Sylvester put down a banana split that was bigger, “bananier,” and nuttier than he had ever had before. And just because he was the hero of today’s game.
The team then went home. After Sylvester showered and got into clean, everyday clothes, he ate supper with Mom. Dad was out on “the road,” as he called it. He wasn’t coming home till Friday night.
“You probably won’t want dessert after having a banana split,” said Mom, whose color of eyes and hair matched his.
“What have you got?” he asked. He felt full, but if Mom had baked something he liked, he’d make room for it.
“Apple pie,” she said.
Apple pie? No pie made was tastier and more delicious than the apple pie Mom made.
“I’ll have a piece,” he said.
His mother stared at him. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure,” he answered and settled back to wait for it.
She took the pie—a large, puffy, crusty thing—out of the oven, set it on the counter, and cut him a piece. She placed it on a small dish and put it before him. His mouth watered just looking at the soft, juicy apples oozing from under the crust.
He made a noise like a hungry tiger, cut a chunk of it with his fork, and stuck it into his mouth. While he chewed he looked up at his mother, his eyes as big as stoplights. “Mom,” he said, “it tastes just as delicious as it looks!”
“Thank you, son,” she said. “But don’t make a hog of yourself.”
Five minutes after he was finished he felt sick. Mom cleared off the table and he still sat there.
“Something wrong, Sylvester?” she asked.
“I think I made a hog of myself,” he replied frankly.
“Ate too much, didn’t you?”
He nodded. “Can I lie down?”
“Not on a full stomach. Sit in the living room till your food digests a bit. Later on you may lie down.”
He got up, went into the living room, and sat down. He didn’t even feel like turning on the television set. He sat with his legs sprawled out and his head resting against the side of the easy chair. Man, did he feel sick.
After a while Mom let him go to bed.
“You’ll feel much better in an hour or so,” she said.
He closed his eyes. He didn’t know whether he had slept or not, but when he opened them again, there sat George Baruth, looking at him sourly.
“Hi, kid,” said George.
“Well, hi, Mr. Baruth,” replied Sylvester. “I didn’t hear you come in. I guess I must have fallen asleep.”
“I understand you overloaded yourself,” said George Baruth.
Sylvester grinned weakly. “A little,” he admitted.
“Little, my eye,” grunted George Baruth. “If it were a little you wouldn’t be lying there. First a big banana split, then a chunk of apple pie on top of a big dinner. If that isn’t being a glutton I don’t know what is.”
“Yeah. You’re right, Mr. Baruth. But how did you know I was sick? How did you know I had a banana split and then an apple pie on top of my dinner?”
George Baruth’s eyes twinkled, and he reached over and patted Sylvester’s hand. “Don’t worry about it, kid,” he said softly. “Just don’t make a hog of yourself again or you’ll find yourself sitting on the sidelines instead of playing.”
He rose. “Take care, kid. See you at the next game.”
“Okay, Mr. Baruth. Thanks for coming.”
After George Baruth left, Sylvester lay there, thinking. How did he know I was sick? he wondered. Only Mom knew that.
Presently Mom came in, smiling. “Feel better?” she asked.
“Yeah.” He looked at her seriously. “Mom, did Mr. Baruth call or something?”
“Yes. He’s the guy who’s helping me play baseball. Did he call? Did you tell him I was sick?”
“What do you mean, Sylvester? I didn’t see any Mr. Baruth.”
He stared at her. “He was here a few minutes ago, Mom. You… you must have let him in.”
She looked at him worriedly, came nearer, and put a hand on his forehead. “You’re cool now,” she observed. “You must have had a fever, or were dreaming.”
“No, I wasn’t, Mom,” he insisted. “He was here, visiting me!”
The worried look disappeared and she smiled. “Okay, okay. Don’t get excited. But please try to understand, son. No one came in here. I would have seen him if he did. You must have dreamed it all.”