Return of the Home Run Kid (6 page)

That creep, Sylvester thought. Is he going to be on my case for the rest of my life?

He tried to thrust the little inquisitive pest out of his mind as much as possible. He leaned forward and concentrated on watching the game.

As Ted fouled off another pitch, he saw the umpire’s fingers come up to reveal the count. Two balls, two strikes.

Then, a surprise — Bongo missed the plate with his next two pitches, and Ted walked.

Looking as if he hadn’t a care in the world, Trent then stepped to the plate. He hadn’t done that well in this game — a single and an easy grounder for an out — but he was always a threat to the opposition. And despite his nasty attitude toward him, Sylvester admired his batting ability.

“You’re up next, Sylvester,” Billy Haywood reminded him.

Sylvester started at the sound of his name. He blamed his forgetfulness on Snooky Malone’s blathering. Somewhat flustered, he stepped out of the dugout, put on his helmet, picked out his favorite bat, and walked to the on-deck circle.

Trent waited until the count went to two balls and two strikes before he cracked a sizzling grounder between third and short for a hit. The crowd cheered as Ted advanced to second base and Trent toed the bag at first. Sylvester stepped up to the plate and narrowed his eyes at Bongo.

“Okay, Sylvester! Hit it out of the park!”

The shout broke Sylvester’s concentration. It came from that pesky, but still faithful, fan, none other than Snooky Malone, who was standing up on his seat and waving his hands in the air. Others chimed in, too, and Sylvester realized he was starting to get nervous as he stood in the batter’s box.

“Strike!” called the ump as Bongo breezed in the first pitch.

“Str …” the umpire started to say as the next pitch rolled in down the middle. But Sylvester swung at it, made the connection, and sent the ball zooming out to deep left. It curved and just missed the foul line by about a foot.

“Foul ball!” yelled the ump.

“Make the next one count, Sylvester!” cried Snooky, jumping up and down on his seat.

Sylvester obliged. He lambasted the ball to almost the same spot where he’d hit the previous pitch — except that this time it was an easy three feet to the right of the foul line pole.

Every Redbirds fan was up and cheering, giving Sylvester an ovation that could be heard in every corner of town. He spied his parents in their usual spot, applauding loudly with the others. His heart throbbed with such pride, he thought it would burst.

As he trotted around first base, he heard Russ Skelton, the shortstop, sneer. “Lucky break, Coddmyer. He threw ya’ a meatball!”

Meatball, huh? Sylvester wasn’t about to let him get away with that. On his way around the infield, he made a big loop and managed to give that loudmouth a nasty jab in the ribs in passing. Act tough, right? Isn’t that what Cheeko would have done?

“Oof!” he heard Russ groan at the surprise poke. Sylvester just smiled and continued merrily on his way around third and then home.

Hooper Redbirds 5, Lansing Wildcats 4.

9

S
ylvester could hardly believe the shouting, the cheers, the jostling, as the fans came streaming down onto the field.

“Syl! You were fabulous!” Joyce cried as she threw her arms around him. “But what happened with Russ out there?”

Oh, she noticed, he thought. So what? You have to be aggressive. That’s what he’d learned from Cheeko.

Before he could explain all that, she got swept off in the crowd and was pointing him out to a bunch of her girlfriends.

Even some Wildcats fans were coming down to shake his hand. It was like a dream, a wonderful dream that had happened before, thanks to Mr. Baruth, and now was happening again thanks to someone else.

And there he was. Cheeko appeared out of the blue and stood next to him, grinning from ear to ear, holding out his hand for a high five.

“Nice, that last one, really nice,” Cheeko said. “You’re coming along great, kid.”

“I owe it to you, Cheeko,” said Sylvester, slapping his outstretched palm. “Every hit of it. I sure forgot everything I learned last year, but you brought it all back and then some. You showed me how to field, how to hit again, and …”

“Hey, you’re the guy who does the work,” Cheeko cut in. “And I like the way you got that shortstop.” He chuckled softly. “You’re learning. Look, I gotta run. Don’t forget our practice session tomorrow morning. Same place as usual, okay?”

Sylvester quickly nodded as Cheeko started to leave.

He watched Cheeko thread his way through the crowd. Suddenly he remembered something and yelled after him. “Cheeko! Wait a sec!”

But his voice was drowned out by the noise all around him. Anyway, Cheeko was gone. Just like that he seemed to have vanished.

Sylvester felt the disappointment deep in the pit of his stomach. He was anxious for his parents to meet Cheeko. It would mean a lot to him if they could get to know the one who had worked with him and shown him the
real
ins and outs of baseball.

Even as he was thinking about them, his mother and father got through the crowd and embraced him. They were so excited, he couldn’t tell whether they were flushed or they’d been crying. It almost brought tears to his own eyes, but he bit his lip and hugged them back.

“Rats, I wanted you to meet him,” Sylvester said, “but he’s gone now.”

“Meet who?” Mr. Coddmyer asked. “The coach? We’ve met him lots of times.”

“No, Cheeko,” said Sylvester. “He was here, but he had to leave.”

“Another elusive mentor,” said Mrs. Coddmyer. “Maybe some other time, when it’s not so crowded.”

“Yeah, okay,” said Sylvester lamely.

“Sylvester?”

He turned. There stood Snooky, holding out his hand.

“I’m not angry even though you were kind of mean to me,” said Snooky. “And I want to congratulate you. You came through in a pinch. You did really great. No matter what’s going on, I have to say that I admire you.”

“Thanks, Snooky,” Sylvester said, slapping the little guy’s outstretched palm. “Hey, listen, I gotta go. See you around.”

Snooky tugged at Sylvester’s uniform shirt. “One more thing I noticed,” he went on. “I saw you poke Skelton as you went by him. Isn’t that kinda dirty playing?”

Sylvester thought for a quick moment, then looked him in the eyes and said, “No. Just smart.”

He darted through the crowd, found his folks, and drove off with them in a pink cloud.

Back home, his father shook his head and said, “I’ve never seen you hit that way, Syl. I mean last year you were driving in home runs, but this year, that power is breathtaking. When did my son become such a slugger?” he joked.

Sylvester smiled back at him. “You might be in for some surprises, Dad. If you got to see more of my games …”

“Now that’s a curve ball if ever I saw one,” said Mr. Coddmyer, still in a good mood.

“No, really, you know what I mean. Anyhow, I think it’s the help I’ve gotten from Cheeko. He pointed out a lot of things, like how I should stand at the plate, how to swing at the ball, how to be more aggressive. He said I was wimping out a little, that I had to take a really full swing.”

“Well, I don’t see you play that often,” said Mrs. Coddmyer, “but I always thought you took a full swing.”

“So did I,” agreed Mr. Coddmyer. “But look, we’re no experts like Cheeko. He must have been some player himself. What team did you say he played on?”

“I never asked him,” said Sylvester. “But he had to have been in the pros. Let’s see,
C
, that could be for Cleveland, or Cincinnati, or Chicago.”

“Or Cooperstown,” suggested Mr. Coddmyer. “Maybe he’s in the Baseball Hall of Fame!”

“A lot of choices there,” said Mrs. Coddmyer. “I’ll tell you one thing. From what I heard all around me today, that catch of yours in the sixth inning should be in a Hall of Fame.”

“Aw, Mom, you’re prejudiced,” said Sylvester.

“I have an idea,” said Mrs. Coddmyer. “Why don’t we go out for dinner? I’m not up to cooking.”

“Neither am I,” said Mr. Coddmyer.

“Neither am I,” echoed Sylvester.

They all laughed and headed for the car.

When they returned home, Sylvester picked up his glove and cleaned off little bits of dirt and grass that had sneaked into the crevices. He then got out the special oil he used to keep the leather soft and supple in the right places. As he worked on it, his mind wandered to his two lucky breaks. Last year there was Mr. Baruth and this year Cheeko. Mr. Baruth was gone and he’d never gotten around to asking him a lot of questions. He wasn’t going to let that happen with Cheeko. He was as curious as his parents to know more about him.

The phone interrupted his thoughts. “I’ll get it,” he shouted.

It was Duane Francis.

“Syl, you had some day!” Duane exclaimed. “Keep it up and you’ll end up on a baseball card.”

“Got a little way to go.” Sylvester laughed. “So, are you coming over? I want to see what you got last Sunday.”

“I’ll be there in a jif,” said Duane and hung up.

True to his word, Duane arrived at the Coddmyer house in less than ten minutes. In his hands he held a bulging shoebox, tied with an extralong shoelace.

“Come on in here,” said Sylvester. He led Duane into the dining room with its big polished mahogany table. “We can spread them out on top. Just don’t put anything wet or scratchy down. Mom will have a fit.”

Mrs. Coddmyer called from the next room where she was curled up with a magazine on the couch, “I heard that. And you’re absolutely right!”

Mr. Coddmyer put on a CD and tuned out in his favorite chair, only half aware of the chatter in the adjacent room.

Duane opened the box, removed a stack of cards that were held together by a rubber band, and picked up the top card.

“These are the Detroit Tigers,” he explained, “and this one is Ty Cobb, one of the greatest. Look at his average.”

“Wow! Three sixty-seven,” Sylvester read aloud. “I didn’t know he played with the Philadelphia A’s, too.”

“That’s ’cause you’re not really into the old-timers, like I am,” said Duane seriously. “That’s where the really interesting stuff is.”

“Maybe you’re right,” said Sylvester. “Let’s take a look at some more.”

Duane put Ty Cobb to one side and picked up another and read off the statistics. This was Rudy York, who hit eighteen home runs in the month of August 1937.

“Eighteen in one month!” Sylvester echoed. “Amazing!”

Duane grinned at him. “You almost did that last year, yourself. Remember? Probably would have if we played more than once a week.”

Sylvester grinned broadly. How could he ever forget that season?

They went through the stack of Tigers cards and went on to the Red Sox and then the New York Yankees, one of Duane’s biggest piles.

“Roger Maris!” Sylvester half-shouted as they came across that familiar face. “I know all about him. He busted Babe Ruth’s home run record by one run!”

“Not officially.”

“Well … right. He did play in more games in one season than the Babe.”

“Hey, who said you don’t know anything about old-timers!” Duane picked up another card. “Know who this is?”

Sylvester looked at the picture on the card and gasped.

“That looks like Mr. Baruth!” he choked.

“Hey, calm down,” said Duane. “You all right?”

Sylvester nodded as he stared at the card, at the face of the big man in the striped uniform, wearing a hat with
NY
on it. Underneath the picture was the name “George Herman ‘Babe’ Ruth.”

“He looks
exactly
like Mr. Baruth,” Sylvester said, in a hoarse voice.

“Mr. Who?”

“Baruth,” Sylvester repeated.

It did. It really did look like him.

Sylvester took the card and read the statistics on the back. He saw that George Herman “Babe” Ruth had retired from baseball in 1935 and died in 1948. That was years and years ago.

Then who … how…what…?

“Who’s this Mr. Baruth, anyhow?” asked Duane, curious.

“He’s the guy who taught me how to hit and play the outfield last year,” Sylvester answered, still puzzling over the picture.

“You never mentioned him before,” said Duane. “But, boy, that name …”

“I know,” Sylvester interrupted. “Sounds a lot like ‘Babe Ruth, ’ doesn’t it?”

“Sure does.”

“But it can’t be. The Babe died in 1948.”

“Must be some kind of gag or something,” offered Duane. “Guy looks like Babe Ruth, so everyone calls him Baruth.”

“Yeah, maybe that’s it,” murmured Sylvester. He really didn’t know what to think.

They finished off the Yankees and moved on to another stack. This was the Chicago White Sox.

Duane started with the oldest ones and, before he got very far, he passed one over to Sylvester that almost knocked his friend off his chair.

“Wait a minute!” Sylvester shouted, waving the card in front of Duane’s nose. “This one looks like Cheeko!”

“Cheeko? Who’s Cheeko?”

“He’s the guy who’s helping me
this
year!”

10

T
he man on the card in the White Sox uniform wore a hat just like Cheeko’s with that old letter
C
on it. And he was smiling that cocky smile that was so familiar to Sylvester.

“Eddie Cicotte,” Sylvester murmured quietly, reading the name under the picture. “I just can’t believe it.”

“It really looks like this Cheeko guy?” asked Duane.

“
Exactly
like him,” said Sylvester. “And he’s a southpaw!”

As Sylvester shook his head in amazement, Duane stared at the ceiling.

“You know what I think?” Duane announced. “He’s another look-alike. Just like Babe Ruth and that Mr. Baruth you mentioned. They’re probably actors who do imitations of the Babe and Cheeko on stage or cable TV or something. And then they go on vacation to get away from all their fans, you know. So last year this Baruth guy picks this little hick town where nobody would probably recognize him. And he tells the guy playing Cheeko. Celebrities do things like that. Hey, they probably think they’re just like the real thing and they can even play and coach and everything. Whatcha think?”