I continued telling Mr. Stump what happened. “Granddaddy came out of the house while we were talking and motioned for me to roll down the window. He told me that nobody was inside. He said that was lucky for the guy, because he’d tear him apart if he found him.
“Nothing was taken, but Granddaddy said they were probably looking for his guns. He said they’d never find them.” I knew that was true because I knew where they had been hidden.
“Guns? What kind of guns? Pistols or what?”
“I don’t really know, Mr. Stump,” I said, fudging a little, though I instantly remembered his shotgun from Detroit, “probably hunting guns. Like, for ducks.”
“No, no, no,” Mr. Stump said, “that’s not what I want.” He was turning away, looking out the window over the kitchen sink. I could hear him mumble, “Damn, this isn’t working.”
When he turned to me, his voice was a little tired. “Didn’t you see him pummel somebody, sometime?”
“Pummel? What’s that?” I answered.
“Beat up, knock down, attack!” He was almost pleading.
“Well, if that guy had been in the cabin . . .” I tried to imagine what Granddaddy would have done. “But, no, Mr. Stump, not really. We went places, out on the lake, had dinner with his old friends, did stuff, talked, you know, that kind of stuff.”
I pretended to volunteer an interesting nugget. “One time we went to the bank in Carson City, and the owner showed us the main vault. It was huge. And inside he gave us a silver dollar. Marked 1896. Wrapped in plastic. Really cool.” I casually looked up at him. “Does this help your book?”
His hands were leaning on the back of a chair, his fingers working his grip, and his mouth was clenched tight. He didn’t move, except for his fingers. I didn’t know what he was going to do, but I stopped worrying when I heard footsteps crossing the living room. The carpet muffled Granddaddy’s steps just enough so Mr. Stump didn’t hear them. When the steps hit the hardwood floor of the dining room, Mr. Stump turned around to face the sink, turned on the water, and started washing his hands. Granddaddy’s imposing figure filled the doorway to the kitchen. He wore a clean short-sleeve shirt and had shaved. He immediately walked over to Mr. Stump and pressed his body next to him, both of them facing the window. His voice was a bit muffled, but I could make out their conversation.
“Al, what the hell have you been doing? Have you been pumping Hersch?” His voice had an explosive edge to it that didn’t even start to hide the fury behind it. “I told you earlier that I didn’t want my grandkids quizzed. Understand?”
Mr. Stump turned a bit to look at Granddaddy and said, “Now, Ty, I wasn’t doing anything like that. Fixed the boy some chocolate, that’s all. We were just chatting a little.”
Granddaddy didn’t hesitate, took Mr. Stump by the arm, moving him along, nearly lifting him, through the kitchen. “Hersch, Mr. Stump has to go now. I’ll see him to the front door. Isn’t that right, Al? Don’t you have something to take care of?”
Mr. Stump stammered, “S-sure, Ty, that’s right. Okay, yeah, I think I’d like to go now. I’ll call you later.” Granddaddy kept his arm pinned and more or less pushed him out the front door. I heard some conversation and the door slam. I couldn’t make out what was said, but just as quickly as Granddaddy had left the kitchen, he reappeared. He started to say something, but the doorbell rang.
Louise answered it, and I could hear Mr. Stump’s rushed voice say, “Sorry, Louise, I forgot my folder. I’ll just grab it off that sofa, over there. Just one second.”
Granddaddy and I had walked to the dining room and just as I saw Mr. Stump start to walk into the house, I called, “I’ll get it for you, Mr. Stump.” I hustled in front of him to the sofa. Mr. Stump stopped in his tracks because Granddaddy was glaring at him. I took the folder off the sofa and opened it.
“Is this what you want, Mr. Stump?” Inside was an autographed photo of Ty Cobb, Babe Ruth, Tris Speaker, and Granddaddy’s friend, Frank Mackey, signed by each of them, and dated.
Mr. Stump looked shocked. At the same time his hands went out from his sides like he was pleading for mercy.
Granddaddy took the folder from my hands, looked down at the picture, then at Mr. Stump, and seethed, “Get out of here, Al.”
Louise was flustered, but Mr. Stump backed up through the door, turned, and left.
The next sound was the front door closing again.
Granddaddy and I went back into the kitchen. He held the folder with the autographed picture in it, as he pulled out a chair and sat down. He crossed his right leg over his left and began tapping his fingers on his knee.
He said, “Well, I guess you and Al had a little talk, huh? Did he ask a lot of questions?”
“Yeah. He wanted to know what we—no, actually, what you—did at the lake. Stuff like drinking whisky or going out. You know, stuff like that. He asked about a fight. Did you get into a fight? It was weird. He almost got mad at me, I think. What kind of a book is he writing, anyway?” I could feel my body relaxing and I was more comfortable. “Will you tell me?”
He hesitated. “Okay, sure, I guess,” he replied, his voice resonant, lower. “Hersch, you know Granddaddy is not as young as he used to be. I’ve got doctors and they tell me I’ve got to take better care of myself. Before I leave this world, I want the true record of what I did in baseball put down. Now, Al has his problems and makes mistakes. He pokes around way too much and wants to make things a lot bigger than they are. He asks everybody too many questions. But he’s working on Granddaddy’s book, and we’re pretty far into it. I haven’t seen the writing yet, but we’ve talked a lot, and he says it’s coming along. I don’t want to start new with someone I don’t know at all. I don’t have time. I just don’t have time.”
I knew he meant it. I remembered that when we had walked together this year, he put his hand on my shoulder, leaning more heavily on me than last year. And Louise was doing almost all of the driving. He loved his black Chrysler, but often told me how powerful it was and that it was getting to be too much car for him. I knew that he took pills for his heart, his daily shot of insulin, and strong pain medication.
“Granddaddy, that’s okay,” I said, wanting him to keep talking.
“You know, Hersch, I love you and Susan and little Kit. His face full of freckles reminds me a lot of your father a long time ago. I want you all to know the truth about your granddaddy, just in case.” His voice trailed off when he said this, and he looked out the window above the sink for a moment.
“I played hard and I was determined. I loved baseball. I hated losing and I liked winning.” His determination, his will, emerged as he remembered those days. “There were a lot of ball players who would do anything to beat me. They saw me getting better and better, and wanted to stop me. They cut my bats, ripped my uniforms, hid stuff, said things about your grandmother. Anything to get me riled up, to throw my game off. I had to be better, tougher than them. A lot has been written about Granddaddy that isn’t the truth, and I want the true story set down. Understand, Hersch?” He looked directly at me. He was not so much asking me anything as making a statement.
“I think so.”
As he continued, his voice reached down inside of him, became more reflective. “You and Kit are fine young men. And Susan is getting to be quite a young lady. I know you’ll do well at whatever you choose to do. And you’ll be determined to be the best you can be. I know that. Remember what you want, and stand up for yourself.”
I could only imagine what images were going through his mind. Nobody helped him to be the best, and nobody stepped aside for him, not ever. I had read enough to know what baseball was like in the very early days, and I’d never forgotten Granddaddy’s horrid red scars.
“With people like Al, you have to be careful.” He was talking business now. “He’s a writer and wants to do it his way. I want him to put it down the way it happened. I won’t skip anything, but I want it from the way I was.” He finished with a smile, but I c
ould tell he was resigned to get the book done with the reporter he had chosen. “I just don’t have time to start over with someone else.”
Standing up, he got a glass and filled it with water from the old tap on the sink. “How’s the chocolate milk, anyway?”
I hadn’t touched it.
“Well, I’ll see.” He finished the glass in one gulp. “Just fine.”
Silence lingered between us as he sat down. His right hand fingered the blue folder and moved it right in front of me. “Hersch, here, this photo is for you.” He was pleased as I opened the folder and admired the photograph inside. Smiling, grown men. Autographed by Ty Cobb, Babe Ruth, Tris Speaker, and Frank Mackey.
“Say, let’s talk about going up to the lake.” Our talk about Al Stump was over for the time being. We left that old kitchen table and went into the living room and started planning our trip to Lake Tahoe.
Aunt Shirley’s loud voice startled me out of my daze of reliving my introduction to Al Stump. I came back to the kitchen table in my grandmother’s house. Aunt Shirley was waiting for my answer. My memories of the day before were as vivid as ever, and it took me a second to realize how I had drifted away.
She repeated herself. “I said, ‘I heard you met Mr. Al Stump.’ What was it like meeting an old-fashioned weasel, Hersch?”
“What did you say?” I asked. I knew she didn’t think much of Mr. Stump, and her description did not really surprise me, but hearing her say it, thoroughly disgusted, caught me off balance.
“Well, Mr. Stump has been pestering the Old Man for years to let him write the story of his life, and now, I suppose, he’s got his hooks in pretty far. He came around here, asking questions, but really trying to dig up any kind of dirt he could on the Old Man. Your grandfather is his ticket to being what he calls ‘a real sportswriter.’ He wants to use him to try to make a name for himself. That’s all.”
She sipped her coffee and picked up the morning newspaper, preparing to leave the room. The look on my face must have made her hesitate. “Hersch, that varmint wants to write the worst about your grandfather. He’d do anything to find any dirt. If he doesn’t find any, he’ll make it up, now or later. I’ve seen him and I know him.”
“What else?” I asked, urging her to tell me more. Only once in a long while did Aunt Shirley treat any of the grandchildren like they could participate in an adult conversation.
“Hersch,” she kept on, and I could see how much she was like Granddaddy, “you know that sometimes your grandfather is difficult, and over the years we’ve had our bouts. He’s had his ups and downs, and I’ve seen most of them. Al Stump tried to be polite when he showed up a couple of years ago, but he got tired of asking baseball questions. He wanted dirt on the Old Man’s personal life. He cornered Charlie one morning before you got here this summer. Blocked the driveway with his car; when she tried to drive out, she had to stop, and he rapped on her window, yelling, trying to badger her into talking to him. Scared the wits out of your grandmother. Luckily, I was home and saw what he was doing. I rushed out and shooed him away. Last year he tried to bribe Hank, our gardener. You know Hank works for Charlie three days a week and for the Old Man two. Well, Stump wanted Hank to go through the Old Man’s garbage looking for liquor bottles. Hank likes the Old Man and refused. Stump was furious and tried to get the Old Man to fire him. Ha, I heard about that!”
I saw how angry she was getting. “It’s none of his business, but he got pretty pushy and I stopped it all. Told him he wasn’t welcome around here, and if he didn’t stop, I’d talk to the Old Man and that would be the end of his chance to get famous. He got my message.”
She went on, “I told the Old Man that Stump would use him to write a book and say anything to make himself famous. I think he understands, but the Old Man wants his story told before it’s too late. That’s all. I’ll bet Al shook all over when your grandfather found him talking to you.” She was beaming with a knowing smile.
“Yeah, he did. And he stopped and left the house pretty quick,” I answered, knowing what she said was as personal as she was going to get about Granddaddy. She realized that his relationship with his grandchildren was vastly different than she had experienced as a child of his, over forty years ago. It must have puzzled and irked her to hear about his bond with his grandchildren, but she never tried to derail the warmth that existed on both sides. Oddly, I felt she was pleased for the Old Man, whether she liked it or not, but knowing that her father and his grandchildren shared what she had missed—an acceptance, caring, and wide affection.
“I think that’s enough,” she said, turning to leave the kitchen with the newspaper. “Put this stuff in the sink, please.” She paused at the door, turned slightly toward me, genuinely offering, “You really get along with the Old Man, don’t you? Trust him, huh?”
“Yeah, I do,” I quietly answered, and on her face developed the gentlest, warmest smile that I’d ever seen.
That was the sort of family secret that a reporter would never want to learn. My grandfather’s biographer was interested only in what was negative about Ty Cobb’s family. Perhaps the past had been bitter. I could count myself as one of the people most directly affected by the family’s tragedies. But in this life we all have a chance to overcome what hasn’t worked out. Granddaddy had taken Susan, Kit, and me under his wing, and because of what we had built with him, we were going to turn out all right.
CHAPTER TEN
July 17, 1961, and Beyond
Late in the afternoon on July 17, 1961, my mother gathered my sister, brother, and me in the breakfast room and told us that Granddaddy had passed away. An announcer came on the radio and said many complimentary things about Granddaddy and his career, and then played “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” twice. My eyes filled with tears, and I felt my chest swell up. I was overcome by affection and love, but I feared my guide and protector was forever lost to me. When the announcement was over, my mother abruptly stood up and left the room, not saying anything to us.
Ty Cobb died at Emory Hospital in Atlanta, Georgia. For the two weeks prior, he had tumbled in and out of consciousness. When he finally passed, my aunts Shirley and Beverly decided that the funeral would be held immediately, with only family members present. Nevertheless, nearly three hundred Little League and Middle League ball players showed up and lined the streets leading to his mausoleum in Royston, Georgia. Nobody from Major League Baseball was invited. However, three close comrades—Ray Schalk, Mickey Cochrane, and Nap Rucker—made the journey for their old friend and were waiting at his mausoleum when his body arrived.
Sadly, I did not attend the funeral, nor did my sister or brother. My mother refused to pay for us to travel to Atlanta.
I was a senior in high school. Earlier in the year, using my own money, I applied to three colleges and was accepted at two. However, throughout the entire process my mother steadfastly told me that she was not going to pay for any of them. The local junior college was good enough for me. I was certain my hopes of attending college were dashed. I rode my bicycle over to visit Allan Hancock Junior College and tried to feel positive about it. Yet the next day, around noon, my sister called loudly that I was wanted on the phone.
A man introduced himself as Mr. Edward Brannan, senior trust officer at the Trust Company of Georgia. He told me that my grandfather had left me money in his will, and I could use this money for my “education, health, and maintenance.” I only heard the word “education.” My heart leapt in appreciation that my grandfather had known exactly what I needed and provided it again, just as he had so many times in the past. What’s more, when I finished college, I still had enough money left to pay for graduate school. Granddaddy had made sure I could fulfill whatever life dreams I had for myself.
For many years after finishing school and entering the work world, I struggled to feel comfortable in groups, small or large. The emotions I had repressed lay in wait in a deep cave. The protective barriers I developed in order to shield myself from my father an
d mother now stood in the way of my relationships. Much of what I learned and took with me from my summers with my grandfather served me well. However, I shared with him a deep reluctance to trust others.
In the middle of my life I was living alone in Berkeley, California, paying attention to work, when Susan M., a business colleague, asked me if I wanted to play tennis with her and her husband. I absentmindedly said yes, and arrived at their club thinking the three of us would hit around together and then have a beer. Susan arrived with a girlfriend, both giggling, and said, “Herschel, meet Lyn Jason. She’s your partner today. Let’s find Tom and get going.” We started playing and I became more and more nervous, not because of the tennis, but because I realized I really liked Lyn.
That was the beginning. Two years later, when I was forty-six years old, we married. While dating, Lyn always told me, “Hersch, kids are part of the deal.” She was younger than me, but had passed up having children thus far, so I thought her idea would fade. It didn’t. Two years later, Madelyn, our daughter, was born, and two years after that, Ty, our son, was born. Madelyn was born with a smile, ready for fun and adventure. Ty was born with a warm, mild manner. From the beginning, he was curious and smart, with a huge smile and joyous sense of humor. I realized very quickly that I was blessed and that children and my wife are the true gifts in my life.
Madelyn loves adventures, has lots of energy, and trusts life. Not blindly, but with her eyes open. I learned from her how this works. She is direct with people, positive in her attitude and comments, and balanced if things don’t work out. This approach works very well, and I’ve tried to adopt it too. Her confidence has grown over the years, with Lyn continually supporting her next steps and me following Lyn’s lead. When she was accepted by the college she desired, she reserved her dorm room that night and started packing up her things the next day even though classes didn’t begin for months. She was ready for her next adventure.
Heart of a Tiger: Growing Up With My Grandfather, Ty Cobb Page 26
