Midre Cummings, Man of Mystery
August 10, 2008 — I found an interesting bio on Midre Cummings the other day, which reminded me of my own encounter with the man from St. Croix nearly a decade ago. Midre arrived in Salt Lake in early June of 1999 after being released by the Boston Red Sox.
Salt Lake Buzz Manager Phil Roof was our highly respected and rather conservative skipper. He frequently commented that his job was to teach these young men how to be professional ballplayers. Longtime broadcaster Steve Klauke occasionally noted that Phil seemed to place particular emphasis on the “professional” part, with rules such as athletes being required to show up 10 minutes early for interviews and take turns sitting at the pre-game player autograph table. He was old-school, and believed players should interact with fans. A former catcher who’d logged in 15 years in the major leagues, Phil would sign autographs and graciously chat with fans prior to every game.
Funny thing was, Midre seemed to have been granted an exemption from this policy. He shied away from signing before games. If a youngster managed to catch him alone, he would usually stop; however, he clearly wanted nothing to do with the adult autograph hounds seeking his signature on the Pirates and Red Sox cards they brought by the handfuls. It got to be a battle of wills between the fans and Midre.
A few went so far as to complain to Phil one day, “Hey, Phil, that Midre Cummings never comes over and signs anything. What’s up with THAT?”
I watched, wondering what Phil’s response would be. Phil looked the complainer right in the eye and said, “He’s a good kid. And he’s a good ballplayer.” Then he smiled and that was the end of that conversation. I was intrigued.
People started booing when Midre struck out, their feelings bruised by his insistence in staying as far away from us as possible. They cursed him, in English and French. As the summer wore on, his hitting heated up. By July, he was helping the Buzz through a long winning streak and getting serious notice throughout the league. Knowing how time and a plus-300 BA tends to heal all wounds, I was curious to see what would happen if he kept at it after the All-Star Break.
And then in late July Midre disappeared. I mean literally. For two weeks, Midre was on the roster without appearing in the lineup or dugout. Finally, around the second week of his mysterious absence, Steve mentioned on the radio that Midre had to take care of some family matters. Unless you were listening to that particular broadcast, you wouldn’t have known even that much. Then just as suddenly, Midre was back. Unfortunately, he had lost his groove. People were booing louder.
In the meantime, it soon became apparent that the Buzz were in a playoff race for the PCL title. The booing lessened as people started to rally behind the team in anticipation of the 5-game showdown with the Vancouver Canadians. The PCL Championship series was a thrill-a-minute, screaming ride all the way. The Buzz started the series by going 0-2 at home, tied the series 2-2 on the road, and came home for the deciding Game #5. We went into the 9th inning with a two-run lead and, . . .blew it.
Our season was over. Everyone in the ballpark sat in stunned silence and disappointment. A couple of players stood in the dugout, looking over the field for a very long time before they disappeared into the tunnel. Quite a few fans, including yours truly lingered as well. I perched on the wall next to the field, listening to the postgame “lowlights” show and feeling like a bride who’d been left waiting at the altar for 3-1/2 hours and then dumped.
A player walked up behind me and handed me a bat, “This is for you, because you are the ultimate fan. It’s for you.”
I jerked my head up to find myself staring (and undoubtedly with mouth attractively agape) at the least approachable player on the entire team. Midre Cummings. The player who wouldn’t sign for fans. The player who hid in the dugout until the last possible moment and then sprinted out onto the field while avoiding all eye contact.
I barely managed to stammer out, “Um, . . .thank you.”
He reached out, shook my hand and walked away. Unbeknownst to me at the time, Midre got his MLB call-up that evening. I looked down at my gift. The heavy black-lacquered bat had been well used, heavy with pine tar on the grip, ballmarks on the barrel and large crack along the handle. I turned it over and read the custom engraving, “Geniune C271, Midre Cummings, Boston Red Sox.”
Disappointment was replaced by confusion. Why the h*ll would a ballplayer go to the extra effort of making a connection with a complete stranger; a person with whom he has never exchanged a single word prior to this one and only moment? I went home and started digging through the Internet. Sadly, I didn’t save any of the stories or else I’d link to copies. (Who knew I’d be blogging about it nine years later? Did we even have weblogs back then?) Here’s what I found. After the Red Sox released him on the last day of March, Midre had trouble finding a team to pick him up. He finally found a place with the Twins, providing, he was willing to sign a minor league contract with their Double-A team and earn his way back up to the parent club.
OK, nothing special there, except it made his sudden disappearance in the midst of a white-hot batting streak all the more puzzling.
Then I discovered the real shocker. In 1999, a minor flu epidemic swept across parts of Florida. Midre’s wife and two boys, who were only one and two years old, had been stricken with the bug so badly they had to be hospitalized. Midre asked the Twins for permission to return to Florida, where he stayed until his family was released from the hospital.
OK, so now I understood the full measure of the man. The prima donna, when faced with the choice between a shot at making the big leagues and taking care of his family, went home. The jock who was too good for us bush-league fans, noticed a woman who never asked for autographs, cheered his successes and “ignored” his failures.
The very next morning I found a FedEx office and overnighted a card to the Minnesota clubhouse, thanking Midre for the incredible gift and wishing him all the success in the world as a ballplayer, husband and father. Two years later, pinch running for catcher Damian Miller, 
Midre scored the tying run for the Arizona Diamondbacks in Game #7 of the 2001 World Series, which Arizona eventually won. It doesn’t happen often enough, nonetheless it is comforting to know that nice guys (and gals) do finish first.
Bye for now!
2 comments August 10th, 2008
He hung up the phone and laughingly filled in the other side of the conversation, “Daddy, I’ve stopped throwing up. So I think I can go to the game now. I’m feeling better now, so will you come get me?”
She figured she was going to be bored and brought a book to read. Instead she never cracked a page and we all had a wonderful time. Around the 7th inning, they bought a ball from the souvenir shop, signed it and gave it to me as a memento of our good time. Guess whose idea that was? Yup! Same young woman. Of course I still have the ball, although I never saw that lovely family at the park again.
All of these wonderful vignettes make an evening at the ballpark special. I can’t even remember how many kids have tentatively made their way down the stairs and asked if they could sit in an empty seat. I’ve cajoled balls from umpires for kids who weren’t my own and thanked base coaches for balls that I didn’t get. I’ve entertained bored little ones with stickers and drawings. I’ve watched batboys arrive as teenagers, grow up and leave for college; still teenagers, just taller versions.
This eclectic assortment of folks—young, old and all enjoying the game with me—are a big reason I’ve kept on singing “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” season after season since 1994. 