“What are you doing here, Syl-ves-ter Codd-fish?” Duke snarled. “Playing a little game of one-on-none with your bucket of mangy old baseballs?”
Steve guffawed.
“Oh, go soak your heads!” Sylvester threw his ball into the bucket and reached for the bucket's handle.
Duke's foot lashed out and knocked the bucket over, spilling the balls into the grass. Steve laughed again. Duke didn't even smile. He stared at Syl, his eyes narrowed with an unspoken challenge.
“I heard you like to take cheap shots at other players, Codd-fish.” Duke's voice was full of menace. “Heard it from a kid on my new team, the Grizzlies. His name is Russ Skelton. Maybe you remember him.”
Sylvester froze. He remembered Russ Skelton, all right. Russ had played shortstop for the Lansing Wildcats last season. He'd taunted Syl one game, saying Syl had only gotten a hit because the pitcher had thrown him a “meatball.” The comment had made Syl angry. So, taking Cheeko's advice, he'd delivered a hard jab to Russ's ribs as he'd rounded the bases.
Looking back, Syl knew that, like everything else Cheeko had taught him, the jab had been wrong. Thinking about it now made his face turn beet red with shame.
“Yeah, Skelton was sore for days after that game,” Duke was saying. “And there's something else, too. A friend of mine videotaped that game. When we watched it, we saw something very interesting.” Duke stuck his nose in Syl's face. “That great catch you made? Didn't really happen! The video showed the ball touching the ground!”
Once again, Syl knew exactly what Duke was talking about. Toward the end of the game, he had hurled himself across the grass, glove outstretched, to catch a fly ball. And he had caught it — almost. In truth, the ball had wobbled out of his glove. But when the umpire had called it an out, Syl hadn't corrected him.
Duke took a step closer to Syl, tapping the fat part of the bat in his hand. “I don't think that sort of dirty play should go unpunished. What do you think, Codd-fish?”
9
Heads up!” Out of nowhere, a baseball flew across the field and struck Duke square in the back.
“Ow!” Duke dropped his bat, clutched his back with both hands, and let out a string of angry words.
“Whoops, my bad!” a new voice said innocently.
It was Duane. Behind him were Jim Cowley, second baseman for the Redbirds, and Trent Sturgis, shortstop and powerhouse hitter for the same team. Sylvester had had some problems with Trent early last season, but the two had mended fences and become friends. Syl was very happy to see him — and Duane and Jim — now.
Duke and Steve were not. “I'll get you for that,” Duke growled at Duane. Then he wheeled around and gave Sylvester a long stare. “And you better hope you're sick the day my Grizzlies play your stupid Hawks.”
With that last threat, he grabbed his bat and stalked away with Steve at his heels.
Sylvester blew out a long breath of relief. “Man, am I glad you all came along when you did!” he said to Trent, Jim, and Duane.
Trent waved his hand. “Aww, those guys are so full of hot air that when you poke 'em, they fly around backward!”
The other boys broke up laughing.
“What are you doing here anyway, Syl?” Duane asked. “I thought you were heading home.”
He looked from Syl to the pile of spilled baseballs in the grass and back to Syl. His smile faded. “But I guess you found someone else to play with, huh?”
Sylvester was suddenly tongue-tied. Part of him wanted to tell Duane everything about the mysterious Charlie Comet. After all, he'd told him about Cheeko and Mr. Baruth when he'd seen Duane's baseball cards.
But something stopped him now. Duane had never met Cheeko or Mr. Baruth. Maybe if he had, he would have understood Sylvester's amazement over their resemblances to Cicotte and the Babe. Instead, Duane had shrugged them off as look-alikes. And he thought Syl had dreamed up Charlie. If Syl said he'd just been playing baseball with him, Duane would think he was crazy!
And what would Trent and Jim think about Syl's special coaches or the fact that this new one was teaching him to switch-hit? He wasn't sure he wanted any of them to know about that — at least, not until he was confident he could do it.
So instead of answering Duane, Syl made a big show of looking at his watch. “Man, is that the time?”
He collected the baseballs as if he were in a huge hurry. Jim and Trent lent a hand. After a moment, Duane did, too.
“Funny,” Duane said, “I don't remember you bringing this bucket to the field earlier.”
“Oh, these are just some practice balls,” Syl mumbled evasively. “Anyway, I'll see you guys later.” He picked up the bucket and hurried away.
“Hey!” Duane shouted after him. “You missed one!”
“Keep it!” Syl shouted back.
When he reached his house, he stowed his gear in the garage and headed into the kitchen to make some lunch. Only when he was sitting at the table with his sandwich did he let his mind wander over everything that had happened that day. As he did, very different feelings rose to the surface.
He was nervous and excited about batting lefty. Nervous, because he had no idea if he'd be able to do it. Excited, because if he mastered that skill, he might — just might — be the kind of player Coach Corbin expected him to be.
But another emotion was bubbling inside him, too: guilt. It had struck him like a blow when Duke accused him of hitting Russ and faking the catch — and it had grown since then as Syl remembered all the other cheap and dirty tricks he'd played last season.
Coach Corbin thinks I'm a good player, Syl thought, but only because he doesn't know what I was up to then. If he finds out …
His sandwich suddenly tasted like paste in his mouth. He swallowed hard, pushed the plate away, and put his head down on the table.
If he finds out, he'll know I'm a cheater and bench me for sure. Or worse, kick me off the team! Unless …
Sylvester sat up again. Unless I'm so valuable that he can't afford to bench me!
With that thought in mind, he sucked down some juice, finished his sandwich, and retrieved the bucket of balls from the garage. He spent the remainder of the afternoon in his backyard, tossing baseballs into the air and trying to hit them left-handed.
By dinnertime, he thought he'd improved a little. But he knew he had a lot more practicing ahead of him before he'd be ready to try batting lefty in a game. He went to bed that night wondering when he'd see Charlie Comet again.
He wondered, too, just who Charlie was and why he had chosen to help Sylvester.
10
The next morning, Syl decided not to worry about Charlie, Duke, or his switch-hitting and to concentrate instead on the Hawks' first practice.
Syl's mother dropped him off at the field with a reminder that she would pick him up when practice was through. “You've got to get a haircut,” she told him. “And don't forget to wear your ankle brace, okay?”
Syl nodded and joined the other players on the field. He knew most of them, at least by sight. When he spotted Duane he hurried to his side.
“Hey, Duane, did you guys have a good time at the park after I left?”
Duane gave him a long look. “Yeah,” he said finally.
“Oh,” said Syl, a little surprised at the coolness in Duane's usually warm voice. “Um, did you play pitch, hit, and catch, or —”
“Coach Corbin is calling you,” Duane interrupted. “'Scuse me.” He moved away.
“Hey, Sylvester, good to have you on the team,” Coach Corbin boomed. “Heard about your ankle injury. Not going to give you any trouble today, is it?”
“It's feeling fine, coach,” Syl replied.
“Good. Go join the others, then.”
Sylvester did as he was told.
“Welcome, Hawks!” Coach Corbin said. “Today's practice will be simple. We'll warm up. Then I'll split you into two squads for a scrimmage. When it's your turn in the field, go to your favorite position. If two players want the s
ame spot, work it out as best you can. I'll be watching each of you to see what your strengths are. And I know we have some strong players!”
He gave Syl a smile. Syl reddened.
Ten minutes later, warm-up exercises were done and the team was divided into two. Sylvester was disappointed that he and Duane were on opposite sides. He'd hoped to talk to his friend, find out what was bothering him.
Oh well, guess I'll ask him later, he thought as he jogged out to center field. No one else seemed interested in that position, so he got ready for the first batter, crouching low and pounding his fist into his glove.
Up at the plate was a tall boy named A. C. Compton. A. C. had played for the Lansing Wildcats last season. He hadn't been much of a hitter then. But he must have been practicing, for he slugged the first pitch Rick Wilson — former hurler for the Redbirds —threw over the plate. The ball rocketed toward left. The outfielder ran for it and caught it backhanded on the second bounce. A. C. was safe at first, so the left fielder threw the ball back to Rick.
“Nice pickup, Kirk!” Coach Corbin called.
Syl looked at the left fielder again. It was Kirk Anderson of the Macon Falcons —Duke's old team. Syl wondered uneasily if Kirk was friends with Duke — and if so, if he knew what Duke knew about his cheating last season.
Next up was Duane. He took two strikes, a ball, and then, on the fourth pitch, struck out. Shoulders sagging, he walked back to the bench.
“Next time, Duane!” the coach said. “Two more outs, people, then we'll switch sides.”
But those two outs were a long time coming. After striking out Duane, Rick couldn't seem to find the plate. He walked one batter and hit the next on the shoulder. Now there were runners on first and second.
Coach Corbin trotted out to the mound to have a few quiet words with the pitcher. Rick nodded vigorously and the coach returned to the sidelines.
“Let's see your stuff, Rick!” he called.
Rick fired in a blazing fastball that stuck in the catcher's glove with a solid whomp! The catcher, the batter, and even Rick looked surprised. Then Rick's face lit up with a delighted grin. That strike seemed to give him the boost he needed. He struck out the next two batters to retire the side.
“Way to go!” Syl cried.
He jogged in from the outfield, passing Duane, who was on his way to third base. Sylvester tried to catch his friend's eye, but Duane just pushed by him.
“Up at bat is Trent Sturgis, Kirk Anderson, then Leon Hollister!” Coach Corbin announced. “Okay, Burk, whenever you're ready!”
Pitcher Burk Riley and his brother, Bus, had both played for the Seneca Indians last spring. Now Burk was on the mound for the Hawks and Bus was at shortstop.
Burk caught the throw from catcher Eddie Exton. Trent stepped into the batter's box and hefted the bat into position. Burk reared back and threw.
Zip! The ball buzzed past Trent and landed with a smack in Eddie's glove.
“Strike one!” the coach called.
Burk nodded with satisfaction. Trent dug his left toe into the dirt and twirled the bat in small circles above his shoulder. He looked like a tightly wound spring ready to uncoil at the slightest touch.
Burk's next pitch made a beeline toward the plate. Crack! Trent sent the ball right back at him.
“Aahh!” Burk ducked. The ball flew over him, hit the dirt near second base, and took a crazy hop into the outfield. By the time the center fielder got hold of it, Trent was dusting off his pants at first.
“All right, Trent!” Syl called. Then he bent down to remove his brace. His ankle was itching like crazy, and he wanted to give it a good scratch.
Pow! Kirk Anderson singled down the third baseline and sprinted to first. Trent made it safely to second.
Leon Hollister, formerly of the Wildcats, selected a bat, strode confidently to the plate, and stared at Burk. Burk stared back and then whipped in a pitch. Leon lambasted the ball just to the right of second. He, Trent, and Kirk all took off running.
The second baseman scrambled for the ball and turned to throw Kirk out at second. But Bus, the shortstop, had forgotten to cover the bag. The second baseman switched direction in mid-throw and sent the ball toward first instead.
The throw was wild and — barn! — the ball nailed Leon right in the head! Leon dropped like a ton of bricks. Coach Corbin rushed to his side. Some of the players moved to help, but the coach waved them off. Burk ran up to his brother and started to chew him out. Bus thumped his glove against his leg, obviously upset with himself. Kirk, Trent, and Duane huddled near third, talking in low tones.
A few minutes later, Leon got to his feet, supported by the coach. Syl and the others clapped their encouragement.
“Man, if it hadn't been for that batter's helmet, I bet he'd be out cold!” a player beside Syl commented.
Sylvester was only half-listening. The rest of his attention was on third base. Duane, Kirk, and Trent were still deep in conversation.
Wonder what they're talking about? Syl thought.
At that moment, Kirk caught Syl looking at them. He said something to the others. Duane and Trent glanced at Sylvester and then quickly turned their backs.
That's when Syl figured out that they were talking about him. And he had a good idea of what the topic was. Duke must have told Kirk about my cheating! And now Kirk is telling Duane and Trent!
11
Coddmyer, are you deaf? The coach just said you're up!”
Sylvester blinked. He'd been so focused on Duane, Kirk, and Trent that he hadn't heard the coach call his name. Now he grabbed a bat and headed to home plate.
Burk's first pitch was low and inside. Sylvester let it go by for a called strike. The next pitch hit the dirt in front of the plate. One ball, one strike.
The next pitch looked great, like a fat balloon drifting toward him. Sylvester went into his swing, circling the bat around in a wide arc while simultaneously straightening his front leg.
Suddenly, a knife of pain stabbed at his ankle. He'd forgotten to put his ankle brace back on! He dropped the bat and hobbled out of the box.
“Sylvester, I thought you said your ankle was fine!” Coach Corbin's eyes were blazing with anger.
“It — it is,” Syl stammered. “I just forgot my brace.”
The coach gave him a long look. “Maybe I should tie a string around your finger so you'll remember,” he said. “Take a seat. Rod Piper, you're up!”
Syl limped back to the bench, his face hot with embarrassment. He retrieved his brace and put it back on.
Burk retired the next two batters in ten pitches. Syl grabbed his glove and started for the outfield.
“Coddmyer!” the coach barked. “Stay on the bench and elevate that ankle. Piper, take his place in right field.”
As Rod hurried onto the field, Coach Corbin handed Sylvester an ice pack. “Here, put this on that ankle. And remember your brace from now on!”
“Yes, sir,” Sylvester whispered. He took the brace off again, stretched his left leg out on the plank beside him, and laid the pack on his ankle. Sitting like that made it impossible for anyone to sit next to him — not that that mattered, he soon found out, for no one seemed to want to go near him. No one even asked him how his ankle was feeling. When the teams switched sides, Trent and Kirk stood at the far end of the bench, even though Syl shifted to make room for them.
When practice finally ended, Sylvester felt like a complete outcast. Everyone else broke off into groups of twos or threes, laughing and talking about baseball. Sylvester dumped the now warm ice pack in the trash, put his brace back on, and trudged alone to the empty parking lot.
“Hey there, slugger!”
Syl's eyes widened. There was Charlie Comet, leaning against a tree! Syl was nearly positive the man hadn't been there a moment before. But the tree's branches were low and leafy, so maybe he just hadn't seen him.
“Tough day, huh?” Charlie said.
“I've had better,” Syl admitted.
“
You'll have better again, don't you worry.” Charlie sounded so certain that Sylvester smiled.
“In fact,” Charlie continued, “I'd be happy to work with you on your switch-hitting, if you're not too tired.”
Sylvester snorted. “Tired? I've been warming the bench for the past hour! I'd love to —”
The toot of a car horn interrupted him. It was his mother, who had come to get him for his haircut.
“Rats, I gotta go,” Syl said. Then an idea struck him. “Can we practice after dinner instead? My dad will be home then. He could join us.”
“If that's what you'd like, sure,” Charlie replied. “See you at the field later.”
But when Sylvester suggested going to park for some practice that night, Mr. Coddmyer shook his head.
“Coach Corbin called while you were getting your haircut,” he said. “Asked me if you were icing your ankle like he told you to.”
Mrs. Coddmyer fixed a sharp eye on her son. “Sylvester! Did you hurt your ankle again and not tell me?”
“It's just a little, um, achy,” Syl mumbled.
“Well, 'a little, um, achy' or not, you are not playing any more baseball today. And that's final!”
Sylvester thought about telling them that his new friend, Charlie, would be waiting for him at the park. But he wasn't sure how his parents would react to the news that yet another mysterious ballplayer had been working with him. He'd told them all about Mr. Baruth and Cheeko, but somehow, they'd never managed to meet either of those men.
In fact, something told Syl that even if he did convince his father to take him to the park, Charlie wouldn't show up. So in the end, he decided not to say anything.
12
The next day, Saturday, was bright and warm when Sylvester joined his parents at the table for breakfast.
“I'm going to pick up some things for our Fourth of July party next weekend,” Mrs. Coddmyer announced. “Think you two can keep busy while I'm out?”
Comeback of the Home Run Kid Page 3
