The Home Run Kid Races On (4 page)

The coach caught Syl’s eye and grinned. “Well, we know what it’s like to have one of those on the team, don’t we? But even
if we don’t slug out big hits all the time,” he added, “we’ve got a good team. Right?”

The boys cheered and then broke off, laughing and talking, into small groups.

Syl found an open spot on the bench and changed his spikes for his sneakers. He was dog-tired from practice and wanted nothing
more than to bike home and relax. But Mr. Teacy was waiting for him. So, with a deep sigh, he made his way to his bike.

“Syl, wait up!” Trent hurried over to him. “Do you have your cell phone?” When Syl nodded, Trent grinned. “Excellent! Call
your mom and see if you can come over to my house. I got a sick new four-player video game. Jim and Duane already got the
okay to come and play it, so now we just need you.”

Syl hesitated, thinking.

He hadn’t actually
promised
Mr. Teacy he’d meet him today, had he? And there was no practice tomorrow or the next day, which left two entire afternoons
open for bunting practice. Wouldn’t it make more sense to go then, when there’d be lots of time, instead of now, when he was
due home for dinner in an hour? Not to mention the fact that he was so tired he wouldn’t be in his best form today!

No,
he finally decided,
I’ll wait until tomorrow
.

“Just give me a minute to call my mom,” Syl told Trent. “If it’s okay with her, then I’m game to play
your
game!”

S
ylvester had a great time playing Trent’s new video game. In fact, he didn’t give Mr. Teacy another thought until the next
morning.

“Mom,” he said over breakfast, “would it be okay if I went to the ball field right after school? I never did get in any bunting
practice yesterday.”

He had expected his mother to agree, but to his surprise, she shook her head. “Not today, Syl,” she said. “I need your help
getting ready for the yard sale, remember?”

Syl groaned. He’d totally forgotten about the sale.

Mrs. Coddmyer laughed at his reaction. “Tell you what,” she said. “You give me an hour right after school this afternoon and
tomorrow, and after that, you can have until dinner-time for baseball. Deal?”

Syl knew it would be useless to argue. So instead of pedaling to the old ball field when school let out that afternoon, he
pedaled home. There he found his mother puttering in the garage among boxes, bags, and bins filled with junk.

“What
is
all this stuff?” He poked around inside the nearest bin and pulled out an old camera. “Would someone seriously pay money
for this?”

Mrs. Coddmyer glanced up. “That’s my old point-and-shoot camera. I took a lot of pictures of you with that thing.”

Sylvester examined the camera more closely. “Hey, I think there’s still some film in it.”

“Let me see.” His mother checked it and nodded. “You’re right. There are one or two exposures left on the roll.” She handed
the camera back to Syl. “Put that somewhere safe. There’s a shop downtown that still develops film. If the film hasn’t been
ruined from being in the attic, maybe we’ll add some new photos to our stash.”

Sylvester laid the camera on the garage steps. As he did, he had a sudden idea.

I could bring this camera with me today and sneak a photo of Mr. Teacy! Then I’d have proof that he is real!

With that thought in mind, he turned back to his mother. “Say, Mom, could I use up the film before we get it developed? It
seems like a big waste not to finish the roll.”

Mrs. Coddmyer shrugged. “Sure, why not?”

“I’ll drop the film off at the shop after I finish bunting practice,” Syl added as he tucked the camera into his gear bag.
Then he returned to helping his mother sort through the boxes. He found many other “treasures,” including a bin of his favorite
T-shirts.

“Why do we have these still?” he asked his mother, holding up a bright blue shirt he’d worn constantly when he was five years
old.

She smiled. “I’m going to turn those into a patchwork quilt for you someday. If you dig a little deeper, you’ll find your
Redbirds and Hawks team shirts in there, too.”

Syl imagined sleeping under a quilt made from his old shirts and smiled, touched by his mother’s plan. Then he pawed through
the bin until he found the Redbirds jersey. He stared at it, remembering all the great games he’d played while wearing it.

That season was all thanks to Mr. Baruth,
he thought. He wondered if he’d ever see the mysterious man again. He hoped so.

He’d just finished refolding the last of the shirts when he caught a glimpse of the time. “Oh, no!” he cried. “Mom, can I
be done for today? I need to get to the ball field!”

She made a shooing motion with her hands. “Go, go! But be home by six for supper, okay?”

“You got it, Mom!”

Twenty minutes and a furious bike ride later, he reached the old ball field.

“Mr. Teacy?” he called. “Mr. Teacy, are you here?”

For a long minute, there was no reply. Then Mr. Teacy stepped out from behind the oak tree.

“Where were you?” he thundered.

Syl tried to explain, but Mr. Teacy cut him off.

“Save it,” he said angrily. “We’ve lost too much time already.” He narrowed his eyes and stared at Syl. “I assume you’re prepared
to give me everything you’ve got from here on out?”

Syl bit his lip and nodded.

Mr. Teacy grunted. “Grab my bat and go to home plate for bunting practice.”

Syl turned to get Mr. Teacy’s bat from the back of his bike. He had just freed it when suddenly, he heard a new voice.

“You’re going to need a pitcher if you’re going to be bunting.”

Syl wheeled around in disbelief. “Mr. Baruth?” he cried, overjoyed.

“It’s me, Sylvester Coddmyer the Third,” the moon-faced man replied with a wide grin.

“I can’t believe it’s you!” Syl said.

“I can’t either.” Mr. Teacy strode across the field, eyes blazing. “What’re you doing here, Baruth?”

“I’m here for the same reason you are,” Mr. Baruth replied evenly. “To help Syl—if he wants me to, that is.”

“What makes you think it’s up to him?” Mr. Teacy demanded. “I’m running the show here!”

“Is that so?” Mr. Baruth’s congenial manner suddenly vanished. He took a step toward Mr. Teacy, his meaty hands balled into
fists.

“Hold on!” Syl intervened. He turned to Mr. Teacy. “Doesn’t it make sense for him to pitch to me while you show me how to
bunt?”

Mr. Teacy looked from Syl to Mr. Baruth and back again. “Fine,” he said shortly. Then he jabbed a finger at the other man.
“You do what I tell you, though, or you’re out of here!”

Syl held his breath. Would Mr. Baruth put up with Mr. Teacy talking to him like that?

Fortunately, Mr. Baruth relaxed his hands, picked up a ball, and walked to the mound. Only then did Syl let his breath out.

Mr. Teacy jerked his head at Syl, directing him toward the plate. Once there, he launched into a lecture about bunting.

“Bunts work best when there’s an element of surprise, so don’t ever let on that you’re going to do one,” he said. “Most common
is the sacrifice bunt, where the batter’s main goal is to advance a runner. Usually, the batter gets out—that’s why it’s called
a sacrifice. Name some other bunts.”

Syl thought hard, chewing on his bottom lip. But he couldn’t come up with any answers.

“That coach of yours teach you
anything?
” Mr. Teacy blew out an impatient breath and then rattled off the names of different bunts: “Safety squeeze. Suicide squeeze.
Push bunt. Drag bunt. Any of these ringing a bell?”

Syl shook his head miserably.

“Give me the bat,” Mr. Teacy ordered. “We’ll focus on the drag bunt. It’s my favorite because nine times out of ten, it’ll
go for a base hit—if it’s done right, of course.”

He drew a batter’s box in the dirt by home plate and stepped inside with his feet near the top of the rectangle. “Assume your
normal stance, but stand closer to the pitcher. When he commits to his pitch, square off, slide your hands apart, and because
you’re a righty, point the barrel at first. Aim to knock the ball down the third baseline. After the hit, run like a demon
is chasing you.”

With that, Mr. Teacy handed the bat back to Syl. Then he threw a ball to Mr. Baruth on the mound and called, “On my signal.”

Mr. Baruth waved to show he understood.

Mr. Teacy backed away from the plate. “You ready?”

“Wait!” Syl’s mind was whirling with all the information Mr. Teacy had thrown at him. “I’m not sure I remember —”

“The only way you’re going to get this is to do it!” Mr. Teacy shouted. “So get into your batting stance!”

Syl snapped his mouth shut, stepped to the front of the batter’s box, and hefted Mr. Teacy’s bat over his right shoulder.
His heart hammered so hard in his chest he thought it would burst.

“Pitch!” Mr. Teacy suddenly yelled.

Mr. Baruth coiled into his windup and threw. Syl turned forward, slid his hands down the bat, and held the barrel out toward
the incoming ball.

Clunk!

“Ow!” Instead of the ball hitting the wood, it hit Syl’s thumb!

S
yl dropped the bat and danced around, shaking his injured hand and grimacing in pain.

Mr. Teacy snatched the bat from the ground. “Don’t you even know how to hold the bat during a bunt? Your fingers and thumb
pinch the barrel top and bottom, they don’t wrap around it!”

He shoved the bat back into Syl’s hands. “But I guess you won’t forget that again, will you? Now get back into the batter’s
box and try again.”

Syl felt like a fool. Of course Coach Corbin had taught him the proper grip for a bunt; he’d just forgotten. But he doubted
Mr. Teacy would believe him. The man clearly didn’t think the coach knew anything!

“You all right, Syl?” Mr. Baruth called from the mound.

“He’s fine.” Mr. Teacy threw the ball back to the pitcher. “Get in your stance,” he growled at Syl.

Syl did, although a big part of him wanted to hop on his bike and pedal away. Then he glanced at Mr. Baruth, who gave him
a thumbs-up and a smile. He smiled back and shouldered the bat.

Mr. Teacy leaned forward, hands on his knees. “Pitch!”

In came the ball. This time when Syl stepped around, his hands were in the proper bunting grip.
Thock!
He hit the ball with the bat this time—and cringed the moment he did. Instead of sending the ball bounding through the grass,
he’d popped it into the air, just like he had in practice the day before.

Mr. Teacy darted forward and caught it. Glaring at Syl, he opened his mouth to speak.

But this time, it was Syl who cut him off. “I know!” he shouted. “I hit the ball with the top part of the barrel, not the
bottom! That’s why it went up instead of down! I’m sorry, okay?”

Syl was certain Mr. Teacy would tear into him for his outburst. Instead, Mr. Teacy gave a slow smile. “So, there’s a fire
in that belly of yours after all! Good. Just be sure to direct that energy at the other team. Ready to go again?”

Sylvester felt his anger fizzle until all that remained was determination. He lifted the bat over his shoulder, bent into
his stance, and aimed a steely-eyed stare at Mr. Baruth. “I’m ready,” he said.

And to his amazement, he
was
ready. Mr. Baruth hurled pitch after pitch. Syl hit several drag bunts in a row with success. When he did mishit one, he
corrected his mistakes and hit the next few right. After half an hour, he was breathing hard—and Mr. Teacy was nodding with
great satisfaction.

“Not bad, Coddmyer,” he said. “Go get a drink and then come back so we can move on to the next lesson.”

“Next lesson?” Syl looked at him with surprise. “What else is there for me to learn?”

Mr. Teacy’s good humor vanished. “There is always something to be learned!” he said. “Sure, your bunting has improved, but
you haven’t even done the most important part!”

Syl took a long drink from his water bottle. “And what’s that?”

Mr. Teacy rolled his eyes. “Beating the throw to first base! If you can’t do that, every bunt will be a sacrifice, won’t it?”
He threw his hands in the air and went to talk to Mr. Baruth.

Sylvester knelt down to put his water bottle back into his bag. As he did, he saw the old camera he’d stashed there earlier.
His heart started pounding. He glanced up at the two ballplayers. They were standing together on the mound. Neither was looking
in his direction.

Now’s my chance
, Syl thought. He pulled the camera from the bag.
I can get both of them in the same photo. Just one shot, and I’ll have proof of their existence!

Slowly, so as not to attract attention, he lifted the camera to his eye and centered the men in the viewfinder. With one push
of a button, he snapped the photo.

Click!

The sound was like a gunshot to his ears. He dropped the camera into his bag, certain the men must have heard its click. Mr.
Teacy didn’t seem to notice anything. Mr. Baruth, on the other hand, shifted his gaze to stare at Syl.

Syl’s mouth turned dry.
Did he see me take the picture? What will he say—or do?

Mr. Baruth muttered something to Mr. Teacy. Mr. Teacy turned. He didn’t look at Syl, however, but at something behind him.

Sylvester spun around just as a biker barreled around the corner. It was Snooky Malone!

“You!” Syl cried. “What are
you
doing here?”

S
nooky dropped his bike and hurried toward Syl. “I know you don’t want me to shadow you,” he said. “In fact, I almost couldn’t
because I didn’t know where you’d gone. I called your house, and your mom said you were at bunting practice. But the tee-ball
league has the field. Then I remembered this place.”

“What made you think I’d come here?” Syl wanted to know.

Snooky shot Syl a confident look. “You had a peculiar expression on your face when standing in this old ball field the other
day. It’s an expression I’ve seen before. You’ve had another encounter from the beyond, haven’t you?” He kicked at a weed.
“Just my luck to get here too late to see the ghost.”