Cobb

by Al Stump

  “I hated to be backed into a corner,” Cobb said of this time. He rationalized that it was much better to work the fields for long hours than to be banned for keeps from ballplaying. Field work built muscle, and the calluses he grew on his hands would help when he returned to making tough stops of hard line drives.

  He never forgot that hot, seesaw summer of 1902. No reprieve was in sight. The senior Cobb was out of town much of the time, forming political connections and lobbying for better countywide educational facilities. Mother Amanda was busy caring for Tyrus’s ten-year-old sister, Florence, and fourteen-year-old brother, Paul. From across the cornfields Tyrus could almost hear bats smacking balls at the Reds’ practice grounds.

  In September, W. H. Cobb returned. He inspected the land his boy had worked and passed out compliments. Corncribs were filled. Land was plowed. Decades later, Ty had clear recall of a new warmth between the Professor and himself. Within months, Ty had changed. So had W. H., who wanted peace between them, a strong rapprochement. Tyrus, said W. H., looked “manly.” A growth spurt put him at five feet, nine inches tall and 150 pounds—slope-shouldered and muscular, especially in the chest, arms, and thighs.

  THE TWO Cobbs went by rail to Athens, one of the first sizable townships Ty had seen, to buy livestock. Instead of having his opinion dismissed, Ty was consulted. He knew a sound animal when he saw one. He remembered touting W. H. off a saddle horse in which he showed interest. “He’s too long in the barrel and lacks strength,” pointed out Tyrus.

  “You might be right,” replied W. H.

  Tyrus took another tour around the horse. “And his hock action looks draggy.”

  “I agree,” said W. H. “We won’t buy him.”

  A meeting of minds occurred in other ways, such as when buying a suit of clothes. Ty habitually went around in any old outfit; W. H. said he needed something proper for social events. Together they picked out a dark outfit of good broadcloth. In many other matters, one Cobb reached out—the other responded. “It was the sweetest thing in the world to be accepted by my father … until then he’d held me down … I couldn’t reach him,” Ty was to record. “I was still hoping he would recognize me as a man.”

  Next spring Tyrus quietly unpacked his uniform and rejoined the Reds ball club. His schoolwork had improved. No longer was there talk of hiring a tutor. Tyrus had won a school oratorical contest. Perhaps resignedly, knowing he was bound to lose, the Professor let him go.

  Absence had not cost the rookie his touch. He rattled off so many base hits, among them his first home run, that crowds of up to six hundred turned out to watch. His added strength enabled Cobb, crouched low and far back in the box, to handle speed, curveball drops, and assorted other pitching with almost equal ability. He was learning how to protect the plate. Statistics weren’t kept, but by his own estimate (really a wild guess) he was averaging around .450.

  He was also handy in field fights. Rural games were often interrupted by fist-slinging by players and spectators. Against the Cleveland, Georgia, nine, a ball was planted in a base-running Reds player’s mouth with enough force to bring blood. The first man out of the Reds’ dugout was Cobb. Sprinting to second base, he hit the offending opponent with a football-style tackle and beat his head on the ground. Both squads went at it with pleasure. Under a pileup, Cobb sprained a thumb and suffered a cut ear. But he finished the game and afterward tried to renew the fight. “He’s a wild little tiger,” it was said. When a brawl started, it was often instigated by Cobb. His motto was “Hit them first—and last—at all times.”

  At sixteen, Tyrus had yet to see a big-league team in action. Reading in the press that the Cleveland Blues (later Indians) of the American League were spring-training in Atlanta, less than a hundred miles away, he and friend Joe Cunningham hopped a wheat wagon to the capital city. At Piedmont Park, banners and bunting welcomed the Clevelanders. Sitting close to the dugout, Cobb was all eyes for the most famous of second basemen, Napoleon Lajoie. The great Lajoie didn’t speak to Ty, but winked at him. Another player, Bill Bradley, chatted with the kids, letting them take his photo in a batting pose. “Think you could hit this kind of pitching?” joked Bradley.

  “Someday, maybe,” said Ty seriously. He meant he might be ready in six or eight years.

  “Sure, someday,” chuckled Bradley. “If you can hit the slopper [spitball].”

  Lajoie connected for several long hits in an intersquad game that day. Cobb recorded his impressions in a notebook: “Nap is a big fellow, over six feet, 190 lbs … righthanded … likes the fastball high … plays 2b like a deer. Hit .422 average last season, one of best ever.”

  While in the big city, Ty bought two books, Scientific Baseball, by Fred Pfeffer, and A Ballplayer’s Career, by the legendary Adrian “Cap” Anson. He marked the most important information with checks in the margins. Long afterward, in 1960, when I was paging through his notebooks of that period, along one edge I found this notation: “Don’t wiggle bat … keep straight on shoulder to save time … Never take eye off pitcher … time his windup for chance of steal.”

  Nowhere in his note-taking did the new star of the Reds speculate about ever reaching a high professional level. Such a leap was so improbable that Ty kept all such thoughts to himself. He knew that lower-category pro leagues existed in such cities as Indianapolis, Jersey City, Baltimore, St. Paul and Columbus, but in the southern United States, soon after the twentieth century dawned, a teenage semipro’s chances of moving up to the big league were minuscule. The Southern League, with such affiliates as Nashville, Memphis, New Orleans, Atlanta, and Birmingham, was rated Class A. At this level major-league talent was germinated, but only occasionally.

  In late 1903, Cobb read a Police Gazette notice that a new Class C circuit had been organized that winter, named the South Atlantic, or “Sally” League—“two bits for a ticket, a scrappy presentation guaranteed to please all.” He visited a hometown sawmill where Billy Clarke and Van Bagwell were employed. Both of these ex–Royston Reds players had gone through tryouts with minor pro clubs, had failed to be signed, and had returned home to hang up their spikes. “Do you think I might make it in the low minors?” Cobb asked. Clarke thought that it was possible in a few years, not now. Bagwell said, “I think you might do it if you play outfield where your speed will count. But who knows?”

  Bucked up even by a split vote, Cobb talked to the Reverend John Yarborough, a minister who knew something about baseball beyond Royston. Yarborough was doubtful—“Those boys down south play rough, maybe you should wait to grow up.” But he didn’t rule out the possibility—if the senior Cobb approved.

  On writing paper supplied by the minister, who didn’t suspect that the Professor would be kept uninformed of the plan, Cobb sent job applications to not one but all six Sally League teams. In his best handwriting, the letters went to club managers. His inquiries read something like this, he remembered and related to me:

  Sir:

  I play the infield and outfield for a good team here. I lead the Royston first team in batting, second in fielding. Knowing you have many fine players, I feel I could do much better with your coaching. Please consider my application to try out with (name of club) for the 1904 season.

  Yrs. truly,

  Tyrus Cobb

  No mention was made of his age. He gave Van Bagwell’s address for a reply.

  Time passed, with no answer from any source. Cobb hung around the mailbox. He was about to lose hope when a letter arrived from the Augusta Tourists’ manager and part-owner, Cornelius “Con” Strouthers. It was terse:

  Tyrus Cobb:

  This will notify you that you are free to join our spring training practice with the understanding that you pay your own expenses. Reply promptly.

  Dynamite stuff! As fast as he could pick up the Reverend Yarborough’s pen, he answered. Days later a contract arrived, stipulating pay of fifty dollars a month if the Tourists found him up to their speed. Con Strouthers added that he would not be issued a Tourists
’ uniform for the tryout, so he should bring his present suit. Fifty dollars per month, Cobb knew, was about all that “yannigans” (rookies) received in the Sally League.

  After signing the document he faced his main problem. For three days he kept the deal he had negotiated a secret, fearing the showdown that would come when he broke the news. Earlier, Cobb senior had run for and won a Georgia senate seat, and to have a son playing that ruffianly game of baseball for a living would not sit well with Georgia conservatives and church people.

  Continuing to stall, Ty confided what he had done to his mother. Amanda, a quiet, unassertive type, shook her head. Wishing to stay out of it, she offered no opinion. To perform for the local Reds was one thing; to leave home for the same purpose meant a bitter clash with the Professor.

  Cobb waited until the day before he was to catch a train to Augusta to confess. The showdown, when it came, lasted until three o’clock in the morning. Fully expecting W. H. to roar and maybe disown him, Ty was instead faced with solemnity and logic. The Professor was shocked that the boy had entered into a legal agreement without consulting the head of the family. He felt sorrow that such a promising student was putting university training behind him. Pacing the floor, hands clasped behind him, he gravely said, “This is a fool’s act. I ask you to reconsider. You are only seventeen and at a crucial point. One path leads to a rewarding future, the other will leave you shiftless, a mere muscle-worker. I ask you again—reconsider.”

  “I know it hurts you, but I just have to go,” Ty kept interrupting.

  “You’re deceiving yourself. You’ll be surrounded by illiterates and no-goods. Believe me, it’s not for you. These men avoid work for play. Some have been known to commit murder and suicide. Fifty dollars a month is nothing to what would come otherwise.”

  Ty argued that he couldn’t help himself: “I signed that contract because I want to find out what I can do. I’m almost sure I can make good. I’ll stay out of trouble.”

  (Frank “Lefty” O’Doul, a slugger for the Philadelphia Phillies and Brooklyn Dodgers in the 1920s and 1930s and confidant of Cobb in the 1960s, used to say, “Ty never could tell this story without crying. For someone who played ball like it was the goddamn Civil War all over again, he was a very sensitive guy.”)

  Cobb left Royston for the test with considerable backing. The Professor, ending a useless dispute, sat at his rolltop desk to write out six checks worth fifteen dollars each. These were easily cashable at Augusta banks, due to his prominence, and should carry Ty until he saw a paycheck from the Augusta Tourists—if ever he did. W. H. added two ten-dollar bills for traveling money. “To be used sparingly,” said the Professor. “I don’t want to hear you’ve been drinking or around bad women.” Evidently he had spies who would be keeping an eye out. So Ty suspected.

  Tyrus promised to behave. He had been in a few poolrooms that W. H. didn’t know about, had tried beer and craps shooting, but that was the extent of his sinning. Anything more sophisticated—gambling dens, prostitutes—was out of the question. He was a virgin.

  He left next day on the Georgia Southern Line on the ninety-mile trip to Augusta, carrying a telescope grip containing his flaming red Royston uniform in a roll, his “tip” (glove), and a single pair of infielder shoes. If he was sent to the outfield, the shoes would have to do double duty. His luggage had been packed for several days; he had no intention of not reporting to spring camp, however the conflict with his father ended. He was definitely leaving home.

  In retirement years, whenever he thought back on this time Cobb saw it as critical. He left home scared. “The odds were no damned good and I knew it,” he told this writer. He was still far from fully grown, and was going up against mature men. He was headed into the unknown against competitors of whose caliber Cobb had no firsthand information. He had no knowledge of the pitching he would be facing. Professional skills had yet to be learned—using the bunt, executing the hit-and-run, the double play. The eyes of Royston would be upon him. What if he broke an arm or leg against an outfield fence? What would be his value then? A crippling injury would mean finding work in strange country. For he would not go back to working on a farm. He owed a great deal to the man who, against his own wishes, had made it possible for him to satisfy a need. That was fatherly love. One way or another, it would be repaid.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  LOW COMEDY IN THE BUSHES

  Arising fun-and-games climate was gradually replacing America’s puritan tradition of hard, long hours of work by the time Cobb entered pro baseball. It was becoming more and more acceptable for some at least of the 86 million American citizens to relax at ballparks and horse-racing tracks; to enjoy prizefights, archery, and rifle shooting; and to race bicycles, play golf and tennis, and row boats for money and trophies. One of the early evangelists of variable athletic competition, as practiced by the ancient Greeks, was Grantland Rice. A 1900 Phi Beta Kappa graduate of Vanderbilt University, Rice became a popular sports columnist for the Atlanta Journal, on his way to national fame.

  Late one afternoon, while the Journal’s presses rolled on the day’s edition, Rice sat playing dime-ante poker in a back room at the paper. He was interrupted by a messenger with a telegram from Anniston, Alabama. Rice wasn’t sure where Anniston was located, nor did he recognize the wire’s sender, who identified himself as “James Jackson, news-tipster.” The communique read: “Tyrus Raymond Cobb, the dashing young star from Royston, has just started playing ball with Anniston. He is a terrific hitter and faster than a deer. At the age of 17 he is undoubtedly a phenom.”

  Rice, laughing, returned to his poker. Tearing up the telegram, he later took time to inform the unknown tipster through Western Union, “After this the mails are good enough for Cobb.”

  Anniston, a mill town in Alabama’s northeast iron-ore region, fielded a team in something called the Tennessee-Alabama-Southeast League, composed of semipros and small-college horsehiders. An organization that was so far down the competitive ladder held no interest for metropolitan Atlanta sport-page readers. As for the highly recommended Cobb, no file existed on him in Rice’s growing collection of biographies of southern U.S. professional ballplayers.

  But then there followed to the Journal a steady flow of applause: “Keep your eye on Ty Cobb … he is one of the finest hitters I’ve seen.” “Watch Cobb of Anniston, he is sure to be a sensation.” “Have you seen Ty Cobb play ball yet? He is the fastest mover in the game.” “Cobb had three hits yesterday, made two great catches.” “A sure big leaguer in the making.” Rice could count on a dozen or so such letters, postcards, and wires arriving monthly, sent by “interested fans” and “faithful readers” who signed themselves as Jackson, Brown, Kelly, Jones, Smith, and Stewart, among other interested parties.

  Routinely discarding such mail, Grant Rice did not suspect perpetration of a fraud, mainly because the bulletins were signed in multi-form longhand styles, from slanting, scrawled, Spencerian, and Palmer methods to roundhand and wide-looped. Pencils and inks also varied. Finally, in self-defense, Rice wrote a “blind” column about someone he had never seen, hailing the arrival of a “new wonder boy named Cobb” who was “the darling of the fans” and a “hot number” with a ball club across the border from Georgia. Rice hoped that the acknowledgment would end the plague of Cobb plugs. No such luck; drumbeating notices continued to arrive from points in Tennessee, Alabama, and Georgia.

  Not until 1951, at a General Electric Company banquet honoring the sixty-five-year-old Cobb, did the seventy-one-year-old Granny Rice learn that he had been flimflammed by penman Ty, who was the secret author of the notices. Cobb now confessed that he had acted as his own press agent, and he alone had pumped out the praise. He also admitted to having played only twenty-two games at Anniston, with far from the spectacular results he had described via the post. In other words, he had lied like hell.

  In the 1950s, Rice was the acknowledged dean of American sport commentators. Learning he had been suckered by a mere babe of sev
enteen surprised and irritated him. “That was a damned sneaky thing to do, Cobb,” snapped Rice. “What made you do it to me?”

  “I was in a hurry, Granny,” answered Cobb.

  Rice forgave him, and the two men resumed a long-standing friendship.

  The desperate rush to be noticed came after Cobb had reported to Augusta on schedule, played in two games, and on April 24 had been handed his release. Abruptly Cobb found himself an unemployed free agent. Five days after his release he was in the outfield of the Anniston Steelers, a club he had never heard of until then, and one at the professional game’s lowest possible level. It was from there that he began his letter barrage to the press.

  From early April, when he had first reached the Augusta Tourists’ training camp, very little had gone right. He had checked into a cheap hotel— “a bedbug joint” in his words to me—and hurried out to Warren Park, the Tourists’ four-thousand-capacity home field. To him, the bandbox park seemed huge. He had come supplied with letters of introduction to a few Augusta businessmen from his Royston boosters, who had not however included the name of the Tourists’ manager, Con Strouthers. The brusque manager barely glanced at the rookie, telling him, “Get suited up, go shag some flies.” Some thirty-five candidates were competing for sixteen to eighteen jobs. Utilityman Cobb’s first assignment was to run down and return foul balls sprayed off the bats of other prospects. While batting practice went on he did outfield wind sprints and knee bends.