The Home Run Kid Races On Read online

  Syl’s heart gave a sudden bang in his chest. “A certain someone? Do you mean… Mr. Baruth?”

  4

  Mr. Baruth? Yeah, I guess that’s who I mean.” The man gave a short laugh. “We’re on opposite sides of the fence about home runs. He thinks they’re everything. I don’t.”

  Syl wrinkled his forehead in puzzlement. “You don’t?” he asked. “Why not?”

  “Home runs ruin batting averages, that’s why,” the man replied. “You swing for the fence every time, you’ll strike out more often than you’ll get a four-bagger. Or you’ll get walked.”

  Syl remembered the Oriole slugger’s first at-bats. “I guess that could be true, Mr.…” He paused, realizing that he didn’t know the man’s name.

  “Teacy,” the man said. “Mr. Teacy. And of course it’s true. A player who can sprinkle hits around the field, he’s worth something. He gets runners on base. He keeps the defense guessing. And he earns himself a high batting average and so keeps his place on the team.” He shook his head. “A player who just hits home runs is like a singer who only performs one song. After a while, everyone knows just what tune they’re going to hear. Bet Mr. Baruth never told you that.”

  Mr. Teacy picked up a baseball and tossed it to Syl. “Want to see one of my favorite hits?”

  Syl nodded, intrigued.

  “Then get on the mound and throw me a pitch,” Mr. Teacy said.

  “Okay,” Syl replied, “but I’m not a pitcher.”

  “Just aim for the strike zone,” Mr. Teacy said as he retrieved his bat, “and I’ll do the rest.”

  Mr. Teacy got into his stance in the batter’s box. Syl took aim and threw. He didn’t know what he expected to see, but he wasn’t ready for what the man did.

  Instead of swinging around in a wide arc, Mr. Teacy slid his right hand up the fat part of the bat, squared off, and knocked the ball to the ground so that it rolled toward third base.

  “A bunt?” Syl said, surprised. “That’s one of your favorite hits? But you can swing with so much power! Why would you bunt when you could send it over the fence?”

  Mr. Teacy frowned. “Weren’t you listening? Base hits, not homers! A well-placed bunt will get me on base. It’ll advance runners, too, and catch the defense off guard. And that’s a win-win-win situation.” He held his bat out, barrel first, to Syl. “Let’s see you do it.”

  Syl shook his head. “I’m no good at bunting,” he admitted. “We usually work on regular hits during batting practice.”

  The man’s lips flattened into a disapproving line. “Your coach must be a real lunk-head to ignore bunting!”

  Sylvester swelled with anger then. He was very fond of his coach, Stan Corbin. He always encouraged his players to perform their best and to stay upbeat and positive, even when they didn’t do as well as they had hoped. Whoever Mr. Teacy was, he had no right to criticize him!

  “Coach Corbin doesn’t ignore bunting,” Syl said. “He just focuses on other things, that’s all.”

  “Think what you want,” Mr. Teacy said. “But if he’s not showing you how to bunt, someone else better. And that someone”—he flicked his wrist, flipping the bat so the grip was now facing Syl—“is me.”

  Any doubt Sylvester had that Mr. Teacy was yet another piece of his baseball puzzle vanished in that instant. He reached for the bat, feeling that he was reaching toward his destiny.

  To his surprise, Mr. Teacy didn’t let go. “Not so fast,” he said. “If I’m going to teach you, I want your promise that you’ll give me everything you’ve got and that you’ll follow my instructions to the letter.”

  Syl gripped the bat tighter, heart pounding. “When do we begin?”

  Mr. Teacy allowed Sylvester to take the bat. “No time like now,” he said. Then suddenly, he paused and looked in the direction of the bike path. “On second thought, meet me here tomorrow afternoon.”

  “What’s the matter?” Sylvester turned to see what Mr. Teacy was looking at.

  At that moment, Duane and Snooky appeared from around the bend. They looked tired and anxious. Then they spied Syl, and their faces brightened.

  “Sylvester! There you are!” Duane cried.

  “We’ve been searching everywhere for you!” Snooky added. “Why are you standing in an empty ball field?”

  “Empty field?” Syl twisted around and saw that the field was, indeed, empty. Mr. Teacy had vanished.

  “Hey,” Duane said, “where’d you get that cool-looking bat?”

  Syl’s gaze dropped to the bat still in his hands. “This? I—uh, I found it lying here in the grass.”

  He told them how he’d gotten lost, but kept his meeting with Mr. Teacy to himself. He figured Duane wouldn’t want to hear about another mysterious ballplayer. Snooky, on the other hand, would go on about how lucky Syl was to be in contact with another dimension. Syl wasn’t in the mood for that just now. He needed time to sort out what had happened first. Maybe then he’d tell Snooky about Mr. Teacy.

  Maybe.

  “Thanks for coming to find me,” he said instead. “You do know how to get home from here, right?”

  “Sure!” Duane said. “I’ve biked here lots of times with my folks. Although,” he added, scratching his head, “I don’t remember this field being laid out like a baseball diamond. Weird.”

  Duane and Snooky waited for Sylvester to tuck the bat into his bike’s carryall. Then they turned around to begin their journey home. As Syl pedaled away, he glanced at where the mysterious man had disappeared. I’ll be back tomorrow, he promised himself.

  5

  It took the boys more than fifteen minutes to bike back to their hometown. There, they stopped for a drink at their local ballpark’s water fountain. “I gotta take off,” Duane said as he wiped his mouth. “See you here tomorrow, Syl.”

  Sylvester looked up from the fountain, confused. “Huh? Why?”

  Duane rolled his eyes. “Duh! Earth to Syl! We have baseball practice after school, remember?”

  “Jeepers, even I knew that!” Snooky put in.

  “I just forgot for a second, that’s all,” Syl said, reddening. “I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

  “Like ghosts and home run kids?” Duane teased. Laughing at his own joke, he pedaled off.

  The moment Duane was out of earshot, Snooky grabbed Syl’s arm. “So did you see him? Did you?” he asked eagerly.

  “See who?”

  “Mr. Baruth!” Snooky said. “When I saw you staring at that old ball field and holding that strange bat, I couldn’t help wondering —”

  “No,” Syl interrupted, shaking off Snooky’s hand. “I didn’t see Mr. Baruth.”

  “Oh.” Snooky’s disappointment was obvious. “Well, will you tell me if he or any other mysterious ballplayer gets in touch with you? Please?”

  Sylvester scrubbed his face with his hands, suddenly weary. “Yeah, sure, whatever. I gotta get going. See you.”

  He knew he was being rude, but he couldn’t help it. He didn’t want to answer any more of Snooky’s questions or see the hope in his eyes. So with a final wave, he turned his bike around and headed for home.

  Delicious dinner smells greeted him when he walked into the kitchen. “Mmmm, I don’t know what’s in the oven,” he said, sniffing appreciatively, “but I know it’s making my stomach rumble!”

  Mrs. Coddmyer smiled. “I made roast chicken and vegetables,” she told him. “There’s French bread warming, too. Everything will be done in about fifteen minutes.”

  “I’ll set the table,” Syl said.

  He was putting the final fork in place when Mr. Coddmyer returned home. He took a deep whiff of the kitchen air and grinned. “I love that you cook such wonderful meals!”

  “And I love that you clean up when we’re done eating our wonderful meals,” Syl’s mother replied as she placed the dishes of food on the table.

  While they were eating, Mr. Coddmyer told them a funny story about a coworker whose young daughter had surprised him by packing a l
unch in his briefcase. “All day, he smelled something weird in his cubicle,” Mr. Coddmyer said. “But it wasn’t until the afternoon that he opened his case and found the tuna sandwich she’d put in there! Pee-yew!”

  Sylvester cracked up, imagining how awful the smell must have been. Mrs. Coddmyer laughed, too. Then she mentioned a meeting she’d had with some neighbors to organize a neighborhood yard sale.

  “The money we raise will go toward a big block party this summer.” She turned to Syl. “I’d like your help sometime this week. There’s a lot of old junk in our attic and basement that we can donate, but we have to sort through it all first.”

  “I can help anytime except tomorrow afternoon,” Syl said. “I have baseball practice.”

  He hesitated then. He knew he should tell them about Mr. Teacy and ask for permission to work with him at the old field the next day. But he didn’t. They would have asked a lot of questions about who Mr. Teacy was and why they were playing at such an out-of-the-way place. He had no answers to those questions. So instead, he asked if he could get in some extra practice the following afternoon.

  “I want to work on my bunting,” he added.

  His parents agreed. “Just take your cell phone with you,” his mother said, “and call me when you leave the ball field so I know you’re on your way home.”

  So the next morning Syl left for school with his baseball gear—glove, cap, cleats, and uniform—strapped to his bike’s carryall. He made sure he had Mr. Teacy’s bat, too.

  Classes seemed to drag by at an impossibly slow pace that day. Even his favorite period, lunch, took forever to get through. But at last, the final bell sounded.

  He found an empty bathroom and changed into his purple and white Comets jersey and baseball pants. Then he hurried outside to the bike rack. He was just about to unlock his bike when he heard Snooky Malone call his name.

  “Oh, no,” he groaned.

  “Thought you could ditch me, huh?” Snooky crowed when he reached Syl’s side.

  “Snooky,” Syl said impatiently, “you can’t follow me around all the time!”

  “Why not?” Snooky protested.

  “Because it’s creepy, that’s why! Besides, I’m not going anywhere interesting today, just to baseball practice. And if I don’t leave now, I’m going to be late!” With that, he hopped on his bike and pedaled off, turning a deaf ear to Snooky’s shouts.

  Ten minutes later, he arrived at the town baseball field.

  “Yo, Syl! How’s it going, man?”

  Sylvester looked up to see Trent Sturgis approaching. Behind Trent was Jim Cowley. Duane arrived a moment later, as did Coach Corbin and several other players. Sylvester greeted them all, and then stuck his cap on his head and put on his glove. After a moment’s hesitation, he grabbed Mr. Teacy’s bat from his carrier.

  Coach Corbin lifted his eyebrows when he saw the bat. “Trading aluminum for wood?”

  “Only if it’s okay,” Syl said.

  The coach took the bat and examined it closely. “I’m sorry, Syl,” he said. “Your bat isn’t regulation size for our league.” He handed it back.

  Syl had forgotten about the league rules concerning bats. “I’ll leave it with my stuff on the bench,” he promised.

  When they ran out on the diamond, Coach Corbin ran his players through some warm-ups. Then he announced the first drill.

  “We’ll start with some batting and infield practice,” he said. “When I call your name and position, head out to the field. On the mound, Bongo Daley. Eddie Exton, you’re at catcher. First base, A. C. Compton. Second base, Jim Cowley. Shortstop, Trent Sturgis. Third base, Duane Francis. Everyone else, find a bat.”

  Sylvester glanced at Mr. Teacy’s bat. He pictured how the man had used it to bunt the ball down the third baseline and wished that he could give it a try himself.

  I can see it now, he thought, closing his eyes and smiling.

  The Comets are facing the Orioles. It’s the final inning of a five-to-five tie ball game. The Orioles’ third baseman has slugged two homers today, good for three of his team’s runs. I’ve been just as strong at the plate, however, clocking three hits deep into the outfield already. Now I’m at bat again, so the Oriole fielders move back.

  But I surprise them all. Instead of clobbering the ball, I round to the pitcher and knock it into the dirt! The ball snakes through the grass toward third. The Oriole slugger scrambles forward to get it, but he’s too late! I’m standing on first, and the crowd is going wild.

  “Syl? Syl!”

  Sylvester opened his eyes to find his teammates looking at him with amusement.

  “When you’re done daydreaming,” one of them said, “the coach wants you to take your turn at bat.”

  6

  Sylvester flushed from his neck to his scalp. He found his favorite aluminum bat in the pile and hurried to the batter’s box.

  “Try for a grounder,” Coach Corbin suggested.

  Syl knew the coach expected him to do a full swing. But his imaginary bunt was still so fresh in his mind that he decided to try that hit instead. So when Bongo’s pitch came, he squared off toward the mound and shifted his grip so his hands were spread wide apart on the bat.

  Everything went just as smoothly as it had in his daydream—until the ball hit the bat. Tink! Instead of landing on the ground in the shallow infield, the ball popped straight up. Eddie Exton lunged to his feet and caught it easily.

  “Let’s stick to full swings for now, Syl,” Coach Corbin called. “We’ll bunt later, if there’s time. Take another cut.”

  “Yes, sir,” Syl said sheepishly. Determined to make good this time, he swung from his heels on Bongo’s next pitch. It was a solid blast, and he grinned as the ball soared into right field and hit the fence for what would have easily been a double in a game situation. But his grin faded a second later.

  “In field practice, Sylvester, remember?” Coach Corbin said dryly.

  “Sorry, coach,” Syl muttered. “I—I’ll go get it.”

  “Please do.”

  Syl jogged to the back fence to search for the ball. Suddenly, he heard someone call his name.

  “Coddmyer, how come you’re not using my bat?”

  Syl spun around to find Mr. Teacy standing behind the fence. “What’re you doing here?”

  “I go where I like,” Mr. Teacy said. “So, the bat?”

  Syl told him about the league’s equipment regulations.

  Mr. Teacy snorted. “Regulations! A player should be able to use whatever wood he wants, if you ask me. He should also be allowed to practice whatever kind of hit he wants to,” he went on, giving Syl a significant look.

  “Coach Corbin said we’d work on bunting later,” Syl said defensively.

  “If there was time,” Mr. Teacy corrected. He made a face. “Well, forget him. We’ll work on it later, right?”

  Syl hesitated. He did want to practice bunting with Mr. Teacy. Yet somehow, he felt it would be disloyal to Coach Corbin if he did.

  Mr. Teacy seemed to guess what he was thinking. “No harm in extra practice, is there?”

  Syl couldn’t disagree with that. “I’ll be at the old field after practice,” he said. “But now I’ve got to find the ball.”

  “You mean this?” Mr. Teacy produced the missing ball from behind his back.

  “Thanks,” Syl said, reaching for it.

  To his consternation, Mr. Teacy didn’t hand it over. Instead, he threw it in the dirt at Syl’s feet. “See you later,” he said as he turned on his heel and stalked away.

  Syl watched him for a moment before picking up the ball. When he straightened, Mr. Teacy was gone.

  Just like the others, Syl thought as he hustled back to home plate, except he’s not as nice. Heck, even Cheeko made me laugh!

  Coach Corbin continued infield and batting practice for a while longer, spending time with several players on their stances and swings. Then he called everyone back to the bench to explain the next drill.

 
“Infielders, back to your positions. And in the outfield, let’s have Steve Crenshaw at right, Sylvester Coddmyer at center, and Kirk Anderson at left.”

  “What about us, Coach?” a boy named Mike asked.

  “You and the others are going to be my runners,” the coach said. “We’re playing fungo-rungo.”

  “Huh?” Mike looked confused. “What’s that?”

  “A fungo is when the coach tosses the ball up in the air and hits it,” Steve informed him.

  “I know what a fungo is,” Mike said. “But what’s a rungo?”

  “That’s when you run to first after I hit the ball,” Coach Corbin said. “Or overrun it to beat the throw. Then if you’re safe, on my next toss, you go—as in steal second. And then third, if you can.”

  “I get it,” Mike said with a laugh. “Fungo-rungo!” He jumped to his feet. “What’re we waiting for? Let’s go-go!”

  Syl enjoyed the game of fungo-rungo. He made a few good catches in the outfield and once even relayed the ball to Eddie Exton for an out at home plate. Then, when it was his turn to run, he made it safely to first on the coach’s fungo into left field. He advanced to second on a line drive hit at the pitcher that Bongo ducked. Rod Piper in center field picked up the ball, but the runner, Kirk, beat his throw to first.

  “Glove at the ready next time, Bongo,” Coach Corbin called. “Fielders, try for a double play! Runners, you know what to do!”

  Syl glanced over at Kirk and saw he was taking a big lead off first. Syl inched off his bag, too, so a moment later when the ball left the coach’s hand, he was already a few steps closer to third.

  Thock! Coach Corbin blasted a high fly ball into center field. Syl watched as Rod lifted his glove and faded back. It should have been an easy catch. In fact, Syl was on his way back to second to tag up when he heard a yell.

  “Rod dropped the ball!” Kirk bellowed. “Go!”

  Syl wheeled around and raced toward third. He glanced up and saw Duane with his glove raised and ready.