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

by Herschel Cobb

  My eyes were fading, and I knew I was falling asleep. I felt Granddaddy’s arms slip under me and pick me up. He carried me through the bathroom door, which was narrow, and I was just awake enough to shift my head and keep from bumping on the door frames. He laid me down in my bed and tucked me under the covers. His hand gently stroked my forehead, and I barely heard, “You and Susan and Kit, you mean so much to me.” Then I heard the door close, and the light in the bathroom went out.

  The window above my head was open, and I felt the cold air drift over my face like a gentle hand, and I heard the sound of the lake waves rhythmically lap up on the beach. The moon, now positioned in the west, gave my room just enough light so I could see outlines of shadows and shapes. I wasn’t falling asleep anymore. Granddaddy’s last words and the cool air had awakened my spirits, and my mind whirled like a kid’s kaleidoscope, each section filled with fragments of the scenes, sounds, and impressions of the evening at the North Shore Club and listening to my granddaddy, imagining his life long ago.

  When I thought about listening to him in the other room, I realized that he didn’t have to tell me about those men. It was late for me, and it had been a long evening. He told me about his life because it was important to him to share that with me. Our presence, and especially Susan’s, had opened a door for him to connect with his grandchildren in a way he never had with his children. It was new for him to have someone listen to what had happened in his life. It was awkward, but I sensed that he was determined to continue, and I sensed he’d been in this beginning position before. As the years went on, and we spent part of our summers with him, more of these changes would appear. His world with us grew larger, and ours with him deepened. My sense of trust was growing, and I felt a sense of well-being that actually warmed my body. The cold air flowing over me provided the perfect balance with the warm snuggling feeling that lulled me to sleep.

  A few days later, I spent the day rowing around the cove and returned to the cabin in the early afternoon. I expected to find Granddaddy sleeping in his chair with a ballgame on the radio. The radio was playing, but the crackling sound was just noise, impossible to tell what it was, and he wasn’t sitting where he usually sat. I spotted him hunched over the small writing desk on the side of the living room. He didn’t notice me until I walked over and asked what he was doing. I was eager to tell him about all the crawfish I had caught.

  He swung his chair around like it should have been on swivels and nearly tipped it over. His voice was excited as he said, “Hersch, come over here. Let me take a look at your back.” He pulled me around and lifted up my shirt to check my back for sunburn. “Ah, you look okay. Go and get yourself some fruit and come on back here.”

  His mood was almost jovial, which was unusual. I had learned how to gauge his moods, and this afternoon he was visibly animated. When I returned, he closed his fountain pen, leaned back, and gazed over the freshly written letter with a big smile. “While you were rowing around, I went over to Glenbrook and picked up my mail. I think I’m making some real progress on something I’ve wanted to do for a long time. And I think now is the time.”

  I asked him, “Can I help?”

  “Well, I’d like you to, but it’s not like that.” He was grinning. “I want to start a fund to help youngsters pay for their college education, and I’ve been writing to some folks I know in Georgia to help me. And they wrote to tell me that they will.”

  “College, what’s that? Why does somebody want a fund, what’s that? Why can’t I help?” My questions bubbled out quickly, more because he wasn’t going to let me help than because I didn’t know what he was doing and had to ask.

  He began his answer by explaining about himself. “Well, I never went to college. And that’s where an educated man goes. You didn’t know this about your grandfather, did you?” He started talking again before I could say anything. “College is where you go after high school. You’ve seen the high school in Los Angeles, haven’t you?”

  “Yeah, but it’s a long way from our house,” I answered, remembering that I’d only seen it once.

  “Well,” he said as if to correct me, “maybe not that far. You’ll go to high school in a couple of years, and then, I hope, to college.”

  I was following him so far.

  “Hersch, colleges cost money to go there, so I want to give some money to help any youngster in Georgia pay for going to college. That’s what I’m writing all these letters for. To get some help. I can’t do all the details myself. These fellows will help me set things up, choose who gets helped and that stuff.”

  “Who?” I asked, not knowing what else to ask.

  “Well, I hope mostly Georgia kids. Any kid who works hard and has the stuff to make a success of himself.”

  “How many kids?” I wondered out loud.

  “I hope a lot. I’m giving some money, and I hope it helps a lot of kids. I want it to last a long time, way after I’m gone.”

  “Is this like at the North Shore Club, with those two men?”

  “No, no, no.” He shook his head, realizing that I wasn’t getting his idea. “No, no, not like that.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, holding his hands together. “You don’t know this, but my father was a teacher. He wanted me to go to school, but I didn’t. So, now I can do something.”

  I was curious about what he just said and blurted, “Where’s your dad?”

  My question startled him. He leaned back in his chair and his smile disappeared. Twice he started to say something, but didn’t.

  Then he quietly said, “He died.” I nodded, realizing that of course he would have, because Granddaddy was old himself. “But that’s not what I want to tell you about. I want you to know about what I’m doing. I want these kids who work hard to go to college. So, that’s what I’m doing, helping them out.”

  “How come?” I queried.

  “Hersch, remember after we went to the North Shore Club, and we were talking, and I told you I’d been pretty fortunate and had met some businessmen who helped me out early on?” I nodded my head.

  “That’s what I’m doing. Helping. I want to give back. I’ve done okay, and now it’s time to help some youngsters with their lives. When you’re older and you’ve done well, I want you to do this too. That’s what you do, understand?”

  He was looking directly at me, telling what he expected, which sounded right with me, so I nodded.

  “Good.” He was smiling again. “Now let me finish one more letter, and then we’ll see how the fish are biting.”

  Before I went to get the poles, I stopped to watch him. He was so focused on his letter that he didn’t realize I hadn’t left. I liked what I saw, pleased that Granddaddy was so pleased. I realized how much I liked being with him.

  When I got older, I learned that the two ball players at the North Shore Club were not the only men who received help from Granddaddy; there were several others. Not only that, his Educational Foundation was established, has flourished, and has distributed millions of dollars to recipients in Georgia and elsewhere.

  We finished the summer at Grandma’s, and she took us to the train station in Palo Alto early one morning. She bought tickets for us, and we hugged and said our good-byes. When she handed the tickets to Susan, she exclaimed, “Grandma, these are for Santa Maria, not Los Angeles. We have to go all the way to Los Angeles.”

  Grandma replied, in a rare somber voice, “Susan, your mother moved back to Santa Maria this summer, while all of you were up here with me. She’ll explain. I think she will pick you up.” The conductor was calling for passengers to board, so we all kissed Grandma, took the package of sandwiches she made for us, and jumped on the train.

  The train ride took most of the day, and we had nothing to do except look out the window, play cards, and wonder where our new house would be.

  In Santa Maria, our mom didn’t pick us up at the station, Ayako did. As we climbed into the car, Ayako greeted us but didn’t say anything during the ride. Sus
an and I looked at each other and knew something was wrong.

  Ayako drove through a tract of one-story homes and parked in front of a small ranch house. She quickly said, “Your mom’s inside, but she doesn’t feel well, so we have to be very quiet.”

  I walked to the front door with my bag and saw all the shades for the windows were drawn. When Ayako unlocked the front door and I walked inside, it was nearly dark with all the windows covered. The house was small, and the front door opened directly into the living room. I put my bag down and looked around. Everything was green. Green rug, green walls, and the light green sofa that I remembered from our house in Los Angeles.

  Ayako could see the questions written all over our faces. Finally, almost apologetically, she explained, “Your mom doesn’t feel well, and Dr. Dunn will be here any minute. He will explain.” Almost as soon as she finished, there was a knock on the front door. She opened it and Dr. Dunn came in, carrying his black bag. We all knew him; he was our family doctor when we lived in Santa Maria two years ago, when I was in the second grade. He had a son my age and a daughter Susan’s age.

  The three of us were sitting on the edge of the sofa, with our suitcases still at our feet, waiting with puzzled expressions on our faces. He greeted us, saying how nice it was to see us again, and then cleared his throat with a slight cough. He proceeded like we were patients. “Your mom is quite ill, and I need to visit her twice every day, morning and evening. The house needs to be quiet and kept dark and cool.” He took a deep breath. “Can you three do this for your mom?”

  We all nodded, like toys at the end of a string. Susan had the presence to ask, “How long is Mom going to be sick? Where is she?”

  Dr. Dunn looked over at Ayako, expecting her to say something, but she declined. “Susan, I’m not sure how long. Maybe a few weeks. I don’t really know. She’s in her bedroom, down that hall, and the door is locked. She has to stay there. You can’t visit her. She needs to be by herself.”

  I didn’t say anything, but I felt my stomach twinge with a familiar nausea.

  “Ayako will take care of you. And Susan, maybe you can help. Right now I have to see your mom and take care of her.” Dr. Dunn’s voice was flat and final. He fixed his left hand on his black bag, jingled some keys in his right pocket, and walked down the hallway.

  Dr. Dunn appeared every morning and every evening for two months to give her a shot. Maybe for him it was routine, because he barely said anything to Ayako or to us after his visits. During that time a large lock guarded the room where my mother was staying. Dr. Dunn had a key, and Ayako had a key. I also saw that the outside windows had been nailed shut and the inside curtains were drawn closed. We went to school during the day, and at night the room where my mother was kept was usually quiet. Occasionally, we heard moaning and low, rumbling howling. We kept quiet, practically tiptoeing around the house; not ever knowing what would happen if we made a noise. Susan helped Ayako with our meals, and Kit and I more than ever were “the boys.”

  My mother had become addicted to uppers and downers. She used the uppers to go out at night to clubs, and the downers to get to sleep when she came home. During the two months that she was locked in that room, I found pink pills, blue pills, and yellow pills hidden everywhere in the house. The first time I was looking for more toothpaste and reached in the back of the cabinet in our bathroom. Behind everything I came upon a plastic bag filled with blue or pink pills. Susan found pink pills in the flour tin in the kitchen. Pills were hidden everywhere: under a throw rug, behind record holders, in a music box, under a flower pot, all through our bathroom, and deep behind stuff stored on the top shelves in the closets.

  She had divorced Dick Branstedder, and then discovered that the manager she had hired to run the Coca-Cola Bottling Co. in Santa Maria had stolen from the business. She could not afford another mistake like this and returned to Santa Maria to run it herself. Once in Santa Maria, she started drinking more than ever, staying out late, knowing that we three were with our grandmother and grandfather. The pills came after the liquor, compounding her dissipation.

  Late in the fall, I returned home on a sunny Saturday afternoon from playing with my friends. Ayako was waiting at the front door with Susan. As soon as I reached the front door, she told me it was all right now for us to see our mother. She took Susan and me down the hall and opened the door. My mother’s room was bright and cheery, and Mom was sitting on the floor.

  Her face was made up with eye shadow and bright red lipstick, and she held a deck of cards in her hand. The first thing she said was, “Let’s play some cards,” then she motioned for us to come over to her. She didn’t say anything else. No other greeting, no hug. I looked around her room, which I hadn’t seen before. It was the garage converted into a bedroom and bath. She was motioning with her hand for me to sit down on the rug with her. The scene was scary-strange and I didn’t like it. I told her hello and left. I took my bicycle and rode over to Miller Street School.

  Mom traded her uppers and downers for a nightly quart of Old Crow. Susan continued to help with meals and take care of us “boys.” The tension in the evenings depended on how the Old Crow affected Mom or what her plans were for going out. School became more and more of a refuge for me. The old sad cycle had started up again.

  CHAPTER SIX

  My First Visit to His Office

  On my first visit that summer, I rushed through his front door at 48 Spencer Lane, rounded the corner into the living room, and found him. Even as I sat down, I adamantly asked him, “Granddaddy, what did you do? Who are you, really?”

  I saw the familiar twinkle in his eye. He knew exactly what I was asking about. He sat across from me in the same easy chair he always used, dull brown with a faded yellow floral design; wide, rounded arms; and a low back with a seat cushion soft and worn from use. He wore dark brown slacks and a light beige gabardine shirt, pockets on each side, buttons up the middle, with long sleeves. It looked freshly pressed, like something Randolph Scott would wear, except the buttons were not on a slant. His shoes looked funny to me with white woven tops and light brown leather sides. The look around his eyes softened as he took me in, almost slowing me down in my rush. I heard Susan whispering to me, but I didn’t pay attention to what she was saying because I was so focused on Granddaddy.

  The three of us had arrived a few minutes before, and he didn’t consider my question until we all said our hellos, hugged him, and then sat on chairs facing him. His questions to me after a long hug were the same as last year, and the same as the year before that. My answers were the same too.

  “Now, Hersch, do you want a smoke?” he asked. Even though he smoked a cigar now and then, he wanted to know if I smoked cigarettes.

  “No, Granddaddy,” I answered dutifully. “I don’t smoke.”

  “Well, how about a drink, beer or something?”

  “No thanks, Granddaddy, I don’t drink either,” I replied. I felt like giggling, but I knew from years past that these were things he wanted to know.

  The next question was always about what books I had been reading. He asked the details of every story, about the characters, what I thought, what I liked best, what book was next on my list, and so on. Yet this year I cut short his inquiry; I’d jumped to the heart of what was important to me.

  My question lingered in the air. I waited. Susan sat quietly.

  “Hersch, come over here,” he said at last, his voice quiet and firm. “Sit down here,” he added, patting the right armrest of his chair.

  “Tell me, what’s been going on?” The question came out slowly and deliberately. He gave me a soft, broad smile. His right arm reached around my back, and he shifted me forward a little bit. “Susan, take Kit out to the kitchen and see what you can find in the freezer. Bring a couple of extra big spoons.” As he spoke, his left hand brushed the air upward, as if helping Susan move toward the kitchen. I knew what he had out there—ice cream—and a part of me wanted to go with them, but I felt his arm around me and his hug
e hand holding me close. It was like being cradled in a large basket, and I carefully watched his face out of the corner of my eye. His patience calmed me down, and he seemed to know where this path led.

  Susan and Kit rounded the corner into the dining room and disappeared. He said, “Well, tell me a little bit about what’s been going on. How was your baseball season?” There was a knowing inflection in his voice.

  My mind jumped at the mention of baseball. How did he know?

  I didn’t really know how to start, but I’d thought about it all the previous night and on the ride over from Grandma’s house. I wanted to know who my grandfather really was and exactly what he did. I had good reason, because of what happened during my Middle League baseball season at home, in Santa Maria. The season started a few weeks before the end of my eighth-grade year and would continue until the middle of summer. Each boy was supposed to try out for each of the teams, and the coaches checked out all the players and prepared to “buy” a team. Each coach was given “points” to “spend” on players, and they bid for the players they wanted and “spent their points” to build a team. I don’t think they spent a lot of points on me because I didn’t show up for tryouts for every team, so most of the coaches didn’t even know I was around.

  The previous year, in Little League, I had known all my teammates. We all tried out for the same team so we could play together. Of course that was against the rules. We were supposed to try out for each of four teams and be bid on by the coaches. I knew I would make a team. It was easy because I was the only kid who could throw the ball all the way to home plate from straightaway center field. Now, in Middle League, there were a lot of bigger, stronger kids.

  I didn’t like the idea of playing for somebody I didn’t know, so I only tried out for two teams. I was lucky one of them picked me. I never mentioned that I would not be around for the full season, that I would leave soon after school was out for the year. I felt badly about this, but I wanted to play in some games and knew that I wasn’t the best player anyway.