The Home Run Kid Races On Read Free

overheard that back at the game. How else would he know who I am?
    Unless
… Syl felt a familiar tingling crawl up his spine. He eyed the man’s old-fashioned baseball clothes.
Could he be another part of my mystery?
    “So you were some kind of home run hitter once, huh?” The man shrugged dismissively. “Can’t say I’m too impressed by that.
     Any baboon can hit a home run. Now base hits, those are harder to knock out regularly. Bet a certain someone you know never
     told you that though, did he?”
    Syl’s heart gave a sudden bang in his chest. “A certain someone? Do you mean…
Mr. Baruth?
”

4
    M r. Baruth? Yeah, I guess that’s who I mean.” The man gave a short laugh. “We’re on opposite sides of the fence about home
     runs. He thinks they’re everything. I don’t.”
    Syl wrinkled his forehead in puzzlement. “You don’t?” he asked. “Why not?”
    “Home runs ruin batting averages, that’s why,” the man replied. “You swing for the fence every time, you’ll strike out more
     often than you’ll get a four-bagger. Or you’ll get walked.”
    Syl remembered the Oriole slugger’s first at-bats. “I guess that could be true, Mr.…” He paused, realizing that he didn’t
     know the man’s name.
    “Teacy,” the man said. “Mr. Teacy. And of course it’s true. A player who can sprinkle hits around the field, he’s worth something.
     He gets runners on base. He keeps the defense guessing. And he earns himself a high batting average and so keeps his place
     on the team.” He shook his head. “A player who just hits home runs is like a singer who only performs one song. After a while,
     everyone knows just what tune they’re going to hear. Bet Mr. Baruth never told you that.”
    Mr. Teacy picked up a baseball and tossed it to Syl. “Want to see one of my favorite hits?”
    Syl nodded, intrigued.
    “Then get on the mound and throw me a pitch,” Mr. Teacy said.
    “Okay,” Syl replied, “but I’m not a pitcher.”
    “Just aim for the strike zone,” Mr. Teacy said as he retrieved his bat, “and I’ll do the rest.”
    Mr. Teacy got into his stance in the batter’s box. Syl took aim and threw. He didn’t know what he expected to see, but he
     wasn’t ready for what the man did.
    Instead of swinging around in a wide arc, Mr. Teacy slid his right hand up the fat part of the bat, squared off, and knocked
     the ball to the ground so that it rolled toward third base.
    “A bunt?” Syl said, surprised. “That’s one of your favorite hits? But you can swing with so much power! Why would you bunt
     when you could send it over the fence?”
    Mr. Teacy frowned. “Weren’t you listening? Base hits, not homers! A well-placed bunt will get me on base. It’ll advance runners,
     too, and catch the defense off guard. And that’s a win-win-win situation.” He held his bat out, barrel first, to Syl. “Let’s
     see you do it.”
    Syl shook his head. “I’m no good at bunting,” he admitted. “We usually work on regular hits during batting practice.”
    The man’s lips flattened into a disapproving line. “Your coach must be a real lunk-head to ignore bunting!”
    Sylvester swelled with anger then. He was very fond of his coach, Stan Corbin. He always encouraged his players to perform
     their best and to stay upbeat and positive, even when they didn’t do as well as they had hoped. Whoever Mr. Teacy was, he
     had no right to criticize him!
    “Coach Corbin doesn’t ignore bunting,” Syl said. “He just focuses on other things, that’s all.”
    “Think what you want,” Mr. Teacy said. “But if
he’s
not showing you how to bunt, someone else better. And that someone”—he flicked his wrist, flipping the bat so the grip was
     now facing Syl—“is me.”
    Any doubt Sylvester had that Mr. Teacy was yet another piece of his baseball puzzle vanished in that instant. He reached for
     the bat, feeling that he was reaching toward his destiny.
    To his surprise, Mr. Teacy didn’t