The Home Run Kid Races On (5 page)

Syl knew then that Mr. Teacy and Mr. Baruth had vanished. He gritted his teeth in frustration. He’d hoped to spend more time
with Mr. Baruth. But unless Snooky left, that wasn’t going to happen. With a sigh, he zipped up his bag. “There’s nothing
to see here, Snooky,” he said.

Snooky didn’t look convinced. “Nothing to see here
now,
” he amended. He held his hands out toward the field as if testing the air. “But I sense a cosmic energy here. If we stick
around, I bet your ghost will return.”

“Bet anything you like,” Syl said. “I’m leaving.”

Snooky’s shoulders slumped. “No point in my staying then,” he said, his voice thick with disappointment. “You’re the key that
unlocks the door to the other side. I could knock until my knuckles are raw. Without you, that door just won’t open.”

Syl bit his lip. He hated seeing his friend upset, but what could he do? He didn’t control who saw the ghosts.

Or did he? He blinked. If the photo he’d taken came out, he could show it to Snooky. It wouldn’t be the same as seeing the
real thing, but it was better than nothing. And he owed his friend at least that much. After all, Snooky was the only one
of his buddies who truly believed in his mysterious ballplayers.

I’ll drop off the film on the way home,
he decided,
and pick it up later tonight. If the photo is good, I’ll call Snooky to come see it.
He laughed to himself.
Who knows? Maybe I’ll call the newspapers, too!

“Cheer up, Snooky,” he said, slinging a leg over his bike. “Just because you didn’t see anything here doesn’t mean you won’t
see something someday.”

Sylvester and Snooky rode back to town together but parted at the ballpark. Once Syl was sure Snooky was gone, he veered toward
the local shopping mall to find the camera store.

He was so busy looking at store signs that he didn’t notice that his bike wasn’t riding smoothly. When he finally did, he
groaned. His back tire was flat!

He pulled into the mall parking lot to consider his options. He carried a patch kit for just such emergencies, so he could
fix the tire. Or he could call his mother to come get him. He decided to call. But when he looked for his phone inside his
gear bag, he couldn’t find it. He groaned again, remembering that he’d left it at home, plugged into its charger.

Patch kit it is!
He removed his gear bag from the back of the bike to make the job easier. He’d just started working when he heard a familiar
voice.

“Ew, pew, what’s that smell? Must be a Codd-
fish!
”

It was his archenemy, Duke Farrell. Duke was a pitcher; every time they met on the diamond, he did his best to make Syl look
like a loser at the plate. But Syl had always let his bat do the talking and turned the tables so that it was Duke who ended
up with egg on his face.

Syl glanced back and saw that Duke’s sidekick, Steve Button, was with him. “Leave me alone, you guys,” he growled.

“Let’s play a game first,” Duke said. “This is one of my favorites. I call it keep-away!” He grabbed Syl’s gear bag.

“Hey, give it back!” Sylvester shouted, standing up.

Duke waggled his finger. “Not until you play!” He flung the bag over Syl’s head into Steve’s waiting hands.

Syl tried to snatch it, with no success. Frustration boiled up inside him. “I don’t have time for this! Give me my bag!”

Steve hefted the bag over his head. “Make me!”

“You asked for it!” Syl said and then barreled straight at Steve.

“Ooof!” Steve fell onto his backside. The bag flew out of his hands and landed right in front of an oncoming pickup truck!

Crunch!

As the truck rolled over the bag, the driver’s head snapped up. Steve scrambled to his feet and took off with Duke right behind
him. The woman leaned out her window and stared at the lump behind her tire, a look of horror on her face. “What
is
that?”

“It is—was—my baseball stuff,” Syl replied sadly.

While the woman parked the pickup, Syl retrieved his belongings. He sat on the curb and examined the contents one by one.
His glove and ball were fine, but his water bottle had been crushed to smithereens. So had the camera.

The woman put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, no, look what I did!”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Syl protested. “It was those other boys. They threw the bag in your way.”

But the woman shook her head. “You don’t understand,” she said. “I was texting when I pulled in here. I should have been paying
attention to my driving, but I wasn’t.” She sat down next to him and put her head in her hands. “What if that had been a
child?
”

Sylvester patted her back awkwardly. “It wasn’t, though.”

After a few minutes, the woman took a deep breath and stood up. “I’ll replace your things, I promise,” she said. “But for
now, let me give you a lift home.”

Syl nodded. “Can I use your phone to call my mom first?”

Fifteen minutes later, the truck pulled into the Coddmyers driveway. Mrs. Coddmyer hurried out.

“I’m fine, Mom,” Syl said before she could pepper him with questions.

The woman and his mother talked while Syl unloaded his bike and his gear. He gave the broken camera one last look before dropping
it into the trash can.

Sorry, Snooky,
he thought.
I tried.

After the woman left, Mrs. Coddmyer showed Syl a check she had given her. “She insisted on buying us a new camera,” she said.
“I told her it wasn’t necessary, that your phone can take pictures and that the camera hadn’t been used in years anyway. But
she felt so bad, she wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

It wasn’t until Sylvester was in bed that night that something his mother had said came back to him. “Your phone can take
pictures.” He sat up.

My phone
can
take pictures!
he thought excitedly.
Maybe I’ll be able to show Snooky photos of Mr. Baruth and Mr. Teacy after all!

Then he realized his plan had a flaw. It was only one problem, but it was major: He had no way of knowing if Mr. Teacy or
Mr. Baruth would show up at the field again the next day. They’d vanished that afternoon before he could ask.

All I can do is go back to that field tomorrow,
he decided,
and hope!

Getting to the old ball field alone the following day wasn’t easy, however. First, he had to persuade his mom to let him go
right after school. “I’ll help with the yard sale tonight, I promise!” Then, Trent cornered him after school to coax him into
playing the video game with Duane and Jim again.

“Uh, I have a lot of homework and I might have to help my mom,” Syl said. “So I have to go home.”

Trent didn’t press him further, but then Duane caught him strapping Mr. Teacy’s bat onto the back of his bike.

“What’s that for?” Duane asked curiously. “Trent said you were heading home.”

“I am,” Syl replied. “I have the bat because, uh… because I hoped Coach Corbin would check it out, see if it’s regulation
so I can use it during practices and games!”

“Didn’t he do that already, when you first showed it to him?”

“I, uh, yeah, I’d forgotten about that,” Syl answered. “So now I’m bringing it back home. See you!”

Before Duane could ask any more questions, Syl jumped onto his bike and pedaled off. He only went a short distance, however,
before looking back to see if Duane was still there. He wasn’t, so Syl switched his direction from home to the bike path.
He stopped only once, to change into his baseball pants.

Fifteen minutes later, he arrived at the old ball field. To his disappointment, neither Mr. Teacy nor Mr. Baruth was there.
He sat down, opened his bag, and pulled out his cell phone to check the battery. The power bar indicated that the phone was
fully charged. He took a few test photos of his feet. They came out fine, so he dropped the phone back into his pack.

“How you?”

Syl started. There was Mr. Teacy, leaning against the oak tree, a spot Syl knew had been empty just moments before.

“I’m fine, Mr. Teacy!” he replied. “And ready for some more practice. We were going to work on beating the throw to first
today, right? Hmm, guess I better switch into my baseball shoes for that, huh? I’ve got them right here in my bag, so I’ll
just get ’em and put ’em on!”

Stop babbling,
he berated himself,
and just do it!

Heart racing, he reached into his bag and flipped the cover of the phone open. The tiny screen glowed.

“What’s taking you so long?” Mr. Teacy barked.

Syl grabbed one of his baseball shoes to use as cover. With shaking hands, he raised the phone out of the pack, centered Mr.
Teacy in the middle of the screen, moved his thumb over the buttons —

And the screen went black.

Y
ou deaf or something?” Mr. Teacy said. “I asked, what’s taking you so long?”

Sylvester stared at the dark screen in dismay. Then he closed the phone and dropped it back into his bag.

“Sorry, I had a knot I couldn’t get undone,” he answered. As quickly as he could, he switched his sneakers for his spikes.
“Say, isn’t Mr. Baruth going to be here today?”

“No,” Mr. Teacy said shortly. “He had someplace else he had to be.”

Syl was disappointed but tried not to show it.

“Let’s hope you’re faster on the base paths than you are at untying knots,” Mr. Teacy grumbled when Syl joined him at home
plate. “Show me what you’ve got.”

“What do you mean?” Syl asked.

“I mean
run!
” Mr. Teacy cried.

Startled, Syl took off down the base path like a horse that’d been stung by a bee.

“You call that running?” Mr. Teacy mocked. “I’ve seen ducks waddle faster!”

Sylvester picked up his pace, slowing only when he reached first.

Mr. Teacy stormed up to him. “Didn’t I tell you to give me everything you’ve got?”

Syl nodded dumbly.

“Then why’d you slow down? You do that in a game and you’ll be picked off. Get back to home plate. And this time, round first
and slide into second.”

Sylvester hesitated, remembering how poorly he’d slid during practice with the Comets.

“Well?” Mr. Teacy thundered.

Syl hurried back to home plate and got into a runner’s stance.

“On my mark,” Mr. Teacy said. “Ready?
Go!
”

Syl pushed off and began to run. To his surprise, Mr. Teacy did too—except he didn’t run
with
Sylvester so much as
after
him!

“Go!” he screamed. “Faster! Move those legs! Dig it out! Faster, boy!”

Maybe it was Mr. Teacy’s yells, or maybe it was the adrenaline that suddenly shot through Syl’s veins, but whatever the reason,
Syl did run faster. In fact, he practically flew across the dirt toward first base. He touched the bag and kept going. Then,
when he judged he was close enough to second, he bent his left leg beneath him, dropped, and slid toward the base with his
right leg outstretched.

To his relief, unlike in practice, his foot reached its target. In fact, his whole right leg crossed the bag so that when
he stopped moving, he was half resting on the base.

Mr. Teacy stood over him, looking appalled. “
That’s
your slide?” he said.

Syl took a deep breath and sat up. “That’s my slide,” he replied defensively, his face turning red. “What was wrong with it?”

“You overshot the mark by a mile. Your hands were in the dirt when you slid,” Mr. Teacy said, ticking each point off as he
talked. “Your right leg was ramrod straight. And now you’re just sitting there like a bump on a log!” He shook his head in
a gesture of pure disgust.

Sylvester flushed an even deeper red.

“Come on,” Mr. Teacy said, “I’ll walk you through it.” He started back to the plate without waiting to see if Syl was following.

And Syl almost didn’t follow. What made him return to the plate was something Mr. Baruth had taught him long ago: It was better
to try and fail than to quit.

So with a determined squaring of his shoulders, Syl went back to home.

“You got the running part down that time anyway,” Mr. Teacy said. “But you dropped into the slide way too late. Follow me.”

With Syl at his heels, Mr. Teacy circled the base paths toward second. He stopped at the spot where Syl had begun his slide.
“Not here,” he said, backing up several paces. “Here. Nine to ten feet from the base.”

He waved for Syl to come next to him. “Show me how you begin the slide.”

Syl bent his left leg so that his foot was behind his right knee. Dropping down to the ground from this position was awkward,
however, so he braced himself with his hands.

“Stop!” Mr. Teacy barked.

Syl stared at him, bewildered. “What’d I do wrong
now?
”

Y
ou put your hands down, that’s what you did wrong,” Mr. Teacy answered grimly. “You do that when you’re sliding and you’ll
snap your wrist in two or jam and scrape your fingers! Ever try catching, throwing, or batting with a broken wrist or bloody,
bent fingers? Not so easy. Lift your hands and cup those fingers like you’re holding an egg in each palm.”

Syl did as he was told. Now he was sitting in the dirt with one leg bent beneath him, the other out in front, and his arms
held high. “Like this?” he asked, wobbling as he tried to balance on his hip.

Mr. Teacy blew out an exasperated breath. “You slide on your backside, not your leg! The seat of your pants should be filthy
when we’re through! Now raise your right foot higher. Bend that right knee when you hit the bag! You keep it straight like
you did before and you’ll destroy the joint, guaranteed.”

Once more, Syl made adjustments to his position. Mr. Teacy circled him a few times and then nodded. “Better. Now get up.”

Syl lowered his hands, intending to push himself up.

“No!” Mr. Teacy roared. “Use your
legs
to pop you up, like you would in a real slide!”

Syl tried his best to get to a standing position by just using his leg muscles. But he couldn’t.