War on the Basepaths

  Copyright © 2015 by Tim Hornbaker

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Sports Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data:

  Hornbaker, Tim.

  War on the basepaths : the definitive biography of Ty Cobb / Tim Hornbaker.

  pages cm

  ISBN 978-1-61321-765-8 (hardcover : alk. paper) 1. Cobb, Ty, 1886-1961. 2. Baseball players--United States--Biography. I. Title.

  GV865.C6H67 2015

  796.357092--dc23

  [B]

  2015004100

  Jacket design by Rich Rossiter

  Front jacket photo by Bain News Service

  Back jacket photo courtesy of the National Baseball Hall of Fame Museum, Cooperstown, NY

  Print ISBN: 978-1-61321-765-8

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61321-793-1

  Printed in the United States of America

  To the love of my life, Jodi.

  CONTENTS

  Introduction

  Chapter One: “Don’t Come Home a Failure”

  Chapter Two: Not a Born Ballplayer

  Chapter Three: Waiting for the Cobb to Crack

  Chapter Four: A Humbled Batting Champion

  Chapter Five: “Up Here, They Don’t Understand Me”

  Chapter Six: The Lucky Stiff

  Chapter Seven: Detroit’s Prima Donna

  Chapter Eight: The Psychological Advantage

  Chapter Nine: Brawls and Strikes

  Chapter Ten: Butchering Pennant Chances

  Chapter Eleven: Always Expect the Unexpected

  Chapter Twelve: Pathway to Riches

  Chapter Thirteen: Micromanager

  Chapter Fourteen: The Fighting Spirit

  Chapter Fifteen: Fading from Contention

  Chapter Sixteen: Old Man Cobb

  Chapter Seventeen: Immortalized in Bronze

  Chapter Eighteen: The Depressed Philanthropist

  Chapter Nineteen: “I Loved the Guy”

  Endnotes

  Acknowledgments

  INTRODUCTION

  Off in the distance, a swell of commotion attracted onlookers and the spectacle likely resembled a circus. Regulars to the Northern California course were sidetracked by the unusual display—especially for a Sunday on the links. All the attention seemed to be centered on one man, and to the uninformed observer, the individual was not unlike many others playing golf that day. He was in his mid-to-late forties, balding, and slightly overweight. In fact, nothing was particularly exceptional about him, visually speaking. But for those crowded around the man, wearing exceptionally large smiles and hoping for an autograph or handshake, they understood his significance. They realized they were around American sporting excellence, a one-of-a-kind legend that had cemented his place in the annals of Major League Baseball history. Their focus was none other than Tyrus Raymond Cobb, a twenty-four-year veteran of the national pastime.

  On that day, February 2, 1936, the news broke that Cobb had received the largest amount of votes for modern inductees into the newly fashioned Baseball Hall of Fame, soon to be opened at Cooperstown, New York. He was essentially chosen number one by writers over all his contemporaries, including Babe Ruth, Honus Wagner, and literally thousands of other players. The 222 votes in his favor were just four short of unanimous, clearly indicative of his widespread esteem, and sportswriter Dick Farrington, amongst others, wondered “how it happened that four experts overlooked him.”1 Cobb, who was in the midst of a golfing round when informed of the balloting results, told a reporter: “I deeply appreciate the honor. I am overwhelmed. I am glad they feel that way about me. I want to thank them all. I’ve played hard, applied myself, and tried to do my best in every case.”2

  Playing hard was Cobb’s keystone to success, and his intensity was visible on the field from his earliest games in small town Georgia until his final big league appearance seven years and five months before. Understandably, the image of the ex-ballplayer on the golf course in 1936 was a distant reality from the energetic and brawny competitor lighting basepaths afire during his prime. But even all those years later, Cobb continued to live and breathe the sport. Baseball was in his blood, and the honor bestowed upon him was a fitting acknowledgment of his extraordinary dedication to the game. As amazing as it might sound, when the exalted “Georgia Peach” retired in 1928, he had established ninety baseball records over the course of his career, creating a sphere of dominance that only he could claim. Cobb topped even Babe Ruth, who reportedly retired with seventy-eight baseball records.3

  As a member of the Detroit Tigers (1905–26) and Connie Mack’s Philadelphia Athletics (1927–28), Cobb put up statistics that were simply staggering. He owned a lifetime batting average of .367, 4,191 hits, 2,244 runs, 5,863 total bases, and 892 stolen bases, according to the official statistics recorded by Major League Baseball. [Other sources, including baseball-reference.com, acknowledge revised figures to include a .366 batting average, 4,189 hits, 5,854 total bases, and 897 stolen bases.] He hit .300 or better for twenty-three consecutive years, every season but his first (1905), and played 3,033 total games. The American League batting championship was awarded to Cobb 12 times, and he won the 1909 Triple Crown and the 1911 league MVP.4 Additionally, he captured the “Honey Boy” Evans trophy four times from 1909 to ’12 for the best batting average in the majors. By 1939, over three dozen of Cobb’s records were still holding strong, and some of them, incredibly enough, including his lifetime average and total number of batting titles, remain intact today—eighty-seven years after his last game.5

  Aside from his hitting abilities, Cobb’s speed, trickiness, and base-running feats were a legend all their own. He was unlike his predecessors in that regard, and revolutionized the game by forcing rival teams to completely alter their defense to combat his methods. On the basepaths, he combined quickness and psychology to confuse opposition players, performing stunts that no one in their right mind ever conceived. And, because of this, he got away with these peculiar maneuvers with great frequency. That included stretching base hits into doubles, running from first to third on bunts, and stealing his way around the diamond to eventually score a run. Pilfering home plate was also a specialty, and Cobb managed to slip underneath the tag of a catcher 54 times in his career, the most in history. (Second in modern times is Max Carey, who had 33 steals of home with the Pittsburgh Pirates and Brooklyn Dodgers.)

  Cobb’s reputation wasn’t as pristine as his statistics, and in his ever-determined fierceness, he did many things to get under the skin of both teammates and rivals. He talked trash on the field, which was part of his psychological campaign, slid into the bases hard, often looking to kick the ball free from the gloves of defenders, and wasn’t afraid to mix it up physically. The success of his unorthodox tactics, in itself, was aggravating, and sportswriters and fans in opposing towns were caught up in a kind of love-hate relationship with Cobb, worshipping his unbelievable athletic feats and then letting him have it thro
ugh boos and taunts, sometimes for no other good reason than he was the great Ty Cobb. Plus, anytime there was even a hint of controversy, the floodgates were open for criticism, and Cobb was the pincushion for a never-ending slew of condemnation.

  One of the most enduring allegations surrounding Cobb’s style of play was the claim that he slid into the bases with the metal spikes on the bottom of his shoes maliciously aimed at defenders with a vicious intent to injure. It was an ugly claim, and Cobb denied any deliberate attempt to injure fellow players countless times during and after his career. There were a couple moments, he admitted, when specific animosity turned spiteful, but in terms of his daily game play, slashing rivals was not a premeditated action.6 Another longstanding story that accompanied Cobb’s life was his infamous jaunt into the grandstand in New York to pummel a verbally abusive fan. The partially handicapped spectator was the recipient of a swift beating and critics have used the event as evidence of Cobb’s maniacal personality.

  Of course, there were two sides to the story, but regardless of how many times Ty tried to explain his point of view, the scandalous version always reigned supreme. His colorful approach to baseball was bankable to sportswriters, and whenever the opportunity presented itself to feed into his intriguing image, journalists took advantage of the situation. The controversy sold newspapers and, since he consistently created excitement on and off the field, it was easy to lump a series of events together and portray him as baseball’s number one rowdy. Interestingly, had Cobb performed in the television age, his amazing deeds and dynamic style would have fostered an even greater sensation. He was a must-see performer, and the marketability of Cobb as a mainstream TV celebrity would have been huge.

  Twenty-three years after the 1936 announcement that he was headed for Cooperstown, Cobb, seventy-two, told a Boston reporter that he was in the “evening” of his life.7 Although he was often in the news, mostly referenced in passing to this or that baseball record and in player comparisons by sportswriters, he was no longer center stage in the public’s consciousness. Much of what had already been written about his devilish time in the national game was accepted as gospel, and was firmly ingrained in baseball lore. But Cobb was still intent on straightening out many of the persisting untruths about his career, and was adamant about setting forth his own life story to paper before it was too late.

  Several times a year, he made public appearances at special events and reunion games, and made a sincere effort to return to New York’s baseball shrine for the annual induction ceremonies. Cobb was exceedingly vocal about the failure of writers and the veterans committee to admit worthy stars from his generation to the Hall of Fame in a timely manner, particularly those he figured to be “shamefully omitted.” If it meant temporarily amending the admittance process rules, Cobb was all for it. He explained to The Sporting News, “It won’t cheapen the Hall of Fame to let them in while they are alive and can enjoy the honor. These old-time greats helped build up the game.” Cobb referred to players like Edd Roush, Eppa Rixey, Sam Rice, and Joe Sewell, who would all eventually get into the Hall of Fame, just not while Cobb was alive to see it.8

  Cobb was personally affected by the lackadaisical system earlier in the 1950s. At the time, he was advocating recognition for Harry Heilmann, a teammate of his in Detroit for twelve seasons. After Heilmann was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer, Cobb became even pushier for his Hall of Fame recognition, demanding that writers “Let him smell the roses while he’s here, not after he’s gone.” But once it was apparent that there was not enough time for him to be admitted through the normal channels, Cobb visited his friend in the hospital and offered some important news.

  “Congratulations, Harry, you’ve made it,” Cobb said, informing him that he was indeed inducted into the Hall. The statement, however, was “a little white lie that was as gracious and as thoughtful a gesture as Ty ever made in his tempestuous life,” according to Arthur Daley of the New York Times.9 It wasn’t until 1952, months after Heilmann’s death, that Harry was actually enshrined in Cooperstown.

  Illness began to hinder Cobb’s mobility in 1959. That March, he entered a hospital in Nevada, and received nearly two weeks of treatment for a series of ailments, including back and neck pain, an infected tooth, neuralgia in his face, and high blood sugar.10 These issues were compounded by heart problems and extreme bouts of tension, depression, and alcoholism. Cobb’s condition improved temporarily, but worsened again during the summer. By November, he was in bad shape, and sought a thorough diagnosis from doctors outside San Diego at La Jolla.11 On December 6, he was admitted to Emory University Hospital in Atlanta for further scrutiny and was given a complete top-to-bottom examination. “I’ve had more x-rays and tests in the past few days than I’ve ever had in my life,” Cobb told the Associated Press. He remained upbeat, though, stating, “I’m all right. I’m feeling 100 per cent.”12

  According to press reports, Cobb’s back was his severest complaint, and it was attributed to an injury from his active baseball days. Dr. Richard Hugh Wood, his chief physician at Emory, issued a statement, declaring that there was “nothing seriously wrong” with Cobb, and that “routine” tests were being conducted. Other than the back pain, the doctor announced that Cobb appeared “to be in good shape for a man of his age.”13 Wood protected the privacy of his patient and withheld information about his true condition, which was much more dire than revealed. Tests had uncovered that a previous injury wasn’t the origin of his back problems, but that he was suffering from prostate cancer. The disease had already metastasized, spreading to his vertebrae and pelvic bone.14 Cobb told Joe King that a “probable operation” was forthcoming in February 1960, and it remains unclear if this was a second surgery or the original prostate operation he necessitated. Most sources reference Cobb’s prostate surgery as having taken place around December 1959. Regardless, between December 1959 and February 1960, Cobb underwent surgery, radiation treatment, and was placed on a score of medications.15

  As could be expected, Cobb was in severe pain at times, and while he was considered immortalized for his baseball feats, his mortality on earth was in severe jeopardy. On December 18, 1959, he was allowed to leave the hospital briefly to spend his seventy-third birthday in his hometown of Royston, Georgia, with friends, and he put on a brave face for the public, telling the United Press International wire service that he felt “wonderful.” He anticipated being fully discharged from Emory within a matter of days so he could return to California to spend Christmas with his children, he explained.16 Shortly thereafter, he did venture west, and rested comfortably at his Nevada and California homes before traveling back to Georgia around mid-January 1960. A few weeks later, he mustered his strength for a journey to New York, where he was going to be honored at two separate dinners.

  The arrival of Cobb in New York was a big deal to the local sporting community and reporters lined up to speak with him. Joe King received an especially enlightening interview and was quite attentive of Ty’s behavior and mannerisms. King noted that Ty “never departed from his gay, enthusiastic manner,” despite his obvious pain, and explained how gracious Cobb was, thanking the many people who came by for stopping in to see him. Cobb was happy to visit with “so many old friends,” and answered a multitude of questions about his life and career.

  A query was posed about his greatest thrill, and Cobb began to describe his involvement with the Royston Memorial Hospital, established in 1950, and the Ty Cobb Educational Foundation, set up in 1953. He perked up, saying: “My greatest thrill came late in life. Nothing gave me more comfort and satisfaction than being able to build the hospital at Royston, Georgia, in memory of my father and mother, and setting up my educational foundation. If my liver goes bad, I feel better just to get out those brochures and read ’em and try to figure out how we can do a little more for the winners of the scholarships. We can do a lot with the youngsters, sometimes even more than their parents can. I think of them all the time and that’s the way I’m gonna wal
k out … and go into the shadows.”17 These projects were Cobb’s pride and joy, emphasized in another interview later in 1960 when Cobb added, “It’s the best medicine I have, reading letters from the students we have helped.”18

  Cobb was always willing to talk about the hospital and his foundation and expressed how proud he was of their success while in New York. In addition to chatting with King, he sat down with sportswriter Dan Daniel of the New York World Telegram and Sun. Daniel, a longtime baseball pundit, was known for his astute commentary and insight into the players themselves. When it came to Cobb, he didn’t mince words, and there was often a blatant sharpness to his remarks that many of his star-struck peers couldn’t manage to equal. Years earlier, he wrote, “Ty Cobb was not hard to talk to—if he liked you. If he didn’t, you knew it. He was caustic. Very shrewd in his observations, but the most sarcastic hombre baseball has seen—or heard.”19

  Daniel’s conversation with Cobb in February 1960 was, again, very revealing for a man in the “evening” of his life.

  “In the old days I rarely was received in New York with cheers and acclaim,” Cobb said, reflectively. “It was here that I chased into the stands after a heckler. It was here that I got into so much trouble with the umpires and with Ban Johnson, president of the league. In New York, I fought about as desperately as I ever did to make good. The fans here must have admired me as a player. But they evidently didn’t like me as a personality.”20 It was true, and the way he was perceived wasn’t limited to New York. Cobb was colorful in terms of grit, hustle, and intensity, and he’d banter with fans on occasion, usually in an acrimonious way, but he wasn’t seen as a personable character like Babe Ruth was. He’d sneer before he’d smile on the field and fans didn’t naturally gravitate to him for his charm and charisma like they did other popular stars.

  But Cobb’s skills superseded any kind of popularity contest, and overshadowed his more amiable contemporaries. Nevertheless, fans enjoyed razzing Cobb, and hoped their taunts would throw him off his game enough to give their team a chance to win. And if they jostled Cobb enough to get him angry, they’d either see him tantrum in one way or another, or deliver a special performance at the plate—all for the crowd’s benefit. He was good at inspiring awe and, in the end, it didn’t matter who liked him, as he had to be revered for his achievements. Cobb told Daniel that he ventured to New York with “humility and with thanks. I should get down on my hands and knees and thank the game for what it has done for me.” Daniels responded in his column by stating, “Maybe it never occurred to Ty to think about the things he had done for baseball.”21