“I’m fine,” he said. “I guess I’m a little more tired from playing today than I realized. I’ll read a little, then hit the sack.”

  “Good night, dear, and sleep well,” his mother said.

  He leaned over and gave his mother a kiss on the cheek and then did the same to his father, just grazing an earphone. He could hear violins and trumpets. Probably Beethoven or something like that, he thought.

  He went up to his room, got undressed, and crawled into bed. He didn’t even try to read; he knew he wouldn’t be able to concentrate. There were too many things rolling around in his head.

  Were Mr. Baruth and Cheeko ghosts? Actors? Or what had his mother said … angels? And how come they picked him to help out? His father didn’t seem too worried, just curious. He wanted to meet Cheeko. Okay, he could meet him the next morning at practice. Would Cheeko be there? Would Sylvester keep hitting home runs and making great catches? How long would it last? Would it go on until the end of the season like last year? Would Cheeko disappear just like Mr. Baruth?

  He had no idea how long he was awake, thinking all those thoughts, but the next thing he knew, there was bright sunshine streaming through his bedroom windows underneath the shades.

  At breakfast, he was all set to ask his father to come watch him practice with Cheeko, but Mr. Coddmyer was nowhere in sight.

  “Where’s Dad?” he asked his mother.

  “He took the lawn mower in for service so he could use it later this morning,” she answered, sipping her black coffee. “I think he’s counting on you to help him clean up the yard.”

  “Yeah, I can do that … later,” Sylvester mumbled into his cereal. “Uh, Mom, are you busy right now?”

  “I’m going to attack those hedges out back before they turn into the Great Wall of China,” she announced firmly. “Somehow your father never manages to get around to it.”

  She got up and grabbed her gardening gloves, calling back as she left the kitchen, “Clean up your mess before you go anywhere, young man!”

  Sylvester carefully washed his breakfast dishes and put them in the drying rack. It was after nine o’clock. Cheeko would be waiting for him at the park.

  What had his father said? He wanted to meet Cheeko. Or he wanted Mrs. Coddmyer to meet Cheeko. He didn’t exactly say Sylvester couldn’t even see Cheeko until then, did he? At least, it hadn’t sounded that way.

  Sylvester ran to the park. He’d just hit a few or field a couple of Cheeko’s hits. And he’d get a chance to ask Cheeko some things, like where he lived, and what he did. Was he an actor? And what did he know about that Eddie Cicotte?

  But the park was empty. Not a soul in sight. Clean as a whistle, except for a piece of paper under a stone on the pitcher’s mound.

  He picked it up and read the message:

  “Sorry, pal, can’t make it. Got a few things to take care of. See you next game.”

  It was signed with the letter C.

  He crumpled it up and dumped it into the trash bin on his way out of the park.

  Well, at least he didn’t have to lie to his folks about meeting Cheeko behind their backs, after all.

  He got home in time to help his father unload the lawn mower. While Sylvester hauled away hedge clippings from out back, Mr. Coddmyer put the mower to good use in front.

  Later on, after they put away the mower, Mr. Coddmyer grabbed a rake and handed another to Sylvester.

  “Might as well get some of these clippings,” he announced.

  This was the chance Sylvester was looking for.

  “Dad,” he said, “did you ever play ball when you were a kid? You never told me.”

  “I never did? That’s amazing. Yes, I played … Little League and in high school. After that I went off to college and had to work part time to help pay for it. College was expensive, even back then,” Mr. Coddmyer explained.

  “Were you a pretty good player?”

  “I thought so — but I didn’t have the opportunity to find out. Or maybe the drive. I loved playing, even on days when I didn’t see much action. It was great just being out at the park, doing the best I could. That’s all anyone can do.”

  “Did you ever go to any games? You know, pro games?”

  “A few, not many.” Mr. Coddmyer paused and leaned on his rake. “I sense something behind these questions, Syl. What’s up?”

  Sylvester stared at the grass pile on the ground in front of him and said softly, “I guess, well, I just wish we could spend more time together, Dad.”

  Mr. Coddmyer came over to him and put an arm around his shoulders. “I’m sorry your mother and I have been so busy lately, Syl,” he said. “It’s not deliberate, you know that. Just the same old excuse, I’m afraid. Too busy making a living, not enough hours in the day. The usual, I don’t have to tell you, you’ve heard it enough.”

  He rubbed his knuckles on top of Sylvester’s blond hair teasingly. “Hey, I’ll tell you what. The next time the Chiefs play a weekend game, we’ll make a day of it.” Mr. Coddmyer was referring to the Syracuse Chiefs of the International League. They played local games in a neighboring town. “Just your mother, you, and me. A swim at the lake, picnic lunch, then hours of good baseball. What do you say?”

  “Sure!”

  “Good. Well, looks like we’ve got just a bit more work to do here, so let’s get to it!”

  After hurrying through the raking, Sylvester rushed inside to look at the paper to see when the Chief’s next weekend game was to be played “They’re playing next Saturday, Dad. Do you really think Mom will be able to come along, too?”

  “Come along? Where? Where are we going now?” Mrs. Coddmyer poked her head into the living room where they were looking at the paper. “I’m not going anywhere I have to look decent,” she joked.

  “Dad’s taking us to see the Syracuse Chiefs play next Saturday. Do you have it free?” an excited Sylvester blurted out.

  “Well,” she considered, “I could stay home and wash my hair, balance my checkbook, look over some work … or go to a baseball game.” She paused, then smiled and said, “Just don’t expect me to be the only one preparing sandwiches for the picnic lunch!”

  The thought of food reminded Sylvester that he hadn’t had any lunch. While he was making himself a peanut butter and banana sandwich, Joyce Dancer called.

  “There’s a good movie playing at the Cineplex Theater, Syl,” she said. “Want to go this afternoon?”

  “Sure,” he said. He didn’t even ask her what the movie was. It made no difference to him. He was glad to have a chance to spend some time with her.

  It was a silly cops-and-robbers movie, but they had a few laughs and held hands through most of it. Afterward, they went over to the local hangout and sat slurping milk shakes.

  Joyce, still laughing over the dumb movie, started to talk about one of the funny scenes that had broken her up. But Sylvester barely heard what she was saying. He was thinking about Cheeko and wondering what he had had to do that was so important he missed practice.

  After a couple of minutes, Joyce noticed he wasn’t really listening. “What’s the matter? I thought you liked the movie.”

  He forced a grin. “I did. I was just thinking about something else, that’s all.”

  Joyce shrugged. “Oh, well, I guess I’m not as interesting as a certain guy named Cheeko.”

  He had a mouthful of milk shake halfway down his throat and, as he gagged, it almost came up out of his nose. Luckily, he managed to swallow it before gasping out, “How do you know about him?”

  “Duane told me.”

  “Duane! What did he say?”

  Joyce stirred her straw around the glass. “Nothing much, except you think he’s terrific since he’s helping you play better baseball. Maybe even a little dirty baseball.”

  “Dirty?”

  “Yes, Syl, dirty. What else do you call that cheap shot you took at Russ Skelton yesterday?”

  “It wasn’t a cheap shot,” he insisted. “Anyhow, Duane’s been shooting off his mouth too much. Oh, look who just came in — that great fortune-teller, Snooky Malone.”

  “Who’s that behind him?”

  “A couple of guys on the Macon Falcons.”

  He looked past her shoulder at the three of them making their way down the aisle, Snooky leading the way. Duke Farrell, tall and bushy-haired, followed with an arrogant swagger. Steve Button was an inch shorter; he was broad-shouldered and wore a crew cut.

  “Hey Joyce! Hey Sylvester!” Snooky exclaimed when he caught sight of them. He stopped directly in front of their booth, blocking the aisle. “How’d you like the movie?”

  “You were at the movies?” Joyce asked, looking past him to the burly boys who were waiting impatiently behind Snooky.

  “Uh-huh.” Snooky nodded. “Mind if I join you?”

  Before Sylvester or Joyce could say a word, Snooky slid into the seat next to her. Duke and Steve shot a dirty look in Syl’s direction, then climbed into the booth next to theirs.

  “That’s the dude everybody’s talking about,” Duke said loudly. “The kid who hit all those homers last year and finally got a few measly hits this year.”

  “Yeah, but ya’see, Syl-vest-er only hits ’em this year with men on base,” Steve drawled. “Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”

  Duke snorted. “Well, I’ll tell you one thing, when we play those Redbirds on Tuesday, he ain’t even going to see that ball, because I’m pitching. So forget about home runs, Syl-ves-ter.” He drawled out the name just as his pal had.

  “You know who’s going to hit that ball, don’t you?” Steve flexed his biceps. He was sure everyone knew he was leading the league with an average close to .425.

  Sylvester wheeled around in his seat and started to retort. His blood was simmering by now, but Joyce looked even angrier. She grabbed her purse and shoved Snooky out of the booth. She faced Duke and Steve, her eyes flashing.

  “If you guys think I’m going to sit here and listen to this all afternoon, guess again. I have better things to do with my Saturday!” she snapped at them. “And as for you, Sylvester, don’t bother to call me until you’re able to concentrate on something other than baseball, or ghosts, or planning your next cheap shot at another player, or whatever it is you’re so distracted by lately!”

  She stalked out of the restaurant, ignoring Duke and Steves laughter. “Move, Snooky!” Sylvester shouted, pushing his friend out of the way.

  “See you on Tuesday, Syl-vest-er!” Duke sang after him. “And be ready for a row of O’s on the score-board, under Hooper Redbirds!”

  “We’ll just see about that,” Sylvester muttered. “We’ll just see.”

  Outside, there was no sign of Joyce.

  “Rats!” he snarled, kicking his sneaker against a rock. “A lot she cares about me. Well, too bad for her if she’s not interested. I’m not giving up baseball just for some girl.”

  But somehow or other, he just didn’t feel so good as he slowly walked down the street in the direction of his home.

  12

  The game on Tuesday afternoon was played at the Macon Falcons’ athletic field. As the Hooper Red-birds rode there on a chartered bus, next Saturday night’s Chiefs game ran through Sylvester’s mind. He could almost imagine himself wearing a Chiefs uniform, playing under the lights on the bright green field.

  The bus pulled in at three o’clock, in just enough time for the team to change into uniforms and practice before the game started at four.

  As they left the locker room and ran out to the field, Sylvester saw Duke Farrell warming up with his catcher, Greg Jackson. A mocking grin came over the cocky pitcher’s face. Smile now, pal, Sylvester thought, because you’ll wear a different expression when I’m up at bat.

  As soon as that thought occurred, he started to have misgivings. Suppose Duke does strike me out eveiy time I’m up? It could happen. The whole Falcon team, the whole park, everyone would laugh me off the field.

  Especially Trent Sturgis. The Hooper team’s ace slugger this season hadn’t been hitting all that well lately and seemed to be nursing a grudge against Sylvester.

  The Redbirds were up first. Jim Cowley, at the top of the batting order, fouled off two pitches, then let four balls go by to earn himself a walk. Hmm, maybe that smartmouth Farrell isn’t as hot as he pretends, Sylvester mused.

  But then Ted Sobel went down in three, and Trent hit a weak grounder to short, almost resulting in a double play. Jim was out at second, but the combination of the slow bouncing ball and Trent’s speed put him safely at first.

  Sylvester was up next. He let out a deep breath as he left the on-deck circle and walked to the plate, wondering what would happen. He was nervous, but he couldn’t let Duke see that. Stare ’im down, that’s what Cheeko would do.

  Swish! The pitch streaked past Sylvesters stomach for a ball. If he hadn’t moved, he would have been hit. Maybe he should lean into an easy one and fake being hit, just as Cheeko had taught him. He shuddered at the thought.

  “Ball two!” Again Duke zipped the ball inside the plate, forcing Sylvester to jump back several inches to avoid being hit.

  He stepped out of the box, rubbed his gloved hands up and down the bat, took another deep breath, exhaled, then stepped back into the box. Sylvester fixed a hard, determined glare on the Falcons’ hurler as he wound up for his next pitch.

  “Strike!” yelled the ump as the ball just grazed the inside of the plate.

  It seems as though Duke saved his best stuff for me, Sylvester thought. No easy pickin’s here.

  “Ball three!”

  Again the ball came threateningly close, forcing Sylvester practically to fall back from the plate. Thinking again of Cheeko s lesson, he pondered letting one of them hit him. It would be a sure way of ending the tension.

  He took off his batting helmet and wiped his brow, glancing into the stands. He was happy to see Cheeko at the near end of the first base line. But Cheeko wasn’t looking back at him. His eyes were fixed, almost a glassy stare, right at the mound.

  Sweat made Sylvester’s vision a little blurry, but for one second, he thought he saw a sort of round, familiar face, frowning at him from high up in the stands. At a distance, it looked a little like … like Mr. Baruth. But then the man looked down and he couldn’t really tell. Sylvester shook his head and put his helmet back on.

  Duke’s next pitch looked as though it was going to be high and inside, the toughest spot for Sylvester to hit. But it seemed to curve at the last second and slide right down the middle. He swung at it with all his might.

  Crack! It was a solid blow. Sylvester knew the instant his bat connected with the ball that it was a goner. He’d felt that same sensation before and each time it was an over-the-fence wallop.

  He watched the ball sail out to deep left field as he started to run, dropping his bat a third of the way down the base line. The Redbirds’ fans cheered and whistled. He felt like doffing his hat to them as he rounded the bases, but he knew better than to show off. Getting a home run and bringing in a man on base was enough.

  Again he was greeted at the plate by his happy teammates. All, that is, except Trent, who mixed in with the gang at the plate — but didn’t even make a show of holding out his hand.

  Stick it in your nose, Trent, Sylvester thought.

  “Nice blast, Syl,” said his buddy Duane.

  Sylvester shrugged. “Thanks, pal,” he said. “Now it’s your turn.”

  But Duane, up next, popped out to first base. Three outs.

  Hooper Redbirds 2, Macon Falcons 0.

  By now, Sylvester was relaxed enough to check out the crowd as he ran off to his position in right field. There, of course, was Cheeko. He actually wasn’t too far from where the man who looked like Mr. Baruth had been sitting. Only that seat was now empty.

  Apparently, neither his mother nor his father had made the game. Too busy with work. Oh, well, he couldn’t complain too much since they were all going to the Chief’s game this weekend.

  But where was Joyce? He knew another busload of Hooper fans had followed the team. Maybe she had given up on him.

  Ray Bottoms, the Falcons’ shortstop, led off and pounded Terry Barnes’s second pitch for a hard, shallow drive between Bobby and Sylvester for a double. This time the Falcons’ fans, who outnumbered the Redbirds’ fans about four to one, applauded.

  Left fielder Kirk Anderson walloped a fastball down to short, which Trent scooped up and pegged to first for an out. But the next batter, Ernie Fantelli, came through with another double to score Ray.

  “C’mon, Terry! C’mon, kid! Let’s get ’em outta there!” Sylvester chimed in with the rest of the team on the field.

  The cleanup hitter was Steve Button, the other unwelcome visitor who had butted in on Sylvester and Joyce after the movies. He took two hefty swings at Terry’s fastball, then drove one a mile high toward the right center fence. No doubt about it — it was Sylvester s ball. He was after it, running sideways toward the fence, the second he saw it arcing in his direction.

  As he neared the fence, he could tell that the ball would clear it only by inches unless he could leap high enough to make the grab.

  It was almost impossible, but he tried. As he pushed off with all his might, he felt a rush underneath him, like a springboard shoved under his feet. He rose into the air and … plop! The ball smacked in the pocket of his glove and stuck there.

  His feet landed back on earth and he quickly pegged the ball to second. Jim caught it and whipped it to third, but not in time to nab Ernie as he slid safely into the bag.

  Again, there was a wild ovation from the Red-birds’ fans for Sylvester’s sensational catch. There was an ear-to-ear smile on Cheeko’s face as he clapped along with the crowd.

  Sylvester felt incredibly good. That catch ought to take a little wind out of Button’s overblown ego, he thought.

  Scuttling into position for the next batter, he shouted, “One more to go, Terry! Only one more!”

  Robbie Axelrod, the Falcons’ short, well-built third baseman, connected with a low, inside pitch that struck the left field fence for a triple, scoring Ernie. And then Tom Stringer struck out.