Comeback of the Home Run Kid Read online

  Man, he thought as he listened to the bat hum through the air, it's good to hold one of these again!

  He took up his stance. He was a righty, so he stood to the left of the plate with his left leg forward, the bat above his right shoulder.

  When Syl was ready, Duane fired a pitch toward the plate.

  The moment he saw Duane let loose, Syl began his swing. He lifted his left foot a few inches off the ground and rotated his upper body backward to move the bat farther behind him. Then he planted his left foot on the ground, twisted his hips and shoulders toward the mound, and brought the bat around. The whole motion was automatic and took only seconds.

  Then, as the bat reached the spot where it would meet the ball, he straightened his front leg — and felt a sharp stab of pain in his left ankle.

  “Ow!” He whiffed the pitch, dropped the bat, and clutched his ankle.

  Duane hurried over, looking anxious. “What happened?”

  But Sylvester couldn't answer because his throat was suddenly tight with tears. Instead, he dipped his head, removed his brace, and rubbed his ankle until the pain subsided.

  “Guess I'm still not one hundred percent,” he said finally, his voice thick with dismay.

  “So you're not ready to hit just yet,” Duane said. “You can still throw and catch, right?” He checked his watch. “I've got about ten minutes before I'm supposed to be home. Want to toss it back and forth some more?”

  But Sylvester no longer felt like playing catch. He stood up, using the bat like a crutch. “I dunno, Duane. I think I'll head home, put ice on my ankle for a while.”

  A shadow of disappointment crossed Duane's face. But he didn't protest. “Okay, Syl. Want me to come over after my dentist appointment? We can play another board game or something.”

  Syl just shrugged and looked away.

  After a moment, Duane stuck his glove on the fat end of his bat. “Well, see you around, I guess.” He retrieved his baseball, shouldered the bat, and walked off the field.

  Syl watched him go. Then he swung his bat at a small stone. “Rats,” he murmured as the pebble bounced into the grass. He put the brace back on, picked up his glove, and set off for home.

  5

  Sylvester hadn't gone more than a block when he heard someone call his name.

  “Syl! Sylvester Coddmyer the Third!”

  He turned around and saw a big blond man in a baseball cap, sweatshirt, and sweat pants jogging toward him. Sylvester's eyes widened when he saw the cap had a New York Yankees insignia above the brim.

  “You're the guy who helped me after I hurt my ankle!” he cried in astonishment. “I thought I'd dreamed you up!”

  The man laughed. “Better a dream than a nightmare! How've you been, pal?” He took a step toward Syl.

  As the man loomed closer, Syl had a sudden thought. Maybe he hadn't dreamed up this guy — but that didn't mean the man was okay. He was a stranger.

  “Um, I think I'd better be going, mister,” he said, edging away.

  The man blinked. Then a look of understanding crossed his face. “Syl,” he said quietly. “I'm not going to hurt you. In fact, I want to help you.”

  Syl continued to back away. “Thanks anyway, but I don't need any help.”

  The man took off his cap and scratched his head. “I understand your caution. Being wary of strangers is smart.” He put his cap back on. “Tell you what. I'm going to head over to the baseball diamond. If you change your mind, you can find me there.”

  He started to walk away. Then he turned back. “By the way, the pain you're having in your ankle when you swing? I have an idea that might help.”

  Syl's jaw dropped. “How did you know about that?”

  The man shrugged. “Lucky guess.”

  Sylvester watched him go. As he did, he thought about Mr. Baruth and Cheeko. Both of those men had been strangers, too. And both had given him pointers that had improved his game. Sure, Cheeko's tips hadn't been on the up-and-up, but he wouldn't have traded Mr. Baruth's advice for the world.

  “I wish he were here right now,” Syl said out loud. “He'd know if it was okay to go with that guy or not.”

  “With what guy?”

  Syl whirled around and came face-to-face with a skinny kid with glasses.

  “Snooky!” he cried. “Man, don't sneak up on me like that!”

  It was Snooky Malone. Snooky was a nice enough kid, if a little weird. He believed in astrology and was interested in anything to do with the paranormal. Ghosts, extrasensory perception, mythical beings — those were the things Snooky liked. He often tracked Sylvester down to tell him the latest predictions he'd gleaned from reading Sylvester's star charts and horoscopes. Syl had to admit that sometimes Snooky's predictions were pretty accurate. Snooky liked baseball, too, so Syl usually didn't mind hanging out with him.

  “Sorry, Syl. I thought you heard me come up,” Snooky said now. “Why are you standing here talking to yourself?”

  Sylvester reddened. “I, uh, I was just thinking out loud. Listen, I gotta go. See ya, Snooky.”

  “Wait! I have something to show you!” He pulled a piece of newspaper out of his pocket and cleared his throat.

  Sylvester groaned. “Snooky, how many times do I have to tell you that I'm not interested in hearing my horoscope?”

  Snooky looked offended. “I'm not here to tell you about that, although now that you mention it, today's reading did say something about a comet entering your —”

  Syl groaned again.

  “Okay, okay.” Snooky grumbled. “Forget the horoscope. But you might want to hear this!” He adjusted his glasses, consulted the paper, and began to read.

  “Teams for this summer's fourteen-and-under baseball league were announced this week. There will be six squads in all, made up of players from the nearby towns of Hooper, Lansing, Macon, and Broton. The teams will be called —”

  Snooky broke off. “Okay, that's not the interesting part. Hold on, hold on.” He scanned the article. “Wait, here it is!

  “This reporter spoke with the coach for the Hooper Hawks, Stan Corbin. Coach Corbin expressed his enthusiasm for the coming season, adding, ‘I'm especially looking forward to seeing how the star of my last team, Sylvester Coddmyer the Third, will perform this time around.’ Coddmyer, readers may remember, astounded baseball fans two years ago with — hey, Syl! Where are you going?”

  But Syl didn't answer. He'd stopped listening once he'd heard the quote from Coach Corbin. Now he was hurrying back to the ballpark as fast as his sore ankle would take him, hoping that the big blond, man would still be there.

  6

  I knew it, Syl thought anxiously. The coach is counting on me to be his number one player again this year! I've got to get all the help I can.

  He spotted the man with the Yankees cap sitting on the bench beside the baseball diamond. Near him was a bucket filled with baseballs.

  Syl didn't approach him right away, however. Instead, he ducked behind a tree and looked around the park. In the distance he saw a group of kids starting a game of kickball. In another section two girls were tossing a Frisbee back and forth. The playground was swarming, with preschoolers busy climbing, swinging, and sliding while their mothers watched over them and chatted with one another.

  Seeing so many people around, including several adults, made Syl feel safe. He came out from behind the tree.

  “Hey, mister?”

  The man waved. “Syl! I take it you changed you mind?”

  Sylvester joined him on the bench. “Yeah, but can I ask you something first?”

  “Ask away.”

  “Do you know Mr. George Baruth?”

  The man looked surprised. “George Baruth? I've heard of him. But have I ever met him? No. And I can tell you right now, he's never heard of me.” Then he smiled. “But I think we'd be friends if we ever did meet. We've got a lot in common.”

  Syl thought about the man's answer. He knew he'd feel better if the blond man had said he was Mr. Baruth
's friend. But he guessed he had to appreciate the fact that he hadn't lied to him about it, the way Cheeko had.

  “Anything else, Syl?”

  “Um, just one other thing,” Sylvester replied. “What's your name?”

  Now the man laughed. “How about you call me Charlie Comet?”

  Syl blinked. “Charlie … Comet?” Hadn't Snooky said his horoscope mentioned a comet? Weird!

  “Way back when some people used to call me the Comet,” the man explained.

  Sylvester wanted to ask why but didn't get the chance because Charlie tossed a ball from the bucket to him.

  “We could stand here and talk about nicknames all day,” Charlie said. “But personally, I'd rather be playing ball. Wouldn't you?”

  Sylvester gestured toward his ankle. “You said you had an idea that might keep my ankle from hurting?”

  Charlie brightened. “I thought you'd never ask!” He picked up a bat and crossed to home plate. “Throw me a few pitches, will you?”

  Sylvester put on his glove and walked to the mound. Charlie took up a right-handed stance. Sylvester hurled the ball with as much speed and accuracy as he could muster.

  The ball zipped toward the plate. Charlie swung. Crack! It was a hard grounder right back at the mound. Sylvester crouched and scooped up the ball with his glove.

  “Good,” Charlie said. “Now send that pill my way again!”

  Once more Syl threw. This time, Charlie connected down low and lofted the ball high into the sky. Sylvester took a few steps back and got under it. But when the ball came down, it bounced off the tip of his glove and fell behind him.

  “Rats!” Sylvester said. He retrieved the ball and turned to face Charlie again. His eyes widened with surprise.

  Charlie was in his batting stance. But this time, instead of hitting righty, he was in position to bat lefty!

  7

  Sylvester hesitated, wondering if Charlie had made a mistake. But Charlie motioned for him to throw. So Syl did — and Charlie walloped the ball far into the outfield.

  “Wow! Great hit!” Syl yelled, twisting around to see where the ball landed.

  Charlie grinned broadly. “Thank you kindly! Think you could do that, too?”

  “I don't know,” Sylvester admitted. “I've hit plenty of homers, but —”

  Charlie's laugh interrupted him. “I wasn't talking about the hit, Syl.” He carried the bucket of balls to the pitcher's mound. “What I meant was, do you think you could bat lefty?”

  Sylvester gaped. “Bat lefty?” he echoed. “But I'm right-handed!”

  “So am I!” Charlie's eyes twinkled. “When I was a young boy, my dad taught me how to switch-hit. He practiced with me for hours until hitting both righty and lefty felt natural.”

  “But why would it matter?” Syl asked. “I mean, looks to me like you can hit really well from the right.”

  “True. But a strong switch-hitter can be good for a team. Lefties hit better against right-handed pitchers, and vice versa. If you're a switch-hitter, it doesn't matter who's on the mound, because you can hit a southpaw or a righty equally well.”

  “I never thought about that,” Syl said.

  “Well, my dad did,” Charlie said. “He believed I had a talent for baseball and thought if I could switch-hit I'd go farther than if I just hit righty.”

  “And did you?”

  A ghost of a smile crossed Charlie's face. “I went far enough.” He held out the bat to Sylvester. “So want to give it a try?”

  Sylvester didn't take the bat right away. “I don't know, Charlie. I'm already having problems batting righty. I doubt I'll be any better from the other side.”

  “Won't know until you give it a go,” Charlie quipped. “Come on. I've got a good feeling about this.”

  So Syl took the bat, walked to the batter's box to the right of home plate, and got into a stance. It felt strange to hold the bat above his left shoulder instead of his right and to turn the right side of his body toward the mound instead of his left.

  Charlie chose a ball from the bucket. “Ready?” he called.

  Sylvester nodded.

  “Then here comes one, nice and easy.” Charlie threw. The ball seemed to float toward home plate. Syl swung — and missed completely.

  “Well, that stunk!” he grumbled.

  Charlie laughed. “Hey, it's only your first try! Take some slow-motion practice swings to get the feel for it.”

  Syl took up a lefty stance again and swung the bat as if to meet an incoming pitch. As he lifted his right foot off the ground to step into the swing, he felt a slight twinge in his left ankle. But it was nothing compared to the pain he'd felt when he'd batted against Duane earlier, so he ignored it.

  After he'd swung half a dozen times, he picked up the ball he'd missed, planning to throw it back to Charlie. But instead, he tossed it high above his head and tried to hit it.

  Thock! He sent the small white sphere bouncing through the grassy infield between first and second.

  “I did it!” Sylvester cried in astonishment.

  Charlie applauded by thumping his bare hand against his glove. “Well done! Now let's see you hit a pitch!” He grabbed a ball from the bucket.

  Syl returned to the right side of the batter's box. I'm going to really clock that ball this time! he thought gleefully.

  But when the ball came, he whiffed. On the next pitch, he managed to connect but only for a little dribbler that stopped a few feet from the plate. He missed the next three pitches, tapped a foul ball down the first baseline on the fourth, and then lost track of the number of times he hit nothing but air. Soon the ground behind Sylvester was littered with baseballs — and Sylvester's mood had gone from excited to disappointed to downright black.

  “I can't do it,” he mumbled when Charlie approached with the empty bucket. “I might as well just give up now”

  Charlie raised his eyebrows but didn't say anything. Instead, he began filling the bucket. Sylvester sighed and reached for the nearest ball.

  “Got a question for you,” Charlie said suddenly. “How's your ankle feel?”

  Sylvester straightened. “It doesn't feel so bad!” he replied with dawning amazement. “A little sore, but …”

  He sat down, took off the ankle brace, and rubbed at the dull ache. Then he looked up at Charlie. “Is it because I've been batting lefty?”

  Charlie nodded. “Think about the mechanics of the right-handed swing,” he said. He hefted a bat and got into a righty stance. Moving in slow motion, he lifted his front foot —his left foot — a few inches and moved the bat backward. Then he stepped down and swung, extending and straightening his front leg. The heel of his back foot lifted as he pivoted up onto his toes.

  But by that point, his left foot bore most of his weight. And as the bat traveled past the front of his body, the inside edge of that foot lifted up. Just a fraction of an inch, but that was enough to roll the ankle outward. Charlie froze in that position and glanced at Syl.

  Syl stared at the foot. “The way your ankle is twisted is just how I hurt mine two weeks ago! That's why you want me to bat lefty —so my injured ankle won't twist outward and get hurt again!”

  8

  Sylvester was excited. His ankle wasn't going to keep him from playing summer baseball after all! All he had to do was learn to bat lefty!

  Thump! The sound of a baseball landing in the bucket brought him back to reality. He looked at the balls in the dirt near the backstop. His excitement faded once more.

  All I have to do is learn to bat lefty! he mocked himself. Like I'll be able to do that in time for the start of the season!

  Charlie picked up on Syl's change of mood instantly. “Sylvester,” he said. “You can't expect to become a switch-hitter after just one practice. It's going to take some time and a lot of hard work on your part.”

  Syl picked up a ball and tossed it from one hand to the other. “But what if I can't do it?”

  Charlie gave him a warm smile. “I wouldn't be
here if I didn't think you could. So if you're willing to give it your all, I'm willing to give you my time.”

  Slowly, Sylvester's good mood returned. “Okay,” he said. “I'm in.”

  “Great!” Charlie replied. “Let's get back to work.”

  For the next hour, Charlie pitched ball after ball to Sylvester. Each time Syl made contact, Charlie gave him the thumbs-up sign. When Syl missed — which happened much more often — Charlie offered words of advice.

  “Think about moving your hands toward your back shoulder when you bring the bat back,” he called. “That will put the bat in the better position for a strong swing.”

  “Use your whole body when you swing!” he yelled when Syl flailed at the ball. “Remember, rotating your shoulders and your hips around gives you power!”

  When Syl chopped at a pitch, Charlie came off the mound and grabbed his left arm. “You've got to loosen up,” he chided, waggling the limb around like it was made of rubber. “If that arm is all shrugged up and tight, it's going to be useless.”

  The sun was high overhead when Sylvester asked if they could call it quits. “My ankle's feeling a little sore,” he admitted. His stomach gave a loud growl. “Guess I'm hungry, too.”

  Charlie laughed. “Okay. But feel free to take home the baseballs. I won't be using them, but maybe you can.”

  Syl headed toward shortstop to pick up a ball he'd managed to hit there. “I know it's only my first day trying to hit lefty,” he said as he bent down. “But I think I'm starting to get the hang of it. What do you think?”

  There was no reply. He straightened.

  “Charlie?”

  But Charlie was gone.

  Syl gripped the ball in his hand tightly. Just like the day I hurt my ankle, he thought. One minute he's here, the next he's vanished into thin air. Just like a —

  “Well, well, well, look who's here!”

  Sylvester whirled around. Striding toward him with a bat and a glove was his old enemy, Duke Farrell. The last time Syl saw him, Duke was pitching for the Macon Falcons against the Hooper Redbirds. Sylvester crushed a three-run homer off of him that game, something he was sure Duke hadn't forgotten — or, it was clear, forgiven. With Duke was another Falcon, Steve Button.