The Home Run Kid Races On (8 page)
All the anger and the sense of betrayal Syl had been feeling that day bubbled to the surface. He crossed his arms over his
chest. “What are
you
doing here?” he muttered. “Come to coach your newest best buddy?”
Mr. Baruth didn’t reply. Instead, he knelt down to tie a loose shoelace. At that same moment, the Oriole returned with the
ball. He passed the man as if he didn’t see him.
Syl tapped the player on the shoulder. “Aren’t you going to say hello?” he said, crossing his arms again and jerking his head
at Mr. Baruth.
The Oriole stared at Syl in confusion. “Uh, okay. Hello.” Then he threw the ball to his shortstop.
Syl blinked. Slowly, he dropped his arms to his side. His mind was whirling. “Why isn’t he talking to you?” he whispered.
“Why would he?” Mr. Baruth answered, standing up. “I don’t know him and he doesn’t know me.”
“You don’t? But I thought —”
“I know what you thought,” Mr. Baruth cut in. He motioned for Syl to step away from the bag so they could talk in private.
“And I know who put that thought in your head.”
Syl nodded knowingly. “Mr. Teacy.”
“No,” Mr. Baruth said. “You put that thought into your own head. He just let you keep thinking it, because being mad at me
got you to do what he wanted you to do.” He smiled broadly. “Until a moment ago, that is. When you refused to spike that Oriole,
Mr. Teacy knew you were done with him. So he left.”
“Oh.”
Mr. Baruth tipped his head to the side. “Are you disappointed he’s gone?”
Syl thought for a moment. “Not really,” he answered truthfully. “I learned a lot from him, but I didn’t really like him. He
kind of scared me, actually.”
Mr. Baruth chuckled. “You weren’t the first person to feel that way about him, Syl. Believe me!” He pointed to the field.
“That new pitcher’s just about warmed up. I better be going.”
“Won’t you stay until the game’s over?” Syl begged. “I have so many questions!”
“Another time, Syl. Right now, you’ve got a run to score!”
Syl gulped. “I do? How? How am I going to score?”
Mr. Baruth shifted his gaze over Syl’s shoulder. “There’s the one who can answer that question. See you around.”
Syl looked behind him to see Coach Corbin approaching. “Listen up, Sylvester,” the coach said in a low voice. “There’s a way
we can win this one now. But it all depends on you!”
With that, he outlined his plan in a whisper.
“So what do you think?” he finished. “Can you do it?”
Sylvester straightened his shoulders and nodded. “I’ll give it my best shot, Coach.”
T
he delayed double steal—that’s what Coach Corbin wanted to try. Duane, at bat, was to pretend to bunt. At the same time, A.C.,
at first, was to steal. If and when the catcher committed to throwing A.C. out at second, Syl was to steal home.
It was a very tricky play, one that depended on pinpoint timing, incredible speed, and the ability of the offense to fool
the defense. If it worked, Syl had a good chance of scoring the winning run. But there were many ways it could fail. A.C.
could be thrown out at second. Duane could muff the fake bunt. Syl could take off for home too soon. Or the defense could
spot the play and shut it down before it even begins.
Getting the third and final out now wouldn’t be the end of the world, of course. A tie game would simply lead to extra innings.
That was why the coach had decided to try the play.
“Let’s go for it,” Syl told him.
The Orioles’ pitcher finished warming up. The umpire called, “Play ball!” The Orioles got into ready stances.
And Sylvester’s heart hammered so hard in his chest he thought it would burst.
Duane looked nervous, too. Syl hoped his friend would be able to do his part. He willed him to take deep breaths to calm down.
I should follow that advice myself,
he thought, and promptly did so.
The Orioles’ pitcher got the ball. He put it behind his back, twirling it in his fingers, and leaned in to get the signals.
Duane held the bat above his shoulder, poised and ready. A.C. shuffled into the base path. Syl took a lead, too, trying not
to be obvious as he did so.
The third baseman glanced at him but didn’t change his position.
Syl risked another two steps away from the bag.
The pitcher nodded, straightened, and went into his windup. His front foot lifted off the turf.
Go, A.C.! Go!
Syl’s mind screamed.
A.C. did go, just as the pitcher released the ball. Duane rounded into his bunt, moving his body so it blocked the catcher’s
view just for an instant. The shouts from the Orioles’ bench must have told the catcher what was happening, however, for the
second the ball hit his glove he was on his feet and throwing to second.
Syl didn’t wait a moment longer. He put his head down and ran. As his feet churned through the dirt, he imagined Mr. Teacy
chasing him like a dog after a squirrel. Adrenaline shot through his veins and spurred him to go even faster. He hit the dirt
for his slide into home at top speed.
Sand and tiny pebbles ground into his backside. He didn’t even feel it. He was too focused on reaching home.
The catcher stood at the ready. Syl heard him yell, saw him move, and then—
pop!
The ball hit the catcher’s glove just as Syl swept across the plate.
Syl lay still, breathing hard. Gritty dust filled his nose and mouth. He didn’t care. His ears were straining to hear a single
word.
And then he heard it.
“Safe!”
Duane gave a whoop and yanked Sylvester to his feet. “You did it! Final score, Comets seven, Orioles six!” he shouted.
“
We
did it!” Syl amended.
He pounded his friend on the back, grinning from ear to ear. A second later, he and Duane were surrounded by the rest of the
Comets, all of whom were whooping and cheering. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the Orioles gather at their bench, their
shoulders slumped.
He felt bad for them, but that’s what happens. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose.
“Hey, Syl,” Trent called, “how about a little celebration at the ice cream parlor? My folks will drive us—and better yet,
they’ll pay!”
“Sounds great!” Syl returned. “Say, have you seen my glove? I thought I left it on the bench.”
Trent spied it in the corner of the dugout. “Is that it over there?”
“That’s it. Thanks,” Syl said. “I’ll be ready to go in a second. Meet you in the parking lot.”
He hurried to the corner and retrieved his glove. When he picked it up, an envelope fluttered from inside its pocket.
“What the heck?” He straightened and looked around. “Does this belong to anybody?” But his teammates were still so busy celebrating,
they didn’t hear him. Syl saw that the envelope wasn’t closed, so he lifted the flap to see what was inside.
What he found made him suck in his breath. It was a very old, sepia-toned photograph of two baseball players. They wore different
uniforms but were examining a baseball bat together. Sylvester identified the man on the left immediately: it was Babe Ruth.
He wasn’t sure who the man on the right was. Then he looked closer and gave a small laugh.
The second man’s ears stuck out quite prominently on either side of his head. Syl still didn’t know his name—not his real
name, anyway—but he would have known those ears anywhere. They belonged to Mr. Teacy.
Syl flipped the photograph over and saw that there was a short message written on it. “To replace the one that was lost,”
the note read. It wasn’t signed.
S
ylvester Coddmyer III didn’t plan on showing the photograph to anyone. But the day after he stole home, he changed his mind.
That afternoon, he found a very special book about baseball history at the neighborhood yard sale. The stories were fascinating,
but the pictures were what really captivated him.
As he paged through the volume, he saw countless images of Babe Ruth, along with other familiar figures. There was Eddie Cicotte
standing with “Shoeless” Joe Jackson and the rest of the Black Sox players. Jackie Robinson, the man who broke through baseball’s
color barrier, had a chapter all to himself, as did the Negro League. A photo of Mickey Mantle made him smile. Sprinkled among
the biographies and game recaps were graphs comparing stats of one player to another and lists of all sorts, including one
of the sport’s longtime record holders.
One name appeared on that list more than once: Ty Cobb. Sylvester was interested to see that, among other things, Cobb had
stolen home more often than any other professional player—over thirty-five times.
Intrigued, Sylvester flipped to the index to see if the book had more entries about Cobb. He found one labeled “Cobb versus
Ruth.” He turned to that page.
“No way!” he breathed. There, right smack in the middle of the text, was a copy of his photograph!
“Ty Cobb and Babe Ruth with bat,” the photo’s caption read. Syl stared at it for a long time and then shivered.
Ty Cobb. T. C.
Teacy!
Just to be sure, he scanned the blurb on Ty Cobb, looking for similarities between the long-dead ballplayer and the man he
knew as Mr. Teacy. They leaped out at him one after another.
“Known for his bunting.”
Check,
Syl thought.
“Top batting average of all time.” Syl remembered Mr. Teacy’s insistence that hits were better than homers because they helped
batting averages.
Check again,
he thought.
“From Georgia. Hated for spiking basemen during slides.”
Check and check,
Syl thought as he recalled the man’s slight accent, as well as his spike-high slides.
He closed the book then. He didn’t need any more convincing that Mr. Teacy and Ty Cobb were one and the same person.
“Who’d ever believe me, though?” he said to himself. He knew the answer, of course. And as if he’d conjured up the person
just by thinking about him, the boy suddenly popped up from behind a table laden with glassware.
Sylvester grinned. Tucking his new book under his arm, he called out, “Hey! Snooky! Wait up! I’ve got something to tell you
that I just know you’re going to want to hear!”
THE #1 SPORTS SERIES FOR KIDS
MATT CHRISTOPHER
®
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| Body Check |  Fairway Phenom |
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