The Home Run Kid Races On Read online

  “But,” he continued, “if you have a pitcher who knows what he’s doing, you watch his feet. If he’s a righty, he’ll lift his front foot before he pitches.” He demonstrated by raising his own foot. “When it goes up, you go! But,” he added, “if the back heel comes up, get back to the bag fast because chances are, he’s about to pivot and throw to his first baseman.”

  “That makes sense,” Sylvester said, nodding. “But what if the pitcher is a lefty?”

  “A southpaw is already facing first base so he doesn’t have to pivot. Watch just his front foot. He’ll raise it and then step toward home plate if he’s pitching —”

  “— or toward first if he’s going for the pickoff, right?” Syl finished.

  Mr. Teacy nodded.

  Syl looked at the empty mound. “Too bad Mr. Baruth isn’t here to pitch. Then I could work on bunting, sliding, and stealing.”

  Mr. Teacy’s good humor ebbed away. “You don’t need him to do that. Get on the mound and pitch it to me. Field the ball, pitch again, and then cover second.”

  Wondering what Mr. Teacy had in mind, Sylvester found a ball and trotted to the mound.

  Mr. Teacy strode to the batter’s box. He hefted his bat and glared at Syl.

  “Pitch!”

  13

  Sylvester reared back and threw. Mr. Teacy laid down a bunt that dribbled toward the mound. Syl scooped it up and turned to see Mr. Teacy standing on first. He took a big lead off the bag and signaled for Syl to pitch again.

  Syl went into a windup. As his front foot lifted, he heard Mr. Teacy take off for second. He got rid of the ball as quickly as he could and rushed to cover second. Unsure of what he should do next, Syl crouched in a pantomime of a catch.

  He looked up to see Mr. Teacy barreling at him like a runaway train. His brain screamed for him to run off the base. But he steeled himself as Mr. Teacy hit the dirt in a slide.

  But it wasn’t a normal slide. Instead of keeping his outstretched leg low and near the bag, Mr. Teacy aimed it high—and suddenly Syl was looking at the business end of some very sharp metal spikes!

  “Yow!” He leaped aside just in the nick of time. “Are you crazy?” he shouted at Mr. Teacy. “You almost gored me!”

  Mr. Teacy gave a soft laugh as he dusted off his pants. “Yeah, but I made the steal, didn’t I?” He adjusted his cap and added, “Now it’s your turn.”

  “What? No way!” Syl shook his head vehemently.

  Mr. Teacy took a step toward him. “You said you’d follow my instructions without question,” he reminded Syl.

  Syl stood his ground, refusing to be intimidated. “Yeah? Well, guess what? I am going to ask some questions, but they’re not about your instructions!” he yelled. “Like, who are you, really? Who is Mr. Baruth? Why did you choose me and not someone else? Why only me?”

  The questions came out in a rush of emotion. He hadn’t meant to ask them that way, but now he put his hands on his hips, waiting to see if Mr. Teacy would answer.

  Mr. Teacy fixed him with a humorless smile. “What makes you so sure you’re the only one?”

  Syl recoiled as if he’d been slapped. “You mean… I’m not?”

  Mr. Teacy didn’t answer, just continued to smile.

  Tears suddenly pricked Syl’s eyes. He dropped his gaze to his feet. “That Oriole,” he whispered. “Mr. Baruth has been coaching him on how to hit homers, hasn’t he?”

  Mr. Teacy still didn’t reply.

  “Hasn’t he?” Anger mixed with betrayal caused Syl’s voice to crack. When Mr. Teacy still didn’t speak, he jerked his head up, ready to demand an answer.

  But Mr. Teacy had vanished.

  “Syl? Syl! Are you okay?”

  Sylvester whirled around to see Duane, Trent, and Jim biking toward him at breakneck speed. Anxiety was etched across their faces.

  “We heard you shouting!” Trent said breathlessly. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing,” Syl mumbled. “I just—nothing.”

  “What’re you doing out here, anyway?” Jim asked. “I thought you were doing home-work or helping your mom.”

  “Well, I thought you guys were playing video games,” Syl countered.

  Trent rolled his eyes. “My mom made us quit for the day. Said it was too nice outside to be holed up inside. We were going to play a little pitch, hit, and catch at our ball field, but that tee-ball tournament is still going on.”

  “Then I remembered this place from the other day,” Duane put in, “so we decided to play here instead. We would have come sooner if we’d known you were here already.” He gave Syl a questioning look then.

  Syl looked away. “Well, since we’re all here, why don’t we play some ball? Come on, Duane, you’re on my side. I’ll pitch first.”

  The others readily agreed, and so for the rest of the afternoon the four boys took turns batting, catching, and running the bases. Syl laughed and joked along with them.

  But deep inside, threads of anger and jealousy were slowly twining into a knot. With every passing moment, that knot was growing, and at its center was Mr. Baruth.

  14

  Despite being tired from hours of baseball, Syl slept poorly that night. Luckily, the next day was Saturday, so he got to sleep in. Still, when he finally did rise, he was out of sorts. Not even his favorite game-day breakfast of bagels and cream cheese lightened his mood.

  “You better work yourself out of your snit before you hit the diamond,” his mother advised after he’d snapped at her one time too many. “I don’t think Coach Corbin would appreciate that kind of attitude!”

  The mention of Coach Corbin only made him more irritable. If the coach had taken the time to teach me how to bunt and slide properly, then Mr. Teacy wouldn’t have shown up. And I would have never figured out that Mr. Baruth was coaching that other kid!

  Syl knew he was being unreasonable. Coach Corbin had never shirked his responsibilities to his players. And Mr. Baruth had never said Syl was his only protégé.

  But why did he have to pick someone on a team we play? Syl wondered angrily.

  He and his parents arrived at the ball field soon after breakfast.

  “Here we are,” his father said as he parked the car. Sylvester grabbed his glove and his cap and got out, slamming the door with a bang.

  “He’s become a ‘tweenager,’ ” he heard his mother say.

  “Lord help us!” his father replied with a laugh.

  Ha, ha, thought Syl.

  Many of the Orioles and Comets were already at the diamond warming up. Syl joined his teammates and caught a throw from Trent. He turned and hurled the ball with all his might to Eddie Exton. It landed with a loud pop in Eddie’s mitt.

  “Whoa, Syl!” Eddie called, freeing his hand and shaking it. “Save it for the game, man!”

  “Sorry,” Syl muttered. He toned it down for the rest of warm-ups.

  The Comets were the home team, so Sylvester jogged out to his spot in center field. He had one thing on his mind: getting back at Mr. Baruth by robbing the slugger of any home run he might attempt to hit.

  If I have to leap the fence to make the catch, I will! he thought, pounding his fist into his glove.

  Bongo Daley took a few practice pitches and then signaled that he was ready. The game began.

  In the Orioles-Jackdaws game a few days earlier, the first Oriole batter had hit a single. This time, against the Comets, he rapped out a grounder that took a funny hop over the path between first and second base. That hop gave the Oriole time to reach second. The next batter popped a fly ball to Duane at third for the first out. The runner on second wisely stayed put.

  One out turned to two when the third batter fouled off two pitches and then missed a third. That brought up the home run kid.

  “Back up!” Syl screamed to Steve and Kirk as he backpedaled into deep center field. And if you see me coming, get out of my way! he added silently.

  He squinted at the slugger, watching his every move. He wasn’t trying to guess
where he’d hit it, however. He wanted to see if the Oriole glanced into the stands. If he did, that’s where Mr. Baruth would be.

  But the Oriole seemed more concerned with staring down Bongo than looking for his mysterious coach. Bongo took Eddie’s signal, nodded, coiled back, and threw.

  Zip! went the ball.

  Swish! went the bat.

  Pop! went Eddie’s mitt.

  “Strike one!” shouted the umpire.

  “Told you so,” said someone behind Sylvester. “Players who try to clobber the ball for homers whiff on more pitches than they hit.”

  Syl didn’t even have to turn around to know who was there. “Yeah, you told me, Mr. Teacy,” he said. “You told me a whole lot. Now I’m going to tell you: leave me alone. I’ve got a game to play.”

  Mr. Teacy laughed softly. “I’ll leave you alone,” he said, “but I’m not going to leave. Not until I see you put my lessons to work, that is. So the sooner you show me what you’ve learned, the sooner I’ll be gone.”

  Syl didn’t have time to say anything in return because at that moment, the slugger put what Mr. Baruth had taught him into practice.

  “Heads up, Syl!” Kirk yelled. “It’s all yours!”

  15

  Sylvester whipped his gloved hand up into the air and kept his eyes glued to the ball soaring through the blue sky. He moved a few steps to his right, positioned himself directly under the ball, and waited for it to fall into his glove’s pocket for the out.

  To his astonishment, the ball didn’t drop into his glove. Instead, it seemed to veer away just before he caught it.

  “What the —?” He spun around, scrabbling in the grass. He finally picked up the ball and threw to the cutoff man. But he was too late. The Oriole had already rounded third on his way to an in-the-park, two-run homer.

  “Syl, what the heck happened?” Kirk bellowed from left field.

  Syl shook his head. He couldn’t believe he’d missed it either. In fact, he was certain he should have caught it. He replayed the ball’s trajectory in his mind. It was coming down on a line right to his glove—until suddenly, it wasn’t.

  No, Syl fumed, slapping his empty glove against his thigh, that miss wasn’t my fault. Something or someone made that ball change course. And I bet I know who it was.

  He narrowed his eyes and scanned the visitors’ stands. Then he looked at the people in the hometown bleachers. He saw Mr. Teacy leaning against the fence. Search as he might, though, he didn’t see Mr. Baruth anywhere.

  Of course, I didn’t see him at the Jackdaws-Orioles game either, he reminded himself. That doesn’t prove he wasn’t there—or that he’s not here right now!

  He was so busy thinking about Mr. Baruth that he didn’t realize Bongo had retired the Orioles until Steve called for him to hustle in for their turn at bat.

  Syl was batting cleanup, so there was no guarantee he would get to the plate that inning. Jim, the lead-off hitter, started the Comets off strong by ripping a line drive past the second baseman, good for a single.

  Syl applauded with his teammates, happy for his friend. Then he picked up a bat and began swinging it. It appeared as if he’d get his turn after all, and when he did, he wanted to be ready.

  Eddie was up next. He had a powerful swing that sometimes yielded hits but more often led to him striking out. This time, he managed to send the ball to shallow right field. He made it to first and chose to stop. Jim, however, rounded second and continued on to third.

  “Slide!” the third base coach yelled. “Slide!”

  Jim hit the dirt. The throw came in low and hard. A flurry of dust blocked Syl’s view. Is Jim safe or out?

  The umpire fanned his arms to either side. “Safe!”

  Syl and the rest of the Comets let out a whoop. Coach Corbin applauded madly, grinning ear to ear. Syl grinned, too, in part because he was proud of Jim—but also because the third baseman, the Orioles’ slugger, had lost out that time.

  Kirk came to the plate with runners at first and third and no outs. When the pitch came, he swung from his heels, clearly hoping to homer and put his team ahead. Instead, he hit a blooper. The shortstop faded back and caught it easily.

  “Okay, Syl,” Coach Corbin said in a low voice. “We could use some power now.”

  Sylvester nodded and walked toward the batter’s box. As he did, he saw a movement behind the bench.

  It was Mr. Teacy. He was holding his bat, but not in a normal batting grip. His hands were spread wide, with the fingers of his right pinching the fat part of the bat.

  Drag bunt, he mouthed to Syl.

  Syl hesitated. He glanced back at Coach Corbin for confirmation that he was to hit away. The coach was busy talking with the next batter.

  Syl looked into the outfield and saw that the players there had backed up, just as he had done for the Oriole slugger. He shot Mr. Teacy a brief nod and stepped into the box.

  The pitcher leaned in and took the signal. He began his windup.

  Wait for it, Syl thought, his heart racing. And… now!

  The pitcher reared back. With a swift motion, Syl squared off, slipped his hands apart, and aimed the end of the bat’s barrel toward first.

  “Oh no!” he heard the catcher cry. Then the bat drilled the ball to the ground between home and third, and all Syl heard after that was the sound of his own breath as he hightailed it for first.

  He made it!

  “Nice bunt, Syl!” Rod, the first base coach, said with excitement. “You totally fooled the infield, especially their third baseman! He practically fell over his feet trying to get to the ball in time!”

  “That so?” Syl said, laughing. “Wish I’d seen it!”

  “It’s just too bad Jim didn’t know it was coming,” Rod said, “or he might have made it home. Instead, he looked kind of confused. I think he was hoping you’d clobber the ball. Oh, well. He didn’t have to run, did he? And now the bases are loaded, so we’re in good shape!”

  16

  Syl was sorry to have confused Jim but saw with satisfaction that his bunt had rattled the Orioles’ pitcher even more. A quick conversation with his catcher and his coach calmed him down. He caught A.C. looking on two pitches and then got him to swing on the third for the Comets’ second out. That brought up Duane.

  “Come on, Duane, you can do it!” Syl yelled. “Don’t let us die out here!”

  Duane very nearly did leave them stranded. He fouled off three pitches to right field before clocking the fourth one fair. The ball flew over the first baseman’s outstretched glove and bounced along the fence. The right fielder scrambled to pick it up. When he did get it in his hand, however, he seemed uncertain where to throw it.

  Finally, with his teammates screaming at him, he hurled it as hard as he could toward the catcher. But his throw was so wild that both Jim and Eddie scored easily. Syl was safe at third and Duane was standing up at first!

  Tie ball game, and Syl was in place for the go-ahead run!

  Unfortunately, the next batter was Bongo. Bongo was a terrific pitcher, but he was lousy at the plate. He took three cuts and missed each one to end the Comets’ turn at bat.

  Syl hurried to get his glove and then hustled to center field. He and the other outfielders threw the ball around a few times. Then the umpire yelled, “Play ball!” and the second inning began.

  Nothing much happened that inning, or the two after that, however. Syl and his teammates returned to the field for the fifth inning with the score still 2–2. It didn’t stay that way for long, because Bongo suddenly seemed tired. He gave up three hits in a row to load the bases!

  When the fourth batter strode to the plate, the Orioles’ fans cheered and the Comets’ fans groaned. It was the home run slugger.

  Coach Corbin jogged to the mound to give Bongo a quick pep talk. Syl, meanwhile, gave himself one as he backed up. “Go ahead, hit it to me,” he growled. “Your streak ends now!”

  The Oriole did hit it to center field—deep, deep center field! Syl faded b
ack until he collided with the fence. But he didn’t give up. As the ball fell to earth, he jumped, stretching his right arm as high as he could.

  He might have caught the ball, too, except just as it neared his glove, he felt a sharp sting on his bare skin. Pain shot down his arm, making him involuntarily jerk it down.

  Plop!

  Instead of nestling in his webbing, the ball dropped over the fence for a grand slam.

  “No!” Syl cried, hurling his glove to the ground. He looked at his arm and saw a small, red welt—and a yellow-and-black insect buzzing away. “A bee sting? Are you kidding me?” He turned in circles, searching for… what? A bee’s nest? Or someone to blame the sting on?

  Of course, he found neither. Just rotten luck, he finally told himself. But he didn’t believe it, not even for a minute. Two surefire catches muffed by strange coincidences? Not likely!

  With that hit, Coach Corbin decided that it was time to replace Bongo with their other pitcher, Burk Riley. Bongo slumped off the field and sat on the bench, head down, while Burk, with his fresh arm, quickly retired the side.

  “Okay, Comets,” Coach Corbin called, clapping his hands, “let’s get it back!”

  Eddie Exton was the first at bat. He looked two balls into the catcher’s glove and then took a ball to his shoulder on a wild pitch. He tossed his bat aside and jogged down to first base. That brought up Kirk. Last time up, Kirk had flied out to the shortstop. This time, he flied out to deep right field! Fortunately, Eddie was a fast runner, and he made it to second after tagging up.

  Now Syl stepped into the batter’s box. He wondered if the fielders would back up, as they had last time. They didn’t, but he saw a few of them shift their feet, as if unsure what to expect.