CHICAGO CUBS-Agreed to terms with INF Corey Koskie on a minor league contract.

In less than 15 words, I found myself swept away to my first season of watching the Salt Lake franchise.  The year was 1998. The youngest player on the team back then was A.J. Pierzynski, a fresh-faced 21-year old with an even fresher lip. After spending most of the season in a Double-A New Britain Rock Cats uniform, Torii Hunter flashed through town for a couple dozen games before earning his one-way plane ride to the big leagues. Speedy in speech and sprint, Chris Latham stole 29 bases. Scott Stahoviak  hit for the cycle. Benj Sampson and Travis Baptist broke into the Twins bullpen that year. It was the summer of Jeff Harris and his 8 wins and 3 saves in 18 closing opportunities. Harris became a BeesGal fave after I realized he spent every Sunday sitting at the player’s autograph table and signed autographs before and after every game, win or lose.

Up in the Twin Cities, Tom Kelly ruled with an iron hand and more than occasionally, a concrete noggin. The following season, for example, T.K. would keep David Ortiz down at Triple-A for nearly the entire season, proclaiming to the Minnesota press that Ortiz wasn’t major league material. Back then, Gardy was still an infield coach. Trainer Rick McSwane and pitching coach Rick Anderson were still minor leaguers.  I remember Skipper Phil Roof leaving his starting pitcher in a game to work himself out of a jam, . . .during the playoffs.

And I remember Corey Koskie. Big bat and fearless glove at 3rd base. He’d throw himself in the path of the ball to get his glove on it. I suppose it helped he was a two-sport athlete through college—corner infielder and hockey goalie. Ouch. Talk about being a puck, er, . . .I mean baseball magnet. What he did best was swing the bat. That year he racked up 105 RBIs (14 short of the PCL lead) and 26 HRs. The following year he made the parent team out of spring training and stayed up with the Twins for six seasons.

After that, he went to Toronto for a season, then Milwaukee. It was in 2006, with the Brew Crew, that Koskie took an awkward backwards fall trying to field an infield pop-up. He lost his balance and fell heavily on the back of his neck. He didn’t black out. As it later turns out, though, he did give himself a concussion. In the two years that followed, he suffered from after-effects that included vertigo, nausea, blurred vision, headaches, and memory loss. He couldn’t play baseball, obviously, and there were times he couldn’t even play with his kids.

Anyone who’s suffered a whiplash injury, say from an automobile accident, knows it can take years to recover. And some never do. It’s an “invisible” injury—elusive to diagnose for doctors, difficult to appreciate for the unaffected and maddeningly frustrating for the sufferer. In fact, post-concussion syndrome, as the injury is called, is not recognized by the military as a “physical injury” and thus is not eligible for the Purple Heart medal. Koskie has become an active voice in creating greater awareness and understanding of post-concussion syndrome, wryly labeling his own gauntlet run, “If I Only Had a Cast.”

So when I read that one-liner in the transaction pages, my heart skipped a beat. On the same day, Koskie made the roster of Team Canada for the World Baseball Classic. In an exhibition game against the Toronto Blue Jays, Koskie was in the starting lineup as the DH. And how did he fare in his first game after two years of absence?

It’s only one game. Koskie’s subsequent appearances have been as a pinch hitter, inserted partway into the game. Four at-bats over three exhibition games mean little when compared against a full season of potentially several hundred trips to the plate. Nonetheless, it’s a start.  .  .Bye for now!

Phil Roof is one of my all-time favorite Managers/Coaches because of his straight-forward and unwavering commitment to young athletes and the “profession” of sports figures. Definitely Old School, and 100-percent Class Act.  Bye for now!

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!

Photo credit | Rick R Dykhuizen AAA Photos Used with permission.

Pausing at the top of the stairs, I survey who’s hanging out at the wall below. The Franklin Covey Irregulars include children and adults, fans and players, all lined up like sparrows on a fence rail. There’s shaggy bearded Richard, journalist Bill, Moneyball Chris, Rick, Brendan, Dave, Ian, Peyton, Katja, Steve, Wingate, Anna, Rita. When I look along the wall towards the outfield, I remember where Dave “NetMan” used to station himself, further removed from the card-signing frenzy. (Dave passed away suddenly this past March. I miss you Big Guy!) On Saturdays, I can expect to hear “Helloooo!” from Bob up in the balcony behind me. If I don’t turn around and wave, you can be sure I’ll be in for a chiding the next time we meet. It always makes me feel a bit like Norm from the old TV show Cheers.

One of my favorite families at the ballpark is a young couple with two young children, a boy and girl. The father remembers coming to Derk’s Field, and he and his wife are well on their way to extending the tradition to the next generation. Their daughter considers the park her playground, where she is frequently reminded to share her personal playmate, Bumble, with the other kids who don’t get to see him as much as she does.

Her favorite player is catcher Ryan Budde. With a little help from mom and dad, she remembers to bring him cake and a card on his birthday. She has an entire collection of Budde-Gear—pink game jerseys, Knothole Club shirts, batting gloves, broken (and intact) bats and goodness knows how many balls and snapshots—all adorned with his handwriting. Her Rally Monkey wears the #48 on its MLB Angels jersey, Budde’s number when he got his first major-league RBI, a 10th-inning, walk-off double against the Yankees. Every time he walks by the seats, she loudly squeaks “Budde! Budde!” Even during a game, he’ll look over, smile and wave. Another of her favorites is a former Bees outfielder who now plays for the Round Rock Express. On the roster, his first name is “Nick” and last name “Gorneault,” however it is a little known secret that in fact, he has only one name—Nickernoe.

One rare evening her dad showed up at the ballpark alone, explaining his daughter was sick and so she stayed home. Around the 6th inning, his cell phone rang and I heard something like the following:

“Hi! Oh good. Uh, huh,. . .I see. Well, no, you can come tomorrow. I understand, but the game is almost over. Uh, huh. I promise we’ll come tomorrow. Uh, huh. Yes, it’s almost over and I’ll be home pretty soon.”

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?”

Long ago during the Buzz years, a family sat down behind me with a rather disgruntled teenage daughter in tow. At the start of the game she remarked, “Why are those guys sitting out there by themselves instead of with the rest of the team?” 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. Bye for now!