INTRODUCTION

Off in the distance, a swell of commotion attracted onlookers and the spectacle likely resembled a circus. Regulars to the Northern California course were sidetracked by the unusual display—especially for a Sunday on the links. All the attention seemed to be centered on one man, and to the uninformed observer, the individual was not unlike many others playing golf that day. He was in his mid-to-late forties, balding, and slightly overweight. In fact, nothing was particularly exceptional about him, visually speaking. But for those crowded around the man, wearing exceptionally large smiles and hoping for an autograph or handshake, they understood his significance. They realized they were around American sporting excellence, a one-of-a-kind legend that had cemented his place in the annals of Major League Baseball history. Their focus was none other than Tyrus Raymond Cobb, a twenty-four-year veteran of the national pastime.

On that day, February 2, 1936, the news broke that Cobb had received the largest amount of votes for modern inductees into the newly fashioned Baseball Hall of Fame, soon to be opened at Cooperstown, New York. He was essentially chosen number one by writers over all his contemporaries, including Babe Ruth, Honus Wagner, and literally thousands of other players. The 222 votes in his favor were just four short of unanimous, clearly indicative of his widespread esteem, and sportswriter Dick Farrington, amongst others, wondered “how it happened that four experts overlooked him.”1 Cobb, who was in the midst of a golfing round when informed of the balloting results, told a reporter: “I deeply appreciate the honor. I am overwhelmed. I am glad they feel that way about me. I want to thank them all. I’ve played hard, applied myself, and tried to do my best in every case.”2

Playing hard was Cobb’s keystone to success, and his intensity was visible on the field from his earliest games in small town Georgia until his final big league appearance seven years and five months before. Understandably, the image of the ex-ballplayer on the golf course in 1936 was a distant reality from the energetic and brawny competitor lighting basepaths afire during his prime. But even all those years later, Cobb continued to live and breathe the sport. Baseball was in his blood, and the honor bestowed upon him was a fitting acknowledgment of his extraordinary dedication to the game. As amazing as it might sound, when the exalted “Georgia Peach” retired in 1928, he had established ninety baseball records over the course of his career, creating a sphere of dominance that only he could claim. Cobb topped even Babe Ruth, who reportedly retired with seventy-eight baseball records.3

As a member of the Detroit Tigers (1905–26) and Connie Mack’s Philadelphia Athletics (1927–28), Cobb put up statistics that were simply staggering. He owned a lifetime batting average of .367, 4,191 hits, 2,244 runs, 5,863 total bases, and 892 stolen bases, according to the official statistics recorded by Major League Baseball. [Other sources, including baseball-reference.com, acknowledge revised figures to include a .366 batting average, 4,189 hits, 5,854 total bases, and 897 stolen bases.] He hit .300 or better for twenty-three consecutive years, every season but his first (1905), and played 3,033 total games. The American League batting championship was awarded to Cobb 12 times, and he won the 1909 Triple Crown and the 1911 league MVP.4 Additionally, he captured the “Honey Boy” Evans trophy four times from 1909 to ’12 for the best batting average in the majors. By 1939, over three dozen of Cobb’s records were still holding strong, and some of them, incredibly enough, including his lifetime average and total number of batting titles, remain intact today—eighty-seven years after his last game.5

Aside from his hitting abilities, Cobb’s speed, trickiness, and base-running feats were a legend all their own. He was unlike his predecessors in that regard, and revolutionized the game by forcing rival teams to completely alter their defense to combat his methods. On the basepaths, he combined quickness and psychology to confuse opposition players, performing stunts that no one in their right mind ever conceived. And, because of this, he got away with these peculiar maneuvers with great frequency. That included stretching base hits into doubles, running from first to third on bunts, and stealing his way around the diamond to eventually score a run. Pilfering home plate was also a specialty, and Cobb managed to slip underneath the tag of a catcher 54 times in his career, the most in history. (Second in modern times is Max Carey, who had 33 steals of home with the Pittsburgh Pirates and Brooklyn Dodgers.)

Cobb’s reputation wasn’t as pristine as his statistics, and in his ever-determined fierceness, he did many things to get under the skin of both teammates and rivals. He talked trash on the field, which was part of his psychological campaign, slid into the bases hard, often looking to kick the ball free from the gloves of defenders, and wasn’t afraid to mix it up physically. The success of his unorthodox tactics, in itself, was aggravating, and sportswriters and fans in opposing towns were caught up in a kind of love-hate relationship with Cobb, worshipping his unbelievable athletic feats and then letting him have it through boos and taunts, sometimes for no other good reason than he was the great Ty Cobb. Plus, anytime there was even a hint of controversy, the floodgates were open for criticism, and Cobb was the pincushion for a never-ending slew of condemnation.

One of the most enduring allegations surrounding Cobb’s style of play was the claim that he slid into the bases with the metal spikes on the bottom of his shoes maliciously aimed at defenders with a vicious intent to injure. It was an ugly claim, and Cobb denied any deliberate attempt to injure fellow players countless times during and after his career. There were a couple moments, he admitted, when specific animosity turned spiteful, but in terms of his daily game play, slashing rivals was not a premeditated action.6 Another longstanding story that accompanied Cobb’s life was his infamous jaunt into the grandstand in New York to pummel a verbally abusive fan. The partially handicapped spectator was the recipient of a swift beating and critics have used the event as evidence of Cobb’s maniacal personality.

Of course, there were two sides to the story, but regardless of how many times Ty tried to explain his point of view, the scandalous version always reigned supreme. His colorful approach to baseball was bankable to sportswriters, and whenever the opportunity presented itself to feed into his intriguing image, journalists took advantage of the situation. The controversy sold newspapers and, since he consistently created excitement on and off the field, it was easy to lump a series of events together and portray him as baseball’s number one rowdy. Interestingly, had Cobb performed in the television age, his amazing deeds and dynamic style would have fostered an even greater sensation. He was a must-see performer, and the marketability of Cobb as a mainstream TV celebrity would have been huge.

Twenty-three years after the 1936 announcement that he was headed for Cooperstown, Cobb, seventy-two, told a Boston reporter that he was in the “evening” of his life.7 Although he was often in the news, mostly referenced in passing to this or that baseball record and in player comparisons by sportswriters, he was no longer center stage in the public’s consciousness. Much of what had already been written about his devilish time in the national game was accepted as gospel, and was firmly ingrained in baseball lore. But Cobb was still intent on straightening out many of the persisting untruths about his career, and was adamant about setting forth his own life story to paper before it was too late.

Several times a year, he made public appearances at special events and reunion games, and made a sincere effort to return to New York’s baseball shrine for the annual induction ceremonies. Cobb was exceedingly vocal about the failure of writers and the veterans committee to admit worthy stars from his generation to the Hall of Fame in a timely manner, particularly those he figured to be “shamefully omitted.” If it meant temporarily amending the admittance process rules, Cobb was all for it. He explained to The Sporting News, “It won’t cheapen the Hall of Fame to let them in while they are alive and can enjoy the honor. These old-time greats helped build up the game.” Cobb referred to players like Edd Roush, Eppa Rixey, Sam Rice, and Joe Sewell, who would all eventually get into the Hall of Fame, just not while Cobb was alive to see it.8

Cobb was personally affected by the lackadaisical system earlier in the 1950s. At the time, he was advocating recognition for Harry Heilmann, a teammate of his in Detroit for twelve seasons. After Heilmann was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer, Cobb became even pushier for his Hall of Fame recognition, demanding that writers “Let him smell the roses while he’s here, not after he’s gone.” But once it was apparent that there was not enough time for him to be admitted through the normal channels, Cobb visited his friend in the hospital and offered some important news.

“Congratulations, Harry, you’ve made it,” Cobb said, informing him that he was indeed inducted into the Hall. The statement, however, was “a little white lie that was as gracious and as thoughtful a gesture as Ty ever made in his tempestuous life,” according to Arthur Daley of the New York Times.9 It wasn’t until 1952, months after Heilmann’s death, that Harry was actually enshrined in Cooperstown.

Illness began to hinder Cobb’s mobility in 1959. That March, he entered a hospital in Nevada, and received nearly two weeks of treatment for a series of ailments, including back and neck pain, an infected tooth, neuralgia in his face, and high blood sugar.10 These issues were compounded by heart problems and extreme bouts of tension, depression, and alcoholism. Cobb’s condition improved temporarily, but worsened again during the summer. By November, he was in bad shape, and sought a thorough diagnosis from doctors outside San Diego at La Jolla.11 On December 6, he was admitted to Emory University Hospital in Atlanta for further scrutiny and was given a complete top-to-bottom examination. “I’ve had more x-rays and tests in the past few days than I’ve ever had in my life,” Cobb told the Associated Press. He remained upbeat, though, stating, “I’m all right. I’m feeling 100 per cent.”12

According to press reports, Cobb’s back was his severest complaint, and it was attributed to an injury from his active baseball days. Dr. Richard Hugh Wood, his chief physician at Emory, issued a statement, declaring that there was “nothing seriously wrong” with Cobb, and that “routine” tests were being conducted. Other than the back pain, the doctor announced that Cobb appeared “to be in good shape for a man of his age.”13 Wood protected the privacy of his patient and withheld information about his true condition, which was much more dire than revealed. Tests had uncovered that a previous injury wasn’t the origin of his back problems, but that he was suffering from prostate cancer. The disease had already metastasized, spreading to his vertebrae and pelvic bone.14 Cobb told Joe King that a “probable operation” was forthcoming in February 1960, and it remains unclear if this was a second surgery or the original prostate operation he necessitated. Most sources reference Cobb’s prostate surgery as having taken place around December 1959. Regardless, between December 1959 and February 1960, Cobb underwent surgery, radiation treatment, and was placed on a score of medications.15

As could be expected, Cobb was in severe pain at times, and while he was considered immortalized for his baseball feats, his mortality on earth was in severe jeopardy. On December 18, 1959, he was allowed to leave the hospital briefly to spend his seventy-third birthday in his hometown of Royston, Georgia, with friends, and he put on a brave face for the public, telling the United Press International wire service that he felt “wonderful.” He anticipated being fully discharged from Emory within a matter of days so he could return to California to spend Christmas with his children, he explained.16 Shortly thereafter, he did venture west, and rested comfortably at his Nevada and California homes before traveling back to Georgia around mid-January 1960. A few weeks later, he mustered his strength for a journey to New York, where he was going to be honored at two separate dinners.

The arrival of Cobb in New York was a big deal to the local sporting community and reporters lined up to speak with him. Joe King received an especially enlightening interview and was quite attentive of Ty’s behavior and mannerisms. King noted that Ty “never departed from his gay, enthusiastic manner,” despite his obvious pain, and explained how gracious Cobb was, thanking the many people who came by for stopping in to see him. Cobb was happy to visit with “so many old friends,” and answered a multitude of questions about his life and career.

A query was posed about his greatest thrill, and Cobb began to describe his involvement with the Royston Memorial Hospital, established in 1950, and the Ty Cobb Educational Foundation, set up in 1953. He perked up, saying: “My greatest thrill came late in life. Nothing gave me more comfort and satisfaction than being able to build the hospital at Royston, Georgia, in memory of my father and mother, and setting up my educational foundation. If my liver goes bad, I feel better just to get out those brochures and read ’em and try to figure out how we can do a little more for the winners of the scholarships. We can do a lot with the youngsters, sometimes even more than their parents can. I think of them all the time and that’s the way I’m gonna walk out … and go into the shadows.”17 These projects were Cobb’s pride and joy, emphasized in another interview later in 1960 when Cobb added, “It’s the best medicine I have, reading letters from the students we have helped.”18

Cobb was always willing to talk about the hospital and his foundation and expressed how proud he was of their success while in New York. In addition to chatting with King, he sat down with sportswriter Dan Daniel of the New York World Telegram and Sun. Daniel, a longtime baseball pundit, was known for his astute commentary and insight into the players themselves. When it came to Cobb, he didn’t mince words, and there was often a blatant sharpness to his remarks that many of his star-struck peers couldn’t manage to equal. Years earlier, he wrote, “Ty Cobb was not hard to talk to—if he liked you. If he didn’t, you knew it. He was caustic. Very shrewd in his observations, but the most sarcastic hombre baseball has seen—or heard.”19

Daniel’s conversation with Cobb in February 1960 was, again, very revealing for a man in the “evening” of his life.

“In the old days I rarely was received in New York with cheers and acclaim,” Cobb said, reflectively. “It was here that I chased into the stands after a heckler. It was here that I got into so much trouble with the umpires and with Ban Johnson, president of the league. In New York, I fought about as desperately as I ever did to make good. The fans here must have admired me as a player. But they evidently didn’t like me as a personality.”20 It was true, and the way he was perceived wasn’t limited to New York. Cobb was colorful in terms of grit, hustle, and intensity, and he’d banter with fans on occasion, usually in an acrimonious way, but he wasn’t seen as a personable character like Babe Ruth was. He’d sneer before he’d smile on the field and fans didn’t naturally gravitate to him for his charm and charisma like they did other popular stars.

But Cobb’s skills superseded any kind of popularity contest, and overshadowed his more amiable contemporaries. Nevertheless, fans enjoyed razzing Cobb, and hoped their taunts would throw him off his game enough to give their team a chance to win. And if they jostled Cobb enough to get him angry, they’d either see him tantrum in one way or another, or deliver a special performance at the plate—all for the crowd’s benefit. He was good at inspiring awe and, in the end, it didn’t matter who liked him, as he had to be revered for his achievements. Cobb told Daniel that he ventured to New York with “humility and with thanks. I should get down on my hands and knees and thank the game for what it has done for me.” Daniels responded in his column by stating, “Maybe it never occurred to Ty to think about the things he had done for baseball.”21

Daniel, notably, mentioned the fact that Cobb hadn’t penned his autobiography, and wrote that it was “to be deplored” that such a volume hadn’t yet been released. Ty, however, was inching toward the evitable at his own speed, and may have actually spoken to potential editors during his stay in New York. After being readmitted to Emory Hospital in Atlanta a few days later, he continued his treatment, but it became known that Cobb was negotiating with two publishing houses to finally create the authorized story of his life.22 A deal was reached with the largest operation in the business, Doubleday and Company, and the only major component left to decide was who would work as Cobb’s co-author (ghostwriter). The obvious answer was George “Stoney” McLinn, the newspaperman Cobb had worked with covering the World Series for syndicated news outlets decades earlier. It was reported that prior to his death, McLinn was working on a book of “baseball lore” with Cobb, slated for a 1954 release. However, nothing came of it, as McLinn passed away in 1953.23 Conversely, Shirley Cobb Beckworth, Ty’s daughter, said that her father wanted Gene Fowler to work with him on his autobiography. Fowler, the author of biographies on Jimmy Durante and John Barrymore, was also ill and was unable to help Cobb at the time.24

The Sporting News, in June 1960, revealed Cobb’s collaborator to be Clem Boddington, an eminent sports cartoonist and magazine writer from New York City. The two were going to meet at Cobb’s Nevada home near Lake Tahoe and record stories on a tape recorder, then figure out what material was going into the book. Cobb envisioned the project featuring biographical information about his life, clarification on certain controversial moments, and instructional content for youngsters on how to play ball. Cobb was motivated to get started, telling Dick O’Connor, “It’s about time [I wrote my memoirs]. Everybody else has written stories about me.”25 For reasons unknown, Boddington’s tour of duty alongside Cobb was brief, and after several other interim writers, another magazine writer, Alvin J. “Al” Stump, a forty-three-year-old from Santa Barbara, California, took over.26

Stump’s interest in Ty Cobb got off on the wrong foot very early in his writing career. In 1946, as a journalist for the Portland Oregonian, he inaccurately claimed that Joe Percival, a small-time manager in Sheffield, Alabama, in 1904, had been “Cobb’s first manager and the man who pointed his first steps along the diamond trail.”27 By 1960, Stump was a more polished writer, and had contributed innumerable articles in national periodicals. The task of transforming a wealth of memories and documentation into story form for baseball’s “Georgia Peach” was all his, and the two men got to work. It wasn’t long before Cobb’s irrationality, brought upon by his severe health problems, became an issue. Stump held firm, and refused to relent in spite of the enormous, multilayered job.28

Aware of his duty as a man of the public and a baseball Hall of Famer, Cobb was respectful, dignified, and humble when in New York speaking to the press months earlier. These qualities were representative of his true self, and his professional attitude was admirable when his health condition was taken into consideration. Stump was afforded a lengthy glimpse into Cobb’s private life, and there he witnessed the other side of Cobb’s true self, a world in which things weren’t neatly packaged and righteous. It must be said that Cobb was a difficult man to begin with, but his progressive cancer and the tremendous pain he was suffering challenged him—and those around him—from morning to night, and made the simplest of things at times almost impossible to bear.

To deal with his pain, Cobb binged on alcoholic concoctions, and his struggle with liquor had been a lingering problem for some years.29 The demands of writing his long awaited autobiography, his natural high tension personality, and the cancer eating away at his insides undoubtedly created a combustible perfect storm that few individuals could tolerate. But Cobb wasn’t the kind of man to throw in the towel, and once he set out to produce the final word on his life and career, he was thoroughly dedicated to finishing the job. Wild horses, or, in his case, a deadly disease, wasn’t going to be enough to drag him away from completion, and in Stump, Ty had put his absolute trust. He believed that the sportswriter would do his diligence to tell his story accurately, setting the record straight once and for all.

Ty Cobb passed away at 1:18 p.m. on July 17, 1961, at Emory Hospital in Atlanta, and his physician, Dr. Wood, told the press that he died “peacefully and without pain.”30 A few days later, from Santa Barbara, Stump informed the Associated Press that Cobb, shortly before going into the hospital in early June, had indeed completed the principal work on his autobiography, an amazing triumph.31 To capitalize on the publicity surrounding his passing, Stump and Doubleday worked overtime to hurry the story through the editing process. Advance reading copies were mailed out to newspaper sports editors and book reviewers across the nation by September, and a little at a time, notices about the forthcoming release were printed. The interest was astonishing. Wally Provost in the Omaha World Herald wrote, “Five men in our newsroom already are on the waiting list for this Doubleday publication.”32

The book, entitled Ty Cobb: My Life in Baseball, was 283 pages with a foreword by General Douglas MacArthur. It featured a range of stories and descriptions, including tales from his childhood, his tumultuous early days in the majors, and covered a scattering of important events from his career. In the publicity circulating around, Cobb was quoted as saying, “My critics have had their innings. I will have mine now.” And rectifying the misconceptions about his time in baseball was the crux of his autobiography; although, he asserted that it wasn’t an “alibi book.” George W. Clark of the Washington Evening Star stated, “Ty attempted to refute many of the anti-Cobb legends … [and] he made some good arguments in his favor.”33 L. H. Gregory of the Portland Oregonian called it the “finest baseball book ever written,” and stated, “while it confirms some impressions of Ty Cobb, it also gives you others you wouldn’t have dreamed of about him.”34

Cobb’s collaborator had to be praised too, and Gregory noted, “Stump no doubt did organize, put the book together, and perhaps suggest topics, and did it all extremely well.”35 In the Springfield Republican, Donald Bagg wrote, “Mr. Stump rates a cheer for conveying so much of Cobb’s competitive spirit and will to win.”36 The compliments continued and Cobb’s legacy, particularly the voice he wanted to communicate to the world, seemed assured going into the future. But within a matter of months, his voice was going to be completely drowned out by an unexpected source in one of sporting history’s most noteworthy turnabouts. Stump, himself, had organized a separate work about Cobb on the sly, and proponents of the “Georgia Peach” were not prepared for the atom bomb that was about to explode in their collective faces.

Unquestionably, the fascinating personal life of Cobb was of interest to readers and people wanted more insight into the man who set so many baseball records. But was the public clamoring for a firsthand chronicle of Cobb’s brutal last months, a detailed story about his struggle with terminal cancer, focusing on the ugliest and most embarrassing moments of his losing battle? Stump believed so, and his article, titled “Ty Cobb’s Wild, 10-Month Fight to Live,” was featured in the December 1961 edition of True—The Man’s Magazine. Apparently Stump felt it was appropriate to share his experiences during an extremely private time in Cobb’s life, even though his last months were not exactly necessary for public consumption. Instead of considering the personal feelings of Ty’s family and respecting the recently deceased, Stump went forward with the article, and to supporters of Cobb, it was in incredibly bad taste.

Needless to say, there was plenty of material to exploit, and Stump was not holding anything back. He made cruel allegations and cited many examples of Cobb’s out-of-control and contemptible behavior. These ranged from recklessly firing a pistol to his quick tempered, hateful outbursts that were unacceptable in any civilized society. His actions were presumably spawned by his excessive alcohol and pill intake and by the effects of his aggressive cancer. Stump made startling generalizations, and found ways to connect the downcast personality of Cobb in 1960 (once again, the man near death in his early seventies) to the baseball warrior of decades before. He used much of what he garnered to sweepingly paint the rest of Cobb’s life story, utilizing a creative mix of disputed theories, assumptions, and the use of nameless informants.

Ironically, this wasn’t the first time Stump had created similar controversy. Seven years before, a flurry of backlash was ignited by his article on football star Hugh McElhenny, a graduate of the University of Washington and a member of the San Francisco 49ers, also featured in True magazine. Eugene H. Russell, sports editor of the Seattle Times, responded by saying that Stump “apparently doesn’t let facts interfere with his writing, as we know much of his McElhenny tale is pure fiction, derogatory of the university and of Hugh.” Additionally, he cited embellishments “with incidents critical of the university and derisive of McElhenny.” Russell then proceeded to pick apart a number of Stump’s inaccurate statements, offering a rebuttal in each case with confirmed facts.37

Stump likely didn’t all-out fabricate his stories about Cobb, but that makes the public release of such information all the sadder. Cobb’s antics were genuine; at least the stories cannot be completely dispelled as inauthentic. The fact is that Cobb was severely troubled, mentally and physically, and in the kind of pain suffered by terminal cancer patients. Dr. Stewart Brown Jr., a close friend of Cobb’s, did what Russell of the Seattle Times did by taking portions of the Stump article, piece by piece, and offering a rejoinder. His response was printed in full in The Sporting News on January 3, 1962. Brown explained that he met Stump in December 1960 and thought he “seemed like a top-notch type man.” Yet after reading Stump’s article on Cobb, Brown had to ask, “What is the make-up of a man who would write such an article? Principle and honor have been sacrificed.” He added that “Surely [Stump] knew that Cobb’s entire body was riddled with cancer and that certainly he could not be responsible for any of his acts or deeds. Surely one would not judge a person by his acts when in such a state of both physical and mental collapse.”38

“If Stump had truly known the physical make-up of this man,” Brown continued, “he would have realized that in Cobb was a heart that wouldn’t give up—that refused to remain dormant. He had to be active even though his multiple diseases were making him lose his finer grades of discrimination, memory, concentration, insight, equilibrium and such.” Brown was adamant that Stump didn’t know the real Ty Cobb.39 Jack McDonald, a sportswriter in San Francisco and another longtime friend of Cobb, agreed wholeheartedly. He also said he spent time with Cobb during his final year and stated that he “witnessed no wild temper tantrums and there was no eccentric, bizarre behavior such as described in the magazine piece.” He addressed Stump’s claim that Ty was cheap, insisting that although he wasn’t “the last of the big spenders,” he could “cite examples of his generous moments.”40

Brown and McDonald were in concert with the belief that Stump overlooked the “tender and human” side of Cobb and didn’t offer a balanced portrayal of their friend. This was the same complaint Cobb had for decades. Time and again, he lambasted writers with an agenda, asking one sportswriter in 1960, “Why is it that everybody has to have an angle? Just say it the way it happened. I played baseball for a long time and I gave it everything I had … everything.”41

With regard to the unfair reporting, he told ex-boxer James J. Corbett in 1918, “Jesse James and Captain Kidd didn’t have much on me in fierceness—if you’ll take the word of some folks for it. Sometimes when I’d read articles written about me by some of the newspaper boys, I’d actually get afraid of myself—that’s the kind of desperado they pictured me.”42

How would Cobb have felt had he read the Stump article? He wanted his book to set the record straight, but now, as Francis Stann of the Washington Evening Star put it, Stump’s article “perhaps [would] be better remembered than the biography itself.”43 That essentially meant that a ten-page article, harping on the author’s days with a medicated, drunk, dying Ty Cobb was more important than a lifetime of memories offered by Cobb himself—the book he believed people wanted to read—his true memoirs. That was the story that needed to be featured in a 1994 biopic? That was truly, of all the possible narratives, the best, most interesting representation of Cobb? Sensationalism sells. And in the case of Cobb, it did in the 1910s, the 1960s, the 1990s, and everywhere in between. As a result, people are still greatly misinformed about Cobb today, and the exaggerated stories continue to perpetuate.

A major part of Cobb’s contemporary image is the supposition that he was racially prejudiced. As a Southern man from Georgia, he definitely acknowledged the color line and had certain expectations and boundaries, both on the baseball field and off during his playing days. But to casually define him “racist” is far too simplistic, and like everything else about him, certain events in his life have to be thoroughly explained in context. One thing can be said for sure, no one can honestly say what beliefs were in his heart one way or another. The facts can be studied, but the absolute truth will never be known.

Whether Ty Cobb was the most talented ballplayer in history is something to be argued. He can be endlessly compared to the superstars of baseball history and his numbers will be admired for the rest of time. But his statistics don’t tell the whole story. Cobb was more than the myths and the tales passed down through the years by colorful sportswriters. To really know Cobb, the man, people have to look past the fiction and the work of Hollywood and entertain the idea that he was much more complicated and complex than ever realized before. The exploitative version of his life story did sell books and newspapers, but it left the Cobb legacy with decades of regurgitated yarns. These twisted truths and innuendos have just about crippled the memory of Cobb in the modern era.

Cobb, in 1909, discussed the claims that he was deliberately spiking basemen with a St. Louis writer. He told his side of the story, denying that he was purposefully cutting down rivals, and pleaded for a sense of fairness. “I don’t mind the bleachers roasting me,” he said, “but put me right, will you?”44 The St. Louis journalist likely did what he could, but over one hundred years have passed with many of the old-time allegations still intact. With this volume, readers can absorb the full account of Cobb’s life and make a more informed decision on their own about Cobb’s standing as of 2015. It is hoped that this definitive story will show his competitive fire and highlight his natural yearning to not only win, but to be the best. He was in a war each and every time he stepped onto the field, and regardless of what any defender said, the basepaths were his and his alone.