The Home Run Kid Races On (6 page)

“Just get up,” Mr. Teacy finally said. “You think you can put everything together? Do a slide that will get you safe on base?”

“I think so,” Syl said, but his voice lacked confidence, even to his own ears.

Mr. Teacy snorted. “Well, we’ll see. Back to home. I’ll watch from here.”

Syl hurried to home plate. At Mr. Teacy’s signal, he took off running. To make sure he went as fast as he could, he pictured
Mr. Teacy chasing him. The tactic worked magic. He chewed up the base paths faster than he could have imagined possible.

When he reached the point for his slide, he bent his left leg, dropped onto his backside, held his hands high with cupped
fingers, and reached out with his right foot for the bag. His momentum was just right, carrying him across the dirt and past
where Mr. Teacy was standing. His aim was right, too; his toe tagged the bag but didn’t sail over it. When it touched, he
let his knee give a little to absorb the impact. Best of all, he managed to pop up to a standing position—without using his
hands.

“I did it!” he crowed.

“You did it
once,
” Mr. Teacy corrected. “Do it again.”

Sylvester’s second slide went just as well as his first—and so did the one after that, and all those that followed. After
his tenth trip down the base paths, sliding felt so natural it was as if he’d known how to do it all along.

But when he said as much, Mr. Teacy looked at him like he was crazy. “Anyone can slide into an empty base,” he scoffed. “How
will you do when you face a player protecting the bag? Or when you’re trying to steal?”

Sylvester’s happiness evaporated. “Guess I still have a lot to learn,” he mumbled.

To his surprise, Mr. Teacy smiled. “That’s the first smart thing I’ve heard you say all day,” he said. “The ballplayer who
thinks he knows everything is the ballplayer who finds himself sitting on the bench.” He folded his arms across his chest.
“You were lousy at bunting. We fixed that. You were lousy at sliding. We fixed that. Are you lousy at stealing, too?”

“I don’t know,” Syl mumbled.

Mr. Teacy snorted again. “That’s closer to a yes than a no,” he said. “So tell me, if you’re a runner planning to steal, what
part of the pitcher’s body should you watch?”

“His shoulders or his head,” Syl replied confidently, “because he’d turn to look at me.”

“You’re only half-right,” Mr. Teacy said. “An inexperienced right-handed pitcher will turn his head and shoulders in order
to look at first base. If he’s going to throw to first for a pickoff, his head and shoulders will rotate even farther in that
direction. But if he’s going to pitch, he’ll turn back—and
bam!
” He slapped his fist into his palm. “That’s when you take off!

“But,” he continued, “if you have a pitcher who knows what he’s doing, you watch his
feet
. If he’s a righty, he’ll lift his front foot before he pitches.” He demonstrated by raising his own foot. “When it goes up,
you go! But,” he added, “if the back heel comes up, get back to the bag
fast
because chances are, he’s about to pivot and throw to his first baseman.”

“That makes sense,” Sylvester said, nodding. “But what if the pitcher is a lefty?”

“A southpaw is already facing first base so he doesn’t have to pivot. Watch just his front foot. He’ll raise it and then step
toward home plate if he’s pitching —”

“— or toward first if he’s going for the pickoff, right?” Syl finished.

Mr. Teacy nodded.

Syl looked at the empty mound. “Too bad Mr. Baruth isn’t here to pitch. Then I could work on bunting, sliding, and stealing.”

Mr. Teacy’s good humor ebbed away. “You don’t need him to do that. Get on the mound and pitch it to me. Field the ball, pitch
again, and then cover second.”

Wondering what Mr. Teacy had in mind, Sylvester found a ball and trotted to the mound.

Mr. Teacy strode to the batter’s box. He hefted his bat and glared at Syl.

“Pitch!”

S
ylvester reared back and threw. Mr. Teacy laid down a bunt that dribbled toward the mound. Syl scooped it up and turned to
see Mr. Teacy standing on first. He took a big lead off the bag and signaled for Syl to pitch again.

Syl went into a windup. As his front foot lifted, he heard Mr. Teacy take off for second. He got rid of the ball as quickly
as he could and rushed to cover second. Unsure of what he should do next, Syl crouched in a pantomime of a catch.

He looked up to see Mr. Teacy barreling at him like a runaway train. His brain screamed for him to run off the base. But he
steeled himself as Mr. Teacy hit the dirt in a slide.

But it wasn’t a normal slide. Instead of keeping his outstretched leg low and near the bag, Mr. Teacy aimed it high—and suddenly
Syl was looking at the business end of some very sharp metal spikes!

“Yow!” He leaped aside just in the nick of time. “Are you crazy?” he shouted at Mr. Teacy. “You almost gored me!”

Mr. Teacy gave a soft laugh as he dusted off his pants. “Yeah, but I made the steal, didn’t I?” He adjusted his cap and added,
“Now it’s your turn.”

“What? No way!” Syl shook his head vehemently.

Mr. Teacy took a step toward him. “You said you’d follow my instructions without question,” he reminded Syl.

Syl stood his ground, refusing to be intimidated. “Yeah? Well, guess what? I
am
going to ask some questions, but they’re not about your instructions!” he yelled. “Like, who are you, really? Who is Mr.
Baruth? Why did you choose me and not someone else? Why only me?”

The questions came out in a rush of emotion. He hadn’t meant to ask them that way, but now he put his hands on his hips, waiting
to see if Mr. Teacy would answer.

Mr. Teacy fixed him with a humorless smile. “What makes you so sure you’re the only one?”

Syl recoiled as if he’d been slapped. “You mean… I’m not?”

Mr. Teacy didn’t answer, just continued to smile.

Tears suddenly pricked Syl’s eyes. He dropped his gaze to his feet. “That Oriole,” he whispered. “Mr. Baruth has been coaching
him on how to hit homers, hasn’t he?”

Mr. Teacy still didn’t reply.

“Hasn’t he?
” Anger mixed with betrayal caused Syl’s voice to crack. When Mr. Teacy still didn’t speak, he jerked his head up, ready to
demand an answer.

But Mr. Teacy had vanished.

“Syl? Syl! Are you okay?”

Sylvester whirled around to see Duane, Trent, and Jim biking toward him at breakneck speed. Anxiety was etched across their
faces.

“We heard you shouting!” Trent said breathlessly. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” Syl mumbled. “I just—nothing.”

“What’re you doing out here, anyway?” Jim asked. “I thought you were doing home-work or helping your mom.”

“Well, I thought you guys were playing video games,” Syl countered.

Trent rolled his eyes. “My mom made us quit for the day. Said it was too nice outside to be holed up inside. We were going
to play a little pitch, hit, and catch at our ball field, but that tee-ball tournament is still going on.”

“Then I remembered this place from the other day,” Duane put in, “so we decided to play here instead. We would have come sooner
if we’d known you were here already.” He gave Syl a questioning look then.

Syl looked away. “Well, since we’re all here, why don’t we play some ball? Come on, Duane, you’re on my side. I’ll pitch first.”

The others readily agreed, and so for the rest of the afternoon the four boys took turns batting, catching, and running the
bases. Syl laughed and joked along with them.

But deep inside, threads of anger and jealousy were slowly twining into a knot. With every passing moment, that knot was growing,
and at its center was Mr. Baruth.

D
espite being tired from hours of baseball, Syl slept poorly that night. Luckily, the next day was Saturday, so he got to sleep
in. Still, when he finally did rise, he was out of sorts. Not even his favorite game-day breakfast of bagels and cream cheese
lightened his mood.

“You better work yourself out of your snit before you hit the diamond,” his mother advised after he’d snapped at her one time
too many. “I don’t think Coach Corbin would appreciate that kind of attitude!”

The mention of Coach Corbin only made him more irritable.
If the coach had taken the time to teach me how to bunt and slide properly, then Mr. Teacy wouldn’t have shown up. And I would
have never figured out that Mr. Baruth was coaching that other kid!

Syl knew he was being unreasonable. Coach Corbin had never shirked his responsibilities to his players. And Mr. Baruth had
never said Syl was his only protégé.

But why did he have to pick someone on a team we play?
Syl wondered angrily.

He and his parents arrived at the ball field soon after breakfast.

“Here we are,” his father said as he parked the car. Sylvester grabbed his glove and his cap and got out, slamming the door
with a bang.

“He’s become a ‘tweenager,’ ” he heard his mother say.

“Lord help us!” his father replied with a laugh.

Ha, ha,
thought Syl.

Many of the Orioles and Comets were already at the diamond warming up. Syl joined his teammates and caught a throw from Trent.
He turned and hurled the ball with all his might to Eddie Exton. It landed with a loud pop in Eddie’s mitt.

“Whoa, Syl!” Eddie called, freeing his hand and shaking it. “Save it for the game, man!”

“Sorry,” Syl muttered. He toned it down for the rest of warm-ups.

The Comets were the home team, so Sylvester jogged out to his spot in center field. He had one thing on his mind: getting
back at Mr. Baruth by robbing the slugger of any home run he might attempt to hit.

If I have to leap the fence to make the catch, I will!
he thought, pounding his fist into his glove.

Bongo Daley took a few practice pitches and then signaled that he was ready. The game began.

In the Orioles-Jackdaws game a few days earlier, the first Oriole batter had hit a single. This time, against the Comets,
he rapped out a grounder that took a funny hop over the path between first and second base. That hop gave the Oriole time
to reach second. The next batter popped a fly ball to Duane at third for the first out. The runner on second wisely stayed
put.

One out turned to two when the third batter fouled off two pitches and then missed a third. That brought up the home run kid.

“Back up!” Syl screamed to Steve and Kirk as he backpedaled into deep center field.
And if you see me coming, get out of my way!
he added silently.

He squinted at the slugger, watching his every move. He wasn’t trying to guess where he’d hit it, however. He wanted to see
if the Oriole glanced into the stands. If he did, that’s where Mr. Baruth would be.

But the Oriole seemed more concerned with staring down Bongo than looking for his mysterious coach. Bongo took Eddie’s signal,
nodded, coiled back, and threw.

Zip!
went the ball.

Swish!
went the bat.

Pop!
went Eddie’s mitt.

“Strike one!” shouted the umpire.

“Told you so,” said someone behind Sylvester. “Players who try to clobber the ball for homers whiff on more pitches than they
hit.”

Syl didn’t even have to turn around to know who was there. “Yeah, you told me, Mr. Teacy,” he said. “You told me a whole lot.
Now I’m going to tell you: leave me alone. I’ve got a game to play.”

Mr. Teacy laughed softly. “I’ll leave you alone,” he said, “but I’m not going to leave. Not until I see you put my lessons
to work, that is. So the sooner you show me what you’ve learned, the sooner I’ll be gone.”

Syl didn’t have time to say anything in return because at that moment, the slugger put what Mr. Baruth had taught
him
into practice.

“Heads up, Syl!” Kirk yelled. “It’s all yours!”

S
ylvester whipped his gloved hand up into the air and kept his eyes glued to the ball soaring through the blue sky. He moved
a few steps to his right, positioned himself directly under the ball, and waited for it to fall into his glove’s pocket for
the out.

To his astonishment, the ball didn’t drop into his glove. Instead, it seemed to veer away just before he caught it.

“What the —?” He spun around, scrabbling in the grass. He finally picked up the ball and threw to the cutoff man. But he was
too late. The Oriole had already rounded third on his way to an in-the-park, two-run homer.

“Syl, what the heck happened?” Kirk bellowed from left field.

Syl shook his head. He couldn’t believe he’d missed it either. In fact, he was certain he should have caught it. He replayed
the ball’s trajectory in his mind. It was coming down on a line right to his glove—until suddenly, it wasn’t.

No,
Syl fumed, slapping his empty glove against his thigh,
that miss wasn’t my fault. Something or someone made that ball change course. And I bet I know who it was.

He narrowed his eyes and scanned the visitors’ stands. Then he looked at the people in the hometown bleachers. He saw Mr.
Teacy leaning against the fence. Search as he might, though, he didn’t see Mr. Baruth anywhere.

Of course, I didn’t see him at the Jackdaws-Orioles game either,
he reminded himself.
That doesn’t prove he wasn’t there—or that he’s not here right now!

He was so busy thinking about Mr. Baruth that he didn’t realize Bongo had retired the Orioles until Steve called for him to
hustle in for their turn at bat.

Syl was batting cleanup, so there was no guarantee he would get to the plate that inning. Jim, the lead-off hitter, started
the Comets off strong by ripping a line drive past the second baseman, good for a single.

Syl applauded with his teammates, happy for his friend. Then he picked up a bat and began swinging it. It appeared as if he’d
get his turn after all, and when he did, he wanted to be ready.

Eddie was up next. He had a powerful swing that sometimes yielded hits but more often led to him striking out. This time,
he managed to send the ball to shallow right field. He made it to first and chose to stop. Jim, however, rounded second and
continued on to third.