Redbirds 2, Falcons 2.

  “Okay, Bobby, break the tie,” shouted Coach Corbin. “Nail that ball!”

  Bobby Kent, leading off at the top of the second inning for the Redbirds, did nail Dukes first pitch over second base for a single.

  As Jerry Ash, the next batter, headed for the plate, Sylvester heard a familiar voice at a familiar spot — his elbow. “You did it again, Syl. You can do it every time you want to, can’t you?”

  Snooky Malone was at his side again. His face was wreathed in a broad smile.

  “Do what? Who cares? Oh, never mind!” Sylvester snapped before Snooky had a chance to answer. “Buzz off, will you? What are you doing here, anyway?”

  Snookys cheerful expression faded. His face got all flushed. “Sorry, Syl,” he said, apologetically. “I didn’t mean to bother you. After all, I’m your friend, not your enemy.”

  Without another word, he stepped out of the dugout, never looking back.

  Sylvester sat there, fuming. The little creep, he thought, he really sounded sorry. Maybe he was. But I don’t have to sit there and take it eveiy time he needles me, do I? I can give it as well as take it. That’s what Cheeko would expect from me now.

  Yeah, Cheeko had shown him a thing or two. And it was starting to pay off. He had to play tough … and be tough, no matter what. Well, that’s what he’d do from now on, even with the likes of Snooky Malone.

  “What was all that about?” Duane asked, sliding into the vacant space next to his friend.

  “Nothing. Just a lot of nothing,” Sylvester answered.

  He fixed his attention at the plate in time to see Jerry Ash lay down a bunt, sending Bobby safely to second, but getting thrown out himself.

  “Bring ’im home, Eddie!” Sylvester shouted as the Redbirds’ catcher stepped up to the plate, pulling on his batting gloves.

  Eddie did, with a long triple to right center field. Then Terry fanned, and Jim singled, scoring Eddie. With the one man on, Ted popped up to third, ending the half inning.

  Terry held the Falcons to a walk in the bottom of the inning, so no runs scored.

  The Redbirds came up again with Trent leading off. His slump continued as he struck out.

  Sylvester couldn’t help but grin as he passed Trent on his way to the batter’s box amidst loud cheers and applause from the stands.

  With a cocky stance, he ground his feet into the dirt and took the first pitch — a called strike that seemed a little inside to him, almost a brush.

  The next pitch did more than brush him. It hit him.

  13

  Base!” yelled the ump. Then; to Duke, “Watch it, Farrell. You’re putting some of ’em awfully close in there, mister. Another one like that, and you’re outta here!”

  About time, thought Sylvester. Boy, that sure hurt. It never felt like that when he practiced with Cheeko, when they weren’t for real.

  Sylvester rubbed the bruised spot where the ball had hit. His side throbbed, but he wasn’t about to let anyone know how much it hurt. After all, he had brought it on himself, by leaning into the pitch slightly. And you had to act tough, he remembered.

  The next batter, Duane, cracked a single over shortstop, advancing Sylvester to second base. But neither of them got any farther. Bobby hit a line drive to the shortstop, and Jerry fanned. Three out.

  As Sylvester ran to the dugout for his glove, Coach Corbin looked worried.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “Sure, coach,” Sylvester replied. “I can hardly feel it any more.” But I won’t forget it, he added to himself.

  Ray Bottoms led off for the Falcons and lined a three-one pitch directly to Trent for the first out. Kirk Anderson fared no better, popping the first pitch back to Terry.

  “One more, Terry! One-two-three!” shouted Sylvester as Ernie Fantelli stepped up to the plate.

  But Terry pitched four balls, none of which crossed the plate, and Ernie had a free ticket to first base.

  With little happening in the outfield, Sylvester looked around the stands and caught Cheeko s eye. Leaning back in his seat, Cheeko made a little jab with his fist that looked like a cross between an okay sign and thumbs-up. Sylvester gave him a quick wave and turned back to the action on the field.

  Cleanup slugger Steve Button had just stepped to the plate and all three outfielders edged themselves back a little. Steve was ready and walloped Terry’s first pitch out toward center field. It looked as if it was all Bobbys, an easy out. But just as the ball started its downward arc, Bobby tripped as though he’d stumbled into something.

  It seemed miles away, but Sylvester had to try for it. From out of nowhere, he felt a rush of energy as he made his move. With lightning speed, he crossed into the center field zone, put out his glove, and grabbed the ball just inches from the turf.

  There was a thunderous ovation as the Redbirds came off the field. Sylvester could hear his name being called in the midst of all the shouting.

  Flopping down onto the bench, Bobby shook his head as he tried to explain what happened.

  “Like, it was weird,” he said. “It felt like somone pulled the ground out from under my foot.”

  “Maybe it was a ghost.” Ted Sobel offered this with a laugh.

  Sylvester felt a little lump in his throat.

  The Hooper team went down in three as they came to bat in the top of the fourth inning. In the bottom, Robbie Axelrod led off for the Falcons and made the game interesting by blasting a home run over the left field fence.

  Tom Stringer kept things rolling by smashing a hard grounder down toward the shortstop position. It looked as if Trent had it, but it went through his legs for an error.

  Get your tailgate down, Big Shot, Sylvester felt like yelling at him — but knew enough not to.

  Ed Norman flied out to center field, but Greg Jackson smacked a triple along the third base line. That scored Tom and brought up the smartmouth pitcher, Duke Farrell.

  Two runs, one out, and a man was on third.

  Sylvester joined in with his teammates, shouting toward the mound, “Hold ’em, Terry! You can do it!”

  But Duke slashed a single by the pitcher to score Greg and put the Falcons ahead by one run.

  Coach Corbin ran out of the dugout as the umpire raised his hands for a time out.

  The coach talked with Terr)’ for a moment, then took the ball from the downcast pitcher. He waved in Rick Wilson, who had been warming up in front of the first base seats.

  After a few warm-up throws, the game resumed. Rick managed to hold Ray Bottoms to a groundout to second, and Kirk Anderson to a pop fly to first base. Three out. Redbirds 4, Falcons 5.

  Ted led off in the top of the fifth with a single through the gap between first and second bases. Trent, up next, lined one over short, advancing Ted to second.

  Sylvester stepped into the batters box. A big cheer rose up from the Redbirds’ fans as he thumped the fat end of his bat against the plate and waited for the pitch.

  As he stared down the pitcher, he tried to forget the sensation of being hit by the ball last time. Instead, he checked out his stance, his grip, and each pitch as it came toward him.

  “Strike!”

  It was inside, just grazing the plate.

  “Strike two!” The second pitch was almost in the veiy same spot.

  Then, “Ball!” Yes, but it just missed the plate by an inch. Duke was in his absolute best form.

  Then, crack! Sylvester swung, connected, and drove the ball toward deep center field. It cleared the fence by five feet and cleaned the bases for three runs.

  The ovation was deafening as Sylvester dropped his bat and circled the bases.

  His teammates greeted him with high fives as he crossed the plate — again, all but Trent, who hung back. And, as he headed for the dugout, there was Snooky Malone jumping up and down.

  “I can’t help it, Sylvester,” said Snooky, his voice hoarse from cheering. “You came through, just as I knew you could — and would.”

  Sylvester barely slapped Snooky’s extended hand before he turned away. But I have to admit that the little guy sure had guts to come over and congratulate me, after the way I’ve been treating him. Maybe I ought to take it easy on him, he considered.

  But Snooky had vanished. Sylvester removed his batting gloves, pushed them into his pocket, and settled down in the dugout.

  This game is going so great, he thought. I hope my folks are out there somewhere. Mom said she was going to try to get someone to cover for her at work. Maybe she got here in time for that home run. But I don’t suppose I’d be lucky enough for Dad to go without a call on his beeper this afternoon.

  Duane Francis batted a double, his second hit of the game. But Duke mowed down the next three batters and the half inning was over. Redbirds 7, Falcons 5.

  The Falcons put one man on base during their turn at bat. Steve Button had fouled off three pitches. It looked as if Rick was starting to lose control and then he walked him. The next three batters went down in a row and that was it.

  A caught pop fly, a single, and then a double play in the sixth and last inning ended the Redbirds’ chances of collecting any more runs.

  Two singles and two walks resulted in another run for the Falcons in the bottom of the inning but that was all the scoring that took place. When the game ended, it was Redbirds 7, Falcons 6.

  At the final out, an ovation resounded in the stands as the crowd swarmed down onto the field. In no time, Sylvester found himself surrounded by friends, admirers, and for the first time this season, newspaper reporters. He recognized a few faces, from the Hooper Herald and the Chronicle. They had both sent writers out to cover the game.

  “Sylvester,” began the reporter from the Herald, “I’ve noticed something unusual about your hitting this year. You’ve never gotten a hit when the bases were empty. And, when there was someone on base, you not only got a hit, it was always a home run. Any way you can explain that, well, that phenomenon?”

  “Phenomenon? No, I guess I can’t,” replied Sylvester, honestly.

  “Do you do anything different, or feel anything different, when you’re in those situations?” asked the reporter for the Chronicle.

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so,” Sylvester mumbled. Maybe it was just coincidence, Sylvester wanted to say. Deep down, though, he wondered if it was something else. Something called Cheeko.

  The reporters kept up their barrage of questions. Syl heard the steady click of cameras snapping and the whir of camcorders getting it all on tape. He looked around to see if he could find someone else to talk to. Where was Joyce? Had she come to the game? And what about his mother and father? They were nowhere in sight.

  “What about your fielding, Sylvester?” continued the woman from the Herald, waving a microphone toward Syl’s face. He tried to push away the memory of the force he had felt propelling him into the air — and the one that had tripped up Bobby.

  “Sorry,” he said, his nerves getting on edge. “I have to go now.” Same as last year, he thought, same big hullabaloo. It was sort of fun back then, but now… it doesn’t seem so much like I deserve all this attention.

  “Would you be surprised if a few years from now some major league team offered you a contract?” the reporter for the Herald persisted.

  “No, I wouldn’t be surprised!” Sylvester finally snapped. “Why? Because in a few years I will be good enough to play in the majors!” With that, he pushed past the surprised woman and climbed aboard the waiting bus.

  He was sure he’d told them what Cheeko would have expected him to say. He wasn’t sure it came out sounding so good, though.

  The bus unloaded its passengers back at the school, across from the field. Before heading home, Sylvester strolled over to the bleachers and sat down. It was nearly dark, and he hadn’t noticed one occupied seat at the far end. After a few minutes, he heard a voice come from that direction.

  “I just don’t know what to think of you now, Sylvester. I just don’t know.”

  It couldn’t be.

  Sylvester got up and climbed over the bleachers. It was Mr. Baruth!

  “Mr. Baruth! What are you doing here? When did you get back?” he asked, the words pouring out in his excitement.

  “That doesn’t matter,” said Mr. Baruth. “I don’t have time to go into all that right now. Maybe someday. What’s important is what has happened to you.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Sylvester, chewing on his lower lip.

  “Last year, I tried to help you become a better player because I saw a lot of potential there. Sort of a chip off an old block that never really got a chance.”

  I bet he’s talking about Dad, Sylvester thought.

  “And, just as important, you were a good, honest kid,” Mr. Baruth went on.

  “I… I still am,” Sylvester stammered.

  “Are you? Can you honestly tell me you aren’t cutting corners, shaving around the edges, so to speak?”

  “But… but Cheeko says …”

  “Cheeko! Who cares what he says?” Mr. Baruth snapped.

  “Isn’t he a friend of yours? He says he knows you,” Sylvester insisted.

  “Knowing someone doesn’t make that person your friend,” said Mr. Baruth. “And it doesn’t matter how someone else tells you to play the game. You’re old enough to know what’s right and wrong yourself. You shouldn’t need any outside help.”

  “But what will happen if… if… ?”

  “If you just play clean, the way you learned from Coach Corbin and from my few suggestions last year? Well, Sylvester, there’s only one way you’ll ever know.”

  Sylvester stared down at his shoes, his eyes smarting and the back of his throat all choked up.

  When he lifted his head, Mr. Baruth was gone.

  14

  Hello, Joyce? It’s Syl,” he spoke into the telephone. “I didn’t see you after the game today. What? Oh … well, maybe I’ll talk to you later.”

  So she hadn’t been at the game. It made her too uncomfortable to see him turning into such a bully. He couldn’t even defend himself when she said that.

  “I got that book you asked about,” his mother called from the dining room. After dinner she liked to sit there drinking her coffee and reading the newspaper while his father carried on a commentary about the silly letters to the editor.

  “Thanks, Mom,” he said as he took the book up to his room. It was a history of the World Series from ihe very first to the one played just last year. He quickly turned to the section on 1919.

  There it was, all about the Black Sox scandal. Eddie Cicotte, the pitcher, was right in there with seven others who were accused of fixing the outcome of the series by the way they hit and fielded — or didn’t hit and committed fake errors. The author claimed that they had had a score to settle with the team’s owners, who had treated them badly.

  I don’t have any score to settle with anyone, thought Sylvester. Even when I wasn’t playing so hot, Coach Corbin treated me like any other player. It was my own fault, if anything, that I was in a slump.

  There was a picture of the team and he picked out Eddie Cicotte. He looked just as he did on the card Duane had lent him; he’d had to promise Duane he’d guard it with his life since it was sort of rare.

  It was still light out. Sylvester remembered what his father had said about wanting to meet Cheeko, but that was when he was going to practice with him. Maybe it would be okay if he just went for a walk in the direction of the field while it was still light out.

  He hadn’t gotten three blocks from his house when he saw Cheeko coming toward him.

  “Hi, Cheeko,” Sylvester said, not that surprised to bump into him.

  “Hi, Syl,” said Cheeko. “What brings you out this time of day, or should I say night? You should be celebrating after the way you played today.”

  “Right,” said Sylvester, “but first I want to show you this.”

  He reached into his pocket and brought out a baseball card.

  “I borrowed it from my friend Duane, you know, our third baseman?” he said. He handed it to Cheeko, who examined it closely.

  “Hey, how about that?” Cheeko cried out with gusto. “Eddie Cicotte! Chicago White Sox!”

  “Then you know him?” Sylvester asked, searching Cheeko s eyes and face.

  “Know him? Who doesn’t?” Cheeko replied. “Everybody who knows anything about baseball has heard of him. Well, almost everybody.”

  There were so many questions in Sylvester’s mind, he didn’t know which to ask first. But he knew that he had to get some answers or they would haunt him forever.

  “That picture … uh … it sort of… well, doesn’t it,” he hemmed and hawed, “doesn’t it look a little … ?”

  “Like me?” Cheeko finished, his grin spreading wider than ever.

  “Yeah!” Sylvester shouted, relieved.

  “Well, I’d be lying if I said that it doesn’t, ’cause it does, doesn’t it?”

  “Sure does,” nodded Sylvester.

  “Look, you can walk down the street and see someone who looks like the president of the United States,” Cheeko continued, “but that doesn’t mean this guy is the president of the United States, does it?”

  “No, but…”

  “Syl, let me tell you something. There’re a lot of coincidences and a lot of strange things in this world. Don’t expect answers for everything.”

  He handed back the card and threw back his shoulders, the way he always did when he was all through practice and ready to leave.

  “Are … are you going somewhere now?” Sylvester asked.

  “It’s near the end of the line for us, kid,” Cheeko said, looking around.

  “But I still have a lot of questions I have to ask you,” Sylvester said.

  “I’m a little short on answers, right now,” Cheeko said abruptly. “Tell you what, I’ll see you at the game next week. We’ll talk afterward.”

  Before Sylvester could get another word out, Cheeko had turned, raced across the street, and was out of sight in an instant.

  But what about Mr. Baruth? What about what he said about your not being friends? What about the Black Sox scandal?