The Home Run Kid Races On Read online

  Syl decided to hit away rather than try another bunt. So when the Oriole pitcher gave him one he liked, he swung. Pow! The ball blasted between the third baseman and the shortstop and bounded into left field. Syl made it safely to first and turned in time to see Eddie, unbelievably, beat the throw to third!

  “Woo-hoo!” Syl cheered. “Way to dig it out, Eddie!”

  “Now it’s your turn to dig it out,” came a familiar voice. Syl sneaked a look over his shoulder and saw Mr. Teacy standing behind Rod, the first base coach. “Take a big lead and get ready to steal.”

  Syl swallowed hard. “Are you sure?”

  “Am I sure of what?” Rod asked.

  “Nothing,” Syl said, shifting off the bag to stand several paces into the base path.

  “Remember —” Mr. Teacy began.

  “— to watch the pitcher’s feet,” Syl finished in a whisper.

  The Oriole pitcher stretched his arms over his head and brought them down in front, turning to look at Syl as he did.

  Syl bounced on his toes, never taking his eyes off the pitcher’s feet. So he saw the moment the Oriole lifted his foot—his front foot!

  Syl took off like he’d been fired from a cannon. He heard the Orioles’ infielders shouting, saw the second baseman rush to the bag and stand at the ready. He dropped into his slide then, thrusting his right leg out and bending his left leg beneath him. His toe touched the bag and he hopped up, breathing hard, to find the second baseman holding the ball.

  Both Syl and the Oriole infielder turned to the umpire.

  “Safe!” the man yelled.

  “Yes!” Syl pumped his fist in a quick celebration and then looked for Mr. Teacy. If he’d expected the ballplayer to congratulate him, he was disappointed. One curt nod was all he got.

  Syl pressed his lips together. I’ll get that guy to clap for me if it’s the last thing I do this game! he thought with determination.

  17

  Sylvester was so distracted by his thoughts that he didn’t realize A.C. had boosted the ball above the first baseman’s head until he heard the crowd yelling. The Oriole jumped up, nabbed the ball, and beat A.C. back to the base for the out.

  It happened so fast that neither Syl nor Eddie had a chance to run. Unfortunately, they both died on base because Duane grounded out.

  “Sorry, Eddie. Sorry, Syl,” Duane muttered. “I hung you out to dry.”

  It was the top of the sixth inning and the score read Orioles 6, Comets 2. That’s how it read at the start of the bottom half, too. The home run slugger had gotten up again, but this time, he’d struck out.

  The mood in the Comets’ dugout was glum. They only had one more chance at bat to get four runs for a tie, five to win. There was no guarantee they’d even get one.

  But they did. Burk, up first, socked a sizzling line drive in the hole between first and second, good for a double. Then Trent beat the throw to first on a bloopered fly ball. Two men on, no outs. Steve singled, too, to load the bases.

  Jim came up next, whirling his bat above his shoulder. He waited for the right pitch and, when it came, knocked a fly ball into right field. It should have been an easy out. But the outfielder muffed the catch! Burk and Trent both raced home, Steve stood up at third, and speedy Jim slid safely into second.

  Two runs scored, two runners on base, and no outs! The Comets were on their feet, cheering and clapping for their teammates. Their cheers died a moment later when Eddie dribbled a grounder and was put out at first. They grew quieter still when Kirk became the second out.

  “So, Sylvester, feel a home run coming on, by any chance?” Coach Corbin asked as Kirk trudged to the bench. His tone was light, but Syl could see hope in his eyes.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Syl replied from the on-deck circle. He approached the plate and readied himself for the pitch. He let the first two go by for balls, but he liked the third—a lot.

  Pow!

  The moment he connected he was sure he’d hit a home run. He began his slow jog toward first base, admiring his hit. But then his admiration turned to horror. The ball dropped inside the fence!

  “What’re you doing, Syl?” Trent shouted. “Run!”

  Syl was already racing toward first.

  “Keep going!” Rod yelled.

  Syl rounded the bag and headed for second. It was close, but he slid in under the tag. Safe! Even better, Jim and Eddie made it, too, crossing home plate to tie the game!

  Syl didn’t celebrate, however. If he’d just run all out, he might have stretched his hit into a triple. At the very least, it would have been a stand-up double instead of such a close call. He was sure Mr. Teacy would have something to say about his not “giving it everything he had.”

  Sure enough, Mr. Teacy gave him an angry glare when he caught Syl looking at him. Then he shifted his gaze to the third baseman.

  A slow smile crossed his face. He pointed from Syl to third base. With his hands, he made a sliding motion, rubbing one onto the other.

  Syl nodded his understanding.

  Don’t worry, I’ll slide! he thought.

  But Mr. Teacy wasn’t finished communicating with him. Now he lifted one of his feet so that the metal spikes of his shoes shone in the sunlight. He touched one of the sharp points and made the sliding motion again, only this time, the gesture ended with his fingertips stabbing toward the third baseman.

  Syl gawked in disbelief. He wants me to spike the Orioles’ slugger when I slide into third!

  18

  Sylvester had intentionally hurt only one other player in his life. Back when he’d been listening to Cheeko’s advice, he’d jabbed a second baseman in the ribs hard enough to make the boy gasp in pain.

  It was an unsportsmanlike move, one that he’d regretted. In fact, he’d felt so bad about it, he swore he’d never do something like it again.

  Yet here was Mr. Teacy ordering him to do much worse to another kid!

  Not a chance! Sylvester shook his head vehemently. Even though his own spikes were just hard rubber, he knew they’d do some damage if they rammed into flesh.

  Mr. Teacy’s expression darkened. He stared daggers at Syl and repeated his gestures again.

  Syl just looked away. Signal all you want, Mr. Teacy, he thought. I’m not doing it. I don’t care if it would help us win the game. It’s a dirty play, and I won’t do it.

  He turned his attention back to the game.

  A.C. was at the plate. When the pitch came, it must have looked as big as a beach ball, because A.C. hit it squarely. He dropped his bat and tore up the dirt on his way to first base.

  Syl, meanwhile, took off for third. He timed his slide perfectly and touched the bag a split second before the Orioles’ baseman received the ball.

  “Safe!” the umpire yelled.

  The Comets’ fans and players went crazy, clapping and cheering. There may have been two outs, but the winning run was within their grasp!

  Syl dusted off his pants, risking a glance at Mr. Teacy as he did. He gulped when he saw the man striding toward him, a furious look on his face.

  “I warned you not to disobey my instructions,” Mr. Teacy said.

  Syl was about to retort when he realized something was happening on the field. The Orioles’ coach decided it was time to replace his pitcher. It was a sound move; after all, the hurler had given up four runs in the inning. He may also have hoped that by halting the game to change pitchers, he would slow the Comets’ momentum.

  While the new pitcher jogged to the mound, the Oriole infielders threw the ball around the horn. The third baseman leaped for a high catch, but missed. Syl turned to watch him retrieve the ball from the dugout. He half-expected to see Mr. Teacy standing behind him, his usual glare etched on his face. Instead, he found himself face-to-face with Mr. Baruth!

  All the anger and the sense of betrayal Syl had been feeling that day bubbled to the surface. He crossed his arms over his chest. “What are you doing here?” he muttered. “Come to coach your newest best budd
y?”

  Mr. Baruth didn’t reply. Instead, he knelt down to tie a loose shoelace. At that same moment, the Oriole returned with the ball. He passed the man as if he didn’t see him.

  Syl tapped the player on the shoulder. “Aren’t you going to say hello?” he said, crossing his arms again and jerking his head at Mr. Baruth.

  The Oriole stared at Syl in confusion. “Uh, okay. Hello.” Then he threw the ball to his shortstop.

  Syl blinked. Slowly, he dropped his arms to his side. His mind was whirling. “Why isn’t he talking to you?” he whispered.

  “Why would he?” Mr. Baruth answered, standing up. “I don’t know him and he doesn’t know me.”

  “You don’t? But I thought —”

  “I know what you thought,” Mr. Baruth cut in. He motioned for Syl to step away from the bag so they could talk in private. “And I know who put that thought in your head.”

  Syl nodded knowingly. “Mr. Teacy.”

  “No,” Mr. Baruth said. “You put that thought into your own head. He just let you keep thinking it, because being mad at me got you to do what he wanted you to do.” He smiled broadly. “Until a moment ago, that is. When you refused to spike that Oriole, Mr. Teacy knew you were done with him. So he left.”

  “Oh.”

  Mr. Baruth tipped his head to the side. “Are you disappointed he’s gone?”

  Syl thought for a moment. “Not really,” he answered truthfully. “I learned a lot from him, but I didn’t really like him. He kind of scared me, actually.”

  Mr. Baruth chuckled. “You weren’t the first person to feel that way about him, Syl. Believe me!” He pointed to the field. “That new pitcher’s just about warmed up. I better be going.”

  “Won’t you stay until the game’s over?” Syl begged. “I have so many questions!”

  “Another time, Syl. Right now, you’ve got a run to score!”

  Syl gulped. “I do? How? How am I going to score?”

  Mr. Baruth shifted his gaze over Syl’s shoulder. “There’s the one who can answer that question. See you around.”

  Syl looked behind him to see Coach Corbin approaching. “Listen up, Sylvester,” the coach said in a low voice. “There’s a way we can win this one now. But it all depends on you!”

  With that, he outlined his plan in a whisper.

  “So what do you think?” he finished. “Can you do it?”

  Sylvester straightened his shoulders and nodded. “I’ll give it my best shot, Coach.”

  19

  The delayed double steal—that’s what Coach Corbin wanted to try. Duane, at bat, was to pretend to bunt. At the same time, A.C., at first, was to steal. If and when the catcher committed to throwing A.C. out at second, Syl was to steal home.

  It was a very tricky play, one that depended on pinpoint timing, incredible speed, and the ability of the offense to fool the defense. If it worked, Syl had a good chance of scoring the winning run. But there were many ways it could fail. A.C. could be thrown out at second. Duane could muff the fake bunt. Syl could take off for home too soon. Or the defense could spot the play and shut it down before it even begins.

  Getting the third and final out now wouldn’t be the end of the world, of course. A tie game would simply lead to extra innings. That was why the coach had decided to try the play.

  “Let’s go for it,” Syl told him.

  The Orioles’ pitcher finished warming up. The umpire called, “Play ball!” The Orioles got into ready stances.

  And Sylvester’s heart hammered so hard in his chest he thought it would burst.

  Duane looked nervous, too. Syl hoped his friend would be able to do his part. He willed him to take deep breaths to calm down.

  I should follow that advice myself, he thought, and promptly did so.

  The Orioles’ pitcher got the ball. He put it behind his back, twirling it in his fingers, and leaned in to get the signals.

  Duane held the bat above his shoulder, poised and ready. A.C. shuffled into the base path. Syl took a lead, too, trying not to be obvious as he did so.

  The third baseman glanced at him but didn’t change his position.

  Syl risked another two steps away from the bag.

  The pitcher nodded, straightened, and went into his windup. His front foot lifted off the turf.

  Go, A.C.! Go! Syl’s mind screamed.

  A.C. did go, just as the pitcher released the ball. Duane rounded into his bunt, moving his body so it blocked the catcher’s view just for an instant. The shouts from the Orioles’ bench must have told the catcher what was happening, however, for the second the ball hit his glove he was on his feet and throwing to second.

  Syl didn’t wait a moment longer. He put his head down and ran. As his feet churned through the dirt, he imagined Mr. Teacy chasing him like a dog after a squirrel. Adrenaline shot through his veins and spurred him to go even faster. He hit the dirt for his slide into home at top speed.

  Sand and tiny pebbles ground into his backside. He didn’t even feel it. He was too focused on reaching home.

  The catcher stood at the ready. Syl heard him yell, saw him move, and then—pop! The ball hit the catcher’s glove just as Syl swept across the plate.

  Syl lay still, breathing hard. Gritty dust filled his nose and mouth. He didn’t care. His ears were straining to hear a single word.

  And then he heard it.

  “Safe!”

  Duane gave a whoop and yanked Sylvester to his feet. “You did it! Final score, Comets seven, Orioles six!” he shouted.

  “We did it!” Syl amended.

  He pounded his friend on the back, grinning from ear to ear. A second later, he and Duane were surrounded by the rest of the Comets, all of whom were whooping and cheering. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the Orioles gather at their bench, their shoulders slumped.

  He felt bad for them, but that’s what happens. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose.

  “Hey, Syl,” Trent called, “how about a little celebration at the ice cream parlor? My folks will drive us—and better yet, they’ll pay!”

  “Sounds great!” Syl returned. “Say, have you seen my glove? I thought I left it on the bench.”

  Trent spied it in the corner of the dugout. “Is that it over there?”

  “That’s it. Thanks,” Syl said. “I’ll be ready to go in a second. Meet you in the parking lot.”

  He hurried to the corner and retrieved his glove. When he picked it up, an envelope fluttered from inside its pocket.

  “What the heck?” He straightened and looked around. “Does this belong to anybody?” But his teammates were still so busy celebrating, they didn’t hear him. Syl saw that the envelope wasn’t closed, so he lifted the flap to see what was inside.

  What he found made him suck in his breath. It was a very old, sepia-toned photograph of two baseball players. They wore different uniforms but were examining a baseball bat together. Sylvester identified the man on the left immediately: it was Babe Ruth. He wasn’t sure who the man on the right was. Then he looked closer and gave a small laugh.

  The second man’s ears stuck out quite prominently on either side of his head. Syl still didn’t know his name—not his real name, anyway—but he would have known those ears anywhere. They belonged to Mr. Teacy.

  Syl flipped the photograph over and saw that there was a short message written on it. “To replace the one that was lost,” the note read. It wasn’t signed.

  Epilogue

  Sylvester Coddmyer III didn’t plan on showing the photograph to anyone. But the day after he stole home, he changed his mind.

  That afternoon, he found a very special book about baseball history at the neighborhood yard sale. The stories were fascinating, but the pictures were what really captivated him.

  As he paged through the volume, he saw countless images of Babe Ruth, along with other familiar figures. There was Eddie Cicotte standing with “Shoeless” Joe Jackson and the rest of the Black Sox players. Jackie Robinson, the man who broke
through baseball’s color barrier, had a chapter all to himself, as did the Negro League. A photo of Mickey Mantle made him smile. Sprinkled among the biographies and game recaps were graphs comparing stats of one player to another and lists of all sorts, including one of the sport’s longtime record holders.

  One name appeared on that list more than once: Ty Cobb. Sylvester was interested to see that, among other things, Cobb had stolen home more often than any other professional player—over thirty-five times.

  Intrigued, Sylvester flipped to the index to see if the book had more entries about Cobb. He found one labeled “Cobb versus Ruth.” He turned to that page.

  “No way!” he breathed. There, right smack in the middle of the text, was a copy of his photograph!

  “Ty Cobb and Babe Ruth with bat,” the photo’s caption read. Syl stared at it for a long time and then shivered.

  Ty Cobb. T. C. Teacy!

  Just to be sure, he scanned the blurb on Ty Cobb, looking for similarities between the long-dead ballplayer and the man he knew as Mr. Teacy. They leaped out at him one after another.

  “Known for his bunting.” Check, Syl thought.

  “Top batting average of all time.” Syl remembered Mr. Teacy’s insistence that hits were better than homers because they helped batting averages. Check again, he thought.

  “From Georgia. Hated for spiking basemen during slides.” Check and check, Syl thought as he recalled the man’s slight accent, as well as his spike-high slides.

  He closed the book then. He didn’t need any more convincing that Mr. Teacy and Ty Cobb were one and the same person.

  “Who’d ever believe me, though?” he said to himself. He knew the answer, of course. And as if he’d conjured up the person just by thinking about him, the boy suddenly popped up from behind a table laden with glassware.

  Sylvester grinned. Tucking his new book under his arm, he called out, “Hey! Snooky! Wait up! I’ve got something to tell you that I just know you’re going to want to hear!”