The Kid Who Only Hit Homers

by Matt Christopher

  He blasted another ball high into the sky. Sylvester ran some twenty feet to the spot where it was coming down, put out his mitt, and plop! He had it.

  The other outfielders stared at him unbelievingly.

  “Hey! What’s happened?” observed Ted Sobel. “You couldn’t catch worth beans last week!”

  Sylvester shrugged. “I’m not very good at it, yet,” he said modestly.

  After they finished outfield practice, Sylvester returned to the bleachers and sat down beside George Baruth.

  “Good work, Syl,” George smiled broadly. “Did you see their eyes pop when you made those fine catches?”

  Sylvester grinned. “Well… I kind of surprised myself,” he said honestly. Then he thought of something and looked at Mr. Baruth curiously. “You’re really not from Hooper, are you, Mr. Baruth?”

  The big man chuckled. “No. I’m a stranger here, Syl. Every year I spend my vacation in a different town. This year I picked Hooper. This region is one of the most beautiful in the world, Syl. Did you know that?”

  Sylvester smiled. “Yes, sir. I think so, too, Mr. Baruth.” He paused a moment. “Mr. Baruth, how come you picked me out to help? Aren’t there other kids who are better?”

  Mr. Baruth chuckled again. “Why should I try to help someone who is better? I saw that you really loved baseball and tried your best to play. But you had problems. You couldn’t play well, so you got discouraged and wanted to quit. Right away I knew you were a boy who needed help.”

  Sylvester grinned. “Do you really think you could help me, Mr. Baruth? Man, I don’t think there’s anybody lousier than I am.”

  “I not only think I can help you, young buddy,” replied Mr. Baruth, a glimmer in his eyes. “I know I can!”

  Suddenly there was a shout from near home plate, and Sylvester saw Coach Corbin waving to him. With the coach was Mr. Beach, who looked as if he had just uncovered a box of some very valuable treasure.

  “Sylvester Coddmyer!” yelled the coach. “Come here, will you?”

  “I’d better see what he wants,” he said. “Excuse me, Mr. Baruth.”

  “You bet, Syl,” said George Baruth.

  Sylvester clattered down the bleachers and ran across the green, mowed grass toward the tiny group clustered near home plate. When he reached it, Coach Corbin smiled at him and placed an arm around his shoulders. “Mr. Beach told me you looked very good catching fly balls today, Sylvester,” he said.

  Sylvester shrugged. “I’m better at hitting, too,” he said proudly.

  “Oh? Mind trying to prove it to me?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. Pick up a bat. Rick, throw a few to Sylvester.”

  Sylvester found a bat he liked and stepped in front of the backstop screen. Rick Wilson walked out to the temporary pitching box, waited for Sylvester to get ready, then blazed one in.

  Smack! Sylvester laid into it and blasted it over the left field fence.

  “Jumping codfish!” cried Coach Corbin. “Look at that blast! Pitch another, Rick!”

  Rick did. Pow! The second ball rocketed out almost as far as the first. Rick threw in another. Again Sylvester swung and again the ball shot like a rocket over the left field fence.

  “That’s enough!” said Coach Corbin. “We can’t afford to lose baseballs! Sylvester!”

  “Yes, Coach?”

  “I don’t know what you’ve been doing since last Friday, but you’re sure a different ballplayer now. Be in my office in the morning to sign up. I think I might be able to fit you in.”

  “Thanks, sir!” said Sylvester happily.

  3

  The Hooper Redbirds played a practice game with the Macon Falcons on Tuesday. Coach Corbin assigned Sylvester Coddmyer III to right field and put him fourth in the batting order. Fourth, as everybody knew, was the cleanup position.

  The Redbird s batting order was:

  Cowley 2b

  Sobel If

  Stevens ss

  Coddmyer rf

  Ash lb

  Kent cf

  Francis 3b

  Exton c

  Barnes p

  The Falcons had first raps. Terry Barnes, the Redbirds’ alternate pitcher, was a little wild on the leadoff hitter and walked him. The next Falcon laid a neat bunt down the third-base line, which Duane Francis fielded and pegged to first on time. The bunt advanced the base runner to second, putting him in position to score.

  The next Falcon blasted a fly back to Terry. Terry caught it, spun, and shot the ball to second to nab the man before he could tag up.

  Three outs.

  Sylvester came trotting out of right field and saw several people sitting in different places in the bleachers. And, there in the third row from the bottom just behind first base, sat Mr. Baruth.

  “Hi, Mr. Baruth!” cried Sylvester.

  “Hi, Syl!” answered Mr. Baruth, smiling. “Go get ‘em, kid!”

  Jim Cowley led off with a grounder to short, an easy out. Ted Sobel singled and Milt Stevens walked, bringing up Sylvester Coddmyer III.

  “Knock ‘em in, Syl!” yelled the coach.

  Duke Farrel, the Falcons’ tall right hander, blazed his first pitch down the heart of the plate. Sylvester leaned into it, swung—and missed.

  The next pitch was slightly high. That was Sylvester’s opinion. The umpire’s opinion was different. “Strike two!” he yelled.

  The next pitch looked high, too. But Sylvester didn’t want to take a chance on striking out. He swung. Missed!

  “Strike three!”

  He couldn’t believe it. The first time at bat and he struck out. What would the coach think? What would Mr. Baruth think?

  He turned glumly, tossed his bat onto the pile, and went to the dugout.

  “Chin up, Sylvester,” said the coach. “You’ll be up again.”

  Jerry Ash popped up to short and the side retired.

  The Falcons scored a run at their turn at bat, and then the Redbirds came to bat. Bobby Kent singled. Duane Francis’s bunt put him on second, and Eddie Exton’s triple scored him. Pitcher Terry Barnes’s single scored Eddie.

  The Falcon’s leadoff man lambasted a long clout to deep right field, sending Sylvester running back toward the fence. His short legs were a blur as he ran, while all the time he kept his eyes on the ball. Then he reached up. The ball came down, brushed the tip of his glove, and bounced against the fence.

  The Falcon ran all the way around to third on the hit.

  The next hitter blasted a line drive over first baseman Jerry Ash’s head. The.ball struck the ground in front of Sylvester. But, instead of bouncing up into Sylvester’s waiting glove, it skidded through his legs.

  Once again he spun and sprinted after the ball. A run scored by the time he pegged it in.

  Man, oh, man! he thought. What’s wrong with me? I’m not doing anything right! Mr. Baruth will give up on me for sure.

  Terry fanned the next hitter. Then Bobby caught a long fly in deep center field, and another run scored after the runner tagged up. Eddie Exton caught a pop fly to end the half inning.

  “Hey, Syl,” said Jim Cowley, “what’re you doing out there? Playing baseball or running a track meet?”

  “Ha ha,” said Sylvester.

  Milt Stevens led off the bottom of the third with a double over the shortstop’s head. Up came Sylvester for the second time.

  “Okay, Syl,” said Jerry Ash, kneeling with his bat in front of the dugout. “Make up for those errors.”

  The pitch. It looked good. Sylvester swung. Crack! A long blast to center field! Sylvester dropped his bat and bolted for first, but slowed up before he got to it. The center fielder had caught the ball.

  “Tough luck, kid,” said a voice from the bleachers. “But don’t give up. Hang in there.”

  Sylvester looked at Mr. Baruth. His smile was weak. I’ve got to, Mr. Baruth, he thought, or Coach Corbin will bench me.

  Jerry Ash singled, scoring Milt. Bobby and Duane both got out, ending the half inning.
Falcons 3, Redbirds 3.

  The Falcons got a man on and threatened to score when Steve Button, their cleanup hitter and a left-hander, clouted a skyscraping fly to right field. Bobby Kent started to run over from center, but Sylvester yelled, “I’ll take it! I’ll take it!”

  Take it!” shouted Bobby.

  The ball dropped into Sylvester’s glove and stuck there. A shout sprang from the scattered Redbird fans as Sylvester heaved the ball in, holding the runner on second base.

  He felt much better now. He needed that catch.

  The next two Falcons failed to hit, and the half inning ended with a zero on the scoreboard.

  “Nice catch, Syl,” said Mr. Baruth as Sylvester trotted in from right field.

  “Thanks, sir.” Sylvester smiled.

  Neither team scored again until the bottom of the fifth. With one out Sylvester socked a single, a scratch hit to shortstop. Jerry Ash’s triple scored him.

  Falcons 3, Redbirds 4.

  “Hold ‘em, Redbirds!” yelled a fan.

  Terry walked the first Falcon and the next was safe on Milt’s error at short. Then Steve Button blasted another fly to right field. Sylvester got under it, shouting, “I’ll take it! I’ll take it!”

  Then, just for an instant, he lost sight of the ball against the white clouds. When he spotted it again, it was too late. The ball skimmed past his glove and struck the ground. He caught the high bounce and pegged it in, but not before two Falcons crossed home plate.

  When the Redbirds came to bat, they failed to score and the game went to the Falcons, 5 to 4.

  “I can’t figure it out, Sylvester,” said Coach Corbin, wonderingly. “You hardly looked like the same kid out there who practiced with us yesterday.”

  “Are—are you going to drop me, Coach?” asked Sylvester worriedly.

  “No. But if you don’t do better than you did today…” The coach shrugged. “I’ll just have to keep you on the bench most of the time.”

  4

  Sylvester Coddmyer III wrote a composition that night on snakes and how they benefit humans. It was for English. He had wanted to write on baseball because he loved it so much. But Miss Carroll, his English teacher, suggested that he write about something else for a change.

  He researched his material from a couple of magazine articles and the computer. He wasn’t especially crazy about snakes, but after reading up on them he realized that they were really interesting creatures.

  Nevertheless, he enjoyed baseball more than anything else. He liked to read about its history, and about old-time ballplayers.

  He thought of himself becoming a great outfielder or a great hitter. Man! Wouldn’t that be something?

  He knew he was just dreaming, though. He would never be half as great as any of those hitters whose names he’d read in the baseball encyclopedia.

  He picked up the big book from the shelf near the desk and leafed through it to the section where the names of the home-run hitters were listed. Right on top was Babe Ruth, with 714 home runs. Man! 714!

  George Herman “Babe” Ruth had been a pitcher for the Boston Red Sox. Then he went to the New York Yankees, where he played outfield and became a batting champion. He hit sixty home runs in 1927 and held the record until it was broken by Roger Maris in 1961. When he died in 1948, he held seventeen World Series records.

  There were other great hitters—Willie Mays, Mickey Mantle, Jimmy Foxx. But no one had hit as many home runs as the “Babe.”

  Sylvester closed the book, shut his eyes, and dreamed again. Wouldn’t it be something to be good enough to have his name in the encyclopedia some day?

  He opened his eyes and laughed. He’d never!

  The Hooper Redbirds’ first league game was on April 28 against the Tigers from Broton. Coach Corbin assigned Sylvester to right field and put him at the bottom of the batting order.

  Sylvester wasn’t surprised. He felt he was lucky to be in the lineup at all.

  The Redbirds batted first. They got two men on but failed to score. Sylvester trotted out to right field, hardly glancing at the fans that sat scattered in the bleachers.

  The Redbird cheerleaders, wearing white sweaters and short red skirts, whooped up a cheer from the first-base bleachers side, followed by a cheer from the Tiger cheerleaders, who wore yellow jerseys and blue skirts and were at the third-base bleachers side.

  Thinking of George Baruth made Sylvester look briefly at the bleachers, near the end. He really didn’t expect to see Mr. Baruth there.

  But he was! He was sitting at the end of the third row from the bottom, where he always sat.

  The perplexed look on Sylvester’s face changed to a smile. He waved, and Mr. Baruth, smiling, waved back.

  Rick Wilson, on the mound for the Redbirds, whiffed the first Tiger, then got into a hole with the second and walked him. An error by shortstop Milt Stevens, and then a clean single through the pitcher’s box, scored a run before the Redbirds could smother the Tigers.

  Duane Francis led off in the top of the second with a drive to center field that the fielder caught for the first out. Eddie Exton grounded out, and Rick came to bat, looking as if he were going to be the third victim for sure.

  He walked on four straight balls, and up came Sylvester Coddmyer III.

  Sylvester pulled on his protective helmet and stepped into position in the box. All three outfielders were standing with their legs wide apart and their arms crossed over their chests. The Tigers’ infielders were making the usual noises, while, in the stands, several of the fans yawned.

  “Strike one!” yelled the ump as Jim Smith blazed the first pitch over the plate.

  Then, “Ball!” And “Ball two!”

  He swung at the next pitch. “Strike two!”

  The fans of both teams began yelling loudly. Sylvester felt sweat on his brow. Was he going to strike out and let both the coach and Mr. Baruth down? Was he going to disappoint them again?

  The pitch. It headed for the inside corner. He swung.

  Crack! A hard, solid blow! The ball shot like a white streak toward left field! And then—over the fence!

  Sylvester dropped his bat and trotted around the bases for his first home run of the season.

  The entire team was waiting for him behind home plate. Each member shook his hand as he crossed it.

  “Nice sock, Syl!”

  “Great blast, man!”

  Even Coach Corbin and Mr. Beach shook his hand. “You came through that time, Syl!” exclaimed the coach, beaming.

  Sylvester smiled.

  Jim Cowley got up and flied out.

  The Tigers went down without scoring in the bottom of the second. The Redbirds came to bat, and Jim Smith seemed to have some kind of jinx on the ball as he mowed down Sobel, Stevens, and Ash with ten pitches. The Tigers came to bat again.

  Rick fired in two strikes on the leadoff batter, then got a little wild and walked him. The next Tiger bunted, advancing the runner to second and getting safely to first himself as third baseman Duane Francis muffed the wiggling grounder.

  A left-handed hitter, a big kid with pants halfway down his legs and wisps of black hair sticking out from under his helmet, stepped to the plate.

  Duane turned and motioned to Sylvester. “Back up, Syl! About twenty steps!”

  Sylvester backed up exactly twenty steps and crouched, hoping that the guy would either strike out, hit a grounder, or knock the ball to some other field. Even though he had caught some high flies in practice, he had missed them in a practice game.

  Smack! A high soaring fly heading for right field! Sylvester figured that it was going over his head and started to run back.

  His feet slipped and down he went.

  5

  Panic gripped Sylvester as he looked skyward, searching frantically for the ball, which he had momentarily lost sight of.

  There it was, coming right at him! Without rising to his feet—he didn’t have time, anyway—he lifted his glove and made a one-handed catch.

 
; Then he scrambled to his feet and pegged the ball into the infield. Jim Cowley caught it and quickly turned, ready to throw it. But the runners had returned to their bases—one to first, the other to second. Calmly, Jim threw the ball to Rick.

  The Redbird fans cheered Sylvester for his great catch, and he blushed. It was just lucky, he thought, that he had fallen in the right spot and turned in time.

  Two singles in a row scored two runs for the Tigers. Then Rick whiffed a left-handed hitter. The next blasted a triple, scoring two more runs. Eddie Exton caught a pop-up to end the inning, Redbirds 2, Tigers 5.

  Bobby Kent led off in the top of the fourth.

  “Come on, Bobby,” said Coach Corbin. “We need runs, and the only way to get them is by getting hits.”

  The Tigers were a determined, fighting bunch as they kept up a steady chatter on the field. The will to win was in every move they made.

  Bobby took two balls and a strike before moving the bat off his shoulder. He fouled a pitch for strike two, and the noise in the infield grew louder than ever. Then he blasted a high throw to center field that the Tiger outfielder caught without trouble.

  Coach Corbin’s groan could be heard throughout the Redbirds’ dugout.

  Duane Francis had a problem with his pants. He kept pulling them up after each swing. His third swing resulted in a sharp single over short.

  “Nice hit,” yelled the coach.

  Eddie Exton must have looked pretty dangerous to Jim because the Tiger pitcher threw four straight balls to him, none of which was within five inches of the plate. Eddie walked.

  Two men on. Only a homer could tie the score.

  Rick Wilson looked dangerous, too. He seemed to be glowering at the pitcher, daring him. Sylvester knew, though, that it was just Rick’s natural look whenever he came to bat.

  Rick pounded out Jim’s third pitch for an easy out to left field. And up came Sylvester Coddmyer III.

  “Don’t be too anxious, Sylvester,” advised Coach Corbin. “Just a nice easy poke will be fine.”

  Jim Smith stepped to the mound, stretched his arms up high, brought them down, looked at the runners, then threw. The pitch blazed in. Sylvester stepped into it, saw that it was too high, and let it go.