Comeback of the Home Run Kid Page 4

  Mr. Coddmyer looked over his newspaper and gave Sylvester a wink. “Oh, I've got an idea or two of things we can do.”

  Mrs. Coddmyer raised her eyebrows but didn't say anything. She left soon after.

  “So, Dad, what're your ideas?” Sylvester asked when they were alone.

  His father ticked off his fingers. “We could clean the garage, weed the garden, wash the windows, or” — he smiled broadly — “we could head to the park and play baseball!”

  “Yes!” Sylvester pumped his fist. “Thanks, Dad!”

  “Why don't you call Duane or some of the other boys and see if they want to join us?”

  Sylvester's enthusiasm faded. He wasn't sure his friends would accept the invitation, but he didn't feel like explaining why to his father. So instead he said, “Um, I'll see those guys at practice later today. How about we go to the batting cages? I've saved my allowance so I can pay my own way.”

  “A little father-son time it is. Go put on your brace. I'll get the gear and meet you in the car.”

  But when Sylvester returned a minute later, his father wasn't in the car. He was staring at the bucket of balls.

  “Where'd you get these?” Mr. Coddmyer asked curiously.

  Syl bit his lip. This was the perfect opportunity to tell his father about Charlie Comet and the switch-hitting. But he hesitated —and then the phone rang.

  “I'll get it!” Syl rushed inside.

  “Coddmyer, Coach Corbin here,” a voice boomed over the line. “We have our first game the morning of the Fourth of July. Some kids will be away for the holiday. Can you make it?”

  “Sure, Coach,” Syl assured him. “See you at practice.” He hung up and returned to the garage. To his relief, his father was waiting for him in the car. He seemed to have forgotten about the baseballs.

  When they arrived at the batting cages, Sylvester paid the attendant and got tokens for the pitching machines. He and his father' selected bats and helmets and headed into the cages. Syl chose the slow-pitch option and took up a lefty stance.

  “What th —?” Mr. Coddmyer said, sounding perplexed. “Did you become left-handed overnight?”

  Syl hesitated. Once again, he had the chance to tell his father about Charlie. And once again, he decided not to.

  Instead, he explained that batting righty made his ankle hurt.

  “Just a bit!” he added hurriedly when his father frowned. “But I'm also trying lefty because I, um, heard that switch-hitters are good for a team.”

  At that, Mr. Coddmyer nodded. “True,” he said. “There have been many great professional ballplayers who were switch-hitters. There's Pete Rose, Roberto Alomar, Chipper Jones, and of course, the most famous switch-hitter of all, Mickey Mantle.” His eyes twinkled. “Your grandfather, Sylvester Coddmyer the First, once played against Mantle, did you know that?”

  Sylvester's jaw dropped. “What! No way!”

  His father laughed. “Yes way.”

  “No, you're pulling my leg. Grandpa Syl never played in the pros!”

  “Maybe not, but he did face Mantle once, when the Mick played for the Baxter Springs Whiz Kids in Oklahoma. That was back in the late 1940s, when they were both teenagers, before the Mick was drafted by the Yankees. Grandpa Syl claimed that he knew even then that Mantle was going to be a star. ‘He was a big fella, muscular and blond, and could wallop the ball a mile on a clear day.’ That's how he always started off his story about his brush with fame.”

  Mr. Coddmyer smiled at the memory “You could ask my dad anything about the Mick and he would know the answer.”

  Then the smile faded. “Dad was heartbroken when it came out that his hero had a lifelong drinking problem. Mantle himself seemed pretty heartbroken when he realized he'd failed to be a good role model to young players like you. He tried to make up for it, though. Spent much of the last few years of his life teaching people about the dangers of alcohol abuse.”

  His father took a few swings with his bat. “You know, after your grandfather died, I found a stash of old photos from his Oklahoma baseball days in his belongings. We should look through them sometime. Maybe we'll spot a young Mickey Mantle!”

  “Sure, that sounds great!” Syl replied. Then he took up his lefty stance again and pushed the start button on the machine. He tried hard to concentrate on the incoming ball, but his mind kept turning over what his father had said. He was interested in the fact that his grandfather had once played against Mantle. But it was the description of Mantle himself that really intrigued him.

  Mantle had been big and blond. He was a switch-hitter. He could wallop the ball a mile. And he was a New York Yankee.

  Syl knew someone who fit that description to a T — Charlie Comet!

  13

  Sylvester and his father stayed at the batting cages for more than an hour. During that time, Syl worked on his left-handed batting. He whiffed a fair number of pitches. But he also hit several, a few of them hard enough to billow the netting behind the pitching machines.

  Finally, Mr. Coddmyer said it was time to go home. Sylvester didn't mind. He was thirsty, and hoped they could dig out those old baseball photos.

  But just as they finished putting their gear away, Mrs. Coddmyer returned from her errands. She needed help unloading the car. When they were through, there was only enough time for a quick lunch before practice.

  Mr. Coddmyer volunteered to drive him. He was unusually quiet for the first minutes of the ride. When he did speak, his voice was overly casual.

  “Sylvester, you sat out most of practice yesterday, right?”

  “Yeah,” Syl replied.

  “So you couldn't have practiced switch-hitting then. Which makes me wonder” — Mr. Coddmyer maneuvered the car into the parking lot, shut off the motor, and faced his son — “when did you practice? Who taught you how? And who suggested you try hitting lefty in the first place? I know you didn't teach yourself. It's obvious that you've been coached by someone who knows what he's talking about. It's not Coach Corbin because he would have mentioned it when we spoke last night. So who?”

  Sylvester stared down at his hands. He knew he couldn't keep Charlie a secret anymore, not when his father was asking him point-blank. So he spilled the whole story, from the time Charlie had helped him with his ankle to the meeting yesterday under the tree.

  Mr. Coddmyer drummed the steering wheel with his fingers. “Okay, Syl. You know I'll want to meet him.” He gave his son a serious look. “Let's be sure that meeting happens this time. Not like with that fellow Cheeko and the other man, Mr. Baruth.”

  Syl nodded.

  “Off you go, then. Have a good practice and don't forget to wear your brace. Your mother will have your head if you do!”

  Sylvester unbuckled his seat belt and opened the door. “Don't worry, Dad, I'll wear it. And I'll make sure you meet Charlie! I promise!”

  But as he ran to the field, he wondered if he'd be able to keep that promise. Would Charlie be a no-show, like Cheeko, or just never around when his folks were, like Mr. Baruth?

  Coach Corbin was calling for attention when Sylvester reached the diamond. Trent, Duane, and Kirk were sitting together. But when Duane looked at him with narrowed eyes, Sylvester swallowed hard and sat someplace else.

  Coach Corbin boomed, “We have our first game this Saturday. Some of you will be away, celebrating the Fourth, but we'll have enough players to make a team. Here's the roster.”

  He consulted his clipboard. “Burk Riley on the mound. Eddie Exton at catcher. First base, A. C. Compton. Bus, you're at second, with Trent at short. For third base, Duane. Leon, right field. Center field …”

  Sylvester wasn't sure, but he thought the coach hesitated for a moment before saying … Coddmyer. Kirk, left field. When the rest of you return after the Fourth, we'll shift things around.”

  He put his clipboard away and clapped his hands. “Take your positions. Everyone else, line up to bat. Your teammates need lots of fielding practice today.”

  Sylve
ster and the others hustled onto the field.

  “Here we go, Burk, send it right on past him!” Trent yelled. “Look alive, guys, ready for that ball!”

  “No batter, no batter, no batter, no batter!” Duane chanted.

  Syl thumped his fist into his glove but kept quiet.

  Rick Wilson was up first. He had a surprisingly strong swing for a pitcher. Even so, he missed the first two pitches.

  “Come on, we want some hits!” A. C. called from first base. “We need the —”

  Pow! Rick clobbered the next pitch right at A. C. Then A. C. lifted his glove. The ball socked into it with a satisfying pop.

  “Next!” A. C. joked as he threw the ball back to Burk.

  Rod Piper approached the plate. Burk zipped in three pitches for two strikes and one foul. Rod connected for a blooper over the mound on the fourth pitch. The ball bounced toward shortstop. Trent charged forward, scooped it up, and tossed the ball to A. C. for the out.

  “Next!” A. C. repeated loudly. Everyone laughed.

  Their laughter died quickly when the next batter, a stocky boy named Stan Falls, blasted Burk's first pitch high in the air between left and center fields.

  Syl immediately started running for it. So did Kirk.

  “I've got it!” Kirk yelled as they neared the spot where the ball was dropping.

  Syl slowed to avoid a collision. Suddenly, his foot caught on something in the grass. He pitched forward, arms out to break his fall.

  “Oof!” He hit the turf at Kirk's feet. Kirk jumped to keep from stepping on him. Meanwhile, the ball fell out of the sky and —plop! — landed in Syl's outstretched glove.

  Syl got up amidst scattered laughter. “Well, that catch has to be one for the record books!” he said, turning with a grin toward Kirk.

  But Kirk wasn't grinning back. He was scowling. “Record books, huh? Is that all you think about, getting into the record books? Yeah, I'll bet it is.” He spun away.

  Sylvester stood stock-still. Any doubt he had had that Kirk knew about his cheap shot and dirty plays was completely gone. And in its place was another emotion: dread.

  14

  Sylvester felt sick. Kirk clearly thought he was a dishonest player, out for glory at any cost. And if he'd told Duane and Trent about his cheating, then they did, too.

  I wish something would happen to end practice right now, he thought miserably.

  Even as that thought crossed his mind, dark storm clouds appeared overhead. Ten minutes later, the sky opened up and unleashed a torrent of rain. Most of the Hawks took cover in the dugout, but Syl dashed across the field toward home. Somehow, he didn't think he'd be welcome in the dugout.

  Syl slowed his pace when he spotted a bench. He sat down, took off his baseball cap, and leaned forward onto his elbows. Rain dripped through his hair and down his nose, but he was so deep in thought he barely noticed.

  If I could just go back in time, I'd never listen to that rotten Cheeko's advice. Maybe I wouldn't have played that great last season, but at least the guys wouldn't hate me.

  Suddenly, it stopped raining on him. He looked up. Charlie was standing behind him with a big black umbrella. “Thought you could use this. You looked like a drowned rat,” the blond man joked. “Trouble at practice?”

  Syl was too downhearted to even wonder how Charlie knew about that. “Yeah. And it's my own fault.”

  Charlie raised his eyebrows.

  “I — I have a secret,” Syl confessed.

  “What kind of secret?” Charlie prodded.

  “A bad one,” Sylvester admitted. “Last baseball season, I got away with something — actually, a lot of somethings — that now I wish I hadn't.” He told Charlie about Cheeko. “And because I was stupid enough to follow his advice,” he finished, “Duane and my teammates think I'm a cheat. Which I guess I am.” He leaned forward on his elbows again and hung his head.

  Charlie blew out a breath. “I know all about Cheeko.”

  Syl looked up, surprised.

  “And I know all about bad secrets, too.” Charlie stared off into the distance. “I used to do something I didn't want anyone else to know about. I told myself what I was doing wasn't that bad. But finally, I couldn't deny my secret anymore.” He turned his gaze back to Syl. “Owning up to the truth was one of the hardest things I've ever done. But you know what? Once my secret was out, I felt relieved.”

  “You did?”

  Charlie nodded. “People weren't happy when they found out. Some felt betrayed. But lots understood and forgave me. And that gave me strength to move forward to make things right, instead of looking back and wishing things had been different.”

  Sylvester sighed deeply. “I still wish I could change the past.”

  “There's an old saying,” Charlie said. “It goes something like ‘Give me the strength to change the things I can and the grace to accept the things I cannot.’ Ever hear it?”

  Syl raised and lowered his shoulders.

  “We all have things we wish we could do differently,” Charlie said. “But the past is passed. All we can do is try to make amends and do things right in the future.”

  Syl put his baseball cap back on and tugged at the brim. “Do you think I can make things right with Duane and the others?”

  “Won't know until you try” Charlie handed Syl the umbrella. “Here, take this. I'll be okay without it.”

  “Thanks,” Syl replied. He started to leave. Then he looked back.

  “Is there something else, Syl?”

  It was on the tip of his tongue to ask Charlie if the name “Mickey Mantle” meant anything to him. But Syl swallowed the question without asking it. After all, what would he do if Charlie answered yes?

  So instead he shook his head, waved goodbye, and set off for the fields. Earlier he'd avoided Duane, Trent, and Kirk. Now he wanted to find them, because he had something very important to tell them.

  15

  As it turned out, the only teammate he found was Duane. He was huddled tinder the same tree Charlie had once stood under. When he saw Syl heading toward him, he frowned.

  Syl's step faltered. Then he squared his shoulders and continued on.

  “Hi,” he said. “Want to share my umbrella?”

  Duane shrugged but got under anyway.

  “I've got to talk to you about something,” Syl said.

  “What?”

  Duane's voice was steely, not at all the tone Syl was used to hearing from his friend. Once again, he faltered. But he didn't give up.

  “You might already know what I want to tell you. At least, I'm pretty sure Kirk knows, and I think he told you.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah.” Syl plunged right in. “Remember me telling you about Cheeko?”

  “The guy who looked like Eddie Cicotte?”

  Syl nodded. “Yeah, him. He gave me some advice last season. I know now it was bad advice, but back then, I took it. And when I did, I started cheating. More than what Kirk told you about that jab I took at Russ and the catch I didn't really make.” He sighed. “I can't change what I did, but I want you to know that I'll never cheat again.”

  He waited for Duane to say something. But his friend was silent.

  He still doesn't trust me. Syl's heart sank.

  “Syl,” Duane said finally, “Kirk never told me anything about Russ or a catch.”

  Sylvester was stunned. “He — he didn't? Then why have you been so mad at me?”

  Duane grimaced. “Because you have another secret you're not telling me, that's why.”

  “No, I —” Syl started to protest.

  Then Duane opened his glove and removed an old baseball — the ball Syl had missed after Duke had dumped over the bucket. Syl snapped his mouth closed.

  “Thought so,” Duane said. “I'm outta here. Have fun playing with C. C., whoever he is.”

  “C. C.?” Charlie Comet? Sylvester grabbed Duane's arm. “Where'd you come up with those initials?”

  Duane thrust the base
ball into Syl's hand. “They're right here!”

  Syl found the writing. His eyes widened. There were two letters, and each had a down-stroke that then curved up and around to form what looked like a C. But there was also a second, smaller curve, like a hump attached to the top of each C, making the letters look like … Ms!

  “Tell me the truth, Syl,” Duane spat angrily. “That day in the park? You pretended your ankle hurt just to get rid of me so you could play ball with whoever C. C. is! Some friend you are!”

  Syl's jaw dropped. “What?! You don't really believe that, do you?”

  Duane didn't answer. The only sound was the patter of rain on the leaves and the umbrella.

  “Duane,” Syl said at last, “you're my best friend. I would never want to get rid of you.” He took a deep breath. “Can I explain about that day? Please?”

  “Fine,” Duane replied gruffly.

  So Syl began talking, telling Duane how Charlie Comet had appeared right after he'd hurt his ankle, how he'd promised to help him get his game back on, and how he'd shown him to bat lefty.

  As he explained, a look of understanding grew on Duane's face. “Another mystery man,” he murmured. “Why didn't you tell me before?”

  Sylvester dug his toe into the wet grass. “You would have thought I was crazy.”

  “Oh.” Then Duane started laughing. Syl looked up, suddenly hopeful.

  “Guess what? I already thought you were crazy!” Duane said. “And you know what would be even crazier? Not batting lefty, if it helps your batting and keeps your ankle from hurting!”

  He stuck his hand out from under the umbrella. “Hey, it's stopped raining!” He poked Sylvester in the ribs good-naturedly. “Feel like playing some ball? I'll find Trent and Kirk and some others. I'll bet they're itching to get in some more practice, too. Especially Kirk. He can't stand Duke Farrell and is dying to beat the Grizzlies on Saturday. And who knows? Maybe together we can make you into a switch-hitter by then!”

  Syl nodded happily and Duane took off to find their friends. Syl started to lower the umbrella. A movement in the bleachers caught his eyes. It was Charlie. He took off his New York Yankees cap, waved, and then hopped off the stands and disappeared into the trees behind them.