Return of the Home Run Kid (5 page)

Was a walk better than giving Ken something to swing at? Glad I’m not the pitcher, Sylvester thought.

Then, “Strike!” A streaking fastball over the inside corner.

Another “Strike!” as Rick fired again.

Ken stepped out of the box, rubbed the heavy part of his bat a couple of times, and stepped back in.

The windup. The pitch. Crack! Ken connected and sent the ball soaring out to right field.

Sylvester could see it shoot high into the sky like a tiny rocket and then start to arc down. He could tell right off that it was going over his head, so he wasted no time. He turned and ran back toward the fence as fast as his legs could carry him.

The old fear gripped him. Could he get to it in time? The fence would be in his way. He’d miss it by a mile.

But at the very last moment, just as the ball came down over his head, he leapt, his gloved hand stretched out as far as it could possibly go.

Thud! He hit the fence way up high — and caught the ball.

Pain pierced his shoulders like a bolt of lightning, but it didn’t last long. Joy sprang into his heart as soon as he was back on his feet. As he heaved the ball into the infield, he could hear the crowd’s roar that had started the instant he’d snagged the ball; it didn’t die down for a good minute. In fact, everyone was standing up and cheering, Redbirds’ and Wildcats’ fans alike. They didn’t get to see too many catches like that.

As Sylvester stood out in right field, arms crossed over his chest, he remembered Cheeko’s advice: play tough, go for it. He was determined not to forget that.

He scanned the crowd, hoping to spot his mom and dad in their usual place. They had both said they’d try to make the game this time, but it was hard to predict with their busy work schedules. He couldn’t pick them out, but he caught a glimpse of Joyce, all smiles and happy. And there was Cheeko in his usual spot.

Before he could pick anyone else out in the crowd, Leon Hollister came up to bat. He’d tripled in the first inning and flied out in the third. This time he waited for a full count, then laced a high fly ball to short center field. Bobby had plenty of time and got under it for the second out.

When the ball left Leon’s bat, Sylvester had started toward it and then was relieved when he saw that it was an easy stand-up catch for Bobby. He was beginning to have doubts about fly balls. They might not all end up in his glove like the last one. His confidence began to ebb slowly.

Rod Piper was up next. After two strikes, both of them foul balls that rolled down the backstop screen, he took four straight balls and walked.

Next up was Russ Skelton, the Wildcats’ tall, wiry shortstop. So far Russ had been on base each time up. Sylvester remembered that he’d walked his first time and singled the second time. Not bad for the seventh batter in the lineup, Sylvester thought.

He shook out his arms and shoulders and got ready for whatever Russ might hit his way. After two pitches, the third one was hit to Trent, who scooped it up and pegged it to first. Sylvester could relax as he ran off the field.

As he passed by Cheeko, he saw his friend wave at him and give the air in front of him a short poke with his fist. Sylvester smiled, knowing that this meant to get tough. He waved back at Cheeko.

If his folks had been there, he could have introduced them to Cheeko so they would be comfortable about all those practice sessions. Once they met him and talked with him, they might even want to come to Sylvester’s games and sit with him.

But first things first. The first batter hadn’t left the dugout before Sylvester started worrying about what would happen if he came to bat this inning. Would he get a decent hit? Or would he disgrace himself? Even with Cheeko’s coaching, he still wasn’t as confident as last year when Mr. Baruth had been around.

Maybe he was too impatient. Maybe he expected too much too soon. Maybe maybe maybe.

He wiped these thoughts out of his mind as he settled down on a vacant seat in the dugout.

“C’mon, guys!” Coach Corbin said, walking back and forth and clapping his hands loudly. “We can’t give up now! Hey, we’re only two runs down! And they’re not that good. So go out there and prove it to ’em, okay?”

“Okay!” the whole team shouted.

“Good! Okay, Eddie! Start it rollin’!”

He headed toward the third base coaching box. Eddie Exton removed his catcher’s gear, put on a helmet, carefully selected a bat, and strode to the plate.

As Eddie readied himself for the first pitch, Duane Francis nudged Sylvester. “Hey, Syl, I forgot to tell you, my dad took me to a big baseball card show last Sunday.”

Sylvester had a small collection of baseball cards that he’d picked up here and there. Duane was definitely in the big league as a collector and went out of his way to fill in gaps, especially with old, old cards and players you hardly ever heard about. He loved to share his finds, and Sylvester enjoyed seeing them.

“I got a whole bunch of really great old ones,” Duane went on, “Red Sox, White Sox, Black Sox …”

“Black Sox?” Sylvester was puzzled.

“Yeah, it’s a nickname they gave a bunch of Chicago guys,” said Duane. “Hey, wanna take a look at them later?”

“Sure,” said Sylvester. “Bring them over to my house after supper.”

Sylvester turned his attention to home plate just in time to see Eddie pop out to third base. One out.

The Redbirds’ fans were getting restless. “Let’s get some hits!” they shouted.

Sure, thought Sylvester, easier said than done.

As Rick headed toward the plate, the Redbirds’ pitcher seemed to have lost some of his energy. His shoulders were slumped and he gazed at the grounds as if his eyes were about to close down.

Don’t fall asleep, Rick, Sylvester felt like yelling. We need you more than ever right now.

As the innings piled up, the Wildcats’ two-run lead seemed harder and harder to match, never mind pass. And as one batter followed another, a little voice inside Sylvester’s head kept asking the same agonizing question: “Is the coach going to take me out?”

As long as he was in there playing, there was hope that he might come through for the team.

Rick grounded out to shortstop.

Then Jim Cowley came up, and Sylvester crossed his fingers. He usually thought superstitions were silly — black cats and broken mirrors and all that star stuff of Snooky’s — but things looked so bad, he figured it was worth a try.

Jim let a strike go by, fouled the next pitch, then fanned. It was a fast, unproductive fifth inning.

“Rats!” Sylvester snorted as he uncrossed his fingers and started out of the dugout. “I knew it was baloney!”

One more inning to go. The way Bongo Daley was pitching for the Wildcats, it looked as though it would be no different from the last scoreless four.

“Come on, you guys!” Coach Corbin pleaded as his team headed for their field positions. “If you can’t hit ’em, at least hold ’em!”

The coach was not in a happy mood. He hated to lose.

We’re doing our best, Coach, Sylvester thought as he trotted out to right field. At least I am.

8

L
es Easton, the Wildcats’ short and stocky right fielder, was first man up. He watched six pitches streak by him, two strikes and four balls, to put him on base.

Next up was A. C. Compton. He walked, too.

Great, thought Sylvester, they’re already winning and Rick is making it easy for them to pick up at least two more runs.

Before stepping into the batter’s box, Mickey Evans swung the bat around his head a few times like an Olympic javelin ace preparing for a record throw. So far he’d managed one hit, a single, but he was always dangerous enough to pull a repeat.

He didn’t. With one strike on him, he slammed the next pitch a mile high, almost directly over home plate, and Eddie Exton made the catch look easy.

Sylvester breathed a small sigh of relief. One out. Two to go.

Georgie Talman, the next batter, tried to play it smart, waiting out the pitches to the very last. But Rick remained ahead with one ball and two strikes on Georgie before he breezed one in almost a little too low to be in the strike zone. But Georgie, not wanting to risk being called out, swung. He smashed a grass-mowing grounder down to short. Trent fielded it neatly, whipped it to third, and got Les out by ten feet.

Two out. One more to go. But this one wasn’t going to be easy. Bongo Daley had doubled in the first inning, and it was just bad luck that his other two outs — both fly balls — hadn’t landed between the outfielders. He was powerful enough to blast one easily over the fence.

Sylvester joined his teammates in a chant of encouragement to their pitcher, at the same time backing up a few steps. Rick glanced at the runner on second base, then threw.

Bong stepped into it, but let it go by.

“Strike!” boomed the ump.

“Way to go, Rick!” Sylvester yelled. “Mow ’im down, kid! Show ’im who’s in charge!”

Act tough, sound tough, wasn’t that what Cheeko had been teaching him?

The next pitch missed the plate by inches. Then Rick committed a serious error — he threw one in the dirt that skipped by Eddie and headed for the backstop screen.

“Oh, no!” Sylvester moaned, as Eddie sprang to his feet, whirled, and bolted after the wild ball. He caught it as it bounced back from the screen, then whipped it to Rick, who had come in to cover home plate.

But the runner on second had stopped on third. He’d only been off the base a short, safe distance when Rick swung around toward him. The runner on first, meanwhile, had advanced to second.

Boy, that’s just great, Sylvester grumbled to himself. He could picture another run or two scoring easily, as he saw Coach Corbin walk out to the mound. After a few seconds, he patted Rick on the shoulder, then trotted slowly off the field.

Sylvester wondered whether the coach should have taken Rick out, but he gave no indication. Never show the suckers you’re scared, that was another bit of Cheeko’s advice.

Still standing tall on the mound, Rick again checked the runners, then delivered. The pitch was in there, and Bongo swung. Crack! It was a long, high fly to right center field.

Almost before the sound of the bat meeting the ball faded, Sylvester started running toward it as fast as he possibly could, all the while hoping it would be Bobby’s ball.

Then he heard Bobby’s clear, unquestionable call: “Take it, Syl! It’s all yours!”

Take it? Was Bobby crazy? He didn’t have a chance. No way! It was Bobby’s ball, not his!

But he had to try. He picked up more speed, though where it came from he was sure he didn’t know. Besides, since Bobby had dumped it on him, he
had
to do his best, even collapse in the attempt.

At the very last moment, as the ball was dropping fast in front of him, he dove at it — and grabbed it in his gloved hand.

For one split second, his mitt turned over from the impact and it felt as though the ball had wobbled out. But Sylvester recovered his wits and slid his glove forward, and showed the ball still inside, as though it had always been there.

He lay on the turf for a moment, to catch his breath, as the cheers and whistles from the fans echoed and reechoed throughout the park.

Finally, he pushed himself to his feet, rubbed some of the grass off the front of his uniform, and jogged off the field.

As he ran, he glanced at Cheeko, who was standing and cheering with the fans. Sylvester could tell that Cheeko had seen
everything
and approved the way he had “recovered” the catch.

Some of the guys shook his hand as he reached the dugout. Coach Corbin was beaming. “Another fantastic catch, Syl!”

Even Bobby Kent came up to him this time and gave him a high five. “I knew it was your ball, Syl,” he admitted. “No way I could’ve gotten to it. You really surprised me out there!”

“Surprised myself!” Sylvester laughed.

“Okay, last chance,” cried the coach. “Let’s show ’em we’re not licked yet! Billy, call ’em off.”

As Coach Corbin headed down to the third base coaching box, Billy Haywood called off the names of the first three batters: “Sobel! Sturgis! Coddmyer!”

Sylvester’s ears perked up at the. sound of his name. He’d forgotten that he’d be batting this last half of the sixth inning — the last inning and the last chance to win the game. It seemed a pretty dim possibility, practically impossible, the way things had been going.

Ted, who had flied out his first two times up, fouled off the first two pitches, putting himself into a hole right off. A swing and a miss now would mean the first out.

As Sylvester clenched his fists and watched the action at the plate, a familiar voice beside him whispered loudly, “I can’t believe what you’re doing out there, Sylvester. It’s like you’re a different person, not the Sylvester Coddmyer the Third I’ve know all these years!”

For a second, he panicked. Had someone seen him bobble the ball during that final catch?

The voice, now recognizable as Snooky’s, went on, though, with no reference to that questionable moment.

“You were great last year, of course. And you’re playing great now. But what happened in between? I mean you were just plain lousy a week ago.”

Snooky had managed to squeeze in on the bench beside Sylvester again. And there he was, asking those same, tired questions.

“I don’t know, okay?” replied Sylvester. “Look, maybe I’m just on another streak. What’s your problem with that? Can’t a guy get lucky more than once?”

“Yeah, but … this is different, Sylvester. I can tell it isn’t just luck.” Snooky persisted, squinting over his thick glasses to examine his neighbor on the bench. “You’ve changed somehow. You have a different attitude. Yep, trouble. I can see trouble, Syl.”

Sylvester leaned forward and stared Snooky hard in the eyes. “Snooky, will you just shut up? Mind your own business, will you? Get off my back and take your stupid stars with you. I’m fed up with you, get it? I’m fed right up to here,” Sylvester said, placing his hand under his chin.

Snooky stared back, as if he were trying to read something in Sylvester’s eyes. Then, without another word, he hitched up his sagging jeans and left the dugout to return to the stands.