgia Baptist.

Bobby sighed and shot a disappointed look at his brother for siding with their mother. Then he handed Alice his paperwork for safekeeping and went upstairs to change.

Moments later, he returned in a ratty looking shirt and shorts. "Let's play some basketball, Harold," he said with a twinkle in his eye. He knew Harry fancied himself the best basketball player in the family, but Bobby knew he was pretty good at the game himself.

Harry gave up about three inches and twenty-five pounds to his brother, but he was quicker and (he believed) better at dribbling than Bobby.

Soon the two youngest Barrell brothers were up at the barn, playing basketball at full tilt despite the heat and oppressive humidity. Bobby, as he usually did, was physical and used his size and strength well while Harry relied on his athleticism and quickness. The game was tied when Harry, with the ball, feinted left and drove right. Bobby bit on the fake, but he was also gifted with incredible reflexes and adjusted quickly. Unfortunately, the leg that he had broken that spring wasn't up to the task of handling the lightning-quick shift. There was a pop and Bobby fell to the floor in agony.

Harry stopped and the ball dropped from his hand, rolling into a corner as he dashed to his brother's side and dropped to a knee.

Beside him, Bobby was gasping in pain and had both hands wrapped around his left knee.

"Get Ma," he gasped. Harry rose and dashed out of the barn, running as fast as he could (which was fast indeed) to the house.

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

A week later, Bobby was in his room, propped up on his bed, his leg once again encased in a cast.

Betsy walked into his room, carrying a tray. "Lunch!" she said brightly.

"Hey, Chipmunk, don't be so cheerful," Bobby chided her. "Chipmunk" was Bobby's private nickname for Betsy - bestowed upon her because she spent so much time darting around as she followed Bobby and Harry, trying to horn in on their fun.

"I should say that you don't need to be such a grumpy Gus," she replied as she set the tray down on the table beside the bed.

"Well, then maybe you should cheer me up," Bobby said. He patted the bed. "Sit down and tell ol' Bob about how the tennis game is going."

She put her hands on her hips and Bobby nearly laughed at the sudden realization of how much his sister resembled their mother, right down to the mannerisms.

"Don't change the subject. Ma says you better eat. We can't have you wasting away," she scolded him, even wagging a finger at him for good measure.

"Anyone ever tell you that you're a pest, Chipmunk?"

She shook her head. "Only every day, and only you and Harry," she shot back.

"Speaking of the devil," Bobby said as Harry walked into the room.

"Bob, Ma was on the phone with Noble Jones," Harry said sadly.

Bobby took a deep breath and said, "Let me guess... they pulled the scholarship?"

Harry nodded. Betsy shook her head and muttered, "Those no good..."

Bobby held up a hand. "Ah, don't worry about it. Once I get back on my feet, I can always enroll anyway. Once I'm healthy, I'll just get back on the team and win my scholarship back."

Harry looked skeptical. Noting this, Bobby continued, "Or I can enroll at Baptist. Play with Tom... that would really stick it to Noble."

"Those no good..." Betsy muttered again.

Bobby smiled and said, "It's ok, Chipmunk, don't worry so much."

"I talked to Pop the other day. When he called Ma. He said he thinks FABL's going to draft you in the first round anyway," Harry said.

"That would be a surprise," Bobby said. "I did miss half my senior season and now I'm laying in a bed with a twice-busted up leg."

Harry shrugged and said, "These FABL teams have the money to take the risk. Pop says ballplayers don't grow on trees, but there's no shortage of 'em, neither."

Bobby sighed and said, "I guess we'll see."

Betsy had her hands on her hips again. Bobby noticed this and ask, "Now what?"

She pointed at the tray. "Eat your lunch you big lump!"

Harry and Bobby looked at each other and started laughing.

[legendsport]

Indianapolis, IN: October 20, 1928:

"Congratulations, Daniel. Perhaps I should now go to the very back and stare daggers at the bride for the entire service."

Claudia Slocum's face as she said this was serious. Danny Barrell blushed and was in the midst of a muttered "sorry" (he knew exactly what she was talking about) when he saw the corners of Claudia's mouth start twitching as she fought back a smile. The left side of Dan's own mouth curled in a grin and then Claudia started laughing.

Danny felt a small twinge in his heart - he still had deep, deep feelings for Claudia and he supposed he always would. But he was about to get married himself and he had fallen completely and head-over-heels in love with his bride-to-be.

Danny grasped Claudia's hand and gave her a heartfelt thank you. They hugged and then she melted away into the crowd... a mixed bag of Barrell, Reid, Summers and Kristich family members and assorted friends.

For a moment, Danny stood alone and just looked around the room. Claudia had returned to her husband. Powell Slocum was animatedly talking with Possum Daniels - Danny knew those two went way, way back. He saw his parents, deep in conversation with Rollie and Francie. Jack was nodding as he listened to whatever story Tommy was telling him. Marie was by his side with both her daughters staring wide-eyed around the crowded space. Fred was in a corner with Tillie Hobart hanging on his arm. Apparently Fred had definitely decided to put Miss Charlotte Waterston in his past. Bobby and Harry were standing by the door that led into the sanctuary. Their duties as ushers would start soon. Danny grinned as he remembered Claudia's wedding to Powell Slocum when he and his brothers had served in the same capacity. Now it was just the two youngest holding down the fort - because Gladys also had a big family and many friends, Danny's other brothers were all groomsmen... even Joe, who Danny didn't see anywhere. And Betsy got to be a bridesmaid, which apparently pleased her to no end. She was happily chatting away with one of Gladys' younger brothers.

Danny's attention was drawn to some movement near the outer door and when he turned his gaze that way, saw his brother Joe enter with a stunningly attractive and fashionably dressed blonde on his arm. Apparently he wasn't the only one to notice as much of the chatter in the room died down so suddenly Dan could hear Betsy talking about tennis. She had her back to the door and only stopped speaking when she noticed everyone else had turned their eyes to the door.

"Well, I guess being in Hollywood taught you how to make an entrance, Joe," Rollie said, breaking the silence and setting off a series of chuckles from the other Barrells.

Joe gave his brother a lopsided grin and a shrug. "You don't all need to stop your conversations on my account," he said.

Rufus and Alice made their way towards Danny. He turned to his parents as they approached. Rufus patted him on the shoulder, but Alice was looking past him. "So are you going to introduce me to your new wife, Joe?" she asked.

Danny turned, noting that Joe and his wife had made their way over to him as well.

Joe ignorned his mother's jibe as he grasped Danny in a bearhug and told him, "Congratulations, Danny Boy!"

Alice arched an eyebrow at Joe, her meaning clear. He cleared his throat and said, "Uh, Mom, this is Dorothy."

Alice gave Joe another split-second of her famous glare then switched it off like a lamp and smiled broadly as she greeted her newest daughter-in-law (a status that would be changing within the hour, Rufus reflected).

After the pleasantries were out of the way, Alice turned back to Joe. "Buck Barnwell, again? Really, Joe... Are you embarrassed by your real name?"

Joe shrugged and replied, "There are a lot of actors who have screen names, Mom. Dorothy here isn't even Dorothy you know."

Alice shook her head. "You should be proud of your name. You carry your grandfather's first name and your father's last name. Two things of which you should be proud."

"I am, Mom, really."

Bobby and Harry had quietly made their way over to the small cluster of people around Danny.

Bobby nudged Harry with an elbow and said, "Hey Harold, look, it's the famous Buck Barnwell!"

Harry, smirking added, "Yeah. Him Tarzan... me nauseous!"

Joe's face grew red and his right fist clenched. "Watch it Buster," he told his youngest brother.

"Yeah, Harry, be careful. Don't forget what he did to that crocodile in the movie," Bobby said with a grin.

"Give it a rest, you two," Rufus grumbled.

He looked at Joe and continued, "I thought you were fine in that picture, Joe. And Dorothy... your Jane was exquisite."

Alice frowned at her husband. She had her own opinion of just why Rufus had enjoyed Dorothy's "performance" - and it was probably the same reason many women enjoyed Joe's: the amount of bare skin on display in both cases. Alice had earlier told Betsy that the real stars of the movie weren't any of the actors: the stars of the show were Dorothy's legs.

"Thank you, Mr. Barrell," Dorothy said and turned on her thousand-watt smile.

Harry elbowed Bobby and said in a stage-whisper, "Hey Bob, maybe we should forget about baseball and go to Hollywood too. The, uh, benefits speak for themselves." He nodded towards Dorothy.

Joe glared at Harry. Dorothy laughed and said, "Oh, Joe, I really like them!"

Betsy arrived on the scene next, with the Summers boy whose name Danny had flat forgotten trailing in her wake. "Ralph here wants an autograph," she said brightly.

Joe tapped his jacket pocket. "I'd be happy to, Betsy, but I don't have a pen," he said.

Betsy shook her head. "No, not you, Joe. He wants Dorothy's autograph."

Danny, Bobby and Harry burst into laughter and even Rufus had a grin on his face as Joe reddened again.

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

Just over an hour later, Daniel Barrell was a married man. The hotel ballroom Gladys' father had rented for the reception was full of people noisily enjoying themselves. And despite Prohibition still being the law of the land, several of them had managed to get a little (or a lot) tipsy.

The bridge and groom were dancing and most eyes were on them. Danny had eyes only for his wife and Jack smiled as he reflected that he hadn't seen his brother this happy in years. Rollie, who knew Gladys best, had told Jack that she was the perfect woman for the moody Dan. "She'll keep him in line," Rollie said with a wink.

"Dan still looks a little stiff," he heard Joe say from over his shoulder. "That leg's still bothering him," Joe finished.

Jack nodded in agreement, then turned to Joe. Carl Boon was standing beside him and Jack shook hands with his team mate, coach - and owner. "Found out the other day that Gussie Hoch traded me," Jack told them, referring to the man he called his "other owner.".

Carl shook his head. "I'm glad that guy's not involved in football," he said. Hoch owned the Chicago Packers hockey club and was a notoriously difficult man. Joe frowned and asked, "So where did he trade you?"

"Quebec."

"Really? That might suit Marie ok, right?" Joe asked.

Jack shrugged. "I think Marie's comfortable enough now that she doesn't necessarily feel like she needs to be surrounded by French speakers. She and the girls did like living in Chicago and having me around a lot more." He sighed and concluded, "Now, I'll be playing in two different cities again."

Joe nodded. then looked up sharply, staring behind Jack. "Has she been here the whole time?" he grumbled.

Jack turned and looked. Edna was there, with her three children: Rufus, Gloria and the son of her second husband, whom they named James Robert and called Jim Bob. Her husband, Roscoe Daniels, the son of Joe's former trainer, Cooter Daniels, was standing behind Edna.

Jack turned back to Joe. "Yeah, they were at the service. Sat in the back, probably trying to avoid making a scene." He gave Joe a keen look and asked, "You're not going to make one yourself now, are you?"

Jack saw that the familiar "Joe's about to blow his top" look was in his brother's eyes. He put a hand on Joe's shoulder. "This is Danny's big day. Let's not spoil it for him."

Joe frowned and grumbled something that Jack couldn't quite catch.

Jack pointed with his chin to the area near the bandstand where Dorothy was holding Betsy by both hands and dancing with her. "Plus, don't forget, you're remarried too now, Joe. Edna deserves happiness as much as anyone else does," he said gently.

Joe looked at his new wife, saw her dancing happily with his kid sister and noticed young Ralph Summers watching them with a forlorn look and laughed out loud.

Jack said, "Pretty much every guy here is jealous right now, you know," Jack added with a chuckle of his own. Then he glanced to another part of the room where Marie was talking with Alice and threw in, "Don't tell my wife I said that!"

Joe laughed again and the anger finally drained completely from his face.

Gloria Barrell, seeing her father, rushed over to him. Young Rufus, whom Joe still called Deuce, hung back near his mother, a wary look in his eyes. Jack caught his nephew's eye and gave him a subtle tip of the head in Joe's direction.

Young Rufus looked at Edna, who nodded slightly, and then started walking towards his father.

Joe hugged both his kids. Jack slowly drifted away, wanting to give Joe some time, but not before he heard Gloria ask her father, "Were you scared when you fought that crocodile?"

Jack smirked as Joe replied, "Naw, that thing was fake. The worst part of that scene was that the director made me do it three times... and the water was freezing!"

Jack sauntered over to Edna and nodded at Roscoe. "Glad you could make it," he said. Jack had been Danny's best man, so he was trying to live up to his duties by greeting as many guests as possible. Plus, he had always liked Edna and Roscoe seemed like a good guy, even if he was a lot more subdued than his father Cooter or, especially, his uncle Possum.

Thinking of Possum, Jack gazed around the room, spotted the gnarled former catcher staring open-mouthed at Dorothy and shook his head when he saw Possum's wife slap his arm. Possum rubbed his arm and wore a hurt look on his face as his wife gave him a tongue-lashing Jack couldn't hear, but could imagine all too well.

Claudia and Marie appeared moments later, took Edna by the arm, and soon the three women were busily catching up. Jack's younger daughter, five-year-old Jean, asked Jack if Jim Bob, who was sucking his thumb and hanging on his father's hand, was her cousin. "I suppose he is, in a way," Jack replied with a smile.

He reflected, not the for the first time that day, that being part of such a large family was never dull and as it grew, so did the craziness and excitement.

.

[legendsport]

Egypt, GA: December 20, 1928:

Bobby Barrell heard the familiar pop of a baseball hitting a catcher's mitt at a high velocity. He turned to his brother Harry, walking beside him up the path towards the barn.

"Is Tommy here? I thought he wasn't getting in until tomorrow?" Bobby asked.

"Naw, that's not Tommy," Harry replied, a faint grin on his face.

Bobby frowned, but decided he wouldn't play right into whatever Harry was up to. He decided to change the subject despite still being curious about who was throwing... and even who was catching. Fred, like Tommy, hadn't arrived for Christmas yet.

"I talked to the Keystones yesterday. They received my signed contract, so it's official."

Harry smiled and said, "And you're $12,000 richer."

Bobby grinned back at his brother. "Yep. First real money of my own." A thoughtful expression crossed his face. "No idea what I'll do with it. Maybe buy a car..."

"Ah, don't bother. You'll be in Philadelphia. Mom's got cousins coming out of the woodwork up there. I'm sure you could borrow one of their cars."

Bobby gave his brother a playful shove. "I'm not going to be in Philadelphia right away, Buster. The GM told me I'll be starting off in Beaumont."

"Gulf States League, Class C,,," Harry said automatically. As a baseball sponge, he knew every league and every podunk town that had a club.

"Yep," Bobby agreed. Then he asked, a bit sheepishly, "Just where is Beaumont, anyway?"

Harry laughed out loud and replied with a question of his own, "Didn't you ask the GM. What's his name again?"

Bobby frowned and said, "I'm bad with names, you know. It's Stat-something or other. Anyway, he sounded like a good guy. But I didn't ask where Beaumont was. Didn't want to sound like a rube," he admitted.

"But it's ok to ask me, since I already know you're a rube, right?" Harry shot back.

Bobby rolled his eyes then shrugged it off and raised an expectant eyebrow.

Harry let him stew for a few seconds, then said, "It's in Texas. On the, you know, Gulf coast."

"Har-dee-har-har," Bobby replied.

Harry looked thoughtful, "I've heard it's even more hot and humid there than it is here."

"I don't think that's possible," Bobby replied.

The brothers reached the edge of the barn and turned the corner, bringing Rufus' ballfield into view. Bobby stopped dead in his tracks. "Is that.... Deuce?" he asked in wonder.

Harry nodded. "Yep. The kid, apparently, is a bit of a pitcher."

As Harry finished speaking, the brothers watched their 11-year-old nephew go into an exaggerated, and somewhat clumsy, wind-up, then fire the ball at the plate. There was no hitter, and squatting behind the dish was none other than Possum Daniels.

They heard the familiar pop again and Possum tossed the ball back to the kid on the mound, saying, "That's the way, son! Fire that old pill in here."

"What in the world is going on here?" Bobby spluttered, causing Possum to turn his head and put his familiar grin on display.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't Mr. Brotherly Love," he said and winked at Bobby.

Possum then continued, "Your nephew here, despite being a-borned with the handicap of being left-handed... like you, if'n I recall correctly... reckons he wants to be a chucker like his gramps."

Bobby eyed Rufus "Deuce" Barell as the kid stood on the mound. He was big for his age... well, tall anyway - he looked like he was all arms and legs and a strong wind might blow him off to Alabama. "Let me stand in there and see what you've got, Deuce," he said as he walked over to the small shed Rufus had put in for the boys to store their equipment. He grabbed his old bat, a little light for what he was using these days, and walked over to the plate.

He looked down at Possum. "You gonna be able to get out of that crouch, you old bird dog?" he said to his father's oldest and best friend and honorary uncle to the Barrell clan.

Possum spat in the dirt and said, "Shoot, boy, I was born with a mitt on my hand and I'll be buried with one too!"

Harry piped up, "Ah, the only thing in your hand after you shuffle off this mortal coil is gonna be a pitchfork!"

Possum shook his head. "That Harry. Quotes Shakespeare as part of an insult. If I didn't know your mama was one of the most righteous people in the world, I'd think you couldn't be my old buddy Rufus' son... son." He guffawed and turned his attention back to the youngster standing sixty-and-a-half feet away.

"OK, Deuce. Let's show these two wiseacres what you've got," Possum shouted.

The kid nodded. His face screwed up into a fierce expression that reminded Bobby of Joe when he was about to lose his temper. Still, he was just an 11-year-old kid, and Bobby reflected, he himself had just been the fifth overall pick in the FABL draft. Then the pitch sizzled in and struck Possum's mitt exactly where he had placed it.

"That there would be strike number one, son," Possum told Bobby with a twinkle in his eye.

"Wow," Bobby said. "You sure you're just eleven?" he called out to Deuce.

The kid's mouth was set in a line. "At least he takes this seriously," Bobby thought as Deuce went back into his windup.

This time Bobby was ready. He showed off the swing that had seen him belt a state-record 21 home runs as a high school junior in 1927 and sent the ball soaring out into the back forty.

On the mound, Deuce threw his glove down in disgust.

Possum stood up and Bobby heard both knees crackling as he did so. "Don't fret, son!" Possum called out to the youngster. "This here boy is now a pro-fessional ball player. You're still a kid. You'll get better and better, and someday I reckon... you might just strike this old boy out on three pitches."

Bobby chuckled, but he wondered if Possum might be right.

Behind him, Harry was apparently thinking the same thing. He said, softly, almost to himself, "He's better than Tommy was at this age," and the tone of his voice was full of respect.

[legendsport]

Chicago, IL: March 26, 1929:

Jack Barrell was in his undershirt, wrench in hand and a scowl on his face. He was kneeling on the floor of the front room of his house in Chicago. Behind him stood a hot-and-weary-looking Marie.

"This thing is busted," Jack said, banging the wrench on the balky cast-iron radiator. "I'm going to have to turn the boiler off and replace the valve, it's stuck open."

Marie sighed, and Jack shrugged and continued, "At least it's spring, technically, so maybe we won't freeze to death while the boiler's off and I fix the valve."

Jack had only been home for a week. His first season as a member of the Quebec Champlains had been a good one. Teaming with Dad Weller, Jack had been moved to centerman, scored 20 goals (two behind Weller for the team lead) and with star defenseman Elmer Morey anchoring the blueline, the Champs had enjoyed a good season, earning a playoff berth (where they were quickly dumped by the Montreal Valiants). He and Marie had decided to keep the family in Chicago as Jack would be back to play football for the Wildcats and they could avoid uprooting Agnes and Jean, who were happy at their school.

A knock on the door startled them. As Jack stood up, his sore right knee causing a slight wince along the way, they heard pounding feet and Agnes ran to the door, shouting "I'll get it!"

"Find out who it is before you open that door, young lady!" Jack called out. He heard an exasperated "Oui, Papa!" in response and grinned despite himself. Agnes often spoke French when she wanted to avoid emotional outbursts, a trick Marie had taught her as she did it with English - using the language you're less comfortable in made you think about what you were saying before blurting it out.

Jack heard her ask the question, but didn't catch the response. The mystery was quickly solved: "It's Uncle Joe!" Agnes called out and opened the door.

Joe, in his typical full-steam-ahead manner, burst into the entry hall, scooped Agnes up with a grin and a "Hey gorgeous!" then planted a kiss on her cheek and put her down.

"Your whiskers are scratchy," Agnes said and rubbed her cheek. Joe just laughed in response. Jean, who had suddenly appeared in the hall, looked on with wide eyes while Joe rushed over, then squirmed and giggled as Joe repeated the performance with her.

Jack walked into the entry hall, swinging his suspender over his right shoulder as he did so. Joe eyed the wrench in Jack's left hand. "You're not going to whack me with that, are you?" he asked with a smile.

"Naw, the stupid radiator's busted," Jack said and slapped Joe on the shoulder with his right hand. "What are you doing here?" he asked.

"I'm thinking about selling my share in the Wildcats. Gonna talk to Carl about it, but... figured I might ask you first and see if maybe you want to join the ownership ranks."

Jack frowned. "Why you selling out?" he asked, avoiding the larger question of buying into the Wildcats.

"I'm going to invest in Bill Whitney's studio," Joe replied.

"Hmm," was all Jack said in reply.

Joe noticed that his brother looked uneasy. "Something tells me you think this is a bad idea," Joe said.

"Well... I don't know anything about motion picture making. Sports? Yeah, I know about that," Jack rubbed his chin, then asked, "You talk to Rollie about this?"

Joe shook his head. "Rollie's in Brooklyn. I did try to get him on the phone but he was out." Joe looked thoughtful and added, "I spoke with his secretary and she sounded... I don't know... worried about something."

Jack shrugged. "I haven't heard anything, but I hope Rollie's not having some kind of problem. I do know the basketball team hasn't done as well as he'd hoped."

"You ever been to one of those games?" Joe asked with a smirk.

"No. With the season overlapping with hockey, I really don't have the time," Jack replied.

"Well, I have. It's kind of a circus. You know they call the players cagers, right?"

Jack nodded.

"That's because they literally play in a cage. The fans are unruly... they throw stuff at the court and they put these wire cages around it to keep the players safe."

Joe grinned a little, then continued, "Of course, the players are pretty rough too. They bounce each other off the wire, guys get cut. Sometimes it makes hockey and football look tame, to be honest," he finished and shook his head.

Jack was silent as he digested this, and Joe went on, "Last I spoke with Rollie, he was saying they needed to figure out how to clean it up. Pop said it was worse than the early days of baseball when fans would come on the field and fight with the umpires, players, and so on. You know, the stuff Grampa Joe talks about..."

"Huh, who would've thought," Jack muttered. "And Bobby and Harry... they play this game, too, right?" Jack asked.

Joe nodded. "Yeah, but I don't think they beat on each other like these pro guys do."

Jack gave a brisk shake of his head as if knocking the thought away and then said, "Well, we got off topic there for a bit. I meant had you asked for Rollie's financial advice. He is the only accountant in the family, remember?"

Joe nodded, "Yeah, I remember. I was going to ask his advice. Hopefully I can get in touch before I meet with Carl tomorrow."

Jack rubbed his chin again and asked, "You heard about our old 'friend' Bugs Moran, right?"

"No. I haven't talked to that guy since before I left town."

Bugs Moran had taken control of the North Side Gang in Chicago after the previous heads of the gang had been killed in the on-and-off turf war with Al Capone's South Siders. Jack, glad to be past his brief employment as a cash mule, had kept an eye on the news, especially after he and his family had moved to Chicago.

"Well, he's in charge of the North Side now. Last month, Capone's guys lined up seven of Moran's boys in a garage and gunned them down. Called it the St. Valentine's Day Massacre."

"Hmph. I guess I should be glad I'm out west then," Joe said.

Neither brother said anything. While they were lost in their own thoughts, Marie ushered both girls into the kitchen.

"How are things, Joe? I mean really?" Jack asked quietly once they were alone.

"Oh, well, you know, things are good," Joe said unconvincingly.

"You having money trouble?"

"No... not really," Joe said, then added with a sigh, "Well, there was a big sell-off on Wall Street yesterday. I have some stocks that Rollie recommended. Took a bath on it, but I think it'll bounce back. This whole decade's been nothing but gangbusters."

Jack was dubious and it showed on his face.

"You really should have gotten into the market, Jack," Joe said firmly.

"Seems too much like gambling to me," Jack replied. "I'm more the cautious type, like Pop."

Joe laughed. "True. I think the old man keeps his money stuffed under the mattress."

"But really, why sell out?" Jack asked, pushing the conversation back on point.

"Well, my new wife... she has expensive tastes. So with a lot of my money tied up in stocks, I could use some cash, you know?" Joe looked unsure for the first time since he'd arrived. "And I do want to invest in the studio. It takes money to make a talkie, even more than it did the silent films. But you can make a lot too."

"I'm sure," Jack said, sounding anything but. "You can also lose money, too."

"Well, I guess if you're going to be a wet blanket about this, that you're not interested in buying me out?"

Jack shook his head. "I'm a little short myself, to be honest. Being 'just' a player isn't all that lucrative, you know?"

Joe shrugged. "Yeah, I guess I do know. Never really had to worry about it, though."

Jack pushed an index finger into Joe's chest. "Consider yourself lucky. And think twice about selling out of the Wildcats. I think pro football is going to be big and you'll end up regretting it if you bail out now."

.

[legendsport]

Winter Haven, FL: April 1, 1929:

"Hey, Rank, the kid is here again," outfielder Lee Smith said to the tall, thickly-built man leaning on his bat in front of the Philadelphia Keystones dugout.

Like the rest of the clubs in the Federally Aligned Baseball Leagues, the Keystones were in the final week of spring training before heading north to begin the 1929 season. Rankin Kellogg, the 'Stones star first baseman, spat the husk of a sunflower seed at his feet and twitched an eyebrow at Smith.

Bobby Barrell shot up the dugout steps, then slowed and conciously tried to non-chalantly amble towards Kellogg & Smith. Smith snorted as he watched this while Kellogg remained still, stoically looking out over the field where the visiting Brooklyn Kings were somewhat grumpily going through some light calisthenics, something their old school manager Wally Grant made them do before every game.

"Hey Rank, hey Lee..." Bobby said to the pair as he came to a stop next to Kellogg.

Rankin nodded at Bobby, said, "Kid," in his soft Tennessee drawl. Smith just nodded at first, then spoke up and asked, "What are you doing here Barrell? They sent you to the minor league camp two weeks ago."

Bobby had a sheepish look on his face as he responded, "My brother's over there," he nodded with his chin towards the cluster of Brooklyn players.

"Yeah? I heard you've got about fifteen brothers," Smith said and snickered.

Bobby laughed good-naturedly and said, "Naw. Only eight... well, seven now. My brother Jimmy passed about ten years ago."

"Sorry to hear that," Kellogg said and gave Bobby a sympathetic look. Kellogg had a reputation among the other players for being "not too bright" but the guy was arguably the best hitter in baseball - with the possible exception of Max Morris, that is. And he had been nothing but nice to Bobby, who, in a moment of self-reflection, realized he had been something of a pest.

Bobby remembered when he showed up for spring training. He knew - because Rufus had told him - that his stay would be brief. The Keystones knew he wasn't ready, but wanted to give him a taste of the big time. He had immediately glommed on to Kellogg, who had won a Triple Crown (and the Whitney Award) in 1927, then followed that up in '28 by posting even better numbers: a .387 average, 42 homers and 164 RBIs - none of which led the league with a pair of Chicago Chiefs beating him out in all three categories (Jim Hampton, hitting .397 and Joe Masters belting 56 homers with 195 RBIs for the Federal champs).

Kellogg, to his credit, had willingly shown Bobby the ropes. This was possibly spurred on by something that happened the very first day of camp. Manager Columbus Tuck had included Bobby in Kellogg's hitting group. And to spice things up, he had sent the team's best pitcher, Bill Ross, out to throw to them. Tuck believed in going all-out from the beginning. He wasn't one to coddle anybody - not pitchers like Ross, hitters like Kellogg and certainly not the team's first round draft pick who was getting his first taste of professional baseball.

Bobby stepped to the plate. Tuck had dispensed with the cage - this was going to be live practice and that included putting a catcher behind the plate. In this case, it was veteran Paul Tattersall, a long-time Brooklyn King who had bounced from team-to-team over the last few years and was, at age 37, in his final season.

Tattersall eyed Bobby as he walked to the plate. He gave him a lopsided grin then pulled his mask down. "Stay on your toes, kid," he said and dropped into a crouch.

Bobby settled in and mentally steeled himself. As a left-handed batter, looking towards third base he could see Tuck standing fifteen feet away, watching. And beside him was Rankin Kellogg, leaning on his bat (Bobby was to find that Kellogg did this regularly while "on deck" - watching the pitcher and taking between three and five swings to loosen up).

He took a deep breath and waited, bat held still over his left shoulder, eyes locked on Bill Ross, who stood facing him, the ball held loosely in his right hand, a dead-serious scowl on his face.

Bobby saw Ross nod once, then go into his windup. He watched, bat poised and still, then saw it coming in, straight and hard. Instinct took over... he recognized fastball... lifted his right leg, stepped forward and swung. His bat connected with a solid thwack and the ball soared into the air towards right field.

He followed the flight with his eyes. The ball cleared the right field fence with about ten feet to spare. Bobby fought down a smile as heard Kellogg remark, "Well, that certainly looked good." He saw Tuck's eyes briefly widen and noticed that Ross was now eyeing him with some measure of respect.

That was the high point of Bobby's lone week at big league camp. Ross changed tactics on him, and Bobby discovered that he did have a lot to learn. But Kellogg had helped him, giving him tips and encouragement.

On the day Bobby packed up his locker, Kellogg had told him: "Don't be impatient, kid. Make steady progress and get back to Philly. And then you and me? We're going to tear this league apart." He had then patted Bobby on the shoulder, winked at him and sauntered away.

Now he was back, albeit as a spectator, and the first thing he did - even before he went to say hello to Danny on the other side of the field - was to approach Kellogg. Rufus had advised him to seek out the "Memphis Mauler" as Bobby, unlike his brothers, liked to hit the ball in the air and had shown good power throughout high school, and Rufus knew that Rankin Kellogg was, outside of Max Morris, the premier power hitter in the FABL.

"Which one is your brother," Kellogg asked him now.

Bobby gazed around, looking for Dan. He spotted him and pointed. "There, number 32."

Kellogg nodded. "He an outfielder too?"

Bobby nodded. "Yeah, he plays mostly right field. Some left field... occasionally first base. He tore up his leg playing football, so he can't really run all that well anymore. He was on the '24 Olympic team as a decathlete."

Smith raised his eyebrows and blurted, "Really? He must be some athlete then."

Bobby nodded. "Yeah, he was something before he got hurt."

Across the field, Danny was sulking a bit. Back in Clearwater, before boarding the bus, Wally Grant had told him he'd be heading back to Triple A. The Kings had switched up their affiliates and though Danny had played at AAA Houston the year before, he would now be a Rochester Rook. He wondered, briefly, whether the team was named for the bird, or the chess piece. It didn't matter, but it kept him from thinking about his disappointment. He felt that Grant was prejudiced against him. One of the other guys had told Dan that he'd heard Grant refer to him as "Slocum's pet" and with former skipper (and mentor) Powell Slocum having been fired and now managing Sacramento in the Great Western League, Dan felt like he went right into Grant's doghouse. He promised himself he'd get back to Brooklyn and prove himself. Somehow... someway... someday.

The team wrapped up their calisthenics (something else Danny didn't like about Wally Grant). Danny nudged Charlie Powell - a fellow outfielder and friend from their days in Houston the year before. Unlike Dan, Powell was not going back to AAA, at least not right then.

"Hey Charlie, see that kid talking to Kellogg?"

Powell looked to where Danny pointed and nodded. "Yeah, sure I see him. Who's that?"

Dan smiled. "That's my kid brother, Bobby."

Charlie chuckled. "Another Barrell? Don't you already have a brother... what's his name? Fred? Playing in the Cougars system?"

"Yep. Got another one still in college at Georgia Baptist - Tommy. Two-way guy. Great pitcher and a really good hitter too."

Charlie laughed again when Danny added that his youngest brother, Harry, was a hot-shot high school shortstop who might end up being the best of the bunch.

"Well, your papa sure did something right," Charlie said with a lopsided grin. Like many pro ballplayers, Charlie Powell had met - and liked - Rufus Barrell.

"He sure did," Danny agreed with a big grin on his face.

.