The Home Run Kid Races On Read online

  Now’s my chance, Syl thought. He pulled the camera from the bag. I can get both of them in the same photo. Just one shot, and I’ll have proof of their existence!

  Slowly, so as not to attract attention, he lifted the camera to his eye and centered the men in the viewfinder. With one push of a button, he snapped the photo.

  Click!

  The sound was like a gunshot to his ears. He dropped the camera into his bag, certain the men must have heard its click. Mr. Teacy didn’t seem to notice anything. Mr. Baruth, on the other hand, shifted his gaze to stare at Syl.

  Syl’s mouth turned dry. Did he see me take the picture? What will he say—or do?

  Mr. Baruth muttered something to Mr. Teacy. Mr. Teacy turned. He didn’t look at Syl, however, but at something behind him.

  Sylvester spun around just as a biker barreled around the corner. It was Snooky Malone!

  “You!” Syl cried. “What are you doing here?”

  10

  Snooky dropped his bike and hurried toward Syl. “I know you don’t want me to shadow you,” he said. “In fact, I almost couldn’t because I didn’t know where you’d gone. I called your house, and your mom said you were at bunting practice. But the tee-ball league has the field. Then I remembered this place.”

  “What made you think I’d come here?” Syl wanted to know.

  Snooky shot Syl a confident look. “You had a peculiar expression on your face when standing in this old ball field the other day. It’s an expression I’ve seen before. You’ve had another encounter from the beyond, haven’t you?” He kicked at a weed. “Just my luck to get here too late to see the ghost.”

  Syl knew then that Mr. Teacy and Mr. Baruth had vanished. He gritted his teeth in frustration. He’d hoped to spend more time with Mr. Baruth. But unless Snooky left, that wasn’t going to happen. With a sigh, he zipped up his bag. “There’s nothing to see here, Snooky,” he said.

  Snooky didn’t look convinced. “Nothing to see here now,” he amended. He held his hands out toward the field as if testing the air. “But I sense a cosmic energy here. If we stick around, I bet your ghost will return.”

  “Bet anything you like,” Syl said. “I’m leaving.”

  Snooky’s shoulders slumped. “No point in my staying then,” he said, his voice thick with disappointment. “You’re the key that unlocks the door to the other side. I could knock until my knuckles are raw. Without you, that door just won’t open.”

  Syl bit his lip. He hated seeing his friend upset, but what could he do? He didn’t control who saw the ghosts.

  Or did he? He blinked. If the photo he’d taken came out, he could show it to Snooky. It wouldn’t be the same as seeing the real thing, but it was better than nothing. And he owed his friend at least that much. After all, Snooky was the only one of his buddies who truly believed in his mysterious ballplayers.

  I’ll drop off the film on the way home, he decided, and pick it up later tonight. If the photo is good, I’ll call Snooky to come see it. He laughed to himself. Who knows? Maybe I’ll call the newspapers, too!

  “Cheer up, Snooky,” he said, slinging a leg over his bike. “Just because you didn’t see anything here doesn’t mean you won’t see something someday.”

  Sylvester and Snooky rode back to town together but parted at the ballpark. Once Syl was sure Snooky was gone, he veered toward the local shopping mall to find the camera store.

  He was so busy looking at store signs that he didn’t notice that his bike wasn’t riding smoothly. When he finally did, he groaned. His back tire was flat!

  He pulled into the mall parking lot to consider his options. He carried a patch kit for just such emergencies, so he could fix the tire. Or he could call his mother to come get him. He decided to call. But when he looked for his phone inside his gear bag, he couldn’t find it. He groaned again, remembering that he’d left it at home, plugged into its charger.

  Patch kit it is! He removed his gear bag from the back of the bike to make the job easier. He’d just started working when he heard a familiar voice.

  “Ew, pew, what’s that smell? Must be a Codd-fish!”

  It was his archenemy, Duke Farrell. Duke was a pitcher; every time they met on the diamond, he did his best to make Syl look like a loser at the plate. But Syl had always let his bat do the talking and turned the tables so that it was Duke who ended up with egg on his face.

  Syl glanced back and saw that Duke’s sidekick, Steve Button, was with him. “Leave me alone, you guys,” he growled.

  “Let’s play a game first,” Duke said. “This is one of my favorites. I call it keep-away!” He grabbed Syl’s gear bag.

  “Hey, give it back!” Sylvester shouted, standing up.

  Duke waggled his finger. “Not until you play!” He flung the bag over Syl’s head into Steve’s waiting hands.

  Syl tried to snatch it, with no success. Frustration boiled up inside him. “I don’t have time for this! Give me my bag!”

  Steve hefted the bag over his head. “Make me!”

  “You asked for it!” Syl said and then barreled straight at Steve.

  “Ooof!” Steve fell onto his backside. The bag flew out of his hands and landed right in front of an oncoming pickup truck!

  Crunch!

  As the truck rolled over the bag, the driver’s head snapped up. Steve scrambled to his feet and took off with Duke right behind him. The woman leaned out her window and stared at the lump behind her tire, a look of horror on her face. “What is that?”

  “It is—was—my baseball stuff,” Syl replied sadly.

  While the woman parked the pickup, Syl retrieved his belongings. He sat on the curb and examined the contents one by one. His glove and ball were fine, but his water bottle had been crushed to smithereens. So had the camera.

  The woman put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, no, look what I did!”

  “It wasn’t your fault,” Syl protested. “It was those other boys. They threw the bag in your way.”

  But the woman shook her head. “You don’t understand,” she said. “I was texting when I pulled in here. I should have been paying attention to my driving, but I wasn’t.” She sat down next to him and put her head in her hands. “What if that had been a child?”

  Sylvester patted her back awkwardly. “It wasn’t, though.”

  After a few minutes, the woman took a deep breath and stood up. “I’ll replace your things, I promise,” she said. “But for now, let me give you a lift home.”

  Syl nodded. “Can I use your phone to call my mom first?”

  Fifteen minutes later, the truck pulled into the Coddmyers driveway. Mrs. Coddmyer hurried out.

  “I’m fine, Mom,” Syl said before she could pepper him with questions.

  The woman and his mother talked while Syl unloaded his bike and his gear. He gave the broken camera one last look before dropping it into the trash can.

  Sorry, Snooky, he thought. I tried.

  After the woman left, Mrs. Coddmyer showed Syl a check she had given her. “She insisted on buying us a new camera,” she said. “I told her it wasn’t necessary, that your phone can take pictures and that the camera hadn’t been used in years anyway. But she felt so bad, she wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

  It wasn’t until Sylvester was in bed that night that something his mother had said came back to him. “Your phone can take pictures.” He sat up.

  My phone can take pictures! he thought excitedly. Maybe I’ll be able to show Snooky photos of Mr. Baruth and Mr. Teacy after all!

  Then he realized his plan had a flaw. It was only one problem, but it was major: He had no way of knowing if Mr. Teacy or Mr. Baruth would show up at the field again the next day. They’d vanished that afternoon before he could ask.

  All I can do is go back to that field tomorrow, he decided, and hope!

  Getting to the old ball field alone the following day wasn’t easy, however. First, he had to persuade his mom to let him go right after school. “I’ll help with the yard sale
tonight, I promise!” Then, Trent cornered him after school to coax him into playing the video game with Duane and Jim again.

  “Uh, I have a lot of homework and I might have to help my mom,” Syl said. “So I have to go home.”

  Trent didn’t press him further, but then Duane caught him strapping Mr. Teacy’s bat onto the back of his bike.

  “What’s that for?” Duane asked curiously. “Trent said you were heading home.”

  “I am,” Syl replied. “I have the bat because, uh… because I hoped Coach Corbin would check it out, see if it’s regulation so I can use it during practices and games!”

  “Didn’t he do that already, when you first showed it to him?”

  “I, uh, yeah, I’d forgotten about that,” Syl answered. “So now I’m bringing it back home. See you!”

  Before Duane could ask any more questions, Syl jumped onto his bike and pedaled off. He only went a short distance, however, before looking back to see if Duane was still there. He wasn’t, so Syl switched his direction from home to the bike path. He stopped only once, to change into his baseball pants.

  Fifteen minutes later, he arrived at the old ball field. To his disappointment, neither Mr. Teacy nor Mr. Baruth was there. He sat down, opened his bag, and pulled out his cell phone to check the battery. The power bar indicated that the phone was fully charged. He took a few test photos of his feet. They came out fine, so he dropped the phone back into his pack.

  “How you?”

  Syl started. There was Mr. Teacy, leaning against the oak tree, a spot Syl knew had been empty just moments before.

  “I’m fine, Mr. Teacy!” he replied. “And ready for some more practice. We were going to work on beating the throw to first today, right? Hmm, guess I better switch into my baseball shoes for that, huh? I’ve got them right here in my bag, so I’ll just get ’em and put ’em on!”

  Stop babbling, he berated himself, and just do it!

  Heart racing, he reached into his bag and flipped the cover of the phone open. The tiny screen glowed.

  “What’s taking you so long?” Mr. Teacy barked.

  Syl grabbed one of his baseball shoes to use as cover. With shaking hands, he raised the phone out of the pack, centered Mr. Teacy in the middle of the screen, moved his thumb over the buttons —

  And the screen went black.

  11

  You deaf or something?” Mr. Teacy said. “I asked, what’s taking you so long?”

  Sylvester stared at the dark screen in dismay. Then he closed the phone and dropped it back into his bag.

  “Sorry, I had a knot I couldn’t get undone,” he answered. As quickly as he could, he switched his sneakers for his spikes. “Say, isn’t Mr. Baruth going to be here today?”

  “No,” Mr. Teacy said shortly. “He had someplace else he had to be.”

  Syl was disappointed but tried not to show it.

  “Let’s hope you’re faster on the base paths than you are at untying knots,” Mr. Teacy grumbled when Syl joined him at home plate. “Show me what you’ve got.”

  “What do you mean?” Syl asked.

  “I mean run!” Mr. Teacy cried.

  Startled, Syl took off down the base path like a horse that’d been stung by a bee.

  “You call that running?” Mr. Teacy mocked. “I’ve seen ducks waddle faster!”

  Sylvester picked up his pace, slowing only when he reached first.

  Mr. Teacy stormed up to him. “Didn’t I tell you to give me everything you’ve got?”

  Syl nodded dumbly.

  “Then why’d you slow down? You do that in a game and you’ll be picked off. Get back to home plate. And this time, round first and slide into second.”

  Sylvester hesitated, remembering how poorly he’d slid during practice with the Comets.

  “Well?” Mr. Teacy thundered.

  Syl hurried back to home plate and got into a runner’s stance.

  “On my mark,” Mr. Teacy said. “Ready? Go!”

  Syl pushed off and began to run. To his surprise, Mr. Teacy did too—except he didn’t run with Sylvester so much as after him!

  “Go!” he screamed. “Faster! Move those legs! Dig it out! Faster, boy!”

  Maybe it was Mr. Teacy’s yells, or maybe it was the adrenaline that suddenly shot through Syl’s veins, but whatever the reason, Syl did run faster. In fact, he practically flew across the dirt toward first base. He touched the bag and kept going. Then, when he judged he was close enough to second, he bent his left leg beneath him, dropped, and slid toward the base with his right leg outstretched.

  To his relief, unlike in practice, his foot reached its target. In fact, his whole right leg crossed the bag so that when he stopped moving, he was half resting on the base.

  Mr. Teacy stood over him, looking appalled. “That’s your slide?” he said.

  Syl took a deep breath and sat up. “That’s my slide,” he replied defensively, his face turning red. “What was wrong with it?”

  “You overshot the mark by a mile. Your hands were in the dirt when you slid,” Mr. Teacy said, ticking each point off as he talked. “Your right leg was ramrod straight. And now you’re just sitting there like a bump on a log!” He shook his head in a gesture of pure disgust.

  Sylvester flushed an even deeper red.

  “Come on,” Mr. Teacy said, “I’ll walk you through it.” He started back to the plate without waiting to see if Syl was following.

  And Syl almost didn’t follow. What made him return to the plate was something Mr. Baruth had taught him long ago: It was better to try and fail than to quit.

  So with a determined squaring of his shoulders, Syl went back to home.

  “You got the running part down that time anyway,” Mr. Teacy said. “But you dropped into the slide way too late. Follow me.”

  With Syl at his heels, Mr. Teacy circled the base paths toward second. He stopped at the spot where Syl had begun his slide. “Not here,” he said, backing up several paces. “Here. Nine to ten feet from the base.”

  He waved for Syl to come next to him. “Show me how you begin the slide.”

  Syl bent his left leg so that his foot was behind his right knee. Dropping down to the ground from this position was awkward, however, so he braced himself with his hands.

  “Stop!” Mr. Teacy barked.

  Syl stared at him, bewildered. “What’d I do wrong now?”

  12

  You put your hands down, that’s what you did wrong,” Mr. Teacy answered grimly. “You do that when you’re sliding and you’ll snap your wrist in two or jam and scrape your fingers! Ever try catching, throwing, or batting with a broken wrist or bloody, bent fingers? Not so easy. Lift your hands and cup those fingers like you’re holding an egg in each palm.”

  Syl did as he was told. Now he was sitting in the dirt with one leg bent beneath him, the other out in front, and his arms held high. “Like this?” he asked, wobbling as he tried to balance on his hip.

  Mr. Teacy blew out an exasperated breath. “You slide on your backside, not your leg! The seat of your pants should be filthy when we’re through! Now raise your right foot higher. Bend that right knee when you hit the bag! You keep it straight like you did before and you’ll destroy the joint, guaranteed.”

  Once more, Syl made adjustments to his position. Mr. Teacy circled him a few times and then nodded. “Better. Now get up.”

  Syl lowered his hands, intending to push himself up.

  “No!” Mr. Teacy roared. “Use your legs to pop you up, like you would in a real slide!”

  Syl tried his best to get to a standing position by just using his leg muscles. But he couldn’t.

  “Just get up,” Mr. Teacy finally said. “You think you can put everything together? Do a slide that will get you safe on base?”

  “I think so,” Syl said, but his voice lacked confidence, even to his own ears.

  Mr. Teacy snorted. “Well, we’ll see. Back to home. I’ll watch from here.”

  Syl hurried to home pla
te. At Mr. Teacy’s signal, he took off running. To make sure he went as fast as he could, he pictured Mr. Teacy chasing him. The tactic worked magic. He chewed up the base paths faster than he could have imagined possible.

  When he reached the point for his slide, he bent his left leg, dropped onto his backside, held his hands high with cupped fingers, and reached out with his right foot for the bag. His momentum was just right, carrying him across the dirt and past where Mr. Teacy was standing. His aim was right, too; his toe tagged the bag but didn’t sail over it. When it touched, he let his knee give a little to absorb the impact. Best of all, he managed to pop up to a standing position—without using his hands.

  “I did it!” he crowed.

  “You did it once,” Mr. Teacy corrected. “Do it again.”

  Sylvester’s second slide went just as well as his first—and so did the one after that, and all those that followed. After his tenth trip down the base paths, sliding felt so natural it was as if he’d known how to do it all along.

  But when he said as much, Mr. Teacy looked at him like he was crazy. “Anyone can slide into an empty base,” he scoffed. “How will you do when you face a player protecting the bag? Or when you’re trying to steal?”

  Sylvester’s happiness evaporated. “Guess I still have a lot to learn,” he mumbled.

  To his surprise, Mr. Teacy smiled. “That’s the first smart thing I’ve heard you say all day,” he said. “The ballplayer who thinks he knows everything is the ballplayer who finds himself sitting on the bench.” He folded his arms across his chest. “You were lousy at bunting. We fixed that. You were lousy at sliding. We fixed that. Are you lousy at stealing, too?”

  “I don’t know,” Syl mumbled.

  Mr. Teacy snorted again. “That’s closer to a yes than a no,” he said. “So tell me, if you’re a runner planning to steal, what part of the pitcher’s body should you watch?”

  “His shoulders or his head,” Syl replied confidently, “because he’d turn to look at me.”

  “You’re only half-right,” Mr. Teacy said. “An inexperienced right-handed pitcher will turn his head and shoulders in order to look at first base. If he’s going to throw to first for a pickoff, his head and shoulders will rotate even farther in that direction. But if he’s going to pitch, he’ll turn back—and bam!” He slapped his fist into his palm. “That’s when you take off!