Seams

By Jan Sumner

It’s a curious passion of the human spirit, but hope seems to forever spring eternal. Whether founded on real opportunities or just wishful thinking, hope is nevertheless there, abounding with endless possibilities and a certain singularity unique unto itself. It is, in fact, what makes life promising and ever changing.

So it was for the Cummings family, my family, of Washington, Missouri. A family centered on Christian beliefs and an old fashioned work ethic. Beyond this, however, we had an insatiable love of baseball, more specifically, the St. Louis Cardinals, who plied their trade a mere forty miles away. But those forty miles might as well have been forty-thousand miles, as we could only admire and dream from afar.

That is until, my grandfather, Kyle “The Breeze” Cummings came along. He would not only alter the Cummings family history, but that of Washington, Missouri and major league baseball.

A warm summer wind brushed across my face as I stood watching my son, Jake, sitting in his grandfather’s lap. My mind drifted back to a time when I’d sit in my grandfather’s lap, too young to truly know the greatness of the man, but even then sensing there was something special about him. Ah, when we’re young, everything is taken for granted, nothing is questioned, which is as it should be, but then as you get older and passing becomes part of the equation, regrets arise from wasted opportunities and precious moments lost.

I remembered my grandfather telling me that life has seams, like the seams on a baseball, or the seams in a glove. They could be stretched, or frayed or even broken, but they could always be put back together. Who knows if it was his love of the game or maybe his love of life, whatever it was, he was a man of inimitable worth and inspiration.

Baseball is a timeless game that weaves its magic, heartbreak and exhilaration, yet somehow stays charmingly unchanged – this then is the story of three generations of my family, as told to me by my father and
grandfather, cast against the landscape of the heartland of America and its national pastime, enduring a depression, a world at war, tragedy and death, but never giving up or giving in, persevering as only the human spirit can.

My name is Ty Cummings and this is our journey.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jan Sumner
• Release date: Jul 10, 2011
• ISBN: 9780970319760

Jan Sumner

Jan has written ten books, two of which received special recognition. He was honored to present his book Legacy of a Monarch-An American Journey at the Baseball Hall of Fame in 2006, and his book Independence, Mantle and Miss Able was acknowledged by the Smithsonian in 2015 as part of their Home Town Team project and is also in the Baseball Hall of Fame.Jan also works with the homeless and teaches Sunday school.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

It’s a curious passion of the human spirit, but hope seems to forever spring eternal. Whether founded on real opportunities or just wishful thinking, hope is nevertheless there, abounding with endless possibilities and a certain singularity unique unto itself. It is, in fact, what makes life promising and ever changing.

So it was for the Cummings family, my family, of Washington, Missouri. A family centered on Christian beliefs and an old fashioned work ethic. Beyond this, however, we had an insatiable love of baseball, more specifically, the St. Louis Cardinals, who plied their trade a mere forty miles away. But those forty miles might as well have been forty-thousand miles, as we could only admire and dream from afar.

That is until, my grandfather; Kyle The Breeze Cummings came along. He would not only alter the Cummings family history, but that of Washington, Missouri and major league baseball.

A warm summer wind brushed across my face as I stood watching my son, Jake, sitting in his grandfather’s lap. My mind drifted back to a time when I’d sit in my grandfather’s lap, too young to truly know the greatness of the man, but even then sensing there was something special about him. Ah, when we’re young, everything is taken for granted, nothing is questioned, which is as it should be, but then as you get older and passing becomes part of the equation, regrets arise from wasted opportunities and precious moments lost.

I remembered my grandfather telling me that life has seams, like the seams on a baseball, or the seams in a glove. They could be stretched, or frayed or even broken, but they could always be put back together. Who knows if it was his love of the game or maybe his love of life, whatever it was, he was a man of inimitable worth and inspiration.

Baseball is a timeless game that weaves its magic, heartbreak and exhilaration, yet somehow stays charmingly unchanged – this then is the story of three generations of my family, as told to me by my father and grandfather, cast against the landscape of the heartland of America and its national pastime, enduring a depression, a world at war, tragedy and death, but never giving up or giving in, persevering as only the human spirit can.

My name is Ty Cummings and this is our journey.

SEAMS

It never seemed to lose its luster, always radiant, magical. It was my grandfather’s World Series ring. He was the only player/coach on a major league roster to get this cherished piece of baseball history in his first and only year in the big leagues.

It sat inside a clear glass case, on top of a bookshelf behind my dad’s desk. Every time I looked at it, all those stories about Kyle The Breeze Cummings would come flooding back. I took the case down and removed the ring. Bending down I placed it in Jake’s hand. At nine, he was still not quite sure what it meant, but there was a look of excitement and curiosity on his face. He stared at it for a second, smiled, looked up at me with a twinkle in his eye, Dad, is this really a World Series ring?

We’d been through this before. It was as if Jake just couldn’t believe it. He loved baseball as much as I did, and probably as much as his grandfather and great grandfather, the Breeze. But there was still that curiosity - could this be real? I slid around behind the desk and sat down. Jake plopped down in the oversized stuffed chair in the corner, clutching that ring with both hands. This room was baseball, musty and cluttered, old chairs, worn out rugs, childhood stuff, full of three generations of baseball history, and the history of the game as we had come to love it. It smelled like an old glove, that smell of leather you never forget as a kid. There were pictures hanging everywhere, some straight. Bats in corners, mounted on the wall, and baseballs…ah yes, what seemed like thousands. Many were autographed, many were not, but they all had a story. My no-hitter when I was sixteen in the summer American Legion program. Jake’s first pitched ball in Little League. It went on and on, but sadly over the years there were balls and other keepsakes whose history we’d lost. Oh, there was a time when dad knew every detail of every item, but memories fade. To some people this would look like just so much baseball junk, but to us it was a treasure, a history of the game we loved, for one family during warm, never-ending summers.

Dad!

Yeah, Jake…I’m sorry. Of course that’s a real World Series ring. I tell you what, why don’t you take it, go out on the back porch and ask Grandpa Phil? You’ve probably heard enough about it from me, and you don’t get to spend enough time with him. I know he’d love to tell you about it.

He wrestled his way out of the overstuffed chair and disappeared around the corner, ring in hand. On the wall next to the desk was an old and faded color photo of the 1957 Cards. I pulled it off the wall and held it under the light on the desk. It read:

1957 WORLD CHAMPIONS ST. LOUIS CARDINALS

There they all were, Billy Fox, Wynn Jones, John King, Buck Hart, the Kansas farm boy, Scott Lockwood, and standing in the back wearing his red Cardinals jacket, Kyle Cummings, my grandfather. He looked older than the players, but not by much. He was around 6’3" and had a tall, straight frame, a full head of salt-and-pepper hair, and deep blue eyes. There was a kindness to his face, a sense that you could tell him anything and he’d understand, a man of compassion. But, there was also a side to him that meant business. You knew if he had something to say…he’d say it, and in baseball lingo, he could still bring it, even then. More importantly, he knew how to teach up-and-coming youngsters, and even an occasional veteran, a few tricks of the trade. He’d never pitched in the big leagues, or even the minor leagues for that matter, but for one tragic day on the hill, who knows.

Chapter 2

I remember hearing and reading about the year 1915, a memorable year in baseball. Babe Ruth in his first full season in the big leagues won 18 games as a pitcher, hit .315 and banged out 4 home runs for the Boston Red Sox. Ty Cobb led the American League in hitting with a .369 average and stole 96 bases, a major league record. Chicago won the Federal League flag by one percentage point over our beloved Cards. The Federal League folded that same year. It was also the year the Chicago White Sox obtained the services of Joe Jackson. He would not only become famous as Shoeless Joe, but would lead the Sox to pennants in 1917 and 1919. He would also be part of the infamous Black Sox scandal in 1919. World War I ended in 1919 and, sadly, so did the World Series, in resentment and shame.

For my grandfather, Breeze, 1915 was both memorable and devastating. He was eighteen at the time and pitching his senior year in high school. He lived with his parents in the small town of Washington, Missouri, located on the banks of the Missouri River some 40 miles west of St. Louis. It was a community noted for a Lewis & Clark stop, wine and the home of the corn cob pipe. It was a small town, rich in family tradition. A tradition treasured and honored by the Cummings family. It was also an area naturally given to a love of St. Louis Cardinals baseball.

His dad had always been a big St. Louis Cardinals fan. Occasionally he and Breeze would drive to St. Louis to see a game. Breeze grew up dreaming of the day he’d get to pitch to the likes of a Babe Ruth or Ty Cobb.

It was an unseasonably warm afternoon in late May. Breeze was…well, breezing along with a two hitter. He and his dad had always held out hope he’d get a chance to play big league baseball. He certainly had the arm, hence the nickname, Breeze. Like most young guys who could throw hard, that’s all he did. But it had worked, as it often does in high school. He’d breeze the ball by them and usually breeze through the lineup. This day had been no different. His team, the Washington Blue Jays were up 7-0 in the top of the sixth inning. He’d given up two hits, one walk and had ten strikeouts. In the bottom of the sixth, the leadoff hitter popped up and the number two hitter struck out. That brought to the plate Warrenton’s best hitter, Jack Sampson. His first time at bat he’d struck out, but his second time up he’d hit a hard line drive to right center for a double. He was a big farm boy, a raw-boned kid, who looked more like a man than a boy, and he had amazingly quick hands. Breeze started him off with a fastball in for a strike. He tried to break off a curve ball but hung it. Sampson fouled it off. Breeze’s next pitch would live with him forever. A fastball away that Sampson absolutely crushed.

As a young pitcher you learn that power hitters trying to hit a fastball away, will invariably pull it back up the middle. Breeze told his dad in the hospital he never saw the ball come back at him. He remembered throwing it and then collapsing to the ground. The ball had hit him directly on his left knee, shattering his kneecap. It was his plant leg, so it was firmly entrenched when the ball struck. The doctor later told him the bone was in too many pieces to count. He lived the rest of his life without a kneecap and without playing anymore competitive baseball.

He still loved the game, but for the most part just stayed away from it. Not being able to run, having to walk with a slight limp and still having this great arm but unable to use it, would periodically plunge him into severe depression. He graduated from high school and went to work in his dad’s hardware store in town. He’d so dreamt of playing big league ball; it was hard to imagine not doing it, or at least getting the chance to try. His dad would talk to him about it occasionally, but generally just left it alone. He knew in time Breeze would come out of it, and when he was ready, they’d talk about it.

As the years passed, Breeze adjusted to life without baseball, but the desire was always there, deep in his soul. Oh, he and his dad would manage to go to a few Cards games in St. Louis now and then and Breeze seemed to enjoy them, but it was just not the same, knowing he could never really be part of it. The game now haunted him.

One hazy spring afternoon his old high school coach, Bob Campbell, stopped in the store to talk to him. Bob had been coaching the Blue Jays since Five days before water, as he used to say, and it was time to step down. Bob had coached Breeze in high school, knew his passion for the game and just had a feeling he’d be an outstanding coach, he offered him the job. Shocked would be an understatement. Never in his wildest dreams did he foresee or expect this, but there it was, on the table. He asked Coach Campbell if he could think about it for a few days. He agreed, but told Breeze he had to know within a week.

There was a part of him that desperately wanted to get back in the game, but there was a bigger part that was afraid. What would these young players think of him limping around, trying to hit infield, wanting to throw batting practice, but unable to. He discussed it with his dad, and true to form, his dad told him to follow his heart. He talked to his doctor about the possibility of further injury. Dr. Little told him to just stay away from running, gave him a good workout program to strengthen the muscles around his knee, and told him his knee would in no way hinder his ability to coach. One week to the day, he called Coach Campbell and told him he’d take the job, but not without a few reservations.

Ultimately, it would be the best thing that ever happened to him in baseball, but there were times he was not so sure. Washington was a rather rural community sandwiched between Jefferson City and St. Louis, lying peacefully beside the Missouri River; life was serene. People worked hard and expected their kids to do the same. This could, and did, affect practices and attendance. Nevertheless, Breeze persevered and turned the Blue Jays into a force to be reckoned with. His forte was pitching. He’d find young, strong arms and start turning them into pitchers before they graduated. Pitching had been, and always would be, the key to success in baseball and Breeze knew it. He studied, read all he could, and experimented with deliveries, grips, balance, stride, anything and everything he could think of to help these young arms.

As the wins mounted, and his reputation grew, he soon became well known as a pitching authority. Young men from near and distant schools came to learn from The Breeze. He’d found peace with his handicap and more importantly, he’d found a place of competition, contentment and reward in baseball. He might not have been the old Breeze, but he certainly was a new Breeze, and it felt good.

Chapter 3

It was getting close to noon, and I was going to have to be leaving soon. I got up and walked around my dad’s office, which was really more like a museum. Out the window I could see Jake sitting on his lap. They were laughing and talking, Jake still holding onto that ring. There was a part of me that hurt for my dad. He loved baseball with all his heart, but never had the tools to play at a high level. He’d grown up in the shadow of his dad, Breeze, but never let on how difficult that might have been. He told me that, from the time he could remember, he was shagging fly balls, playing catch with much older kids, and following his dad around learning all he could about the game, especially the intricacies and subtleties of pitching.

As I stood watching them, I realized how much he meant to me, how much I loved him. I only hoped Jake would have those same memories and feelings when he grew up. Baseball had always been such a big part of our lives. In some ways, it was the bridge between generations, the glue that had held this family together in times of turmoil. I remember my grandfather, Breeze, saying life had seams, like the seams on a baseball, or the seams in a glove. They could become stretched, or torn, or even broken, but they could always be repaired, just like our lives. As I grew older I began to recognize what a wise man he was. Peering out of the old clouded window, watching Jake laugh on my dad’s lap, brought back all those memories that, in some ways, seemed like only yesterday, but in reality was long ago.

Sitting on the Breeze’s lap, laughing, not really knowing who he was, other than my grandfather; him showing me how to hold a fastball, curve, or changeup, the whole time smiling that warm, wonderful smile, then bursting out laughing as I tried to maneuver my pudgy little fingers around the ball. He looked old to me, but there was something vibrant about him. Maybe it was his love of the game, or maybe just his love of life. Whatever it was he was a special man, and I miss him more today than I thought possible. He died when I was twenty years old. I came back for the funeral, but sadly had not stayed in touch with him like I should have. He’d become crippled with arthritis and was unable to walk in his last few years, but he was still mentally sharp and still loved the game that had shaped his life. He may not have been a man for all seasons, but he certainly was for the baseball season, and the season of life.

Ty, it’s time to go. Hello…where are you?

Oh, I’m sorry honey, I was just…

Daydreaming? Yes I know, but we really do have to get going.

My wife, Michelle - it’s one of the reasons I married her, besides the fact she was beautiful and bright, she kept me toeing the mark…in a gentle, sweet way of course.

Okay, just let me say goodbye to Jake and dad.

Alright, I’ll meet you out at the car, she said smiling as she headed down the hallway. I turned, took one last look around this glorious old room, and then made my way to the back porch.

Dad, grandpa has been showing me how to hold a fastball.

Really Jake, that’s wonderful. It must be a genetic thing, huh dad?

He looked up grinning from ear to ear, I suppose so, although I don’t remember anyone doing this with you, he said with a twinkle in his eye.

You have to get going?

Yeah, afraid so.

Jake hopped off his lap and ran over to give me a big hug, never letting go of the baseball and ring, Bye daddy.

Bye son, I’ll see you later.

My dad got up carefully, still adjusting to the cast on his ankle he’d broken a few days earlier. He put his hands on my shoulders, I’ll see you soon, good luck son.

With that I was out the door to