Seams
Author Jan Sumner
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 Jan Sumner and JaDan Publishing
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SEAMS
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 the ever lovingly, impatient Michelle. As we drove away I looked back at my childhood home, and realized how blessed I’d been. Now Jake was getting to feel some of that warmth and love I’d known growing up.
Gliding down the highway my mind began to drift back, evoking the past and the emotions with crystal clarity. Oh, I’d certainly thought about my family many times, recollections in bits and pieces, but today, today, it was fresh, vivid, concise, not to be denied. I leaned my head against the window as the countryside steadily passed by…and remembered.
Chapter 4
“Johnny, remember it’s all about balance. You have to gather yourself at the top before you deliver the ball.”
That line, although old and somewhat shopworn to Breeze, was always original and insightful to his new pitchers. Johnny Highland was Breeze’s latest project. He was sixteen, tall, angular and had a live arm. He played in the same league as the Blue Jays, but at a different school. He’d heard about Breeze and seen the results of his handiwork in the pitchers at Washington High School. Breeze had been at Washington for fifteen years, produced five state champs, in the finals four more times and had sent many ballplayers off to college, some of whom had played some minor league and even short stints in the majors. None had been overwhelmingly successful, but a few had modest careers. It didn’t matter to Breeze; he wasn’t in it for the glory. His main objective was to help form strong, honorable, well educated young men. He’d never gone to college and would regret it until the day he died. The young men he worked with never forgot him, and many times would call him or stop by to see him when they had the chance. He always enjoyed hearing about their college days, yet, felt a certain sense of envy. But it had been his choice and there was no going back now. Besides, he enjoyed hearing about their experiences, their families and how baseball had played a part in their lives. For most of them it was over after high school, while others played in college and then faced the reality of their days in baseball being numbered. He loved talking to all of them, but especially those few who had gone on to the professional ranks, achieving what all young boys dreamt of. This was extraordinary, what Breeze had hoped and prayed for but been denied. Now, here in the same small town where he grew up, some of his star pupils would return to tell the man who’d meant so much to their development about their life in professional baseball.
One of his favorite stories, which was as far away from big league ball as you could get, was about a young man who came out for baseball at Washington by the name of Sherman Morris - a great kid, hard working, good student, round face, round body, with virtually no athletic ability. He came out for the team his sophomore year, and wanted so desperately to play ball that he’d just about do anything to make the squad. Breeze was aware of who he was, and more importantly, who he wasn’t. He didn’t want to hurt or embarrass him in front of the team, so he took him aside before the first practice. One thing about Breeze - he was always honest with kids and their parents, sometimes to a fault. He told Sherman he was afraid it just wasn’t in the cards for him, but if he was interested he could be the trainer and assist Breeze with various tasks. Having watched the practices and skill of the players, Sherman agreed that was probably in his best interest and welcomed the opportunity to assist and learn the game. Breeze became very fond of Sherman. He was always there, ready to go, and ready to do whatever needed to be done. He worked with the school nurse, read medical books and became a very competent trainer. In fact, he would later go to college, then on to medical school and become one of the state’s finest orthopedic surgeons.
Well, as fate would have it, the Blue Jays were playing one of the weaker teams in the league one warm, sunny, Saturday afternoon at the visitor’s ballpark. Their field sat down in a hollow with hillsides rising up on the outside of the field down the right and left field lines. Fans could either sit in the stands or lay or sit on the lush green hillsides down the foul lines. The Blue Jays were pounding the Bearcats. When games got out of hand like this, Breeze made sure everybody got in some good innings. It was late in the game with the Jays up by ten runs. Sherman wore a uniform, and was listed on the roster as a player/trainer. He’d never played in a game, but was always there at practice and would hit in the cage toward the end of practice. He was a little on the heavy side and didn’t have great hand-eye coordination, but once in a while he’d catch one and send it deep. Then he’d take off running, much to the delight of the rest of the team, especially Breeze. They’d all rib Sherman about timing him to first base with a calendar. Sherman had settled into his role and was very comfortable with it. So, he too would find this amusing and play it to the hilt when he had the chance, stumbling, mugging for his teammates and generally taking as long as he could to get to the bag.
It was the top of the seventh, last inning, and the Blue Jays last at bat. Unless the Bearcats made a miraculous recovery, the game would end in the bottom of the inning. Breeze turned to Sherman, “Sherman, grab a bat, you’re up.” Sherman stood there frozen. “Was he serious, you’re up?” For a second, Breeze thought maybe he’d made this statement in Russian. Sherman was not moving. Then some of the other guys on the team began shouting, “Come on Sherman, rip one.”
Shocked, stunned and obviously nervous, Sherman grabbed a bat. As he stepped into the box, he looked down at the bat and could see it was a fungo (a corked bat used by coaches to hit fly balls to outfielders and groundballs to infielders, but illegal to use in a game). He called time out and meekly headed for the dugout. Although trying hard not to, it was very difficult for the guys on the bench not to laugh.
Breeze could see Sherman’s embarrassment and stepped in. As Sherman grabbed another bat, Breeze put his hands on his shoulders, looked him in the eye and said, “You’re fine. Concentrate and watch the ball hit the bat.” Sherman strode back to the plate with a new sense of purpose and determination. The first pitch was almost over Sherman’s head, he swung – strike one. He’d never been here before. Oh sure, the game wasn’t close and there was no pressure on him to get a base hit, but all the same, it was his big chance, maybe his only chance. The second pitch was high again, he laid off – ball one. He stepped out, hands sweating. He could feel his mouth drying up. He stepped back in, third pitch, in the dirt, outside corner, he couldn’t lay off – strike two.
Now he stayed in the box, stared out at the pitcher, too nervous to do anything else. Next pitch, way outside – ball two. The catcher ran out to talk to the pitcher. Sherman backed out of the box, wiped his hands on his pants, and looked over to Breeze. His coach smiled, and gave him a wink. Sherman slowly got back in the box, ready, waiting. Here it came, right down Broadway…SMACK! He’d caught it good. The outfield had been playing in. After all, he was listed as a player/trainer, whatever that meant, had no stats, and to be honest he didn’t strike fear, or even a mild sense of concern, in the other teams psyche, standing at the plate.
Well, this showed what you don’t know can hurt you. The ball sailed over the right fielder’s head. Sherman had somehow managed to hit the ball to the deepest part of the park. For a brief moment, Sherman stood at the plate in disbelief. He was not alone. Everyone on the bench, in the stands, on the hillside and probably the baseball gods, were in shock. Breeze began to yell, “Sherman, run, run!” Off he went. You could almost hear his heart beating. You could certainly hear him running. Although thunderous and cumbersome, he’d never felt lighter on his feet. It was as if he was gliding, not even touching the ground. By the time he reached first base, the right fielder had gotten to the ball.
As aerodynamic as he imagined he was, the outfielder was obviously more so. Oh well, what’s wrong with a long, loud single? Apparently everything! Sherman, not even looking, rounded first and was heading for second. Breeze took several steps forward, fearing the worst. All the guys on the bench were standing at the dugout railing, motionless in apprehension. Was he actually going to try and stretch this into a double…he was!
To Sherman, there was no sound other than his own breathing. The right fielder scooped up the ball, swung around and fired it to the cut-off man. He momentarily dropped it, looked up and saw he still had plenty of time to get this guy who appeared to be running with a piano on his back. Piano, truck, building, Sherman felt nothing, only the air as it blew past his face. He was flying. For a brief second, he actually thought, maybe I should have been playing more. After all, with this power and speed combination…then reality set in. “What if I have to slide? I’ve only practiced that a couple of times…unsuccessfully.” Well, no matter it appeared he had only a few thousand more feet to go.
Suddenly, second base looked like it was in the next county, and his legs, for some strange reason, were not functioning as before. As a matter of fact, they were hardly functioning at all. He stumbled, began to fall, tumbling toward the bag. The cut-off man rifled the ball in. As Sherman belly flopped into second base, dust flew everywhere, everyone held their breath, not to see if he was safe, but to make sure he survived. The ball hit him right on his rear end, popped straight up and came to a gentle rest in the middle of his back. SAFE!
His team went nuts. Breeze went nuts. Sherman felt like he must have been nuts to try this. They called time to have the trainer check himself out. He was fine. Dirty, scraped up, disheveled, and thrilled beyond his wildest dreams. For that moment, that at bat, Sherman Morris was a baseball player.
He never hit again, never really wanted to. He figured he could never top that. He was probably right. He stayed on through his senior year, always listed as a player/trainer.
Chapter 5
1933, and for the first time, Breeze felt like he might have his first legitimate candidate for big league stardom. He’d been working with Johnny Highland for two years and watched him grow into a man-child.
In the majors Ruth and Gehrig were still at it for the Yankees and the Cardinals Dizzy Dean set a new major league record for strikeouts with 17 against the Cubs on July 19.
Breeze was viewing these things from afar, but with keen interest. He knew in his heart that Johnny Highland had a chance, a real chance to be something special. Johnny felt it too. He’d seen Breeze work with other pitchers, but not to the extent he’d worked with him. If Johnny couldn’t make it over to see Breeze, Breeze would go to him. Johnny was about 6’2” and still fairly lean. But that arm, that gifted arm. Breeze could hardly wait until he was finished growing and started to fill out.
It was a balmy Sunday afternoon. No games, no fans, no distractions. Breeze met Johnny at Washington’s high school field. Breeze brought along Washington’s starting catcher, Bill Workman. He liked having his receivers get a chance to catch above average pitchers. It honed their skills. Breeze and Johnny chatted as Johnny and Bill began playing catch.
Learning to pitch takes years, but it always has a starting point. For Breeze it was these little talks. The mechanics, repetition to implant muscle memory, was something learned physically. Ah, but how to pitch, that’s what took years. It was funny, some guys had a natural penchant for it, and some didn’t. Lefthanders always seemed to get it. “Wrong arm, right brain” Breeze used to say. However, Johnny, being right handed, not only had great physical ability, but an uncanny knack for absorbing the intricacies. Breeze constantly worked on Johnny’s psyche. It’s not that Johnny lacked in self- confidence, but a good, or great pitcher needs to be borderline cocky. It all comes down to knowing you’re better than the hitter, or at least making him think you’re better. Breeze would tell him, “If you get the guy to pop up, ground out or strike out, you’ve beaten him. If the guys behind you can’t or don’t field the ball, hey, what can you do? Remember, the best hitters in the game only succeed a third of the time.” With that, the lesson would begin.
For years, teachers, coaches and especially parents had been after Breeze to write a book about pitching. He’d thought about it, then had a better thought and didn’t do it. It wasn’t that he really didn’t want to, it just sounded like way to much work. Where to start, what order? Only a couple of the problems, as he saw it, in writing a book about pitching. Plus, he might be known around eastern Missouri as a pitching maestro, but no one knew him in Iowa, or Illinois. Nah, he’d think, I’ll just stay with what I’m doing here; after all, I didn’t do this to become famous.
The Blue Jays were having an off year, rare for them, but Johnny had taken his team, New Haven, to the state finals. The championship game was coming up on Saturday, so Johnny and Breeze were getting in one last workout. With lots of badgering and relentless reminders, Breeze had literally forced Johnny to learn and, more importantly, use a changeup. It was now one of his best pitches and he used it often. With a fastball around ninety, his changeup had been known to cause back alignment problems in opposing hitters. They had to honor his fastball, then, here would come this ever so tantalizing balloon, gently floating its way toward the plate. Hitters would either freeze and painfully stare as it drifted by, or take a gigantic cut, corkscrew themselves into the ground, and hope to find a chiropractor after the game. Either way, it worked, and Johnny had come to love the pitch.
They finished the workout, Breeze believing his protégé was as ready as he’d ever seen him. He also knew this would be the end of their relationship as he knew it. Johnny would either go off to college or sign and start his professional career. Either way it was going to be different, changed. As they walked to their cars in the parking lot Breeze put his arm around Johnny, “Well, kid, I think you’re ready.” Johnny stopped, turned, and looked Breeze in the eye. He, too, knew things were going to change. Breeze had been his mentor, his personal instructor and his friend. How do you thank someone like that? Whatever Johnny had become as a pitcher he owed to Breeze. Now it was about to end and the realization of it began to well up in him. “Breeze, I really don’t know how to thank you. You’ve done so…”
“Stop right there. You don’t owe me a thing, other than to go as far as you can, and give everything you have. That will be my reward, seeing you in the big leagues.”
They gazed at each other for a second, a look of thanks and admiration, then parted, Johnny getting in his car and driving off. Bill Workman waved as he drove off knowing he’d be back one more year. Breeze sat in his car alone, staring out at the ball field, memories flooding in and out of his mind. All these young men, all these games, and it always ended the same way, “See ya coach, thanks for everything. I’ll call ya.” Most of the time he never heard from them again, but that was okay, they were getting on with their lives, as they should. Washington High School, baseball, and the old coach - they were just stops along the way. Sometimes, if he let it, he could get melancholy over it. It seemed at times as if they were moving on, upward, while he stayed the same, stationary. He was a processor, a brief caretaker of sorts. They’d come raw, inexperienced, eager to learn, but when they left, hopefully, they’d learned some baseball, but even more important, they’d learned things about themselves not only as athletes, but as people.
He started the car. Beth would have dinner on soon, and he was getting hungry. As he pulled away from the field, he thought about all the young men he’d coached. Not only had he helped them, but if not for them, who knows, his baseball career might have ended that day on the mound back in 1915.
Chapter 6
“Hey Breeze, how ya doin?” This was a common greeting for my grandfather at the state championship game, but usually accompanied his entrance onto the field. Today was different; he was sitting in the stands. Most of his ballplayers were there looking on in disappointment. They’d given a good account of themselves during the season, but their ace pitcher, Jack Kincade, had broken his ankle running out an infield hit during the third game of the season and was not able to return. Effectively, it ended any real chance they had of going to the playoffs.