He was returning from school the next day when who should he meet coming toward him from Winslow Street but George Baruth himself.
“Good afternoon, kid,” said George. “Fancy meeting you.”
“Yeah,” said Sylvester. Excitement suddenly overwhelmed him. “Got something very important to ask you, Mr. Baruth,” he said.
“Oh? What?”
“Mr. Johnson, from a famous magazine, was at our house last evening and left a contract for me to sign,” said Sylvester. “He says that his company wants to publish my biography and will pay me a lot of money for it. They’ll also put money into a trust fund for my education. And I’ll be on TV shows, and Mom and Dad can come along with all expenses paid. Mr. Johnson says we can have our lawyer read the contract before we sign it, because either Mom or Dad has to sign it, too. But we don’t have a lawyer.”
He paused to catch his breath.
“And you’d like me to read the contract and advise you on what to do. Is that it?” asked George Baruth.
Sylvester’s head bobbed like a cork on a wavy sea.
“Well,” said George Baruth, starting down the street, Sylvester pacing beside him like a pup, “I don’t know for sure what to say myself.”
“Don’t you want to read the contract?”
“I don’t have to. I know what it says. You told me. It’s honest, that’s for sure. As for signing it…” He halted and looked at Sylvester with a deep, haunting look in his eyes Sylvester had not ever seen before.
“It’s a lot of publicity and money, Sylvester. But fame could be a dangerous thing. It could ruin one’s life. The first taste of it is sweet. So you’d want more. It’s human nature. But something bad could happen. Suppose your hitting dropped to rock bottom? People would laugh at you. Your own friends would mock you. You’d wish you’d never seen a baseball.”
Mr. Baruth paused, took out a handkerchief, and wiped his face.
“Something else about it bothers me, too,” he said.
“What, Mr. Baruth?”
“Well… me. What I did to make you into a great baseball hitter. You see, Syl,” suddenly his eyes looked dim and sad, “I won’t be around much longer. And, with me gone, you may not be hitting like you used to….” He paused.
“I’ll sure miss you, Mr. Baruth.”
“And I’ll miss you.”
“Then you… you don’t think I should sign the contract?”
George Baruth eyed him silently for a long while, then said, “Suppose you decide that yourself, Syl?”
Sylvester shrugged. “Okay. Thanks, Mr. Baruth. You’ve been awfully kind to me.”
“You’ve been a joy to me, too, Syl.”
They shook hands.
“Will you be at the next game?”
“You bet,” said George Baruth.
Sylvester turned, started to run, and bumped into Snooky Malone, hitting the little guy so hard that Snooky fell to the sidewalk, his glasses falling off and his books spilling out of his hands.
“Hey, watch it!” yelled Snooky.
“Oh, sorry, Snooky!” cried Sylvester. “I didn’t see you!”
“I guess you didn’t!” exclaimed Snooky, rising to his feet.
Sylvester picked up the glasses, handed them to the little guy, then gathered up the books.
“I heard you talking,” said Snooky.
Sylvester looked at the huge periods behind the glasses. “What did I say?”
“Thanks, Mr. Baruth. You’ve been awfully kind to me. Will you be at the next game?’”
“That’s all?”
Snooky nodded, and smiled. “You were talking with George Baruth, weren’t you?”
Sylvester nodded. Darn Snooky, snooping around all the time.
“What were you talking about?”
“Something very important, but I can’t tell you about it, Snooky. Sorry.”
He and Mom talked a lot about the contract that night. Mr. Johnson called the next morning and arrived that afternoon. He looked at the contract and frowned.
“It’s not signed,” he observed.
“No, it isn’t,” said Sylvester. “We decided it was best that I didn’t.”
“Why, Sylvester? Isn’t the money enough?”
“Oh, it’s not the money, Mr. Johnson. It’s just that I don’t deserve it and all that publicity. I’d be thinking about it all my life, and I wouldn’t want to do that. I’m sorry, Mr. Johnson, but that’s how Mom and I decided.”