The Home Run Kid Races On (3 page)

So the next morning Syl left for school with his baseball gear—glove, cap, cleats, and uniform—strapped to his bike’s carryall.
He made sure he had Mr. Teacy’s bat, too.

Classes seemed to drag by at an impossibly slow pace that day. Even his favorite period, lunch, took forever to get through.
But at last, the final bell sounded.

He found an empty bathroom and changed into his purple and white Comets jersey and baseball pants. Then he hurried outside
to the bike rack. He was just about to unlock his bike when he heard Snooky Malone call his name.

“Oh, no,” he groaned.

“Thought you could ditch me, huh?” Snooky crowed when he reached Syl’s side.

“Snooky,” Syl said impatiently, “you can’t follow me around all the time!”

“Why not?” Snooky protested.

“Because it’s creepy, that’s why! Besides, I’m not going anywhere interesting today, just to baseball practice. And if I don’t
leave now, I’m going to be late!” With that, he hopped on his bike and pedaled off, turning a deaf ear to Snooky’s shouts.

Ten minutes later, he arrived at the town baseball field.

“Yo, Syl! How’s it going, man?”

Sylvester looked up to see Trent Sturgis approaching. Behind Trent was Jim Cowley. Duane arrived a moment later, as did Coach
Corbin and several other players. Sylvester greeted them all, and then stuck his cap on his head and put on his glove. After
a moment’s hesitation, he grabbed Mr. Teacy’s bat from his carrier.

Coach Corbin lifted his eyebrows when he saw the bat. “Trading aluminum for wood?”

“Only if it’s okay,” Syl said.

The coach took the bat and examined it closely. “I’m sorry, Syl,” he said. “Your bat isn’t regulation size for our league.”
He handed it back.

Syl had forgotten about the league rules concerning bats. “I’ll leave it with my stuff on the bench,” he promised.

When they ran out on the diamond, Coach Corbin ran his players through some warm-ups. Then he announced the first drill.

“We’ll start with some batting and infield practice,” he said. “When I call your name and position, head out to the field.
On the mound, Bongo Daley. Eddie Exton, you’re at catcher. First base, A. C. Compton. Second base, Jim Cowley. Shortstop,
Trent Sturgis. Third base, Duane Francis. Everyone else, find a bat.”

Sylvester glanced at Mr. Teacy’s bat. He pictured how the man had used it to bunt the ball down the third baseline and wished
that he could give it a try himself.

I can see it now,
he thought, closing his eyes and smiling.

The Comets are facing the Orioles. It’s the final inning of a five-to-five tie ball game. The Orioles’ third baseman has slugged
two homers today, good for three of his team’s runs. I’ve been just as strong at the plate, however, clocking three hits deep
into the outfield already. Now I’m at bat again, so the Oriole fielders move back.

But I surprise them all. Instead of clobbering the ball, I round to the pitcher and knock it into the dirt! The ball snakes
through the grass toward third. The Oriole slugger scrambles forward to get it, but he’s too late! I’m standing on first,
and the crowd is going wild.

“Syl? Syl!”

Sylvester opened his eyes to find his teammates looking at him with amusement.

“When you’re done daydreaming,” one of them said, “the coach wants you to take your turn at bat.”

S
ylvester flushed from his neck to his scalp. He found his favorite aluminum bat in the pile and hurried to the batter’s box.

“Try for a grounder,” Coach Corbin suggested.

Syl knew the coach expected him to do a full swing. But his imaginary bunt was still so fresh in his mind that he decided
to try that hit instead. So when Bongo’s pitch came, he squared off toward the mound and shifted his grip so his hands were
spread wide apart on the bat.

Everything went just as smoothly as it had in his daydream—until the ball hit the bat.
Tink!
Instead of landing on the ground in the shallow infield, the ball popped straight up. Eddie Exton lunged to his feet and
caught it easily.

“Let’s stick to full swings for now, Syl,” Coach Corbin called. “We’ll bunt later, if there’s time. Take another cut.”

“Yes, sir,” Syl said sheepishly. Determined to make good this time, he swung from his heels on Bongo’s next pitch. It was
a solid blast, and he grinned as the ball soared into right field and hit the fence for what would have easily been a double
in a game situation. But his grin faded a second later.

“
In
field practice, Sylvester, remember?” Coach Corbin said dryly.

“Sorry, coach,” Syl muttered. “I—I’ll go get it.”

“Please do.”

Syl jogged to the back fence to search for the ball. Suddenly, he heard someone call his name.

“Coddmyer, how come you’re not using my bat?”

Syl spun around to find Mr. Teacy standing behind the fence. “What’re you doing here?”

“I go where I like,” Mr. Teacy said. “So, the bat?”

Syl told him about the league’s equipment regulations.

Mr. Teacy snorted. “Regulations! A player should be able to use whatever wood he wants, if you ask me. He should also be allowed
to practice whatever kind of hit he wants to,” he went on, giving Syl a significant look.

“Coach Corbin said we’d work on bunting later,” Syl said defensively.

“
If
there was time,” Mr. Teacy corrected. He made a face. “Well, forget him. We’ll work on it later, right?”

Syl hesitated. He
did
want to practice bunting with Mr. Teacy. Yet somehow, he felt it would be disloyal to Coach Corbin if he did.

Mr. Teacy seemed to guess what he was thinking. “No harm in extra practice, is there?”

Syl couldn’t disagree with that. “I’ll be at the old field after practice,” he said. “But now I’ve got to find the ball.”

“You mean this?” Mr. Teacy produced the missing ball from behind his back.

“Thanks,” Syl said, reaching for it.

To his consternation, Mr. Teacy didn’t hand it over. Instead, he threw it in the dirt at Syl’s feet. “See you later,” he said
as he turned on his heel and stalked away.

Syl watched him for a moment before picking up the ball. When he straightened, Mr. Teacy was gone.

Just like the others,
Syl thought as he hustled back to home plate,
except he’s not as nice. Heck, even Cheeko made me laugh!

Coach Corbin continued infield and batting practice for a while longer, spending time with several players on their stances
and swings. Then he called everyone back to the bench to explain the next drill.

“Infielders, back to your positions. And in the outfield, let’s have Steve Crenshaw at right, Sylvester Coddmyer at center,
and Kirk Anderson at left.”

“What about us, Coach?” a boy named Mike asked.

“You and the others are going to be my runners,” the coach said. “We’re playing fungo-rungo.”

“Huh?” Mike looked confused. “What’s that?”

“A fungo is when the coach tosses the ball up in the air and hits it,” Steve informed him.

“I know what a fungo is,” Mike said. “But what’s a rungo?”

“That’s when you
run
to first after I hit the ball,” Coach Corbin said. “Or overrun it to beat the throw. Then if you’re safe, on my next toss,
you
go
—as in steal second. And then third, if you can.”

“I get it,” Mike said with a laugh. “Fungo-rungo!” He jumped to his feet. “What’re we waiting for? Let’s go-go!”

Syl enjoyed the game of fungo-rungo. He made a few good catches in the outfield and once even relayed the ball to Eddie Exton
for an out at home plate. Then, when it was his turn to run, he made it safely to first on the coach’s fungo into left field.
He advanced to second on a line drive hit at the pitcher that Bongo ducked. Rod Piper in center field picked up the ball,
but the runner, Kirk, beat his throw to first.

“Glove at the ready next time, Bongo,” Coach Corbin called. “Fielders, try for a double play! Runners, you know what to do!”

Syl glanced over at Kirk and saw he was taking a big lead off first. Syl inched off his bag, too, so a moment later when the
ball left the coach’s hand, he was already a few steps closer to third.

Thock!
Coach Corbin blasted a high fly ball into center field. Syl watched as Rod lifted his glove and faded back. It should have
been an easy catch. In fact, Syl was on his way back to second to tag up when he heard a yell.

“Rod dropped the ball!” Kirk bellowed. “Go!”

Syl wheeled around and raced toward third. He glanced up and saw Duane with his glove raised and ready.

Rod must have decided to try to get me out instead of Kirk,
Syl realized.
Well, that’s not going to happen!
He picked up speed.

All of a sudden, Duane ran off the base. Rod’s throw was wild!

“Hit the dirt, Syl!” Coach Corbin called.

Syl wasn’t very good at sliding, but he didn’t want to let the coach down. So he dove toward third, arms stretched out in
front of him. Even before he heard his teammates’ shouts, he knew he was in trouble—at that same moment, Duane leaped back
toward the bag, his hard rubber spikes on an intercept course with Syl’s hand!

S
yl squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for Duane to spike him. Then —

“Oof!” The breath rushed out of his body as Duane fell on top of him instead.

The coach was at their side in a flash. “Are either of you hurt?”

“I’m okay,” Duane gasped as Jim pulled him to his feet.

“Syl? How about you?”

Syl rolled onto his back with a groan. “I think Duane got me out,” he said with a weak grin. He sat up to the sound of laughter.

Coach Corbin checked him over to be sure he wasn’t seriously injured. “Your ribs may be sore tomorrow,” he said, helping him
up. “But other than that, you should be fine.”

Then he called the team together. “This seems like a good time to talk about sliding,” he said. “Who can tell me what Syl
did wrong?”

With an apologetic look at Syl, Trent raised his hand to answer. “He went in headfirst.”

“Why is that bad?” Coach Corbin prodded.

Trent replied, “Because if you go headfirst, you could get hurt really badly. The base player could accidentally kick you
in the head or stomp on your neck or hit you in the face with his glove or grind his spikes into your hand or —”

The coach cut him off with a nod. “I think you’ve made your point, Trent. Thank you.” Then turning to the rest of the team,
he said, “Diving slides do put you at much greater risk for serious head and neck injury.” He smiled at Syl. “So no more belly
whoppers, okay?”

Syl nodded.

Coach Corbin checked his watch. “We don’t have much time left,” he said. “Let’s use it to focus on sliding. Everyone except
Jim, Syl, and Eddie line up behind home plate. On my mark, take off for first base, touch the bag, keep running, and slide
into second.”

He pointed to Jim, Syl, and Eddie. “Grab your gloves and head to your positions. Eddie and I will take turns throwing the
ball from home to second so you, Jim, can practice making tags. Remember to sweep your glove up and away from the runner after
the tag so he can’t knock the ball free.”

Jim gave him a thumbs-up sign and hurried onto the field.

“What about me, Coach?” Syl asked.

“Back up Jim in case he misses a catch,” Coach Corbin said.

Syl was dismayed at being sent to shag balls, but he tried not to let it show.
Coach probably just wants to give me a chance to recover from Duane falling on me,
he reasoned as he found his glove. He touched his rib cage and winced.
I guess it
is
a little sensitive
.

Still, standing in the field behind second base waiting for Jim to misjudge a throw was boring. Syl watched his teammates
slide into second, but after a few minutes, that got tiresome, too. When a bright yellow butterfly flitted into his line of
vision, he allowed his gaze—and his mind—to wander after it.

Why can’t butterflies fly in a straight line, like birds? I wonder what it feels like to be cooped up in a chrysalis? I’ve
seen yellow, orange, and blue butterflies but never purple—

“Heads up, Syl!”

The ball had gotten past Jim. It got past Syl, too. He scrambled after it, plucking it from the grass with his bare hand.
If it had been in a game, A.C., the runner, would have made it safely to second standing up.

“Sorry, Jim,” Syl said sheepishly. He got into his ready stance, determined to pay better attention from then on.

A few minutes later, the coach called him in to take a turn at sliding. Syl tossed his glove into the dugout and ran to the
plate. He crouched, waiting for the signal.

“Go!” Coach Corbin barked.

Syl took off as fast as he could run. Dust flew up in a thick cloud behind him as he toed first base and pushed off toward
second. As he did, a sudden gust of wind blew the dust cloud over him. Temporarily blinded by the grit, he had no idea how
close he was to Jim or the bag.

I better hit the dirt, just in case!

He dropped down into a bent-leg slide.

Unfortunately, he started too far away and ground to a halt with inches between his foot and the base.

Jim caught the throw and stepped on the bag for the out. Then he grinned, touched Syl lightly with his glove, and sang out,
“Ting!” as if he’d tapped a crystal goblet with a spoon.

Laughter filled Syl’s ears. He joined in to cover his embarrassment.

“This is why we’re doing the drill, folks,” Coach Corbin said. “If you don’t practice the slide, you won’t be able to do it
properly during a game. And that could cost your team.”

Fortunately for Syl, practice ended shortly after that. The coach reminded everyone that the tee-ball league had the field
for the rest of the week, so he wouldn’t see them until the game on Saturday.

“Try to get some extra practice on your own, if you can,” he added. “We’re playing the Orioles.”

Syl and Duane exchanged glances. “They’re tough,” Duane said. “At least, one of them is—a kid who only hits homers.”