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

by Herschel Cobb

  I nodded and said, “Thanks, mister. Yeah, I’m sure. He’ll be right over and I’ll go with him.”

  The man’s hand covered my shoulder and he squeezed firmly. “Make sure you’re not here when I come back.” Then he straightened his shoulders and walked toward the roulette table.

  Across the room, Granddaddy put his hand on one of the white envelopes in his coat pocket and pulled it out, opening the flap at the same time. He held it open in front of the man sitting in the chair, showing him it was packed with money, lots of money. The man’s face looked startled. He began to smile sadly, then cry, then stiffen and look blank for a moment. His eyes lost their faraway stare and moved a dozen times, flitting between the contents of the envelope and Granddaddy’s face. He looked both forlorn and giddy with relief. Then Granddaddy stuffed the flap of the envelope over the money, shoved the full envelope into the man’s jacket, and put his hand on the man’s shoulder. Their hands grasped and shook, almost without moving. I knew that grasp; it was strong and assuring, and said, “Everything will be all right.”

  Granddaddy was walking out and immediately saw me against the wall. He changed direction and loomed in front of me in no time. “What are you doing?” he asked, his voice level and firm.

  I answered, as vaguely as I could, “I came to find you.”

  “Really,” he asked, examining my sheepish smile, “how long have you been here?” His voice exuded a confidence that he knew exactly what I was doing. I didn’t say anything. Time stopped as I waited for him to continue. “Well,” his response elongated and slightly laughing, “we’ll talk about this later, young man. Let’s go order something to eat. I’ll bet Susan and Kit are hungry.” We left the gambling room, his hand gently moving across my shoulders, and I felt the bond of a shared, unspoken secret. I thought, “There are still two more envelopes full of money.”

  I was scared that I’d done something wrong, which, looking back, was half true, but I didn’t have time to worry about it, because before we walked two steps, he moved his hand to my chest, stopping me from moving forward.

  I thought, “He’s angry, I’m in for it.” The moment of decision was there—do I run, duck, or scream? I thought of my father and felt a burst of terror pour though my body. I was breathing deeply, hoping, when Granddaddy’s voice came through: “Well, I’ll be damned, he’s here, and it’s not midnight. Hersch, come with me.”

  He took my hand in his and started walking across the dining room toward the club’s entrance. A smile formed on his face, really a grin—one that I’d seen so often, wide, toothy, bright eyed, and celebrating something inside that he knew and I wanted to know. He stood straight up, all six-feet-plus of him. Dropping my hand, he walked up to a fellow and grabbed his hand so close to his body that they almost hugged. They greeted each other and said things I could not hear. I was almost within arm’s reach, but the music was in full force and blasted out of the walls through speakers. The man regarded Granddaddy like he was a brother he’d not seen in a long time, with a welcoming smile, the nod of acknowledgment, and embrace of warm friendship. They headed, shoulder to shoulder, to a bank of chairs near the entrance to the club. Granddaddy tugged my shirtsleeve to follow. I sat nearby and watched while Granddaddy and his friend gestured back and forth with their hands, punctuating their talk. I only heard scattered words, but was mesmerized, and I understood what was going on just by watching them. They were reliving old times. I could tell that for Ty Cobb, they were still vivid in his mind. His smile was radiant, and his eyes were alive.

  He reached over and pulled me toward him, introducing me to his friend amid the loud circus of music, dance, talking, and their own rekindling of shared memories. I could not clearly hear and couldn’t make out his name. But the warmth and camaraderie between them spoke loudly, and I, even then, knew the feelings that they shared. I was surprised at how quickly my own teammates popped into my vision. Mike Hermaling, pitching; Larry Flint on third base; Larry Dunn, who wooed me to the Union Sugar team in Little League Baseball. We had a great time, fought hard, won a lot of games, and, like Granddaddy, we then went our separate ways. I didn’t really pay attention to my visions, they all occurred so quickly, like a short at the movie theater. But Granddaddy kept his friend chattering, poking, pulling, cajoling, teasing, and recounting what had happened a long time ago. He made their visions last and last. During this almost physical encounter, their only access to the intensity of their past, the level playing field of the baseball diamond was a way they could voice the admiration each had for the other.

  I sat back, a little ashamed to admit to hunger and boredom, so I kept my mouth shut. Their faces glowed, various shades of pink and peach. They smiled, laughed, fell into sorrow, arose again to joy, and shifted their bodies into shapes I knew. The shape needed to slide into a base, catch a fly ball on the run, block a runner at home plate, fake a swing and drag a bunt, feign an injury, take the batting stance and mean it, with all your best at the plate, and swing your bat knowing your teammates depended on you. They lived what they knew, a long time ago. Finally, Granddaddy fumbled in his pocket for the envelope—full, fat, and needed. He pulled it out and wrapped the man’s hand around it without comment, explanation, or ceremony. I don’t think the man expected it right then, but he took it fast, put it in his coat, and abruptly stood up. He shook hands like the end of the world was postponed, and walked toward the front door he’d entered only an hour before.

  Granddaddy sat down on the wooden chair next to me. I was glued to my seat and didn’t dare move or say anything. He didn’t look at me. His eyes wandered around the room, from the floor to the ceiling, to the walls, and to the people standing nearby. He was shaking his head slightly, as if to try to understand something, and I could see his eyes were barely focused. I’d never seen him look quite like this. He created a buffer between himself and the world. After a long while he brought his hands together, fingers interlocked, then reached his arm across my shoulder and said, “We’ll talk about this later.”

  “Later” came late that night, after dinner, after watching the follies show, laughing and being slightly embarrassed when the MC introduced him and he had to speak to the audience, and having ice cream and fancy desserts. He made especially sure that Susan had a good meal and was comfortable. “Later” came at his cabin at Cave Rock, down the road from the North Shore Club.

  In the parking lot, the boy ran to the end of the lot to retrieve Granddaddy’s Chrysler. When he returned, he climbed out and thrust a piece of paper and a pen toward Granddaddy, saying quietly, “Please, I’d like your autograph.”

  Granddaddy stepped back, somewhat startled, then brushed aside the offered pen and reached into his inside jacket pocket. He took out his Parker fountain pen, asked the boy his name, and took the paper and put it on his thigh. On it he wrote in large script, “To Bud, Best Wishes, Ty Cobb,” and dated it. He signed in permanent green ink, which was his favorite. At the time I didn’t know what to think; it had happened in a second or two, while Susan and Kit were climbing into the car on the other side. Granddaddy quickly took the keys and slid behind the wheel. The third envelope was still in his coat pocket and he patted it to make sure. Its recipient did not show up, and the help it contained would have to wait until another time. I jumped in behind him and we drove off.

  We turned left onto the two-lane road that circles Lake Tahoe. The lake shone brightly below us, reflecting a partial moon high in the western sky, its cone of pale yellow flowing across the water like an undulating and inviting gate. Kit jabbered about his evening, reliving what the waiter served him—pheasant under glass, how he played with the hundred silver dollars Granddaddy left him, and mostly, about the show with the dancing girls and fancy-dressed musicians. Soon, we started up the hill, and a little inland, took the road around the huge property that was Glenbrook, Nevada. As soon as we passed the small sign that was all the indication that Glenbrook was there, our road was next. The road down to the cabin is unmarked, a
nd you just have to know it’s there. Granddaddy pulled in front of the cabin with the small, bare light glowing above the front door; we jumped out, shivered in the cold night air, and rushed to get inside.

  Susan and Kit were using the bunk bed room, just to the right of the front door, on the driveway side of the cabin. It was small and cramped, but Kit wanted to sleep on the top, so Susan stayed below to make sure he kept the guard up to keep him from rolling out of bed. Granddaddy’s room was on the other side of the large living room, on the lake side of the cabin. Two small windows on the wall faced the lake, and when I stood on the twin bed in that room, I could see a view of the water filtered through the pine trees. In the dark, the shadows cast a magical picture on the hill leading down to the lake. It was a hunting cabin designed to keep the warmth inside during the winter, hence the small bedroom windows; the only large window was in the living room, looking out on Lake Tahoe. Keeping the heat inside during the winter was important, and small windows did the trick.

  My room was next to Granddaddy’s, separated by a bathroom. I changed into my PJs and, hearing water running and shuffling in the bathroom, knocked loudly. The door opened, and Granddaddy stood brushing his teeth in striped pajamas. He looked funny, and I laughed a little.

  He asked me if I was sleepy, and I told him I was not. Then he said, “It’s late. Brush your teeth and we’ll talk.”

  He was a big man, sitting in his pajamas on the side of an extra-long full bed, feet bare, hair scuffed and showing that there wasn’t much of it, with a tired twinkle in his eye. The only light was the small lamp on the bedside table between us, and only one of the bulbs was on, so it was dim in the room. The sound of the small night waves, gently splashing on the lakeshore, was one of the most relaxing sounds I’ve ever heard.

  “Well, Hersch, I told you we’d discuss things. Sit down so we’re not here all night. Did you get dessert?” I knew he wanted some ice cream, but we didn’t have any in the cabin because I’d finished it off earlier that afternoon.

  “No, sir,” I answered, “I don’t want anything.” Then I just blurted out, “Granddaddy, you looked so happy and so sad.”

  “Those men haven’t done so well since . . .” and he stopped, hesitated like he didn’t want to say more, but then continued, “since . . . we worked together. I knew them a long time ago.”

  “Granddaddy, we don’t have to talk about this if you don’t want to. That’s okay.” Part of me wanted to know, because what I’d seen in the smoke-filled room was so intense between him and those men, but part of me knew I didn’t want to pry.

  “No, Hersch,” he continued, “you were there, you saw everything, and that’s why we went to the North Shore Club. I’ve been doing this for quite a few years. This year, you happened to be with me.” He paused. “The guy by the door, Eddie, knew me from a long time ago. I fought hard to play the best I could and didn’t let anything stand in my way. Some players hated me for it, maybe didn’t see what I wanted. Eddie and I played together for a few years, and then he moved on to another team. But we crossed paths, and he was friendly in a way my other teammates were not. I remembered that.”

  I interjected, “He looked so old, and his clothes were beat up.” I remembered how expectantly the man waited for Granddaddy to reach him. The expression on his face was mixed elation and embarrassment, and I could tell he sure didn’t want to meet me or Susan or Kit. He moved so close to Granddaddy when they greeted that their faces almost touched. Only when they talked about their time together did he look at ease. And when Granddaddy handed him the envelope full of money, it was almost a ghost scene from a movie. I saw it in slow motion, two blurry figures moving together as if they were connected by a huge rubber band and kept apart by a short stick. After Granddaddy locked the stuffed envelope into his hand, Eddie moved away and disappeared into the smoky mist. He held the envelope like there was gold in it.

  “He wasn’t always that way,” Granddaddy said, defending him. “He played hard. I was lucky.”

  “Why were you lucky? You told me you worked as hard as you could and fought and fought to get to the top.” I was really puzzled. “That’s not luck.”

  “No, no, that’s not what I meant. It’s not luck. But looking back at it now, I was lucky. I worked hard at playing ball; and I met some people. Not everybody met people who helped them.”

  I had no idea what he was talking about.

  “Hersch, look here, you see, when you’re young, when you’re just starting, it’s hard, and lots of things happen, some things not so nice. Some folks push against you, they might want you to quit, get out. They might do things to you. Things that make you mad. Things you never forget. It sticks with you for a long time, maybe forever.” He was watching me as if I were going to give a sign that I understood what he was talking about.

  I felt more lost than ever. “Granddaddy, what did that man want?”

  “Hersch, he missed out.” His voice dropped lower. “It was all there, in Detroit, all the factories, the cars, the industry, and in Atlanta.”

  I still didn’t understand. “What about the man at the front door and the man in the gambling room? What about them?” I heard my voice waver between asking and insisting.

  “Yes, the two friends of mine. Yes, about them, yes.” He straightened, sitting on the edge of the bed, looking at me like I was exactly eleven and a half years old, and it was the first time he’d realized that.

  Then he continued, “The fellow at the front door, I played ball with him. I saw him over the years, and then in 1941, I played in an old timers game and saw him again. He was behind the crowd, which were mainly a lot of kids. They really wanted the Babe’s autograph, mostly, but some wanted mine. But I saw Eddie, and we waved, and I knew he wanted to get down to talk to me. We met later, and I noticed his clothes and shoes and knew he could use some help. You know what I mean? He needed some money.

  “When I was playing ball, it was all in Detroit. And some in Atlanta. I saw it happening all around me. Businessmen were building factories, making cars and parts for cars, and everything they needed. Texas had oil, and Detroit had car factories. The city was growing; electricity was being put in homes.” He looked at me like he wanted me to understand, but knew I probably didn’t. “Like I said, I was lucky. I was introduced to businessmen. Of course, they wanted to meet me, but they talked about what they were doing, told me to buy stock in their companies. I did.”

  He stopped talking, shifted around, and said, “You don’t know what ‘stock’ is, do you?”

  “I’ve never seen one, Granddaddy.”

  “No, no, Hersch.” He held back a small laugh, and it came out with his smile, going clear across his face. “No, stock is a piece of paper that says you own part of a company. If the company does really well, it becomes more and more valuable and you have more money.” He paused to make sure I understood. I nodded my head. And my expression no longer looked like I was lost in the woods in the dark.

  He went on, “Well, I spent a lot of time with these businessmen and went to their offices and saw their factories. It was amazing to me. And I wanted to make money. So, I bought some stock in an automobile company that is now called General Motors. It became very profitable. And I did the same thing in Atlanta with Coca-Cola.”

  I immediately figured this out and asked him, “Does this mean you get free Cokes?”

  “Hersch, that’s not important.” He didn’t like me drinking Cokes and sodas because they had too much sugar in them. “I was lucky. Businessmen invited me into their meetings and clubs. These companies grew bigger and bigger, and what I bought grew too. Lots of ball players never had anything and left the game with nothing.”

  “Why?” I asked. “Didn’t they play like you?” I realized that I didn’t really know anything about Granddaddy and baseball, only that he played, and he was my grandfather. I was more interested in him being my grandfather.

  “Sure, they played. But those business guys helped me a lot. The game was
new, and they liked being seen at the ballpark, next to the players. After games finished, I was mostly by myself, so I went to the places they went, talked with them, and listened to them.” He was looking at me, knowing that only a bit was soaking in. I reached over to the end of the bed and grabbed a couple of pillows and rested my head on them.

  “Getting sleepy? Let me finish and then we can turn in.”

  I recalled the looks on those men’s faces when they talked with Granddaddy, and the look when he gave them the fat envelopes. I pushed myself up and sat again on the edge of the bed, and said to him, “No, I’m okay, just a little tired. Tell me the rest of what happened.”

  “So I took some of the money I earned and bought stock in these men’s companies. I did pretty good and later had some jingle in my pockets. You know what I mean? Jingle?” He waited and watched. I nodded my head, and he continued, “When I saw them, especially after that old timers’ game, I had cash in my pocket and gave some to them. The last few years they’ve gotten older and, well, it’s been sort of regular. You know what I mean, Hersch?” I’d rested my head again and mumbled that I did. “So we meet, up here at the lake, at the North Shore Club, just briefly, usually longer than tonight, and I help them out. Not at the same time, though. Sometimes we sit and have a drink and talk about the old days and enjoy a few stories and laughs about folks we knew. I know they need the help. I don’t really know what else they do.” He paused, “It’s something I can do. Understand?”

  I was resting on the pillows, my eyes half closed, but my mind was whirling with pictures and images of Granddaddy and how he might have looked with these men years ago, and how he now sounded like he wanted to tell us stories about himself when he was young.

  I liked his voice and the way he told a story, especially about himself, because he moved his arms, hands, and face with the rhythm of the story. It was like being there. He had a force about him that filled the room with what he was remembering.