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Ty Cobb: Fiery Fury
Ty Cobb: Fiery Fury
I love biographies. Not just about athletes, but about anyone that is . . . um, interesting . . . such as artists, musicians, athletes, politicians, etc. How fascinating it is that we can learn the story of someone’s entire life/existence in a single volume which we can hold in one hand . . . so much time to have passed, so many fascinating stories and lessons about life . . . all bound in a single stack of paper! Each biography is an interesting, unique journey of discovery and experience, triumph and heartbreak.
When I was a young lad I devoured baseball biographies. Of course, that passion continues today. Now, when I read any biography, I want to learn and discover who that person really was. I want to understand their personality. What made them tick? What were their passions? What were their shortcomings? I want to know the triumphs and tragedies they experienced. Generally, I much prefer biographies over autobiographies. I really don’t want the subject of the life story to filter out the truth, the negative qualities, or minimizing embarrassing events, leaving us with only a fabricated and sugar-coated recording of history.
Biographies I cannot stand reading are those that simply amount to a recitation of factual information—the same bloody facts we can gather from a 15-second Google search. Don’t give me basically a timeline of life accomplishments surrounded by clusters of vacuous paragraphs. Please. It may make my head weary and my eyes bleed, and the book will go unfinished. For example, if a baseball biography focuses too heavily on things like, “In 1920 he made it to the big leagues. He went on to hit .245, with 16 homeruns. He was then traded to the St. Louis Cardinals and earned the starting position at third base . . .,” et cetera, et cetera. I can look this information up on baseball-reference.com in seconds. These things should be included in a biography, but the factual information should not be the only focus of the book. To have depth of meaning, the book also requires portraits of the subject’s personality. It is my humble opinion that, biographies devoid of such paintings of character make for weak writing, and painful reading.
About two months ago I read the book Cobb: A Biography (1996) by Al Stump, the story of the life of Ty Cobb. Stump actually met with Cobb towards the end of Cobb’s life and spent considerable time with him. Years ago, they jointly put together a Cobb biography published in 1960. In that work, Cobb had control over all content within the finished product and the result was a watered-down tale as Cobb wanted it to be told. Years later, Stump was compelled to write a more complete and accurate story about who Cobb really was; this was the 1996 version (Stump barely finished this work before he passed in late 1995). In summary, I truly enjoyed Stump’s final book. He captured Ty Cobb, the man. He wrote a compassionate but truthful story, exposing all imperfections. Stump was not at all judgmental. No biographer should be. (NOTE to all writers: PLEASE keep your moral judgments to yourself!) We cannot understand who any man is/was unless we know his blemishes, his shortcomings and tragedies . . . we all possess them.
Stump was a solid writer. The introductory chapter in this book was so damn good (and the best chapter in the book). Any fan of baseball history is encouraged to read that first chapter, if not the entire book. You won’t regret it.
I had not thought about Cobb or the book in several weeks. And then a few nights ago, I had a dream I was hanging out with Ty Cobb. I was there with him at the ballpark. I felt the summer breeze hit my face, as I inhaled the wonderful scent of freshly cut grass. I took notice of a general dissociation Cobb had with his teammates. I witnessed his immense talent and fiery tactics on the diamond. He played with an intensity I had never witnessed before in my life. Of course his abilities to handle the bat and the pitchers were more than impressive, and the amazing speed he demonstrated on the basepaths was something to behold. But truly, his unique and most outstanding feature and strength was his base running boldness. He taunted the opposition with his brazenness. He played the game like no other player before or since. Despite his well-publicized reputation, he still managed to shock opposing players and coaches in every single game he played in. I watched him go for additional bases that stunned the opposition and the fans. After fielders learned he was actually taking yet another base, generally all they could do was simply hold onto the ball or make some feeble toss that would arrive at the bag too late. All who witnessed these feats simply were left shaking their heads. The risks he would take on the bases seemed more and more preposterous. Brash and bold, he took leads no one else would consider and he was constantly stealing bases seemingly at will, even home plate. He ran over other players, sent his spikes flying gashing open wounds in others’ legs. I have never seen anything like this.
 Oh, and how I saw him instigate and scrap in many, many fights. He fought anyone, anywhere, at any time, even his own teammates. I looked on in disbelief. Most often others would shy away from any scuffle with Cobb, for they believed he was crazy and would kill them. He had already been arrested many times for his violent actions. It was well known that the player always carried a gun. Well-founded rumors included that Cobb had actually killed a man in one of his rages (Cobb later admitted this fact). Most often he was victorious in his bloody battles. The few times another person got the best of him, it would leave a cursing Cobb on the ground unable to get up. For Cobb always said that in every fight, it was fight to the death. He meant it too.
Then, in my dream, I was with Cobb and Al Stump during Cobb’s final year of life. Cobb was a mess. The curmudgeon was consuming gallons of hard liquor every day. He swore constantly. He had many serious health problems. His fits of rage were numerous and unpredictable. Stump and I went on a drive with Cobb at the wheel through the mountains and the aged, ailing former ballplayer screeched his vehicle on two wheels at high speeds along narrow roads through the mountains during a terrible winter storm. Stump and I were white-knuckled passengers as we murmured prayers to ourselves. When we finally arrived at a hotel he argued with the hotel keepers over paltry charges. He busted up furniture took out his gun and started shooting into the air. He carried with him more money than ever necessary, but his grip on his vast earnings was unrelenting.
When we settled Cobb safely into another hotel, he told stories about his refusal to pay utility companies for either one of his stately homes. He existed in these spacious dwellings, without electricity and water. No utility company would ever cheat him of a few dollars, even though he was a millionaire. Despite Stump’s admonishments concerning Cobb’s nonexistent healthcare the former star player refused to go to see doctors to properly treat his multitude of maladies. We both urged Cobb to get treatment, but he would scream profanities maintaining that doctors always cheat you and they all charge far too much.
When we spoke to Cobb, it was clear that he literally had no friends remaining. Even his children were not part of his life. It was truly sad. Stump and I both felt bad for Ty Cobb. He was actually a very scarred soul who was hurting deeply inside. Cobb felt he had been misunderstood for decades. He was truly concerned how people might remember him, or whether he would be remembered at all. Who could expect anyone to ever really get over the fact that your mother shot and killed your beloved father? Cobb was a very young man at the time who was trying his best to break into the major leagues. It wounded him at a level that few of us will ever understand.
Stump and I made our way outside the hotel to the automobile, while Cobb remained inside grumbling and sipping on his liquor. Stump and I spoke softly to each other about Cobb’s current condition. I turned to Stump and asked him, “Al, I want your opinion. Please tell me something.” Al was a man of veracity and candor. He replied, “Yes, what is it?” I asked him, “Do you really think Cobb is crazy?” Al shook his head for a moment. He turned slowly towards me, and with a half-grin he said, “Y’know, that is the question I get more than any other. I hear it often. Yes . . . I do believe he is.”
Then, I awoke. It was only a dream. I gazed out the window and appreciated the clear blue sky. It was like I just experienced a Field of Dreams kind of moment. I felt a deep appreciation for Al Stump, and all of his hours working with an extremely difficult subject. For all of us, I’m truly glad he bit the bullet and pressed on. In addition, I felt that I had a much greater appreciation of Ty Cobb, the man and all of his accomplishments, and his troubles.
Written by Wally Westlake, 2010.
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