The Home Run Kid Races On

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2010 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

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  Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com

  www.lb-kids.com

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

  First eBook Edition: April 2010

  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.

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

  ISBN: 978-0-316-08856-5

  Contents

  Copyright

  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

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Epilogue

  Read them all!

  1

  Tell me again, why am I going to see some kid play baseball?” Duane Francis asked Sylvester Coddmyer III.

  Sylvester, Duane, and a third boy, Snooky Malone, were riding along a winding bike path to a ball field a few towns away. Syl opened his mouth to answer, but Snooky beat him to it.

  “Because he’s a home run phenom,” Snooky said, “just like Syl was after he met Mr. Baruth. Or Babe Ruth, as we think his real name is!”

  Duane groaned. “Not that story again! I’m telling you, Syl, that man was just some guy going around impersonating Babe Ruth.”

  “Actually,” Syl said hurriedly, “I wanted to see this kid because our team will be playing his team, the Orioles, on Saturday. He plays third base, like you, Duane, so I thought it would be a good idea for you to check out your competition.”

  “But you do think Mr. Baruth could be there, right?” Snooky insisted. “That’s the whole reason I’m coming!”

  Sylvester glanced at his friend. “What do you mean?”

  “My wildest dream is to have a paranormal experience—an experience you, my good friend Syl, have had not once, but three times!” Snooky explained. “I figure my best chance of having one is to stick close to you!”

  Sylvester pedaled faster so he wouldn’t see Duane’s expression. He knew that Duane thought Snooky was an oddball. Not that Syl blamed him; he had trouble believing some of the weird stuff Snooky talked about, too. But then he would think about the strange and wonderful things that had happened in his baseball past… and suddenly, what Snooky believed didn’t seem so far-fetched after all.

  It had all started when Sylvester tried out for his first baseball team, the Hooper Redbirds. He’d always loved baseball, but he soon learned that loving a sport and being good at it were two very different things. Then he met a man named George Baruth.

  Mr. Baruth gave Syl pointers on his stance, his grip, and other parts of his game. Almost immediately, Sylvester began to play better—much better, especially at the plate. After he met Mr. Baruth, he hit a home run in every game!

  Word soon got out about the kid who only hit homers. Reporters showed up to interview him after his games. Photographers took his picture. A national magazine even offered him a lot of money for the rights to his story. They all asked the same question: How was he doing it?

  “I just hit the ball squarely on the nose,” Sylvester told them.

  If they weren’t satisfied with that reply, well, he couldn’t help it. It was the best answer he could give because he wasn’t completely sure himself how he was doing it!

  Snooky, however, claimed to know where Sylvester’s amazing abilities had come from. Snooky had a passion for astrology. He believed that the positions of the stars, the moon, the sun, and the planets affected people’s lives on Earth.

  “You’re a Gemini,” Snooky said, referring to the zodiac sign for people who were born at the end of May. “And right now, Geminis are very powerful. That’s why you’re hitting so well!”

  Syl didn’t buy all that astrology mumbo jumbo. He didn’t believe Snooky when he said Geminis could “see into the beyond” either.

  Not at first, anyway.

  It was only much later, when Syl was knee-deep in an ongoing mystery, that he wondered if there wasn’t something to what Snooky said after all.

  George Baruth was a great help to Sylvester. But he was something of a puzzle, too. For one thing, no one but Syl had ever seen him, not even when Mr. Baruth was sitting in the crowded stands during games. For another, Syl always seemed to play his best when Mr. Baruth was there. By season’s end, Syl couldn’t help but wonder: Who was Mr. Baruth?

  The mystery deepened the next year when Syl met a man named Cheeko. Like Mr. Baruth, Cheeko offered Syl suggestions on how to improve his game. Cheeko claimed to be friends with Mr. Baruth, so Sylvester trusted his advice.

  Later on, however, he realized that Cheeko wasn’t teaching him to play better, he was teaching him to play dirty. Sylvester refused to have anything to do with him after that—and the same afternoon, Cheeko vanished.

  Syl made a startling discovery soon afterward, when he saw an old baseball card of the most famous ballplayer ever. The player was home run slugger George Herman “Babe” Ruth, and he looked exactly like Mr. Baruth!

  Syl also found a card of an infamous pitcher named Eddie Cicotte. In 1919, Cicotte and seven of his teammates lost the World Series on purpose in order to collect money from gamblers. When word of their plot got out, Cicotte and the other guilty players—the “Black Sox,” as they were later called—were banned from professional baseball forever.

  Amazingly, the pitcher was the spitting image of Cheeko!

  The mystery didn’t end there, either. Just this past summer, Syl met a man named Charlie Comet. Charlie taught Syl how to be a switch-hitter—that is, to bat right-handed or left-handed with equal skill. Switch-hitting came in quite handy, Syl soon discovered.

  And he discovered something else, too. Charlie Comet looked just like a famous switch-hitter, Mickey Mantle!

  That made it three times that Syl had been befriended and coached by men who looked identical to star baseball players. Duane suggested that the men were actors impersonating ballplayers who had died long ago, or that they just happened to look like those players.

  Syl wasn’t convinced. The only explanation he could come up with—as unlikely as it seemed—was that the men were ghosts of the famous players. Maybe, he thought, Snooky’s belief that Syl could “see into the beyond” wasn’t so far-fetched after all.

  2

  Duane and Snooky caught up to Sylvester on the bike path.

  “I’m sorry, Snook, I just don’t believe in that otherworldly stuff,” Duane was saying. “And don’t take this the wrong way, Syl, but why the heck would Babe Ruth bother with you?”

  “You think I haven’t asked myself that?” Syl retorted. “All I know is what he once told me—that he was just helping me realize my potential.”

  Snooky nodded knowingly. “And now you think he’s helping some o
ther kid realize his potential, right?”

  Sylvester didn’t answer. But that was precisely what he’d been thinking.

  “Or maybe,” Duane offered, “this home run king is the real deal. You ever think of that possibility?”

  “Sure,” Syl said, “which is why it makes sense to check him out! So let’s stop talking about Mr. Baruth and get to the field.”

  “Okay,” Duane said, “but I’m doing it for the good of the Comets, not Snooky’s cosmos!”

  The boys arrived at the ball park just in time for the start of the Orioles-Jackdaws game.

  Sylvester settled in the bleachers with his friends. Then, as casually as he could, he scanned the faces around him. But he didn’t see Mr. Baruth. His gaze wandered back to the field—and suddenly, he spotted a lone figure standing just beyond the Orioles’ dugout. The man was tall, over six feet, and he was wearing an old-fashioned baseball cap.

  Syl’s heart leaped into his throat—and then just as quickly sank back down again.

  It wasn’t him. Mr. Baruth was stocky and had a round, moon-shaped face, a big nose, and a wide grin that lit up his whole face when he smiled. This man, on the other hand, appeared lean and muscular, and he was scowling. He also had prominent ears that stuck out on either side of his head. Those ears might have given him a comical look if not for that scowl.

  Definitely not Mr. Baruth! Syl thought.

  The sudden crack of bat meeting ball snapped his attention back to the field. Syl jumped up, certain he’d just missed the Orioles’ phenom clobber a home run. It took him a moment to see that the batter had only made a base hit.

  Of course the home run kid wasn’t the batter, he berated himself. Any coach worth his salt would have his top slugger batting cleanup, not leading off!

  The next Oriole batter struck out. Syl watched sympathetically as he trudged back to the dugout. He’d been there himself, plenty of times.

  The third hitter fouled off two pitches and then tapped a short dribbler in the grass toward the first baseline. The pitcher nabbed the ball and threw to first for the out. The first baseman quickly relayed the ball to second, but that runner was safe.

  Sylvester barely noticed. His attention was on the Oriole moving from the on-deck circle to the plate. The boy was the fourth batter in the lineup—the cleanup position.

  “That’s him,” he muttered. “It’s gotta be.”

  Sure enough, when the Oriole batter stepped into the batter’s box, everyone in the stands buzzed with excitement.

  Syl craned his neck, trying to get a better look at the slugger’s stance. How was he holding the bat? How were his feet placed? Was he a righty or a lefty? Sylvester hoped to see something—anything—that would tell him why this boy was such a good hitter.

  But he saw nothing out of the ordinary. From the stands, the batter looked like any other player waiting for a good pitch to come his way.

  That good pitch didn’t come, however. The Jackdaws’ hurler glanced at his coach and nodded. The catcher stood up and took a step to one side.

  “Aw, man, he’s going to walk him intentionally!” a fan in the stands complained. “Come on, it’s only the first inning! Let him hit it!”

  But the pitcher gave the Oriole a free ticket to first.

  “You’ll get one next time!” the same fan shouted.

  Two innings later, however, when the home run kid got up a second time, he struck out.

  The slugger didn’t get up to bat again until the fifth inning. The Orioles were threatening with two runners on base and no outs. The Jackdaws’ pitcher conferred with his coach—should he walk the Oriole, or pitch to him?

  The coach must have signaled for him to pitch, perhaps hoping that the slugger would strike out or hit into a double play. If so, his hopes were dashed.

  One pitch. One swing. And boom! The kid’s bat connected squarely with the ball! It was a powerful hit, no doubt about it, but Syl thought the center fielder had a chance to catch it. He was wrong. The fielder misjudged where the ball was going to drop, and instead of landing in his glove, it fell on the far side of the fence.

  “Holy cow!” Duane shouted.

  The fans cheered as the runners jogged around the bases toward home. The slugger slapped hands with his teammates and smiled—a smile that widened as a man wearing a press badge snapped his photo.

  An unexpected worm of jealousy wriggled in Syl’s stomach. He swallowed hard and sat down.

  Everyone else sat, too, except Snooky. “Man, oh man!” he cried in his high-pitched voice. “I’ve never seen a ball hit quite like that! Not even by you, Sylvester!”

  Several people, including the home run kid and the newspaper photographer, turned to look at them.

  “Pipe down, will you, Snooky?” Syl muttered, squirming.

  The photographer studied Syl as if trying to place him. Then he snapped his fingers. “I know you! You’re Sylvester Coddmyer the Third, the kid who only hit homers a while ago! I took your picture for the newspaper, remember?”

  More spectators swiveled to stare. Syl hunched his shoulders, wishing that the bleachers beneath him would open up so he could escape.

  The photographer didn’t seem to notice Syl’s discomfort. “You sure were the big story back then,” he said with a chuckle. “So what’s your story now? Still playing ball? Here to check out your number one competition?” He held up his camera. “How about a photo with you and the Orioles’ slugger together?”

  “No!” Sylvester hadn’t meant to shout, but he couldn’t take the man’s questions, or the curious stares, any longer. He jumped up and thudded awkwardly down the bleachers.

  “Syl! Wait!” Duane yelled.

  But Sylvester didn’t stop. He grabbed his bike and pedaled away from the ballpark as fast as his legs could take him.

  3

  The pavement beneath Sylvester’s wheels twisted and turned, taking him past businesses, into and out of neighborhoods, and finally onto the bike path that went through an area of rolling hills and empty fields. After a while, he looked up and realized he didn’t know where he was—or how he’d gotten there.

  He stopped, wondering what he should do.

  Just then, he heard a familiar sound. Thock! Somewhere nearby, someone had just hit a baseball; he was sure of it. But where?

  Thock!

  It’s coming from up ahead! He pushed off toward the sound. He figured whoever was hitting those balls could give him directions back to town.

  He rounded a corner and spotted a man standing in a tree-rimmed baseball field. There were bases marking the diamond, but the area looked as if it hadn’t been in use for some time.

  The field’s condition didn’t seem to bother the man, however. He hefted a wooden baseball bat above his shoulder, tossed a ball high in the air, and swung.

  Thock!

  Syl whistled softly. The man had an unusual grip, with his hands spread apart on the bat rather than close together, but his swing was powerful. The ball didn’t soar into the sky. Instead, it sizzled straight into the trunk of a big oak tree. When it hit, birds flew from the branches above and leaves fluttered to the ground below.

  Syl barely noticed, however. He was too busy staring at the man in open-mouthed amazement.

  The second after he’d hit the ball, the man let go of his bat and took off at a full sprint. He rounded first base and continued to second. Then he dropped into a classic slide—feet first, bottom leg bent, top leg stretched out to touch the bag. The metal spikes on the soles of his shoes winked in the late afternoon sunlight and then disappeared in a cloud of dust.

  Syl waited until the man hopped to his feet before speaking. “Boy, I wish I could move like that!”

  The man whirled around, a look of surprise on his face. Sylvester blinked in sudden recognition. It was the man from the game, the one with the jug-handle ears!

  “Hey, weren’t you at the Orioles-Jackdaws…” Sylvester started to ask. But then he caught the man’s expression and left the rest of his
question unfinished.

  The look of surprise hardened into the same angry scowl that the man had worn during the game. Sylvester dropped his eyes. As he did, he saw something on the man’s pant leg that made him suck in his breath.

  Spots of blood were mingling with the grass and dirt stains on the material. Syl realized that the man was wearing old-fashioned baseball pants—ones that had no padding whatsoever!

  That slide must have scraped the skin clean off his leg! he thought.

  “How you?” the man suddenly barked.

  Syl started, looked up, and met a gaze so penetrating that he turned tongue-tied.

  “S-s-sorry if I—I was wondering if you could point me back toward town?” he finally managed to say. “But I guess I could just retrace my steps.” He started to turn his bike around, feeling foolish for not having thought of that sooner.

  “Stop right there!” The man had a slight Southern accent, like the characters in a Civil War movie Syl had once seen. But it wasn’t his accent that kept Syl rooted to the spot—it was his tone. He was a man who expected to be obeyed.

  The man’s eyes bored into Syl as if he were trying to see into Syl’s mind.

  “I know who you are,” he said at last. “You’re Sylvester Coddmyer the Third. You hit home runs.”

  Syl’s mouth turned as dry as dust. “How do you know who I am?”

  “How do I know who you are?” the man echoed Sylvester’s question mockingly. “I’ve got ears, don’t I?”

  Sylvester remembered then how the photographer had yelled his name and mentioned his past home run history. The man must have overheard that back at the game. How else would he know who I am?

  Unless… Syl felt a familiar tingling crawl up his spine. He eyed the man’s old-fashioned baseball clothes. Could he be another part of my mystery?

  “So you were some kind of home run hitter once, huh?” The man shrugged dismissively. “Can’t say I’m too impressed by that. Any baboon can hit a home run. Now base hits, those are harder to knock out regularly. Bet a certain someone you know never told you that though, did he?”