The next day, Saturday, was bright and warm when Sylvester joined his parents at the table for breakfast.
“I'm going to pick up some things for our Fourth of July party next weekend,” Mrs. Coddmyer announced. “Think you two can keep busy while I'm out?”
Mr. Coddmyer looked over his newspaper and gave Sylvester a wink. “Oh, I've got an idea or two of things we can do.”
Mrs. Coddmyer raised her eyebrows but didn't say anything. She left soon after.
“So, Dad, what're your ideas?” Sylvester asked when they were alone.
His father ticked off his fingers. “We could clean the garage, weed the garden, wash the windows, or” — he smiled broadly — “we could head to the park and play baseball!”
“Yes!” Sylvester pumped his fist. “Thanks, Dad!”
“Why don't you call Duane or some of the other boys and see if they want to join us?”
Sylvester's enthusiasm faded. He wasn't sure his friends would accept the invitation, but he didn't feel like explaining why to his father. So instead he said, “Um, I'll see those guys at practice later today. How about we go to the batting cages? I've saved my allowance so I can pay my own way.”
“A little father-son time it is. Go put on your brace. I'll get the gear and meet you in the car.”
But when Sylvester returned a minute later, his father wasn't in the car. He was staring at the bucket of balls.
“Where'd you get these?” Mr. Coddmyer asked curiously.
Syl bit his lip. This was the perfect opportunity to tell his father about Charlie Comet and the switch-hitting. But he hesitated —and then the phone rang.
“I'll get it!” Syl rushed inside.
“Coddmyer, Coach Corbin here,” a voice boomed over the line. “We have our first game the morning of the Fourth of July. Some kids will be away for the holiday. Can you make it?”
“Sure, Coach,” Syl assured him. “See you at practice.” He hung up and returned to the garage. To his relief, his father was waiting for him in the car. He seemed to have forgotten about the baseballs.
When they arrived at the batting cages, Sylvester paid the attendant and got tokens for the pitching machines. He and his father' selected bats and helmets and headed into the cages. Syl chose the slow-pitch option and took up a lefty stance.
“What th —?” Mr. Coddmyer said, sounding perplexed. “Did you become left-handed overnight?”
Syl hesitated. Once again, he had the chance to tell his father about Charlie. And once again, he decided not to.
Instead, he explained that batting righty made his ankle hurt.
“Just a bit!” he added hurriedly when his father frowned. “But I'm also trying lefty because I, um, heard that switch-hitters are good for a team.”
At that, Mr. Coddmyer nodded. “True,” he said. “There have been many great professional ballplayers who were switch-hitters. There's Pete Rose, Roberto Alomar, Chipper Jones, and of course, the most famous switch-hitter of all, Mickey Mantle.” His eyes twinkled. “Your grandfather, Sylvester Coddmyer the First, once played against Mantle, did you know that?”
Sylvester's jaw dropped. “What! No way!”
His father laughed. “Yes way.”
“No, you're pulling my leg. Grandpa Syl never played in the pros!”
“Maybe not, but he did face Mantle once, when the Mick played for the Baxter Springs Whiz Kids in Oklahoma. That was back in the late 1940s, when they were both teenagers, before the Mick was drafted by the Yankees. Grandpa Syl claimed that he knew even then that Mantle was going to be a star. ‘He was a big fella, muscular and blond, and could wallop the ball a mile on a clear day.’ That's how he always started off his story about his brush with fame.”
Mr. Coddmyer smiled at the memory “You could ask my dad anything about the Mick and he would know the answer.”
Then the smile faded. “Dad was heartbroken when it came out that his hero had a lifelong drinking problem. Mantle himself seemed pretty heartbroken when he realized he'd failed to be a good role model to young players like you. He tried to make up for it, though. Spent much of the last few years of his life teaching people about the dangers of alcohol abuse.”
His father took a few swings with his bat. “You know, after your grandfather died, I found a stash of old photos from his Oklahoma baseball days in his belongings. We should look through them sometime. Maybe we'll spot a young Mickey Mantle!”
“Sure, that sounds great!” Syl replied. Then he took up his lefty stance again and pushed the start button on the machine. He tried hard to concentrate on the incoming ball, but his mind kept turning over what his father had said. He was interested in the fact that his grandfather had once played against Mantle. But it was the description of Mantle himself that really intrigued him.
Mantle had been big and blond. He was a switch-hitter. He could wallop the ball a mile. And he was a New York Yankee.
Syl knew someone who fit that description to a T — Charlie Comet!