I packed the signed baseballs into the small boxes, careful to wrap them in tissue. Granddaddy’s green ink looked splendid, with his signature carefully measured between the two converging seams on the ball. I made a little room between the tissue and the ball to make sure the ink wouldn’t smear. He handed me one ball after another, and I reveled at reading a personal tip or salutation now and then. I finished packing a ball addressed to a boy in Bakersfield, a town I knew of, and waited for him to hand me another. Yet he didn’t budge for a long time, and I rose up and looked over his shoulder. He kept reading and rereading a letter. It was written on school paper, wide-lined, like the kind I used. It was a short note, and I wondered why he was taking so long. His head moved slightly from side to side, and his hand quivered a bit, making the edge of the letter flutter.
He let out a long, soft sigh, rocked back in his chair, handed me the sheet of paper, and said, “Hersch, read this.”
Dear Mr. Cobb,
I’m 13 and this is my first year. The other boys tease me a lot. They hid my bat when it was my turn and I had to use the wrong one. My glove is old. I want them to stop. Please sign me a ball, so I can show them that you’re on my side. I want to be better.
Please, yours truly,
James
The handwriting was wobbly, but the message was so very clear. I too couldn’t help but read it again. Granddaddy reached in the barrel for a baseball and swung his chair back to his desk. When he turned to me, he held a ball carefully between his middle finger and thumb. I took it the same way, blew on the green ink, and read, “To James, from his good friend, Ty Cobb,” and underneath, “7/23/56.” His signature and writing were a little larger than on the other baseballs. I knew that this letter affected him in a personal way, and he meant what he wrote.
Granddaddy didn’t take as long to hand me the next baseball. On it he had written, “To Mike, Ty Cobb, 7/23/56.” As he did, he said, “That’s enough for now. I hear Susan and Kit rustling around. Let’s go see.”
I wrapped the ball and put it into a baseball box, put the address on it, and set it down on Granddaddy’s desk. He had already gotten up and left the room. He had signed two dozen baseballs and as many action photographs. In a little less than an hour, an entire lifetime had opened up before my eyes. Before I followed him out of the office, I looked around again at the trophies, awards, and pictures, sorting out in my mind what I saw. I now knew what he’d done, who he was in baseball, yet by the way he acted, he still was my grandfather. That’s what I wanted. I held lingering fears of people expecting accomplishments I could probably not meet. Nevertheless, after my first visit, the office was always open to me to walk in, explore, and revel in amazement.
He didn’t say anything more about his career in baseball that day. He never spoke of any of the ninety major league records he held when he retired, other than an occasional nod. I realized this was an intentional decision. That morning when he didn’t introduce himself to the other families at Sky Meadow while we filled our pail with spring water came to mind, and I remembered what Susan had told me: “He doesn’t want us bothered by who he is and what he’s done. He saw what happened to his children, and he didn’t want what he accomplished to affect us.”
When I left the office, I immediately asked Susan, “Where’s my ice cream?” knowing she wanted to talk about my visit, but I was not going to, and that was that.
“In the fridge. Well, what did you ask him?” she asked. She repeated the question, but I didn’t answer. I walked past her and into the kitchen without saying another word.
I was bubbling, carrying on three or four conversations in my head. I ended up in the kitchen but didn’t remember walking through the dining room, the butler’s pantry, or the preparation room, but there I was, in front of the freezer. I pulled out the bottom door of the refrigerator and stood there for a minute, just breathing and staring. Everything looked familiar, just as I’d seen it dozens of times before, but I felt as if part of me were back in another time, back in those pictures in the office. I was standing in a ballpark, watching Ty Cobb round first base, streak for second, go into his hook slide, touch the bag, and rise instantly to his feet, poised to take third. I felt the intensity of his effort and determination to succeed. I saw dirt kicked up, dust in the air, and heard the shouts and cheers coming from the grandstands.
I was living in two places at the same time, and my body felt it. I took out the remaining bowl of ice cream and opened the drawer to get a spoon. They all were oversized soupspoons, huge and fun. I grabbed one, plunged it into the ice cream, and put a big, cold glob into my mouth. Somehow, the ice-cold sensation shifted me out of my daydream. I left Ty Cobb at the ballpark and settled into the old kitchen in Granddaddy’s house, knowing my grandfather was nearby. I started walking back to the living room and noticed my body felt slightly off balance. By the time I’d eaten two more big, cold bites, though, my balance returned, and I was smiling as I listened to the laughter and chatter coming from the sofa.
Kit wanted to go outside and play catch. Granddaddy said, “What with? I don’t think I have any balls or stuff around here.” He had his left arm around Kit and was holding him in the sofa as he wiggled to get up. Granddaddy was tickling him around his waist.
I said, “What about the barrel in your office?” Instantly I sensed the change in his mood. It was as if a veil of reluctance lifted. His eyes focused on me, and then he looked at Susan.
“I want to play too, Granddaddy,” she insisted. “Not just you and the boys. I can do every bit as good as them, just try me.”
I was smiling, inside and out. I didn’t say anything about what happened in the office. I stood there, feeling full, watching.
“Well, it must be time,” he muttered, more to himself than to us. “Hersch, go and get some balls, a bunch of them, and there’re some bats in the corner. Get the ones with my name on them, they’re better.”
“What about gloves?” I asked.
“Oh.” He stopped, having risen halfway out of the deep cushions of the sofa, a line on his forehead wrinkled. “That’s a problem. Well, what the . . . Can you kids use those old flat pancakes?” he said as he looked directly at Susan.
“Old gloves, Susan,” I said. “Really old. No padding, nothing, flat as a pancake.”
“Is that all there is?” she asked.
“Yup, that’s it, I didn’t see anything else,” I said.
Granddaddy said, “Herschel looked around a mite. I think that’s it. It’s okay, I’ve played with all of them. They used to work.”
Susan had already gotten off the sofa and walked into Granddaddy’s office. She came out holding her skirt pulled up, full of baseballs, with a bat over her shoulder and three mitts pulled on it. She stopped next to the piano and asked, in a concerned voice, “Granddaddy, there’s only three mitts. What about you?”
“Oh, Susan, these old hands are pretty tough. Let’s go out on the front yard, it’s the biggest.” His voice sounded a little resigned. “Hersch, you and Kit, roll up your slacks and take off your shoes. Susan’s okay as long as none of you get stains from the grass. Your grandmother would be very upset.”
It was the first time I remember that he ever mentioned my grandmother. His voice was so even, like he had spoken from a different part of his life, long ago when he was head of a family. The four of us paraded out to the front yard of El Roblar, bat, balls, and mitts in hand. Three of us ran around while the Old Man walked slowly, watching as if he was living a life he never really had.
At first he spent most of the time with Susan, showing her how to hold her hands on the bat while waiting for the pitch. I ran out to the part of the lawn closest to the street and looked back on Granddaddy. He looked tall, big at the waist, slow to bend down in his good slacks and shoes, and framed by his wonderfully shaped Spanish house. He held the bat for Susan in just the right position, waiting for the pitch. I went into the same windup I’d seen facing me a few weeks before in my first Middle
League game. Only now I knew just a little more than I knew then. Kit was next to me, playing, waiting for something to happen. I had a dozen baseballs at my feet.
“Who’s catcher?” I yelled.
“Don’t worry. Just throw the ball,” he answered. “It’s okay.”
As I threw, he easily guided her arms and her hands. They hit the ball cleanly, and it sailed over my head! It looked so easy. So I threw again. And this one went right to Kit, rolling sharply through his legs. I kept throwing until the dozen or so baseballs at my feet were scattered all over the grass. Some ended up behind Susan and Granddaddy, but most were hit out past Kit and me.
Susan’s turn was over, and Kit was next because he was loudest. Susan and I collected all the baseballs, and I remained the pitcher. Kit was four years younger than I was and much shorter. He swung the bat right away, and Granddaddy dodged his head to avoid being hit. He grabbed Kit with one hand and the middle of the bat with the other hand. He positioned my younger brother just as he had Susan.
“Herschel, go ahead and throw. Now!”
I moved closer and closer until I could place the ball right where Kit could swing for it. He swung at every pitch, whether it was near him or not. Granddaddy ducked and dodged and guided the bat as much as he could, but Kit took full swings, wrapping the bat around himself. The technique didn’t work too well, but he was excited and the big, old man hovering over him continued to smile, talking in his ear while looking out at us, his eyes alive and twinkling. A few balls were hit, a lot were missed. Kit would have stayed there all afternoon if Granddaddy had not made the rule of “one round apiece.” So I was next.
He asked, “Hersch, how do you hit, left or right?”
“Right,” I answered.
“Left is better, you know,” he responded almost imperceptibly, “two steps closer to first base, better for a drag bunt. But we’ll do it righty if that’s how you do it. Show me how you stand.”
I took my stance and he stood behind me, checking my feet, adjusting their distance apart, his hands on my waist, tugging a little to check my balance. Then he put one hand on each shoulder, leveling me out. “There,” he said, “let’s start this way.” He had rolled up his sleeves, and I was startled at the size of his wrists. Huge. He was old, but I always remember that about him: muscular, strong forearms, huge wrists, and strong hands. He was ready to show me a proper swing, with his hands placing my waist and shoulders in the correct position.
The feeling of being helped was entirely unfamiliar. Almost everything I did in my life I’d taught myself. I had learned not to rely on my father. It was scary to ask him about stuff, because he yelled, criticized, and made fun of mistakes. He rarely showed how to do something. Rather, he expected me to learn something almost immediately.
Granddaddy’s hands guided my arms, shoulders, waist, and feet through the correct way to prepare and swing the bat a dozen times. No criticism, no ridicule, just guided firmness through the correct motion. He was stooped over me, with his head and eyes aligned with mine, keeping my shoulders and head steady and level with his left hand, and whispered in my ear, “Watch the ball all through the motion. Keep your eyes glued to the seams. Let it come to you. Shift your hip straight forward, off your back foot, then your arms. Head still.” His left hand moved to the small of his back, and he pushed in to help lift his body to stand up straight.
“Okay, Susan, let her fly,” he called as he took a step back.
Susan had learned underhand pitching in the girls’ PE classes, and throwing overhand at a target was new to her. Her pitches went everywhere. I swung at a couple of pitches, but when I had to reach for one that was over my head, I turned and looked at Granddaddy. He didn’t say anything, just watched.
When another pitch bounced uselessly into the grass, though, he called to her, “Hold it just a second, sweetie.”
He stepped up right against me, took hold of the bat, and placed it just where he wanted it. Once again he ran his hands over my shoulders, touched my waist, and made it level, and quietly said, “Hold this stance, get ready. Move your weight from the back side, turn your hips, head steady, go through the pitch, and carry your swing all the way through the strike zone, then finish.” He guided my arms, shoulders, and body three or four times. At the end of my swing, he had moved his face in front of mine.
“That’s it,” he said gently, looking straight into my eyes. “That’s it. You’ve got it. Now, do that slowly a few times.”
Then he walked out to where Susan was standing. “Susan, sweetie, let Granddaddy try out this old arm. Get behind Hersch and stop the ball if it gets past him.”
“I just need practice, Granddaddy,” she complained.
“I know. We’ll do that in just a minute. Let Hersch have his turn at bat. Go along, now. Tell you what, you be the catcher.” He nodded with his head toward me, and he swung his right arm around a few times. Susan got behind me. She looked pretty funny in her good dress, with that old flat baseball glove on.
I did exactly what he said. I glued my eyes on the seams of the ball, followed it from the time he brought it with both hands to his waist and lifted his arms above his head. He didn’t have a glove on, but his hands hid the ball pretty well. I could barely see it as he started his motion toward me. I sensed my weight on the right side of my body as I saw him release the ball. It looked so big; it was impossible not to hit it. I shifted my weight, held my head still, used my hips and legs, and swung with all my might. My eyes saw the ball as big as a balloon. I connected.
“Ouch, ouch!” I heard him blurt out. I looked up. He was holding the ball in his right hand, shaking his left arm and hand. “Hurts like the devil,” he groaned. Granddaddy had caught my line drive in his bare left hand. Susan started cheering. Kit was standing next to Granddaddy, looking up at him with the sweetest, most puzzled look on his face. He tucked the ball in the pocket of his slacks and rubbed his hand.
“Susan, bring me that glove on the grass over there,” he requested.
He put it on, and for the next twenty minutes, he coached, corrected, guided, encouraged, and cheered my efforts to balance myself, watch the ball, and swing the bat as he had told me.
After a while, he took my bat and laid it on the ground. He took off the glove and asked, not really a question, “Hersch, remember that slide I mentioned?”
I carefully replied, “Yeah.”
He walked about thirty feet over the grass, positioned the flat glove on the ground, and came back. Gesturing to me to come with him, he walked another few paces back so that he was about forty feet from the glove. “Now,” he said, “suppose that’s second base, and the pitcher is over there and the catcher is over there.” He pointed and at the same time he rolled up the cuffs on his slacks, unlaced his shoes, put them aside, and stood in his stocking feet.
Then he bent his knees and whispered, “This is how it goes.” He sounded thrilled.
I thought in a full rush of huge excitement, “Oh my gosh, here he is. This is Ty Cobb, and he’s going to steal second base!”
Just at that moment Louise came out the front door and gasped at what she was seeing. She called out, almost yelling, in a panic, “Mr. Cobb, Mr. Cobb, what are you doing? What are you doing?” She paused, as if she expected an answer, but none was forthcoming, and she continued, “Mr. Cobb, you shouldn’t do that, please. Mr. Cobb, it’s the telephone,” as if her urgent message would save him, and maybe it did. “Mr. Cobb,” she called out, “Mr. Cobb, it’s your daughter.” She caught his attention, and he straightened up and stopped.
He didn’t show me his slide, and I understood. Instead, he picked up his shoes, walked carefully over the pebbles of the driveway to the house, smiling the whole way, still wonderfully animated. He looked back and said, “Susan, take a turn. Hersch can pitch to you. I’ll be right back.” The call was probably my Aunt Shirley. She would be calling to check on how things were going.
I walked over to Susan and said, “Well, what do you think? Do y
ou think we’ll go to Lake Tahoe? I want to. So does Kit. Last year was so much fun. Maybe we can drive the boat again.”
“I don’t know,” she answered. “Grandma thinks it’s okay, but Aunt Shirley doesn’t. I’ll bet they’ve been talking about it all afternoon.”
Grandma had told us that Granddaddy wanted to take us to Lake Tahoe with him. We had gone with him to the lake the past two years. There was always a lot of discussion between Grandma and Aunt Shirley about visiting and traveling with him. Grandma thought it was fine, but Shirley had lots of things to say about what kind of shape “The Old Man” was in, as she referred to him. I never heard her call him anything but “The Old Man” or “Your Grandfather.”
Kit wanted to continue playing, but Susan and I were busy piecing together bits and parts of conversations we overheard about us going to Tahoe with Granddaddy.
After a few minutes, Granddaddy reappeared. I couldn’t tell anything from the look on his face. When he reached us, he said, “You are going to be picked up in a few minutes. You can wait here or on the front porch with Louise.”
He spied a glove on the ground in front of Susan and knelt down with his knee on the glove. He put his arms around the two of us and called to Kit. When he scrambled over, Granddaddy hugged us all at the same time. “Now,” he said, “I want to go up to Lake Tahoe. Would you all like to come with me? Wouldn’t be until next Friday. Louise will go too. So, I think it’s all right with everybody.”
Susan and I shouted in glee and grabbed him around the neck, almost toppling him over. “Good, then,” he said, relieved as he disentangled us from his neck. “We’ll leave from here on Friday morning, before traffic starts. I’ll talk with your aunt about what you’ll need.”
I was leaning against him, with his arm around me. I could see the whiskers on his chin and my eyes met his. They were slightly moist. He said, “Give me a kiss now before you go. I’ve got some things to do inside.”
Heart of a Tiger: Growing Up With My Grandfather, Ty Cobb Page 18
