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

by Herschel Cobb

  Daddy began rocking back and forth ominously. He lifted his arms and fists slightly away from his sides, then thumped them hard down against his sides. Yet he managed to keep a semblance of control. His head rolled back, and he hissed, “Shit, right here.” He reached behind the stove and turned something. He swung around on his heels and stormed out of the cabin, slamming the door. The cabin shook a second time.

  I stood up and at the same time Granddaddy looked over at me. The corners of his mouth were turned up in a smile, and his eyes twinkled. “Hersch, about ready for some breakfast?”

  I was too shocked to answer. The room had been crackling with Daddy’s rage and I expected to see something awful, like him take a swing at his own father and thrash him. I’d seen him put his fist through doors, rip cords out of plugs, smash furniture in our house. I was relieved that he had gone outside, but my stomach was curdling with memories of all the times he had whipped my bare butt with a belt or crowded me into a corner, trapping me with his legs, pressing me hard against the walls until I cried “uncle” or just cried. I could hear him down by the water, cursing and knocking things around. Meanwhile, Granddaddy was lighting one of the burners with a match, adjusting the flame.

  “I have to go to the bathroom,” I muttered, suddenly aware of my own urgency.

  “Oh, sure,” he replied, looking around the cabin. Then he motioned with his head toward the steps down to the boathouse, where the Chris-Craft lay in the water. “Why don’t you go down there, might be warmer. Into the water, I mean.”

  I realized in a flash that the suggestion meant I didn’t have to go outside and possibly meet up with my father. I hurried toward the steps leading down to the small gangway next to the Chris-Craft. He handed me a flashlight as I passed and asked me if I wanted some hot cocoa. I nodded yes, and closed the door after me and disappeared into the dark.

  When I returned, he was stirring a pan of milk on the stove, putting cocoa into it a little at a time. He’d set a box of Wheaties on the table, along with a bottle of milk, two bowls, and two huge spoons. “Go ahead and eat. We have to hurry up. Otherwise, we’ll miss the shoot.”

  I poured Wheaties into the bowl and had the milk bottle poised over them when Granddaddy grabbed a box of sugar. He spread so much sugar over his cereal, the flakes were completely covered. Milk followed and he munched away while I watched in delighted amazement.

  “Here,” he said, offering the box to me, “those are like eating paste without something on them.” I gladly added sugar, poured some milk, and started eating.

  I finally realized what my half-dressed, unbuttoned grandfather looked like: a disheveled old elf. I half swallowed my cereal and laughed, almost losing my mouthful. He looked at me with the oddest expression and asked, “Well, what’s so funny?”

  I was embarrassed to tell him, so I muttered, “Oh, nothing.” But I could tell by the way he glanced down at his open shirt and undone belt, the cuff of his sleeve soaked with milk, the sugar and flakes all around his bowl, and how he immediately wiped off the milk dripping from his chin, that he knew how funny he looked. He didn’t care. He just kept on eating.

  The tension of a few minutes ago had faded. I was relieved that my father wasn’t looming over me, but I felt something more than that. I’d never sat alone with Granddaddy. I really didn’t know him. The only man I knew was my father, and being with him was scary. Granddaddy seemed easy and comfortable, acted as if he liked having me around. He didn’t talk much, just a few words between bites. He asked me about having enough warm clothes and cookies, and did I like school, and what books I liked. By the way he kept asking questions, I could tell he was actually interested in me.

  “I think your father is busy outside. I don’t think he’s coming back in,” he calmly remarked after a few more big bites. He spoke as if he knew this for a certainty, even though neither of us had looked. “So, let’s finish up and get going. Hersch, why don’t you put the food and drinks in that box? I think your cocoa is ready. You can bring it with us in the thermos. I’ll take care of the hardware.”

  I knew he meant the shotguns. I kept eating, wondering if he would say anything about nearly being attacked by my father. He didn’t, and I was glad for that. My father and his rage had left the cabin, and I could relax. I could feel the stove warming up my body. I finished my breakfast, put on more clothes, my shoes and galoshes, and started storing our food and drinks in the cardboard box. By the time I finished, Granddaddy had washed his face, combed his hair, straightened his shirts and pants and put on his boots and heavy jacket, and was gathering up his two shotguns and the four that Daddy had brought. I set the box of food on the table and stood behind it, watching him, ready to go.

  He smiled at me. “You’re all ready. Good. Good job.”

  I was struck dumb. I never had anybody tell me that I’d done a good job. I felt so good, I didn’t know what to do. The expression on my face must have surprised him. He looked at me intently, then winked and said, “Well, let’s go. We’ll have some fun with Babe.”

  Outside, the sky was dark except for the sparkling stars. The gorge was dark too. I’d turned off the lantern inside the cabin, but we both had flashlights. Down by the river, I saw a light moving around and heard the thuds and clangs of stuff being thrown into the metal runabout and knew it was my father. We’d use this runabout, mounted with an outboard engine, to motor out to one of the small islands in the middle of the wide river. I followed behind Granddaddy, not knowing what to expect.

  The bow of the runabout rested on the sandy beach. Granddaddy stepped in and handed the shotguns, still in their cases, over to Daddy, who was standing in the stern. Granddaddy then climbed into the center, took the box from me, and extended his hand. I’d never grabbed Granddaddy’s hand before, so I didn’t realize how huge it was or the tremendous strength of his grip. His hand took hold of me gently, but I felt it wrap fully around my own and part of my arm, practically lifting me into the boat. He set me down exactly in the middle of the forward bench.

  “Let’s get going.” Dad’s voice was gruff and insistent. He pulled hard on the cord to start the outboard, used an oar to push off from the bank, and we headed up the river. Babe was seated next to me, wagging her tail and licking the sugar and milk off my face. I faced forward, feeling the cold air rush across my face, and squinting into the darkness. Overhead, the starlight had faded and the slightest steel-gray tinted the pitch-black sky. I didn’t hear any conversation behind me, just the change in the engine noise as we humped over small waves, fighting the river’s current. We motored for about twenty minutes and passed a number of small islands. Finally, with my eyes more accustomed to the dark, I could see a good-sized island up ahead, covered with short, broad leafy trees that would provide the cover my father called a blind. Early in the morning, around dawn, the ducks fly upriver, over the islands, or out over the water. Wearing brown clothes, Daddy would hide under the branches, take aim from his blind, and shoot. Ducks fly fast in small flocks. Without warning, they pull up and head down to the water, hunting for food or returning to a favorite feeding spot. The decoys and duck calls are supposed to trick them into slowing down near us or alighting in the river. If Dad shot a duck, it went down in the river and Babe would retrieve it. By the time sunlight touched the top of the canyon rim in two hours, no ducks would be flying, the hunt would be over, and we’d go home. We ate all the ducks Dad shot, or gave them to families who ate them. They were bigger than chickens, and one easily fed an entire family.

  The year before, I had come with Dad and Babe to a similar island on the Snake and watched Babe work. Retrieving ducks was a game to her. After dawn had broken, Dad fired four times very quickly and called to me to hurry over to the edge of the island, pointing to Babe splashing into the river. He’d hit three ducks in total. Two dropped into the water far out and one close in, all being carried away by the current. Babe watched them fall and swam to the first duck that hit the water. She snatched it in her mouth and swam
to the second duck. There, she let go of the first duck and took a hold of the second one and swam with it to the third duck. She let go of that duck, grabbed the third duck, and swam with it to the island. She dropped it at Daddy’s side and went back into the river, found the first and second ducks, and retrieved both of them. They had been carried a long, long way downriver by the current, but she never lost track of them. Babe had what was called a “soft mouth,” so the bird’s feathers were wet and ruffled, but the flesh was not chewed or broken.

  My father powered down as we approached the shore. Taking this as my cue, I retreated to the middle of the boat, causing the nose to rise and allowing it to run onto the sand so we didn’t have to step into the water. Babe jumped out right away, and then Granddaddy climbed past me, onto the island, and pulled the boat as far up as he could. I climbed out with the box of food, and Dad handed the shotguns and ammo bag to Granddaddy. Dad had already told me to be quiet and stay under the branches, out of his way. He hustled his gear to the other side of the island, set things down under a tree, and quickly put on his hunting jacket and green hat. The tree branches and bushes on the island provided perfect cover from overhead, and I could barely see the sky and high sides of the gorge from under the tree where I was standing. The Snake flowed fast, changing color from the black of the night sky to the steel gray of predawn. Granddaddy waded out and planted four decoys in the water; they had anchor weights and were attached along a strong line we would use later to pull them back to shore. Both Daddy and Granddaddy had a string of duck calls around their necks. Daddy ignored me, which was fine, so I just watched Babe. Excited, she ran from the edge of the river over to my father and then to me. Back and forth and back and forth. She knew what was coming.

  I heard the sound of shotgun fire echo off the walls of the gorge at the same time I heard my father say, “Shit, sonofabitch. Who in the hell is that?” He didn’t direct the question at Granddaddy or me. He was feeding shotgun shells into his pump-action twelve-gauge as fast as he could, pacing back and forth under the outer branches of the small tree he chose for his blind. He was watching the sky and loading at the same time.

  “It’s still dark, dammit. That sonofabitch can’t even see.” He faced the river, creeping close to the edge of the overhanging branches. He muttered and cursed to himself, peering into the sky. Whoever had fired his shotgun had stirred his wrath. He wanted the whole Snake River to himself and was livid that somebody had spotted and fired at a duck before he did.

  Granddaddy stood quietly among three small trees, looking up at the dark sky and then at me peeking out from under my tree. He came over, reached in the food box, and opened a bottle of Coca-Cola. Perched with one knee on the ground while he drank a huge gulp of Coke, he tousled my hair. His hand shifted to my shoulder and he held it firmly, saying, “Hersch, you stay here. Don’t follow your father. If you want, come over to where I am. I’ll be up there, behind that group of trees. Now, be careful and stay low if you come. Here, here are some cookies.” He pushed the bag of cookies into my lap, tousled my hair again, and walked away. I watched exactly where he went, planning a pathway to him if needed.

  I sat, waiting in anticipation for the gunfire to begin. The sky changed color in just the few minutes I sat still. I heard Granddaddy’s voice call in a muffled voice, “Herschel, 11:00. Three mallards.” His duck call squawked as loudly as he could blow. He wanted his son to take the first shots.

  The explosion from my father’s twelve-gauge startled me, even though I expected it. I instinctively ducked, curling my shoulders and head into my lap, covering my ears with my hands. Yet my fear lasted only a moment. I got to my knees, stuffed a cookie into my mouth, and scuffled around to find a position to see the sky through the tree branches. I squinted hard, just barely making out dark forms flying over the Snake. Ducks, lots of ducks. They were barely visible against the side of the canyon, but as I changed position, I saw that the steel-gray sky behind them cast them in silhouette. Part of me rooted for them to fly fast so they’d escape, and another part remembered how delicious they tasted.

  I gradually maneuvered myself away from my father and toward Granddaddy. Both of them were taking shots, ducks were hitting the water, and Babe was jumping in and out of the river as fast as she could swim and retrieve. Dad called out after each duck he shot hit the water, while Granddaddy kept spotting the ducks up river before Dad did. At times the sky was filled with ducks and for long periods there were none. The light changed from pitch dark to light gray to silver-blue to very pale rose. The morning was icy cold, and I kept eating as I watched. When Babe was not retrieving, she came to me and I held her wet, cold head, feeding her cookies.

  The faint blush of early dawn gathered more orange and then the sky settled into a pale, pale blue. Fewer and fewer ducks flew up river. Granddaddy and Dad had plenty of shooting over the past couple of hours. I was sitting near a string of two dozen ducks. On my haunches, with my feet under me, I pretended I was a duck waddling along. Since I hadn’t heard any shots for a while, I was hoping it was time to go home.

  “Hersch, come over here,” my father ordered. He stood near a tree branch that extended out horizontally a few feet above the ground. He was holding his double barrel under his arm, the tip swinging back and forth. “Bring some of that stuff in the box. Find an empty bottle and some cans. Come on, hurry up,” he growled. I didn’t know what he was going to do, but I obediently scrounged around, grabbed a milk bottle, an empty shotgun shell box, plus a tin can, and hustled over to him.

  The smell of burnt gunpowder lingered around him.

  “Put those on this branch, Hersch. Set them up nice and tall.” He stood over me, watching, and then headed over to where he had put the other shotguns. I balanced everything along the branch and turned to face him. He unzipped the case of one of the shotguns he’d brought. “Comehere.” The words ran together, and my mouth tasted bitter with fear as I walked toward him. He had a shotgun in his right hand, holding it under the stalk, extending it slightly to me.

  “Daddy, I don’t want to shoot anything,” I said. The shotgun was nearly as tall as I was. I measured barely three and a half feet and weighed fifty-seven pounds. He took hold of my arm as I approached and yanked me over to him.

  “You gotta grow up, Hersch. You gotta quit being a baby. Now, come on.” He was bent over me, his face just inches away. His mouth and lips tensed as he spat out, “You’re going to do this! Do you want a spanking, right here? Now, come on. This is a twenty-gauge pump-action, holds more than ten rounds. I’ll put in just a few. Now watch me, understand?”

  He grabbed hold of my hands, shoved two shells into my palm, then pushed my fingers and the shells toward the slot on the side of the barrel, trying to load them. My fingers felt wooden, but he kept shoving until he jammed them into the loading slot, slicing open a cut that gushed blood onto the gun barrel and my hand. “Dammit. Now look what you did!” He wiped the gun off and stuffed the cloth into my hand, saying, “Christ, Hersch, push on that bleeding and stop it. We’re going to do this.”

  He shoved more shells into the loading chamber. I held tight on my finger where it was sliced and watched him fill the chamber. When he stood up, he held the shotgun in his right hand and put his left hand on the middle of my back. He pulled me forward, placing the butt of the shotgun against my right shoulder. I was so afraid, all of my senses were on full alert. The wood on the stock and handle was pale dirty-yellow, and the barrel and trigger guard were black steel. The butt had a steel guard on the end, and this was what I felt against my shoulder. “Here, get your left hand under here, and hold on.” He wrapped my left hand around the wood under the barrel.

  “Daddy, I can’t hold it up. It’s too heavy.” Struggling to keep my balance, I had to stretch awkwardly to reach the wood with my left hand. At the same time, my right arm was just long enough to reach around to the trigger guard. That forced the butt tightly against my shoulder.

  “Don’t argue, Hersch. Just do as I
tell you.” His voice had the force of a wild scream, but tightened down so it came out with hot, smelly breath all over my face.

  From a distance I heard Granddaddy calling to my father, “Herschel, what are you doing? What are you doing over there?”

  “Quiet, Dad. He’s going to learn. Got to grow up.” My father didn’t turn his head. He was busy pushing my scared hands and fingers around the wood support and onto the trigger.

  “Wait, Herschel. Stop that. That’s way too much gun for him.” Granddaddy sounded insistent, though I couldn’t see him.

  “It’s okay, Dad. Just leave me alone. Stay out of this.” He stood up next to me, holding my left hand under the barrel and my fingers on the trigger.

  I wanted to beg him to let go, but the words wouldn’t come out. I saw the tension in his lips and the brutal determination in his eyes. I didn’t have a chance, anyway, because he held me tighter and told me fiercely, “Now. Look down the barrel and pull the trigger. Now, Hersch, now.”

  He let go of my hands. I pulled the trigger.

  The explosion next to my face and the searing pain in my shoulder happened simultaneously. I was knocked backward by the recoil and landed on my backside flat on the ground. My chest and shoulder felt like someone had hit me hard with a bat. My ears were ringing, and I couldn’t hear a thing. The acrid smell in my nostrils and throat was choking me. If that wasn’t enough, when I fell, I had put my hands out behind me and now they were scraped with small rocks stuck in my skin. Tears welled up inside me. I had let go of the twenty-gauge, but Daddy had caught it and was standing above me, looking down, sneering mockingly. He grabbed me under my right arm and yanked me up. “You missed. Let’s do this again, and this time, get it right.”