Duane and Snooky caught up to Sylvester on the bike path.
“I’m sorry, Snook, I just don’t believe in that otherworldly stuff,” Duane was saying. “And don’t take this the wrong way, Syl, but why the heck would Babe Ruth bother with you?”
“You think I haven’t asked myself that?” Syl retorted. “All I know is what he once told me—that he was just helping me realize my potential.”
Snooky nodded knowingly. “And now you think he’s helping some other kid realize his potential, right?”
Sylvester didn’t answer. But that was precisely what he’d been thinking.
“Or maybe,” Duane offered, “this home run king is the real deal. You ever think of that possibility?”
“Sure,” Syl said, “which is why it makes sense to check him out! So let’s stop talking about Mr. Baruth and get to the field.”
“Okay,” Duane said, “but I’m doing it for the good of the Comets, not Snooky’s cosmos!”
The boys arrived at the ball park just in time for the start of the Orioles-Jackdaws game.
Sylvester settled in the bleachers with his friends. Then, as casually as he could, he scanned the faces around him. But he didn’t see Mr. Baruth. His gaze wandered back to the field—and suddenly, he spotted a lone figure standing just beyond the Orioles’ dugout. The man was tall, over six feet, and he was wearing an old-fashioned baseball cap.
Syl’s heart leaped into his throat—and then just as quickly sank back down again.
It wasn’t him. Mr. Baruth was stocky and had a round, moon-shaped face, a big nose, and a wide grin that lit up his whole face when he smiled. This man, on the other hand, appeared lean and muscular, and he was scowling. He also had prominent ears that stuck out on either side of his head. Those ears might have given him a comical look if not for that scowl.
Definitely not Mr. Baruth! Syl thought.
The sudden crack of bat meeting ball snapped his attention back to the field. Syl jumped up, certain he’d just missed the Orioles’ phenom clobber a home run. It took him a moment to see that the batter had only made a base hit.
Of course the home run kid wasn’t the batter, he berated himself. Any coach worth his salt would have his top slugger batting cleanup, not leading off!
The next Oriole batter struck out. Syl watched sympathetically as he trudged back to the dugout. He’d been there himself, plenty of times.
The third hitter fouled off two pitches and then tapped a short dribbler in the grass toward the first baseline. The pitcher nabbed the ball and threw to first for the out. The first baseman quickly relayed the ball to second, but that runner was safe.
Sylvester barely noticed. His attention was on the Oriole moving from the on-deck circle to the plate. The boy was the fourth batter in the lineup—the cleanup position.
“That’s him,” he muttered. “It’s gotta be.”
Sure enough, when the Oriole batter stepped into the batter’s box, everyone in the stands buzzed with excitement.
Syl craned his neck, trying to get a better look at the slugger’s stance. How was he holding the bat? How were his feet placed? Was he a righty or a lefty? Sylvester hoped to see something—anything—that would tell him why this boy was such a good hitter.
But he saw nothing out of the ordinary. From the stands, the batter looked like any other player waiting for a good pitch to come his way.
That good pitch didn’t come, however. The Jackdaws’ hurler glanced at his coach and nodded. The catcher stood up and took a step to one side.
“Aw, man, he’s going to walk him intentionally!” a fan in the stands complained. “Come on, it’s only the first inning! Let him hit it!”
But the pitcher gave the Oriole a free ticket to first.
“You’ll get one next time!” the same fan shouted.
Two innings later, however, when the home run kid got up a second time, he struck out.
The slugger didn’t get up to bat again until the fifth inning. The Orioles were threatening with two runners on base and no outs. The Jackdaws’ pitcher conferred with his coach—should he walk the Oriole, or pitch to him?
The coach must have signaled for him to pitch, perhaps hoping that the slugger would strike out or hit into a double play. If so, his hopes were dashed.
One pitch. One swing. And boom! The kid’s bat connected squarely with the ball! It was a powerful hit, no doubt about it, but Syl thought the center fielder had a chance to catch it. He was wrong. The fielder misjudged where the ball was going to drop, and instead of landing in his glove, it fell on the far side of the fence.
“Holy cow!” Duane shouted.
The fans cheered as the runners jogged around the bases toward home. The slugger slapped hands with his teammates and smiled—a smile that widened as a man wearing a press badge snapped his photo.
An unexpected worm of jealousy wriggled in Syl’s stomach. He swallowed hard and sat down.
Everyone else sat, too, except Snooky. “Man, oh man!” he cried in his high-pitched voice. “I’ve never seen a ball hit quite like that! Not even by you, Sylvester!”
Several people, including the home run kid and the newspaper photographer, turned to look at them.
“Pipe down, will you, Snooky?” Syl muttered, squirming.
The photographer studied Syl as if trying to place him. Then he snapped his fingers. “I know you! You’re Sylvester Coddmyer the Third, the kid who only hit homers a while ago! I took your picture for the newspaper, remember?”
More spectators swiveled to stare. Syl hunched his shoulders, wishing that the bleachers beneath him would open up so he could escape.
The photographer didn’t seem to notice Syl’s discomfort. “You sure were the big story back then,” he said with a chuckle. “So what’s your story now? Still playing ball? Here to check out your number one competition?” He held up his camera. “How about a photo with you and the Orioles’ slugger together?”
“No!” Sylvester hadn’t meant to shout, but he couldn’t take the man’s questions, or the curious stares, any longer. He jumped up and thudded awkwardly down the bleachers.
“Syl! Wait!” Duane yelled.
But Sylvester didn’t stop. He grabbed his bike and pedaled away from the ballpark as fast as his legs could take him.