Ty Cobb

by Charles Leerhsen

  Cobb had additional problems that year at the Huntington Avenue Grounds, the park that preceded Fenway as the Red Sox’ home base, owing mostly to his playing his normal game and the Boston players feeling that in doing so he was singling them out for a spanking. On July 13 he preyed upon Red Sox pitching for two singles, a triple, and a game-winning 10th-inning home run. He also, in the fourth inning, got into a halfhearted shoving match with shortstop Heinie Wagner after he, Cobb, was thrown out trying to steal second. Players from both teams trotted out and separated the two before anything happened, but some Hub fans felt compelled to bid the Detroit kid something stronger than adieu. Cobb responded verbally and cheekily gestured for them to sit back down. On July 30, with the Boston cranks still sore at him, he went 3-for-4 against the forty-one-year-old Cy Young and, with the nimbleness of an infielder, threw out catcher Lou Criger at first base on a one-hopper to right. Later he made a putout at second as part of a double play. Afterward some Boston players grumbled that Cobb was always trying to show them up.

  The situation festered until a mid-August game at Huntington when Red Sox righty Cy Morgan struck out Cobb twice with the bases loaded. As they passed each other on the field following the second whiff, Cobb said something Morgan didn’t like, and the pitcher threw down his glove and charged him. Once again, others intervened before punches were thrown, but some bleacher fans were now riding Cobb hard and vowing vengeance—or so said Red Sox owner John I. Taylor, who wanted Cobb banned in Boston for using “vile and abusive language.” Taylor claimed he was making the request for Cobb’s own good, since according to Sporting Life “a half dozen bugs had threatened to kill him.” American League president Ban Johnson said he could issue no edict, since no formal complaint had been filed, but he did send Cobb a letter advising him to mind his manners. It was much ado about little, but it added spice to a long, dull Red Sox season, which may have been Taylor’s intention. Boston Herald scribe J. C. Morse put the alleged feud in perspective when he termed it “pure rubbish.” Calling Cobb “one of the biggest cards to appear in this city,” he noted “there were people here that hissed and hooted at Cobb for some of his actions, but the very next moment they were howling themselves hoarse for some brilliant play he had made.”

  — CHAPTER SIXTEEN —

  IS IT SUPERFLUOUS TO SAY that Ty Cobb never did things the easy way? Even his wedding was tangled in controversy—not about the fact of it, or the bride he took, but about the timing. I mean, it is fine to get married in the middle of a pennant race, just so long as you, the groom, are not probably the key figure in that race’s outcome.

  The first hint of imminent I-dos for Cobb came in late 1907, when he sent Detroit News writer Paul Bruske “a peppery message” giddily confirming his engagement to Charlie Lombard, but denying a rumor (possibly made up by him for the occasion) that he was getting married in the spring. After that, he said nothing of nuptials until he suddenly took off in early August of 1908, with his lucky black bat, for what seemed like a hastily planned ceremony in Augusta. Arriving late because of the inevitable transportation glitches, he barely had time to duck into a rooming house to change his shirt before proceeding on to the Oaks, the elegant Lombard family estate where his seveteen-year-old bride-to-be nervously waited, in a room full of “palms, ferns and cut flowers,” along with about twenty-five guests (but not his mother, sister, or brother). Why Cobb’s uncle Clifford Ginn was his only relative there is unknown, but in the end it was a joyous occasion and they seemed the perfect couple: the dashing young athlete and the hazel-eyed daughter of an old-fashioned industrialist said to be worth as much as one million dollars. The timing of the event is what bothered some fans; since ballplayers have off most of the year, why was he was getting married on August 6, at a moment when the Tigers were battling for the AL lead with the suddenly dangerous St. Louis Browns? It was a delicate question, as questions about impromptu weddings tend to be. Bruske, in his Sporting Life column, felt compelled to broach it—but concluded (rather improbably) that it was ultimately a matter of Cobb, the pampered team pet, throwing his weight around, just because he could.

  “To the out-of-town fan, his absence must seem remarkable,” Bruske wrote, “but it is merely one of those characteristic idiosyncrasies for which he is noted. . . . But what can you do about it? The player is there with the goods on the diamond.” (No child was born to Charlie in the next nine months, but she did suffer an unidentified “illness” in November that forced the couple to cancel a combination honeymoon/barnstorming trip to Japan.) Bruske further suggested that the star had taken off for Augusta without informing manager Hughie Jennings, but considering that when he rejoined the Tigers on August 9, Navin gave him a set of cut glass bowls as a wedding present and paid for Charlie to travel with the team for a few weeks, that does not seem likely. Whatever the reason for his sudden departure, he had the club’s blessing. Nor did most of his hometown fans hold a grudge. They welcomed him back to Bennett Park with a warm ovation as the local press crowded around Charlie Cobb’s field-level box seat (where she sat, “heavily veiled,” with her new mother-in-law, Amanda) and, in the next day’s paper, gushed over her looks, generously calling her one of the great Southern beauties.

  Boston, which would finish fifth in the AL that year, wasn’t the real problem for Cobb or the Tigers in 1908. Nor ultimately were the Browns. Cleveland and Chicago were. As August became September, Detroit, which had been in first place in the standings since mid-July, got knocked off the summit by Lajoie’s surging Cleveland Naps, with the White Sox only a game or so behind in third place. The last two weeks of the season were a scramble the likes of which the AL had never before seen—the closest pennant race in its seven-year history.

  On the final day of the season, October 6, the Tigers were in front with the White Sox and Naps tied for second, a half game behind. Cleveland played, and beat, the Browns in St. Louis. Meanwhile, Detroit and Chicago faced off at South Side Park. Cobb’s performance in that closing game counters the assertion, sometimes made in the days when people still talked about his spotty World Series play, that he wilted in the clutch. With the season on the line he smacked a first-inning triple that knocked in two runs, soon scored himself, and before the day was over added two more singles, another run batted in—and drew a pickoff throw from pitcher Ed Walsh that eluded first baseman Frank “the Bald Eagle” Isbell and allowed Crawford to come home. Meanwhile, Bill Donovan tossed a two-hit shutout, giving the Tigers a 7–0 victory and their second consecutive flag. “Mad Crowds Fill Streets Shouting Praises of Tigers” screamed the Free Press headline. “The bray of cornets punctured the general uproar and now and then a cannon-like explosion shook the pavement. Bonfires were a common thing. Burning wagons were hauled swiftly up and down Woodward Avenue. Roman candles and skyrockets shot from the sides and fronts and roofs of buildings.” A “jubilee” broke out in the lobby of the Pontch. As the evening wore on, though, the energy in the streets turned ugly. Several policemen were attacked by the crowd and seriously injured and someone threw a block of concrete through the just installed plate glass window of the J. L. Hudson department store. “The broken glass was valued at $500,” said the Free Press. “Store management says it is worth it.” Nobody seemed to care that the 1908 pennant came with an asterisk, because the Tigers had played one fewer game—153—than Cleveland. Today Detroit would be compelled to make up the canceled contest (which if they had lost would have resulted in a tie with Cleveland, and forced a one-game playoff), but in those days the rule book contained no such provision and the standings stood.

  Matters had come to an even wilder—and less legitimate—conclusion in the National League, thanks in part to the famous Merkle Boner. Poor Fred Merkle of the New York Giants was a nineteen-year-old rookie first baseman, the youngest player in the NL. On September 23, with the Giants, Cubs, and Pirates still locked in a season-long struggle, he started his first major league game, against the Cubs. In the bottom of the ninth, with one out,
a man on first, and the score tied 1–1, right fielder Harry McCormick came to bat. “The Moose” had a knack for being involved in what one biographer calls “quirky baseball events.” Once he got a pinch single that the umpire said didn’t count because he hadn’t finished announcing his name to the crowd (once formally introduced, McCormick struck out). On another occasion, while waiting in the on-deck circle, he swung at an errant throw from the outfield and hit the ball out of the park. If you asked him for an autograph he would rubber-stamp your paper with a little image of a moose. Anyway, on this occasion he hit a sharp grounder to second and reached safely on a fielder’s choice, thus inserting himself into yet another memorable baseball moment. For it then became Merkle’s turn to bat, and he used it admirably, hitting a single off Cubs righty Jack “The Giant Killer” Pfiester. Moose scooted to third.

  This brought up Al Bridwell, the Giants shortstop, who hit the first pitch he saw into center for a single that sent home McCormick with what should have been the winning run. The hundreds of fans who ran onto the field certainly thought it was, and Merkle, seeing his way impeded by swarming spectators, made a right turn and began jogging toward the Giants clubhouse, out in dead center. By rule he was supposed to step on second base for the run to be officially tallied but this was a technicality rarely observed—unless you were Cubs second baseman Johnny Evers, who was known as a constant conniver. “Gimme the ball!” Evers shouted to center fielder Solly Hofman, who managed to come up with it, or something very similar, and threw it in Evers’s direction. His toss was intercepted—and heaved into the crowd—by a Giants pitcher named Joe McGinnity, who was serving as first base coach that day. Cubs pitcher Rube Kroh then retrieved the ball or something very similar from the stands and threw it back to Evers, who fought his way through the mob to second base, and touched it for the force-out. Obviously men who were not in the game (Kroh and McGinnity) could not be involved in a play that, in any case, should have been declared dead as soon as a fan touched the ball. Yet the two umpires on duty that day, Bob Emslie and Hank O’Day, ruled Merkle out and voided the run he’d knocked in. With the cranks refusing to return to their seats, the game was then called on account of darkness and went into the books as a tie. This was patently ridiculous—umpire Bill Klem, a future Hall of Famer, called it “the rottenest decision in the history of baseball”—but a week later the Giants’ appeal was denied by the National League president, Harry Pulliam, and the decision stood.

  Immediately after the “boner” game, the New York Times found Merkle guilty of “censurable stupidity,” but his misery had only begun. Ten days later, on October 3, the Cubs were 97–55 on the season and the Pirates were 98–55. Because the National League insisted on makeup games, they played one in Chicago, which the Cubs won 5–2, eliminating Honus Wagner and his boys from the race, and forcing a one-game playoff with the Giants, who also had finished with a record of 98–55. Before a Polo Grounds crowed estimated at more than 40,000, the Cubs breezed past the Giants to win their third consecutive pennant. Now it was by general consensus Merkle’s fault that the Giants weren’t in the World Series, and the New York fans got angry at him all over again. He was doomed to hear himself booed and called “Bonehead” and “Leather Skull” until his retirement in 1926, and to afterward get the occasional visit, at his fishing lure company in Florida, from a writer asking him to relive the moment one more time.

  This has not really been a digression because it helps put into perspective what came next: a strange deflation in the prevailing mood. Start with Cobb. As happy as he was to be getting another shot at the World Series, he was displeased with his overall performance, and by having to fend off criticism from those who said that having his own schedule—Jennings let him practice when and where he wanted to and show up for games at the last minute—and a new bride were hurting his performance. When you look at the numbers the charge sounds almost funny. In a season dominated by pitching—Ed Walsh of the White Sox was 40–15 with a 1.42 ERA; Addie Joss of the Naps allowed just 1.16 runs per nine innings while going 24–11; and so on—Cobb hit .324. This was, indeed, 26 points below his average of the year before. (The editor of Sporting Life, Frank C. Richter, was so upset by the baseball-wide decline in averages that year that he proposed making outfielders play without gloves as a way of giving hitters a break.) At the same time, Cobb did lead the league in hitting for the second straight season and was the only man to crack three figures in the RBI department (108), numbers that to a degree perhaps offset his disappointment.

  But it wasn’t just Cobb who felt down. The year’s tense, emotionally exhausting pennant races seemed to leave both league-leading cities limp. The World Series, for all its pomp, felt anticlimactic, and the smallest number of people ever showed up to watch it played. Admittedly, there were extenuating circumstances. In Detroit—where the Tigers had sold a record number of tickets during the regular season (436,199)—it rained steadily the day of the first game, keeping the attendance at 10,812 instead of the expected 25,000 or so. (Navin could have forgone the giant white sheet he put up to block the view from the wildcat grandstand.) Some Cubs fans meanwhile were staging an ad hoc boycott of the Series in response to owner Charles Murphy, who raised prices for the Series and then, it was said, sold a huge block of tickets to scalpers for his personal gain. (Murphy never admitted guilt, but he did agree to pay back the team for several hundred reserve seats.)

  On top of this, the men most responsible for hyping the Series to potential customers—the sportswriters—felt badly treated that fall by the major leagues, whom they accused of giving away their press seats to “actors, politicians and barbers.” According to Tigers historian Fred Lieb, Chicago scribe Huge Fullerton complained that at the Giants-Cubs playoff game at the Polo Grounds he had to “dictate 5,000 words while sitting in the lap of Louis Mann, the well-known character actor.” The journalists’ outrage led to them to stifle their usual boosterish instincts and not say quite so often in print that fans really ought to come out and support the home club.

  Sifting through a sheaf of old clips from the 1908 Series, one thinks of the slightly less old joke: it’s not a complex—you really are inferior. In more ways than one, the Tigers weren’t in the same league with the Cubs, owing largely to Chicago’s superior pitching. At least Cobb put up Cobb-like numbers—“He was anything but a lemon this time” said Sporting Life—to a chronological point. In the first game, which was frequently interrupted by groundskeepers who shoveled sawdust into the wet batter’s box and onto the pitcher’s mound, he knocked in a run in the first inning with a sharp single, giving the Tigers an early lead, and then, after Detroit fell behind 5–1, beat out an infield hit in the seventh, starting a rally that brought the score to 5–4. An inning later he bunted safely and finessed his way around the bases to score a run that put the Tigers ahead going into the ninth. Alas, Tigers righty “Kickapoo Ed” Summers couldn’t hold the lead, and the Cubs won 10–6.

  Game two, played in Chicago before 17,760, was a scoreless tie until the Cubs broke it wide open with six runs in the eighth against Bill Donovan. Cobb had one hit, a single, in the ninth that knocked in the Tigers’ run in their 6–1 defeat. Righty starter Orvie Overall, who pitched an inning of relief in the previous game, had given Chicago its sixth consecutive World Series win over Detroit. Said the Free Press: “It begins to look as if the local Nationals have something on the Tiges.”

  Still at the West Side Grounds for game three, on Monday, October 12, Cobb and pitcher George Mullin combined to help the Tigers win their first World Series game. Cobb had three singles, a double, knocked in two runs, and stole two bases. Detroit sportswriter Will B. Wreford noted that when Cobb was on first he shouted out to the catcher that he was going on the next pitch—and did, successfully, “spoiling a chance for a play on him by dumping Tinker as he slid.” A few pitches later he “tipped [catcher Johnny] Kling off again that he was about to steal third and he did, Kling’s rather low throw getting away from Harry
Steinfeldt.” Some would say that since the Tigers were far ahead at that point he was merely showing up the opposition. Cobb would say he was sending a message—You never know what the hell I’m going to do—that would lodge someplace in the opposition’s subconscious.

  In that case it was more or less a moot point, though. Cobb got on base only once again in the Series, via a walk (in game five), as the Tigers were shut out twice, 3–0 in game four by “Three-Finger” Brown and 2–0 by Overall in the finale, both times before veritable coffee klatches of cranks at Bennett. (Only 6,210 turned out for game five, still the smallest crowd in World Series history.) Thanks to his strong start, Cobb hit .368 over the five games, but the Tigers as a team batted a sorry .209. “It is all over,” wrote Jackson, “and the players may go home to hibernate.” Except that it wasn’t all over. First the melon had to be sliced, as the players used to say. The spoils were a lot smaller than the year before, when owner Yawkey had dumped his share back into the pot. Yawkey in the interim had sold most of his shares in the club to Navin, who had much less generous instincts, and kept the owner’s share—just under $20,000—for himself. Each Tiger got only $870 that year, each Cub $1,318. After the accounting was done the teams played two exhibition games, one in Chicago, the second in Terre Haute, Indiana—that were nearly as well attended as some of the Series games in Detroit, and which reaped the players an additional $300 or so per man. The Chicago game featured “field events”—foot races and throwing contests—open to any of the players who felt like entering. Ostensibly these were just for fun, though side bets were likely. Ty participated in four of the five events, and won three of them: the 100-yard dash (102/5 seconds), the circling-the-bases race (134/5 seconds), and the bunt-and-run-to-first (31/5 seconds), failing only in the long-distance throw.