The Home Run Kid Races On Read Online Free PDF

T-shirts.
    “Why do we have these still?” he asked his mother, holding up a bright blue shirt he’d worn constantly when he was five years
     old.
    She smiled. “I’m going to turn those into a patchwork quilt for you someday. If you dig a little deeper, you’ll find your
     Redbirds and Hawks team shirts in there, too.”
    Syl imagined sleeping under a quilt made from his old shirts and smiled, touched by his mother’s plan. Then he pawed through
     the bin until he found the Redbirds jersey. He stared at it, remembering all the great games he’d played while wearing it.
    That season was all thanks to Mr. Baruth,
he thought. He wondered if he’d ever see the mysterious man again. He hoped so.
    He’d just finished refolding the last of the shirts when he caught a glimpse of the time. “Oh, no!” he cried. “Mom, can I
     be done for today? I need to get to the ball field!”
    She made a shooing motion with her hands. “Go, go! But be home by six for supper, okay?”
    “You got it, Mom!”
    Twenty minutes and a furious bike ride later, he reached the old ball field.
    “Mr. Teacy?” he called. “Mr. Teacy, are you here?”
    For a long minute, there was no reply. Then Mr. Teacy stepped out from behind the oak tree.
    “Where were you?” he thundered.
    Syl tried to explain, but Mr. Teacy cut him off.
    “Save it,” he said angrily. “We’ve lost too much time already.” He narrowed his eyes and stared at Syl. “I assume you’re prepared
     to give me everything you’ve got from here on out?”
    Syl bit his lip and nodded.
    Mr. Teacy grunted. “Grab my bat and go to home plate for bunting practice.”
    Syl turned to get Mr. Teacy’s bat from the back of his bike. He had just freed it when suddenly, he heard a new voice.
    “You’re going to need a pitcher if you’re going to be bunting.”
    Syl wheeled around in disbelief. “Mr. Baruth?” he cried, overjoyed.
    “It’s me, Sylvester Coddmyer the Third,” the moon-faced man replied with a wide grin.
    “I can’t believe it’s you!” Syl said.
    “I can’t either.” Mr. Teacy strode across the field, eyes blazing. “What’re you doing here, Baruth?”
    “I’m here for the same reason you are,” Mr. Baruth replied evenly. “To help Syl—if he wants me to, that is.”
    “What makes you think it’s up to him?” Mr. Teacy demanded. “I’m running the show here!”
    “Is that so?” Mr. Baruth’s congenial manner suddenly vanished. He took a step toward Mr. Teacy, his meaty hands balled into
     fists.
    “Hold on!” Syl intervened. He turned to Mr. Teacy. “Doesn’t it make sense for him to pitch to me while you show me how to
     bunt?”
    Mr. Teacy looked from Syl to Mr. Baruth and back again. “Fine,” he said shortly. Then he jabbed a finger at the other man.
     “You do what I tell you, though, or you’re out of here!”
    Syl held his breath. Would Mr. Baruth put up with Mr. Teacy talking to him like that?
    Fortunately, Mr. Baruth relaxed his hands, picked up a ball, and walked to the mound. Only then did Syl let his breath out.
    Mr. Teacy jerked his head at Syl, directing him toward the plate. Once there, he launched into a lecture about bunting.
    “Bunts work best when there’s an element of surprise, so don’t ever let on that you’re going to do one,” he said. “Most common
     is the sacrifice bunt, where the batter’s main goal is to advance a runner. Usually, the batter gets out—that’s why it’s called
     a sacrifice. Name some other bunts.”
    Syl thought hard, chewing on his bottom lip. But he couldn’t come up with any answers.
    “That coach of yours teach you
anything?
” Mr. Teacy blew out an impatient breath and then rattled off the names of different bunts: “Safety squeeze. Suicide squeeze.
     Push bunt. Drag bunt. Any of these ringing a bell?”
    Syl shook his head miserably.
    “Give me the bat,” Mr. Teacy ordered. “We’ll focus on the drag bunt. It’s my favorite because nine times out of ten,