Free The Home Run Kid Races On by Matt Christopher

depended on pinpoint timing, incredible speed, and the ability of the offense to fool
     the defense. If it worked, Syl had a good chance of scoring the winning run. But there were many ways it could fail. A.C.
     could be thrown out at second. Duane could muff the fake bunt. Syl could take off for home too soon. Or the defense could
     spot the play and shut it down before it even begins.
    Getting the third and final out now wouldn’t be the end of the world, of course. A tie game would simply lead to extra innings.
     That was why the coach had decided to try the play.
    “Let’s go for it,” Syl told him.
    The Orioles’ pitcher finished warming up. The umpire called, “Play ball!” The Orioles got into ready stances.
    And Sylvester’s heart hammered so hard in his chest he thought it would burst.
    Duane looked nervous, too. Syl hoped his friend would be able to do his part. He willed him to take deep breaths to calm down.
    I should follow that advice myself,
he thought, and promptly did so.
    The Orioles’ pitcher got the ball. He put it behind his back, twirling it in his fingers, and leaned in to get the signals.
    Duane held the bat above his shoulder, poised and ready. A.C. shuffled into the base path. Syl took a lead, too, trying not
     to be obvious as he did so.
    The third baseman glanced at him but didn’t change his position.
    Syl risked another two steps away from the bag.
    The pitcher nodded, straightened, and went into his windup. His front foot lifted off the turf.
    Go, A.C.! Go!
Syl’s mind screamed.
    A.C. did go, just as the pitcher released the ball. Duane rounded into his bunt, moving his body so it blocked the catcher’s
     view just for an instant. The shouts from the Orioles’ bench must have told the catcher what was happening, however, for the
     second the ball hit his glove he was on his feet and throwing to second.
    Syl didn’t wait a moment longer. He put his head down and ran. As his feet churned through the dirt, he imagined Mr. Teacy
     chasing him like a dog after a squirrel. Adrenaline shot through his veins and spurred him to go even faster. He hit the dirt
     for his slide into home at top speed.
    Sand and tiny pebbles ground into his backside. He didn’t even feel it. He was too focused on reaching home.
    The catcher stood at the ready. Syl heard him yell, saw him move, and then—
pop!
The ball hit the catcher’s glove just as Syl swept across the plate.
    Syl lay still, breathing hard. Gritty dust filled his nose and mouth. He didn’t care. His ears were straining to hear a single
     word.
    And then he heard it.
    “Safe!”
    Duane gave a whoop and yanked Sylvester to his feet. “You did it! Final score, Comets seven, Orioles six!” he shouted.
    “
We
did it!” Syl amended.
    He pounded his friend on the back, grinning from ear to ear. A second later, he and Duane were surrounded by the rest of the
     Comets, all of whom were whooping and cheering. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the Orioles gather at their bench, their
     shoulders slumped.
    He felt bad for them, but that’s what happens. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose.
    “Hey, Syl,” Trent called, “how about a little celebration at the ice cream parlor? My folks will drive us—and better yet,
     they’ll pay!”
    “Sounds great!” Syl returned. “Say, have you seen my glove? I thought I left it on the bench.”
    Trent spied it in the corner of the dugout. “Is that it over there?”
    “That’s it. Thanks,” Syl said. “I’ll be ready to go in a second. Meet you in the parking lot.”
    He hurried to the corner and retrieved his glove. When he picked it up, an envelope fluttered from inside its pocket.
    “What the heck?” He straightened and looked around. “Does this belong to anybody?” But his teammates were still so busy celebrating,
     they didn’t hear him. Syl saw that the envelope wasn’t closed, so he lifted the flap to see what was inside.
    What he found made him suck in his breath. It was a