Still, it was nice and comfortable, just walking down the street with her. Without even asking, he leaned over and took some of her books as they chattered away in the late afternoon. There was more and more shade these days as the leaves on the trees along the sidewalk grew greener and greener with the approach of summer.

  Sylvester felt something else inside — hunger. His stomach was reminding him that he needed some nourishment. But that didn’t stop him from enjoying his time with Joyce. He wished she lived five more blocks away instead of only two.

  At last they were in front of her home, a white clapboard two-story house with shrubs and flowering bushes hugging its base.

  Joyce took back her books and gave him what he liked to think was their secret wink.

  “See you tomorrow,” she said, then turned down the driveway toward the back door.

  “Right,” he said, winking back. “See you.”

  Still cozy and warm from the special feeling Joyce always seemed to impart, Sylvester walked slowly down the block and was about to cross over when a deep voice interrupted his thoughts.

  “Sylvester! Sylvester Coddmyer the Third!”

  For one split second, he flashed back to a year ago, to the moment when Mr. Baruth entered his life. But no, even though this was a man’s voice, it wasn’t the same.

  He turned around, his forehead creased with curiosity as he stared at the man walking toward him. The man was tall and lanky, had a stubble of a beard, and wore a white sweatshirt and a hat with an old-fashioned letter C on it. No, this was definitely not Mr. Baruth.

  “Got a minute, Sylvester?” the man asked.

  Sylvester was sure he’d never seen this man before. He wondered how he knew his name.

  “Well, sort of,” he answered. He was glad they were in a friendly neighborhood, not far from his home — just in case this guy turned out to be some kind of weir do.

  But the stranger had a really nice smile as he came forward and stretched out his right hand. Sylvester shook it cautiously, gazing into the man’s dark eyes while he ran through his memory bank. Definitely, no one he’d ever seen before.

  “Name’s Cheeko,” the man said. “Saw you play today. Whew! I hate to say it, but you sure have a lot of room for improvement, haven’t you?”

  He said it with a smile about a foot wide. Sylvester couldn’t help but smile, too.

  “You’re right.” He nodded.

  “I bet you’d like to fill up that room and be a better ballplayer, right?”

  “Right.” The word had barely left Sylvesters lips when he suddenly recalled a conversation just like this with Mr. Baruth the first time they met.

  “All right, then, listen to me,” said the man named Cheeko. “I think I can help.”

  3

  The man’s words raced on, fast and punchy, nothing like the mellow, steady sound of Mr. Baruth’s voice.

  “I know about that home run streak you were on last year. Great. But you missed one thing, one thing the guy who coached you left out. You have to be a lot tougher, more aggressive. You wanna be a winner in this world, you’ve got to make a few moves, take a few shortcuts, too. You’ve got to stand up for what’s yours and let ’em know you’re not some kind of bug that anyone can step on. Get what I mean?”

  As Sylvester drank in every word, he wondered how this man, a perfect stranger, knew so much about him. Especially, he couldn’t figure out how “Cheeko” knew about his hot streak last year. And Mr. Baruths coaching.

  “Wait a minute,” he asked. “Do you know Mr. Baruth? Are you a friend of his?”

  “Baruth?” Cheeko’s eyes crinkled up at the corners as he flashed his big smile again. “Sure I do. It’s like we’re old buddies. Matter of fact, that’s how I heard about you.”

  “He told you about me?” Sylvester relaxed a little as soon as he heard that Cheeko was a friend of Mr. Baruth’s. That automatically made him a better than average guy in Sylvester s book.

  “Exactly!” said Cheeko. “That’s why I dropped by to see how you were doing. Not great, huh? Nothing to brag about, right?”

  “Right,” Sylvester admitted, looking down at the toe of his right shoe as he kicked at a pebble.

  “Hey, I know you can do better,” Cheeko went on. Despite his strong, almost pushy way of talking, Sylvester was interested in what he had to say.

  Sylvester scowled. “Well, I sure would like to get out of this darn slump.”

  “You can,” Cheeko insisted. “Hey, let me work out with you a little. Believe me, lean show you a few things the other guys on the field wouldn’t ever even think of. Tell you what, I’ll bring the baseballs. All you need to bring is a bat and your glove. Whaddya say? You up for it?”

  A million questions raced through Sylvesters mind but he could only drag out a few.

  “I… I want to be a better player,” he said, “but how come you want to work out with me? Why not some other kid?”

  “Hey, I told you, Mr. Baruth said you were an okay guy,” Cheeko said, still smiling. “I hate to see anybody get a raw deal. There’re still a lot of scores to settle.”

  Sylvester wasn’t sure what he meant, but his heart was pounding at thoughts of his winning streak coming back to him.

  “You sure you have the time to spend with me? Don’t you have to work?” he asked.

  Cheeko chuckled. “Time’s the one thing I have. Plenty of it. You might say I’m sort of retired. So what’s the word? Game?”

  The vision of the blaze of glory that he felt every time the ball soared over the fence, every time he made an almost impossible catch, every time he crossed the plate at a steady trot, exploded in his mind. Sylvester would give almost anything to bring back those moments. There was no room in his mind for doubts now.

  “Game!” he answered.

  “Great!” said Cheeko. “See you after supper.”

  He put out a hand and Sylvester almost leapt to give him a high five.

  As Cheeko headed off in the other direction, Sylvester started to run down the street toward his home. He hadn’t gotten far when he realized he had a big step ahead: he’d have to ask permission from his parents to work out with Cheeko. After all, he was a stranger, just like Mr. Baruth. Maybe they’d want to meet him first.

  Some of the other questions that he’d lost in his excitement started popping up in his brain now.

  What did that C on Cheeko s hat stand for?

  Where did he live?

  Would he come to all the Redbirds’ games the way Mr. Baruth had?

  Sylvester was so lost in his thoughts, he almost missed his own driveway. But the minute he walked into the kitchen, he blurted out everything in a rush of words.

  “Whoa! Hold it!” his father said, holding up his right hand like a traffic cop. “You met whom? Cheeko? Cheeko who?”

  His mother walked into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of ice water from the dispenser on the refrigerator door.

  She frowned. “Don’t tell me you’ve met another mysterious stranger.” She looked at Mr. Coddmyer and added, “Speaking of mysteries, you’re home early. How come?”

  “I worked through lunch and thought I’d put some time in the garden while there’s light. They’ll beep me if anything comes up,” he replied. Mr. Coddmyer had a new job as a troubleshooter for a computer software company. He hardly ever went into his office, but got his assignments from calls that came through on his beeper.

  Sylvester wasn’t really listening to their talk. He was too eager to get permission to practice with Cheeko.

  “Cheeko didn’t tell me his last name,” he said. “He just introduced himself and told me he’d be willing to help me improve my game, you know, hitting and everything.”

  His father looked skeptical. “Didn’t I hear that song before? Only a year ago … about a Mr. Baruth?”

  “Yes, Dad,” Sylvester said. “Cheeko’s a friend of Mr. Baruth’s. I mean, that’s what he told me.”

  “We never got to meet your Mr. Baruth,” said Mrs. Coddmyer. “But I will say that he did help you become a better player. That home run streak was incredible. And now there’s another angel out of the blue who wants to help you again?”

  “Angel?” Sylvester echoed. “I don’t know if I’d go that far…”

  “Well, whatever he is,” replied his mother. “Listen, instead of just sitting around, let’s get started on dinner. One of you get out the lettuce, wash it, and give it a whirl in the spinner. Someone else please set the table.”

  “First she manages the clerks in her store, now she puts us to work.” Mr. Coddmyer laughed. “Don’t push too hard. We’re liable to go on strike.”

  As they set about their chores, Mr. and Mrs. Coddmyer continued to talk about Cheeko.

  “Maybe this Cheeko and Mr. Baruth are on some kind of coaching circuit,” Mr. Coddmyer suggested. “I never heard of it before, but nothing would surprise me.”

  “Then I can go out after supper and practice with him?” Sylvester pleaded.

  “I suppose I could give up clipping the hedge to meet this new supercoach,” Mr. Coddmyer said. “Right after supper, I’ll go over to the field with you.”

  “I’d like to meet him, too,” said Mrs. Coddmyer, sitting down at the table in front of the salad bowl. “But I have a huge inventory to go over tonight. It s going to take hours.”

  “That’s okay, Mom,” said Sylvester. “You can meet him if he comes to some Redbird games. Maybe you and Dad will be able to make a few more now.” He’d never told them how much he missed seeing them in the stands this year. Maybe because he was a little embarrassed that he didn’t get to play that much.

  “By the way, why does Cheeko think you need help?” asked Mr. Coddmyer, dropping a pile of salad greens on his plate. “Has he seen you play?”

  “I suppose so,” said Sylvester. “I’ve never noticed him at a game, though.”

  “Gets more and more mysterious, our friend with the C on his cap,” Mr. Coddmyer said with a frown. “I think…”

  His thought was interrupted by the sound of his beeper. He shook his head as he went to dial the phone. Sylvester and his mother couldn’t help overhearing him; the tone alone told them he wouldn’t be finishing his meal, never mind going to watch his son practice.

  “It’s our biggest customer,” he announced, hanging up the phone. “There’s a major glitch in the system. I have to get over there right away.”

  “Can I still go practice with Cheeko, please?” Sylvester pleaded with both parents.

  They glanced at each other in consultation.

  “Well, all right,” said his mother. “But only till it starts to get dark. Then you get right home, you hear?”

  By the time she had finished saying that, Sylvester had picked up his glove and bat and was halfway out the door.

  4

  Sylvester was so eager to get to the field, he started to run the minute he reached the street. But after running nearly a block at a fast clip, he realized he might get tired and not perform as well as he should. So he slowed down to a brisk walk.

  When he got to the field, Cheeko was already there, juggling three baseballs like someone in a carnival. There were three more balls on the ground next to him.

  “Hi, Mr. Cheeko!” Sylvester greeted him.

  Cheeko stopped juggling the balls and looked over at him. “Hi, yourself, kid,” he said. “Hey, no mister stuff. It’s just Cheeko.”

  “Okay,” Sylvester smiled. “But…”

  “No buts,” said Cheeko. “You all set to hustle?”

  “All set.” Sylvester nodded.

  “Good. First we’ll work on your fielding. Take a hike out to center.”

  Sylvester dropped his bat and ran deep into the outfield, his heart light as a feather. Boy, am I lucky, he thought, to be chosen by an expert — Cheeko sure sounded like an expert — to get help in fielding and batting. He wished his folks could be here to see how professional Cheeko acted, too.

  There was another thing running through his mind, too, maybe just as important: if he got better at bat, he might be able to give the wise guys on the team a little competition. Especially that smart-mouth, Trent Sturgis, who looked down on everyone as if he were king of the Redbirds. Nothing would make Sylvester happier, he thought, than to start outhitting that swellheaded punk.

  “Here we go!” Cheeko shouted, and knocked an easy fly ball out to him. Nevertheless, Syl got under it at the wrong time and the ball hit the heel of his glove and dropped to the green turf.

  In a split second, his feeling of joy changed to disappointment and embarrassment. He knew it should have been an easy catch, yet he’d flubbed it like a rookie.

  “Never mind that one, Syl!” Cheeko called out to him. “Spilled milk. Get the next one. Keep your eye on the ball.”

  Cheeko hit the next one slightly lower than the first, forcing Sylvester to run in about eight or nine steps. This time he got both his bare hand and his glove on the ball, even though it struck just below the pocket. He was determined to hang on to it — and he did.

  Little by little, Cheeko started hitting them higher, and to the left or the right, making each catch more difficult. In the beginning of this shift, Sylvester missed a few. But Cheeko kept up his stream of encouraging comments — “Don’t worry about the other guys. If it’s anywhere near you, go for it. Let ’em eat your dust. Hustle! Show ’em you’re in charge out there. Step on ’em before they step on you.”

  He began to get the hang of it, and, after each catch, he gave himself a little mental pat on the back.

  I’m getting better already, he told himself after about forty-five minutes of practice. I know I am.

  “Okay, Syl,” Cheeko called out to him a few minutes later. “That’s enough of that for now.”

  His face glistening with sweat, Sylvester trotted in, smiling proudly. “How’d I do?” he asked.

  Of course, he had his own opinion, but he wanted to know what Cheeko thought of his efforts.

  “Good,” said Cheeko. “Not perfect, but good. After all,” he added, “you don’t expect to be perfect right off, do you?”

  “Sure can try.” Sylvester laughed.

  Cheeko laughed, too. “Right,” he said seriously. “Grab your bat and get over there in front of the backstop screen.” Then, turning to face the stands, he yelled, “Ladies and gentlemen, on the mound for the home team — the one and only —” he paused and he seemed to drift far away for an instant — “Cheeko! Batting leadoff for the opposition — Sylvester Coddmyer the third!”

  Chuckling, he trotted out to the pitcher’s mound. Cheeko didn’t have a glove, but he wouldn’t need one just to pitch.

  As he trotted toward the batter’s box, Syl felt Cheeko eyeing him. The would-be slugger tried to relax. Cheeko stretched, and delivered. Sylvester noticed that Cheeko was left-handed. The ball breezed in chest high. Sylvester swung at it as hard as he could. He missed it by a mile.

  “Hey, hey, slow it down!” Cheeko called. He came off the mound toward Sylvester. “Don’t be so anxious. Let’s take one step back for a moment. First off, don’t advertise to the pitcher that you’re nervous. Give him the eye as you approach the batter’s box; make him think you got him all figured out so nothing he throws at you will come as a surprise. Like this.”

  Cheeko took a few steps back, shouldered the bat, and stared at the pitcher’s mound. His eyes never left that spot as he swaggered toward home plate and tapped the dirt from his sneakers. Boy, thought Syl, shivering, I sure wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of that stare.

  Cheeko turned and handed him the bat with his usual wide smile. “Now you try it, Syl. Wait for me to get on the mound.” He ran back to position and yelled, “Look real mean, but don’t lose control. Keep your eye on the ball, but don’t attack it. Okay, let’s see your stuff!”

  Syl shouldered the bat as Cheeko had done and fixed his gaze on the left-handed pitcher. He pictured Trent and Bobby watching him and narrowed his eyes just a bit more. Cheeko tossed in another pitch, this one almost in the same spot as the first. Sylvester remembered his advice as he swung at it.

  Crack! Bat met ball and sent it soaring to center field. It was one of the longest drives he’d hit since those over-the-fence homers he’d racked up last year. The throbbing in his chest returned.

  Sturgis, get ready to eat dust! he wanted to shout.

  “There you go,” said Cheeko, nodding. “Caught on already. I knew you had it in you.”

  Sylvester smiled. Maybe that was my problem, he thought. I’ve been too anxious, wanting to kill the ball instead of just meeting it — and any pitcher could see that with no trouble at all.

  He missed some of Cheeko s pitches but managed to connect with most of them. Some were grounders, some were fly balls to the outfield, and some even soared over the fence.

  “Whew! All right, Sylvester,” said Cheeko after two straight pitches ended up over the left field fence. “We’d better quit before we run out of baseballs. Not only that, but I’m getting winded.”

  “Can we get together again, Cheeko?” Sylvester asked hopefully.

  “Of course. You don’t expect to have it all after just one session, do you?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “How about tomorrow, then? Same time, same place?”

  “Sure if… if you don’t mind.”

  “Mind?” said Cheeko, wiping his face with a bright red handkerchief. “Why should I mind?”

  “Well,” Sylvester hesitated owning up to what was troubling him. “I mean, I don’t want to take up a lot of your time. I mean, there’s lots of kids who could use help, so …”

  “Sew buttons.” Cheeko laughed. “Ever hear that one? Hey, listen, I pick who I want to help and that’s that. As long as you listen to what I say, we’ll get somewhere. There’s more than one way to win a ball game.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Sylvester.

  “You’ll find out,” said Cheeko. “There’s still plenty to learn. Little shortcuts you won’t find in books, believe me. So just show up tomorrow and we’ll go at it again. Okay, pal?” He gave Sylvester a gentle poke in the ribs.