Ep. 003 - Ty Cobb, the Life and Crimes

Written and Narrated by: Wyatt Schroeder
Sound Design by: JohnPaul Beattie
Produced by: Anna Ready

Act I

New York City. May of 1912 - Ty Cobb walked to the plate; the most feared hitter of his day. He tapped the dirt from his cleats and tried to focus his mind and drown out the yelling behind him. There was one spectator in the stands near home plate, a Claude Lucker, who had dedicated himself to abusing Ty. The barrage was personal and intimate; it consumed the entire game. The heckler yelled louder this time. Cobb couldn’t hide his anger.  

Cobb yelled a warning back at Claude Lucker as he put the bat on his shoulder and readied himself for the pitch. 

It was Ty’s first visit to Hilltop Park in the Washington Heights neighborhood of New York City. Ty’s Detroit Tigers were visiting the home of the New York Highlanders, who were only one year away from renaming themselves the New York Yankees. Ty Cobb was already a baseball legend. The year before, he led the league in over ten offensive categories, including hits, runs, total bases, and batting average. He was also a legend for the ethos swirling around him – Ty Cobb the grinch; Ty Cobb the violent instigator; Ty Cobb the aggressive baserunner who would stab you with his cleats. He had his detractors, including Claude Lucker, a New York baseball fan and an assistant for the political mob in Tammany Hall, who “had ridden [Cobb] hard in past New York appearances.” 

After the second inning, Ty didn’t return to the dugout in an attempt to avoid Lucker’s yelling. He spent the inning out behind the center field wall. In a later inning, it was Ty’s turn at the plate. What was he going to do about Lucker? Why was he standing for such abuse? It was unbecoming of masculinity in the early century to endure ridiculous taunting without retaliation. What would Ty do?

Lucker’s taunts became more and more personal and crossed over into unveiled racism. For a son of Narrows, Georgia, the suggestion was inciting and sent Cobb over the edge. He threw down his bat and sprinted toward the seats. Cobb launched himself over the wall and into the stands. He scrambled up the 12 seat rows until he was leering above Lucker. Cobb wailed and punched and kicked at Lucker, directing all his rage into the helpless New Yorker.

At this moment, Cobb realized something. Something that didn’t slow the fury. Lucker had lost all but two of his fingers in a printing press accident. An onlooker yelled, “Cobb, that man has no hands!”

Undeterred, Ty yelled back, “I don’t care if he has no feet!” 

The beating continued. You might be wondering why no one intervened. Well, Ty’s teammates climbed into the stands and held up their bats to protect Ty and dissuade anyone who was feeling brave. It took an ump and a police officer to end the melee and pull Cobb off Lucker. Cobb was ejected from the game. The Tigers went on to win 8 to 4, to Lucker’s chagrin. 

The President of the American League happened to be in the stands and witnessed the whole thing. Ban Johnson was his name and, believe me, he was appalled. He suspended Ty Cobb indefinitely. The greatest player of his time might have played his last game. 

Act II

From all of my reading, I don’t get the sense that Ty Cobb was the reflecting type. He grew up in the shadow of a successful and demanding father. A dad who was a state senator in Georgia. A dad who strongly opposed his boy becoming a professional ballplayer. Father Cobb told Ty, “Don’t come home a failure.” Ty was driven manic by his fear of letting his father down.

And here he was suspended for beating up a man. The fate of his career, his self-image, and legacy dashed into the dirt. 

“All grown-ups were once children, but only few of them remember it.” I read those words from Le Petite Prince in high school probably just like you did. It’s so true. The research around the deep impacts of “adverse childhood experiences” has swelled since then, proving that what happens to us as kids leaves a mark; it shapes us in obvious and subtle ways. 

This is starkly true in the story of Tyrus Raymond Cobb. If you’ve heard anything about Ty Cobb; it’s probably from one or both of his extremes. You’ve heard that he is the greatest hitter of all time. And you’ve heard that he is a violent racist, baseball’s primordial son-of-a-bitch. For all the nuance in the storytelling around baseball, Ty has eluded it. He remains stuck in that binary. But he was once a child, shaped by trauma.

Ty Cobb was born in The Narrows, Georgia in 1886. He was surrounded by expectations. His father, William, was an educator and politician. He saw a future for Ty, he could choose between medicine, law, or the military. Instead, Ty took immediately to baseball. It was one thing for a kid to idle on the ballfield in the afternoon, but his father’s displeasure was felt as Ty tried out for a local team at age 14. Ty’s focus became as sharp as his father’s frustration. Despite the litany of disapproving remarks, Ty couldn’t help but idolize his father. As he said later, “My father was the greatest man I ever knew. He was a scholar, state senator, editor, and philosopher. I worshiped him. He was the only man who ever made me do his bidding.”

Except for baseball. Ty didn’t do William’s bidding there, he just couldn’t stay away from the game. His play on the local team attracted attention from the newly formed South Atlantic League. Even in his teens, Ty was getting the call, the chance to play professional baseball. The team offered him $50 a month if he could hold his spot on the roster. He went to his father to ask for permission to abandon his paternal expectations. We all want our dad’s approval in the final analysis. William responded, “You’ve chosen. So be it, son. Go get it out of your system, and let us hear from you.”

Ty joined the Augusta Tourists in earnest, off to prove his father wrong with bat on his shoulder . . . He lasted two games. Not off to a great start - one point for William. He scuttled his way into joining another semi-pro team in Georgia, determined to not return home without success in his pocket. It was around this time that William provided Ty with a mantra that would echo in his ears for the rest of his life: “Don’t Come Home a Failure.” Succeed or die trying. Ty’s determined spirit paid off and soon the Augusta Tourists reached out and invited him back to the team. 

August 1905. Ty is now 19 years old. He has scratched and clawed his way into the starting roster in Augusta. He has found a mentor who refined his mechanics and inspired more consistent play. And then August came along.

Our lives are long. Our lives are short. They unfold like meandering novels and yet decades are shaped by a few breaths. Two events in August of 1905 birthed the person, the Ty Cobb that history has reviled and revered.

Back at home, William was suspicious. He assumed that his wife, Amanda, was carrying on an affair and he resolved to prove it. He left home on August 8th and told Amanda that he would be at the farm and wouldn’t return for the night. Instead, he returned under twilight and climbed onto the roof of the porch. Tiptoe by tipoe, he snuck past the bedroom window to spy on his wife. Amanda was shocked by the disturbance and sight of a shadowy figure outside. She reached under her pillow and found the pistol that William had purchased for her. In a panic, she squeezed the trigger once, twice. William Cobb, Ty’s childhood idol, died. His father murdered by his mother.

Amanda claimed mistaken self-defense, but the coroner was skeptical. The evidence didn’t add up. At the conclusion of the open-casket funeral, she was arrested and indicted for manslaughter. A grand jury was scheduled for spring of the next year.

Ty Cobb called it “the blackest of days.” This tragedy plagued his mind; he’s only 19, still a child. Ty would never be the same. The press did no favors to the family. The Washington Post reported on the supposed infidelity with conjecture, writing, “Mrs. Cobb is a very beautiful woman, and there has been gossip about her for some time.” Ty was now an angry young man, branded with a last name of suspicion, drama, and violence.

Ty took one week to handle the family affairs and assist in the family business and then returned to his team. His father died without knowing if Ty would ever amount to the success he demanded. 

By the end of August, a second major event defined Ty further. He got the call. The Detroit Tigers had noticed his improved play and wanted him to join the big leagues. On August 30th, 1905, Ty played his first major league game. In his first at-bat, he smacked a double off future Hall of Famer Jack Chesbro. The elation was muted by tragedy. Ty wrote later, “In my grief it didn’t matter much. I only thought, Father won’t know it.”

And tribulation was far from over. The Detroit owners were excited by Ty’s potential, but you wouldn’t know it from the treatment by the Tigers players. They were brutal to Ty. They saw a young teenager who needed seasoning; toxic masculinity turned on itself. In the early days of his call-up, the teammates simply ignored Ty, assuming that he wouldn’t last long. By the start of the next season in 1906, the Tigers made a pact to do their damndest to drive Ty out off the team and out of baseball. 

Were they jealous? Did they resent that Ty went to museums as they went to dive bars? Were they offended by his social standing being the son of a prominent figure? I don’t know. 

According to the Metro Times, “They sawed his bats in two, flattened his hats, threw wet newspapers at his head during train trips and locked him out of the shower after games.” The Tigers’ catcher, Charlie Schmidt, was the ringleader of all of it. During the 1906 season, he reportedly beat Ty up twice. Ty called the harassment, “the most miserable and humiliating experience I’ve ever been through.”

The 1906 season started in earnest. And Ty Cobb was making a name for himself. His talent was blossoming into one of the game’s rising stars. Instead of appreciating what he brought to their team, the Tigers players hated him more. 

Why did the Tigers manager, Hughie Jennings, allow this abuse to continue? As Jennings defended himself years later, "I let this go for a while because I wanted to satisfy myself that Cobb has as much guts as I thought in the very beginning. Well, he proved it to me, and I told the other players to let him alone. He is going to be a great baseball player and I won't allow him to be driven off this club."

In the same thought, Jennings admits that Ty had the potential to be a great ballplayer and admits that he allowed his teammates to abuse him. And somehow those thoughts aren’t contradictory to him. 

At the end of spring training, Ty took leave from the Tigers. His mother was to stand trial in front of the grand jury for manslaughter. The murderous family saga continued to dominate Ty’s waking hours. The jury reviewed the testimony, taking in each kernel of evidence. After two days of judgment and deliberation, they made their ruling. Amanda Cobb was acquitted. She was free to go. But the fact still remain . . . Ty Cobb’s father was dead. 

Back on the field, the abuse escalated to a breaking point. Ty Cobb left the team and spent 44 days in the hospital. At the time, it wasn’t reported what affliction ailed him. But historians have pieced it together. Ty left the Tigers and spent 44 days in the hospital after suffering a severe nervous breakdown. His teammates had broken him down to the point of mental exhaustion. All in the days after he watched his mother tried for the murder of his father. What a childhood to endure.

After the hospitalization, Ty came back to the team, older and resolved. He wouldn’t stand for this treatment anymore. A few weeks later, his teammates accused Ty of a mistake in the field. When one of the pitchers, Eddie Siever, tossed an “ugly name” his way in the hotel lobby, Ty unleashed on him. Let’s let the Free Press tell the story from here, “Quick as a flash, Cobb sent out his right fist, catching Siever under the chin and flooring him. Cobb followed the blow with several others, and kicked Siever in the face after he had fallen to the floor. Other players finally separated the combatants, after Siever's face was a mass of bruises. Cobb walked calmly out of the hotel, and physicians were called to care for the wounded pitcher.”

The transformation was complete. His father was dead. His mother stood trial. He debuted playing a sport his father did not endorse. “Don’t come home a failure, Ty.” His teammates abused him. He had a nervous breakdown and hospitalization. All before turning 20 years old. The innocence of Ty Cobb, if there ever was such a thing, rotted away. Trauma had rewired his brain architecture. As Ty summed up, "These old-timers turned me into a snarling wildcat."

By 1912, Ty Cobb was considered the greatest player of his generation. He was a menace at the plate, leading the league in batting average for nine straight years, including 1911 when he hit .420. A ridiculous feat. And he was a menace on the basepaths. He had a reputation of sharpening his spikes and sliding with his cleats up. In 1909, he cut the Philadelphia third baseman while sliding into the bag and was greeted with death threats from the Philly faithful for years after. Which sounds about right.

It’s said that Ty Cobb would aggressively run the bases during a blow out just to get in the heads of the opposing team. He was always out-thinking his opponents, Every inch was a victory. He was willing to appear unbalanced to make the other team uneasy. Was Ty actually unbalanced? Or was he acting just to win a game? 

It’s possible that Ty’s trauma taught him the wrong lesson. He had to appear extreme to secure the respect he wanted. And so, determination and violence intermingled too many times in his family life and in his career.

There is a story of him beating up a hotel security guard. A story of him assaulting a groundskeeper who was actually complimenting his game. Or perhaps that last story never happened and he instead beat up his old nemesis, Charlie Schmidt. There is a lot for you to read on the internet. 

That fateful day in 1912 at Hilltop Park in New York might have seemed an inevitable apex of a frustrated and traumatized upbringing. Ty went into the stands, beat up a fan and was suspended for it. Perhaps this was the moment that would force Ty to retire and quiet the wildcat’s snarl. 

It may have been if Ty hadn’t gotten support from an unlikely source: his teammates. The Detroit Tigers, even as Ty led them to three World Series appearances, didn’t like their star player. Still, when the American League suspended Ty Cobb indefinitely, the Tigers were upset. If Ty could get suspended for beating up a fan, then what signal would this send? Would raucous fans go unchecked? Would players be powerless against an overbearing League president? Would there be no appeal process on behalf of player’s rights? 

They decided to stage a protest in support of Ty. They sent a telegram to American League President Ban Johnson saying they would not play until Ty was reinstated. They wrote, “If the players cannot have protection, we must protect ourselves.”

A few days later, the Tigers rolled into Philadelphia to play against the Athletics. Ty Cobb walked onto the field, to force the league to enforce the ban. The umpires were all but happy to comply, kicking Ty out of the game. The Tigers staged a walkout, leaving the stadium. 

This was the first player's strike in baseball history. A coordinated effort of labor protesting management. The Tigers owner, Frank Navin, had anticipated this action. He was ready. As the Tigers players left the field, Navin called upon a corps of replacement players to take their positions. Scabs. It was like a scene out of a church league softball game. The replacement players were terrible. Let me give you some highlights. Three people over the age of 40 filled in. The starting pitcher gave up 26 hits. The third baseman took a chopper in the face and lost some teeth, And still commented after the game, “This isn’t baseball. This is war.” It was an embarrassment. The Tigers lost the game 24 to 2. It was immediately clear to Ban Johnson and to every spectator with any eye sight that baseball was worse off without Ty Cobb on the basepaths. For all of his aggression, he added value to the game. 

League president, Johnson, fined each Tigers player $100 for walking out. And threatened to fine them for each game missed. Ty Cobb urged his teammates to retake the field and end the strike. Ban Johnson gave into the pressure and reduced Cobb’s suspension to 10 games and a $50 fine. 

The first baseball labor strike ended in a partial victory. The Tigers were back to playing baseball. Ty Cobb was back to menacing the basepaths. He would stay there for 14 more years.

It was a legendary career, one that hasn't been matched since. Ty hit 4,189 hits in his career. A record that would stand for 57 years until Pete Rose passed him in 1985. When the Baseball Hall of Fame was founded in 1936, it elected an original class of five players. Ty Cobb among them. 

And yet his legacy has rarely been about his baseball accomplishments. His story has been marred by controversy. He has become the posterboy for an age of toxic masculinity and misguided aggression. How did we come to know this Ty Cobb? The way our biographies are written - and who writes them - matters a lot. 

Act III

In 1994, Ty Cobb’s life was made into a movie. A film called “Cobb” where Tommy Lee Jones plays the grizzled and frustrated Ty. It was written and directed by Ron Shelton. A historian was concerned about the screenplay’s accuracy and called up Shelton to discuss his sources. In the interview, Shelton remarked, “It’s well-known that Cobb may have killed as many as three people.” 

I love Shelton’s language here. It’s “well known” that Cobb “may” have done a lot of things. It gets at the crux of Cobb’s legacy. He might have killed a black man in self-defense. He might have tried to rape a woman in Las Vegas. He might have written a diary that was on display at the Baseball Hall of Fame.

But here’s the thing. Well-known doesn’t mean it’s accurate. 

The shape and tone of Cobb’s portrait comes from two biographies by writer Al Stump. Stump claimed to have spent countless intimate hours and days with Cobb during the last ten months of the ballplayer’s life. He used these interviews as the basis for a co-written autobiography released after Cobb’s death in 1961. This provided the template for the sensationalized Cobb that you might have heard about. As the author Charles Lee, “If you buy one version of the image of Ty Cobb, it’s so one-dimensional and paper-thin that it’s almost like a cartoon character.” 

The source of Shelton’s movie script were the two biographies on Cobb written by Al Stump. And Al served as a script consultant for the movie, including inventing a scene where Cobb tries to rape a woman in Las Vegas only to stop because of impotence. Shelton admitted to fabricating the scene, because it sounded like something Cobb would do. 

In 2008, an autograph expert, Ron Keurajian, stood at the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, NY. He examined a diary from Ty Cobb in front of him. It had been at the Hall of Fame for a decade now, purchased through the famous Barry Halper collection of baseball memorabilia. He compared the diary to authenticated Ty Cobb autographs and writings through the years. It was a fake. The writing was too pedestrian for Cobb’s prose. And the penmanship looked child-like. Someone had forged it.

Journalists traced the diary’s roots. The Halper collection had a cache of Cobb memorabilia, a razor, a fishing hat, a diary, and the shotgun that Cobb’s mother used to kill his father. Wait. What? We’re to believe that Ty Cobb kept the shotgun that killed his father, the trauma that defined him? Hold on. I’m going through my notes. We told you that it was a pistol that Mrs. Cobb used. What is going on here? Where did these items come from?

Further investigation by Ron Keurajian matched the writing on the Hall of Famer’s diary to Al Stump, his biographer. Stump had forged and sold the diary. And had fabricated the shotgun’s authenticity. In fact, it was shown that Stump barely spent any time with Cobb at the end of his life. A compelling peer-reviewed article by William Cobb (no relation) exposed Al Stump’s sin and laid bare all of the mistruths.

And the “well known” stories around Ty Cobb began to unravel. We have no evidence that he killed anyone. And many of his worst qualities appear exaggerated. And the fictions are repeated everywhere, they’re the basis for the movie, Cobb; they’re featured in Tris Speaker’s autobiography; they show up in Ken Burns’ Baseball. All of the sensationalism traced back to Al Stump’s two biographies. 

For my part, it’s unfortunate. It casts your gaze away from what I think is the essence of Cobb’s story - trauma. Exploring what happens to someone when they’re confronted with generational events just as they enter adulthood. Yes, even if we reclaim Ty Cobb away from the sensationalization, he’s still a snarling wildcat. I’m not defending the idea that Ty Cobb was a good person. But something created that wildcat. Trauma. 

Public health research in the last decade has demonstrated how much of our physical and mental health is defined by what happens to us before we’re 17 years old. They’re called “adverse childhood experiences.” Every adult was once a child. And it’s unfortunately common.

The CDC estimates that 61% of adults have had at least one adverse childhood experience. And 17% have had at least four adverse childhood experiences. These experiences rewire our brain architecture and impact our physical and mental well being. It’s estimated that 1.9 million instances of heart disease and 21 million instances of depression could have been avoided if we prevented the trauma. Check out the book, The Body Keeps Score, if you want to read more about this.

Let me ask you: Who do you think Ty Cobb would have been if William Cobb lived to see him play for the Tigers? Would he have been so aggressive? Would his father have nurtured him more and eased Ty’s pain? Would he have become one of the greatest hitters of all time? I don’t know. He could have still broken a number of records. The source of his determination might have shifted. Where would it come from if not the tough skin holding in the trauma? I can’t say. But I have to imagine that his violent ways likely would have ebbed. And maybe that game against the New York Highlanders in 1912, with a heckler in the stands, might have gone a little differently. 

Thanks for listening. Take care of yourself. We’ll see you at the ballpark.