Return of the Home Run Kid (7 page)

Sylvester didn’t reply. Too much was going through his mind. Like, what about his hitting and fielding? How come he had gotten better so quickly? And not just a little better, but phenomenally better, like all those great catches and home runs.

“You think maybe it’s some kind of ghost or something like in the movies?” asked Sylvester.

“Boy, wouldn’t that be something!” said Duane.

“Wait a minute,” Sylvester said. “I’ve got to tell my dad about this.”

He went into the living room and saw that his father had nodded off in the comfortable padded chair. Sylvester knew it was just a nap and it wouldn’t take much to arouse him.

“Ahem.” He coughed, pretending not to notice his father’s closed eyelids. “Say, Dad, could you come and take a look at something weird?”

“Sure.” Mr. Coddmyer yawned, rubbing his knuckles in his eyes. “Always interested in the oddball.”

In the dining room, Sylvester showed him the two cards.

“Know these guys, Dad?” he asked.

His father picked up the cards and looked at the photos. “Babe Ruth and Eddie Cicotte,” he said, smiling. “Sure, I remember them well.”

“You do?” Sylvester stared at him. “But you weren’t even born …”

“No,” Mr. Coddmyer said with a chuckle, “but I’ve read about them. Ruth was the greatest, everyone knows that. Cicotte, now, he was one of the players involved in that Black Sox scandal.”

“Sure, I’ve heard of them,” said Duane. “But how’d they get that name, anyway?”

Mr. Coddmyer put down the cards. “It’s the nickname they gave some bad apples on the 1919 Chicago White Sox team. Eight of them tried to fix the outcome of the World Series that year.”

“Did they go to jail?” asked Duane.

“No, but they were banished from baseball. It was just about the worst scandal that ever happened to the game.”

“Wow,” said Sylvester. “I can’t figure it out. Babe Ruth and Eddie Cicotte, they look exactly — I mean
exactly
— like Mr. Baruth and Cheeko, the two guys I told you about. You know, helping me out last year and now this year again.”

“It could be a coincidence,” said Mr. Coddmyer. “It could be some actors or impersonators …”

“That’s what I said,” Duane blurted out.

“But I’m not sure I buy that,” Mr. Coddmyer continued.

Neither do I, Sylvester thought. How would that explain my improvement, my home runs?

He couldn’t sluff it off with easy answers. Duane wanted to believe in impersonators and his father would settle for coincidence, but Sylvester wasn’t convinced of either.

Mr. Coddmyer picked up a few of the other cards and commented about several of them. Sylvester was surprised that he knew so much about the old-timers. His father’s job was keeping him so busy lately, they hadn’t had much of a chance to shoot the breeze like this.

“Well, enjoy the cards, guys, and clean up when you’re through,” said Mr. Coddmyer. “I’m going to see what your mother finds so fascinating in her magazine, Sylvester.”

He started to leave, then turned at the doorway, and said in what sounded like a casual voice, “By the way, Syl, that fellow you mentioned — Cheeko? Next time you’re going to get together with him, let us know. I think your mother or I should meet him before you spend any more time with him. Okay?”

“Sure, Dad,” Sylvester said.

Duane seemed to have lost interest in Cheeko by now and just wanted to go through the rest of his cards. Sylvester tried to pay attention but his mind wouldn’t settle down. He kept sneaking glances at those two cards. There was no doubt that the resemblance was amazing.

11

A
fter Duane left, Sylvester returned to the living room. His father was now wearing headphones to listen to a CD without disturbing Mrs. Coddmyer. She had her feet up on the sofa and was working away at a crossword puzzle.

“Mind if I watch TV?” he asked. His mother nodded silently. His father waved his hand, but Sylvester wasn’t sure whether he was keeping time to the music or signaling to him.

He turned on the TV and clicked through the various channels. Just a bunch of reruns and talk shows. Even the sports channel had nothing but a boring old golf tournament in Japan! And it was Friday. He could stay up later since he didn’t have to go to school the next day. He wondered what Joyce Dancer was doing. He wished he’d made some kind of plan to see her that evening, even if they just went for a walk.

Every now and then, Sylvester glanced over at his father. He wanted to ask him some questions about when he was a kid and how he knew so much about baseball. Did his father play Little League baseball? Or was he into football? Basketball? Hockey? Did
his
father come to many of his games? Did
his
father have time to play ball with him? Even a game of catch? It seemed that lately Mr. Coddmyer was always too busy working or too tired from work to spend much time with Sylvester.

“I think I’ll go to bed,” he said, getting up and stretching his arms.

His mother glanced at the clock on the mantel, then shot a surprised look at him. “It’s not even nine o’clock yet,” she observed. “Are you all right, Sylvester?”

“I’m fine,” he said. “I guess I’m a little more tired from playing today than I realized. I’ll read a little, then hit the sack.”

“Good night, dear, and sleep well,” his mother said.

He leaned over and gave his mother a kiss on the cheek and then did the same to his father, just grazing an earphone. He could hear violins and trumpets. Probably Beethoven or something like that, he thought.

He went up to his room, got undressed, and crawled into bed. He didn’t even try to read; he knew he wouldn’t be able to concentrate. There were too many things rolling around in his head.

Were Mr. Baruth and Cheeko ghosts? Actors? Or what had his mother said … angels? And how come they picked him to help out? His father didn’t seem too worried, just curious. He wanted to meet Cheeko. Okay, he could meet him the next morning at practice. Would Cheeko be there? Would Sylvester keep hitting home runs and making great catches? How long would it last? Would it go on until the end of the season like last year? Would Cheeko disappear just like Mr. Baruth?

He had no idea how long he was awake, thinking all those thoughts, but the next thing he knew, there was bright sunshine streaming through his bedroom windows underneath the shades.

At breakfast, he was all set to ask his father to come watch him practice with Cheeko, but Mr. Coddmyer was nowhere in sight.

“Where’s Dad?” he asked his mother.

“He took the lawn mower in for service so he could use it later this morning,” she answered, sipping her black coffee. “I think he’s counting on you to help him clean up the yard.”

“Yeah, I can do that … later,” Sylvester mumbled into his cereal. “Uh, Mom, are you busy right now?”

“I’m going to attack those hedges out back before they turn into the Great Wall of China,” she announced firmly. “Somehow your father never manages to get around to it.”

She got up and grabbed her gardening gloves, calling back as she left the kitchen, “Clean up your mess before you go anywhere, young man!”

Sylvester carefully washed his breakfast dishes and put them in the drying rack. It was after nine o’clock. Cheeko would be waiting for him at the park.

What had his father said? He wanted to meet Cheeko. Or he wanted Mrs. Coddmyer to meet Cheeko. He didn’t exactly say Sylvester couldn’t even see Cheeko until then, did he? At least, it hadn’t sounded that way.

Sylvester ran to the park. He’d just hit a few or field a couple of Cheeko’s hits. And he’d get a chance to ask Cheeko some things, like where he lived, and what he did. Was he an actor? And what did he know about that Eddie Cicotte?

But the park was empty. Not a soul in sight. Clean as a whistle, except for a piece of paper under a stone on the pitcher’s mound.

He picked it up and read the message:

“Sorry, pal, can’t make it. Got a few things to take care of. See you next game.”

It was signed with the letter
C
.

He crumpled it up and dumped it into the trash bin on his way out of the park.

Well, at least he didn’t have to lie to his folks about meeting Cheeko behind their backs, after all.

He got home in time to help his father unload the lawn mower. While Sylvester hauled away hedge clippings from out back, Mr. Coddmyer put the mower to good use in front.

Later on, after they put away the mower, Mr. Coddmyer grabbed a rake and handed another to Sylvester.

“Might as well get some of these clippings,” he announced.

This was the chance Sylvester was looking for.

“Dad,” he said, “did you ever play ball when you were a kid? You never told me.”

“I never did? That’s amazing. Yes, I played … Little League and in high school. After that I went off to college and had to work part time to help pay for it. College was expensive, even back then,” Mr. Coddmyer explained.

“Were you a pretty good player?”

“I thought so — but I didn’t have the opportunity to find out. Or maybe the drive. I loved playing, even on days when I didn’t see much action. It was great just being out at the park, doing the best I could. That’s all anyone can do.”

“Did you ever go to any games? You know, pro games?”

“A few, not many.” Mr. Coddmyer paused and leaned on his rake. “I sense something behind these questions, Syl. What’s up?”

Sylvester stared at the grass pile on the ground in front of him and said softly, “I guess, well, I just wish we could spend more time together, Dad.”

Mr. Coddmyer came over to him and put an arm around his shoulders. “I’m sorry your mother and I have been so busy lately, Syl,” he said. “It’s not deliberate, you know that. Just the same old excuse, I’m afraid. Too busy making a living, not enough hours in the day. The usual, I don’t have to tell you, you’ve heard it enough.”

He rubbed his knuckles on top of Sylvester’s blond hair teasingly. “Hey, I’ll tell you what. The next time the Chiefs play a weekend game, we’ll make a day of it.” Mr. Coddmyer was referring to the Syracuse Chiefs of the International League. They played local games in a neighboring town. “Just your mother, you, and me. A swim at the lake, picnic lunch, then hours of good baseball. What do you say?”

“Sure!”

“Good. Well, looks like we’ve got just a bit more work to do here, so let’s get to it!”

After hurrying through the raking, Sylvester rushed inside to look at the paper to see when the Chief’s next weekend game was to be played “They’re playing next Saturday, Dad. Do you really think Mom will be able to come along, too?”

“Come along? Where? Where are we going now?” Mrs. Coddmyer poked her head into the living room where they were looking at the paper. “I’m not going anywhere I have to look decent,” she joked.

“Dad’s taking us to see the Syracuse Chiefs play next Saturday. Do you have it free?” an excited Sylvester blurted out.

“Well,” she considered, “I could stay home and wash my hair, balance my checkbook, look over some work … or go to a baseball game.” She paused, then smiled and said, “Just don’t expect me to be the only one preparing sandwiches for the picnic lunch!”

The thought of food reminded Sylvester that he hadn’t had any lunch. While he was making himself a peanut butter and banana sandwich, Joyce Dancer called.

“There’s a good movie playing at the Cineplex Theater, Syl,” she said. “Want to go this afternoon?”

“Sure,” he said. He didn’t even ask her what the movie was. It made no difference to him. He was glad to have a chance to spend some time with her.

It was a silly cops-and-robbers movie, but they had a few laughs and held hands through most of it. Afterward, they went over to the local hangout and sat slurping milk shakes.

Joyce, still laughing over the dumb movie, started to talk about one of the funny scenes that had broken her up. But Sylvester barely heard what she was saying. He was thinking about Cheeko and wondering what he had had to do that was so important he missed practice.

After a couple of minutes, Joyce noticed he wasn’t really listening. “What’s the matter? I thought you liked the movie.”

He forced a grin. “I did. I was just thinking about something else, that’s all.”

Joyce shrugged. “Oh, well, I guess I’m not as interesting as a certain guy named Cheeko.”

He had a mouthful of milk shake halfway down his throat and, as he gagged, it almost came up out of his nose. Luckily, he managed to swallow it before gasping out, “How do you know about him?”

“Duane told me.”

“Duane! What did he say?”

Joyce stirred her straw around the glass. “Nothing much, except you think he’s terrific since he’s helping you play better baseball. Maybe even a little dirty baseball.”

“Dirty?”

“Yes, Syl, dirty. What else do you call that cheap shot you took at Russ Skelton yesterday?”

“It wasn’t a cheap shot,” he insisted. “Anyhow, Duane’s been shooting off his mouth too much. Oh, look who just came in — that great fortune-teller, Snooky Malone.”

“Who’s that behind him?”

“A couple of guys on the Macon Falcons.”

He looked past her shoulder at the three of them making their way down the aisle, Snooky leading the way. Duke Farrell, tall and bushy-haired, followed with an arrogant swagger. Steve Button was an inch shorter; he was broad-shouldered and wore a crew cut.

“Hey Joyce! Hey Sylvester!” Snooky exclaimed when he caught sight of them. He stopped directly in front of their booth, blocking the aisle. “How’d you like the movie?”

“You were at the movies?” Joyce asked, looking past him to the burly boys who were waiting impatiently behind Snooky.

“Uh-huh.” Snooky nodded. “Mind if I join you?”

Before Sylvester or Joyce could say a word, Snooky slid into the seat next to her. Duke and Steve shot a dirty look in Syl’s direction, then climbed into the booth next to theirs.

“That’s the dude everybody’s talking about,” Duke said loudly. “The kid who hit all those homers last year and finally got a few measly hits this year.”

“Yeah, but ya’see, Syl-vest-er only hits ’em this year with men on base,” Steve drawled. “Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”