Heart of a Tiger: Growing Up With My Grandfather, Ty Cobb
Page 27
Ty has always shined with a wide smile, laughing often, and loves his many friends. His sports teammates are his natural buddies. When Ty was ready to play T-ball, I went to the local schoolyard with a good friend and his son with our registration papers. I handed the sheet to Ty to give to the dad organizing the sign-in.
The dad read Ty’s sheet and said, rather loudly, “Ty Cobb, you sure that’s your name?”
Ty quickly answered, “Yes sir, Ty! That’s my dad,” and pointed to me.
The dad turned to me, “Ty Cobb? The Ty Cobb?”
“Yep. The Ty Cobb. Only he’s the great-grandson.” I knew I was giving a short answer, but I didn’t know whether I’d burst out with tears or laughter, I was so overcome with emotion. I felt so very lucky having a son who was confident, happy, and just bursting to join in with his friends, play ball, and love life. I’ve often called upon my memories and experiences with my grandfather for guidance and have always found some. When Ty was born, I had no role model except Granddaddy, so I build upon that and it’s worked pretty well. My son’s good nature and ease with friends has helped.
“Well, Ty,” the dad continued, “are you a lefty or righty?”
Ty looked over at me with a big question on his face. “Your great-grandfather batted lefty, Ty.”
“I’m a lefty,” he stated firmly.
And that’s the way he bats, throws, and shoots a basketball today. Ty continues to flourish, as does Madelyn. He loves team sports (football, basketball, and baseball), especially basketball. He is quietly confident, competitive on the court, loves to laugh, plays for the love of the game, and relishes team victories. He’s been a captain on all his teams, and in high school he was selected to First Team All-League in football, basketball, and baseball. At college he plays basketball in Division III.
Madelyn loves horses and plays polo. She was captain of her college women’s polo team for three years and led them to compete in Intercollegiate Polo Championships four years. She continues to share this interest with Lyn, and both play competitively.
As for me, I notice the patterns, how the pendulum has been righted, as if I’ve struck a sacred bell and the reverberations have emanated forward and back, finding a balance.
The summer I retrieved Granddaddy’s engraved shotgun from the attic at the cabin, we were set to return to Atherton the next day. He slept late, did not hurry packing, and, after lunch, around 2:00, told me he decided he was not returning to Tahoe that summer and he wanted to take the Chris-Craft to Sierra Boat Works, put her in dry dock for the winter. He asked me if I would come with him.
I looked at the lake. Large waves and whitecaps as far as I could see. “Sure. Now?”
“Yes.” He wore a summer shirt, slacks, and street shoes. We went down to the boathouse, dodging water splashing up between the planks on the pier as waves roared to the beach. He slowly maneuvered the craft backwards, out of the Quonset hut that had served so well.
He kept the engine low and our speed slow, our bow slicing sharply through five-foot waves as we picked up speed. I hoped for smooth water farther out.
“This is rough,” I said.
“It’ll calm down. We should be there in about an hour; it’s only eight miles,” he answered, not addressing my concern.
I watched the whitecaps, recalling how many times he had told me about Lake Tahoe being part of nature. We trudged through the choppy waves, careful to keep the bow pointed into them, slicing and rocking, bow, then stern. I didn’t like it at all.
Twenty minutes went by. The waves easily crashed over the bow into the cockpit and second seat, making it nearly impossible to see. Cave Rock rested far behind us and Sierra Boat Works was beyond sight. The waves were relentless, just as he had told me, spraying crisscross over us and the engine compartment. Everything was drenched, including us, when the engine chortled and sputtered to a stop.
Granddaddy shouted over the wind and waves, “Too much water in something, or we’ve bounced so much there’s air in the line.”
I hoped he knew. He grabbed a yellow canvas life vest and secured it around my chest. “Where’s yours?”
He grabbed two others, tried them on, and they were pitifully small. “Hersch, it’s okay. I’ll have a look.” He climbed into the second row of seats, opened the covers to the engine compartment, and stuck his head high and low.
I thought, “Air in the lines, or water in something.” I knew nothing about marine engines. He handed me an oar and told me to paddle off the side and keep the bow pointed into the waves. I pulled hard as the boat rocked helplessly. He leapt back and forth, hitting the start button, then shifting valves, adjusting lines, wiping parts around the engine. He went back and forth a dozen times with no result, sweating profusely in the cold wind and crashing waves.
When he stopped to take a break he was heaving and gasping. I worried. He looked up at me, sucking in air, with the damndest look on his face and said, “Don’t worry, Hersch, we’ll be fine.” It didn’t seem so. I realized the situation—me in a life vest a mile from shore, him in street clothes with five-foot whitecaps crashing over our craft, bouncing us around in icy water like a cork.
He caught his breath, grabbed a splashing wave, wiped the cold water over his face, and leapt back from the engine compartment to the front seat to try again. Nothing. He shouted, “We’re going to put her sideways, with the waves, keep the tail in the water. Got it?” He rushed back to the engine, wedged himself between the seatback and engine compartment, thrust his arms deep along the sides of the engine, and moved around furiously. He wiped down everything he saw, adjusted a valve, and hollered, “Get behind the wheel. Push the starter when I tell you.”
I secured the oar, jumped behind the steering wheel, foam and spray blowing in my face off the tops of whitecaps, and twisted around to watch him. Pretty soon, he looked up, shouting, “Now!” I pushed the button hard and held it. She sputtered, coughed, then caught, rumbling to a soft roar. “Oh, what a pretty sound,” I thought. He was over me instantly, adjusting the throttle on the steering wheel while I slid aside. She picked up some revs and he gained control, pointing into the waves, slowly turning back, toward Cave Rock.
I moved next to him, pushing my body close, grinning. The waves at our back pushed us along, he being careful not to fight them. He put his arm around me, saying, “Hersch, it’s Lake Tahoe, it’s nature, just like I told you. We’ll call the guys at Sierra; they can pick up the boat tomorrow. I didn’t choose a good time. You know, I’m not invincible.”
I was with my grandfather, Ty Cobb. In my mind, invincible.
Herschel in 2012, at Ty Cobb’s Lake Tahoe cabin | Herschel Cobb, age 6
HERSCHEL COBB is the grandson of Ty Cobb. He lives in Menlo Park, California.
Copyright © Herschel Cobb, 2013
Published by ECW Press
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LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION
Cobb, Herschel
Heart of a tiger : growing up with my grandfather, Ty Cobb
/ Herschel Cobb.
ISBN 978-1-77041-130-2
ALSO ISSUED AS: 978-1-77090-381-4 (PDF); 978-1-77090-382-1 (EPUB)
1. Cobb, Ty, 1886-1961—Family. 2. Cobb, Herschel—Family.
3. Baseball players—United States—Biography
. 4. Grandparent
and child. I. Title.
GV865.C6C63 2013 796.357092 C2012-907507-8
Editor for the press: John Paine
Cover and text design: Tania Craan
Cover images: Ty in the dugout © Associated Press; Herschel Cobb, 1946 and Hershel Cobb, age 6 courtesy Herschel Cobb; Herschel in 2012, at Ty Cobb’s Lake Tahoe cabin © Tyrus Charles Brogan Cobb
Table of Contents
Cover
Preface
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
About the Author
Copyright