The Hooper Redbirds beat the Teaburg Giants 8 to 3 on June 8, leaving one more game to play for the Redbirds. Sylvester’s home-run streak went unbroken. He had three in three times up, twice with no runners on, once with two on. Mr. Baruth was at the game, sitting in his usual place.
Immediately after the game, and all the way home, Snooky Malone clung to Sylvester like a leech. Now and then Sylvester looked around for George Baruth but didn’t see him. Was he staying away because of snoopy Snooky? Probably.
It wasn’t till the next day after supper, while Sylvester was brooding about George Baruth on the front porch steps, that Mr. Baruth stopped by.
“Oh, hi, Mr. Baruth!” Sylvester greeted him happily.
“Hi, kid,” said George. “Did you sign the contract?”
“No, sir. Mom and I talked about it and decided against it.”
“Did you tell your Mom about me?”
“Of course. That was all right, wasn’t it, Mr. Baruth?”
George Baruth’s face lighted up as if someone had turned on a switch inside him. “Sure it was all right. It’s all right all the way down the line, kid.” He paused. “Well, good-bye, kid. And keep happy, hear?”
Sylvester nodded, and stood up. “Are you—are you leaving now, Mr. Baruth?” he asked.
The big man nodded and walked down the street, head bowed, till he was out of sight.
The crowd on Thursday was the biggest ever. People filled the grandstand and the bleachers, and were lying down or standing behind both foul lines. The game was against the Seneca Indians, and the Red birds had first raps.
Left-handed Bert Riley was on the mound again for the Indians and walked the first three men up. For a while no one was advancing toward the plate, and Coach Corbin said, “Sylvester, wake up.”
Sylvester rose from the on-deck circle and walked to the plate. He had been looking at the end of the third-row bleacher seats—looking for George Baruth. But, for the first time since the season had started, George Baruth wasn’t there.
“Steerike!” yelled the ump as Bert blazed in a pitch.
“Ball!”
“Ball two!”
Then, “Strike two!”
Sylvester stepped out of the box, wiped his face with his sleeve, and stepped in again. Tensely, he waited for the next pitch. The crowd was hushed. Bert stretched, delivered. The throw looked good. Sylvester leaned into it and swung.
Plop! sounded the ball as it struck the catcher’s mitt. The next second the crowd roared and it was as if a gigantic bomb had exploded. Sylvester Coddmyer III had struck out.
He walked to the bench, his head bowed.
“Don’t worry about it, Syl!” yelled a familiar voice. “You’ll bat again!” It sounded like Snooky Malone.
Jerry Ash flied out. Then Bobby Kent singled, scoring two runs, and Duane Francis grounded out.
The Indians scored once, and that was it till the fourth inning, when Eddie Exton doubled and came in on Terry Barnes’s neat single over first base.
The Indians made up for the run and more besides. With two men on, a left-handed hitter socked a clothesline drive out to right field. The ball grazed the top of Sylvester’s glove and bounced out to the fence. Sylvester ran as hard as he could after it, picked it up, and heaved it in.
Three runs scored. The Indians tallied four runs that half inning, going ahead, 5 to 3.
Sylvester led off in the top of the fifth. He had looked once more for George Baruth in the seat at the end of the third row, hoping to see him. But the big man wasn’t there.
Not until now was he sure that he would never see his friend again.
He struck out on three straight pitches.
Jerry doubled, though, and Bobby knocked him in for the Redbirds’ only run that half inning.
Back bounced the Indians for three more runs to make their score 8. And back came the Redbirds for their last chance.
Jim walked. Ted singled. Milt flied out. And up came Sylvester.
“Knock it over the fence, Syl!” yelled Snooky Malone.
The pitch. Sylvester swung. Crack! A hit! But not one of those long ones that he had been hitting all season. Not an over-the fence blast that made the crowd draw in its collective breath.
It was a shallow drive but hard, with the ball rolling between the left and center fielders. Two runs scored and Sylvester reached second base for a double, the only hit he had made all season that wasn’t a home run.
Both Jerry and Bobby got out, and that was it. The Indians won, 8 to 6.
He thought it was all over then. He thought the people had suddenly forgotten him. But they hadn’t. They crowded around him, patting him on the back and shaking his hand while photographers snapped pictures like crazy.
Then someone pushed through the crowd, and a silence fell like a curtain.
“Sylvester,” said Coach Stan Corbin, standing there with a huge, bright trophy of a boy swinging a baseball bat, “in honor of our school, Hooper Junior High, and all the teachers and students and myself, I am happy to present this trophy to the greatest athlete Hooper Junior High School has ever had.”
So choked up that he was unable to say a word, Sylvester accepted the trophy. Finally he was able to speak.
His mother and Snooky Malone walked on either side of him as he carried the trophy home.
But, somehow, it seemed that the trophy wasn’t quite as heavy as it was when the coach had given it to him. It seemed lighter, as if someone else was helping him carry it.
FINAL STANDINGS
| WON | LOST | |
| Redbirds | 7 | 3 |
| Giants | 6 | 4 |
| Wildcats | 6 | 4 |
| Tigers | 5 | 5 |
| Falcons | 4 | 6 |
| Indians | 3 | 7 |