It wasn’t till the end of the fifth period in school on Monday when Sylvester had collected enough courage to ask Coach Corbin if it was too late to sign up with the Red birds. The coach, dressed in a brown suit, was walking toward him in the corridor.
“Oh, Co—Coach,” Sylvester stammered. “Can I see you a minute, please?”
“Of course, Sylvester,” said Coach Corbin, and looked at Sylvester with dark, friendly eyes. “What is it?”
“Is it too late to sign up for baseball?”
Dark brows twitched briefly, then squeezed together so that they almost touched.
“Friday was the last day to sign up, Sylvester. And I’ve got too many players now. Why didn’t you sign up earlier? Didn’t you see the notice on the bulletin board?”
“Yes. But I—” Sylvester shrugged. “Okay. Thanks, Mr. Corbin.”
He walked down the corridor to his homeroom, his head bowed and his hands in his pockets. He wasn’t surprised at Coach Corbin’s reply. He had hoped, though, that the coach would’ve let him sign up. At least then he’d have had a chance to show what he could do.
After school he walked home alone. Hooper was a small town in the Finger Lakes region of New York State. Tourists drove through it all the time, but no one as much as stopped there to fill up for gas.
The school, Hooper Junior High, stood on a hill overlooking the village. Most kids lived close enough to walk to it. A few had to ride on one of the buses.
Sylvester still had two blocks to go when he heard footsteps pounding behind him, and then a familiar voice. “Syl! Wait a minute!”
He turned and there was George Baruth, running toward him.
“Oh, hi, Mr. Baruth!” he said, and stopped to wait.
George Baruth came up beside him, breathing tiredly. “Did you ask the coach?”
“Yes,” said Sylvester. “He said he’s got too many players now.”
“I was afraid of that,” said George Baruth. “Dang it, I’ve got to get you on the team somehow, Syl.”
Sylvester looked at him. “Can’t we just forget about it, Mr. Baruth? He doesn’t want me to play. He probably thinks I’d just be in the way.”
Mr. Baruth’s eyes flashed. “That’s just what we don’t want him to think, Syl. We have to get him to change his mind about you and put you on the team. Now, let me think a minute.”
He shoved his baseball cap back, scratched his head, and looked at the sidewalk as if among the spidery cracks he might be able to find the solution.
He started talking, but his words were low and mumbly, and Sylvester knew that he was just talking to himself.
Suddenly he jerked his cap down hard and tapped a sharp finger against Sylvester’s shoulder. “I’ve got it, Syl!” he cried. “The team’s practicing now, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Okay. Is your glove at home?”
“Get it, and let’s go to the field. I have an idea, and it’s burning a hole in my head!”
Sylvester ran the two blocks to his house, got his glove, and ran out again, yelling “Hi, Mom!” to his mother, who was stirring up something in a large bowl.
“Sylvester!” she called. “Where’s the fire?”
Mom was short and blond and a little on the stocky side. Ever since Sylvester was born she had wished for a daughter, too, but so far there was only Sylvester. Dad, a traveling salesman, had said just a few nights ago that Sylvester was more than he had bargained for and that they should be thankful to have him.
“I’ll be back, Mom!” Sylvester shouted over his shoulder.
Suddenly, just outside the door, he paused. He couldn’t keep Mr. Baruth waiting— not with that idea burning a hole in his head—but he had to tell Mom whom he was with.
“I’m going to be with Mr. Baruth, Mom!” he shouted to her. “He’s going to help me play baseball!”
“Mr. Baruth? Who’s he?”
“I don’t know! But he lives in Hooper… somewhere! And he wants to teach me to play better baseball so that I can play with the Redbirds! He’s just great, Mom! See ya later!”
He met George Baruth, and together they headed back for the school. The baseball field was south of it. The guys were already on it, taking batting practice. George Baruth climbed up the bleachers behind first base and sat down near the end of the third row. Sylvester sat beside him, wondering exactly what could be burning a hole in Mr. Baruth’s head.
They sat through batting practice. Then Coach Corbin hit grounders to the infielders, and a man whom Sylvester recognized as Mr. Beach, the math teacher and Mr. Corbin’s assistant coach, began hitting fly balls to the outfielders clustered in center field.
“Watch the kid in the yellow pants,” said Mr. Baruth.
Sylvester watched and saw the kid misjudge one fly after another and then drop one that had fallen smack into his glove.
“That’s Lou Masters,” he said. “He’s not doing very well, is he?”
Mr. Baruth chuckled. “He’s not doing well at all, Syl. And if your coach has any sense he’d know it. Look. Run down there and ask that fella hitting the ball to let you try catching a few flies, too.”
Sylvester stared at him. “But Coach Corbin told me it was too late, Mr. Baruth!”
“How can it be too late? The league doesn’t start till next week. Get going. He shouldn’t mind letting you try to catch a few, at least.”
Reluctantly Sylvester climbed down the bleachers and walked over to Mr. Beach. He waited till Mr. Beach blasted out a fly, then gathered up all the courage he could and said, “Mr. Beach.”
The tall man, windbreaker flapping in the breeze, looked at him. “Hi, Sylvester,” he said. “What’s up?”
“Can I… can I go out there, too?”
Mr. Beach smiled. “Have you signed up to play?”
“No.”
“Then why do you want to go out there?”
Sylvester shrugged. “Well, I’d like to play if I can. I thought that if I did pretty good, you—or Mr. Corbin—would let me sign up.”
Mr. Beach laughed. “Okay, Syl. Get out there and I’ll hit you a few.”
“Thank you!”
Sylvester ran out to the field, flashing a smile at George Baruth and receiving one in return. Mr. Baruth made a circle with his right thumb and forefinger.
“This one’s for Syl!” yelled Mr. Beach, and hit one about as high as a ten-story building. Sylvester got under it and caught it easily.
Mr. Beach knocked out much higher flies to the other boys who seemed to have trouble judging the ball. It was Sylvester’s turn again, and this time Mr. Beach hit the ball just as high as he did for the other boys. The ball soared into the blue sky until it looked no larger than a pea, came down, and dropped into Sylvester’s glove.
“Hey! Nice catch, Syl!” yelled Mr. Beach. “Let’s try another high one!”
He blasted another ball high into the sky. Sylvester ran some twenty feet to the spot where it was coming down, put out his mitt, and plop! He had it.
The other outfielders stared at him unbelievingly.
“Hey! What’s happened?” observed Ted Sobel. “You couldn’t catch worth beans last week!”
Sylvester shrugged. “I’m not very good at it, yet,” he said modestly.
After they finished outfield practice, Sylvester returned to the bleachers and sat down beside George Baruth.
“Good work, Syl,” George smiled broadly. “Did you see their eyes pop when you made those fine catches?”
Sylvester grinned. “Well… I kind of surprised myself,” he said honestly. Then he thought of something and looked at Mr. Baruth curiously. “You’re really not from Hooper, are you, Mr. Baruth?”
The big man chuckled. “No. I’m a stranger here, Syl. Every year I spend my vacation in a different town. This year I picked Hooper. This region is one of the most beautiful in the world, Syl. Did you know that?”
Sylvester smiled. “Yes, sir. I think so, too, Mr. Baruth.” He paused a moment. “Mr. Baruth, how come you picked me out to help? Aren’t there other kids who are better?”
Mr. Baruth chuckled again. “Why should I try to help someone who is better? I saw that you really loved baseball and tried your best to play. But you had problems. You couldn’t play well, so you got discouraged and wanted to quit. Right away I knew you were a boy who needed help.”
Sylvester grinned. “Do you really think you could help me, Mr. Baruth? Man, I don’t think there’s anybody lousier than I am.”
“I not only think I can help you, young buddy,” replied Mr. Baruth, a glimmer in his eyes. “I know I can!”
Suddenly there was a shout from near home plate, and Sylvester saw Coach Corbin waving to him. With the coach was Mr. Beach, who looked as if he had just uncovered a box of some very valuable treasure.
“Sylvester Coddmyer!” yelled the coach. “Come here, will you?”
“I’d better see what he wants,” he said. “Excuse me, Mr. Baruth.”
“You bet, Syl,” said George Baruth.
Sylvester clattered down the bleachers and ran across the green, mowed grass toward the tiny group clustered near home plate. When he reached it, Coach Corbin smiled at him and placed an arm around his shoulders. “Mr. Beach told me you looked very good catching fly balls today, Sylvester,” he said.
Sylvester shrugged. “I’m better at hitting, too,” he said proudly.
“Oh? Mind trying to prove it to me?”
“No.”
“Okay. Pick up a bat. Rick, throw a few to Sylvester.”
Sylvester found a bat he liked and stepped in front of the backstop screen. Rick Wilson walked out to the temporary pitching box, waited for Sylvester to get ready, then blazed one in.
Smack! Sylvester laid into it and blasted it over the left field fence.
“Jumping codfish!” cried Coach Corbin. “Look at that blast! Pitch another, Rick!”
Rick did. Pow! The second ball rocketed out almost as far as the first. Rick threw in another. Again Sylvester swung and again the ball shot like a rocket over the left field fence.
“That’s enough!” said Coach Corbin. “We can’t afford to lose baseballs! Sylvester!”
“Yes, Coach?”
“I don’t know what you’ve been doing since last Friday, but you’re sure a different ballplayer now. Be in my office in the morning to sign up. I think I might be able to fit you in.”
“Thanks, sir!” said Sylvester happily.