side. I’ll pitch first.”
The others readily agreed, and so for the rest of the afternoon the four boys took turns batting, catching, and running the
bases. Syl laughed and joked along with them.
But deep inside, threads of anger and jealousy were slowly twining into a knot. With every passing moment, that knot was growing,
and at its center was Mr. Baruth.
14
D espite being tired from hours of baseball, Syl slept poorly that night. Luckily, the next day was Saturday, so he got to sleep
in. Still, when he finally did rise, he was out of sorts. Not even his favorite game-day breakfast of bagels and cream cheese
lightened his mood.
“You better work yourself out of your snit before you hit the diamond,” his mother advised after he’d snapped at her one time
too many. “I don’t think Coach Corbin would appreciate that kind of attitude!”
The mention of Coach Corbin only made him more irritable.
If the coach had taken the time to teach me how to bunt and slide properly, then Mr. Teacy wouldn’t have shown up. And I would
have never figured out that Mr. Baruth was coaching that other kid!
Syl knew he was being unreasonable. Coach Corbin had never shirked his responsibilities to his players. And Mr. Baruth had
never said Syl was his only protégé.
But why did he have to pick someone on a team we play?
Syl wondered angrily.
He and his parents arrived at the ball field soon after breakfast.
“Here we are,” his father said as he parked the car. Sylvester grabbed his glove and his cap and got out, slamming the door
with a bang.
“He’s become a ‘tweenager,’ ” he heard his mother say.
“Lord help us!” his father replied with a laugh.
Ha, ha,
thought Syl.
Many of the Orioles and Comets were already at the diamond warming up. Syl joined his teammates and caught a throw from Trent.
He turned and hurled the ball with all his might to Eddie Exton. It landed with a loud pop in Eddie’s mitt.
“Whoa, Syl!” Eddie called, freeing his hand and shaking it. “Save it for the game, man!”
“Sorry,” Syl muttered. He toned it down for the rest of warm-ups.
The Comets were the home team, so Sylvester jogged out to his spot in center field. He had one thing on his mind: getting
back at Mr. Baruth by robbing the slugger of any home run he might attempt to hit.
If I have to leap the fence to make the catch, I will!
he thought, pounding his fist into his glove.
Bongo Daley took a few practice pitches and then signaled that he was ready. The game began.
In the Orioles-Jackdaws game a few days earlier, the first Oriole batter had hit a single. This time, against the Comets,
he rapped out a grounder that took a funny hop over the path between first and second base. That hop gave the Oriole time
to reach second. The next batter popped a fly ball to Duane at third for the first out. The runner on second wisely stayed
put.
One out turned to two when the third batter fouled off two pitches and then missed a third. That brought up the home run kid.
“Back up!” Syl screamed to Steve and Kirk as he backpedaled into deep center field.
And if you see me coming, get out of my way!
he added silently.
He squinted at the slugger, watching his every move. He wasn’t trying to guess where he’d hit it, however. He wanted to see
if the Oriole glanced into the stands. If he did, that’s where Mr. Baruth would be.
But the Oriole seemed more concerned with staring down Bongo than looking for his mysterious coach. Bongo took Eddie’s signal,
nodded, coiled back, and threw.
Zip!
went the ball.
Swish!
went the bat.
Pop!
went Eddie’s mitt.
“Strike one!” shouted the umpire.
“Told you so,” said someone behind Sylvester. “Players who try to clobber the ball for homers whiff on more pitches than they
hit.”
Syl didn’t even have to turn around to know who was there. “Yeah, you told me, Mr. Teacy,” he said. “You told me a whole lot.
Now I’m going to tell you:
The others readily agreed, and so for the rest of the afternoon the four boys took turns batting, catching, and running the
bases. Syl laughed and joked along with them.
But deep inside, threads of anger and jealousy were slowly twining into a knot. With every passing moment, that knot was growing,
and at its center was Mr. Baruth.
14
D espite being tired from hours of baseball, Syl slept poorly that night. Luckily, the next day was Saturday, so he got to sleep
in. Still, when he finally did rise, he was out of sorts. Not even his favorite game-day breakfast of bagels and cream cheese
lightened his mood.
“You better work yourself out of your snit before you hit the diamond,” his mother advised after he’d snapped at her one time
too many. “I don’t think Coach Corbin would appreciate that kind of attitude!”
The mention of Coach Corbin only made him more irritable.
If the coach had taken the time to teach me how to bunt and slide properly, then Mr. Teacy wouldn’t have shown up. And I would
have never figured out that Mr. Baruth was coaching that other kid!
Syl knew he was being unreasonable. Coach Corbin had never shirked his responsibilities to his players. And Mr. Baruth had
never said Syl was his only protégé.
But why did he have to pick someone on a team we play?
Syl wondered angrily.
He and his parents arrived at the ball field soon after breakfast.
“Here we are,” his father said as he parked the car. Sylvester grabbed his glove and his cap and got out, slamming the door
with a bang.
“He’s become a ‘tweenager,’ ” he heard his mother say.
“Lord help us!” his father replied with a laugh.
Ha, ha,
thought Syl.
Many of the Orioles and Comets were already at the diamond warming up. Syl joined his teammates and caught a throw from Trent.
He turned and hurled the ball with all his might to Eddie Exton. It landed with a loud pop in Eddie’s mitt.
“Whoa, Syl!” Eddie called, freeing his hand and shaking it. “Save it for the game, man!”
“Sorry,” Syl muttered. He toned it down for the rest of warm-ups.
The Comets were the home team, so Sylvester jogged out to his spot in center field. He had one thing on his mind: getting
back at Mr. Baruth by robbing the slugger of any home run he might attempt to hit.
If I have to leap the fence to make the catch, I will!
he thought, pounding his fist into his glove.
Bongo Daley took a few practice pitches and then signaled that he was ready. The game began.
In the Orioles-Jackdaws game a few days earlier, the first Oriole batter had hit a single. This time, against the Comets,
he rapped out a grounder that took a funny hop over the path between first and second base. That hop gave the Oriole time
to reach second. The next batter popped a fly ball to Duane at third for the first out. The runner on second wisely stayed
put.
One out turned to two when the third batter fouled off two pitches and then missed a third. That brought up the home run kid.
“Back up!” Syl screamed to Steve and Kirk as he backpedaled into deep center field.
And if you see me coming, get out of my way!
he added silently.
He squinted at the slugger, watching his every move. He wasn’t trying to guess where he’d hit it, however. He wanted to see
if the Oriole glanced into the stands. If he did, that’s where Mr. Baruth would be.
But the Oriole seemed more concerned with staring down Bongo than looking for his mysterious coach. Bongo took Eddie’s signal,
nodded, coiled back, and threw.
Zip!
went the ball.
Swish!
went the bat.
Pop!
went Eddie’s mitt.
“Strike one!” shouted the umpire.
“Told you so,” said someone behind Sylvester. “Players who try to clobber the ball for homers whiff on more pitches than they
hit.”
Syl didn’t even have to turn around to know who was there. “Yeah, you told me, Mr. Teacy,” he said. “You told me a whole lot.
Now I’m going to tell you:
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