Return of the Home Run Kid (10 page)

Sylvester shook his head. “No reason in particular,” he said. “Duane, uh, left it at my house the other night. It’s very valuable because Eddie Cicotte was a famous player.”

“He couldn’t be all that famous,” Snooky said. “Like I told you, I never heard of him.”

Sylvester took back the card and put it in his pocket.

“You know something, Snooky, there’s a lot of things you never heard of. So don’t expect answers for everything, okay?”

15

S
ylvester was late leaving the locker room for the start of the game with the Broton Tigers. In fact, it had just about cleared out when he saw Cheeko standing in the doorway.

“Hey, buddy” said Cheeko, with his usual grin. “All set for the big one, huh?”

A win over the Tigers would guarantee the Red-birds a shot at the league championship.

“Yeah, and I’d better get out there with the guys to warm up,” Sylvester replied. Too bad there wasn’t time right now to ask Cheeko any of the questions that had been running through his brain for days.

“Right,” agreed Cheeko. “Just don’t forget what I’ve been telling you. You can hit the ball and make the plays out in the field, even if it takes a little help now and then …”

“What do you mean?” asked Sylvester, almost afraid of what the answer might be.

“Never mind,” Cheeko continued. “Just do what I taught you and don’t be afraid to get tough. Don’t let anybody walk all over you. Play hard, even a little ’tricky,’ you know? Yeah, I know you do! I’ve seen everything you’ve done out there.” He chuckled. “Hey, you dropped your glove.”

Sylvester automatically bent down to pick up his glove. When he straightened up, Cheeko was gone.

His stomach fluttered around and around as he left the cool locker room for the warm field.

“Hey, you want to throw a few?” asked Bobby Kent as Sylvester walked by him. The last few games, Bobby had acted much friendlier. It was hard to believe that they used to be so mean to each other.

“Yeah, sure,” said Sylvester, glumly.

They threw the ball back and forth a few times near the first base line. Sylvesters throws were so soft that twice they barely reached Bobby.

“Hey, Syl,” Bobby called. “You okay?”

“Sure, sure, I’m fine.”

“You don’t act it,” Bobby said. “Don’t look it, either.”

“I’m all right,” Sylvester insisted.

Bobby pegged a stinger at him. It hit the tip of his glove and bounced into the seats next to first base. Sylvester went over to retrieve it from the fan who’d reached up and grabbed the ball with a practiced flair.

It was Mr. Baruth.

“Mr. Baruth!” he exclaimed. “Boy, am I glad to see you!”

“Hi, Sylvester,” said Mr. Baruth. “I’m glad I could make this game. Hope it isn’t too late.”

“Too late? For what?”

“To put into practice some of the things I taught you.”

“About my batting? And my fielding?”

“That’s part of it.” Mr. Baruth smiled.

Sylvester dropped his voice. “I guess you mean, like my attitude. Like what Cheeko taught me this year.”

“Cheeko may have given you some pointers that have helped improve your game, but he overlooked the most important piece of advice he could have given you. Be true to yourself, Sylvester. Play the best you can but play clean and honest. You don’t win any medals — or anything else — by playing dirty.”

“But Mr. Baruth, didn’t you, well, give me more than advice last year? Didn’t you give me some extra help? That’s playing dirty, too, isn’t it?” Sylvester felt awkward asking him straight out like this, but the thought had been nagging at him for a while, and he was glad he had finally said something.

Mr. Baruth looked straight into Sylvester’s questioning eyes and said calmly, “The only thing I did was help you realize your potential.”

“Hey, Sylvester! Game’s starting!” shouted Bobby. “Come on!”

Sylvester didn’t have time to digest Mr. Baruth’s words as he took the ball from him, tossed it toward the pitcher s mound, and trotted out to right field. Advice from Cheeko, advice from Mr. Bamth, advice from the coach, from his father, Snooky, everyone. There were almost too many words of advice to fit under his cap.

The Broton Tigers, looking sharp in their orange uniforms, were up first. Right-hander Rick Wilson, hurling for the Hooper Redbirds, had no trouble disposing of the initial two batters, Chuck Manning and “Oink” Santos.

Then Steve Cranshaw came up blasted a triple to deep center field.

“Get ’im outta there, Rick!” Sylvester shouted as Mike Hennesey, the cleanup hitter, stepped to the plate.

Mike was short, hefty, and batted left-handed. He fouled off the first pitch, took two balls, fouled off another, then took two more balls and walked.

“C’mon, Rick! You can do it!” Sylvester yelled, his voice mixing in with the other calls from his teammates.

Lennie Chang was the Tigers’ fifth batter. He took two strikes, then sent the third pitch a mile high into the stratosphere. He was crossing first base when the ball descended and landed in third baseman Duane Francis’s glove.

Three out.

“Okay! Cowley! Sobel! Sturgis!” scorekeeper Billy Haywood’s clarion voice rang out.

Cowley, Sobel, and Sturgis, however, did nothing to help the cause. Jim struck out, Ted fried out to left field, and Trent popped up to the pitcher, flinging his bat toward the dugout with angry disgust.

“Creep!” muttered Sylvester to himself. “Keep acting like that and you’ll never get a hit.”

He was surprised by his own thought. Trent acted tough, real mean, and it didn’t do him any good. How come it worked for me? Is it because I’m getting “outside help”? I wish I could just forget about all this crazy stuff and play ball!

He tossed aside the bat he’d been holding in the on-deck circle, took off his batting gloves and helmet, and ran out to his spot in right field. When the Redbirds came up again, he’d be the leadoff batter. But that was something to think about later, not now.

B. K. Abbot, wearing a stubble of a mustache above his lip that made him look older than the rest of his teammates, led off the top of the second inning for the Tigers and belted a single over second baseman Jim Cowley’s outstretched gloved hand. He missed it by just about an inch.

Gary Hutton walked, advancing B. K. to second, and Josh Nichols popped out to Duane. Jim Smith, up next, and batting left-handed, uncorked a shallow drive over first base that stayed in fair territory, then bounced out against the foul line beyond the first base bleachers.

Sylvester tore after it, scooped it up near the fence, and pegged it in to Jim Cowley.

But, by now, B. K. and Gary had scored, and Jim was safely on second base for a double.

From opposite sides of the first base seats, Sylvester could see two distinct faces, both smiling. Mr. Baruth was at one end and Cheeko at the other. It sure didn’t look like they were friends.

“Nice peg, Syl,” came Cheeko s voice. “Pace yourself, pal.”

Mr. Baruth just beamed and said nothing.

Chuck Manning was up again. This time he drove one of Ricks fastballs through the hole between shortstop and third, scoring Jim. “Oink” Santos bounced one to shortstop, and Chuck got tapped out on the first step of a possible double play. Only his slide, going into the base directly in Jim Cowley s path, prevented the second baseman from making the play to first.

Steve Cranshaw grounded out to short, and the half inning was over. But it was a big half inning, and Sylvester wondered whether it was going to be the one that made the difference when it was over.

“Coddmyer! Francis! Kent!” shouted Billy Haywood as the Redbirds came in to start the bottom half of the inning.

Sylvester put on his gloves and helmet, picked out his favorite bat, and swung it from one shoulder to the other as he headed for the plate.

“Okay, Sylvester!” Coach Corbin shouted from the third base coaching box. “Start it off! You know what to do, kid!”

Sylvester looked over at the coach and caught a glimpse of the fans in the seats behind him. There were two people shouting and waving who really stood out — his mother and father. Mr. Coddmyer was giving him the high sign while Mrs. Coddmyer put her fingers to her lips and blew him a big kiss. And there, a few seats behind them, was Joyce. So she was willing to give him another chance.

He felt great. It was so good seeing all of them.

Swish! “Strike!” yelled the ump as Jim Smith breezed the first pitch past him.

He’d been wondering whether Joyce had come to the game. He hadn’t really had a chance to check out the crowd until then.

“Strike two!” cried the ump.

Sylvester stepped out of the batting box, rubbed his gloved hands up and down the handle of the bat, and stepped in again. Two strikes, huh? Smith would probably waste the next one.

He didn’t. It was right down the middle.

Sylvester swung and froze as the pitch landed kerthunk in the catchers mitt.

The Redbirds’ fans groaned. The Tigers’ fans cheered.

“That’s okay, Syl,” said Duane as he passed by Sylvester on his way to the plate. “You’ll get another shot.”

But a strikeout? Sylvester kept his head bowed all the way to the dugout.

What was wrong with him? There was probably an easy answer if he could just concentrate. That was it! He hadn’t been concentrating. He’d let his mind wander and that was the only reason he struck out. He didn’t have to hit them all out of the park, but he did have to pay attention if he was going to get anywhere.

Now that’s a real lesson, he thought as he put his mind to what was happening at the plate.

Duane had let the first two pitches go by, then connected with a high one that he knocked to right center field for a double. Then Bobby Kent belted a line drive through the gap between first and second for a single, scoring Duane.

Jerry Ash and Eddie Exton could do nothing, and the inning was over. Broton Tigers 3, Hooper Red-birds 1.

Sylvester scooped up his glove and trotted out to right field. He tried to avoid Cheeko by not looking directly at him, but his glance swept in that area of the stands. There was Cheeko, standing next to Mr. Baruth. It looked as though they were arguing. At least, Cheeko seemed to be angry about something. Mr. Baruth just stood there, shaking his head.

As the fans got settled down for the next play, Sylvester set his mind to the action at the plate. Left-handed batter Mike Hennesey led off with a high fly to Jerry for the first out. Rick fanned Lennie Chang, walked B. K. Abbot with four straight pitches, then fanned Gaiy Hutton. Three out.

Rick himself led off the bottom of the third for the Redbirds, and Sylvester wondered if he’d have a chance to bat. He was fifth in the rotation. Considering the success Jim Smith was having on the mound, his chances were slim.

They became even slimmer as Rick bounced out to shortstop.

Then the top of the batting order was up again, and Jim Cowley started some action with a single over short. Ted Sobel lambasted one to left field that looked as if it might go over the fence. It didn’t, but it struck that barrier and bounced back. The Tigers’ Gary Hutton grabbed it and pegged it in. The throw held Jim on third and Ted on second with a double.

Well, there sure are men on base now. If they’re still on when I bat, what will I do? Sylvester felt a weak tremor inside him. Will I hit a home run? Or will I strike out again?

Trent waited out the count, walked, and now the bases were loaded.

Sylvester got up from his crouch in the on-deck circle.

Cheers exploded from the Redbirds’ fans as he stepped to the plate, pulled down on his helmet, and waited for Jim Smith to pitch to him.

Then, for a long moment, the crowd was silent, so silent Sylvester could hear the pounding of his heart.

16

H
e tried to concentrate. What difference did it make whether it was a strikeout or a home run, as long as he did the best he could? That rang a bell! That’s what his dad had said, and what Mr. Baruth had always told him. And Coach Corbin. Even Joyce said so. In fact, the only one who had never said that was Cheeko!

Jim Smith’s first three pitches were all curves, none of which went over the plate.

Then he blazed in a fastball. “Strike!” called the ump as Sylvester let it go by.

The next pitch was a fastball, too, but this one was grazing the outside corner when Sylvester’s bat connected with it. The sound was like a rifle shot, and the ball like a white bullet as it streaked out to deep left center field … and over the fence.

The crowd was on its feet as the applause echoed and reechoed throughout the park. Sylvester dropped his bat and ran down the first base line, removing his batting gloves and sticking them into his pocket as he did so. He shot a glance at the stands, eager to see the proud faces of Mr. Baruth and Cheeko. But they were nowhere in sight.

The Redbirds surrounded him at the plate, jumping up and down as they exchanged high fives with him and with each other.

“Told you,” Duane said, grinning.

Sylvester grinned back.

But that was it for the Redbirds that half inning. Neither Duane nor Bobby was able to continue the hitting streak.

Broton Tigers 3, Hooper Redbirds 5.

Josh Nichols led off for the Tigers in the top of the fourth. Short and squatty, he looked at Rick and waved the bat like a war club. Crack! A sharp hit over Jim Cowley s head for a single.

It was a good start. Jim Smith lashed out another single, advancing Josh all the way around to third. Then Chuck Manning came up and cleared the bases with a triple, tying up the score.

“Oh, no!” Sylvester moaned. Peering over at Chuck on third base, he could just see his grandslam home run going down the drain.

But none of the next three Tigers was able to do anything to bring the runner home. The inning ended with the score still tied, 5—5.

Sylvester trotted off the field, reached the dugout, and settled down. Again, there was a chance he might come up to bat. He couldn’t imagine what might happen, but he didn’t feel those strange flutterings in his stomach anymore. In fact, he was pretty sure he could handle tilings no matter what crossed the plate when it was his turn at bat. After all, he had come through last time — and without any “extra help.”