Return of the Home Run Kid (4 page)

“I’ll never be a pitcher, Cheeko,” Sylvester protested.

“No sweat, I just want you to look at what I do when the ball gets a little close,” said Cheeko.

And as Sylvester threw one ball after another toward the plate, Cheeko taught him how to lean in just enough to let the ball graze him — and then fall down as though he were in agony. He did it in such a way the ump would never be able to tell it was faked.

Sylvester wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to do that — it looked a bit dangerous — but it was another lesson. Besides, a little physical pain might be worth it, if it got Trent and the others off his case.

When it was over, Cheeko wiped off his forehead.

“So, I’ll see you again tomorrow night, right?”

Sylvester smiled. “Right.”

Suddenly a light bulb popped on in his head. “Oh, I can’t!” he said. “Tomorrow’s Friday, and we’re playing the Lansing Wildcats!”

“No problem.” Cheeko shrugged. “We can get together Saturday morning, say around nine. Okay?”

“Sure. Will you be at the game tomorrow?”

“Wild horses couldn’t keep me away,” Cheeko replied with a big smile.

“Great. Well, see you then. Or, you’ll see me!”

“You betcha,” Cheeko said, and they parted company.

Sylvester didn’t want to bump into Snooky Ma-lone again, even accidentally, so he took a different route home. Snooky seemed to have a knack for showing up at the oddest places at just the wrong time. In fact, it was surprising that he hadn’t been at the field this evening. Probably home gazing into a crystal ball… or watching
Star Trek
reruns. Yeah, he really freaked out on anything to do with the stars.

The next morning, Sylvester woke to discover a lazy drizzle falling. By noon he began to worry that it might be bad enough to postpone the game. With his gut feeling that he’d improved to the point where he could make a difference out there, the last thing he wanted to happen was a postponement.

But by mid-afternoon the sky had cleared, the sun had come out, and the stands filled up quickly with impatient Wildcat and Redbird fans. Sylvester could almost hear his heart singing “Take Me Out to the Ball Game,” even though his stomach was so fidgety he couldn’t even think about peanuts or Cracker Jack!

Chances were he’d probably sit out the first three or four innings on the bench. After all, he hadn’t started since that one day back when Coach Corbin had to use him because only eight players had shown up.

With these thoughts running through his head, he got through infield and batting practice quietly and quickly. Then the field was cleared and the game was ready to begin.

Glove on his lap, arms crisscrossed over his chest, Sylvester sat in the middle of the dugout so that he had a good view of both the first base and third base sides of the bleachers. With the small crowd out there, it wouldn’t be too difficult to spot Cheeko, he thought, unless his new pal had decided to sit somewhere directly behind him. No Cheeko came into view. That must be it.

The Lansing Wildcats, in their fresh, clean, white-trimmed green uniforms, were up at bat first.

As the Hooper Redbirds, in their bright red white-trimmed uniforms, took the field to a roar of cheers from their fans, a shadow appeared in front of Sylvester.

“Syl! Look sharp! Sorry, I forgot to tell you, kid, but I want you to start in right field today.”

Was he dreaming already? No, it was Coach Corbin, peering down at him.

Sylvester blinked as though he’d come out of a fog, then sprang out of the dugout as if he’d been shot from a gun. He ran about ten yards before he realized what a break this was. Turning around, he shouted back, “Thanks, Coach!”

Coach Corbin smiled. “Just do what you’ve been doing in practice,” he said calmly.

Sylvester ignored the sudden rush of butterflies to his stomach and took his position at right field — where Les Kendall usually played. He pounded his fist into the pocket of his glove and shouted to the pitcher, Rick Wilson. “Get ’im outta there, Rick, ol’ buddy! Make it one, two, three, guy!”

Mickey Evans, leading off for the Wildcats, watched two of right-hander Wilson’s pitches blaze by him for a ball and a strike before he cocked the third pitch to short right field.

It was high and hard to see where it would come down. Sylvester sprinted after it, groaning in dismay that the very first hit had come his way.

He reached the ball in time to extend his glove — and caught it to make the first out.

There was a resounding cheer from the Redbirds’ fans. It made him feel that he was back in the main-stream after wading in the shallows for so long. The cheers really raised his spirits.

Short, stalwart Georgie Talman stepped to the plate next. He took two balls and two strikes, then struck out. Two away.

Bongo Daley, the Wildcats’ burly right-handed pitcher, was also their cleanup hitter. He lived up to his nickname as he slammed a two-bagger to right center field between Bobby Kent and Sylvester. Bobby got to the ball first and pegged it to second base to keep Bongo from stretching his hit to a triple. He never even glanced at Sylvester as they both got ready for the next batter.

Sylvester tried to ignore him, too. As tall, skinny Ken Tilton came to bat, he yelled, “C ’mon, Rick! Get ’im outta there!”

Bobby, Ted Sobel in left field, and the entire in-field joined in shouting encouragement.

Their yells didn’t help. Ken singled, scoring Bongo. Then Leon Hollister, the Wildcats’ third baseman, connected with a triple, scoring Ken. Finally, Rod Piper grounded out to end the two-run half inning.

“Okay, guys, are we gonna let those Wildcats get away with two runs? Or are we gonna do somethin’ about it?” Coach Corbin shouted to his players.

“We’re gonna do somethin’ about it!” The answer came out loud and clear, as if from one powerful throat.

But the first two batters, Jim Cowley and Ted Sobel, hit pop flies for easy outs. Then Trent singled over first, and Sylvester, batting cleanup, approached the plate. His hands felt clammy, but he held the bat with confidence.

He stared down the pitcher and took the first pitch.

Crack! A high, long, cloud-piercing shot to deep left field! And over the fence for a home run!

The fans rose in their seats, cheered, whistled, and clapped wildly as Sylvester Coddmyer III trotted around the bases for the first time that season. He hadn’t felt so good since last year, and that seemed so long, long ago.

Just about the whole team met him at home plate. They exchanged high fives and slapped him on the back, shouting “Way to go!” and stuff like that. He noticed a few who didn’t come near him. Trent didn’t make a move. And Bobby wasn’t exactly jumping up and down, either.

Get used to it, guys, Sylvester thought. There’s more where that one came from.

He turned and looked into the stands above the dugout. The space where his parents usually sat was empty, but at the end of the first row of the bleachers toward the first base side, he saw who he was looking for.

Proudly, he waved to Cheeko, who whistled and waved back.

The Wildcats got another run in the top of the second, and another in the third, putting them in the lead 4–2.

Then, in the bottom of the third, with two out and nobody on, Sylvester came up to bat again.

He tapped the plate and thought, No sweat, as he listened to the cheering fans. A question flashed through his mind — Was one of those voices Joyce’s?

“Knock it out of the park, Sylvester!”

“Drive it into the next county, Syl!”

He didn’t. He never even touched the ball with his bat. After two called strikes that whistled by him, he swung at a third right down the middle and struck out.

6

H
ead bowed, eyes glued to the turf, Sylvester headed back to the dugout. He was so embarrassed he wished he could say a magic word and vanish.

He’d had three good, over-the-plate pitches. How could he have missed them all?

The Wildcats’ fans laughed and mocked him with phony applause. The Redbirds’ fans remained mute, as if they were stunned. How could their cleanup batter, who had hit a home run his first time up, swing at three pitches and miss every time?

None of the guys said a word to him as they picked up their gloves and headed out to the field. He avoided Trent’s eyes. He could just imagine the smile he’d see in them, and the smirk on Bobby’s face.

He grabbed his glove and trotted out to right field, passing the Redbirds’ first baseman, Jerry Ash, on the way. Jerry called, “Figure you were just lucky that first time, huh, Syl?”

Thanks a lot, thought Sylvester. What about my home run? I guess Jerry forgot that he struck out his first time up. Maybe that’s what I ought to do now, just forget it.

But he couldn’t. Sullen and ashamed, he sneaked a look into the stands at where he’d seen Cheeko. He wondered if his new pal had become disappointed, too, and left.

But Cheeko was still there, watching the Wildcats’ first batter, who was approaching the plate.

The batter, A. C. Compton, fanned after six pitches. Mickey Evans went down swinging, too, drawing applause from the Redbirds’ fans.

Then Georgie Talman, after fouling off four straight pitches, was given four straight balls, and walked.

Bongo Daley’s fans gave him a rousing cheer as he stepped into the batter’s box. It was plain that the tall, hefty blond pitcher was a favorite with the Wildcats’ fans.

Bongo missed Rick’s first pitch, but sliced the next one out between right and center fields. The slice took it on a curve directly toward Sylvester, who raced after it with lead weights pounding in his chest. It looked as though it might hit the ground before he got there, but he dove at it the very last second — and caught it as the back of his gloved hand touched the turf. Three out.

The Redbirds’ fans cheered him as he ran off the field, tossing that ball into his glove again and again. He shot a brief glance toward Cheeko and saw him applauding along with the crowd.

Sylvester felt great. So what if that catch didn’t make up for his strikeout? Hey, it kept another run from scoring, didn’t it?

He’d barely settled down in the dugout, this time at the far end, when he heard a voice at his side say, “Hi, Sylvester!”

It was Snooky Malone.

“What are you doing here, Snooky?” he asked. “You’re not on the team.”

“Coach Corbin doesn’t mind,” said Snooky. “I did his horoscope for him. He’s a Libra, nice and even tempered.”

“Good for him,” muttered Sylvester. I wonder what the sign is for a pest. That must be Snooky’s sign, he thought.

“I just can’t get over it, Syl,” Snooky whispered.

“Over what?” Sylvester asked, softly, as though Snooky was in on a big secret.

“The way you’re hitting. And the way you’re not. And that catch. You haven’t made a catch like that since last year, when you won that trophy, remember?”

“Look, Snooky.” Syl’s voice rose slightly. “I don’t know what’s with you these days, but lay off, huh? Don’t bug me anymore.”

Snooky frowned at him. “I know your sign, Sylvester. You’re a Gemini. Geminis are great at whatever they do, and you prove it. Except for one thing.”

“Oh, yeah? What?”

“What happened between last year and this year? You were hot and then you were cold and now you’re getting hot again. I can’t figure it,” Snooky replied, his eyebrows raised high above his big wire-rimmed glasses.

“I don’t know,” Sylvester snapped. “And I don’t care.”

He nudged Snooky with his elbow and almost knocked him over.

“Scram, will you, Snook?” he said. “You’re getting into my hair and I want to concentrate on the game.”

“And another thing,” Snooky said, ignoring him. “Who’d you wave at in the stands? Was it …”

“None of your business!” Sylvester growled. “Beat it, will you? Or do I have to throw you out?”

Heads and eyes swung around and stared down at his end of the bench. He felt his face turn bright red. Darn that Snooky for barging in and reminding him how terrible he’d played this year. Why couldn’t he keep his nose out of other people’s business?

“I’ll tell you one thing, Sylvester Coddmyer the Third,” said Snooky, getting up to go. “You’re heading for deep trouble.”

And then he was gone.

Sylvester settled back, trying to forget the pesky runt. Deep trouble? What did that mean? Maybe a star had fallen on Snooky’s pointed little head!

He turned his attention to the leadoff batter, Jerry Ash, who took a swing at a high pitch.

“Strike!” called the ump.

Five pitches later, Jerry walked, bringing up Bobby Kent. For the good of the team, Sylvester thought, I hope you get on base, Bobby.

Bobby waited out the pitches, then rapped a ground skimmer down to second. Mickey fielded it, touched second base, then pegged it to first for a quick double play.

“Oh, no!” the Redbirds’ fans groaned.

Sylvester was secretly ashamed that he didn’t feel as bad as he probably should have for Bobby. But he was still half thinking about Snooky as he watched his pal Duane Francis fly out to deep center to end the inning.

A Gemini, Snooky had called him. So what? What had being a Gemini done for him lately? Nothing. It’s what you do for yourself, he remembered Cheeko telling him. He had to take care of Number One.

That put a little pep into him as he picked up his glove and headed out to his field position. After all, he was still in the game. Coach Corbin hadn’t lost faith in him. Why shouldn’t he still make a few waves in this game?

7

K
en Tilton, the Wildcats’ powerhouse, was up. So far he’d rapped out a single and a double. With his eagle eye and strength, he could easily pull in a triple this time at bat.

Coach Corbin motioned the outfielders to move back, and they did. Obviously, the coach wasn’t taking any chances on Ken’s hitting.

Rick toed the rubber, then sent a blazing pitch just inside the plate, brushing Ken off. Ken jumped back to avoid being hit as the ump called “Ball!”

The next pitch was outside. The next was inside again, but not as close to Ken as the first. Three balls and no strikes.