Comeback of the Home Run Kid

by Matt Christopher

  “Bye, Charlie,” Sylvester murmured. “And thanks.”

  16

  It didn't take long for Duane to round up some more Hawks. Trent and Kirk seemed surprised that Duane and Syl were friends again, but Duane took them aside and explained that everything was cool. After that, the four boys and the three other Hawks they tracked down set to work on their game.

  The first time Sylvester took up his lefty stance, his teammates peppered him with questions about it. Duane stopped them by pointing out that batting lefty didn't hurt Syl's ankle. “And since we all know how good a batter Syl can be when he's in top form, I think we should help him be the best lefty he can be!”

  The others shouted their agreement. No one questioned him any further — much to Syl's relief.

  The diamond was muddy because of the rain, but the seven boys were having too much fun to care that their clothes were getting covered with dirt. The only thing Syl kept clean was the baseball Duane had given him. He thought he might do a little research on those initials when he got home.

  But the next morning, the baseball was nowhere to be found.

  Sylvester did locate something else he was interested in, however — the old photos of his grandfather. He and his father looked at them together at the kitchen table. Syl picked up a posed shot of his grandfather and stared at it.

  “I always knew you looked like Grandpa Syl,” Mr. Coddmyer said. “You've got the same nose, eyes, and chin!”

  “Think I got my love of baseball from him, too?” Syl asked.

  “Maybe,” his father replied. “Want to keep that photo?”

  Syl nodded and then put the photo aside to look at the next. This was an action shot, taken from behind home plate during a game. Number 12, his grandfather, was chasing down a fly ball. The runner, meanwhile, was hotfooting it to first. Syl couldn't see the runner's face, but he could make out the team name on the back of the uniform.

  Baxter Springs Whiz Kids, it read.

  Syl's heart beat faster. Mickey Mantle's old team! He quickly riffled through the rest of the photos, hoping to find a clear shot of that runner or his teammates.

  But the photographer had obviously been interested only in Sylvester Coddmyer the First, not the Whiz Kids. Syl found out why when he saw a note the photographer had written on the back.

  Taken by Julia West, April 14, 1947. Sylvester grinned. Julia was his grandmother, Grandpa Syl's wife. No chance she'd have taken photos of an unknown player on the other team, not when the love of her life was on the field!

  Syl tucked that photo with the others back into their box and then put the box and the posed shot of his grandfather in his room. Then he set off for the baseball fields.

  Sylvester had told his friends that he didn't want to test out his lefty batting abilities in front of the coach, at least not yet.

  “I'm not ready,” he insisted, and so they had agreed to keep mum. They had also agreed to meet him back at the field after dinner. It turned out they all wanted to get some extra practice so they could beat the Grizzlies on Independence Day.

  Thanks to all the extra practice, Sylvester's lefty swing improved. His ankle, too, was scarcely bothering him anymore and he could bat righty without pain. Still, he didn't want to give up on becoming a switch-hitter. He remembered how Charlie had said he had gone far in baseball in part because he could bat both right and left.

  Maybe someday, Syl thought, I'll follow in his footsteps.

  The Fourth of July game was scheduled for ten o'clock. Sylvester and his parents arrived at nine-thirty for warmups. Syl was dressed in his new maroon-and-white uniform, with the word Hawks emblazoned across the chest. On the back was the number 12. He'd chosen it in honor of his grandfather.

  The Grizzlies were warming up on an adjoining field. Sylvester wondered if Duke Farrell was there. Maybe he's away for the holiday, he thought.

  But Duke was on the mound, hurling pitches as hard and as fast as ever. Syl remembered how one of those pitches had hit him last season — and remembered how Duke had promised to get even with him when they next met.

  He quickly pushed both memories out of his head.

  The umpire blew his whistle at ten o'clock sharp. The Grizzlies were up first, so the Hawks took to the field.

  Sylvester thumped his fist into his glove as the first Grizzly batter came to the plate. “Here we go, Burk, here we go!” he yelled. “One-two-three, one-two-three!”

  Burk Riley wound up and threw. The ball zoomed on a line and socked into Eddie's glove.

  “Strike one!” the umpire called. The Hawks fans cheered.

  Burk got the ball back from Eddie, stared down the batter, and threw again.

  Pow! The batter connected and the ball bounced through the infield grass toward third. Duane scooped it up and fired it at A. C. Compton at first. Toe on the bag, A. C. caught it moments before the runner tagged the base.

  “Out!” shouted the umpire. The fans whistled and clapped.

  Steve Button was up next. Steve was a blow-hard, but he was also a powerful hitter. Sure enough, he clobbered Burk's third pitch. The ball soared high in the sky, heading to a spot between center and left field.

  “Take it, Syl!” Kirk cried.

  Sylvester put on a burst of speed, stuck out his glove, and nabbed the ball before it hit the ground.

  “Out!” the umpire called. Syl grinned and threw the ball back to Burk.

  “Only one more!” Duane cried.

  But the next batter laced a sizzling grounder between first and second for a single. Then Duke strode to the plate. He knocked the dirt from his cleats, adjusted his helmet, and stepped into the batter's box, twirling the bat in small circles over his shoulder while he waited for the first pitch.

  Burk blazed one in, but it was too far outside.

  “Ball one!”

  The next pitch was also a ball. And the third was so close to Duke's midsection that he had to jump out of the way to avoid being hit. With the count 3 and 0, Duke naturally let the fourth pitch go by — and looked angry when the umpire called it a strike. On the next pitch, he seemed to take that anger out on the ball.

  Crack! A deep blast to center field.

  “I've got it!” Sylvester backpedaled and got under the ball. At least, he thought he got under it. At the last second, the sun blinded him and the ball fell behind him.

  “Rats!” He spun, picked it up, and hurled it to Bus Riley at second. Too late! The runner was safe, and Duke stood on first with a smug smile.

  “The throw is to any base!” Coach Corbin reminded his team.

  But the Hawks didn't have to throw the Grizzlies out, for the fifth batter went down swinging.

  “Start us off, Trent,” the coach said. “Then it's A. C., Kirk, and Sylvester.”

  Sylvester's stomach did a flip-flop. Coach Corbin had put him in the clean-up spot. If Trent, A. C., and Kirk all got on base, it would be up to him to hit them home.

  But Trent didn't get on. Neither did A. C. Duke's pitches were so fast and hard they both struck out looking. That brought up Kirk. He lambasted his former teammate's first pitch down the third baseline. The third baseman missed the catch and by the time the Grizzly left fielder got the ball, Kirk was safe at second.

  Now Syl walked to the plate. He got into a right-handed stance and waited.

  Zip! Duke's first pitch blurred by him for strike one. So did the second.

  Syl stepped out of the box and took a deep breath. Then he stepped back in, gripped the bat's handle, and stared down at Duke. I'm going to hit this pitch if it's the last thing I do!

  Instead, the pitch hit him, right in the ribs!

  “Take your base!” the umpire called. “And Farrell, watch where you're putting that ball. I don't want any injuries today.”

  Duke nodded obediently, but Sylvester didn't miss the smirk on his face. He knew then that Duke had hit him on purpose. Okay, now the score is even, Syl thought.

  I hope, he added silently.

  Unfortu
nately, Eddie flied out to short to end the inning scoreless.

  Neither team scored in the next two innings either. But in the top of the fourth, Steve Button slugged a homer over the left field fence. There was no way Kirk could have caught it, but still, he pounded his fist in his glove as if disgusted with himself.

  Burk looked shaky after Steve's homer. He gave up a single to the next batter, and walked the one after that. Runners on first and second. No outs.

  Luckily, Burk settled down and struck out two batters. Then the next one ground out to second and the dangerous scoring situation was defused.

  Still, the score was 1–0 Grizzlies. The Hawks needed to get on the board.

  They didn't. Duke gave up only one hit in the bottom of the fourth before retiring the side.

  As Sylvester returned to the outfield, he thought about his own two at bats. Besides the first inning walk, he'd hit a foul ball that the third baseman had caught for an out. He knew he'd get up again the next inning. Maybe then he'd get a hit.

  The Grizzlies started the top of the fifth with two hits to put runners on first and second. Then the third batter hit a grounder to short. Bus grabbed the ball and made a clean throw to Duane for the out. The next play was a duplicate of the one before it, with the same result. The nail-biter inning finally ended when a batter popped out to Burk.

  In the dugout, Sylvester was checking to see when he'd be up when Snooky Malone called his name.

  “Hey, Syl, you're doing good out there! Not like last season, but …” Snooky shrugged.

  “Oh, Syl's got a few surprises up his sleeve, don't you worry!” Duane piped in. “Don't you, Syl?”

  Syl blinked. Was Duane suggesting he should try batting lefty — against Duke? The idea terrified him. Then he realized it made sense. Duke was a right-handed pitcher, which meant a left-handed batter could give him trouble. Even better, he had no idea Syl could bat lefty.

  The Hawks fans suddenly cheered. Kirk had just rapped out a single.

  “Go get 'em, slugger,” Duane said. And he handed Sylvester his favorite bat.

  17

  Sylvester walked to the plate. He'd decided he'd start off by batting righty. If he got on base, great. But if things looked bad, he'd switch to lefty and see what happened next.

  Duke's first pitch came in low. Syl let it go by for a ball. The second one, a breaking ball, curved out at the last moment. Syl swung and missed. The count was 1 and 1.

  Duke smirked as he caught the throw from his catcher. Syl suspected he was going to try the breaking ball again. He was right, but guessing what was coming didn't help him hit it. The umpire held up one finger on his left hand, two on his right.

  Syl quickly stepped out of the batter's box and glanced over at Duane. Duane gave him the thumbs up, and then grabbed the coach's arm and started talking to him in a low voice.

  The time had come. It was now or never. Sylvester crossed behind home plate to the box on the right and took up a lefty stance.

  “Hey!” Duke cried from the mound. “He can't do that! Can he?”

  The umpire held up a hand. “He left the box legally. Which side he hits from is up to him. Unless his coach …”

  On the sideline, Coach Corbin simply nodded his approval.

  Duke didn't argue further. Once again, he blazed in the same breaking ball. But this time, the pitch broke inward, toward Syl.

  Like many batters, Syl found inside pitches easier to hit than outside ones. This one was no exception.

  Pow! The small white sphere disappeared into the clear blue sky, heading toward deep right. As the outfielder sprinted after it, Syl took off for first and Kirk hoofed it to second.

  The ball bounced once. The fielder grabbed it and heaved with all his might toward first base.

  Syl almost didn't beat the throw. But because he had bat lefty, he was one full step closer to first base. That one step was all he needed to make it there before the ball.

  “Safe!” the first base umpire cried, fanning his arms out to either side.

  The crowd roared. Coach Corbin pumped his fist. Duke looked angrier than ever. In fact, his next pitches were so wild that his coach finally had to pull him from the game. The Hawks lit up the new pitcher like a Christmas tree. By the time the fifth inning ended, the score was 5–1. And when the Grizzlies couldn't score a man in the top of the sixth, the Hawks walked away with their first win.

  “You did it, Syl!” Duane shouted. The Hawks surrounded Sylvester, cheering and laughing.

  And Syl? He'd never been happier. That single had felt better to him than all the hits and homers he'd gotten the previous seasons, simply because he knew he had earned it through hard work.

  Near the dugout, Snooky Malone was bouncing with such excitement that his glasses kept slipping down his nose. “That was so cool!” he said over and over.

  Sylvester started laughing. “Thanks, Snook. By the way,” he added casually, “does my horoscope say anything more about a comet?”

  “No, it's no longer a factor in your future,” Snooky informed him.

  Sylvester smiled. “Yeah, that's what I thought. Oh well. It was nice while it was around.” He threw an arm around Snooky's shoulders. “Come on. Everyone's meeting at my house for a Fourth of July party. Wouldn't be the same without my favorite sky watcher —or my best friend,” he added, as Duane poked his head inside the dugout.

  “What's taking you so long?” Duane cried. “We've got a celebration to go to!”

  Epilogue

  The rest of the summer season raced by. When it ended, the Hawks' record stood at 9 wins, 3 losses. Sylvester batted lefty in several games and got on base a few times. He made some good — but not spectacular —catches in the outfield, too. He looked for Charlie but never saw him again.

  Not in real life, anyway.

  The last weekend of summer vacation, the Coddmyers took a trip to Cooperstown, New York, to visit the Baseball Hall of Fame. There, Syl and his parents walked among exhibits of the greatest players the world has ever known. Syl spent a long time in an area dedicated to Babe Ruth. He didn't bother looking for Eddie Cicotte. He knew that player wouldn't be there.

  In the Hall of Fame gallery, he glanced at several of the bronze plaques of the Hall's inductees. They were all interesting, but only one stopped him dead in his tracks.

  As Syl stood there, staring at the face on the plaque, a member of the museum staff came up behind him.

  “Mickey Charles Mantle,” the woman said. “He's a favorite among visitors. The Mick, or the Commerce Comet, as he was sometimes known, was —”

  Syl wheeled around. “Excuse me? What was that you called him?”

  The woman looked surprised. “The Mick?”

  “No, the other name.”

  “The Commerce Comet?”

  Syl faced the plaque again. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Comet. That's it.” He traced a finger over Mantle's middle name: Charles. “Thank you.”

  “You're welcome,” the woman replied. She moved off to another part of the gallery, not realizing that Sylvester Coddmyer the Third had really been thanking someone else.

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  COMEBACK OF THE HOME RUN KID

  The Home Run Kid is back!

  Sylvester Coddmyer III, star of The Kid Who Only Hit Homers and Return of the Home Run Kid, is about o face his biggest challenge yet. His second season with the Hooper Redbirds is over and he's looking forward to the start of summer baseball, when he sprains his left ankle in a freak accident. How will he hit homers when every swing means pain?