Terror in the City of Champions (34 page)

Navin looked like a proper squire of a certain age: tan breeches tucked inside brown boots, black coat accented with red scarf, and atop his head a black derby similar to the one he popularized in the Cobb era, when Michigan gentlemen began emulating his look at his ballpark. Alone on the trails, Navin could contemplate life.

Perhaps he remembered the World Series triumph over the Cubs and the multiple tributes that followed. The night after the victory, Navin and every Tiger but sickly Joe Sullivan had attended a glamorous testimonial in the majestic, chandeliered ballroom of the Book-Cadillac. Navin’s and Cochrane’s admirers, among them Harry Bennett, put on the affair. More than eight hundred political, business, and sports leaders, along with ordinary fans, came out to honor the team. They cheered wildly as each member shared a few words. It was a warm, sentimental night, with several acknowledgments of Navin. “I’ll never forget our dressing room after the series was over,” said Jo-Jo White. “You should have seen Mr. Navin grab Goose Goslin and kiss him twice.” Even umpire George Moriarty spoke glowingly. He was given a flashy suitcase with no qualms about a conflict of interest. Batboy Joey Roggin got in a few words too, describing himself as “the luckiest and happiest boy in the world.”

Atop his horse Navin might have chuckled about the various opportunities the championship had brought his players. How Goslin had guest starred on Rudy Vallee’s show with Edward G. Robinson, how he had appeared before sold-out crowds at the Fox Theatre with broadcaster Ty Tyson, and how he had allowed a sculptor to mold a living mask over his face. Or maybe Navin pondered how Gehringer, Bridges, and Schoolboy had gone barnstorming together. Or how all the guys had received endorsement money from Camel cigarettes. Or how even Mrs. Billy Rogell had benefited, being pictured in an ad for Wonder Bread.

Or perhaps he fretted over financing of the construction project taking place at his ballpark, where larger stands would be erected in right and center fields. Or maybe he wondered about his nephew Charles, the team secretary, who was so exhausted after the stressful season that he had taken refuge at the Battle Creek Sanitarium.

Or possibly he was recalling another tribute dinner, this one also chaired by Harry Bennett and held last week at the English Grill, where Navin jokingly expressed his worry that Cochrane might not sign a contract to continue as manager because of the toll the job took on his nerves.

Or conceivably he was thinking over Cochrane’s request that the team get Al Simmons from the White Sox, another expensive gamble. Or recalling that he needed to deliver on his promise of a horse for Cochrane after having persuaded him to take up riding.

Whatever was on his mind, somewhere along the bridal trail that November morning, Frank Navin suffered a heart attack, fell from his mount, and gasped his final breath. Ten or fifteen minutes later, Grace Navin saw Masquerader canter toward the stables, the saddle empty. She went for help. The search party found Navin crumpled along the path near a bush, not breathing. They tried to resuscitate him. Harry Link, his longtime chauffeur, went for the car. They rushed Navin to the nearest hospital, Detroit Osteopathic in Highland Park. Grace knew her husband was gone. She didn’t bother with the hospital. A friend drove her home. In Highland Park physicians tried to breathe life back into Frank Navin. But they could not. Uncle Frank was dead.

Come to Detroit, Lindbergh

Detroit Lions coach Potsy Clark talked boldly for a man whose football team was at the bottom of the division and had won only five of its nine contests. “We’ve lost our last game this season,” he said, “and if we get a break, the national professional football championship will be decided in Detroit in December.” The Lions had three games remaining, two against the Chicago Bears and one against the Brooklyn Dodgers. To make it to the title game they could not afford to be defeated, and they needed the teams ahead of them—the Packers, Bears, and Cardinals—to each lose at least once. Fans could be forgiven if they had doubts, but the success of the Tigers and Joe Louis had filled them with optimism. Anything seemed possible.

Detroit was already promoting its standing in the sports world. By mid-October local headlines described the city as being home to the “kings of athletics.” There were the Tigers and Joe Louis of course. But in trying to make the case the
News
dug deep for other evidence, extending its search back several years, proudly embracing boat racer Gar Wood, doubles tennis champions Esther Politzer and Constance O’Donovan, gold-medal sprinter Eddie Tolan, Olympic diver Dick Degener, racehorse Axucar, golfer Walter Hagen, and assorted other conquerors in boating, bowling, billiards, swimming, fencing, racing, weight lifting, and even checkers (all hail Newell W. Banks). And don’t forget the Dixie Oils softball team—national champs too. All these winners helped keep spirits high in a Detroit that, though recovering, was still Depression-battered.

In their November 24 game the Lions built a 13–0 lead against the Bears at Wrigley Field. But Chicago fought back to tie the game. The Lions scored again and the Bears answered again. The resulting 20–20 tie dimmed the Lions’ hopes, but didn’t extinguish them. Ties did not count in the standings. Green Bay remained in first, with the other three teams in second.

On Thanksgiving 1935 a throng of 20,000 fans watched from the University of Detroit bleachers as Dutch Clark propelled his team to a 14–2 win over the Bears. Instead of throwing passes, he caught them this time. Clark, playing the role of receiver, scored both touchdowns and kicked both extra points. He now had two nicknames: Dutch and The Old Master, which worked well together. The Bears were eliminated from the race. Elsewhere the Packers lost, elevating the Lions’ chances. Three days later the Lions crushed the Brooklyn Dodgers 28–0. When the Packers fell and the Bears beat the Cardinals, the Lions advanced to the national title game.

Even before Frank Navin’s burial, speculation turned to the future of the Detroit Tigers. What would happen to the team? Who would run it? Who could possibly replace Frank Navin? The man had been glorified over the past fifteen months as “a genius of baseball.” Tributes flooded in from across the country. A giant of the sport had died, one of the game’s leaders.

Navin’s nephew Charles seemed a possible choice as president. Mickey Cochrane was too. Billy Evans, Cleveland’s general manager, was mentioned as well. Initial press coverage sounded oblivious to the fact that part owner Walter O. Briggs, the automotive titan, would play a huge role in making the decision. It was no secret that Briggs also owned the team, but he was often in the background and the fifty-fifty nature of his stake failed to make print in the immediate aftermath of the Navin tragedy. Longtime journalists and Navin confidants Harry “The Umpire” Salsinger and Malcolm “Iffy the Dopester” Bingay appeared unaware that Navin and Briggs had an agreement: Whoever died first would purchase the other’s stock. Or if they knew, they had agreed not to report it.

Though six years younger than Navin, Briggs had significant health problems that kept him from coming north for his business partner’s funeral. He stayed in warm Miami Beach, where he spent most of his time when the baseball season ended. “Our business association always had been a fine one, and our friendship was one that has endured through the years,” he said. “His death is a great personal loss to me, and I feel it keenly.”

Briggs had been looking forward to stepping out of Navin’s shadow and leading the Detroit Tigers. Now he would have his chance. He wasted no time. Within a day of Navin’s death Briggs sent a representative with a check to Mrs. Navin. She accepted the offer, which exceeded one million dollars.

Navin and Briggs differed greatly. Financially they had lived in separate worlds. Navin had had money, but nothing on the level of Briggs’s fortune. Briggs owned multiple manufacturing plants, supplying auto bodies and interiors to the major automakers. He employed thousands and cleared millions most years. He owned three mansions, one in the Boston-Edison neighborhood of Detroit with eleven bedrooms and nine fireplaces. It was blocks from Navin’s comparatively modest home. Another, a converted hunting lodge, sat on 165 acres in Bloomfield Hills amid lush gardens and a beautiful lake. The third was in Miami Beach, the nicest of all, with five hundred feet of ocean frontage and a 235-foot yacht.

Briggs was tough and hard-edged in a way Navin had never been. Almost all of Navin’s experience had been in baseball. Briggs, however, had built an empire in the rough world of industry and he did not shirk from confrontation or controversy. He had weathered employee strikes and a 1927 factory fire that killed twenty-one workers, prompting claims that he had ignored worker safety issues. If the ballplayers thought Navin had been a difficult negotiator, they would face in Briggs someone who could be much fiercer if he chose.

Briggs summoned Mickey Cochrane and Charles Navin to Miami Beach. He named Cochrane vice president, putting him in charge of players and acquisitions and giving him a role in contract negotiations. He promoted Charles Navin to secretary, treasurer, and business manager, and named his own son, “Spike” Briggs, as Navin’s assistant. Walter O. Briggs himself took the title of president.

For two years observers had been remarking about Cochrane’s moods and nerves. He flew into furies. He cried. He sulked. There was a reason some called him Black Mike and it had more to do with his disposition than his Irish roots.

Columnist Harry Salsinger’s descriptions of Cochrane had evolved over time as he got to know him better. Early in Cochrane’s Detroit tenure, Salsinger portrayed him as “unorthodox . . . moved by impulse . . . turbulent . . . passionately excited.” Then he characterized him as “highly emotional and extremely aggressive.” In the final days of the 1934 pennant race, Salsinger noted that Cochrane was “unlike any other man who ever managed . . . the most emotional player in baseball” and, still later, the kind of person sometimes “moved to bitter resentment.”

Sam Greene of the
Detroit News
couched Cochrane’s temperament in lighter terms, describing him as “not exactly in the mood to drag out his saxophone and strike up a merry tune” and as “speaking in mournful tones.” So did John Kieran of the
New York Times
: “When everything is rosy and treasure trove is being dumped into his lap, the Man in the Iron Mask says: ‘Boys, it will probably rain paving blocks on our heads in no time.’ ”

How would Cochrane carry the additional burdens of vice president?

Iffy the Dopester, Malcolm Bingay, raised the issue. “He is taciturn, surly, sullen, or boyishly happy as befits his mood and, like a boy, he makes no effort to hide his feelings,” he wrote after Cochrane had been promoted. But, Bingay noted, with Navin gone a calming influence had disappeared. Cochrane possessed “elements of greatness,” Bingay wrote. “It may be that responsibility, complete charge, will mature him. . . . There is going to be more than baseball to interest Old Iffy next summer. There is going to be an interesting study in human nature.”