Edge of the Story
True stories of overlooked witnesses at pivotal moments in history and the events they quietly observed.
Edge of the Story
The Seven, Part Five: The Conclusion
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This is the final episode of The Seven and 5 part audiobook.
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The Story Reaches Its Reckoning
SPEAKER_01Welcome back to the seven. In the previous part, the ballot campaign slipped beyond the control of the people who started it. Red Edwards stopped being only an observer and began to shape the outcome while Cincinnati's pride became a machine with its own momentum. Now, in the final section, the vote reaches its reckoning. Red and Barb must decide what comes next, and Cincinnati must live with the cost of wanting too much. Sit back and enjoy the conclusion of the seven.
Red Called Into The Front Office
SPEAKER_01Chapter 14. Bend a knee. The Red Legs offices squatted over Vine Street like a fourth floor fortress, radiators hissing like old men, and the chalky tang of newsprint clinging to the walls. If pride lived here, it lived quietly, in cracked linoleum and filing cabinets that had seen better decades. Respect, maybe. Hope? You checked that at the curb with the kid hawking papers. The elevator groaned its way up, releasing Red and Vincent into a stale hallway where a secretary waited, trained in the art of softening bad news. She held a file the way a cop held a badge. Mr Paul is expecting you, she said, her eyes sliding past Red and settling comfortably on Vincent. Third door on the right. No coffee, no pretense. She knocked once and opened the door with the clean authority of an umpire, ready to call you out. Gabe Paul sat behind a desk so tidy it dared you to disturb it. Sunlight cut across polished wood, and a single folder lay centered, unopened, authority by arrangement. Paul didn't stand. Vincent stepped forward first like it was his office. His suit cuffs were crisp, his smile professional, the faint scent of cologne sharp and confident. Gabe, Vincent said easily, thanks for making the time. Ed, mister Edwards. Paul's voice was even, the kind of courtesy that came with consequences. Have a seat. They did. Red felt every seam of the chair through the thin padding. There was comfort here for no one. I assume you both know why you're here, Paul said. Vincent leaned forward, elbows on knees, already in motion. We can guess, the all star business has grown legs, bigger than a column, bigger than anyone expected. Paul opened the folder and rotated it toward them. Newspaper clippings, headlines and fonts Red had only ever seen quoted, never printed beside his own name. Cincinnati's Fall Play All Star Farce. Commissioner rattled Midwest, losing its mind for baseball. They ran everywhere yesterday, Paul said. Six league offices, four owners, two sermons from people who don't usually preach. The names that keep coming up are ours The Reds, the Blade, he paused, and Red Edwards. Vincent lifted his hands slightly, a practice gesture. Let's be careful here. Red was channeling enthusiasm, a city's heart. You can't fault a writer for capturing a mood. Paul's eyes didn't move from him. I'm not here for mood, Ed. I'm here for numbers. He closed the folder. Half a million ballots in under thirty days. That's not enthusiasm. That's orchestration. Red tried to speak. I wrote about the team. I never told anyone to of course not, Vincent said smoothly, cutting him off. Red's never crossed an ethical line, but influence is tricky. When people listen to you, they act. Red turned his head slow. Paul nodded as if something had just been clarified. That's exactly the problem. Red knew then what Vinson was doing. He'd seen it before, another office, another city, another scandal that needed a shape people could point to. Back in New York, when Max Case's name went on the Pulitzer, Red had done the legwork, chased the leads, sat through the long nights while the story took form. Case had spoken for it. The institution had survived because the credit and the blame knew where to land. This was the same move, just cleaner. Once again, Red wasn't the architect or the beneficiary. He was the shape. The name that could be said aloud without risking the rest of the room. Paul folded his hands. Mr. Edwards, your columns didn't just describe the fervor, they legitimized it. You gave people permission. Vincent added gently, sometimes proximity clouds judgment. Writers get close, they forget they're meant to observe, not steer. Red felt the weight transfer. He wasn't accused of printing ballots or organizing bars. That would require proof. He was being charged with something more useful. Influence. Paul stood and walked to the window. Crosley Field lay quiet below, waiting for whatever history decided it would become. This organization cannot appear complicit, Paul said, and it cannot appear coordinated with the local press. He turned back. So this ends with one man, not a city, not a club. Red understood before the words came. Paul continued. You'll be reassigned, quietly. No all star coverage, no commentary, you'll step away from anything that touches the vote. You were a good writer, Paul said, his voice softening just enough to hurt. You told this city story better than most. He paused. You should have kept telling it instead of trying to write it. The meeting was over. Vincent stood first. Understood, Gabe. Thank you. Paul shook Vincent's hand. Red was last. Paul's grip lingered a second longer, not unkindly. This spares a lot of people, he said. Remember that. In the hallway the air felt colder. Red stopped. Ed, Vinson kept walking. You let him do that. Vinson adjusted his jacket. You were exposed, Red. I trusted you. Vincent finally turned. There was regret there, but not enough to matter. Editors don't get to be moral, we get to survive. He paused almost kindly. This protects the paper, and someday it might protect you. Vinson walked away, heels clicking with purpose, already receding into the machinery of the city. Red stood alone in the hallway, the building humming around him. He had never been afraid of losing, only of being necessary at exactly the wrong moment. The inning was over, he just hadn't left the field yet.
Barb Chooses The Way Out
SPEAKER_01Chapter fifteen The Getaway Red did not come home angry, he just came home. That surprised him most. He came home tired in a way that had nothing to do with his body. The kind of tired that follows clarity, not relief, not resignation, but the quiet exhaustion of realizing you no longer need to argue with a future that isn't yours. Barb was already there, shoes off, a cigarette burning untouched between her fingers. She didn't look up when he set his hat down. She didn't have to. Red sat across from her. They didn't say anything, just a brief, knowing silence. I don't think I want to stay long enough for them to decide how this ends, he said. Barb looked up at him then, not searching, not worried, assessing. Is that what this is? she asked. An ending? Red didn't answer right away. He'd been carrying the place with him for weeks now, maybe longer, since before Cincinnati, before the ballots, before the machine. It had been waiting, patient as heat. Barb, not an ending, a beginning, and I want you to come with me. She tapped Ash into the tray, thoughtful. Okay, she said. Where to? The Rio Grande Valley, he said. Texas. Barb didn't smile, she didn't laugh, she didn't ask him to explain. She took a moment instead, long enough that Red wondered briefly if he'd asked too much. Then she nodded. Yes, she said. The word landed clean, no hesitation. Red exhaled not realizing he'd been holding it. But Barb wasn't finished. Yes, she repeated, but New York first. He looked at her. New York, he asked. You don't leave a place like this by going backwards, she said. You go where the noise is loud enough to drown out the echo. Red considered that. New York meant crowds, editors, competition, no hometown favors, no civic mythology to hide behind. It meant being just another writer again, if he could be one at all. What about Texas? he asked. That's where we land, Barb said. New York is where you remember who you were before anyone needed you to be something else. Red studied her, understanding forming and pieces. You're not asking, he said. No, she agreed. I'm choosing. He smiled at that, not because he'd been overruled, but because he hadn't. Okay, he said. New York. The overnight leaves at seven PM from Union Station. You ready? Barb crushed out the cigarette. I can be. My bags are already packed at home. I'll meet you in two hours at N bar so I can pick up a few things I have there. Somehow Red wasn't surprised she had already anticipated their future. Good, he said. Then we're agreed. We the word mattered. They packed lightly. Near five PM Red and Barb met Norm at the N bar one last time. Norm was alone behind the counter, radio low, cash drawer open but unattended. You heading somewhere? Norm asked. Yes, Red said. We are. Norm nodded, didn't ask where. That's probably right, he said. They stood there in the quiet, the bar not yet belonging to the day or the night. Take care of it, Red said. Norm snorted. It'll outlive the three of us. Red didn't order a drink, neither did Norm. Red said, Tell Pete to run hard and to always tell the truth. As they shook hands one last time, that was enough. By early evening the train was moving east.
Last Stop At The N Bar
SPEAKER_01Barb sat by the window watching Cincinnati slide away in layers, brick, river, industry, memory. Red sat beside her, hands folded, the Saint Christopher metal warm against his chest. You all right? she asked. Yes, he said, after a moment. I think I am. She leaned her head on his shoulder, satisfied. New York waited, not as forgiveness, not as redemption, just a place where no one knew what Ron Edwards was supposed to be. And for the first time since the machine started humming, that felt like freedom they'd chosen together.
Gabe Paul Faces The Reporters
SPEAKER_01Chapter sixteen The Front Office They held the press conference in the executive suite at Crosley Field, the kind of paneled office where the air always tasted faintly of cigar smoke and coffee gone cold. It was Wednesday afternoon, three days after the All Star ballot deadline, and the only thing thicker than the tension was the humidity pressing in from the streetcar wires. Gabe Paul stood stiff at the borrowed university club lectern. Behind him a pair of team photographers lounged like they owned the West Wall. Seventeen reporters, ink stained, hungry, half of them regulars, fanned out in metal folding chairs, their pads open, pencils drumming and nervous syncopation. Paul's gray suit was the shade of storm clouds over the Ohio River, and his remarks were crisp, methodical, practiced. Not a hint of nerves in the delivery, at least not that he'd let the pack see. The Cincinnati Red Legs organization wishes to address recent commentary regarding this year's All Star voting process. As you know, the ballot totals released by Commissioner Frick's office show an unprecedented surge from our city, a true reflection of the passion Cincinnati has for her baseball. He looked up, eyes flinty, almost daring anyone to question the word passion. But we're not deaf, he added, to accusations out there that this passion has been excessive or, depending on who you read, evidence of improper encouragement. A flicker in the room, a crease in a notebook. This was the dance now, the careful sidestep over a live wire. We've heard our city called overzealous by national writers, Paul said. We've seen our efforts dismissed as the work of Rubes being gained by a coordinated scheme. There was a line in the Chicago Tribune, a nauseating shill for hometown mediocrity. Can you imagine? No one laughed. Some reporters shifted in their seats. One coughed. Let me be absolutely clear, Paul said, slow and clean. This ball club did not coordinate, bankroll, or encourage any citywide ballot stuffing. As always, we made ballots available to our fans at the yard and encouraged them to be a part of the process. If Cincinnati voted in numbers nobody's seen before, that's not a conspiracy. That's pride. That's love of this game and this team, he thumbed a page. But I don't shy from a hard truth. Even the appearance of impropriety can taint something worth celebrating, maybe more than actual impropriety, because it leaves a stink that hangs in the air for years. We know our city took heat, maybe unfairly, maybe not. We know this should have been a moment to savor our season, not defend it. Paul laid his script on the lectern, steady but not relaxed. That's why moving forward, this front office is going to review everything tied to the All Star campaign, every partnership, every handshake with the local press. Our commitment is to integrity first, always. You can put that in print. He folded the paper slow, as if giving time for the words to settle. Questions? he said. Front row, hand straight up. Gabe, are you implying the blade stepped out of bounds? I'm saying every partnership is under review. Will they still sponsor the radio? That's being looked at. Back row. What about writers? Was anyone told to cross a line? Paul's jaw barely twitched. We don't comment on the paychecks or assignments of folks outside this office. But you're aware Paul didn't flinch. I've made my statement. Next. And so it went for twelve dragging minutes, questions turned aside, no names named, not the blade, not Red Edwards, not anyone. The sentences he didn't say probably told the story better than the ones he did. When it was over, the press cleared out fast, feet squeaking harshly on the linoleum. Paul stood for a minute at the lectern with his hands folded over the empty pages, staring at some middle distance. Then he slipped the notes in his jacket pocket and spine straight walked out through the hush that lingered behind him. The next day the inquirer splashed it on page one under the fold. Red legs exec addresses All Star Flap Paul Passion, not conspiracy behind vote totals. The blade let it run on page three. No mention in either paper of Red Edwards, not a line with his name, not a whisper of his place at the center of it all.
Ford Frick Rewrites The Rules
SPEAKER_01Chapter sixteen The Commissioner Ford Frick had been baseball's commissioner for three years. When the trouble from Cincinnati landed squarely on his desk, he'd been a newspaper man first and a league man after, long enough to know the seams of the game where the real work got done and where the stories were spun. Romance, rot, optimism, and pettiness, all of it dressed up and called tradition. Frick had seen how the engine ran and he wasn't surprised the wheels had slipped. If anything stunned him, it was that the voting scandal hadn't happened sooner. Give people the chance, and they'll find a way to push their favorites. Frick always figured the trick was to fix the bridge before the river washed it out for good. On july third, he made a move. The office typed up his statement with the language of a man who expected to be heard, stern, but not angry, setting things right, not burning it down. The All Star Game stands as a celebration of merit. It belongs to the fans, whose passion and votes decide which players represent each league. This isn't a privilege we grant, it's a right they've earned with their loyalty to the game. This year, that right was stretched thin, not by malice, but by what you'd call organized enthusiasm. Cincinnati showed us a system that couldn't handle its own excitement. This wasn't fraud, just civic pride ploughing through every crack in the pavement. And so the results got skewed. Seven reds on the ballot isn't the game's intention. Some of them belong, some plainly do not. The ballot returned numbers, not justice. That cannot stand. Names weren't named. Nobody was called out and lined up for a public stoning. Frick saw the flaw for what it was, systemic, maybe inevitable, and chose to keep dignity at the helm. Fixing it for him was simple enough. He announced that for the nineteen fifty seven All Star game, he'd be making the final call on the starting lineups himself. The ballots would serve as a guide, not a verdict. The real All Stars would start. The rest would step aside. Next came the reforms. Tightened ballot controls for fifty eight, ballot limits in every park. No more wildcat distribution, everything counted, everything checked. The league would mine the house, not leave it to club stewards and printing press operators. The machine would run tighter, cleaner, the illusion, the faith in the process, would carry on. The All Star game means excellence, Frick ended. And it'll stay that way under my watch. In the days that followed, a reporter from the sporting news cornered him for a follow up. Will Cincinnati be punished for this? Frick hardly looked up. For what? Printing ballots, getting folks excited? The Reds broke no rule. They showed us the gap in the fence, it's on us to patch it. But don't you think what I think is if your rules let the parade get taken over, you change the rules. End a story. When questions about players, managers, and suspicious enthusiasm came up, Frick parried them with a veteran smoothness. The institution matters, he said. Players change, managers move on, but baseball stays. You protect the game. The rest shakes out in the end. Frick understood the real impact, though. Red Edwards, his name never uttered in a press release, not even a shadow on the official record, was finished. Not with ceremony, but with a shrug. The league wouldn't crucify him. It would just forget him and let his world shrink and move on. Gabe Paul and the Cincinnati front office weathered the storm with hands held up, innocent as choir boys. Who could have seen this coming? The players, they'd survive too. A handful would be marked as true all stars, the rest would fade quietly back into the everyday. The city moved on. Baseball always found its balance. By july eighth, the headline writers went looking elsewhere for scandal. The All Star lineups were announced, five reds still standing, Frank Robinson, Ed Bailey, Johnny Temple, Roy McMillan, Don Hoke. They'd earned their spots. The others, Wally Post, Gus Bell, George Crow, were parked for the likes of Mays, Aaron, Museal. The league's quiet course correction delivered with a handshake and a lopsided smile. The game played out in St. Louis close and wild, the National League taking it six to five thanks to a Mays home run. The crowd cheered, the broadcasters filled the air with spectacle, and Cincinnati's fevered campaign was already receding. Less a headline now than a story traded in bars, a lesson in getting caught when you want it too much. Frick shut his office door, shuffled the file forward, and moved to the next fire on his desk. Baseball keeps going. It endures, even as the names and numbers blur along the fence posts of memory. The machine hums on, no matter who thought they could tip the scale for good.
Texas Years Later And The Medal
SPEAKER_00Chapter seventeen One for You, one for me.
SPEAKER_01Rio Gran Valley, Texas, late nineteen nineties. The old ceiling fan above clicked with every slow turn, one blade just a little out of balance, giving a faint thunk that had become as much a part of the house as the scuffed floorboards and faded wallpaper. Ron heard it more than he saw it these days. For years he'd meant to fix that fan. Forty summers came and went, and everyone he swore he'd drag out the ladder and oil it. But life had a way of speeding up when you were headed somewhere and slowing to a crawl once you finally arrived. Barb sat by the window in her favorite chair, hands moving steady through a basket in her lap, always keeping busy. It looked like mending, or maybe just a way to let her fingers keep rhythm with the heartbeats of the house. The light cut through the curtain, warm and heavy, amber, dust mites floating like confetti when the world throws you a parade for simply keeping on. The air was all coffee and clean linen, a comfort Ron never took for granted. Somewhere down the hallway a door clicked, then muffled steps. Voices just soft enough you caught tone but not the words. Their daughter's voice, sharp, practical, that don't mess around edge she got from Barb. Ron let it all wash over him. He was tired, but it was the kind of tired that felt like you'd made it to your street after a long drive, not frantic, not lost, just home. A little later their daughter came in. Tall, strong, the kind of beautiful that's earned. She hugged Ron, brushed his forehead with a kiss, then crossed to stay by her mom's side. Ron watched them, nostalgia sneaking in. There were moments watching those two that it felt like a film reel playing in reverse, Barb and her daughter mirroring each other, same set to their jaw, same flash of a smile. His girls, where the years went, he didn't know. Then Alex drifted in, that familiar hesitation in the doorway. Boy was ten or eleven, built solid, skinned sunburned from a full day outdoors. He had Barb's eyes that blue that said both kindness and mischief, or maybe he had them from Red's mother. Memory had a habit of blurring things together, especially now. Barb crooked her finger and Alex came forward, careful, respectful in that way some kids are when the house feels quieter than usual. He perched on the chair near Ron's bed, hands folded. Ron caught Barb's look. They'd been together so long plenty could be said without words anymore. Would you get the medal? Ron asked. Barb nodded without a word, crossed to the dresser, and pulled open the top drawer. Out came the Saint Christopher Medal, the edges dulled from years in a pocket or around a neck, tucked alongside old handkerchiefs in a battered leather wallet. She pressed it into Alex's palm, closing his fingers over it, holding on just a beat longer. Alex turned it over, studying it, then looked up. Can I ask you something? he said, voice clear as a bell in a church full of whispering. Ron nodded, meeting his eyes. Was your life good? Ron stared right back at that boy, didn't try to make it easy, didn't look away. The question didn't come with strings, just a kid wanting to know how a man weighs the sum of his own days. Ron let the silence stretch, wanting to answer the real question, not just the polite one. It was exceptional, he said, in the way people are when they want to matter. Ron closed his eyes. That concludes the seven.
Where To Find The Book
SPEAKER_01Thank you for listening to this audiobook. The book can be found at Daryl Bestbooks.com. That's Daryl Bestbooks.com. This episode of the Seven was produced high atop Chalk Mountain. If the gate is open, come on in and we will chat a while. Listen weekly on Tuesday for Edge of the Story, available where all good podcasts are found. Thank you for listening.