Sylvester hesitated, wondering if Charlie had made a mistake. But Charlie motioned for him to throw. So Syl did — and Charlie walloped the ball far into the outfield.
“Wow! Great hit!” Syl yelled, twisting around to see where the ball landed.
Charlie grinned broadly. “Thank you kindly! Think you could do that, too?”
“I don't know,” Sylvester admitted. “I've hit plenty of homers, but —”
Charlie's laugh interrupted him. “I wasn't talking about the hit, Syl.” He carried the bucket of balls to the pitcher's mound. “What I meant was, do you think you could bat lefty?”
Sylvester gaped. “Bat lefty?” he echoed. “But I'm right-handed!”
“So am I!” Charlie's eyes twinkled. “When I was a young boy, my dad taught me how to switch-hit. He practiced with me for hours until hitting both righty and lefty felt natural.”
“But why would it matter?” Syl asked. “I mean, looks to me like you can hit really well from the right.”
“True. But a strong switch-hitter can be good for a team. Lefties hit better against right-handed pitchers, and vice versa. If you're a switch-hitter, it doesn't matter who's on the mound, because you can hit a southpaw or a righty equally well.”
“I never thought about that,” Syl said.
“Well, my dad did,” Charlie said. “He believed I had a talent for baseball and thought if I could switch-hit I'd go farther than if I just hit righty.”
“And did you?”
A ghost of a smile crossed Charlie's face. “I went far enough.” He held out the bat to Sylvester. “So want to give it a try?”
Sylvester didn't take the bat right away. “I don't know, Charlie. I'm already having problems batting righty. I doubt I'll be any better from the other side.”
“Won't know until you give it a go,” Charlie quipped. “Come on. I've got a good feeling about this.”
So Syl took the bat, walked to the batter's box to the right of home plate, and got into a stance. It felt strange to hold the bat above his left shoulder instead of his right and to turn the right side of his body toward the mound instead of his left.
Charlie chose a ball from the bucket. “Ready?” he called.
Sylvester nodded.
“Then here comes one, nice and easy.” Charlie threw. The ball seemed to float toward home plate. Syl swung — and missed completely.
“Well, that stunk!” he grumbled.
Charlie laughed. “Hey, it's only your first try! Take some slow-motion practice swings to get the feel for it.”
Syl took up a lefty stance again and swung the bat as if to meet an incoming pitch. As he lifted his right foot off the ground to step into the swing, he felt a slight twinge in his left ankle. But it was nothing compared to the pain he'd felt when he'd batted against Duane earlier, so he ignored it.
After he'd swung half a dozen times, he picked up the ball he'd missed, planning to throw it back to Charlie. But instead, he tossed it high above his head and tried to hit it.
Thock! He sent the small white sphere bouncing through the grassy infield between first and second.
“I did it!” Sylvester cried in astonishment.
Charlie applauded by thumping his bare hand against his glove. “Well done! Now let's see you hit a pitch!” He grabbed a ball from the bucket.
Syl returned to the right side of the batter's box. I'm going to really clock that ball this time! he thought gleefully.
But when the ball came, he whiffed. On the next pitch, he managed to connect but only for a little dribbler that stopped a few feet from the plate. He missed the next three pitches, tapped a foul ball down the first baseline on the fourth, and then lost track of the number of times he hit nothing but air. Soon the ground behind Sylvester was littered with baseballs — and Sylvester's mood had gone from excited to disappointed to downright black.
“I can't do it,” he mumbled when Charlie approached with the empty bucket. “I might as well just give up now”
Charlie raised his eyebrows but didn't say anything. Instead, he began filling the bucket. Sylvester sighed and reached for the nearest ball.
“Got a question for you,” Charlie said suddenly. “How's your ankle feel?”
Sylvester straightened. “It doesn't feel so bad!” he replied with dawning amazement. “A little sore, but …”
He sat down, took off the ankle brace, and rubbed at the dull ache. Then he looked up at Charlie. “Is it because I've been batting lefty?”
Charlie nodded. “Think about the mechanics of the right-handed swing,” he said. He hefted a bat and got into a righty stance. Moving in slow motion, he lifted his front foot —his left foot — a few inches and moved the bat backward. Then he stepped down and swung, extending and straightening his front leg. The heel of his back foot lifted as he pivoted up onto his toes.
But by that point, his left foot bore most of his weight. And as the bat traveled past the front of his body, the inside edge of that foot lifted up. Just a fraction of an inch, but that was enough to roll the ankle outward. Charlie froze in that position and glanced at Syl.
Syl stared at the foot. “The way your ankle is twisted is just how I hurt mine two weeks ago! That's why you want me to bat lefty —so my injured ankle won't twist outward and get hurt again!”