The Kid Who Only Hit Homers

by Matt Christopher

  “Booooooo!” yelled Snooky Malone.

  The discussion around the pitcher’s box took only half as long as it did the first time. The players returned to their positions. Bert Riley toed the rubber, pitched, and the ball zipped wide of the plate.

  Bert pitched three more almost in the same spot, and for the second time that day, and in his life, Sylvester walked.

  The bases were loaded.

  “Your baby, Jerry!” yelled Snooky Malone.

  Crack! A sock over second base! Ted and Milt scored, and that was it. The game was over. Indians 5, Redbirds 7.

  The next morning’s Hooper Star had an item on the sports page that read:

  REDBIRDS PLAYER

  CONTINUES

  SENSATIONAL

  HITTING STREAK

  Sylvester Coddmyer III smashed out two homers and was walked twice to keep his batting record unmarred as the Hooper Redbirds beat the Seneca Indians 7 to 5 in the Valley Junior High School League.

  His 1.000 batting average, and a home run each time at bat (except for the two walks), is unprecedented in Hooper Red birds baseball history.

  As a matter of fact, it may possibly be unprecedented in national baseball history.

  The least impressed person about this sensational hitting, however, is Sylvester himself.

  This week two national magazines printed his picture and write-ups about him. Sylvester’s comment:

  “I just can’t see why they’re making all the fuss.”

  The Hooper Redbirds played the Broton Tigers that evening and took the game, 8 to 4. Sylvester was walked the first time up, hit homers his next two times up. One was a grand-slammer.

  Newspaper reporters, photographers, and a television crew from Syracuse made him their center of attention after he had won the game against the Lansing Wildcats practically single-handed. The score was 4 to 0, and he had made all the runs himself—by homers.

  “Do you think you’d like to play in the big leagues after you get out of school, Sylvester?” asked a reporter.

  “I don’t know. I might.”

  “Do you practice batting a lot? Do you think that’s why you keep on hitting home runs?”

  “I don’t practice any more than the other guys do,” replied Sylvester sincerely.

  “Do you suppose it’s the way you stand at the plate that gives you so much power?”

  “Maybe. I never gave it much thought.”

  He felt a gnawing ache growing in his stomach and forced a smile. “Do—do you mind if we stop now? I’m getting awfully hungry.”

  “Of course, Sylvester. Thanks very much for your time,” said the reporter.

  Sylvester started to ease through the crowd, smiling at the many faces smiling at him. He looked for the one he was most anxious to see, and finally saw it near the edge of the crowd.

  “Hi, Mr. Baruth,” he greeted.

  “Hi, Sylvester,” said George Baruth. “Boy! Are you a celebrity!”

  “Yeah, I guess I am.”

  “Just make sure you don’t get swellheaded from all the fuss,” warned George Baruth.

  “Swellheaded?” Sylvester looked up at Mr. Baruth with large question marks in his eyes.

  “Yes. You know—strutting around like a cocky rooster. Ignoring your friends. Not listening to your mother and father. Thinking you have suddenly become a lot better than other people. That’s being swellheaded. It’s the worst kind of thing that could happen to a person who becomes famous.”

  The possibility of his becoming like that frightened Sylvester. “That would be awful, Mr. Baruth. I think I’d rather not play baseball again than get swellheaded.”

  George Baruth smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “That’s the way to talk, son. You’re a levelheaded boy.”

  “Hey, Sylvester!” someone shouted from behind him. “Wait!”

  Sylvester recognized the screechy voice even before he turned.

  It was Snooky Malone’s.

  13

  Ah… Sylvester,” said George Baruth. “This is where I’ll leave you. See you later.”

  “Okay, Mr. Baruth.”

  Snooky came pounding up the sidewalk and stopped beside him, smiling broadly.

  “Man! What publicity you’re getting!” he cried, breathing hard. “Even television! Wow!”

  Sylvester shrugged, unimpressed. “I just hope they don’t do it too often,” he said. “What time is it, Snooky?”

  Snooky looked at his wristwatch. “Five-thirty.”

  “Oh, man! Mom’s probably wondering what happened to me!” He started to run. “Sorry, Snooky, but I’ve got to get home!”

  He realized then that George Baruth wasn’t ahead of him. Nor was George behind him. He looked back toward the houses he had passed but couldn’t see his friend anywhere.

  “What are you looking for?” asked Snooky, running along beside him.

  “Mr. Baruth,” said Sylvester. “He was with me just before you came.”

  “Mr. Baruth? The man you told me about?”

  “Yes.”

  “He was with you just before I came?”

  “Yes. You must have seen him.”

  Snooky chuckled. “No, I didn’t. I didn’t see anybody with you, Sylvester.”

  Sylvester looked at him perplexedly. “You’re lying.”

  “I am not lying.”

  “But he was with me!”

  Snooky smiled mischievously. “I believe you.”

  Sylvester’s jaw dropped. “Why should you if you didn’t see him?”

  “Because I know you’re a Gemini and are ruled by a special Sun Sign that makes it possible for you to see into the beyond.”

  “You’re talking crazy, Snooky,” said Sylvester, still staring at the periodlike eyes behind the dark lenses of Snooky’s glasses.

  “A common response,” said Snooky. “But I’m surprised to hear it from you.”

  “But you’ve met him!” cried Sylvester. “You were talking to him at the baseball field!”

  “Syl, how could I have talked to him when I have never even seen the guy?” said Snooky.

  Sylvester’s eyes grew wider. “But you were sitting beside him in the bleachers the other day.”

  “I was? I didn’t see anybody I didn’t know.” Snooky smiled and put a hand on Sylvester’s shoulder. “I envy you, Syl. I really do.”

  They reached the intersection and Snooky paused. “Well, here’s where I turn off, Syl. See you later.”

  “’Bye, Snooky.”

  Snooky isn’t a bad name for him, thought Sylvester as he continued up the street alone. But Snoopy would be more fitting.

  Mom had supper ready, just as Sylvester had figured. She wondered what had delayed him, and he told her. She listened to him, eyes fixed on him.

  “It’s the truth, Mom,” he said. “Every word of it.”

  “I believe you,” she said. “But why you, Sylvester?”

  “’Cause I’m the only one who hits a home run every time. And I’ve been walked only three times.”

  “And that’s unusual?” asked his mother.

  He grinned. “Yes, Mom. I guess it is.”

  Sylvester knocked three home runs against the Macon Falcons on June 3, but the Red birds lost in spite of it, 7 to 6.

  The next morning’s Hooper Star read:

  REDBIRDS LOSE

  IN SPITE OF

  CODDMYER’S

  THREE HOMERS

  Sylvester Coddmyer III’s three home runs were not enough to help the Redbirds in their game against the Macon Falcons yesterday. It was the Redbirds’ second loss of their first highly successful season, thanks to the powerful bat of Sylvester Coddmyer III.

  So far he has compiled a record of twenty-one home runs, an unprecedented record.

  He has never struck out nor scored any hits other than home runs, leaving him with a batting average of 1.000.

  Asked by this reporter what he makes of the youth’s exceptional hitting, Redbirds Coach Stan Corbin says he doesn�
�t know. The fact is, neither does anyone else.

  As for Sylvester Coddmyer III, his bat is doing all the talking.

  That evening a Mr. Johnson from one of the nation’s most popular magazines came to the house and said that his magazine was offering Sylvester fifteen thousand dollars if he would let them publish his biography.

  “Since you are under age, one of your parents would have to sign, too,” said Mr. Johnson.

  Sylvester and his mother seemed paralyzed for a while. They stood staring at the man like wax figures.

  Mr. Johnson smiled. “Of course, there will be more money coming to you from other sources,” he said. “We are thinking of sponsoring an hour special on a television network and taking you to New York for an appearance on two or three national television shows. You and your husband may go along with him, of course, Mrs. Coddmyer, with all expenses paid.”

  “We… we may?”

  That was all Mrs. Coddmyer could say. As for Sylvester, he was unable to say anything. Just listen. He wasn’t sure whether this was all real or just a dream.

  “What do you think, Mom?” he asked after he realized that Mr. Johnson was waiting for an answer.

  “What? Oh—I think it’s absolutely fine.” Her eyes bounced worriedly back and forth between Sylvester and Mr. Johnson. “It’d help to pay up our bills, wouldn’t it?”

  “Part of the money will be put in a trust fund for Sylvester’s education,” explained Mr. Johnson.

  “Oh, yes, of course,” said Mrs. Coddmyer. She was sitting down now and twisting a napkin round and round on her lap.

  Mr. Johnson placed a couple of sheets of paper on the table. “This is the contract binding you and our company,” he explained. “I’ll leave it with you to read over thoroughly at your convenience. You may want to have your lawyer read it.”

  “We don’t have a lawyer,” said Mrs. Coddmyer.

  “You really don’t need one. But read over the contract before you sign it. I assure you it contains all I have discussed with you and that it is perfectly legitimate.”

  “Oh, we’re sure of that, Mr. Johnson,” said Mrs. Coddmyer.

  Mr. Johnson smiled, rose, and shook hands with them. “I’ll telephone in a day or two,” he said, and left.

  Sylvester sat thinking hard. All these great things happening to him were not just by accident. He had been helped, and the person who had helped him was his friend George Baruth.

  If anyone was able to offer advice it was Mr. Baruth. Dad wasn’t home, anyway. He wouldn’t be for almost a week.

  “I know who we can ask for advice, Mom,” said Sylvester. “He’s not a lawyer, but I know he’d be glad to give us advice about this.”

  “We should ask your father, Sylvester.”

  “Oh, Mom! He won’t be home for almost a week! And he usually agrees with you on important things, anyway!”

  “Who’s this man you’re talking about, Sylvester?”

  “George Baruth. That friend of mine I told you about.”

  Mom groaned. “George Baruth? Sylvester, are you sure you know what you’re saying? I’ve heard you talk about him, yes. But I have never seen the man, nor have I ever heard of him except from you.”

  “I don’t care, Mom” said Sylvester seriously. “He’s a great guy and he’s my friend. And he helped me become what I am. I know he’ll be glad to help us on this.”

  Mom sighed. “Okay, if you say so. Do you know his phone number?”

  “He’s on vacation here. But I’ll see him.”

  14

  He was returning from school the next day when who should he meet coming toward him from Winslow Street but George Baruth himself.

  “Good afternoon, kid,” said George. “Fancy meeting you.”

  “Yeah,” said Sylvester. Excitement suddenly overwhelmed him. “Got something very important to ask you, Mr. Baruth,” he said.

  “Oh? What?”

  “Mr. Johnson, from a famous magazine, was at our house last evening and left a contract for me to sign,” said Sylvester. “He says that his company wants to publish my biography and will pay me a lot of money for it. They’ll also put money into a trust fund for my education. And I’ll be on TV shows, and Mom and Dad can come along with all expenses paid. Mr. Johnson says we can have our lawyer read the contract before we sign it, because either Mom or Dad has to sign it, too. But we don’t have a lawyer.”

  He paused to catch his breath.

  “And you’d like me to read the contract and advise you on what to do. Is that it?” asked George Baruth.

  Sylvester’s head bobbed like a cork on a wavy sea.

  “Well,” said George Baruth, starting down the street, Sylvester pacing beside him like a pup, “I don’t know for sure what to say myself.”

  “Don’t you want to read the contract?”

  “I don’t have to. I know what it says. You told me. It’s honest, that’s for sure. As for signing it…” He halted and looked at Sylvester with a deep, haunting look in his eyes Sylvester had not ever seen before.

  “It’s a lot of publicity and money, Sylvester. But fame could be a dangerous thing. It could ruin one’s life. The first taste of it is sweet. So you’d want more. It’s human nature. But something bad could happen. Suppose your hitting dropped to rock bottom? People would laugh at you. Your own friends would mock you. You’d wish you’d never seen a baseball.”

  Mr. Baruth paused, took out a handkerchief, and wiped his face.

  “Something else about it bothers me, too,” he said.

  “What, Mr. Baruth?”

  “Well… me. What I did to make you into a great baseball hitter. You see, Syl,” suddenly his eyes looked dim and sad, “I won’t be around much longer. And, with me gone, you may not be hitting like you used to….” He paused.

  “I’ll sure miss you, Mr. Baruth.”

  “And I’ll miss you.”

  “Then you… you don’t think I should sign the contract?”

  George Baruth eyed him silently for a long while, then said, “Suppose you decide that yourself, Syl?”

  Sylvester shrugged. “Okay. Thanks, Mr. Baruth. You’ve been awfully kind to me.”

  “You’ve been a joy to me, too, Syl.”

  They shook hands.

  “Will you be at the next game?”

  “You bet,” said George Baruth.

  Sylvester turned, started to run, and bumped into Snooky Malone, hitting the little guy so hard that Snooky fell to the sidewalk, his glasses falling off and his books spilling out of his hands.

  “Hey, watch it!” yelled Snooky.

  “Oh, sorry, Snooky!” cried Sylvester. “I didn’t see you!”

  “I guess you didn’t!” exclaimed Snooky, rising to his feet.

  Sylvester picked up the glasses, handed them to the little guy, then gathered up the books.

  “I heard you talking,” said Snooky.

  Sylvester looked at the huge periods behind the glasses. “What did I say?”

  “Thanks, Mr. Baruth. You’ve been awfully kind to me. Will you be at the next game?’”

  “That’s all?”

  Snooky nodded, and smiled. “You were talking with George Baruth, weren’t you?”

  Sylvester nodded. Darn Snooky, snooping around all the time.

  “What were you talking about?”

  “Something very important, but I can’t tell you about it, Snooky. Sorry.”

  He and Mom talked a lot about the contract that night. Mr. Johnson called the next morning and arrived that afternoon. He looked at the contract and frowned.

  “It’s not signed,” he observed.

  “No, it isn’t,” said Sylvester. “We decided it was best that I didn’t.”

  “Why, Sylvester? Isn’t the money enough?”

  “Oh, it’s not the money, Mr. Johnson. It’s just that I don’t deserve it and all that publicity. I’d be thinking about it all my life, and I wouldn’t want to do that. I’m sorry, Mr. Johnson, but that’s how Mom and I decided.”


  15

  The Hooper Redbirds beat the Teaburg Giants 8 to 3 on June 8, leaving one more game to play for the Redbirds. Sylvester’s home-run streak went unbroken. He had three in three times up, twice with no runners on, once with two on. Mr. Baruth was at the game, sitting in his usual place.

  Immediately after the game, and all the way home, Snooky Malone clung to Sylvester like a leech. Now and then Sylvester looked around for George Baruth but didn’t see him. Was he staying away because of snoopy Snooky? Probably.

  It wasn’t till the next day after supper, while Sylvester was brooding about George Baruth on the front porch steps, that Mr. Baruth stopped by.

  “Oh, hi, Mr. Baruth!” Sylvester greeted him happily.

  “Hi, kid,” said George. “Did you sign the contract?”

  “No, sir. Mom and I talked about it and decided against it.”

  “Did you tell your Mom about me?”

  “Of course. That was all right, wasn’t it, Mr. Baruth?”

  George Baruth’s face lighted up as if someone had turned on a switch inside him. “Sure it was all right. It’s all right all the way down the line, kid.” He paused. “Well, good-bye, kid. And keep happy, hear?”

  Sylvester nodded, and stood up. “Are you—are you leaving now, Mr. Baruth?” he asked.

  The big man nodded and walked down the street, head bowed, till he was out of sight.

  The crowd on Thursday was the biggest ever. People filled the grandstand and the bleachers, and were lying down or standing behind both foul lines. The game was against the Seneca Indians, and the Red birds had first raps.

  Left-handed Bert Riley was on the mound again for the Indians and walked the first three men up. For a while no one was advancing toward the plate, and Coach Corbin said, “Sylvester, wake up.”

  Sylvester rose from the on-deck circle and walked to the plate. He had been looking at the end of the third-row bleacher seats—looking for George Baruth. But, for the first time since the season had started, George Baruth wasn’t there.

  “Steerike!” yelled the ump as Bert blazed in a pitch.