Sylvester!” Mrs. Coddmyer hurried to her son's side. “Oh my! How badly does your ankle hurt?”
“Pretty bad,” Syl admitted. “But there's something else I —”
His mother cut him off. “I'm calling your doctor.” She pulled out her cell phone and punched in the number.
Duane sat down next to him. “Sorry you had to wait out here by yourself.”
“But I wasn't alone,” Syl said in a low voice. “Didn't you see the man wearing the Yankees cap?”
Duane shook his head. “You were alone when we got here! Maybe you hit your head when you fell — or dreamed up the guy?”
Sylvester sank back onto the grass. His ankle was throbbing worse than ever. “Maybe I did,” he murmured.
His mother clicked her cell phone shut. “The doctor says to go right to the emergency room for X-rays. Duane, can you help me get him to the car?”
The rest of the day passed in a blur. The X-ray of the ankle showed it wasn't broken. But the doctor told Syl to stay off it for a week or so.
“Rest, ice, and elevate that ankle every day,” she said as she pushed her patient in a wheelchair out to the car. “Start doing those exercises I showed you in a few days. And before you play any more baseball, get yourself a sturdy ankle brace. You don't want to suffer a reinjury!”
It wasn't until that night, after Sylvester had finally crawled into bed, that he thought about his meeting with the mysterious man in the Yankees cap. He toyed with the idea of searching for information on him. He was pretty sure he knew where to look: baseball books, websites of old-time ball players, and Duane's baseball card collection.
But in the end, he decided against it. While part of him was burning with curiosity, a bigger part of him wanted to see what would happen next. Would the man reappear and help him with his game, as he had said he would? And if he did, would he be like Cheeko or Mr. Baruth?
But as the days went by, the man didn't show up. By the middle of the next week, Sylvester had almost convinced himself that Duane had been right. He had dreamed up the man after all.
“Checkmate! I win again!” Duane knocked over Sylvester's black king with his own white bishop and smiled triumphantly. Then his smile faded.
“You could at least look like you cared that you just lost for the fifth time in a row!” Duane grumbled as he gathered up the chess pieces.
Sylvester blinked. The day's weather was perfect for baseball. But instead of throwing, catching, and batting, Syl was sitting inside, his ankle elevated on an ottoman.
He blew out his breath in frustration. “Sorry, Duane,” he replied. “I guess I'm getting bored of these board games.”
“Oh.” Duane gave a small laugh. “For a moment there, I thought you were getting bored of me!” He finished putting the pieces back in the box and closed the lid. “Say, you hear anything from Joyce?”
Joyce Dancer was Syl's other close friend. She was away for the summer, vacationing on Cape Cod with her family.
“I got an e-mail the other day. She sounds like she's having fun.”
“Did you tell her about your ankle?”
Syl shrugged. “What's to tell? I sprained it, and now I'm sitting around all day waiting for it to get better instead of playing ball like I want to!”
In another room, the phone rang. Sylvester heard his mother answer it. A few minutes later, she came into the room carrying a tray with a pitcher of lemonade, some glasses, and a bowl of popcorn on it.
As Mrs. Coddmyer served the lemonade, she said, “That was Coach Corbin on the phone. He was calling to let you know that you'll be on his team, the Hooper Hawks. First practice is the day after tomorrow”
She smiled at Duane. “When he found out you were here, he told me to let you know you're a Hawk, too.”
“Yes!” Duane pumped his fist.
Sylvester sat back, his mind in a whirl. Stan Corbin was a great coach and Sylvester was psyched to have been chosen for his Hawks. But he was also nervous. He'd been the best player on the team for two seasons, so the coach had to be expecting fantastic things from him. But he hadn't picked up a bat, ball, or glove since the accident. What if he couldn't perform up to the coach's expectations? And what would his ankle feel like when he finally did get back on the field?
Sylvester didn't want to disappoint Coach Corbin by playing poorly. But he was afraid that's just what was going to happen.
Just then, the phone rang again. Mrs. Coddmyer hurried to answer it.
Duane raised his lemonade glass. “To the future baseball champs, the Hooper Hawks!” He clinked his glass against Sylvester's and took a big gulp.
Sylvester tried to match Duane's happy mood. But the lemonade tasted sour to him and he couldn't help but make a face.
“What's wrong?” Duane asked.
Sylvester gestured at his ankle. “Three guesses!”
Duane waved his concern away. “It'll be fine by the first practice!”
Sylvester shook his head. “Yeah, but even if it is, I haven't played ball for weeks —”
“It hasn't even been two!” Duane interrupted.
“So what if I'm no good when I finally can play again?”
Duane tossed some popcorn in his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “When are you supposed to start doing stuff again?”
“The doctor said tomorrow.”
Duane grinned broadly. “So we meet at the diamond for some pitch, hit, and catch tomorrow morning and test it. Deal?”
Duane's enthusiasm was infectious and Sylvester couldn't help but grin back. “Okay, you got a deal!” he said. He picked up his lemonade and took a huge swallow. This time, the cold drink tasted sweet and delicious.