Return of the Home Run Kid (3 page)

“By the way, why does Cheeko think you need help?” asked Mr. Coddmyer, dropping a pile of salad greens on his plate. “Has he seen you play?”

“I suppose so,” said Sylvester. “I’ve never noticed him at a game, though.”

“Gets more and more mysterious, our friend with the C on his cap,” Mr. Coddmyer said with a frown. “I think…”

His thought was interrupted by the sound of his beeper. He shook his head as he went to dial the phone. Sylvester and his mother couldn’t help overhearing him; the tone alone told them he wouldn’t be finishing his meal, never mind going to watch his son practice.

“It’s our biggest customer,” he announced, hanging up the phone. “There’s a major glitch in the system. I have to get over there right away.”

“Can I still go practice with Cheeko, please?” Sylvester pleaded with both parents.

They glanced at each other in consultation.

“Well, all right,” said his mother. “But only till it starts to get dark. Then you get right home, you hear?”

By the time she had finished saying that, Sylvester had picked up his glove and bat and was halfway out the door.

4

S
ylvester was so eager to get to the field, he started to run the minute he reached the street. But after running nearly a block at a fast clip, he realized he might get tired and not perform as well as he should. So he slowed down to a brisk walk.

When he got to the field, Cheeko was already there, juggling three baseballs like someone in a carnival. There were three more balls on the ground next to him.

“Hi, Mr. Cheeko!” Sylvester greeted him.

Cheeko stopped juggling the balls and looked over at him. “Hi, yourself, kid,” he said. “Hey, no mister stuff. It’s just Cheeko.”

“Okay,” Sylvester smiled. “But…”

“No buts,” said Cheeko. “You all set to hustle?”

“All set.” Sylvester nodded.

“Good. First we’ll work on your fielding. Take a hike out to center.”

Sylvester dropped his bat and ran deep into the outfield, his heart light as a feather. Boy, am I lucky, he thought, to be chosen by an expert — Cheeko sure sounded like an expert — to get help in fielding and batting. He wished his folks could be here to see how professional Cheeko acted, too.

There was another thing running through his mind, too, maybe just as important: if he got better at bat, he might be able to give the wise guys on the team a little competition. Especially that smart-mouth, Trent Sturgis, who looked down on everyone as if he were king of the Redbirds. Nothing would make Sylvester happier, he thought, than to start outhitting that swellheaded punk.

“Here we go!” Cheeko shouted, and knocked an easy fly ball out to him. Nevertheless, Syl got under it at the wrong time and the ball hit the heel of his glove and dropped to the green turf.

In a split second, his feeling of joy changed to disappointment and embarrassment. He knew it should have been an easy catch, yet he’d flubbed it like a rookie.

“Never mind that one, Syl!” Cheeko called out to him. “Spilled milk. Get the next one. Keep your eye on the ball.”

Cheeko hit the next one slightly lower than the first, forcing Sylvester to run in about eight or nine steps. This time he got both his bare hand and his glove on the ball, even though it struck just below the pocket. He was determined to hang on to it — and he did.

Little by little, Cheeko started hitting them higher, and to the left or the right, making each catch more difficult. In the beginning of this shift, Sylvester missed a few. But Cheeko kept up his stream of encouraging comments — “Don’t worry about the other guys. If it’s anywhere near you, go for it. Let ’em eat your dust. Hustle! Show ’em you’re in charge out there. Step on ’em before they step on you.”

He began to get the hang of it, and, after each catch, he gave himself a little mental pat on the back.

I’m getting better already, he told himself after about forty-five minutes of practice. I know I am.

“Okay, Syl,” Cheeko called out to him a few minutes later. “That’s enough of that for now.”

His face glistening with sweat, Sylvester trotted in, smiling proudly. “How’d I do?” he asked.

Of course, he had his own opinion, but he wanted to know what Cheeko thought of his efforts.

“Good,” said Cheeko. “Not perfect, but good. After all,” he added, “you don’t expect to be perfect right off, do you?”

“Sure can try.” Sylvester laughed.

Cheeko laughed, too. “Right,” he said seriously. “Grab your bat and get over there in front of the backstop screen.” Then, turning to face the stands, he yelled, “Ladies and gentlemen, on the mound for the home team — the one and only —” he paused and he seemed to drift far away for an instant — “Cheeko! Batting leadoff for the opposition — Sylvester Coddmyer the third!”

Chuckling, he trotted out to the pitcher’s mound. Cheeko didn’t have a glove, but he wouldn’t need one just to pitch.

As he trotted toward the batter’s box, Syl felt Cheeko eyeing him. The would-be slugger tried to relax. Cheeko stretched, and delivered. Sylvester noticed that Cheeko was left-handed. The ball breezed in chest high. Sylvester swung at it as hard as he could. He missed it by a mile.

“Hey, hey, slow it down!” Cheeko called. He came off the mound toward Sylvester. “Don’t be so anxious. Let’s take one step back for a moment. First off, don’t advertise to the pitcher that you’re nervous. Give him the eye as you approach the batter’s box; make him think you got him all figured out so nothing he throws at you will come as a surprise. Like this.”

Cheeko took a few steps back, shouldered the bat, and stared at the pitcher’s mound. His eyes never left that spot as he swaggered toward home plate and tapped the dirt from his sneakers. Boy, thought Syl, shivering, I sure wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of that stare.

Cheeko turned and handed him the bat with his usual wide smile. “Now you try it, Syl. Wait for me to get on the mound.” He ran back to position and yelled, “Look real mean, but don’t lose control. Keep your eye on the ball, but don’t attack it. Okay, let’s see your stuff!”

Syl shouldered the bat as Cheeko had done and fixed his gaze on the left-handed pitcher. He pictured Trent and Bobby watching him and narrowed his eyes just a bit more. Cheeko tossed in another pitch, this one almost in the same spot as the first. Sylvester remembered his advice as he swung at it.

Crack! Bat met ball and sent it soaring to center field. It was one of the longest drives he’d hit since those over-the-fence homers he’d racked up last year. The throbbing in his chest returned.

Sturgis, get ready to eat dust! he wanted to shout.

“There you go,” said Cheeko, nodding. “Caught on already. I knew you had it in you.”

Sylvester smiled. Maybe that was my problem, he thought. I’ve been too anxious, wanting to kill the ball instead of just meeting it — and any pitcher could see that with no trouble at all.

He missed some of Cheeko s pitches but managed to connect with most of them. Some were grounders, some were fly balls to the outfield, and some even soared over the fence.

“Whew! All right, Sylvester,” said Cheeko after two straight pitches ended up over the left field fence. “We’d better quit before we run out of baseballs. Not only that, but I’m getting winded.”

“Can we get together again, Cheeko?” Sylvester asked hopefully.

“Of course. You don’t expect to have it all after just one session, do you?”

“No, I don’t.”

“How about tomorrow, then? Same time, same place?”

“Sure if… if you don’t mind.”

“Mind?” said Cheeko, wiping his face with a bright red handkerchief. “Why should I mind?”

“Well,” Sylvester hesitated owning up to what was troubling him. “I mean, I don’t want to take up a lot of your time. I mean, there’s lots of kids who could use help, so …”

“Sew buttons.” Cheeko laughed. “Ever hear that one? Hey, listen, I pick who I want to help and that’s that. As long as you listen to what I say, we’ll get somewhere. There’s more than one way to win a ball game.”

“What do you mean?” asked Sylvester.

“You’ll find out,” said Cheeko. “There’s still plenty to learn. Little shortcuts you won’t find in books, believe me. So just show up tomorrow and we’ll go at it again. Okay, pal?” He gave Sylvester a gentle poke in the ribs.

Sylvester grinned and threw out his hand for a high five. “Okay!”

Cheeko tilted his cap and headed off down the road in the opposite direction.

Sylvester wondered where he lived. There were no cars in the parking lot. Maybe he was staying at some motel within walking distance.

It was just starting to get dark as Sylvester picked up his bat and glove and started on his way. He couldn’t help thinking about the future, when his practice sessions would, he hoped, pay off during some real games. Wouldn’t it be dynamite if he could start getting home runs like last year? Super-dynamite! That would be better than getting a 100 on every test — history, spelling, and arithmetic included!

He was just about to cross an intersection a block from his house when a voice called out, “Sylvester! Wait a minute!”

Sylvester stopped, turned, and saw the familiar figure of Snooky Malone running toward him.

“Hey, whereVe you been?” Snooky asked.

Snooky had gone all the way through school with Sylvester since kindergarten. Sometimes they were real close friends. But lately Snooky had been more of a pain than a pal. With his great big wire-rimmed eyeglasses and his scruffy hair sticking out all over his head, Snooky looked like an owl. He tried to act wise, too, as if he knew it all, but he asked a million questions. Sylvester knew if he told him anything about what he’d just been doing, there’d be no letup. Snooky would pester him until Sylvester would be ready to strangle him.

“I was at the field. Hoped someone would show up to play a little, but nobody did,” Sylvester admitted. He hoped this little white lie would hold Snooky off for a while.

Snooky glanced at his digital watch. “This time of day? I never saw anybody out at the field this time of day.”

“Well, I just took a shot. You never know,” said Sylvester, walking a little faster.

Snooky tagged along at his side.

“Hey, Sylvester, I was looking at your horoscope, you know, to see what the stars say, and …”

Sylvester stopped in his tracks. He didn’t believe in star charts and stuff like that the way Snooky did, but he was a little curious at the moment. He played along with Snooky.

“Let me guess,” he said. “They say my future looks good. That I’m heading for the top, just like last year. Right?”

Might as well take a shot, show him I know what he’s all about, he thought, remembering Cheeko’s advice. Couldn’t do better than showing a little muscle to the wizard of the stars himself, one Snooky Malone.

“Well… yes … and no,” Snooky replied, as though he weren’t sure how to answer.

“Yes and no? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re going to look good in some ways, but…” He paused, scratched his elbow, and stood there.

“But what?” asked Sylvester, suddenly impatient. Snooky usually wasn’t at a loss for words.

“You won’t like this, Syl, but I have to tell you. You’re heading for some good things, but you’re also asking for some trouble ahead.”

“Trouble?” Sylvester frowned. “What kind of trouble?”

Snooky shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Sylvester snorted. “You’re something else, you know that, Snooky? You’re always into something, like reading bones, or fortune-telling cards, or tea leaves, or even stars. But you never have the full picture, that’s your trouble. I’ll tell you what’s true — the first part. I am heading for some good things. And that’s it. So sleep under the stars, Snooky. Maybe one of them will drop down and clue you in on what’s happening now — never mind the future!”

Hiking his bat on his shoulder, he swaggered on down the street, leaving his old pal in a trail of dust.

5

A
t the Redbirds’ practice the next afternoon, Sylvester could sense a big improvement in both his fielding and hitting — even though it didn’t seem as if anyone else noticed. But he wasn’t about to make a lot of noise about it. “Hey, guys, see me catch the ball? Anyone see that thump of the old beanbag?” That would grab attention, all right, but the worst kind.

All he had to do was keep it up and they’d see it. Eventually.

He could hardly wait to practice with Cheeko again.

That night, Mrs. Coddmyer was still struggling with her inventory figures. Mr. Coddmyer was working late. It seemed as though they’d never get to see Sylvester at bat again. Not even at practice.

He thought of asking Joyce to come watch but decided against it for now. It would be more fun to see the surprised look on her face after he started connecting with the ball in some actual games.

Cheeko was waiting for him on the field and they got right down to work. After a while, Sylvester could easily tell that he’d improved some more. Cheeko hit a lot of high fly balls and he caught most of them with ease. He hit a lot more of Cheeko s pitches, too. And there was no doubt about his accuracy. He was hitting long drives to the outfield, most of which cleared die fence by five to twenty feet.

“Hey, hey, pal, you’re doin’ pretty good,” said Cheeko as they wound up for the evening. “I’d say you’re about fifty percent better than yesterday. You’re starting to get tougher, too. Meaner. Really-digging in, you know. How’re you feeling at the plate?”

“Great,” said Sylvester, a little surprised at the question. He’d knocked so many over the fence, why shouldn’t he feel great?

“I mean relaxing-wise,” explained Cheeko, making fists of his hands and rolling his muscular shoulders back and forth. “Yesterday, you know, you were strung up tight as guitar strings. You a little looser today?”

“Oh, sure,” replied Sylvester, understanding now what Cheeko meant. No big deal, he thought.

“Good, good,” said Cheeko, tapping him on the shoulders. “You never want to let the suckers know you’re nervous or anything, pal. Now look, I want to show you just a couple more things. Get out there and throw a few pitches.”