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     in the late 1940s, when they were both teenagers, before the Mick was drafted by the Yankees. Grandpa Syl claimed that he
     knew even then that Mantle was going to be a star. ‘He was a big fella, muscular and blond, and could wallop the ball a mile
     on a clear day.’ That's how he always started off his story about his brush with fame.”
    Mr. Coddmyer smiled at the memory “You could ask my dad anything about the Mick and he would know the answer.”
    Then the smile faded. “Dad was heartbroken when it came out that his hero had a lifelong drinking problem. Mantle himself
     seemed pretty heartbroken when he realized he'd failed to be a good role model to young players like you. He tried to make
     up for it, though. Spent much of the last few years of his life teaching people about the dangers of alcohol abuse.”
    His father took a few swings with his bat. “You know, after your grandfather died, I found a stash of old photos from his
     Oklahoma baseball days in his belongings. We should look through them sometime. Maybe we'll spot a young Mickey Mantle!”
    “Sure, that sounds great!” Syl replied. Then he took up his lefty stance again and pushed the start button on the machine.
     He triedhard to concentrate on the incoming ball, but his mind kept turning over what his father had said. He was interested in the
     fact that his grandfather had once played against Mantle. But it was the description of Mantle himself that really intrigued
     him.
    Mantle had been big and blond. He was a switch-hitter. He could wallop the ball a mile. And he was a New York Yankee.
    Syl knew someone who fit that description to a T — Charlie Comet!

13
    S ylvester and his father stayed at the batting cages for more than an hour. During that time, Syl worked on his left-handed
     batting. He whiffed a fair number of pitches. But he also hit several, a few of them hard enough to billow the netting behind
     the pitching machines.
    Finally, Mr. Coddmyer said it was time to go home. Sylvester didn't mind. He was thirsty, and hoped they could dig out those
     old baseball photos.
    But just as they finished putting their gear away, Mrs. Coddmyer returned from hererrands. She needed help unloading the car. When they were through, there was only enough time for a quick lunch before practice.
    Mr. Coddmyer volunteered to drive him. He was unusually quiet for the first minutes of the ride. When he did speak, his voice
     was overly casual.
    “Sylvester, you sat out most of practice yesterday, right?”
    “Yeah,” Syl replied.
    “So you couldn't have practiced switch-hitting then. Which makes me wonder” — Mr. Coddmyer maneuvered the car into the parking
     lot, shut off the motor, and faced his son — “when
did
you practice? Who taught you how? And who suggested you try hitting lefty in the first place? I know you didn't teach yourself.
     It's obvious that you've been coached by someone who knows what he's talking about. It's not Coach Corbin becausehe would have mentioned it when we spoke last night. So who?”
    Sylvester stared down at his hands. He knew he couldn't keep Charlie a secret anymore, not when his father was asking him
     point-blank. So he spilled the whole story, from the time Charlie had helped him with his ankle to the meeting yesterday under
     the tree.
    Mr. Coddmyer drummed the steering wheel with his fingers. “Okay, Syl. You know I'll want to meet him.” He gave his son a serious
     look. “Let's be sure that meeting happens this time. Not like with that fellow Cheeko and the other man, Mr. Baruth.”
    Syl nodded.
    “Off you go, then. Have a good practice and don't forget to wear your brace. Your mother will have your head if you do!”
    Sylvester unbuckled his seat belt and opened the door. “Don't worry, Dad, I'll wearit. And I'll make sure you meet Charlie! I promise!”
    But as he ran to the field, he wondered if he'd be able to keep that promise. Would Charlie be a no-show, like Cheeko, or
     just never