Cobb (13 page)

On December 18 he celebrated his eighteenth birthday, then made what would later prove to be a wise move. For several months he went to work in the sheds of a cotton factor at Carnesville, Georgia, the same agent who had formerly employed him as a fifteen-year-old bale
sorter. This time Cobb was inside the industry to learn more. Within seven years of that date, while playing for Detroit, he would spend time at the local cotton-trading exchange, using his knowledge to buy premium-grade shares in small, then gradually larger amounts. With World War I approaching, he figured correctly that huge amounts of the fiber would be consumed for uniforms. After the war, with cotton short, he would clean up roughly $150,000 on the investment, the first really important money he had seen to that point.

COBB HOPED
to hear from the Augusta Tourists that spring, but he did not. He traveled to Augusta, visited Warren Park, and found the place empty. No one was there to update him on what was happening with the club. A month or so later he was relieved to receive a letter from Andy Roth. Roth sounded as if they remained friendly. Was Ty returning for the 1905 season? asked Roth.

Cobb was much relieved to hear from the Tourists' management but did not let on. Instead, he replied that a raise to $125 monthly from the previous $65 would suit him. Roth was shocked—$125 was out of the question for someone who had played in but thirty-seven pro games. Top pay for Augusta's veterans was $250 a month. Cobb answered that he might do better by staying out for a year and then asking for a sale or trade elsewhere. Or he might go to college, as his family wished. He interpreted it as a good sign that Roth had opened the negotiation, not the reverse.

As a bargainer Cobb still had much to learn, but he felt he was smartening up on how to “work” a front office. The key component was to appear to be unconcerned.

Roth stood firm on $65, maybe $75. Ty replied that he wanted to talk to President Bill Croke of the Tourists. Cobb repeated to Roth's boss that southern colleges would be pleased to enroll him. His extreme youth probably influenced Croke's decision; the school threat might not have been believed from a twenty-five-year-old. Croke, thinking of Cobb's age, foot speed, crowd-pleasing steals, room to develop, and the casual interest already shown in him by higher-league scouts, which might lead to a sale or trade upward, settled for between $90 and $125 (Cobb always insisted that he got $125 from Croke; other sources placed it lower). It wasn't bad income, in the day of the
dollar steak dinner and seventeen-dollar suit of clothes. The settlement also put Roth in his place.

On a later spring day in Augusta Ty was pedaling his bicycle down the city's Broad Street when a rogue horse knocked him down. The wrist of his right, throwing arm was sprained. In a fury, Ty kicked the horse. The buggy driver jumped down to exchange words and a cop broke up their scuffle. No arrests were made, but word got around that the Tourists' hot-tempered left fielder had kicked an animal, and the story reached Roth. “About what you'd expect from Cobb,” Roth reportedly said. “He's trouble and a yard wide.”

ON MARCH
30, 1905, with his wrist still bandaged, Ty reported to camp for what would become seven months of humiliation, retaliation, improvement, and, finally, tragedy that would rock him to his depths. Hardened as he was becoming, 1905 was almost more than the former rookie could bear.

The season started normally. Detroit's Tigers were again training in Augusta, hoping to live down their seventh-place American League finish of the past pennant race. Somehow the big-leaguers did not seem as big and intimidating to Cobb this time around. On hand with Detroit—everyone seemed to have a nickname—were Twilight Ed Killian, Germany Schaefer, Wild Bill Donovan, Frosty Thomas, Nig Clarke, Sir Richard Cooley, Link Lowe, Pinky Lindsay, and Wahoo Sam Crawford, the dazzling outfielder who had instructed Ty on outfield play the previous spring.

Some of the Tigers recalled seeing “that little monkey in the red suit” who was trying out with Augusta in 1904, who had caused horse-laughs with his headlong dives after foul balls and swings and misses at easy practice pitching. Frank J. Navin, the former bookkeeper and financial consultant of the Tigers who had acquired part ownership of the Detroit franchise, was advised by his second baseman, Germany Schaefer, “Wait until you see this baby. He's a scream. Acts like his pants are on fire even in workouts. Wants to steal every base. He can't hit Molly Poop.” (Molly Poop being a mythical figure symbolizing terrible batting ability.)

Navin, taking a look, did not laugh. The first thing he noticed was Cobb dashing onto the field at game time when others walked, and making outfield grabs by cutting across other fielders' private territory.
“He's raw,” said Navin, “but one of the fastest out of the box I've seen outside the majors.”

In a pair of exhibitions between the Tigers and Tourists, racehorse Cobb partially refuted Schaefer with a single off Detroit's ace, Bill Donovan, and by stealing two bases. Class C performers were not supposed to do that. He followed with a one-bagger off Jesse Stovall's fast-ball and was effective against a classy flutterball pitching prospect, Eddie “Knuckles” Cicotte, who would go on to win 90 games over four consecutive seasons with the Chicago White Sox and in 1920 become one of eight “Black Sox” who were banned for life for fixing the World Series. Against Cicotte's stuff, Ty delivered a triple and single. He tipped his hat to the Detroit bench. The Tigers held their noses in reply.

When the season opened, Andy Roth mostly played him in left field, although Cobb preferred center field for its wider range of chances. He complained about it. Roth said, “Well, you can always sit on the bench.” Ty let it pass and bore down harder at the plate. Improvement was tediously slow. With a batting average of under .260 in the early weeks, he stranded too many base runners. Roth constantly rode him. Expert observers, however, could see signs here and there that the Rooster—his latest nickname—would not remain what he still appeared to be: a below-standard run producer.

As a base runner Cobb used psychology that startled. In one case, with two Tourists out in the ninth inning and a 1–0 game to Macon seemingly lost, Cobb was the runner on first base. He took off for second with no chance of making it safely. The second baseman stood waiting with the catcher's throw in hand for a sure putout. Ty stopped ten feet short of the base, dropped his head, and called to the second baseman, “Ah, the hell with it … it's too hot today to keep running. You got me—I'm out.” He slowly limped back toward first base as if conceding a game-ending putout and heading for the dugout. Macon's fielder went for it. Since Cobb had quit on the play and it was so hot, why bother going after him for the formal tag?

With the fielder lulled, Ty suddenly burst into a sprint, forcing the baseman to hastily snap-throw to first base, a throw that sailed wildly to the boards. While the Macons chased the ball, Ty raced to third base, from where he later scored to make it 1–1. In extra innings, Augusta won, 2–1.

Planting disinformation, faking out the defense with inventive moves, was something he did well. One of his giddiest stunts was to arrange for the baseball to disappear from sight in broad daylight. It began, he recalled, with an Augusta fan who ran a barbershop where Ty had his hair trimmed. Cobb explained to me how the trick worked: “This barber sat down close to the rail at our games, yelling a lot. You could hear his big mouth on the field. I invited him to help out. Told him that if he ever saw me sliding back into first base on a pickoff play he was to wait a few seconds, then yell that the ball went into our bullpen. He asked why should he do that and I told him never mind, just damned well do it.”

On the day when the barber let out his prearranged yell, Cobb had taken a normal lead off first base. On a pickoff attempt he dived back. He and the throw arrived at the same time, Cobb having timed it so that the ball hit his hip. In a cloud of dirt he rolled atop the ball. Spinning around, the first baseman couldn't locate the ball—Cobb had tucked it into his baggy shirt like a magician with a canary. Right on cue, the barber roared, “
IT'S GONE THROUGH—INTO THE BULLPEN!
” While two basemen and the right fielder frantically ran in that direction, Ty raced to second base. While the search went on, he continued to third, where, partly concealed by more flying dirt, he slipped the ball out of sight under the loosely fitted canvas bag. Then he completed the circuit from first to home plate to score. As he had figured it, all eyes were on the desperate hunt for a lost ball. “The umpire, after a long argument involving everybody, ruled me safe,” a grinning Cobb ended the story. “Wrong call, of course. No ball was in play, they couldn't find it anywhere. I'd told our batboy before the game to be ready … He sneaked out during the big fuss at the plate, bent to tie his shoe, and removed the ball from under third base and made off with it.”

Of a variety of maneuvers whereby he duped opponents through some villainy or other, the Case of the Vanished Horsehide was his favorite. It was only small-town byplay, but an artist later diagramed it in the nationally circulated
Sporting Life.
It was an example of how Cobb, just learning his trade, thought ahead, created unusual predicaments, and, with the barber's help, invoked the power of suggestion.

With the Tourists he also experimented with turning his back on the pitcher as he wound up, addressing the catcher—“Hey, blubber belly!”—and now and then disconcerting the catcher into a passed
ball. Or he would limp around when on base with a faked injury, call for the trainer, and after the defense was relaxed streak to the next sack. With umpires, he used the tactic of complimenting them on their keen eyesight and good work, until on a close strike-or-ball decision they would unconsciously favor Cobb. When catchers screamed “Robbery!” Cobb would back up the ump with: “You should run this mug out of here. You're calling a good game.” In his mature years the Georgia Peach made a broad analogy: “If you're in a saloon and somebody punches the bartender, who gets free drinks for the next month? Why, the guy who flattens the guy who hit the bartender.”

Craftiness was useful, but it was not until he began to hit regularly that his Augusta fans grew in number. By late June of the season he had climbed to a .315 average, then to .320, second best among the Tourists. He had not curtailed his unauthorized base stealing, however, despite Andy Roth's complaints, and Roth gave him clubhouse blasts he would never forgive. Their differences came to the flash point over an incident featuring a cat and a bag of popcorn. Bored with a dull game, Cobb let loose on the field an “unlucky” black cat, who dug a hole back of third base and relieved himself. Time-out had to be called until the cat had finished covering up his stool.

“What SOB did that?” cried Roth.

“Cobb paid a groundskeeper to do it,” said several voices at once.

Cobb didn't lie. He just shrugged.

“Five-buck fine!” ruled Roth. “Do anything like that again and you're out of the lineup.”

Within days, before a game with Savannah, the boy misbehaved again. He bought a nickel bag of popcorn, carried it into the outfield, and was munching away when a tall fly ball was lifted to his left. Struggling not to spill the popcorn while making the putout, he failed both ways: the ball hit the bag, sprayed popcorn, and he missed the catch.

The unprecedented error caused one run to score on pitcher Eddie Cicotte, who had a shutout game going (Cicotte had been loaned to Augusta for the season, and would move up to join the Tigers before season's end). Some twenty-five hundred fans saw it as funny. Cobb had to kick white kernels out of his way while finishing the inning. At the bench, Cicotte swung a punch at him. Cobb went down, got up, and they banged each other around. Nobody broke up the fight, which ended in a draw. Blood was spilled.

Roth, who had been waiting for such an opening, responded by summoning Cobb to his office to say, “You're gone. We've sold your contract to Charleston.” Roth was in the process of being replaced as manager, so technically was exceeding his rights in so announcing.

“I'm hitting third highest in the league!” Cobb came back. “How can you do that?”

“Because Cicotte won't play with you in the lineup. Others feel the same way,” Roth said. That made it twice that he had been rejected in Augusta.

Cobb told off the manager. The next day several Tourists' officials, led by President Bill Croke, met with the demoralized outfielder at his hotel as a peacemaking delegation. As Cobb told the story years afterward, Croke said, “Roth had no right to deal for you. Let's talk it over.”

“Why sell me to Charleston?” Cobb asked. “That's a bad club.”

“It's worse than that,” admitted Croke. “Roth was offered twenty-five dollars for you and he took it.”

The “Peanut-sale” story, which Cobb always vouched was true, became part of the lore surrounding his early years.

Cobb blew his top. Only six hitters in the Sally League surpassed his overall statistics after fifty-odd season games. He was among the leading base stealers in the South and was helping to sell tickets. Croke calmed him down and Cobb returned, uneasily, to the outfield. Augustans never knew of the twenty-five-dollar price tag. Had the Charleston transfer gone through, evaluating Cobb at the price of a mule, he would have quit and gone home. “My bags were all but packed,” he remembered.

That incident, and the unconcealed hostility toward him by other Tourists, caused the youngster to go at his job in withdrawn silence, avoiding off-field contact with teammates. Away from the park he hung out in nickelodeons, and filled time by taking long walks along the Savannah River's banks, fishing the stream, and by reading biographies of Stonewall Jackson, Alexander the Great, and Napoleon. His keenest interest was in Bonaparte, the tactician with an outstanding ability to survive. He read some philosophers. “On a team that played around plenty,” observed George Napoleon “Nap” Rucker, his roommate for a brief period, “Cobb was a loner by his own choice.”