Return of the Home Run Kid (2 page)

He could almost hear that obnoxious Indians’ fan yelling at him in the midst of all the shouting from the stands.

Jon Buckley grounded out, and Dick Wasser flied out to right field. That brought up Burk Riley, the Indians’ pitcher. It should have been an easy out, but Burk walked.

Two men on, two out, and Bus Riley, Burks brother, came up next.

Crack! He lambasted Terry’s first pitch directly at Trent, who caught it for the third out.

It was the Redbirds’ final opportunity to win the game. As Sylvester joined his teammates in the dugout, Bobby Kent snorted.

“I don’t know why the coach put you in, Codd-myer,” Bobby said. “Maybe you were a hotshot last year, but you’re nothin’ but a cold turkey now.”

Sylvester’s face turned beet red.

“I didn’t ask him to,” he mumbled. “It was his own idea.”

Trent, who was sitting nearby, cut in smugly. “Maybe he feels he has to, just because you’re wearing a uniform.” The tall shortstop had already acquired quite a reputation as an up-and-coming ballplayer with a batting average of over.400. Add to this a really good throwing arm and the result was an inflated ego.

Sylvester’s heart sank. After all, he thought, just because I love to play doesn’t mean I’m any good for the team. I
was
great last year, but where does that put me now?

“Here we go, Terry!” The sound of Coach Corbin encouraging Terry Barnes called Syl back to the present. Terry gave it his best as he led off with a single between third base and shortstop. Syl joined in the cheers. He figured maybe if the Redbirds pulled it out in the end, the fans would forget about his stupid fielding error. Even his freak hit had been stupid. It was just by luck that he’d gotten on base.

“Way to go!” Coach Corbin called from the third base coaching box. “Okay, Jim! Lets keep it going!”

But Jim flied out, and so did Ted. Then Trent Sturgis stepped into the batters box.

“C’mon, Trent!” Sylvester yelled, forgetting for a moment how Trent had snubbed him. Right now, all he wanted was for the Redbirds to win.

Trent walked.

The Redbirds were still alive!

“Atta boy, Trent!” Sylvester cheered along with the fans in the stands. “Lets keep it rolling, Les!”

Les didn’t. He hit a pitch sky-high to the third baseman, and the Indians took the game, 5–3.

As the disappointed team left the dugout, Sylvester kept his cap pulled low over his forehead.

“Syl! Sylvester Coddmyer!”

Syl recognized the high-pitched voice calling to him. He got a little flustered when he turned and saw Joyce Dancer running toward him from the bleachers.

“Syl… oh, Syl!” he heard Bobby chant in a mocking, girlish voice, tickling Trent’s funny bone as they drifted off in gales of laughter.

But the two wise guys made no impression on the young girl. Her deeply tanned arms, a result of long sessions on the tennis court, were wrapped around a healthy stack of books.

“Hi, Syl,” she said, as she got closer to him. “Some game, huh?”

“Yeah,” he mumbled, his voice barely audible.

He slowed his pace to make sure they wouldn’t catch up with Bobby and Trent. It was no secret that he and Joyce were friends. But he didn’t want to have to deal with those guys.

“Cheer up,” Joyce said, breaking out in a big smile. “So you lost a ball game, not a war.”

“To me it is a war,” Sylvester grumbled.

“That’s really nuts. But I know how you feel,” Joyce said.

“You think so?”

“Sure I think so. I play tennis, remember? I’ve lost my share of matches. You don’t think I like losing, do you?”

“’Course not. But you always look good, whether you win or lose,” Sylvester said. Then he realized his words could be taken more than one way.

Joyce chuckled, hiking up the books in her arms. “Thanks, but I don’t always feel good. I’m human, too!”

By now, they’d come to the end of a block.

“But you don’t think that it’s just like a war?” he asked.

“Nope.” She laughed. “Not even a military conflict.”

He finally laughed, too. “I guess you’re right,” he said. “It’s just hard. I mean, I want to be good — at least some of the time — but it never happens lately.”

“Yeah, being in a slump is the pits,” she said. “Hey, you just have to do the best you can to get out of it. It’s the only way it’s going to happen.”

“Thank you very much for your prescription, Dr. Dancer,” he joked, a big grin on his face.

In fact, Joyces cheerful nature was a little like medicine to him. He felt like taking her hand and squeezing it gently. Sometimes they held hands at the movies. But he wouldn’t dare do that here, out in the open. He could imagine how the other guys would howl and jeer if they saw.

Still, it was nice and comfortable, just walking down the street with her. Without even asking, he leaned over and took some of her books as they chattered away in the late afternoon. There was more and more shade these days as the leaves on the trees along the sidewalk grew greener and greener with the approach of summer.

Sylvester felt something else inside — hunger. His stomach was reminding him that he needed some nourishment. But that didn’t stop him from enjoying his time with Joyce. He wished she lived five more blocks away instead of only two.

At last they were in front of her home, a white clapboard two-story house with shrubs and flowering bushes hugging its base.

Joyce took back her books and gave him what he liked to think was their secret wink.

“See you tomorrow,” she said, then turned down the driveway toward the back door.

“Right,” he said, winking back. “See you.”

Still cozy and warm from the special feeling Joyce always seemed to impart, Sylvester walked slowly down the block and was about to cross over when a deep voice interrupted his thoughts.

“Sylvester! Sylvester Coddmyer the Third!”

For one split second, he flashed back to a year ago, to the moment when Mr. Baruth entered his life. But no, even though this was a man’s voice, it wasn’t the same.

He turned around, his forehead creased with curiosity as he stared at the man walking toward him. The man was tall and lanky, had a stubble of a beard, and wore a white sweatshirt and a hat with an old-fashioned letter C on it. No, this was definitely not Mr. Baruth.

“Got a minute, Sylvester?” the man asked.

Sylvester was sure he’d never seen this man before. He wondered how he knew his name.

“Well, sort of,” he answered. He was glad they were in a friendly neighborhood, not far from his home — just in case this guy turned out to be some kind of weir do.

But the stranger had a really nice smile as he came forward and stretched out his right hand. Sylvester shook it cautiously, gazing into the man’s dark eyes while he ran through his memory bank. Definitely, no one he’d ever seen before.

“Name’s Cheeko,” the man said. “Saw you play today. Whew! I hate to say it, but you sure have a lot of room for improvement, haven’t you?”

He said it with a smile about a foot wide. Sylvester couldn’t help but smile, too.

“You’re right.” He nodded.

“I bet you’d like to fill up that room and be a better ballplayer, right?”

“Right.” The word had barely left Sylvesters lips when he suddenly recalled a conversation just like this with Mr. Baruth the first time they met.

“All right, then, listen to me,” said the man named Cheeko. “I think I can help.”

3

T
he man’s words raced on, fast and punchy, nothing like the mellow, steady sound of Mr. Baruth’s voice.

“I know about that home run streak you were on last year. Great. But you missed one thing, one thing the guy who coached you left out. You have to be a lot tougher, more aggressive. You wanna be a winner in this world, you’ve got to make a few moves, take a few shortcuts, too. You’ve got to stand up for what’s yours and let ’em know you’re not some kind of bug that anyone can step on. Get what I mean?”

As Sylvester drank in every word, he wondered how this man, a perfect stranger, knew so much about him. Especially, he couldn’t figure out how “Cheeko” knew about his hot streak last year. And Mr. Baruths coaching.

“Wait a minute,” he asked. “Do you know Mr. Baruth? Are you a friend of his?”

“Baruth?” Cheeko’s eyes crinkled up at the corners as he flashed his big smile again. “Sure I do. It’s like we’re old buddies. Matter of fact, that’s how I heard about you.”

“He told you about me?” Sylvester relaxed a little as soon as he heard that Cheeko was a friend of Mr. Baruth’s. That automatically made him a better than average guy in Sylvester s book.

“Exactly!” said Cheeko. “That’s why I dropped by to see how you were doing. Not great, huh? Nothing to brag about, right?”

“Right,” Sylvester admitted, looking down at the toe of his right shoe as he kicked at a pebble.

“Hey, I know you can do better,” Cheeko went on. Despite his strong, almost pushy way of talking, Sylvester was interested in what he had to say.

Sylvester scowled. “Well, I sure would like to get out of this darn slump.”

“You can,” Cheeko insisted. “Hey, let me work out with you a little. Believe me, lean show you a few things the other guys on the field wouldn’t ever even think of. Tell you what, I’ll bring the baseballs. All you need to bring is a bat and your glove. Whaddya say? You up for it?”

A million questions raced through Sylvesters mind but he could only drag out a few.

“I… I want to be a better player,” he said, “but how come you want to work out with me? Why not some other kid?”

“Hey, I told you, Mr. Baruth said you were an okay guy,” Cheeko said, still smiling. “I hate to see anybody get a raw deal. There’re still a lot of scores to settle.”

Sylvester wasn’t sure what he meant, but his heart was pounding at thoughts of his winning streak coming back to him.

“You sure you have the time to spend with me? Don’t you have to work?” he asked.

Cheeko chuckled. “Time’s the one thing I have. Plenty of it. You might say I’m sort of retired. So what’s the word? Game?”

The vision of the blaze of glory that he felt every time the ball soared over the fence, every time he made an almost impossible catch, every time he crossed the plate at a steady trot, exploded in his mind. Sylvester would give almost anything to bring back those moments. There was no room in his mind for doubts now.

“Game!” he answered.

“Great!” said Cheeko. “See you after supper.”

He put out a hand and Sylvester almost leapt to give him a high five.

As Cheeko headed off in the other direction, Sylvester started to run down the street toward his home. He hadn’t gotten far when he realized he had a big step ahead: he’d have to ask permission from his parents to work out with Cheeko. After all, he was a stranger, just like Mr. Baruth. Maybe they’d want to meet him first.

Some of the other questions that he’d lost in his excitement started popping up in his brain now.

What did that C on Cheeko s hat stand for?

Where did he live?

Would he come to all the Redbirds’ games the way Mr. Baruth had?

Sylvester was so lost in his thoughts, he almost missed his own driveway. But the minute he walked into the kitchen, he blurted out everything in a rush of words.

“Whoa! Hold it!” his father said, holding up his right hand like a traffic cop. “You met whom? Cheeko? Cheeko who?”

His mother walked into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of ice water from the dispenser on the refrigerator door.

She frowned. “Don’t tell me you’ve met another mysterious stranger.” She looked at Mr. Coddmyer and added, “Speaking of mysteries, you’re home early. How come?”

“I worked through lunch and thought I’d put some time in the garden while there’s light. They’ll beep me if anything comes up,” he replied. Mr. Coddmyer had a new job as a troubleshooter for a computer software company. He hardly ever went into his office, but got his assignments from calls that came through on his beeper.

Sylvester wasn’t really listening to their talk. He was too eager to get permission to practice with Cheeko.

“Cheeko didn’t tell me his last name,” he said. “He just introduced himself and told me he’d be willing to help me improve my game, you know, hitting and everything.”

His father looked skeptical. “Didn’t I hear that song before? Only a year ago … about a Mr. Baruth?”

“Yes, Dad,” Sylvester said. “Cheeko’s a friend of Mr. Baruth’s. I mean, that’s what he told me.”

“We never got to meet your Mr. Baruth,” said Mrs. Coddmyer. “But I will say that he did help you become a better player. That home run streak was incredible. And now there’s another angel out of the blue who wants to help you again?”

“Angel?” Sylvester echoed. “I don’t know if I’d go
that
far…”

“Well, whatever he is,” replied his mother. “Listen, instead of just sitting around, let’s get started on dinner. One of you get out the lettuce, wash it, and give it a whirl in the spinner. Someone else please set the table.”

“First she manages the clerks in her store, now she puts us to work.” Mr. Coddmyer laughed. “Don’t push too hard. We’re liable to go on strike.”

As they set about their chores, Mr. and Mrs. Coddmyer continued to talk about Cheeko.

“Maybe this Cheeko and Mr. Baruth are on some kind of coaching circuit,” Mr. Coddmyer suggested. “I never heard of it before, but nothing would surprise me.”

“Then I can go out after supper and practice with him?” Sylvester pleaded.

“I suppose I could give up clipping the hedge to meet this new supercoach,” Mr. Coddmyer said. “Right after supper, I’ll go over to the field with you.”

“I’d like to meet him, too,” said Mrs. Coddmyer, sitting down at the table in front of the salad bowl. “But I have a huge inventory to go over tonight. It s going to take hours.”

“That’s okay, Mom,” said Sylvester. “You can meet him if he comes to some Redbird games. Maybe you and Dad will be able to make a few more now.” He’d never told them how much he missed seeing them in the stands this year. Maybe because he was a little embarrassed that he didn’t get to play that much.