Free Cobb by Al Stump Page A

carry him off the lot with an expression of my-god-what-have-I-done? She cried, “Oh, you’re bleeding!”
    Ty mumbled that he felt fine. But the buggy rolled homeward and that was all for him that day.
    He wasn’t accepted by the Murphy gang at country ball, but he kept showing up for more. Norah and Squire Cobb suspected that he was in over his head against older boys; Tyrus knew it for a fact. To be put out between bases was among the worst of “boneheaders.” You were supposed to be an elusive target, ducking, dodging, and generally maneuvering to avoid fast throws. The Cobb conceptualization of base-running tactics began here. In the big league he was to define this as “watching the fielders’ eyes, their jump on the ball, body lean, throwing and release habits—every little damned thing about them … keeping one jump ahead of the defense.” Diagnosis and counteraction would be Cobb’s quintessential stamp for years to come.
    His weak batwork on sandlots improved when he took to standing as far back from the plate as possible. His new, self-contrived deep stance gave him an extra split second in which to time pitches and react. One day, in a tattered jersey of the Murphy Maulers, playing before some fifty fans, Ty slugged a fastball two hundred feet to a rail fence, a triple. Two runs scored. Murphy won. He never forgot that three-bagger, because after that teammates showed him a degree of respect.
    Back in Royston, Tyrus baled hay to earn $1.25, enough to purchase a “professional” glove, a flimsy, laceless pad that soon fell apart, forcing him for a while to play bare-handed. At the home dinner table, Tyrus attributed his torn fingernails to horseplay with neighborhood kids.
    Someone with the Royston Rompers team for juniors lent him a catcher’s mitt. Backstopping was risky. Face masks were hard to come by. As was virtually guaranteed, a foul tip whacked and closed Tyrus’s eye. That night the roof was raised on the two-story Cobb home on Central Street as never before over ballplaying. Tyrus never had seen his father so steamed up.
    â€œStop it!” ordered the Professor. “There’s nothing so useless on earth as knocking a string ball around a pasture with ruffians!”
    Tyrus’s homemade pine bats were confiscated. Not until months later was Bob McCreary, a good semipro player and a Masonic Order brother of the Professor, able to persuade W. H. to relent. McCreary argued that Royston boys of thirteen and up derived muscle-building benefits from town and lesser varieties of ball. Discipline, too, was enforced. McCreary promised to keep an eye on Ty, and pledged thatthe boy would not take a drink of corn liquor or chew tobacco. “He’s doing better than most at school,” argued McCreary. “Let him feel like a man.”
    Tyrus returned to the game, on a short leash. Against Harmony Grove he hit three line-drive singles for the Rompers while making an acrobatic game-saving grab at shortstop. His performance was noticed by schoolmates. But the Professor remained adamant that the fun and games must end soon. Tyrus had to stop wasting time and find a field of endeavor where he could follow his father as a community leader. To the schoolman, Cobbs attained distinction in life through superior intelligence in mathematics, law, politics, history, business management, or teaching. Education was everything. His son had other ideas.
    IN 1902 , a sinewy sixteen-year-old of five feet, seven inches and 140 pounds, a left-handed hitter and right-handed thrower, was given a tryout by the “big team,” the Royston Reds.
    When he moved up for tryouts, the Reds had greeted him sourly. They saw no asset in someone who had to use a hands-apart split grip to compensate for his lack of batting power. He was unimpressive in looks, with his sharp nose, large ears, pale skin, pigeon-toed walk, and high-pitched voice. An infielder,