The guys returned to their positions, and Bongo toed the rubber again. He wound up, delivered, and the ball nipped the inside corner for a strike.
He fired another in the same spot for strike two. “You have ‘im now, Bongo!” yelled the catcher.
The next pitch was almost over the heart of the plate, chest-high. Sylvester liked the looks of it and swung. The solid blow alone told the story. It was another blast over the right-field fence.
The Redbird cheerleaders and fans went wild.
It was their only run that inning. The Wildcats scored once and held the Redbirds scoreless in the top of the fifth inning with Sylvester waiting for his third trip to the plate.
Redbirds 5, Wildcats 4.
He tossed his bat aside and ran out to his position in right field, smiling and waving to George Baruth sitting in the bleachers behind first base. George smiled and waved back, but so did several other people, as if they thought that Sylvester was smiling and waving at them.
The Wildcats scored a run on an error by Milt and then a line drive over second base. Redbirds 5, Wildcats 5.
Coach Corbin was clasping and unclasping his hands, and now and then wiping his forehead with his handkerchief. He never said very much, and he seldom got angry. But he sure did get extremely nervous whenever the game was close.
And it was close now. Too close. This was the top of the sixth inning. It was their last chance to break the tie. If they couldn’t, the Wildcats would get a chance to. And if they succeeded, the Redbirds would lose.
“Don’t ever be ashamed to lose,” the coach had once said. “Everybody loses sometimes. But play to win.”
“Hit away, Syl,” he said to Sylvester, who was looking at him for instructions.
The fans yelled wildly as he stepped to the plate. He glanced at the scoreboard: 5 to 5. He’d try to sock another out of the ball park—if he could.
The pitch. It was low, but not too low. He swung. Missed!
“Oh, no!” groaned Terry.
The next pitch was wide.
“Ball one!”
Then, “Stri—” the umpire started to say, but didn’t finish. Sylvester had swung at the pitch, and the ball was soaring like a loose balloon out toward deep center field. The Wildcat fielder raced out to the fence, then stood there and watched the ball sail over his head.
For the third time that day Sylvester Coddmyer III trotted around the bases, not slowing down his pace till he crossed home plate. He was given the usual reception from the coach and players, and applause from the fans and cheerleaders.
Bongo, apparently shaken by Sylvester’s third homer, walked the next two batters. The next two got out. Then Terry singled, scoring Jerry, and Bobby Kent grounded out to short.
The Wildcats pushed across a run at their turn at bat, but that was all. The Redbirds came out on the big end, 7 to 6.
There was more than just yelling, handshaking, and back-patting this time. A photographer from the Hooper Star took pictures of Sylvester, and a Star reporter, carrying a small tape recorder in one hand and a microphone in the other, popped questions at him. He was never so embarrassed in his life.
“Is your name really Sylvester Coddmyer the third?”
“Yes.”
“How many years have you played baseball, Sylvester?”
“I never played before.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.
“Then how do you account for getting a home run every time you bat?”
“I just hit the ball squarely on the nose.”
“Yes, but—no one else in the world hits a home run every time up. Do you think there is something… well, uh… unusual about you, Sylvester?”
“No. Why should there be?”
The reporter shrugged. “Well, there shouldn’t.” He grinned faintly. “What other sports are you interested in, Sylvester?”
“No other sport.”
“Okay, Sylvester. Thanks very much.”
The reporter and photographer left, and he breathed a sigh of relief. He had barely relaxed when someone nudged his elbow. “Hi, Sylvester.”
It was Snooky Malone, grinning that funny grin of his. He was carrying a small booklet, something about “Your Horoscope.” Sylvester wasn’t able to see the whole title.
“What’s it now, Snooky?” he asked, becoming a little annoyed with Snooky’s pestering him.
“Being a Gemini makes you have more ability than the average person, Sylvester,” said Snooky proudly.
“Thanks, Snooky,” replied Sylvester. “But I haven’t got time to listen to that stuff now. I’m tired.”
He started for home, and Snooky hopped alongside of him. “This book says that you are ruled by the planet Mercury,” Snooky went on. “It also says that when the planet Venus, or the Moon, draws close to Mercury as they are seen from Earth, a Gemini’s powers are sharpened. That’s why you knock home runs every time you bat, Sylvester.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” said Sylvester, not very impressed.
“But that’s not the only reason why.”
Sylvester stared at the big periods behind Snooky’s glasses. “What do you mean by that?”
“I read quite a lot about paranormal events, too.”
“Paranormal?” Sylvester frowned, perplexed. “What’s that?”
The dark eyes held onto his unflinchingly. “It means out-of-the-ordinary, unexplainable, mysterious,” said Snooky. He paused, as if to give time for that information to sink in. “Who do you keep looking at and waving to in the bleachers behind first base, Sylvester?”
“George Baruth. Why?”
“George Baruth? Who’s he?”
“A friend.”
“From around here?”
Sylvester shrugged. “No. He’s vacationing here.”
“Oh?”
Sylvester looked at him again, then plunged on ahead, determined this time not to stop. “Sorry, Snooky, but I can’t hang around any longer.”
“See you again, Sylvester,” said Snooky.
Don’t be in a hurry about it, thought Sylvester.
10
The Redbirds and the Macon Falcons clashed on the eighth. It seemed that the poor Falcons didn’t have enough nourishment even to flutter their wings, let alone play baseball. They crumbled under the Redbirds’ attack, 11 to 1.
Sylvester Coddmyer III was up to bat four times and knocked four home runs to keep his streak unbroken. He had nine runs batted in and three put-outs.
“I marked down a home run for you the last time up even before you batted, Syl,” said the scorekeeper, proudly.
“Don’t you think that’s going a little bit too far?” said Sylvester.
There was no school on Monday, the eighteenth. It was Teachers Conference Day. Two hours before game time against the Teaburg Giants, Sylvester Coddmyer III was on his way home with a load of groceries when a combined sound of running footsteps and a high-pitched voice thundered in his ears.
“Hi, Sylvester!” greeted Snooky Malone, coming up beside him and grinning that elfish grin of his.
“Hi, Snooky,” said Sylvester, and made a face. “You’re not going to start on that horoscope and paranormal stuff again, are you?”
“As a matter of fact”—Snooky paused—“I was. But not here.”
“Good,” said Sylvester, and picked up speed.
Snooky grabbed his arm. “At Chris an’ Greens, Sylvester. I want to treat you to a delicious pie ô la mode.”
Sylvester slowed down to almost a stop. “Pie ô la mode?” His mouth watered. “Pie ô la mode s my favorite dessert.”
Snooky’s smile was almost fiendish. “I know.” He coaxed Sylvester to the corner and across the street to Chris an’ Greens, Sylvester fighting against the impulse every step of the way. It was a losing battle, and the way he tackled the pie ô la mode he didn’t mind having lost at all.
“We’re friends, aren’t we, Sylvester?” said Snooky, taking an occasional sip of his lemon
ade.
Sylvester looked at him. “If I didn’t know you, Snooky, I’d think you were trying to sell me something.”
Snooky laughed. “All I want you to do is trust me,” he said.
“Who said I didn’t?”
“Okay. Tell me your secret. George Baruth is no real person, is he? He’s someone you Ve made up.”
“Snooky, you’ve got bats in your head. He’s as real as you are.”
“No, he isn’t. He’s a figment of your imagination.”
Sylvester stared at him. “Snooky,” he said, “I’m beginning to think that you’re a figment of my imagination!”
“That’s because I’m different from most kids,” smiled Snooky.
“You can say that again,” said Sylvester. He turned to what was left of the pie ô la mode and finished it.
“Want more?” asked Snooky. “I’ve been saving up my allowance for a new book on astrology, but I can wait another week.”
The thought of eating another pie ô la mode hit Sylvester like a sledgehammer. “You sure it’s okay?” he asked.
“I wouldn’t ask you if it weren’t,” answered Snooky, and he ordered another pie ô la mode for Sylvester.
For a while both boys held their silence. Sylvester took his time devouring his second pie ô la mode; Snooky took his time sipping his first lemonade.
Snooky must have bats in his head, thought Sylvester sourly. Saying that George Baruth wasn’t real was plain ridiculous.
“I’ve got an idea,” said Snooky, the smile on his face broadening. “How about introducing me to him this afternoon at the game?”
“Sure. Why not?”
Suddenly he didn’t feel good. He was full of pie ô la mode—so full his stomach was beginning to rebel.
“I’ve got to get home, Snooky,” he said, sliding off the stool and grabbing the bag of groceries. “I don’t feel good.”
“Gee, Sylvester!” cried Snooky. “I hope you’re not getting sick!”
“It’s too late,” muttered Sylvester. “I’m sick already.”
He hurried home, plopped the bag of groceries into his mother’s arms, and headed directly to his room, where he toppled on the bed, so hot he felt he was burning. His mother came in.
“Sylvester!” she cried. “What’s happened to you? Where have you been for the last hour?”
“Snoo—Snooky Malone… treated me to… two pie ô la modes,” he said, and moaned.
“Two pie ô la modes? No wonder you’re sick!” She lifted his feet onto the bed and covered him with a blanket. “You made a pig of yourself. When are you going to learn?”
He moaned again, too sick to answer her. He closed his eyes and heard his mother leave and the door latch click shut.
Sometime later he was awakened from his sleep, and his mother said there were several boys here to see him. “Do you feel better?” she asked. “Or shall I tell them you’ll see them tomorrow?”
“I feel better,” he said. “Send them in.”
She left and a moment later in came Jim Cowley, Terry Barnes and Eddie Exton. “What happened to you?” asked Jim.
“Stuffed myself with pie ô la modes,” replied Sylvester. “How did the game come out?”
“We lost,” said Eddie. “Ten to four.”
“It was your fault,” said Terry. “You and your pie ô la modes.” Then he grinned. “Know what? I’m nuts about ‘em, too.”
11
There was a change in the lineup when the Seneca Indians played the Redbirds. Coach Corbin moved Sylvester up to fourth in the batting order. Sylvester had been up there before, in a scrimmage game. Would he perform well enough today to earn the position for good?
The Indians were leading by one run when Sylvester came to bat in the bottom of the first inning. Jim Cowley was on first after uncorking a single.
Bert Riley, a tall, loose-jointed kid with a funny way of throwing the ball, was on the mound. He toed the rubber, stretched, and threw. Every part of his body seemed to go into motion before the ball actually left his hand.
The pitch was wide. “Ball!”
Bert went through his peculiar motions again, and pitched. Pow! The hit was as solid as it sounded. The ball took off like a shot and cleared the left-field fence by at least twenty feet. The crowd roared, and Sylvester started his slow, easy trot around the bases.
He glanced at the bleachers as he reached first base and saw George Baruth sitting there at the end of the third row, smiling that boyish smile of his. He waved and Sylvester waved back.
Then Sylvester saw the kid sitting next to Mr. Baruth waving to him, too, and he recognized Snooky Malone.
“Nice blast, Sylvester!” Snooky shouted.
Hm, thought Sylvester. Apparently Snooky had taken it upon himself to meet George Baruth.
The Indians picked up two runs in the top of the third. Then Sylvester hit his second home run in the bottom of the fourth. Indians 3, Redbirds 3.
As Sylvester ran out to the field, he looked over at George Baruth and Snooky Malone. He expected to see Snooky talking Mr. Baruth’s head off. Snooky was busy talking, all right, but it was with the kid on his left side. Maybe Snooky wasn’t interested in getting into a conversation with an old guy like Mr. Baruth.
Terry’s first pitch was blasted out to deep right, directly at Sylvester. Sylvester sprinted forward a few steps, then suddenly panicked. The ball was hit farther than he expected!
He turned and ran in the opposite direction. His short legs were a blur as he ran. He looked over his left shoulder, then his right. There was the ball, dropping ahead of him!
Somehow he picked up more speed, stretched out his glove hand, and caught the ball.
The applause from the Redbird fans was tremendous. A double between left and center fields braced up the Indians’ hopes of scoring, but a pop fly and then a one-hopper to Terry ended the top half of the fifth inning.
Jim, leading off, flied out to center. Ted walked and advanced to second on Milt’s single over short. Up came Sylvester Coddmyer III and the Redbird fans went wild again.
The Indians called time. The infielders ran in toward the mound, surrounding their pitcher, Bert Riley. They held a quiet, lengthy discussion, then returned to their positions.
What now? thought Sylvester, as Bert Riley faced him for the third time.
“Ball!” shouted the ump, as Bert blazed one in—a mile outside.
“Ball two!” shouted the ump. Another one outside.
“Ball three!” And another.
“He’s afraid of you, Syl!” yelled Snooky Malone. “He’s gonna walk you!”
And that’s just what Bert did. Sylvester was walked his first time ever.
12
All kinds of noises exploded from the Redbird fans. Some of them yelled. Some of them hissed.
Sylvester didn’t care. He didn’t get out, that was the important thing.
The bases were loaded, and Jerry Ash was up. The fans and the team gave Jerry all kinds of verbal support, but it did no good. Bert struck him out.
Bobby Kent did a little better. His swinging bat connected with the ball. But the ball hopped up into the Indian shortstop’s glove just like a trained rabbit.
The shortstop whipped the ball to second, throwing Sylvester out and ending the Redbirds’ threat.
Top of the sixth. A hard blow to short! Milt muffed the ball, picked it up, and pegged it to first. A short throw. Jerry Ash stretched for it. The ball struck the tip of his mitt and rolled aside.
Oh, come on! thought Sylvester. We can’t flub the ball now!
Terry motioned Duane to come in a bit. The third baseman advanced till he was ahead of the bag by a few steps, then bent forward, hands on his knees.
A bunt! Duane rushed in, fielded it, and pegged it to second. Too late! The base umpire’s hands fanned out with the “safe” sign. Jim fired to first, but there, too, the hitter beat the throw.
Two on, no outs, and a tied score, 3 and 3.
Terry wiped hi
s forehead, tugged on his cap, toed the rubber. He stretched, delivered. A blow over second! A run scored! Bobby Kent fielded the ball and threw it in, holding the Indians on third and first.
“Bear down, Terry!” yelled Sylvester.
A smashing grounder down to Jim! He caught the hop, snapped it to Milt. Milt stepped on second, rifled the ball to first. A double play!
Jerry pivoted to throw home, but held up. The Indian on third wasn’t taking any chances.
Terry caught the soft throw from Jerry, then climbed to the mound, got Eddie’s sign, and pitched. Ball one. He zipped two over the heart of the plate. The Indian batter swung at the first and missed. He blasted the second one over short for a clean single, scoring another run.
Terry struck out the next batter. Indians 5, Redbirds 3.
“Last chance to pull this game out of the fire,” said Coach Corbin. “Start it off, Duane. Make ‘em be in there.”
Duane waited for ‘em to be in there and got a two-two count. Bert’s next pitch was letter-high, and Duane corked it out to short left field. The Indian outfielder raced in and made a shoestring catch.
Eddie waited for a pitch he liked and blasted it for a single. The hit livened the Redbirds’ bench. The players had been sitting there as if their tail feathers had already been clipped.
Terry socked a hard grounder to third, which the baseman caught and pegged to second. The throw was wild!
A cheer exploded from the Redbirds’ bench and the cheerleaders as Terry over ran first, made his turn, and came back to stand safely on first base.
Then Jim popped up to the catcher for the second out, and it looked as if the Indians were about to trounce the Redbirds for sure.
Ted Sobel let two strikes go by, then knocked the third pitch between right and center fields for a double! Eddie and Terry scored to tie it up.
What a ball game this was!
Milt walked and once again Sylvester came to the plate.
“Out of the lot, Syl!” shouted Snooky Malone.
A hit out of the lot would mean eight runs and victory. But was Sylvester going to be given the chance to do that? Not if Bert Riley, who had called a time out, and the infielders, who were running toward the mound, were planning the same strategy they had planned before.
The Kid Who Only Hit Homers Page 4
