Copyright
Copyright © 1972 by Matt Christopher Royalties, Inc.
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Little, Brown Group
Hachette Book Group
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First eBook Edition: December 2009
Little, Brown and Company is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc. The Little, Brown name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Matt Christopher® is a registered trademark of Matt Christopher Royalties, Inc.
ISBN: 978-0-316-09601-0
for my son,
Dale
Author’s Note
This story was told to the author by a person whose expressed wish is that he remain anonymous. Every word in it is true (so he said), except that names have been changed to protect the innocent (and those not so innocent).
The author was left to form his own opinion on whether the incidents have actually happened, and he prefers to keep that opinion to himself.
It is left to the judgment of the reader whether he wishes to do likewise.
Matt Christopher
Contents
Copyright
Author’s Note
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
THE #1 SPORTS SERIES FOR KIDS: MATT CHRISTOPHER®
Matt Christopher®
1
The Hooper Redbirds were having their third practice session of the spring season, and Sylvester Coddmyer III, a right-hander, was batting.
Rick Wilson hurled in the first pitch. It looked good and Sylvester swung.
Swish! He missed it by six inches.
“Just meet it, Sylvester,” advised Coach Stan Corbin. “You’re trying to kill it.”
Sylvester tried to “just meet” Rick’s next pitch and fouled it to the backstop screen. He hit the next one to Rick. It was a dribbler that took almost five seconds to reach the mound.
“Hold it up for him, Rick!” shouted Jim Cowley, the Redbirds’ second baseman.
“Think that would help, Jim?” yelled Jerry Ash.
A rumble of laughter broke from the other players on the field. Sylvester didn’t let it bother him, though. He was pretty used to it by now.
“Okay, Sylvester,” said the coach. “Lay it down and run it out.”
Sylvester bunted Rick’s next pitch down to third and beelined to first base. His stocky build and short legs didn’t exactly help him be a very fast runner.
He had hoped that by now he would show some improvement in his playing. If there was any, it was so slight no one seemed to notice.
His performance in the outfield wasn’t any better than it was at the plate. Mr. Beach, the assistant coach, was knocking flies out to the outfielders, and Sylvester missed three out of four that were hit to him.
“Remind me to bring you my mom’s clothes basket at the next practice,” said Ted Sobel, one of the outfielders who was sure to make the starting lineup. “Maybe then you can catch it.”
“Funny,” said Sylvester. “Ha ha.”
Twenty minutes later practice was over… The boys walked tiredly to the locker room, showered, and went home.
“Well, are you going to sign up to play?” asked Jim Cowley.
“Tomorrow the last day to sign up?”
“That’s right.”
“I’ll think about it,” said Sylvester.
He thought about it at the supper table, on the swing in the yard, and in bed before he fell asleep, and decided he wouldn’t sign up. He was sure he’d just sit on the bench, anyway. And who’d like to sit on the bench all the time?
The next afternoon he sat in the bleachers and watched the Hooper Redbirds practice. No one seemed to miss him on the field. No one, that is, except Jim Cowley, who ran over from first base after batting practice.
“Syl! Why aren’t you on the field?”
“I didn’t sign up,” answered Sylvester.
“Why not?”
Sylvester shrugged. “Why? To warm the bench? Anyway, I don’t care that much about playing.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Nothing else to do,” replied Sylvester.
“I bet,” said Jim, and ran back to the infield.
Sylvester folded his hands over his knees, glad that Cowley had left. The guy was starting to get on his nerves.
“Why did you lie to the boy, Syl?” said a voice.
Startled, he looked and saw a man climb up the bleachers and sit beside him. He had never seen the man before, but figured he must be the father of one of the players.
He blushed.
The man smiled and put out his hand. Sylvester put his into it and felt the man’s warm grip. “I’m George Baruth,” said the man. “You’re Sylvester Coddmyer the third, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am,” said Sylvester, and frowned. George Baruth? There was no Baruth going to Hooper Junior High that he knew of. “Are… are you looking for me?”
George Baruth’s blue eyes crinkled at the corners. He was a big man with a round face and a nose like a large strawberry. He was wearing a coat over a thin white jersey, brown pants, and a baseball cap with the letters NY on the front of it.
“Well, hardly,” said George Baruth. “I just figured you’d be here.”
Sylvester heard a sharp crack! and looked just in time to see catcher Eddie Exton blast a pitch over short.
“Why did you lie to the boy, Syl?” George Baruth asked again. “You do want to play baseball with the team, don’t you?”
Sylvester nodded, thinking: How could he know that? He never saw me before. “Yes, I do,” he admitted.
“Well, don’t lie about it. You didn’t fool Jim, and”—he grinned broadly—“you don’t fool me.”
Sylvester’s smile didn’t quite match Mr. Baruth’s. He tried to think of something to say, but couldn’t. He never was much of a talker.
“Syl,” said Mr. Baruth, “I don’t like to see a boy watch a game from the bleachers while his heart bleeds to play.”
“But I would never make a ballplayer, Mr. Baruth,” said Sylvester, hopelessly. “Ballplayers are good catchers and good hitters, and I don’t fit into that picture at all.”
“Well, you’ve played some baseball, haven’t you?”
“Yes. Some.”
“Okay. Stick around after the Redbirds finish their practice.”
Sylvester stared at him. “Why?”
“I’m going to teach you to become a better baseball player, that’s why. As a matter of fact…” and now Mr. Baruth’s eyes twinkled, “I think I’ll teach you to become one of the best players ever to play in Hooper!”
Sylvester’s eyes popped. “How are you going to do that, Mr. Baruth?”
George Baruth chuckled. “You’ll see, my boy. See you after practice.”
He got up and left the bleachers, and once again Sylve
ster Coddmyer III was by himself. He kept watching the Hooper Redbirds practice hitting, and then watched the coach knock grounders to the infielders. But all the time he kept thinking about George Baruth and his promise.
He’s just pulling my leg, thought Sylvester. Nobody in the world could ever help me become a good ballplayer.
Sylvester looked over his shoulder, expecting to see Mr. Baruth getting into a car or walking on the sidewalk. The man was nowhere in sight.
He sure can vanish fast, thought Sylvester, and turned his attention back to the practice session.
Finally the Redbirds were finished and left the field. All except Jim Cowley. He came over and looked at Sylvester. “Practice is over, Syl. Aren’t you going home?”
“In a little while,” replied Sylvester.
Jim frowned, then smiled. “Well, just make sure you don’t stay all night. So long.”
No sooner had he left than George Baruth came around the bleachers. He was carrying a baseball bat and a glove, and his coat pockets were filled with baseballs.
“Here, take the bat,” said Mr. Baruth, tossing it to Sylvester. “And walk over to the backstop screen. I’ll pitch to you.”
Syl caught the bat, trotted to the backstop screen, and Mr. Baruth approached the small, worn area between home plate and the pitcher’s mound. It was the same spot the Redbird pitchers had used during batting practice.
Syl stood at the left side of the plate facing Mr. Baruth who, he saw, was left-handed.
“Keep the toes of your feet parallel with the plate,” advised Mr. Baruth. “Hold your bat a few inches off your shoulder. That’s right. Okay. Here we go.”
He wound up and delivered. The ball came in moderately fast, heading for the plate. Sylvester swung. Crack! The ball blazed in a straight line to short.
“Hey! How about that?” cried George Baruth. “Nice hit!”
Sylvester smiled. He had even surprised himself!
George Baruth threw in another pitch. This one was too far inside. “Let it go!” he yelled.
Sylvester jumped back and let it go.
The third pitch blazed across the plate again, and Sylvester belted it to left center field. He hit the next to right center and the next to deep left. Now and then a pitch was too high or too wide and he would let it go. But every pitch that came over the plate he swung at and hit every time.
He couldn’t understand it. Why couldn’t he hit Rick’s pitches as well as he did Mr. Baruth’s?
After Mr. Baruth had thrown the last ball—there were eight altogether—he and Sylvester ran out to the outfield, collected them, and came back to continue the pitching and hitting.
After the fourth time of doing this, Mr. Baruth called it quits. He pushed back his cap and wiped his sweaty forehead, and Sylvester noticed his short crop of black hair with wisps of gray around the edge.
“Tomorrow tell the coach that you’ve changed your mind,” said Mr. Baruth. “You really want to play. You have a good pair of eyes and strong, fine wrists. You’re going to make a great hitter, Syl. Take my word for it.”
Sylvester looked at him unbelievingly. “What about my legs, Mr. Baruti?”
“What about them? You’re going to play baseball, Syl, not run in a horse race.”
2
It wasn’t till the end of the fifth period in school on Monday when Sylvester had collected enough courage to ask Coach Corbin if it was too late to sign up with the Red birds. The coach, dressed in a brown suit, was walking toward him in the corridor.
“Oh, Co—Coach,” Sylvester stammered. “Can I see you a minute, please?”
“Of course, Sylvester,” said Coach Corbin, and looked at Sylvester with dark, friendly eyes. “What is it?”
“Is it too late to sign up for baseball?”
Dark brows twitched briefly, then squeezed together so that they almost touched.
“Friday was the last day to sign up, Sylvester. And I’ve got too many players now. Why didn’t you sign up earlier? Didn’t you see the notice on the bulletin board?”
“Yes. But I—” Sylvester shrugged. “Okay. Thanks, Mr. Corbin.”
He walked down the corridor to his homeroom, his head bowed and his hands in his pockets. He wasn’t surprised at Coach Corbin’s reply. He had hoped, though, that the coach would’ve let him sign up. At least then he’d have had a chance to show what he could do.
After school he walked home alone. Hooper was a small town in the Finger Lakes region of New York State. Tourists drove through it all the time, but no one as much as stopped there to fill up for gas.
The school, Hooper Junior High, stood on a hill overlooking the village. Most kids lived close enough to walk to it. A few had to ride on one of the buses.
Sylvester still had two blocks to go when he heard footsteps pounding behind him, and then a familiar voice. “Syl! Wait a minute!”
He turned and there was George Baruth, running toward him.
“Oh, hi, Mr. Baruth!” he said, and stopped to wait.
George Baruth came up beside him, breathing tiredly. “Did you ask the coach?”
“Yes,” said Sylvester. “He said he’s got too many players now.”
“I was afraid of that,” said George Baruth. “Dang it, I’ve got to get you on the team somehow, Syl.”
Sylvester looked at him. “Can’t we just forget about it, Mr. Baruth? He doesn’t want me to play. He probably thinks I’d just be in the way.”
Mr. Baruth’s eyes flashed. “That’s just what we don’t want him to think, Syl. We have to get him to change his mind about you and put you on the team. Now, let me think a minute.”
He shoved his baseball cap back, scratched his head, and looked at the sidewalk as if among the spidery cracks he might be able to find the solution.
He started talking, but his words were low and mumbly, and Sylvester knew that he was just talking to himself.
Suddenly he jerked his cap down hard and tapped a sharp finger against Sylvester’s shoulder. “I’ve got it, Syl!” he cried. “The team’s practicing now, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Okay. Is your glove at home?”
“Yes.”
“Get it, and let’s go to the field. I have an idea, and it’s burning a hole in my head!”
Sylvester ran the two blocks to his house, got his glove, and ran out again, yelling “Hi, Mom!” to his mother, who was stirring up something in a large bowl.
“Sylvester!” she called. “Where’s the fire?”
Mom was short and blond and a little on the stocky side. Ever since Sylvester was born she had wished for a daughter, too, but so far there was only Sylvester. Dad, a traveling salesman, had said just a few nights ago that Sylvester was more than he had bargained for and that they should be thankful to have him.
“I’ll be back, Mom!” Sylvester shouted over his shoulder.
Suddenly, just outside the door, he paused. He couldn’t keep Mr. Baruth waiting— not with that idea burning a hole in his head—but he had to tell Mom whom he was with.
“I’m going to be with Mr. Baruth, Mom!” he shouted to her. “He’s going to help me play baseball!”
“Mr. Baruth? Who’s he?”
“I don’t know! But he lives in Hooper… somewhere! And he wants to teach me to play better baseball so that I can play with the Redbirds! He’s just great, Mom! See ya later!”
He met George Baruth, and together they headed back for the school. The baseball field was south of it. The guys were already on it, taking batting practice. George Baruth climbed up the bleachers behind first base and sat down near the end of the third row. Sylvester sat beside him, wondering exactly what could be burning a hole in Mr. Baruth’s head.
They sat through batting practice. Then Coach Corbin hit grounders to the infielders, and a man whom Sylvester recognized as Mr. Beach, the math teacher and Mr. Corbin’s assistant coach, began hitting fly balls to the outfielders clustered in center field.
“Watch the kid i
n the yellow pants,” said Mr. Baruth.
Sylvester watched and saw the kid misjudge one fly after another and then drop one that had fallen smack into his glove.
“That’s Lou Masters,” he said. “He’s not doing very well, is he?”
Mr. Baruth chuckled. “He’s not doing well at all, Syl. And if your coach has any sense he’d know it. Look. Run down there and ask that fella hitting the ball to let you try catching a few flies, too.”
Sylvester stared at him. “But Coach Corbin told me it was too late, Mr. Baruth!”
“How can it be too late? The league doesn’t start till next week. Get going. He shouldn’t mind letting you try to catch a few, at least.”
Reluctantly Sylvester climbed down the bleachers and walked over to Mr. Beach. He waited till Mr. Beach blasted out a fly, then gathered up all the courage he could and said, “Mr. Beach.”
The tall man, windbreaker flapping in the breeze, looked at him. “Hi, Sylvester,” he said. “What’s up?”
“Can I… can I go out there, too?”
Mr. Beach smiled. “Have you signed up to play?”
“No.”
“Then why do you want to go out there?”
Sylvester shrugged. “Well, I’d like to play if I can. I thought that if I did pretty good, you—or Mr. Corbin—would let me sign up.”
Mr. Beach laughed. “Okay, Syl. Get out there and I’ll hit you a few.”
“Thank you!”
Sylvester ran out to the field, flashing a smile at George Baruth and receiving one in return. Mr. Baruth made a circle with his right thumb and forefinger.
“This one’s for Syl!” yelled Mr. Beach, and hit one about as high as a ten-story building. Sylvester got under it and caught it easily.
Mr. Beach knocked out much higher flies to the other boys who seemed to have trouble judging the ball. It was Sylvester’s turn again, and this time Mr. Beach hit the ball just as high as he did for the other boys. The ball soared into the blue sky until it looked no larger than a pea, came down, and dropped into Sylvester’s glove.
“Hey! Nice catch, Syl!” yelled Mr. Beach. “Let’s try another high one!”
The Kid Who Only Hit Homers Page 1
