Comeback of the Home Run Kid (3 page)

“Anything else, Syl?”

“Um, just one other thing,” Sylvester replied. “What's your name?”

Now the man laughed. “How about you call me Charlie Comet?”

Syl blinked. “Charlie … Comet?”
Hadn't Snooky said his horoscope mentioned a comet? Weird!

“Way back when some people used to call me the Comet,” the man explained.

Sylvester wanted to ask why but didn't get the chance because Charlie tossed a ball from the bucket to him.

“We could stand here and talk about nicknames all day,” Charlie said. “But personally, I'd rather be playing ball. Wouldn't
you?”

Sylvester gestured toward his ankle. “You said you had an idea that might keep my ankle from hurting?”

Charlie brightened. “I thought you'd never ask!” He picked up a bat and crossed to home plate. “Throw me a few pitches, will
you?”

Sylvester put on his glove and walked to the mound. Charlie took up a right-handed stance. Sylvester hurled the ball with
as much speed and accuracy as he could muster.

The ball zipped toward the plate. Charlie swung.
Crack!
It was a hard grounder right back at the mound. Sylvester crouched and scooped up the ball with his glove.

“Good,” Charlie said. “Now send that pill my way again!”

Once more Syl threw. This time, Charlie connected down low and lofted the ball high into the sky. Sylvester took a few steps
back and got under it. But when the ball came
down, it bounced off the tip of his glove and fell behind him.

“Rats!” Sylvester said. He retrieved the ball and turned to face Charlie again. His eyes widened with surprise.

Charlie was in his batting stance. But this time, instead of hitting righty, he was in position to bat lefty!

S
ylvester hesitated, wondering if Charlie had made a mistake. But Charlie motioned for him to throw. So Syl did — and Charlie
walloped the ball far into the outfield.

“Wow! Great hit!” Syl yelled, twisting around to see where the ball landed.

Charlie grinned broadly. “Thank you kindly! Think you could do that, too?”

“I don't know,” Sylvester admitted. “I've hit plenty of homers, but —”

Charlie's laugh interrupted him. “I wasn't talking about the hit, Syl.” He carried the
bucket of balls to the pitcher's mound. “What I meant was, do you think you could bat lefty?”

Sylvester gaped. “Bat
lefty
?” he echoed. “But I'm right-handed!”

“So am I!” Charlie's eyes twinkled. “When I was a young boy, my dad taught me how to switch-hit. He practiced with me for
hours until hitting both righty and lefty felt natural.”

“But why would it matter?” Syl asked. “I mean, looks to me like you can hit really well from the right.”

“True. But a strong switch-hitter can be good for a team. Lefties hit better against right-handed pitchers, and vice versa.
If you're a switch-hitter, it doesn't matter who's on the mound, because you can hit a southpaw or a righty equally well.”

“I never thought about that,” Syl said.

“Well, my dad did,” Charlie said. “He
believed I had a talent for baseball and thought if I could switch-hit I'd go farther than if I just hit righty.”

“And did you?”

A ghost of a smile crossed Charlie's face. “I went far enough.” He held out the bat to Sylvester. “So want to give it a try?”

Sylvester didn't take the bat right away. “I don't know, Charlie. I'm already having problems batting righty. I doubt I'll
be any better from the other side.”

“Won't know until you give it a go,” Charlie quipped. “Come on. I've got a good feeling about this.”

So Syl took the bat, walked to the batter's box to the right of home plate, and got into a stance. It felt strange to hold
the bat above his left shoulder instead of his right and to turn the right side of his body toward the mound instead of his
left.

Charlie chose a ball from the bucket. “Ready?” he called.

Sylvester nodded.

“Then here comes one, nice and easy.” Charlie threw. The ball seemed to float toward home plate. Syl swung — and missed completely.

“Well, that stunk!” he grumbled.

Charlie laughed. “Hey, it's only your first try! Take some slow-motion practice swings to get the feel for it.”

Syl took up a lefty stance again and swung the bat as if to meet an incoming pitch. As he lifted his right foot off the ground
to step into the swing, he felt a slight twinge in his left ankle. But it was nothing compared to the pain he'd felt when
he'd batted against Duane earlier, so he ignored it.

After he'd swung half a dozen times, he picked up the ball he'd missed, planning to
throw it back to Charlie. But instead, he tossed it high above his head and tried to hit it.

Thock!
He sent the small white sphere bouncing through the grassy infield between first and second.

“I did it!” Sylvester cried in astonishment.

Charlie applauded by thumping his bare hand against his glove. “Well done! Now let's see you hit a pitch!” He grabbed a ball
from the bucket.

Syl returned to the right side of the batter's box.
I'm going to really clock that ball this time!
he thought gleefully.

But when the ball came, he whiffed. On the next pitch, he managed to connect but only for a little dribbler that stopped a
few feet from the plate. He missed the next three pitches, tapped a foul ball down the first baseline on the fourth, and then
lost track of the number of times he hit nothing but air. Soon the ground behind Sylvester was littered
with baseballs — and Sylvester's mood had gone from excited to disappointed to downright black.

“I can't do it,” he mumbled when Charlie approached with the empty bucket. “I might as well just give up now”

Charlie raised his eyebrows but didn't say anything. Instead, he began filling the bucket. Sylvester sighed and reached for
the nearest ball.

“Got a question for you,” Charlie said suddenly. “How's your ankle feel?”

Sylvester straightened. “It doesn't feel so bad!” he replied with dawning amazement. “A little sore, but …”

He sat down, took off the ankle brace, and rubbed at the dull ache. Then he looked up at Charlie. “Is it because I've been
batting lefty?”

Charlie nodded. “Think about the mechanics of the right-handed swing,” he said. He
hefted a bat and got into a righty stance. Moving in slow motion, he lifted his front foot —his left foot — a few inches and
moved the bat backward. Then he stepped down and swung, extending and straightening his front leg. The heel of his back foot
lifted as he pivoted up onto his toes.

But by that point, his left foot bore most of his weight. And as the bat traveled past the front of his body, the inside edge
of that foot lifted up. Just a fraction of an inch, but that was enough to roll the ankle outward. Charlie froze in that position
and glanced at Syl.

Syl stared at the foot. “The way your ankle is twisted is just how I hurt mine two weeks ago! That's why you want me to bat
lefty —so my injured ankle won't twist outward and get hurt again!”

S
ylvester was excited. His ankle wasn't going to keep him from playing summer baseball after all! All he had to do was learn
to bat lefty!

Thump!
The sound of a baseball landing in the bucket brought him back to reality. He looked at the balls in the dirt near the backstop.
His excitement faded once more.

All I have to do is learn to bat lefty!
he mocked himself.
Like I'll be able to do that in time for the start of the season!

Charlie picked up on Syl's change of mood instantly. “Sylvester,” he said. “You can't
expect to become a switch-hitter after just one practice. It's going to take some time and a lot of hard work on your part.”

Syl picked up a ball and tossed it from one hand to the other. “But what if I can't do it?”

Charlie gave him a warm smile. “I wouldn't be here if I didn't think you could. So if you're willing to give it your all,
I'm willing to give you my time.”

Slowly, Sylvester's good mood returned. “Okay,” he said. “I'm in.”

“Great!” Charlie replied. “Let's get back to work.”

For the next hour, Charlie pitched ball after ball to Sylvester. Each time Syl made contact, Charlie gave him the thumbs-up
sign. When Syl missed — which happened much more often — Charlie offered words of advice.

“Think about moving your hands toward your back shoulder when you bring the bat
back,” he called. “That will put the bat in the better position for a strong swing.”

“Use your whole body when you swing!” he yelled when Syl flailed at the ball. “Remember, rotating your shoulders and your
hips around gives you power!”

When Syl chopped at a pitch, Charlie came off the mound and grabbed his left arm. “You've got to loosen up,” he chided, waggling
the limb around like it was made of rubber. “If that arm is all shrugged up and tight, it's going to be useless.”

The sun was high overhead when Sylvester asked if they could call it quits. “My ankle's feeling a little sore,” he admitted.
His stomach gave a loud growl. “Guess I'm hungry, too.”

Charlie laughed. “Okay. But feel free to take home the baseballs. I won't be using them, but maybe you can.”

Syl headed toward shortstop to pick up a ball he'd managed to hit there. “I know it's
only my first day trying to hit lefty,” he said as he bent down. “But I think I'm starting to get the hang of it. What do
you think?”

There was no reply. He straightened.

“Charlie?”

But Charlie was gone.

Syl gripped the ball in his hand tightly.
Just like the day I hurt my ankle
, he thought.
One minute he's here, the next he's vanished into thin air. Just like a
—

“Well, well, well, look who's here!”

Sylvester whirled around. Striding toward him with a bat and a glove was his old enemy, Duke Farrell. The last time Syl saw
him, Duke was pitching for the Macon Falcons against the Hooper Redbirds. Sylvester crushed a three-run homer off of him that
game, something he was sure Duke hadn't forgotten — or, it was clear, forgiven. With Duke was another Falcon, Steve Button.

“What are you doing here, Syl-ves-ter
Codd-fish?” Duke snarled. “Playing a little game of one-on-
none
with your bucket of mangy old baseballs?”

Steve guffawed.

“Oh, go soak your heads!” Sylvester threw his ball into the bucket and reached for the bucket's handle.

Duke's foot lashed out and knocked the bucket over, spilling the balls into the grass. Steve laughed again. Duke didn't even
smile. He stared at Syl, his eyes narrowed with an unspoken challenge.

“I heard you like to take cheap shots at other players, Codd-
fish
.” Duke's voice was full of menace. “Heard it from a kid on my new team, the Grizzlies. His name is Russ Skelton. Maybe you
remember him.”

Sylvester froze. He remembered Russ Skelton, all right. Russ had played shortstop for the Lansing Wildcats last season. He'd
taunted Syl one game, saying Syl had only
gotten a hit because the pitcher had thrown him a “meatball.” The comment had made Syl angry. So, taking Cheeko's advice,
he'd delivered a hard jab to Russ's ribs as he'd rounded the bases.

Looking back, Syl knew that, like everything else Cheeko had taught him, the jab had been wrong. Thinking about it now made
his face turn beet red with shame.

“Yeah, Skelton was sore for days after that game,” Duke was saying. “And there's something else, too. A friend of mine videotaped
that game. When we watched it, we saw something very interesting.” Duke stuck his nose in Syl's face. “That great catch you
made? Didn't really happen! The video showed the ball touching the ground!”

Once again, Syl knew exactly what Duke was talking about. Toward the end of the game, he had hurled himself across the grass,
glove outstretched, to catch a fly ball. And
he had caught it — almost. In truth, the ball had wobbled out of his glove. But when the umpire had called it an out, Syl
hadn't corrected him.

Duke took a step closer to Syl, tapping the fat part of the bat in his hand. “I don't think that sort of dirty play should
go unpunished. What do you think, Codd-
fish
?”

H
eads up!” Out of nowhere, a baseball flew across the field and struck Duke square in the back.

“Ow!” Duke dropped his bat, clutched his back with both hands, and let out a string of angry words.

“Whoops, my bad!” a new voice said innocently.

It was Duane. Behind him were Jim Cowley, second baseman for the Redbirds, and Trent Sturgis, shortstop and powerhouse hitter
for the same team. Sylvester had had some problems with Trent early last season,
but the two had mended fences and become friends. Syl was very happy to see him — and Duane and Jim — now.

Duke and Steve were not. “I'll get you for that,” Duke growled at Duane. Then he wheeled around and gave Sylvester a long
stare. “And you better hope you're sick the day my Grizzlies play your stupid Hawks.”

With that last threat, he grabbed his bat and stalked away with Steve at his heels.

Sylvester blew out a long breath of relief. “Man, am I glad you all came along when you did!” he said to Trent, Jim, and Duane.

Trent waved his hand. “Aww, those guys are so full of hot air that when you poke 'em, they fly around backward!”

The other boys broke up laughing.

“What are you doing here anyway, Syl?” Duane asked. “I thought you were heading home.”

He looked from Syl to the pile of spilled
baseballs in the grass and back to Syl. His smile faded. “But I guess you found someone else to play with, huh?”

Sylvester was suddenly tongue-tied. Part of him wanted to tell Duane everything about the mysterious Charlie Comet. After
all, he'd told him about Cheeko and Mr. Baruth when he'd seen Duane's baseball cards.

But something stopped him now. Duane had never met Cheeko or Mr. Baruth. Maybe if he had, he would have understood Sylvester's
amazement over their resemblances to Cicotte and the Babe. Instead, Duane had shrugged them off as look-alikes. And he thought
Syl had dreamed up Charlie. If Syl said he'd just been playing baseball with him, Duane would think he was crazy!