Return of the Home Run Kid by Matt Christopher Page A

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