Comeback of the Home Run Kid (2 page)

“Checkmate! I win again!” Duane knocked over Sylvester's black king with his own white bishop and smiled triumphantly. Then
his smile faded.

“You could at least
look
like you cared that you just lost for the fifth time in a row!” Duane grumbled as he gathered up the chess pieces.

Sylvester blinked. The day's weather was perfect for baseball. But instead of throwing, catching, and batting, Syl was sitting
inside, his ankle elevated on an ottoman.

He blew out his breath in frustration. “Sorry, Duane,” he replied. “I guess I'm getting bored of these board games.”

“Oh.” Duane gave a small laugh. “For a moment there, I thought you were getting bored of me!” He finished putting the pieces
back in the box and closed the lid. “Say, you hear anything from Joyce?”

Joyce Dancer was Syl's other close friend. She was away for the summer, vacationing on Cape Cod with her family.

“I got an e-mail the other day. She sounds like she's having fun.”

“Did you tell her about your ankle?”

Syl shrugged. “What's to tell? I sprained it, and now I'm sitting around all day waiting for it to get better instead of playing
ball like I want to!”

In another room, the phone rang. Sylvester heard his mother answer it. A few minutes later, she came into the room carrying
a tray with a pitcher of lemonade, some glasses, and a bowl of popcorn on it.

As Mrs. Coddmyer served the lemonade, she said, “That was Coach Corbin on the phone. He was calling to let you know that you'll
be on his team, the Hooper Hawks. First practice is the day after tomorrow”

She smiled at Duane. “When he found out you were here, he told me to let you know you're a Hawk, too.”

“Yes!” Duane pumped his fist.

Sylvester sat back, his mind in a whirl. Stan Corbin was a great coach and Sylvester was psyched to have been chosen for his
Hawks. But he was also nervous. He'd been the best player on the team for two seasons, so the coach had to be expecting fantastic
things from him. But he hadn't picked up a bat, ball, or glove since the accident. What if he couldn't perform up to the coach's
expectations? And what would his ankle feel like when he finally did get back on the field?

Sylvester didn't want to disappoint Coach Corbin by playing poorly. But he was afraid that's just what was going to happen.

Just then, the phone rang again. Mrs. Coddmyer hurried to answer it.

Duane raised his lemonade glass. “To the
future baseball champs, the Hooper Hawks!” He clinked his glass against Sylvester's and took a big gulp.

Sylvester tried to match Duane's happy mood. But the lemonade tasted sour to him and he couldn't help but make a face.

“What's wrong?” Duane asked.

Sylvester gestured at his ankle. “Three guesses!”

Duane waved his concern away. “It'll be fine by the first practice!”

Sylvester shook his head. “Yeah, but even if it is, I haven't played ball for weeks —”

“It hasn't even been two!” Duane interrupted.

“So what if I'm no good when I finally can play again?”

Duane tossed some popcorn in his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “When are you supposed to start doing stuff again?”

“The doctor said tomorrow.”

Duane grinned broadly. “So we meet at the diamond for some pitch, hit, and catch tomorrow morning and test it. Deal?”

Duane's enthusiasm was infectious and Sylvester couldn't help but grin back. “Okay, you got a deal!” he said. He picked up
his lemonade and took a huge swallow. This time, the cold drink tasted sweet and delicious.

T
he next morning after breakfast, Sylvester put on his new ankle brace and called Duane to say he was ready to play.

“Awesome!” Duane replied. “I'll get my glove, bat, and ball and meet you at the field in twenty minutes, okay?”

“I'll bring my bat, too. See you there!”

Duane was already on the diamond when Syl arrived. “Bad news!” he called when he saw Sylvester. “I can only stay for half
an hour. I've got to go to the dentist.” He made a disgusted face. “Other kids get to be late to
school because of dentist appointments. But my mom has to schedule one during summer vacation! Sheesh!”

Sylvester was only a little disappointed, however. Even with the brace, his ankle felt a bit weak and wobbly after the walk
to the park. It was aching a little, too. He thought he might be ready to rest it after half an hour anyway.

“So what do you want to do first, pitch or hit?” Duane asked him.

“How about we warm up with a game of catch?” Syl countered.

“You got it!”

As Duane jogged farther into the field, Sylvester thought — not for the first time —how lucky he was to have such a good buddy.
Duane was an easygoing kid. He liked sports, but he wasn't super-competitive about them. He hardly ever got down on himself
when he was playing poorly, he didn't boast
when he made a great play, and he never yelled at anyone who flubbed up. He'd stuck by Syl through thick and thin the last
two baseball seasons, no matter how Syl had been performing. Syl hoped Duane knew how much that meant to him.

“Heads up!” Duane called. He lobbed the ball high into the clear blue sky.

When the ball came down, it landed with a satisfying
plop
in the pocket of Syl's glove. Syl palmed it, hollered “Incoming!,” and threw with all his might.

The ball zipped straight for Duane's outstretched glove. It struck hard enough for Syl to hear the
pop
it made against the leather.

“Yow!” Duane cried. He took his hand out of his glove and shook it. “Nothing wrong with your arm! That one stung!” He hurled
the ball back to Syl.

The two boys played catch for ten minutes. Then Duane suggested that he pitch
some to Syl. “But you have to promise not to clobber them. I don't feel like running all the way to the fence and back after
every hit!”

“For you,” Syl replied with a grin, “I'll keep it in the infield!” He picked up his bat and took a few easy practice swings.

Man
, he thought as he listened to the bat hum through the air,
it's good to hold one of these again!

He took up his stance. He was a righty, so he stood to the left of the plate with his left leg forward, the bat above his
right shoulder.

When Syl was ready, Duane fired a pitch toward the plate.

The moment he saw Duane let loose, Syl began his swing. He lifted his left foot a few inches off the ground and rotated his
upper body backward to move the bat farther behind him. Then he planted his left foot on the ground, twisted his hips and
shoulders toward the mound, and brought the bat
around. The whole motion was automatic and took only seconds.

Then, as the bat reached the spot where it would meet the ball, he straightened his front leg — and felt a sharp stab of pain
in his left ankle.

“Ow!” He whiffed the pitch, dropped the bat, and clutched his ankle.

Duane hurried over, looking anxious. “What happened?”

But Sylvester couldn't answer because his throat was suddenly tight with tears. Instead, he dipped his head, removed his brace,
and rubbed his ankle until the pain subsided.

“Guess I'm still not one hundred percent,” he said finally, his voice thick with dismay.

“So you're not ready to hit just yet,” Duane said. “You can still throw and catch, right?” He checked his watch. “I've got
about ten minutes before I'm supposed to be home. Want to toss it back and forth some more?”

But Sylvester no longer felt like playing catch. He stood up, using the bat like a crutch. “I dunno, Duane. I think I'll head
home, put ice on my ankle for a while.”

A shadow of disappointment crossed Duane's face. But he didn't protest. “Okay, Syl. Want me to come over after my dentist
appointment? We can play another board game or something.”

Syl just shrugged and looked away.

After a moment, Duane stuck his glove on the fat end of his bat. “Well, see you around, I guess.” He retrieved his baseball,
shouldered the bat, and walked off the field.

Syl watched him go. Then he swung his bat at a small stone. “Rats,” he murmured as the pebble bounced into the grass. He put
the brace back on, picked up his glove, and set off for home.

S
ylvester hadn't gone more than a block when he heard someone call his name.

“Syl! Sylvester Coddmyer the Third!”

He turned around and saw a big blond man in a baseball cap, sweatshirt, and sweat pants jogging toward him. Sylvester's eyes
widened when he saw the cap had a New York Yankees insignia above the brim.

“You're the guy who helped me after I hurt my ankle!” he cried in astonishment. “I thought I'd dreamed you up!”

The man laughed. “Better a dream than a
nightmare! How've you been, pal?” He took a step toward Syl.

As the man loomed closer, Syl had a sudden thought. Maybe he hadn't dreamed up this guy — but that didn't mean the man was
okay. He was a stranger.

“Um, I think I'd better be going, mister,” he said, edging away.

The man blinked. Then a look of understanding crossed his face. “Syl,” he said quietly. “I'm not going to hurt you. In fact,
I want to help you.”

Syl continued to back away. “Thanks anyway, but I don't need any help.”

The man took off his cap and scratched his head. “I understand your caution. Being wary of strangers is smart.” He put his
cap back on. “Tell you what. I'm going to head over to the baseball diamond. If you change your mind, you can find me there.”

He started to walk away. Then he turned
back. “By the way, the pain you're having in your ankle when you swing? I have an idea that might help.”

Syl's jaw dropped. “How did you know about that?”

The man shrugged. “Lucky guess.”

Sylvester watched him go. As he did, he thought about Mr. Baruth and Cheeko. Both of those men had been strangers, too. And
both had given him pointers that had improved his game. Sure, Cheeko's tips hadn't been on the up-and-up, but he wouldn't
have traded Mr. Baruth's advice for the world.

“I wish he were here right now,” Syl said out loud. “He'd know if it was okay to go with that guy or not.”

“With what guy?”

Syl whirled around and came face-to-face with a skinny kid with glasses.

“Snooky!” he cried. “Man, don't sneak up on me like that!”

It was Snooky Malone. Snooky was a nice enough kid, if a little weird. He believed in astrology and was interested in anything
to do with the paranormal. Ghosts, extrasensory perception, mythical beings — those were the things Snooky liked. He often
tracked Sylvester down to tell him the latest predictions he'd gleaned from reading Sylvester's star charts and horoscopes.
Syl had to admit that sometimes Snooky's predictions were pretty accurate. Snooky liked baseball, too, so Syl usually didn't
mind hanging out with him.

“Sorry, Syl. I thought you heard me come up,” Snooky said now. “Why are you standing here talking to yourself?”

Sylvester reddened. “I, uh, I was just thinking out loud. Listen, I gotta go. See ya, Snooky.”

“Wait! I have something to show you!” He pulled a piece of newspaper out of his pocket and cleared his throat.

Sylvester groaned. “Snooky, how many times do I have to tell you that I'm not interested in hearing my horoscope?”

Snooky looked offended. “I'm not here to tell you about that, although now that you mention it, today's reading did say something
about a comet entering your —”

Syl groaned again.

“Okay, okay.” Snooky grumbled. “Forget the horoscope. But you
might
want to hear this!” He adjusted his glasses, consulted the paper, and began to read.

“
Teams for this summer's fourteen-and-under baseball league were announced this week. There will be six squads in all, made
up of players from the nearby towns of Hooper, Lansing, Macon, and Broton. The teams will be called
—”

Snooky broke off. “Okay, that's not the interesting part. Hold on, hold on.” He scanned the article. “Wait, here it is!

“
This reporter spoke with the coach for the Hooper Hawks, Stan Corbin. Coach Corbin expressed his enthusiasm for the coming
season, adding, ‘I'm especially looking forward to seeing how the star of my last team, Sylvester Coddmyer the Third, will
perform this time around.’ Coddmyer, readers may remember, astounded baseball fans two years ago with
— hey, Syl! Where are you going?”

But Syl didn't answer. He'd stopped listening once he'd heard the quote from Coach Corbin. Now he was hurrying back to the
ballpark as fast as his sore ankle would take him, hoping that the big blond, man would still be there.

I
knew it, Syl thought anxiously. The coach is counting on me to be his number one player again this year! I've got to get
all the help I can
.

He spotted the man with the Yankees cap sitting on the bench beside the baseball diamond. Near him was a bucket filled with
baseballs.

Syl didn't approach him right away, however. Instead, he ducked behind a tree and looked around the park. In the distance
he saw a group of kids starting a game of kickball. In another section two girls were
tossing a Frisbee back and forth. The playground was swarming, with preschoolers busy climbing, swinging, and sliding while
their mothers watched over them and chatted with one another.

Seeing so many people around, including several adults, made Syl feel safe. He came out from behind the tree.

“Hey, mister?”

The man waved. “Syl! I take it you changed you mind?”

Sylvester joined him on the bench. “Yeah, but can I ask you something first?”

“Ask away.”

“Do you know Mr. George Baruth?”

The man looked surprised. “George Baruth? I've heard of him. But have I ever met him? No. And I can tell you right now, he's
never heard of me.” Then he smiled. “But I think we'd be friends if we ever did meet. We've got a lot in common.”

Syl thought about the man's answer. He knew he'd feel better if the blond man had said he was Mr. Baruth's friend. But he
guessed he had to appreciate the fact that he hadn't lied to him about it, the way Cheeko had.