Return of the Home Run Kid Read online

  Copyright © 1992 by Matt Christopher Royalties, Inc.

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Little, Brown and Company

  Hachette Book Group

  237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017

  Visit our Web site at www.HachetteBookGroup.com.

  www.mattchristopher.com

  First eBook Edition: November 2008

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  The Little, Brown and Company name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  Matt Christopher® is a registered trademark of Matt Christopher Royalties, Inc.

  ISBN: 978-0-316-04816-3

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  1

  Crack!

  Sylvester Coddmyer III dropped the bat and stared deep into the outfield. The ball soared over the center fielder’s outstretched glove. It was heading toward the fence. It was going over. It was going … going …

  “Wake up, Sylvester! ” Coach Stan Corbins raw voice cut through the cool spring air. “Did you come here to play baseball or nap?”

  Pulling his cap over his thatch of blond hair, Sylvester blinked and jumped up. He’d been dozing at the far end of the bench. The dugout was so warm, and he really hadn’t expected to hear his name called. After all, he hardly ever got to play these days.

  It was such a nice dream, too. It reminded him of last season when he was the Hooper Redbirds’leading hitter. Back then it seemed as if he could hit nothing but home runs — except for the last game. He had struck out twice before getting a double, but that drove in what turned out to be the winning runs. That amazing season had earned Sylvester a trophy for being the best athlete in the histoiy of Hooper Junior High.

  To this day, he felt it was all due to Mr. Baruth. Sylvester wasn’t even good enough to be considered a so-so player until that mysterious stranger showed up and started giving him pointers.

  But Mr. Baruth had left town almost as suddenly as he had appeared. This season there was no outside help. At first Sylvester had figured he didn’t need any. He thought he’d just show up and start belting the ball without a lot of effort or a lot of practice. It hadn’t happened that way. Coasting along just didn’t work, and his game had turned dismal. The coach really had no reason to let him play.

  Now it was the top of the fourth inning, the score 3–0 in the Seneca Indians’ favor, and the coach had decided that Bobby Kent, the Redbirds’ star outfielder, needed a rest.

  “Grab your glove, Sylvester, and take Bobby’s place out in center. Bobby, you’ve done well, ldd. Take a break,” said the coach.

  The Redbirds’ tall center fielder looked surprised. He glanced over at the short and stocky Sylvester and smirked as he flopped down on the bench.

  Thanks for the vote of confidence, Bobby, Sylvester thought with a scowl. Just because you’re hot out there now.… Well, I can tell you it doesn’t always last.

  Glove in hand, Sylvester ran out of the dugout and nearly tripped on his straggling shoelaces. He’d loosened them when he felt his feet getting cramped from dangling off the bench. Quickly tying them, he ran off toward his playing position.

  “Hi, Syl!” yelled Ted Sobel from his position in left field. Dressed in his Redbird red uniform with white trim, Ted looked neat and bright, like a Christmas ornament.

  “Hi!” replied Sylvester. It felt good to be out on the field with the sun shining down on him. It was a little bit like last year when, following Mr. Baruth’s coaching tips, he’d made a series of fantastic catches on top of his great hitting. Maybe the coach and his teammates remembered how well he had played, after all.

  “Hey, Syl,” Les Kendall, the right fielder, greeted him offhandedly.

  Les was the team’s second leading hitter — right after that new kid, Trent Sturgis, who played shortstop. Trent did a good job fielding, but it was his hitting streak that made him the focus of everyone’s attention.

  As Syl mentally compared Trent’s playing abilities to his own, his confidence sagged. He forgot all about Mr. Baruth and silently wished that any balls hit to the outfield would go to either left or right field.

  The infield chatter rattled on as the Indians’ catcher, Scott Corrigan, stepped into the batter’s box. Wearing a black-trimmed yellow uniform, Scott was the Indians’ cleanup hitter. So far he’d gotten a two-bagger.

  Scott took two balls and a strike, then laced one deep to left.

  “Back! Back!” Sylvester yelled to Ted as the ball rose in a high arc over the field.

  Ted raced back as far as he could go, then watched as the ball soared over his head and disappeared behind the fence.

  As he turned and watched Scott trot around the bases, Sylvester groaned. No need to hurry, he thought. I know just how he feels. A pang of envy pinched somewhere deep in his chest.

  Rooster Adams was up next and slammed a low, clothesline drive straight out to center field. Sylvester’s heart leapt into his throat as he saw the ball coming directly at him.

  Mr. Baruth sprang into his mind. Remember what he told you. Keep your eye right on that ball and get under it. Sylvester ran forward, his arm stretched out in front of him.

  Splat! The ball smacked into the pocket of his glove. And then it vanished.

  He searched the green turf around his feet, thinking that he had dropped it.

  “Your glove! Your glove, Syl!” Ted yelled at him from over in left field.

  Sylvester looked at his glove and his heart uncoiled like an overwound spring. There, nesting in the center of the well-oiled glove, was the red-and-blue-threaded white ball.

  He breathed a sigh of relief, picked out the ball, and tossed it to Jim Cowley, the Redbirds’ second baseman.

  “Good catch, Syl!” Jim called to him.

  Syl’s smile faded. Was Jim surprised he’d made a good catch or was he saying that to be nice?

  He wondered whether Joyce Dancer was in the stands and what she thought of his catch. Joyce was twelve, a year younger than Sylvester, but they spent a lot of time with each other. They’d just started going to movies together.

  There was no time to think about that. He had to pay attention to the game.

  Stan Falls, up next, rapped out a single over shortstop. Then Jon Buckley struck out. Terry Barnes, the Redbirds’ pitcher, was erratic today first hot, then cold. Sylvester remembered the two batters he’d fanned in the first inning as well as the three runs he’d given up to the Indians in the second.

  “C’mon, Terry! Strike ’em out!” Sylvester yelled as the Indians’ shortstop, Dick Wasser, stepped into the box.

  Dick hugged the plate as if he were defending it. He let two of Terry’s pitches go by for strikes, then took a walk as Terry flubbed the next four.

  Two out, two on as the Indians’ pitcher, Burk Riley, came to bat.

  “Easy out!” Sylvester yelled. “Easy out!” Burks bat had hardly touched the ball so far today.

  Burk took a c
alled strike, then laced Terry’s next pitch to right center field. Both Sylvester and Les Kendall raced toward the ball. Les got there first, scooped it up, and heaved it to third base. But his throw was short. Dick Wasser held up on third. Stan Falls raced in to score.

  Bus Riley, the Indians’ leadoff batter, then flied out to left to end the inning.

  Seneca Indians 5, Hooper Redbirds 0.

  Sylvester ran off the field, glad that the half inning was over without any disasters on his part. He had made a good catch, but what if he had missed it? What would happen next time a ball came at him like that? Would he remember what he’d learned from Mr. Baruth again? All these thoughts seemed to bounce around in his head at the same time, making him nervous.

  “Grab a bat, Sylvester!” the red-haired, freckle-faced scorekeeper Billy Haywood called to him as he came trotting off the field. “Start it off with a big one, pal!”

  Start it off? Sylvester hadn’t realized he’d be up at bat so soon. This made him even more nervous than he’d been in the field.

  Sylvester took a couple of deep breaths, hoping that would help calm him down.

  He yanked his maroon batting gloves out of his pocket, slipped them on, selected a bat — a brown one with white tape around the handle — put on a helmet, and strode to the plate.

  Heart racing, he scraped the dirt with his shoes, pretending to get a better grip by digging them in. Time, just a little more time. That’s all he needed. Time for his heartbeat to slow down.

  Burk steamed in two pitches, a ball and a strike. Then came another pitch that looked as good as any Sylvester could hope for.

  Clunk! Bat barely connected with ball, and the ball rolled away from the plate like a frightened worm.

  Sylvester dropped his bat and raced for first base, knowing all the while that his short legs would never beat the throw. It was a sure out. He could practically hear the call.

  Suddenly, there was a yell from the crowd, and he saw the ball fly over the first baseman’s head. It was a rotten throw! What a break!

  He touched first and ran on to second, where he stayed, listening to applause from the Redbirds’ supporters and boos from the Indians’.

  “Hey, Codfish,” yelled one of the Indians’ fans. “You know what? You’re just lucky!”

  That stung, but Sylvester tried to brush it off. Sticks and stones, he thought. Mr. Barutli had pointed out that there were characters like that in every crowd — and that you just had to ignore them. Instead, he tried to concentrate on the next batter.

  Duane Francis, the Redbirds’ sandy-haired third baseman and Sylvesters closest friend on the team, took the first pitch — a strike — then rapped the next one between center and left field for a double, to score his pal.

  “Nice going, Syl,” second baseman Jim Cowley called as he came into the dugout.

  Nobody else said anything. They hardly looked at him. It even seemed as though Trent Sturgis, bat in hand, deliberately turned away as Sylvester walked by him.

  “Okay, bring him in, Eddie!” shouted Coach Corbin, standing and clapping in the third base coaching box.

  Catcher Eddie Exton didn’t. He fanned out. Terry, up next, bounced a one-hopper to the pitcher for the second out. Sylvester groaned with his teammates as they saw one of their best hitters go down.

  It was now Jim Cowley s turn at bat.

  “Out of the lot, Jim!” Sylvester yelled.

  Jim’s hit off the first pitch didn’t go out of the lot, but it was good enough for a single, scoring Duane.

  That was the last hit of the inning. Seneca Indians 5, Hooper Redbirds 2.

  Terry and the Redbirds’ defense held the Indians in check in the top of the fifth. In the bottom of the inning, with Les on first, thanks to a walk, and Trent on first by virtue of a clean single to short right field, the first baseman, Jerry Ash, flied out. That brought Sylvester up to the plate.

  “Okay, Syl!” yelled the coach. “Let’s see you clean the bases!”

  Sylvester swung at Burks first three pitches. He missed every one of them.

  2

  Booooo!” yelled the same Indians’ fan who’d called him names before. “You know what? You really stink! Like a dead codfish!”

  Sylvester knew better, but the words still stung. As he headed for the dugout, he felt like a total failure. Of all the dumb times to strike out, he thought.

  It wasn’t like this last year, he reminded himself. He would have gotten a three-run homer if he was hitting like back then. That would have shut up that wise guy!

  Yeah, but that was then. This is now. He couldn’t avoid reminding himself of that, too.

  “No sweat,” said his pal Duane, as he passed Sylvester on his way to the plate. “You’ll get ’em next time.”

  Sure, thought Sylvester sourly. Next time.

  Duane singled to keep things alive, but then Eddie Exton struck out.

  Indians 5, Redbirds 3.

  Stan Falls, leading off for the Indians in the top of the sixth and last inning, hit a three-two pitch to deep center field. As it came at him, Sylvester wished that it would be deep enough to sail over the fence.

  It wasn’t. Still, he only had to back up a few steps and it would be his.

  But the ball hit the tip of his glove, not its pocket, and glanced off onto the ground.

  “Oh, no!” he groaned, as he sprang forward, retrieved the ball, and pegged it in to second base to hold the runner at first.

  He could almost hear that obnoxious Indians’ fan yelling at him in the midst of all the shouting from the stands.

  Jon Buckley grounded out, and Dick Wasser flied out to right field. That brought up Burk Riley, the Indians’ pitcher. It should have been an easy out, but Burk walked.

  Two men on, two out, and Bus Riley, Burks brother, came up next.

  Crack! He lambasted Terry’s first pitch directly at Trent, who caught it for the third out.

  It was the Redbirds’ final opportunity to win the game. As Sylvester joined his teammates in the dugout, Bobby Kent snorted.

  “I don’t know why the coach put you in, Codd-myer,” Bobby said. “Maybe you were a hotshot last year, but you’re nothin’ but a cold turkey now.”

  Sylvester’s face turned beet red.

  “I didn’t ask him to,” he mumbled. “It was his own idea.”

  Trent, who was sitting nearby, cut in smugly. “Maybe he feels he has to, just because you’re wearing a uniform.” The tall shortstop had already acquired quite a reputation as an up-and-coming ballplayer with a batting average of over.400. Add to this a really good throwing arm and the result was an inflated ego.

  Sylvester’s heart sank. After all, he thought, just because I love to play doesn’t mean I’m any good for the team. I was great last year, but where does that put me now?

  “Here we go, Terry!” The sound of Coach Corbin encouraging Terry Barnes called Syl back to the present. Terry gave it his best as he led off with a single between third base and shortstop. Syl joined in the cheers. He figured maybe if the Redbirds pulled it out in the end, the fans would forget about his stupid fielding error. Even his freak hit had been stupid. It was just by luck that he’d gotten on base.

  “Way to go!” Coach Corbin called from the third base coaching box. “Okay, Jim! Lets keep it going!”

  But Jim flied out, and so did Ted. Then Trent Sturgis stepped into the batters box.

  “C’mon, Trent!” Sylvester yelled, forgetting for a moment how Trent had snubbed him. Right now, all he wanted was for the Redbirds to win.

  Trent walked.

  The Redbirds were still alive!

  “Atta boy, Trent!” Sylvester cheered along with the fans in the stands. “Lets keep it rolling, Les!”

  Les didn’t. He hit a pitch sky-high to the third baseman, and the Indians took the game, 5–3.

  As the disappointed team left the dugout, Sylvester kept his cap pulled low over his forehead.

  “Syl! Sylvester Coddmyer!”

  Syl rec
ognized the high-pitched voice calling to him. He got a little flustered when he turned and saw Joyce Dancer running toward him from the bleachers.

  “Syl… oh, Syl!” he heard Bobby chant in a mocking, girlish voice, tickling Trent’s funny bone as they drifted off in gales of laughter.

  But the two wise guys made no impression on the young girl. Her deeply tanned arms, a result of long sessions on the tennis court, were wrapped around a healthy stack of books.

  “Hi, Syl,” she said, as she got closer to him. “Some game, huh?”

  “Yeah,” he mumbled, his voice barely audible.

  He slowed his pace to make sure they wouldn’t catch up with Bobby and Trent. It was no secret that he and Joyce were friends. But he didn’t want to have to deal with those guys.

  “Cheer up,” Joyce said, breaking out in a big smile. “So you lost a ball game, not a war.”

  “To me it is a war,” Sylvester grumbled.

  “That’s really nuts. But I know how you feel,” Joyce said.

  “You think so?”

  “Sure I think so. I play tennis, remember? I’ve lost my share of matches. You don’t think I like losing, do you?”

  “’Course not. But you always look good, whether you win or lose,” Sylvester said. Then he realized his words could be taken more than one way.

  Joyce chuckled, hiking up the books in her arms. “Thanks, but I don’t always feel good. I’m human, too!”

  By now, they’d come to the end of a block.

  “But you don’t think that it’s just like a war?” he asked.

  “Nope.” She laughed. “Not even a military conflict.”

  He finally laughed, too. “I guess you’re right,” he said. “It’s just hard. I mean, I want to be good — at least some of the time — but it never happens lately.”

  “Yeah, being in a slump is the pits,” she said. “Hey, you just have to do the best you can to get out of it. It’s the only way it’s going to happen.”

  “Thank you very much for your prescription, Dr. Dancer,” he joked, a big grin on his face.

  In fact, Joyces cheerful nature was a little like medicine to him. He felt like taking her hand and squeezing it gently. Sometimes they held hands at the movies. But he wouldn’t dare do that here, out in the open. He could imagine how the other guys would howl and jeer if they saw.