[Mattymo]

November 15, 1910

"Excuse me? Sir, Excuse me?"

The young man jolted awake and looked around, half-confused of where he was.

"I'm sorry to wake you but we've hit a snow storm and are going to stay here for the night. Hopefully the snow slows in the morning," said the stewardess.

The young man straightened himself in his seat, fixing his hat and rubbed his eyes slightly. "Where are we?" he asked, straining to see out the dark window.

"Buffalo," said the stewardess, "about three hours from Toronto. We should be there by tomorrow afternoon."

He looked around the cabin, realizing that most seats were empty. He then focused on the stewardess. She was strikingly pretty with long blonde hair pulled back in a bun, soft brown eyes and a thin build hidden by her white uniform.

"W-what time is it?" he asked sheepishly, "Where is everyone?"

"It's about 10pm," she answered, smiling at his quick change of facial expression, "most people got off at the last stop, others went to a hotel. You can stay here and sleep, I just wanted to let you know why were stopped. Sorry to wake you."

"No, it's ok," the boy answered, now wide awake. "I'm hungry, is there anywhere to get something to eat?"

"I was just about to go to the little diner over there," she said, leaning over and pointing out the window, "You're welcome to come."

"Uh, yeah, that'd be great," said the young man, quickly rising out of his seat and hitting his head on the low ceiling above.

"Relax," she said calmly, letting out a soft laugh, "I'll be waiting in front of the cabin. I'm Helen by the way."

"I'm Francis," he said, giving her an awkward half-wave.

As Helen walked away shaking her head while giggling, Francis put on his shoes, pulled his coat out of his bag and quickly walked down the aisle to meet Helen. The two stepped off the train and onto the platform, looked at each other in shock of how cold it was, then put their heads down and trecked about 200 yards through 9 inches of snow to a small building with the name "Dot's Diner" on the door.

The place was nearly empty except for an older couple sitting in the corner, watching them. The lone waitress, a heavy woman who likely looked older than she was, took their order and disappeared into the back. Helen and Francis sat in eery silence, looking everywhere but at each other while they waited for the waitress to reappear.

After their food came, Helen watched as Francis ate quickly, mixing his mashed potatoes and turkey together. He never looked up, never stopped for a breath, and never said a word.

"You don't say much, eh?" Helen asked, intrigued at how handsome he was despite his messed up hair and wrinkled shirt, "Where are you…what are you doing here?

He looked up, swallowed and slumped his shoulders. "Sorry, I'm just so hungry," he said, looking back down at his food, "I just decided to leave home, I needed a new start."

"Where's home," she asked, her smile now gone, her forehead wrinkled in concentration.

"I lived in a small town in Connecticut," he answered, avoiding eye contact, "from a military family. I was born in Toronto, my mom is Canadian, we moved to the United States when I was five. But I've never felt like I had a home because we were always moving."

Helen stayed silent for a few minutes while he finished eating. Without talking Francis paid the bill with change he pulled out of his pocket.

"So what are you going to do in Toronto," she asked him as they put on their coats and hats and walked towards the door.

"I don't know," he replied, the most calm he's acted since he awoke, "I'll…I'll figure it out".

Once outside, as they were showered with snow, Helen stopped walking and reached into her pocket. "Cigarette?"

"Oh…uh, no, uh, I don't smoke," he answered uncomfortably.

Helen let out a loud laugh. "It's ok," she said, smiling wide at Francis' uneasiness, awed by his sheepish charm. "I have a feeling you've never done anything even remotely bad, huh?"

This time he looked at her, then down at the ground and didn't answer. He continued walking towards the train. Helen, sensing his embarrassment, rushed to keep up and quickly changed the subject. Smiling and cocking her head to one side, she put out her hand. "Well Francis, thank you for the wonderful date."

"Y-y-your welcome," he said, in an aww-shucks way, his face turning red.

"Go back to your seat and get some sleep, I'll wake you up when we get to your stop," Helen said, exhaling smoke into the frigid air.

With that, he walked up the stairs and disappeared into the darkness.

[Mattymo]

November 18, 1910

"He will see you now," said the woman at the front desk, pointing to the open door in the corner office with the name "President Hoffman" on the door.

Francis, dressed in a black suit, his hair parted down the middle, thanked her and slowly walked in.

"You Frank?" said the large man, startling Francis as he walked in.

"Uhh…yes sir, Francis actually," he responded uneasily, "I'm here to see about a job."

Mr. Hoffman laughed, "I know why you’re here," he said, sizing Francis up while puffing on a cigar, "What you know about banking?"

Francis straightened up, his heart racing and palms sweaty , "Honestly, not much sir, but I'm good with numbers, always have been."

Mr. Hoffman stood up and walked around the room, straightening a plaque on the wall, all the while his cigar hanging from his mouth. "You look awfully young," he said without turning around, "you finish school?"

"Uh, yes sir," Francis responded quietly, "I'll be 19 in March."

"Ahh," the man said, looking at him sharply, "March is when Helen was born as well. March 24 to be exact. She had nice things to say about you."

Francis didn't say a word, but avoided eye contact. He had a feeling he knew where this was going.

"You met her on the train huh?" he asked in an intimidating manner, "You know, I'm very protective of my little girl. I don't like it when I hear that she meets someone at work from out of town, out of the COUNTRY, and the next thing you know she wants me to give him a job."

"Yes uh, sir, I, uh," Francis mumbled, then exhaled and straightened his posture, "Sir, I'm just looking for a fresh start up here in Toronto. I think Helen is just a very kind person, which is why she set up this meeting. I have no intentions for her…"

Francis stopped and stood up, looking Mr. Hoffman straight in the eye. "I'm sorry I wasted your time."

As he turned to walk out of the office, Mr. Hoffman let out a loud laugh.

"Sit down kid," he said, motioning to his chair.

Confused, Francis sat down.

"You seem like a good kid. Here's what I'm gonna do, I'm gonna have you work in the mailroom ok? I'm assuming you can read. It's going to be up to you to learn about banking on your own ok?"

Francis nodded, hiding his excitement.

"You show good work ethic, I'll talk to you in 6 months. We'll see how you're doing, and maybe we'll have something else for you. Alright?"

Francis stood up and held out his hand, smiling wide. "Thank you sir," he exclaimed.

"Oh get out of here kid," Mr. Hoffman said as he waved him to the door, refusing to shake his hand. "Welcome to the Bank of Toronto, Frank."

Nodding and putting his hat back on, Francis turned and walked towards the door.

"Oh, and I'm fine if you're friends with Helen. But I don't want you coming over for dinner or anything like that. You start courting her, you find another job, got it?"

"Yes sir," he answered as he walked out the door.

[Mattymo]

December 6, 1910

Walking down Queen Street, Francis took in all of his surroundings despite the bitter winter cold. The large buildings, the people, the stores. This wasn't quite like the small towns around New England he grew up in. This was different…this was alive.

As he walked around the corner to pass the City Hall, a familiar voice called out to him. He turned around to see Helen, blonde hair waving in the wind, trying to catch up to him.

"Hey stranger, how ya been," she said, poking his arm, "I just got back from the train."

"H-h-hiya Helen," he replied, stepping back from her, "I'm well thanks. How was work?"

She didn't even notice his uneasiness. "It was great but tiring. Two weeks is a long time, but at least I get a week off. Then I get back on the train for two weeks. But it really is a nice job, I get to see so many cities and meet so many people."

She waited.

"I heard my dad hired you at the bank. That's so exciting, how's that been going," she asked as she lit a cigarette.

"Yeah, it's good, I wish I were doing more than giving people their mail, but it's a start I guess," he said, looking down and continuing to walk, "Your dad is a good man. Intimidating, but very nice.""

Realizing his discomfort, Helen grabbed Francis' arm. "My father is a smart man, a nice man, but he's a little over-protective of me. Don't worry about him."

She paused.

"So where are you living?"

Feeling more at ease, he smiled and pointed to a small inn about 500 feet away.

"What? It's been almost three weeks!" Helen exclaimed, playfully pushing him, "we need to get you an apartment or something!"

As they walked, Francis came out of his shell, telling her of his days in Connecticut. About how he always loved playing baseball and football with his friends, about how his father expected him to join the military and had no time for fun. She spoke of growing up in Toronto, how she worked on the train so that she could one day move out on her own and go to nursing school. They laughed together and throughly enjoyed one another's company.

After about thirty minutes of walking they saw a "For Rent" sign in the window of a small apartment building, right across the street from Queen's Park.

"Shall we?" Helen asked, tucking her arm inside his.

Francis just smiled and followed her lead up the steps and inside.

[Mattymo]

December 20, 1910

As Francis lay awake late at night, for the first time he missed home. His mother's warm smile and home-cooked meals, his brother's giggling and pentience for mischief, the morning ballgames at the park, even school.

He remembered being faster and stronger than his schoolmates, always finishing first in a race or winning the wrestling match. They always begged him to join their teams but his father always said no. And Francis Timpson never did anything his father told him not to do.

Looking around his new apartment, all he saw was emptiness. No furniture, no people, nothing. Just darkness.

He got up and looked out the window at the park below. He half-expected to see people, but all he saw were remnants of a snow storm that had mostly melted due to a recent warm spell.

He lay back down on his mattress and thought about how he left home. About how he felt empty, about how this apartment symbolized who he was. About how his father discouraged everything he wanted to do, whether it be playing ball for the school team, finding a career that didn't include the military, or dating. He was always wrong for having fun. He always felt like a disappointment.

His thoughts then turned to Helen. How alive and independent she made him feel. How she was unlike any girl he had ever met. If she wanted something she went for it, never took no for an answer. She made him feel more capable than he had in his entire life.

Also on Francis' mind was the frustration of a mundane schedule everyday at work. Shovel the sidewalks at 6am, clean the windows, make the coffee, gather up mail, hand out mail, rince, repeat. He knew he was lucky to even have a job, especially since the money he brought with him was almost gone, but he knew he could do more. Growing up he was always one of the smarter kids in class, now he was doing mindless menial tasks.

Francis then thought of his mother. She encouraged him to leave after what happened, but he knew that it pained her to be without her oldest child. She had lost two children before Francis and always felt so blessed to have him. She was always so strong, and though she never finished school, she was so wise. How proud she was everytime he did anything, no matter how meaningless.

Francis then got out of bed and opened a book he had checked out at the library only a day earlier.

"It's time for me to learn about banking," he said to himself, lighting a candle.

[Mattymo]

January 4, 1911

"Hey where ya headin?" asked Jacky as they left work and walked outside, winter darkness settling in.

"Umm, I was just going to head home like usual," replied a down-trodden Francis.

"Oh c'mon, you always just go home. I'm heading over to the park to watch the Blueshirts play. You should come along!" exclaimed Jacky as he grabbed Francis coat and pulled him along.

"The blueshirts? What's that?" asked Francis, confused.

"Hockey kid! If you are going to live here, you have to get into hockey. They were supposed to play in the NHA this year but they haven't finished building Arena Gardens yet. They will next year though. They're really good."

With that, the two pushed on through the light flurries, still dressed in their work clothes, hardly enough to withstand the cold.

Jacky was a large man of 37 years with a long, thick beard. Born in near-by Hamilton, he moved to Toronto with his wife and two children about five years ago to find work. He'd been in the mailroom ever since.

By the time the two arrived at the outdoor rink, the match had already begun. Large wooden bleachers stood on either side with fans both young and old yelling, clapping and making all sorts of noise. It reminded Francis of the school team's games he was not allowed to participate in.

They met up with three friends of Jacky's who were also hockey fans.

"Hey guys, this is the kid I was telling you about," Jacky said, in matter-of-fact tone of voice.

The guys acknowledged Francis with nods of their heads. One of them held out a small bottle.

"Vodka," said another of the men, "to stay warm."

Francis took the bottle and looked at it. He had never tasted vodka before. Just then Jacky, sensing Francis' discomfort, grabbed the bottle, took a gulp, then gave it back to his friend.

"We already had quite a few drinks tonight," Jacky responded, rescuing Francis from sure redicule.

They then turned their attention to the game in front of them. Francis was amazed at how graceful these men were on the ice. Skating from one end to another without breaking a sweat, swatting at the puck, crashing into one another, it was beautiful.

The game lasted about an hour with the Blueshirts victorious by a 4-2 count. With his extremities stinging from the bitter cold, Francis had been ready to go home since halftime.

As the stands emptied, Francis said goodbye to Jacky and his pals and headed home. However, he couldn't walk more than ten steps before he saw these long blonde locks waving in the swirling winter wind.

"Helen?"

"Francis! Hi!", Helen exclaimed, shocked to see him. "What are you doing here? You like hockey?"

"This was my first game, but it was really neat," he responded, all the blood rushing to his face, "I'm so glad to see you. I thought you were still on the train. How was your Christmas?"

"I just got back this afternoon and rushed to get here," she said, looking over toward the hockey players, "I…"

Just then, a tall handsome man with a trimmed beard, still in his hockey clothes, walked up to Helen, put his arms around her and kissed her. She pulled away uncomfortably.

"Francis, this is...this is my boyfriend, Jon," Helen said quietly, unwillingly, staring down at the ground. "Jon this is Francis, a friend of mine I met on the train."

"Hey kid," responded Jon, sweat still beading off his forehead. He quickly turned his attention back to Helen. "You ready to get out of here?"

Francis just stood there, speechless. Helen had never mentioned Jon, never mentioned any boyfriend. And to boot, he was older, probably 24 or 25, and seemed to be about a foot taller than Francis.

"Have a uh…Have a good evening," Francis finally mumbled as he turned and walked away, his smile gone.

Helen opened her mouth, but no words came out. She slumped her shoulders, grabbed Jon's hand, and off they went.

[Mattymo]

February 5th, 1911

"Here's a shovel Franky, get to work," yelled Jacky, bundled up in a winter coat, hat and gloves, tossing Francis a shovel.

"Ugh, luckily we don't get many of these, eh?" responded a half-asleep Francis, dressed similarly. It was 6am and a foot of snow had fallen overnight.

Jacky laughed. "Did I hear an 'eh' coming from the American? You'll be fully Canadian soon enough Franky!"

"Never!" Francis said with a laugh as he got to work clearning off the sidewalk.

After about twenty minutes Francis was exhausted. He turned to see Jacky still going strong, driving the shovel deep, lifting the snow, then effortlessly tossing it away.

"You need to get into shape Franky!" yelled Jacky without stopping.

"What shape is that Jacky? Round?" joked Francis as he got back to work, alluding to Jacky's heavy build.

"ha ha, very funny," responded Jacky, sarcastically, "This is one of the ways I get ready for ball season, been doin it for years."

Francis stopped. "Ball season?" he asked.

"yeah, base ball," Jacky answered, in his usual matter-of-fact tone.

"You play base ball?" asked a shocked Francis.

"Uh yeah Franky, thought you knew that," he answered, "I've been playing for the Maple Leafs ever since I came to Toronto. You like the game eh?"

"I've always loved base ball, played with my friends after school all the time," said Francis, "I didn't even know they played up here."

Jacky stopped shoveling, took off his hat and whiped some sweat off his brow. "What? Of course we play base ball! The Maple Leafs have been playing for twenty years at least!" shouted Jacky, somewhat offended, "They started an official Canadian League last season. It's semi-pro, but they do pay us. And we won the first championship."

Francis was astounded. Growing up he loved hearing tales of the great Major Leaguers like Nap Lajoie, Rube Waddell and Big Ed Delahanty. He remembered trying with his friends to hear the radio call of the 1910 World Series and being disappointed when his favorite team, the Boston Red Sox, lost to the Chicago Cubs. He always loved the crack of the bat, sliding into bases and diving for the ball in the outfield. Sometimes he would make believe he was Tris Speaker, the star player for Boston. How he longed to play again.

"Get back to work, people will be showing up soon!" shouted Jacky, who had already shoveled double of what Francis had done.

After the sidewalks and steps were clear, the two headed inside to get washed up and prepare the offices.

"Hey Jacky, any chance I could play ball with you guys," Francis timidly asked as he took off his winter clothes, "I was always really good gro…"

Jacky's heavy laugh interrupted Francis. "No offense Franky, but you're…you're small kid. What're you, about 130 pounds? We've got some good ballplayers believe it or not."

"I know I'm small, but I'm strong…and I'm fast," responded a confident Francis, "I can hit the ball pretty far."

Jacky stopped and grabbed Francis' arm. "Look kid, I don't think there's anyway you could make our club. I like ya, but even some of the kids in the Lower League are pretty darned good. But if you're serious, there's only one man who could help you. You gotta talk to the boss."

"The boss?" asked Francis, confused.

Jacky smiled and started walking away. "President Hoffman," he said without turning around, "He's the one who runs the club. Good luck!"

[blueturf]

Great stuff, I'll be following along.

[Mattymo]

Originally Posted by blueturf

Great stuff, I'll be following along.

Thanks blueturf.

I went to Toronto this summer and loved it, so while I write this I'm learning more about the city, as well as baseball in the early 20th century across the globe.

I'm really trying to be historically and geographically accurate, so if I'm wrong on anything, please PM me and let me know...Also if anyone wants to hear more about a specific character, event, location, whatever, PM me as well and I'll try to work it into the story.

[Mattymo]

February 12, 1911

As Francis knocked on the door, his heartbeat increased rapidly. Fear and anxiety crept into his mind.

"Nevermind," he thought to himself, turning to walk away. Just then the door opened.

"Frank?" said the deep voice behind him, "What do you want kid?"

"President Hoffman, h-hi," stumbled Francis, "I uh…I was wondering if I could get a moment of your time."

"Sure kid, but just a moment, I'm really busy here," responded Mr. Hoffman as he walked back to his desk, "shut the door."

Francis complied and sat down in a chair in front of Mr. Hoffman's desk. Hoffman stared at him, shaking his head as of to say "what do you want?"

"Yes sir, I was uh, talking to Jacky the other day," struggled Francis, "and he mentioned that you have a base ball team and uh…"

"Oh yeah, Jacky Guimond was quite a catcher in his day," responded Hoffman, "Past his prime now but solid nonetheless."

Mr. Hoffman stopped and got a puzzled look. "If you're looking to get involved, I guess you could wash uniforms or something. Maybe keep score if you're good at it."

"Umm, no sir, I want to play," responded Francis, staring down at the ground afraid to look up, "I just want a chance."

Silence.

"Are you serious?" asked a dumbfounded Mr. Hoffman, "Kid, this isn't schoolyard ball. These are the best players in Canada. This is professional base ball."

Francis' shoulders slumped and he looked at the large, indimidating man in front of him. "No offense sir, but I think you'd be surprised. If I'm no good, just tell me so. I've always loved the game and been pretty good at it."

President Hoffman smiled, as he was taken aback by the kid's candor and confidence. "Alright, look kid. We start practicing in about two months. On the first of April we'll hold a tryout with some of the local kids as well as some of the fellas in the Lower League. I won't be there, but all of the coaches will be. You're welcome to show up, but don't get your expectations high."

Francis smiled and nodded his head confidently.

"Ok get out of here kid, I told you I'm busy!" Mr. Hoffman yelled, pointing to the door.

With that, Francis got up and walked towards the door. He then turned. "I'll see you on April 2 Mr. Hoffman."

[Mattymo]

March 1, 1911

Francis, alone in his cramped apartment, picked at a luke-warm bowl of pasta. The sun had long disappeared and the late-winter cold chilled the air. He thought of what had happened that day, but more of what had not happened.

Exactly a year earlier, his mother had given him his first bicycle against his fathers wishes, paid for with money she had saved by making blankets and selling them after church. He knew it always pained her to watch Francis run alongside his biking schoolmates, who easily pedaled past him. She had also made his favorite dinner, turkey with mashed potatoes, while he and his brother told jokes to one another, at least until their father came home from work.

As his attention turned to his dinner, it hit him like a ton of bricks; for the first time in his life, he was alone on his birthday. No special dinner from his mother, no birthday songs from classmates, no acknowledgement what-so-ever.

Earlier in the day, he and Jacky, along with a few of the other guys, had gone to Hanlan’s Point Park, where the Maple Leafs play their games, and gone through some baseball drills. It was a rather warm Saturday on the shore of Lake Ontario, getting into the 50s, and he felt like a kid again.

They practiced for about two hours, everything from running the bases to batting. Francis and Oliver Tanguay, one of the older players on the team, went to the outfield while Jacky hit them fly balls. Francis was proud as he glided across the frozen ground, catching almost everything that was hit near him.

Batting was a different story. Pierre Luc Fortier, a big right handed relief pitcher, only threw straight balls. However, Francis wasn’t used to the speed of his pitches and had a difficult time making contact. They encouraged him and gave him tips, but by the time his turn was up, he had only managed to hit a few balls in fair territory, none of them reaching the outfield.

On his walk home, he had seen Helen, walking hand-in-hand with Jon. Francis crossed the street and shielded his face to avoid them. They had not spoken since he saw her after the hockey game, though Francis thought about her often. He had never felt like he had when he was in her presence and he missed that feeling tremendously.

Francis, tired of thinking about Helen, his mother and his all-around loneliness, got up from his half-eaten bowl of pasta and picked up a broom that was leaning against the wall. He placed a candle directly behind him, as to create a shadow of himself on the wall, and swung the broom handle like a base ball bat.

“I’m going to make that team,” he said to himself, as he swung over and over again, putting into practice some of the tips the guys had given him earlier in the day, “I’M GOING TO MAKE THAT TEAM.”

[Mattymo]

March 16, 1911

"Hey Franky, what's wrong?" asked Jacky, as Francis threw his coat on the chair upon arriving to work, "tough night?".

"Couldn't sleep," replied a dreary-eyed Francis, "Too much on my mind. And I'm getting frustrated with this base ball thing."

Jacky, tired of his complaining, took a deep breath. "Look kid, I don't sugarcoat things," Jacky said sternly, getting worked up, "You want this to be easy and it's not. I don't know what to tell you, spring practice hasn't even started and you've been whining every day. Stop feeling sorry for yourself and buck up, will ya?"

Francis was stunned. "I'm not…"

"No kid, you are," Jacky interrupted, "When we show up in a couple of weeks, you'll be the fastest player out there. That counts for somethin. You catch the ball in the outfield really good. So you can't hit? If you would take some of my tips and stop swinging so damn hard maybe you'd hit the ball square once in awhile."

Francis just stood there, silent, looking down at the ground. He wasn't used to that kind of constructive criticism. "It's just that…"

"It's just what?" Jacky again interrupted, "You're away from home and you're alone? C'mon kid, get a grip. Now I don't know why you left home, and I don't really care. But I was kicked out by my parents at 15 and I'm doing ok. Stop feeling sorry for yourself, kid."

What that Jacky walked out of the room, leaving Francis alone. He had looked up to Jacky since he had started working at the bank, and he knew that Jacky was right. All the stuff with base ball, with Helen, with his family…he had allowed it to define him. Rather than confront it, he ran from it.

Francis smiled. "Hey Jacky," he yelled, unsure if he'd get a response.

"Yeah kid?," yelled a voice from down the hall.

"Thanks."

[Mattymo]

April 1, 1911

"Whack!"

The ball was hit towards left-centerfield and deep. Francis turned and sprinted, his cap flying off his head, his long brown hair flapping as he ran. As the ball began its decent, Francis kept digging, gliding over the still frozen grass, towards where he believed the ball would land. He reached his left hand out and felt his mit pull. He quickly grabbed his mit with his right hand. He then lost his balance and tumbled to the ground, rolling twice before coming to a stop. He looked down at his hands. The ball was nestled nicely in between both hands, as if it belonged there. He got up, reached back and fired the ball as hard as he could towards the infield. After one hop, the ball fell perfectly into the infielder's hand at second base. Francis pumped his fist and ran to the back of the line as another outfield got his chance.

Just then an older, clean-cut man in his 40s, holding a clipboard, jogged up to Francis. "Not bad kid," he said, tugging at the brim of his cap, "I'm Mark Wheeler, the manager of the Maple Leafs. What's your name?"

"Umm…Francis Timpson, sir," he responded.

"Timpson, Timpson," he said as he scoured the names on his clipboard, "Frank Timpson. There it is. Keep up the good work kid."

Francis was proud of himself. He had caught every reachable ball that was hit to him and made all the throws he had been told to make.

After a few minutes it was his turn again. This time a grounder. Francis sprinted towards the ball, scooped it up with both hands, and fired towards home plate. The catcher, another of the young guys, caught the ball on the fly.

"Wow, where'd you get that arm?" asked one of the other outfielders as Francis ran back to the group.

"Uh I dunno," responded Francis, uncomfortable with the compliment.

"Name's Tom Fischer" responded the guy, "I played in the Lower League last year. Tryin to make some money with the big club this year."

"Oh yeah?" responded Francis, "They don't pay you in the Lower League?"

Tom shook his head. "Nah, but I heard some of the older guys talkin last year, they can make up to $200 a season! You know you want some of that, eh?"

Just then one of the other coaches, wearing a blue cap with a white "t" on it, called all the players to home plate. "Alright fellas, now we're going to see what you can do at the plate," he yelled, once everyone had gathered around, "We'll go 3 at a time, the rest of you will play the field while the pitchers continue throwing. Let's see, Emery, Fischer and Timpson, you're up first. You'll be facing Mike Schute, one of the guys who pitched for us last year."

[Mattymo]

April 1, 1911 (continued)

"Nice hit!" yelled Coach Wheeler as he watched the ball fly over the short stop's head, "You have quite the swing."

Another pitch, this time a liner right at the left fielder.

"Nice job Fischer!," said the coach after a few more pitches, "much better than last year. Timpson, you're up next".

Francis took a deep breath and swallowed as the nerves settled in his stomach. He grabbed the Louisville Slugger, tapped against his cleats, and strode to the plate. He looked at Mike Schute, a big right-hander who threw a pretty good fast ball. However, he'd been practicing against Pierre-Luc for a few weeks now and was getting used to the speed.

As he settled into the left hand batter's box, he remembered what Jacky told him. "Don't swing too hard," he whispered to himself. He cocked his hands back and stared at the pitcher.

Schute got into his wind up, pulled his arm back and fired the ball to the plate. Francis eyed the ball, which was heading towards the inside part of the plate. He reared back and swung with all his might. "THUMP"

Francis looked back to see the ball resting in the catcher's mit. His shoulders slumped as he tapped the bat against his cleats. He looked out beyond the fence to collect his thoughts, then dug into the batter's box again.

As the next pitch came, it looked to be outside so Francis didn't swing. However, at the last second the ball curved right over the plate for a strike. His shoulders slumped again.

"C'mon kid," yelled Wheeler, "you only get five strikes before your turn is up. Gotta make 'em count".

Francis nodded.

He took another deep breath and readied himself, relaxing the bat in his hands. This time a fast ball right down the middle. Francis strode towards the ball, striking it firmly with the bat. He watched as the ball bounded towards the second baseman, who promptly fielded the ball and threw to first base.

Tapping the bat against the plate, Francis was more confident after that last swing and was ready for the next pitch. Schute got the sign from the catcher, wound up, and slung the ball towards the plate. It was towards the outside part of the plate, exactly where Francis liked it. He pulled his hands back, then threw them forward towards the ball. The bat connected perfectly.

Francis looked up to see the left fielder sprinting back towards the fence. However, he wasn't looking at the ball, rather running with his head down. Francis was stunned as the ball kept traveling through the air. The ball finally landed, bounced twice, and hit the fence, just below the 370 foot sign. The fielder picked it up and tossed it in. Francis smiled.

He looked at the coach who nodded his head and scribbled something on the clipboard. "Wow Frank, not bad at all," he said without looking up, "one more pitch, this time run it out."

Oozing with confidence, Francis swung the bat a couple times outside of the box, then dug in and bent his knees. The pitch came in, slower than the last, and Francis recognized it right away; a curve ball. He anticipated where the ball would come in, swung and drilled a ground ball past the pitcher. He took off towards first as the ball sqeaked past the short stop and into centerfield. Tom Fischer, who had taken over in center, jogged towards the ball to pick it up. Upon realizing this, Francis put his head down, touched first base, and dug towards second. Fischer hastily grabbed the ball and threw it in, but it was too late, as Francis slid in feet first with a double just ahead of the tag.

[Mattymo]

April 1 (continued)

"Hey Frank, can you come here a second?" yelled out Coach Wheeler, motioning towards the dugout, as most of the players headed off the field.

Francis walked down the steps and had a seat on the bench.

"This is Coach Gravel, the Bench Coach, Coach Morrison, the hitting coach and Coach Neil, the Pitching Coach," said Wheeler, as the three other nodded, "We liked what we saw from you today."

"Y-yes sir, thank you coach," replied an awe-struck Francis.

"You have a nice swing," piped up Coach Morrison, "it's a little raw, but I really see some potential there. That ball you hit over the left-fielder, we don't have too many guys who can hit the ball that far. And you're what? 150 pounds?"

"Yes sir, about that, but I've been working with Jacky to get a little stronger," said Francis.

"Jacky who? Guimond?," asked Wheeler.

"Yes sir," replied Francis.

Coach Wheeler nodded his head. "Interesting," he said, "Well look kid. There's not a ton of hitting up here in the Canadian League. Ernie Winchester led the league and he hit something like .244. You win in this league with defense and speed, and you got 'em both. Now I can't make any promises, especially since Hoff hasn't seen you play, but we want you to stick around during Spring Practice and we'll see what happens. Worse comes to worst, you head down to the Lower League to get some experience. How old are you anyway?"

"Umm...just turned 19 sir," answered a stunned Francis, "Hoff? As in Mr. Hoffman?"

"yeah kid, you know him?," asked Wheeler.

Francis nodded his head. "Well yes sir, I work at the bank with Jacky. Mr. Hoffman hired me."

The four coaches looked at each other and nodded.

"Alright kid, we'll see what you can do, I like what I saw. But remember, we'll have close to 45 guys up here battling for 20 spots, so nothing at all is promised. Plus we have some good looking rookies. But our first Spring Practice is tomorrow, you'll get your chance."

Francis nodded and shook each man's hand. Bounding up the steps and across the field, Francis couldn't believe it. He couldn't wait for the next day, for the chance to become a true ball player.

[Mattymo]

April 2, 1911

As the steady drizzle increased in intensity and the wind continued to swirl, all the players ran around the outside of the fence at Hanlon Point Park, working to increase their conditioning for the season. Francis, who had taken to running to and from work everyday, had little problem keeping up with the front of the pack.

After lap number two, Francis turned to his right and saw a familiar face running just ahead of him. He looked back to find Jacky, then slowed a bit.

"Hey Jacky," Francis said quietly, but loud enough to be heard, "That tall guy over there, his name Jon?"

Francis nodded his head toward the large, masculine specimen with the neatly trimmed beared and broad shoulders.

"Who? Him?" yelled Jacky, "Yeah. That's Jonathon Faubert, one of our top pitchers last year, won nine games."

"He play hockey for the Blueshirts too?" asked Francis.

"yeah, he's quite an athlete," replied Jacky, who was having a much more difficult time running than Francis was.

Francis whiped off the rain from his forehead and continued on through the weather. He thought of the night after the hockey game when he saw Jon kiss Helen and the heartbreak that followed. He had tried to escape the thoughts of Helen, but they all came rushing back.

[Mattymo]

April 9, 1911

As Francis walked back to the dugout, he was greeted by quite a few of the other players.

“Atta boy!” yelled, Joseph Turcotte, a 24 year old outfielder and one of the top hitters on the club.

“Wow kid, you really cranked that one!” exclaimed Francois Talbot, the speedy short stop.

After Francis shook hands with what seemed like 100 guys, he sat on the bench and looked out towards left field of Quebec’s Capital Field. Granted it was just an exhibition game, but Francis felt like he was walking on clouds. He just cranked a homer!!

He turned to Jacky, who had been sitting on the bench next to Francis. “Wow, that felt good!” he said, smiling wide, “your tips at the plate have really been helping. I’m not swinging so hard anymore and look what’s happening.”

“Yeah that’s great kid,” replied Jacky, without even looking at him, “Remember it’s just an exhibition game. That pitcher, Ernst, he’ll be lucky to make their club.”

“I-I know Jacky,” said an uncomfortable Francis, “I just, I’m just trying to make the team and I think I’m doing ok so far.”

“Yeah well, so am I, except I’m hardly getting a chance,” snapped Jacky, who had only gotten a handful of at bats in exhibition games, “Ever since they traded for Heath Fry, the coaches hardly look at me! And I’m the highest paid guy on this team!”

Just then Mr. Hoffman walked into the dugout, spotted Francis, and walked over.

“Not bad kid,” he said, dressed in a black suit, cigar hanging from his mouth, “You keep this up, we’ll have a spot for you on this club. And maybe a new job at the bank.”

Francis smiled and tipped his cap. “Th-thank you sir.”

Francis looked over at Jacky, who rolled his eyes, got up, and walked to the other end of the bench.

[hayesb26]

excellent start, ill be following along!!

[Mattymo]

April 16, 1911

Walking home from Hanlan’s Point Park on a mild Monday evening in Toronto, Francis was feeling good. The Maple Leafs had just had an exhibition game, this time with the Montreal Royals, and he had stolen two bases, to go along with a sharp single to right field. Not only had he been playing well, but Coach Wheeler had put him into the starting lineup.

Just then he heard someone call out his name. “Franky!! Hey Franky!!”

He turned to see Tom Fisher, whom Francis had met during tryouts, waving to him from across Yonge Street. Francis jogged across the street to where Tom was.

“Hey Franky, a bunch of the fellas are heading to P.J’s Pub for a drink,” said Tom, who hadn’t played much during the exhibition games, “Wanna come?”

Francis thought about it, after all he never drank. Then he nodded, “yeah why not.”

When they walked in, Francis was shocked at how many of the guys were there. There was Earnest Winchester and Edward Bisebois playing billiards, Joseph Turcotte was talking to the barkeep and Dave Gorman, one of the better looking guys on the team, was chatting up an attractive young woman. Then he saw Jacky, sitting at a table by himself with a pitcher of beer.

“Hey Jacky, all by yourself?” asked Francis as he sat down in the booth across from him.

“Yeah what’s it to ya?” replied an upset Jacky, who never looked up from his beer mug.

Just then Heath Fry, the new catcher who came over from Montreal during the off-season, walked in with one of the Montreal Royals’ players. Francis saw Jacky’s face turn red.

“This $*#&^% $ guy,” said Jacky, “Mr. Bigshot, takes over my job…who knows if I’ll even make this club!”

Jacky got up.

“And you,” he yelled, pointing his finger in Francis’ face, “I helped you out, and now you are walking around all high and mighty, even though I’m obviously struggling here. You’re Hoff’s best friend now, pretty soon you’ll be up on the bank floor while I’m still in the basement.”

Francis was speechless. He had no idea Jacky felt this way.

Just then, Jacky chugged his glass of beer, turned and charged towards Heath Fry.

“Jacky! No!” yelled Francis, but it was too late.

[Mattymo]

April 26, 1911

“Hey kid, have a seat,” said a smiling Mr. Hoffman, “I’d like to talk to you about some things.”

Francis nodded his head and obliged by sitting down. Mr. Hoffman put his feet up on his desk, took a puff of his cigar, then grabbed a base ball from his desk and tossed it up in the air.

“You having a good time, playing for the Maple Leafs?” asked Mr. Hoffman.

“Y-yes sir,” replied Francis, “As I told you before, I’ve always loved base ball. And the guys are great.”

Mr. Hoffman laughed.

“Good, because we want you to keep playing for us,” said Mr. Hoffman, still tossing the ball up in the air, “In fact, Coach Wheeler thinks you should be in the starting lineup next week when we open the season.”

Francis felt all this excitement building within him, but he stayed calm.

Mr. Hoffman nodded, “And I agree with him.” He then tossed the ball to Francis, who caught it.

“Now this doesn’t mean the work is over,” said Mr. Hoffman, getting up from his chair, “you have some talent, but there’s a lot of work to do. I think you could be the best player in this league. Therefore, everyday before the game, I want you at the park by 2:00 to work with Coach Morrison on hitting.”

“Sure, sir, no problem,” said Francis, “But what about work?”

“Well I wanted to talk to you about that as well,” answered Hoffman, “Have you been studying up on banking?”

Francis nodded.

Mr. Hoffman put some coins on the desk in front of Francis. “Take this and go by yourself a couple suits tonight,” he said, pointing at Francis, “Tomorrow you start working with the investment department.”

“Thank you sir!” Francis exclaimed as he stood up.

“You earned it kid, now get out of here,” Mr. Hoffman said as he left.

Francis nodded and began to leave, then stopped. “Sir, is Jacky going to make the club?” he asked.

“Well Frank, honestly, I heard about what happened in P.J.’s Pub, and I don’t think the guys would appreciate having Heath Fry around after what he did to Jacky,” replied Mr. Hoffman.

Francis nodded and looked down.

“I appreciated your honesty, Frank. We can’t have a new guy like Heath starting bar fights, it’s no good for morale. So Heath will start out in the lower league and we’ll see what he can do to earn his stripes.”

“Y-yes sir, well thank you Mr. Hoffman,” said Francis as he turned to walk out the door.

“No problem kid. Oh and call me Greg.”

[Mattymo]

May 3, 1911

Francis stepped out of the box and wiped his brow. It was the bottom of the sixth, with the Maple Leafs up 5-4 against the Quebec Chiefs, and Francis badly wanted to get on base to lead off the inning. However, the count was 2-2 and he hadn’t even taken the bat off his shoulder.

He looked out beyond the Hanlan Point Park’s fence to gather his thoughts.

Francis had struggled through the first two games, both Maple Leaf wins over the Montreal Royals, and he was currently hitless in eight at bats. However, he had felt comfortable and knew it was only a matter of time.

Just then he heard a familiar voice.

“Hey kid, relax up there.”

He turned to see Jacky, standing on the front step, tightening and loosening his hands. Francis smiled and nodded. Jacky hadn’t been quite friendly to him, to anyone really, since the bar fight, even though certain people lied in order to keep Jacky on the club. Perhaps he was ashamed.

As he settled into the box, he dug his cleats deep into the dirt, and stared out at the tall lefty reliever. The pitcher rocked back and fired a curve, low and away. Francis swung and hit a hard grounder in between first and second. The second basemen raced over and dove, but the ball was just out of his reach.

Francis clapped his hands as he touched first base.

“Thatta boy,” yelled Jacky from the dugout, clapping his hands, “There’s plenty more where that came from Franky!”