A tear for Tyrus Raymond Cobb

     A bull-necked man came to visit Ty Cobb one Georgia night.  The man stood stocky, moved with ease, with a surreal purpose as unknown as the future.  Cobb was a loner, he paid the man little attention.  But for some reason, Cobb let him in and offered him a drink.  His German Luger always within his reach.  Even as the man’s brow furrowed and his expressions changed in harmony with Cobb’s thoughts and words, the man portrayed no benevolence, nor hatred, he just looked and listened to a lifetime of pain engulfed in great success.  Words were few that night and why Cobb let the man share his vacuum in space and time that evening proved both unspoken, and understood in a way that only soldiers bonded in battle might share.

     A lone Coyote howl echoed shrill and scathing.  Neither man paid little mind. 

     Ty Cobb was finished with baseball.  But demons still haunted him when the sun dropped below the horizon.  Wind whistled through the Georgia pine trees outside his window, and the moon shone full.  He’d cheated death both on and off the baseball diamond, but there was something different as the wind howled and the gusts bent the pine limbs and turned his thoughts to whispers in a whirlwind.  Melancholy thoughts fueled by the alcohol; he missed the days when Coca-Cola gave him unbridled energy, almost Bull-like.  His early years in baseball never roamed far from his memory.  He clenched his fists.
   
     He knew to laugh, but at times he wondered why he did such things. He asked himself why.  What possessed him, drove him, so infuriated him that he beat a negro groundskeeper silly, and when the groundskeeper’s wife intervened he commenced to choking her with all the strength he could muster.  Had it not been for his Detroit Tiger teammates, she could have died.  Roger Hornsby might have been pleased as a card carrying member of the KKK, but Cobb felt bittersweet, almost frightened at his fury.  Hell after his son had failed a semester at Princeton, Cobb shuddered from the memory, he flew through the darkness, only to beat his son with a leather whip with the tenacity of an English Sea Captain. 

     Cobb stirred, needing fresh air, and as he opened the door he felt the cool wind blister his face.  Nothing new, just reminded him of days in windy ballparks as he looked to the sky and watched Old Glory whip in the wind.  He could still smell the freshly mowed grass, the pungent aroma of the fertilizer, and musty smell from the water as the two mixed.  Each park had its own smell, some good, some bad.  The smell of popcorn, of beer, the cigar smoke that hung in the air on cool windless days. The smoke from the factories, the smell of the sea, especially the food.  County fairs and carnivals were always close by.  Each brought memories and stirred emotions.  Cobb thought to himself, have I done enough, he’d founded countless scholarship programs, given large amounts of money to bankroll hospitals for the needy.  But was it enough?  He remembers the negro elevator man, his smug attitude, he felt a hot flash, his mind whirring as he brought the liquor to his lips, the numbness, the pain, the emotion . . . hell on earth, outside the diamond, yet smack in the middle of his mind. 

A security guard next to the negro in the elevator smarted off to Cobb, big mistake -- fury fueled, he drove a knife into the guard then twisted the shank.  The fine was only seventy-five dollars, but no one, nobody spoke smart to Cobb, he’d spike’em or stab’em. No holds barred on or off the diamond.

     Cobb knew he was rich as hell, cheaper than dirt too.  He never knew what possessed him to peel the stamps off self-addressed envelopes from autograph seekers and stockpile the stamps in his desk drawer.  Cobb poured the booze in his glass, the rich smoky aroma almost lost in the wind as he swung like a pendulum in his rocker.  A taste, just a taste, he had learned over the years to control his fury, to just sip his bourbon, to lay rest to the thoughts that haunted him.    
    
     Was his mother really cheating on his father?  And that dark night when his father was supposedly out of town, his dad returned well into the night and put a ladder to his mother’s bedroom window.  His mother shot his father point blank with a shotgun. Cobb’s father dropped like a puppet with it’s strings sliced. 
    
      The oak smoked bourbon made things better, almost all right.  He sluiced another shot down his throat as it settled in his gut.
    
     He didn’t need an excuse to beat someone silly, but it was nice, less to explain, no need doddering unnecessarily.  His mind circled around like he’d run the bases a thousand times, most of the time he made it home, many times his mind couldn’t find the corner in a circle.  Leaving him mad, empty, and itching.  For a fight, a hit, a stolen base.  Something fueled his fury.  When several thugs hopped on his car’s running board, with his wife in the passenger seat, he gave them an ass whipping so bad, there’s a rumor one was left for dead; Cobb couldn’t remember his name, John Doe or something.  What the hell.  He left another man for dead in a back alley.  Just another John Doe.
    
     Seemed the meaner he got the more focused he became, he loved calling Babe Ruth a nigger, it pissed Ruth off till he slobbered mad.  Cobb looked as the moon arced across the sky, chasing stars as it circled the horizon.  Cobb remembered the man that heckled him from the stands, the smart ass bastard, Cobb could feel his body tense, his fingers and palms itching to burn the man’s neck, to beat his face, and watch the blood run red.  How many times had he sat in this very same rocker, file in hand with patience, as he sharpened and shaped every spike attached to his shoes.  Methodically, the front spikes razor pointed and the rear blunted for traction.  Metal filings underfoot were still trapped in the paint.  He beat that man in the stands badly that night as onlookers gasped in gore.  The man was disabled, missing fingers, and part of his hand, no matter.  Cobb said he didn’t care if the man had feet, he meant it.    
    
     Cobb didn’t need ice for his whiskey, liked it warm, especially on the cool Georgia nights. He’d done it all.  If he had it to do over again, maybe he would have bought more Coca-Cola stock, or perhaps General Motors stock.  Maybe he would have gambled a little less. 
    
     Hell, probably not.
    
      Another belt of whiskey lit his pipes as the glass gleamed in the moonlight.  Old “Dutch” Leonard almost rolled over on him and Tris Speaker for betting on Baseball games.  The bastard.  

     Kennesaw Mountain Landis was a racist bastard, son of a bitch, Cobb called called him every word in the book.  Didn’t give a flying-rat’s ass.  Pencil-necked bastard wouldn’t ban him from baseball.  Not unless Landis wanted baseball’s deepest, darkest fears exposed to the sunlight.  Landis wouldn't call Cobb’s bluff.  He knew better. 

     Some things better left alone.

     Cobb tipped the glass in final salute, the whiskey funneled.  Glass empty, Cobb bid the man goodnight.

     Harry Francis Rose stood sternly, missing his son, wanting to go home.  He felt elated and sad, all in the same breath.  He knew his son wouldn’t be perfect.  If his son only mimicked one fault of this man, yet achieved the same greatness as Ty Cobb, would it be asking too much?  He would be forever proud.  Rose would always be there for his son.  Something Ty Cobb surely missed.  Every beat of his heart, every day of his life --  Cobb missed his dad.  Harry Francis Rose knew it.  Kept it boxed in his mind.  He turned into the Georgia wind and walked . . . .

     Peter Edward Rose would win then eat.

     Pete's father would see to it.