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achy' or not, you are not playing any more baseball today. And that's final!”
    Sylvester thought about telling them that his new friend, Charlie, would be waiting for him at the park. But he wasn't sure
     how his parents would react to the news that yet another mysterious ballplayer had been working with him. He'd told them all
     about Mr. Baruth and Cheeko, but somehow, they'd never managed to meet either of those men.
    In fact, something told Syl that even if he did convince his father to take him to the park, Charlie wouldn't show up. So
     in the end, he decided not to say anything.

12
    T he next day, Saturday, was bright and warm when Sylvester joined his parents at the table for breakfast.
    “I'm going to pick up some things for our Fourth of July party next weekend,” Mrs. Coddmyer announced. “Think you two can
     keep busy while I'm out?”
    Mr. Coddmyer looked over his newspaper and gave Sylvester a wink. “Oh, I've got an idea or two of things we can do.”
    Mrs. Coddmyer raised her eyebrows but didn't say anything. She left soon after.
    “So, Dad, what're your ideas?” Sylvester asked when they were alone.
    His father ticked off his fingers. “We could clean the garage, weed the garden, wash the windows, or” — he smiled broadly
     — “we could head to the park and play baseball!”
    “Yes!” Sylvester pumped his fist. “Thanks, Dad!”
    “Why don't you call Duane or some of the other boys and see if they want to join us?”
    Sylvester's enthusiasm faded. He wasn't sure his friends would accept the invitation, but he didn't feel like explaining why
     to his father. So instead he said, “Um, I'll see those guys at practice later today. How about we go to the batting cages?
     I've saved my allowance so I can pay my own way.”
    “A little father-son time it is. Go put on your brace. I'll get the gear and meet you in the car.”
    But when Sylvester returned a minutelater, his father wasn't in the car. He was staring at the bucket of balls.
    “Where'd you get these?” Mr. Coddmyer asked curiously.
    Syl bit his lip. This was the perfect opportunity to tell his father about Charlie Comet and the switch-hitting. But he hesitated
     —and then the phone rang.
    “I'll get it!” Syl rushed inside.
    “Coddmyer, Coach Corbin here,” a voice boomed over the line. “We have our first game the morning of the Fourth of July. Some
     kids will be away for the holiday. Can you make it?”
    “Sure, Coach,” Syl assured him. “See you at practice.” He hung up and returned to the garage. To his relief, his father was
     waiting for him in the car. He seemed to have forgotten about the baseballs.
    When they arrived at the batting cages, Sylvester paid the attendant and got tokensfor the pitching machines. He and his father' selected bats and helmets and headed into the cages. Syl chose the slow-pitch
     option and took up a lefty stance.
    “What th —?” Mr. Coddmyer said, sounding perplexed. “Did you become left-handed overnight?”
    Syl hesitated. Once again, he had the chance to tell his father about Charlie. And once again, he decided not to.
    Instead, he explained that batting righty made his ankle hurt.
    “Just a bit!” he added hurriedly when his father frowned. “But I'm also trying lefty because I, um, heard that switch-hitters
     are good for a team.”
    At that, Mr. Coddmyer nodded. “True,” he said. “There have been many great professional ballplayers who were switch-hitters.
     There's Pete Rose, Roberto Alomar, ChipperJones, and of course, the most famous switch-hitter of all, Mickey Mantle.” His eyes twinkled. “Your grandfather, Sylvester
     Coddmyer the First, once played against Mantle, did you know that?”
    Sylvester's jaw dropped. “What! No way!”
    His father laughed. “Yes way.”
    “No, you're pulling my leg. Grandpa Syl never played in the pros!”
    “Maybe not, but he did face Mantle once, when the Mick played for the Baxter Springs Whiz Kids in Oklahoma. That was