Return of the Home Run Kid by Matt Christopher Page B

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
    H ello, 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