Mr. Baruth? Yeah, I guess that’s who I mean.” The man gave a short laugh. “We’re on opposite sides of the fence about home runs. He thinks they’re everything. I don’t.”
Syl wrinkled his forehead in puzzlement. “You don’t?” he asked. “Why not?”
“Home runs ruin batting averages, that’s why,” the man replied. “You swing for the fence every time, you’ll strike out more often than you’ll get a four-bagger. Or you’ll get walked.”
Syl remembered the Oriole slugger’s first at-bats. “I guess that could be true, Mr.…” He paused, realizing that he didn’t know the man’s name.
“Teacy,” the man said. “Mr. Teacy. And of course it’s true. A player who can sprinkle hits around the field, he’s worth something. He gets runners on base. He keeps the defense guessing. And he earns himself a high batting average and so keeps his place on the team.” He shook his head. “A player who just hits home runs is like a singer who only performs one song. After a while, everyone knows just what tune they’re going to hear. Bet Mr. Baruth never told you that.”
Mr. Teacy picked up a baseball and tossed it to Syl. “Want to see one of my favorite hits?”
Syl nodded, intrigued.
“Then get on the mound and throw me a pitch,” Mr. Teacy said.
“Okay,” Syl replied, “but I’m not a pitcher.”
“Just aim for the strike zone,” Mr. Teacy said as he retrieved his bat, “and I’ll do the rest.”
Mr. Teacy got into his stance in the batter’s box. Syl took aim and threw. He didn’t know what he expected to see, but he wasn’t ready for what the man did.
Instead of swinging around in a wide arc, Mr. Teacy slid his right hand up the fat part of the bat, squared off, and knocked the ball to the ground so that it rolled toward third base.
“A bunt?” Syl said, surprised. “That’s one of your favorite hits? But you can swing with so much power! Why would you bunt when you could send it over the fence?”
Mr. Teacy frowned. “Weren’t you listening? Base hits, not homers! A well-placed bunt will get me on base. It’ll advance runners, too, and catch the defense off guard. And that’s a win-win-win situation.” He held his bat out, barrel first, to Syl. “Let’s see you do it.”
Syl shook his head. “I’m no good at bunting,” he admitted. “We usually work on regular hits during batting practice.”
The man’s lips flattened into a disapproving line. “Your coach must be a real lunk-head to ignore bunting!”
Sylvester swelled with anger then. He was very fond of his coach, Stan Corbin. He always encouraged his players to perform their best and to stay upbeat and positive, even when they didn’t do as well as they had hoped. Whoever Mr. Teacy was, he had no right to criticize him!
“Coach Corbin doesn’t ignore bunting,” Syl said. “He just focuses on other things, that’s all.”
“Think what you want,” Mr. Teacy said. “But if he’s not showing you how to bunt, someone else better. And that someone”—he flicked his wrist, flipping the bat so the grip was now facing Syl—“is me.”
Any doubt Sylvester had that Mr. Teacy was yet another piece of his baseball puzzle vanished in that instant. He reached for the bat, feeling that he was reaching toward his destiny.
To his surprise, Mr. Teacy didn’t let go. “Not so fast,” he said. “If I’m going to teach you, I want your promise that you’ll give me everything you’ve got and that you’ll follow my instructions to the letter.”
Syl gripped the bat tighter, heart pounding. “When do we begin?”
Mr. Teacy allowed Sylvester to take the bat. “No time like now,” he said. Then suddenly, he paused and looked in the direction of the bike path. “On second thought, meet me here tomorrow afternoon.”
“What’s the matter?” Sylvester turned to see what Mr. Teacy was looking at.
At that moment, Duane and Snooky appeared from around the bend. They looked tired and anxious. Then they spied Syl, and their faces brightened.
“Sylvester! There you are!” Duane cried.
“We’ve been searching everywhere for you!” Snooky added. “Why are you standing in an empty ball field?”
“Empty field?” Syl twisted around and saw that the field was, indeed, empty. Mr. Teacy had vanished.
“Hey,” Duane said, “where’d you get that cool-looking bat?”
Syl’s gaze dropped to the bat still in his hands. “This? I—uh, I found it lying here in the grass.”
He told them how he’d gotten lost, but kept his meeting with Mr. Teacy to himself. He figured Duane wouldn’t want to hear about another mysterious ballplayer. Snooky, on the other hand, would go on about how lucky Syl was to be in contact with another dimension. Syl wasn’t in the mood for that just now. He needed time to sort out what had happened first. Maybe then he’d tell Snooky about Mr. Teacy.
Maybe.
“Thanks for coming to find me,” he said instead. “You do know how to get home from here, right?”
“Sure!” Duane said. “I’ve biked here lots of times with my folks. Although,” he added, scratching his head, “I don’t remember this field being laid out like a baseball diamond. Weird.”
Duane and Snooky waited for Sylvester to tuck the bat into his bike’s carryall. Then they turned around to begin their journey home. As Syl pedaled away, he glanced at where the mysterious man had disappeared. I’ll be back tomorrow, he promised himself.