Heart of a Tiger: Growing Up With My Grandfather, Ty Cobb

by Herschel Cobb

I was still unleashing my fill when Louise, Granddaddy’s housekeeper and nurse, called from the kitchen that Mrs. Beckworth—that was my Aunt Shirley’s married name—was on the phone, ready to pick up the children. In ten minutes, Aunt Shirley’s car circled the driveway, and Louise appeared and told us it was time to go. We hurriedly exchanged hugs, and Granddaddy said, “I hope I’ll see you all in a few days.”

  I didn’t know if he meant what he said, and I feared that my short visit was all I’d see of him that summer. I held hope in my heart that I could believe him.

  On the ride back, I sat in the rear seat with Susan and whispered to her, “Did you tell him what Daddy did?” She knew I was referring to the eruption after our mother’s phone call, Daddy throwing her against the wall and chasing Kit and me into my cubbyhole.

  Susan did not hesitate. “No, Hersch, I didn’t.” I instantly understood the finality in her voice. From that day forward it became our pact never to talk about our father’s brutality.

  I asked, “Well, what did you talk about?”

  She pulled me close, cupped her hand to my ear, whispering, “He’s sad, awful sad. He said something really strange. He said he’d been too hard on his kids, too hard on Dad, even Shirley. He said he should have been closer to them.” She glanced at the back of Aunt Shirley’s head and pushed away from me, leaving me sitting in wonderment as another piece of my grandfather’s past snapped into place. I felt like I’d crossed over into a different world.

  A few days later, Aunt Beverly found us in her backyard and told us, “I think you are going to see your grandfather after lunch.” It sounded strange, but I assumed she was really telling us not to get dirty. Sure enough, Aunt Shirley picked us up after lunch and took us to El Roblar.

  When we got out of the car, she said to Susan, “I’ll pick you up later this afternoon, after I close my store.” I knew that meant it’d be close to 5:00. We’d have the whole afternoon to spend with Granddaddy.

  The house presented an entirely different impression this visit. The entrance and living room were sunlit, with the curtains pulled apart. The full-length glass doors were opened to both the front porch and rear patio, allowing a mild, warm breeze to blow through.

  Granddaddy’s greeting to us that day set a pattern, a repartee, a kind of codification of honor and humor that repeated itself at every first greeting for the next eight summers. “Susan,” he would say, “come here and give your granddaddy a big hug.” And she would. Then he’d say, “Hersch, come over here.” I would take a position in front of him. “My,” he’d say, “you’re getting bigger and bigger. Would you like a beer or something to drink?” I’d answer, “Granddaddy, no, no, I don’t want a beer. I don’t drink. I play sports.” Then he asked, “Well, how about a cigarette, then?” I’d answer, “Granddaddy, I play sports, I don’t smoke cigarettes.” And finally, he’d flash a devilish smile and say, “Well, you young’uns go in the kitchen and check the freezer, down at the bottom of the fridge, and see what we got. Now, Susan, get along. Show the boys the freezer.” And off we ran, through the dining room, the pantry, and into the kitchen. The freezer door was easy to pull open. Then we’d hear, “And bring in some of those great big spoons on the counter.”

  The freezer was filled with round gallon cartons of ice cream: peach, strawberry, French vanilla, and chocolate. We knew he loved the peach, so that was for him. Each of us grabbed a gallon of our favorite. Kit latched onto the chocolate, so that was always his. Susan and I alternated between strawberry and French vanilla. We sat around him in the living room, eating directly from the round cartons, with huge spoons, larger than soup spoons. For the next half hour we would eat, smile, and catch up between dripping mouthfuls of ice cream. Ty Cobb loved ice cream.

  The frost on the outside of the cartons began to melt and run down onto his pants. Granddaddy finally laughed at himself and said, “Susan, I’m making a mess of my pants. Here, take this back and put it away. Kit can help you.” Between bites I’d caught his eye, him watching us as much as enjoying his ice cream. His eyes roved over us, absorbing the three children of his son, now deceased, smiling and filling huge spoons with as much sweetness as they could fit into their mouths at one time. His face softened and his eyes, normally sharp and almost piercing, had a mist of tears. Susan left, carrying his gallon carton and her own. Kit followed, still feeding as much chocolate into his mouth as possible while he walked. I was going to go with them, but I instead put down my carton and asked what I had been worried about. “Granddaddy, are you sick? Aunt Shirley—”

  Before I could finish, he said, “Hersch, come on over here and give me a big hug.” His arms were as strong as ever, and as he pulled me close, I awkwardly leaned over the chair and hugged him back. I was off balance, but he wouldn’t let go. His right arm wrapped around me and his hand held me tight. I didn’t mind. I worked my right hand down to his and grabbed his fingers tightly, recalling the strength of his grip on the Snake River when he’d forced my father to let go of me.

  With my face next to his, he whispered, “Hersch, your Uncle Ty is real sick, and there’s nothing I can do. Nothing.” I recalled what Susan had said as he went on, “And your dad died too. My boys, my boys; I’ve lost my boys.” His voice fell away until it was practically an echo. He kept me close, his arm wrapped around my shoulders, and I felt his whole body soften, as if he felt the full force of what he just said. His grip on me was steady and I didn’t resist; I hugged him as tightly as I could.

  I didn’t say anything because I knew—his second son, my father, had died suddenly of a heart attack at the age of thirty-three. Now, just seventeen months later, his first son, Uncle Ty, was dying in the most visible and painful way, slowly losing all power to help himself or know his own children’s names. These losses stripped him of ever reconciling with either son as grown men. After having lived through all of his disappointment and conflicts with them, he was emerging in the face of their deaths to realize life was too short to hold onto these differences. When my father died, I felt a crushing mix of emotions, knowing I would never have a good relationship with my father. Granddaddy was just devastated, knowing his two sons were gone. It was a huge, gaping, wrenching wound.

  Soon I heard his voice, as from off in the distance, “Susan, we’re talking. Come on over here.” He unfolded his arm from around my body, with his hand keeping its control over me, preventing me from leaving him too quickly. I turned my head just enough to see the side of his face. As Susan rounded the corner from the dining room into the living room, his eyes twinkled, his whole body straightened up in the chair, head upright, and voice firm and full.

  “Sweetie,” he said, “Hersch and I were just talking about you.” The sight of Susan had this effect on him. His life was revived, given a second wind. She looked the same to me, but the nascent bond that had begun a few days before was blossoming right in front of me. She was as comfortable taking care of him as she was caring for Kit and me. He looked at all of us and whispered, almost like a prayer, “You three mean so much to me. I want you near me.” He made room for her to sit on the edge of his chair and she nestled in.

  She had been with Kit and Louise in the back of the house, looking at old stuff he had saved and collected over the years. The back room was full of porcelain figurines, sets of linens, boxes of silverware, riding crops, boots, hats, pictures and papers, all from a part of his life long past. Bits and pieces of our aunts’ histories appeared when we explored his house. Aunt Shirley’s riding boots, jodhpurs, crops, hats, riding jackets, an English saddle, and pictures of her as a young horsewoman. Details of a privileged upbringing she abandoned when she decided to be independent and open her bookstore. Aunt Beverly’s party dresses and shoes were there, along with makeup brushes and the tools for grooming to attend the fanciest parties in the area. There was nothing of Uncle Ty nor of my father, as if when they married and left home, they took their histories with them.

  While we sat together, he talked with Susan, complimen
ting her and declaring she was a fine young lady. “You watch out for your brothers, and be sure to call me if you need to.” He did not dwell on his comment, but what he said stayed with me for many years. Kit and I became “the boys,” and Susan watched out for us. His eyes took us in, and I heard a whisper, “I want to see you all, maybe next year—”

  Before he finished, Louise walked into the living room and announced, “Mr. Cobb, Miss Beckworth just called and she’s on her way over to pick up the children.” The afternoon had passed so quickly and so fully. All too soon we heard the sound of a car engine. Louise went to the front door, then motioned for us to gather our things and say our good-byes. Granddaddy said he would see us in a few days, and I couldn’t wait to go back.

  During the first half of August, we visited Granddaddy every week, and then again when the weather turned cool and breezy. Our visits were much the same, with ice cream, exploration of the yard and house, talking, and playing with Chudly. On our last visit, just before we left, he held Susan and me close to him, telling us, “I want to see more of you; I want you near me.” I had hope in my heart. He was smiling, talkative, but in private moments seemed withdrawn and sullen. In between our visits with him, what was happening at Grandma’s home occupied his mind and pulled his emotions near an abyss of grief.

  Uncle Ty was getting noticeably worse day by day, having difficulty holding his head upright or remembering the names of anybody, including his children. Our grandmother was steady, brave, and ashen-faced. When we visited Bay Laurel, we added a burden she did not complain about, but her heart was breaking at the sight of her once strong son, struggling to make his end as graceful and easy as possible. Parts of our visits at Bay Laurel were just plain scary. Our cousins Charlie and Ty began having horrible, screaming nightmares, awaking in the middle of the night and running out into the street, still asleep. Their eyes were huge, bloodshot disks, focused insistently on the shell of the man they knew in their hearts was their father. Kit was not there, and Susan and I could say nothing that would comfort or distract them.

  Our departure to Los Angeles came as a sad relief after being so near to such helplessness and agony. During the last days of August, we didn’t visit Granddaddy. I only partly understood when Aunt Shirley told Beverly one day, “The Old Man is not doing well. He’s not doing well at all.” Her words were not intended for me or Susan to hear, and Beverly’s lips pressed together in disapproval. Her annoyance emanated from the disruption of her social schedule and vexation with her father rather than from concern at his sorrow. She wasn’t close to Uncle Ty, for he had joined with Shirley and my father in calling Beverly “Miss Prissy,” a characterization that she suffered with all her life, but described her perfectly. For her, Uncle Ty’s passing was the loss of a distant brother who came to die at his mother’s home, took too long in the process, and exposed the family suffering to a public view she would have rather hidden.

  Grandma took us to the Palo Alto train station early in the morning. Her face was pale and wan, but her smile and the hug she managed were comforting. She understood the chaotic ways we were returning to better than we did. I sat next to Susan on a hard, padded bench seat and waved my last good-byes to Grandma.

  When the train pulled away from the station, I finally asked Susan, “What did Aunt Shirley mean?” She knew what I was talking about and replied softly, “Granddaddy is at home alone, and he has a bottle of whisky near him. He’s really sad, Hersch, really sad.”

  Ty Cobb Jr. died two weeks later, at age forty-two, at his mother’s home. Ty Cobb’s two oldest sons had passed. The effect on him was wrenching, as we would come to learn in later years.

  My fear of losing my grandfather haunted me during that fall. There was nothing I could do to comfort him, to bring him closer to us. I had to muster my resolve and brace myself to face my mother’s daily resentment of children given to her by a man she had hated.

  During the summer, while we visited Grandma and Granddaddy, and watched Uncle Ty quickly deteriorate in front of us and his own children, Mom bought a large home in a nice section of L.A. She had managed, through her attorney friend Bill S., to convince the bank to hold off selling the assets of my father’s estate. The assets were worth less than what was owed, and Bill S. convinced the banks to let her keep the Coca-Cola Bottling Co. in Santa Maria, hire a manager to run it, and use profits to pay them off a little at a time.

  Mother also remarried. His name was Dick Branstedder, and he was a would-be architect. We three children didn’t know any of this when we left Grandma’s at the end of the summer. The house was a grand surprise, with seven bedrooms, a large backyard, two basements, and a playroom off the garage. It had a magnificent library, completely paneled in mahogany, a large fireplace, and a bay window looking out on the backyard. Branstedder did not actually work; he and Mother spent most days, at least from the time I came home from school, in the library, drinking, while Branstedder built model houses out of red and white plastic bricks that locked together. I was often invited in to watch him take down a wing of his model, fiddle around with the plan, and laboriously put the red bricks back up into a small alteration. The site of his creations was the library table, intentionally positioned in front of the bay window so he could pretend there was sunlight beaming down on his latest house. They both easily refilled their glasses from a wet bar built into the wall nearest the entry door.

  I usually watched for a while until their speech became slurred and Mother’s comments became sarcastic criticisms of Branstedder’s work. He was no match for her barbs and ridiculing, so he meekly defended himself, gave up, and then got nasty back. Later, when Ayako had dinner ready, Mother and Branstedder weaved into the dining room. If we three kids were lucky, Ayako had our dinners set up in the breakfast room.

  The weather in Los Angeles in late September was warm and just right for eating outdoors. Ayako set the table on the patio so we could eat there. Mother sat at one end of the long table while Branstedder sat at the other. They had spent most of the afternoon in the library, playing with the red bricks and drinking. When dinner was served, their barbs, criticisms, and counter-barbs turned into a slurred, bitter shouting match. Susan and I sat on the inside of the table, while Kit sat on the outside, closest to the yard. I avoided looking at either of them, and Susan did the same. One time while I was taking a bite, my mother stood up from her chair, lifted her full plate of food, and threw it at Branstedder. He managed to duck the plate, but a lot of the food hit him. He rose up, throwing a ceramic glass at her. She started grabbing anything near her—plates, glasses, silverware, the salt shaker—and throwing things at him as fast as she could, all the time calling him foul names. Food, plates, and utensils were flying. I raised my arms to protect myself, grabbed Susan’s arm, pulled her under the table, scooted over to Kit, and pulled him out of his chair, and we all ran across the backyard to hide in our play area. We hid behind the bushes, but that didn’t matter because they were yelling and throwing things at each other and didn’t even notice us. Kit was fascinated by the throwing of food and plates and wanted to sneak back through the bushes on the side of the garage and watch them.

  When there was nothing left to throw and the table separated them, Mother cursed at Branstedder, turned on her heel, and walked through the screen door at her end of the patio, slamming it behind her. Branstedder, not to be outdone, cursed back at her, walked through the door on his end of the patio leading to the breakfast room, slammed and broke the door. It was dark by then, and Susan and I decided to creep back and see what the patio looked like. All the dishes and cups were thick ceramic and had a green and pink flower design; at least they did before they were broken. There were shards of ceramic all over the patio tiles, in the seats, and on top of the table, and one piece was stuck in the door frame. Food, milk, drinks, and red wine were mixed in. The patio lights were on and Susan and I didn’t want to stay, so we got Kit, crept around to the side door, found Ayako, and stayed in the downstairs rooms until
it seemed safe to go to our bedrooms.

  That exact dinner was not repeated, but several came close. After a couple of weeks of being home with tension-filled dinners in the dining room, Susan and I figured out that if we asked for dinner early, we got to eat in the breakfast room, avoiding the dining room with Mother and Branstedder. We took care of Kit, and after dinner, we used a stairway in the kitchen wing to go to our rooms, dodging the drama. Mother slept until noon, using a sleep mask to keep out the light. Luckily, we were in school.

  We got home from school a little after three in the afternoon. Mother and Branstedder usually had their drinks in hand by that time. Susan and I quickly learned the prelude and signs of impending fury. For some reason, Branstedder could not put the red bricks in a shape or form that met with Mother’s approval; she said something critical and caustic no matter what he designed. He took what she gave. He didn’t have an actual job, she had the money, and to her that meant she could do or say anything she pleased.

  Branstedder’s tenure with Mother lasted about a year and a half. Fortunately, during that time he didn’t dare touch Susan, Kit, or me. I remember toward the end, when he was essentially a beaten man, on a Saturday afternoon, they had been drinking since lunchtime. Mother was shouting profanities and threatening to call the police. Kit and I listened from the top of the main stairs. I told Kit to stay put and hang onto the banister. I crept downstairs to the entrance hall and peeked around the wall. Branstedder was striding through the living room carrying a black telephone with the wall cord trailing behind him. Mother was shouting about calling the police. I was standing near a table with a telephone on it. Branstedder was rushing by the time he reached where I was standing, his face flushed pink and his eyes shocked. He looked down at me, gathered himself, and said in as calm a tone as he could muster, “Your mother is crazy. She’s absolutely nuts.” I backed up onto the staircase, ready to run. He stood a few feet in front of me and repeated, “Crazy, absolutely crazy.” Then he dropped the telephone he was holding, grabbed the telephone on the entrance table, and yanked the cord out of the wall, throwing that phone down. I followed him into the kitchen, where there was a phone mounted on the wall near the sink. He bashed that phone with his fist, flinched in pain, held his injured right hand, backtracked through the entrance hall, and stormed out the front door, leaving it wide open. My mother staggered across the living room. I zipped upstairs as fast as I could. Kit was still hanging onto the top banister post. He was watching our mother with tears streaming down his cheeks.