Return of the Home Run Kid (8 page)

Duke snorted. “Well, I’ll tell you one thing, when we play those Redbirds on Tuesday, he ain’t even going to see that ball, because I’m pitching. So forget about home runs, Syl-ves-ter.” He drawled out the name just as his pal had.

“You know who’s going to hit that ball, don’t you?” Steve flexed his biceps. He was sure everyone knew he was leading the league with an average close to .425.

Sylvester wheeled around in his seat and started to retort. His blood was simmering by now, but Joyce looked even angrier. She grabbed her purse and shoved Snooky out of the booth. She faced Duke and Steve, her eyes flashing.

“If you guys think I’m going to sit here and listen to this all afternoon, guess again. I have better things to do with my Saturday!” she snapped at them. “And as for you, Sylvester, don’t bother to call me until you’re able to concentrate on something other than baseball, or ghosts, or planning your next cheap shot at another player, or whatever it is you’re so distracted by lately!”

She stalked out of the restaurant, ignoring Duke and Steves laughter. “Move, Snooky!” Sylvester shouted, pushing his friend out of the way.

“See you on Tuesday, Syl-vest-er!” Duke sang after him. “And be ready for a row of O’s on the score-board, under Hooper Redbirds!”

“We’ll just see about that,” Sylvester muttered. “We’ll just see.”

Outside, there was no sign of Joyce.

“Rats!” he snarled, kicking his sneaker against a rock. “A lot she cares about me. Well, too bad for her if she’s not interested. I’m not giving up baseball just for some girl.”

But somehow or other, he just didn’t feel so good as he slowly walked down the street in the direction of his home.

12

T
he game on Tuesday afternoon was played at the Macon Falcons’ athletic field. As the Hooper Red-birds rode there on a chartered bus, next Saturday night’s Chiefs game ran through Sylvester’s mind. He could almost imagine himself wearing a Chiefs uniform, playing under the lights on the bright green field.

The bus pulled in at three o’clock, in just enough time for the team to change into uniforms and practice before the game started at four.

As they left the locker room and ran out to the field, Sylvester saw Duke Farrell warming up with his catcher, Greg Jackson. A mocking grin came over the cocky pitcher’s face. Smile now, pal, Sylvester thought, because you’ll wear a different expression when I’m up at bat.

As soon as that thought occurred, he started to have misgivings. Suppose Duke does strike me out eveiy time I’m up? It could happen. The whole Falcon team, the whole park, everyone would laugh me off the field.

Especially Trent Sturgis. The Hooper team’s ace slugger this season hadn’t been hitting all that well lately and seemed to be nursing a grudge against Sylvester.

The Redbirds were up first. Jim Cowley, at the top of the batting order, fouled off two pitches, then let four balls go by to earn himself a walk. Hmm, maybe that smartmouth Farrell isn’t as hot as he pretends, Sylvester mused.

But then Ted Sobel went down in three, and Trent hit a weak grounder to short, almost resulting in a double play. Jim was out at second, but the combination of the slow bouncing ball and Trent’s speed put him safely at first.

Sylvester was up next. He let out a deep breath as he left the on-deck circle and walked to the plate, wondering what would happen. He was nervous, but he couldn’t let Duke see that. Stare ’im down, that’s what Cheeko would do.

Swish! The pitch streaked past Sylvesters stomach for a ball. If he hadn’t moved, he would have been hit. Maybe he should lean into an easy one and fake being hit, just as Cheeko had taught him. He shuddered at the thought.

“Ball two!” Again Duke zipped the ball inside the plate, forcing Sylvester to jump back several inches to avoid being hit.

He stepped out of the box, rubbed his gloved hands up and down the bat, took another deep breath, exhaled, then stepped back into the box. Sylvester fixed a hard, determined glare on the Falcons’ hurler as he wound up for his next pitch.

“Strike!” yelled the ump as the ball just grazed the inside of the plate.

It seems as though Duke saved his best stuff for me, Sylvester thought. No easy pickin’s here.

“Ball three!”

Again the ball came threateningly close, forcing Sylvester practically to fall back from the plate. Thinking again of Cheeko s lesson, he pondered letting one of them hit him. It would be a sure way of ending the tension.

He took off his batting helmet and wiped his brow, glancing into the stands. He was happy to see Cheeko at the near end of the first base line. But Cheeko wasn’t looking back at him. His eyes were fixed, almost a glassy stare, right at the mound.

Sweat made Sylvester’s vision a little blurry, but for one second, he thought he saw a sort of round, familiar face, frowning at him from high up in the stands. At a distance, it looked a little like … like Mr. Baruth. But then the man looked down and he couldn’t really tell. Sylvester shook his head and put his helmet back on.

Duke’s next pitch looked as though it was going to be high and inside, the toughest spot for Sylvester to hit. But it seemed to curve at the last second and slide right down the middle. He swung at it with all his might.

Crack! It was a solid blow. Sylvester knew the instant his bat connected with the ball that it was a goner. He’d felt that same sensation before and each time it was an over-the-fence wallop.

He watched the ball sail out to deep left field as he started to run, dropping his bat a third of the way down the base line. The Redbirds’ fans cheered and whistled. He felt like doffing his hat to them as he rounded the bases, but he knew better than to show off. Getting a home run and bringing in a man on base was enough.

Again he was greeted at the plate by his happy teammates. All, that is, except Trent, who mixed in with the gang at the plate — but didn’t even make a show of holding out his hand.

Stick it in your nose, Trent, Sylvester thought.

“Nice blast, Syl,” said his buddy Duane.

Sylvester shrugged. “Thanks, pal,” he said. “Now it’s your turn.”

But Duane, up next, popped out to first base. Three outs.

Hooper Redbirds 2, Macon Falcons 0.

By now, Sylvester was relaxed enough to check out the crowd as he ran off to his position in right field. There, of course, was Cheeko. He actually wasn’t too far from where the man who looked like Mr. Baruth had been sitting. Only that seat was now empty.

Apparently, neither his mother nor his father had made the game. Too busy with work. Oh, well, he couldn’t complain too much since they were all going to the Chief’s game this weekend.

But where was Joyce? He knew another busload of Hooper fans had followed the team. Maybe she had given up on him.

Ray Bottoms, the Falcons’ shortstop, led off and pounded Terry Barnes’s second pitch for a hard, shallow drive between Bobby and Sylvester for a double. This time the Falcons’ fans, who outnumbered the Redbirds’ fans about four to one, applauded.

Left fielder Kirk Anderson walloped a fastball down to short, which Trent scooped up and pegged to first for an out. But the next batter, Ernie Fantelli, came through with another double to score Ray.

“C’mon, Terry! C’mon, kid! Let’s get ’em outta there!” Sylvester chimed in with the rest of the team on the field.

The cleanup hitter was Steve Button, the other unwelcome visitor who had butted in on Sylvester and Joyce after the movies. He took two hefty swings at Terry’s fastball, then drove one a mile high toward the right center fence. No doubt about it — it was Sylvester s ball. He was after it, running sideways toward the fence, the second he saw it arcing in his direction.

As he neared the fence, he could tell that the ball would clear it only by inches unless he could leap high enough to make the grab.

It was almost impossible, but he tried. As he pushed off with all his might, he felt a rush underneath him, like a springboard shoved under his feet. He rose into the air and … plop! The ball smacked in the pocket of his glove and stuck there.

His feet landed back on earth and he quickly pegged the ball to second. Jim caught it and whipped it to third, but not in time to nab Ernie as he slid safely into the bag.

Again, there was a wild ovation from the Red-birds’ fans for Sylvester’s sensational catch. There was an ear-to-ear smile on Cheeko’s face as he clapped along with the crowd.

Sylvester felt incredibly good. That catch ought to take a little wind out of Button’s overblown ego, he thought.

Scuttling into position for the next batter, he shouted, “One more to go, Terry! Only one more!”

Robbie Axelrod, the Falcons’ short, well-built third baseman, connected with a low, inside pitch that struck the left field fence for a triple, scoring Ernie. And then Tom Stringer struck out.

Redbirds 2, Falcons 2.

“Okay, Bobby, break the tie,” shouted Coach Corbin. “Nail that ball!”

Bobby Kent, leading off at the top of the second inning for the Redbirds, did nail Dukes first pitch over second base for a single.

As Jerry Ash, the next batter, headed for the plate, Sylvester heard a familiar voice at a familiar spot — his elbow. “You did it again, Syl. You can do it every time you want to, can’t you?”

Snooky Malone was at his side again. His face was wreathed in a broad smile.

“Do what? Who cares? Oh, never mind!” Sylvester snapped before Snooky had a chance to answer. “Buzz off, will you? What are you doing here, anyway?”

Snookys cheerful expression faded. His face got all flushed. “Sorry, Syl,” he said, apologetically. “I didn’t mean to bother you. After all, I’m your friend, not your enemy.”

Without another word, he stepped out of the dugout, never looking back.

Sylvester sat there, fuming. The little creep, he thought, he really sounded sorry. Maybe he was. But I don’t have to sit there and take it eveiy time he needles me, do I? I can give it as well as take it. That’s what Cheeko would expect from me now.

Yeah, Cheeko had shown him a thing or two. And it was starting to pay off. He had to play tough … and be tough, no matter what. Well, that’s what he’d do from now on, even with the likes of Snooky Malone.

“What was all that about?” Duane asked, sliding into the vacant space next to his friend.

“Nothing. Just a lot of nothing,” Sylvester answered.

He fixed his attention at the plate in time to see Jerry Ash lay down a bunt, sending Bobby safely to second, but getting thrown out himself.

“Bring ’im home, Eddie!” Sylvester shouted as the Redbirds’ catcher stepped up to the plate, pulling on his batting gloves.

Eddie did, with a long triple to right center field. Then Terry fanned, and Jim singled, scoring Eddie. With the one man on, Ted popped up to third, ending the half inning.

Terry held the Falcons to a walk in the bottom of the inning, so no runs scored.

The Redbirds came up again with Trent leading off. His slump continued as he struck out.

Sylvester couldn’t help but grin as he passed Trent on his way to the batter’s box amidst loud cheers and applause from the stands.

With a cocky stance, he ground his feet into the dirt and took the first pitch — a called strike that seemed a little inside to him, almost a brush.

The next pitch did more than brush him. It hit him.

13

B
ase!” yelled the ump. Then; to Duke, “Watch it, Farrell. You’re putting some of ’em awfully close in there, mister. Another one like that, and you’re outta here!”

About time, thought Sylvester. Boy, that sure hurt. It never felt like that when he practiced with Cheeko, when they weren’t for real.

Sylvester rubbed the bruised spot where the ball had hit. His side throbbed, but he wasn’t about to let anyone know how much it hurt. After all, he had brought it on himself, by leaning into the pitch slightly. And you had to act tough, he remembered.

The next batter, Duane, cracked a single over shortstop, advancing Sylvester to second base. But neither of them got any farther. Bobby hit a line drive to the shortstop, and Jerry fanned. Three out.

As Sylvester ran to the dugout for his glove, Coach Corbin looked worried.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Sure, coach,” Sylvester replied. “I can hardly feel it any more.” But I won’t forget it, he added to himself.

Ray Bottoms led off for the Falcons and lined a three-one pitch directly to Trent for the first out. Kirk Anderson fared no better, popping the first pitch back to Terry.

“One more, Terry! One-two-three!” shouted Sylvester as Ernie Fantelli stepped up to the plate.

But Terry pitched four balls, none of which crossed the plate, and Ernie had a free ticket to first base.

With little happening in the outfield, Sylvester looked around the stands and caught Cheeko s eye. Leaning back in his seat, Cheeko made a little jab with his fist that looked like a cross between an okay sign and thumbs-up. Sylvester gave him a quick wave and turned back to the action on the field.

Cleanup slugger Steve Button had just stepped to the plate and all three outfielders edged themselves back a little. Steve was ready and walloped Terry’s first pitch out toward center field. It looked as if it was all Bobbys, an easy out. But just as the ball started its downward arc, Bobby tripped as though he’d stumbled into something.

It seemed miles away, but Sylvester had to try for it. From out of nowhere, he felt a rush of energy as he made his move. With lightning speed, he crossed into the center field zone, put out his glove, and grabbed the ball just inches from the turf.

There was a thunderous ovation as the Redbirds came off the field. Sylvester could hear his name being called in the midst of all the shouting.

Flopping down onto the bench, Bobby shook his head as he tried to explain what happened.

“Like, it was weird,” he said. “It felt like somone pulled the ground out from under my foot.”

“Maybe it was a ghost.” Ted Sobel offered this with a laugh.

Sylvester felt a little lump in his throat.