All kinds of noises exploded from the Redbird fans. Some of them yelled. Some of them hissed.
Sylvester didn’t care. He didn’t get out, that was the important thing.
The bases were loaded, and Jerry Ash was up. The fans and the team gave Jerry all kinds of verbal support, but it did no good. Bert struck him out.
Bobby Kent did a little better. His swinging bat connected with the ball. But the ball hopped up into the Indian shortstop’s glove just like a trained rabbit.
The shortstop whipped the ball to second, throwing Sylvester out and ending the Redbirds’ threat.
Top of the sixth. A hard blow to short! Milt muffed the ball, picked it up, and pegged it to first. A short throw. Jerry Ash stretched for it. The ball struck the tip of his mitt and rolled aside.
Oh, come on! thought Sylvester. We can’t flub the ball now!
Terry motioned Duane to come in a bit. The third baseman advanced till he was ahead of the bag by a few steps, then bent forward, hands on his knees.
A bunt! Duane rushed in, fielded it, and pegged it to second. Too late! The base umpire’s hands fanned out with the “safe” sign. Jim fired to first, but there, too, the hitter beat the throw.
Two on, no outs, and a tied score, 3 and 3.
Terry wiped his forehead, tugged on his cap, toed the rubber. He stretched, delivered. A blow over second! A run scored! Bobby Kent fielded the ball and threw it in, holding the Indians on third and first.
“Bear down, Terry!” yelled Sylvester.
A smashing grounder down to Jim! He caught the hop, snapped it to Milt. Milt stepped on second, rifled the ball to first. A double play!
Jerry pivoted to throw home, but held up. The Indian on third wasn’t taking any chances.
Terry caught the soft throw from Jerry, then climbed to the mound, got Eddie’s sign, and pitched. Ball one. He zipped two over the heart of the plate. The Indian batter swung at the first and missed. He blasted the second one over short for a clean single, scoring another run.
Terry struck out the next batter. Indians 5, Redbirds 3.
“Last chance to pull this game out of the fire,” said Coach Corbin. “Start it off, Duane. Make ‘em be in there.”
Duane waited for ‘em to be in there and got a two-two count. Bert’s next pitch was letter-high, and Duane corked it out to short left field. The Indian outfielder raced in and made a shoestring catch.
Eddie waited for a pitch he liked and blasted it for a single. The hit livened the Redbirds’ bench. The players had been sitting there as if their tail feathers had already been clipped.
Terry socked a hard grounder to third, which the baseman caught and pegged to second. The throw was wild!
A cheer exploded from the Redbirds’ bench and the cheerleaders as Terry over ran first, made his turn, and came back to stand safely on first base.
Then Jim popped up to the catcher for the second out, and it looked as if the Indians were about to trounce the Redbirds for sure.
Ted Sobel let two strikes go by, then knocked the third pitch between right and center fields for a double! Eddie and Terry scored to tie it up.
What a ball game this was!
Milt walked and once again Sylvester came to the plate.
“Out of the lot, Syl!” shouted Snooky Malone.
A hit out of the lot would mean eight runs and victory. But was Sylvester going to be given the chance to do that? Not if Bert Riley, who had called a time out, and the infielders, who were running toward the mound, were planning the same strategy they had planned before.
“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.