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Authors: Tom Stanton
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set off Cochrane like Walker. On May 21 he got picked off second base—the third time he had been caught in a month. Another ten dollar fine followed. The Tigers had decided that the penalty money would go to the clubhouse teen at the end of the season. “Unless the [Tigers] change their ways,” noted a reporter, “the lad will probably step right out and buy the ball park from Mr. Navin as soon as he receives his dough.”
Cochrane couldn’t catch a break. The streak of aggravation even touched his personal life in a minor way when his son’s bike was stolen. Hoping the thief would return it, police portrayed the disappearance as possibly a mistake, noting that nine-year-old Gordon might have lost his ride. But he hadn’t. The twenty-eight-inch, red-and-white, chrome-wheeled bike with electric lights on the front and rear had been pilfered as more of the Cochranes’ belongings were transferred from Philadelphia to their apartment near Palmer Park. It was the kind of bike that not every family could afford, especially during the Depression.
Cochrane was gloomy, tense, and often angry. Connie Mack, his beloved old boss, noticed it when his Philadelphia Athletics came to town on Wednesday, May 23. Mack was seventy-one, a year older than Henry Ford, whom he had met during spring training. Mack stood out on the ball field in part because of his age—nearly two decades older than anyone else in the dugout—but also because of his clothes. Mack wore a business suit on the field. His public persona was that of a wise old grandfather. After his team blistered the Tigers 11–5, Mack headed over to the Detroit Yacht Club, where he was being honored. Cochrane was sitting in the high-ceilinged, chandeliered lounge looking glum.
“What’s the matter, Mickey,” said Mack. “Don’t you feel well today?”
“I’d feel better if we’d won that game this afternoon,” Cochrane replied.
Mack had long ago learned to move on after a loss.
University of Michigan football coach Harry Kipke, Athletics slugger Jimmie Foxx, and Red Wings coach Jack Adams were sitting with Cochrane. All had come to hear Mack speak. Kipke told Cochrane he had a “hunted look” in his eyes.
“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Are the wolves out already?”
Cochrane didn’t laugh. He admitted that he had been getting nasty letters. “Some of them are tough, and it’s tough on the boys,” he said. “Hell knows they’re trying.”
Adams tried to cheer him. “Bet you five bucks that for every letter you get calling you a tramp, you get a dozen telling you you’re okay,” he said.
It didn’t work. Cochrane began listing his team’s failures. Before he got far, Kipke cut him off. “It’s a mystery to me why a manager like you with a team in third place in a tough league should worry. . . . Here’s what I’m worrying about: Where will I crawl next fall after Michigan takes a beating from Ohio State, Illinois, and Minnesota? Now, there’s something to worry about.” (He was right to be worried; the Wolverines would lose all of those games and more, scoring only twenty-one points all season.)
At the banquet in front of a thousand club members, Mack talked of Cochrane without mentioning the encounter in the lobby. Mack recalled how he had motivated his team during a slump years ago. Cochrane was the hardest-working player on the Athletics and all of his teammates knew it. Mack contrived to rally the others by scolding Cochrane publicly for the team’s flop. He figured the lecture would force Cochrane’s teammates to reflect on their own lackluster contributions. In that long-ago outburst, he placed the blame squarely on Cochrane.
“I want to apologize for saying that to Mickey,” he told the crowd on Belle Isle. Mack noted, however, that that the ploy had worked and the team had rebounded. More seriously, he added, “I let Mickey come to Detroit because I didn’t want to stand between him and a career as a manager. That
Cochrane couldn’t catch a break. The streak of aggravation even touched his personal life in a minor way when his son’s bike was stolen. Hoping the thief would return it, police portrayed the disappearance as possibly a mistake, noting that nine-year-old Gordon might have lost his ride. But he hadn’t. The twenty-eight-inch, red-and-white, chrome-wheeled bike with electric lights on the front and rear had been pilfered as more of the Cochranes’ belongings were transferred from Philadelphia to their apartment near Palmer Park. It was the kind of bike that not every family could afford, especially during the Depression.
Cochrane was gloomy, tense, and often angry. Connie Mack, his beloved old boss, noticed it when his Philadelphia Athletics came to town on Wednesday, May 23. Mack was seventy-one, a year older than Henry Ford, whom he had met during spring training. Mack stood out on the ball field in part because of his age—nearly two decades older than anyone else in the dugout—but also because of his clothes. Mack wore a business suit on the field. His public persona was that of a wise old grandfather. After his team blistered the Tigers 11–5, Mack headed over to the Detroit Yacht Club, where he was being honored. Cochrane was sitting in the high-ceilinged, chandeliered lounge looking glum.
“What’s the matter, Mickey,” said Mack. “Don’t you feel well today?”
“I’d feel better if we’d won that game this afternoon,” Cochrane replied.
Mack had long ago learned to move on after a loss.
University of Michigan football coach Harry Kipke, Athletics slugger Jimmie Foxx, and Red Wings coach Jack Adams were sitting with Cochrane. All had come to hear Mack speak. Kipke told Cochrane he had a “hunted look” in his eyes.
“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Are the wolves out already?”
Cochrane didn’t laugh. He admitted that he had been getting nasty letters. “Some of them are tough, and it’s tough on the boys,” he said. “Hell knows they’re trying.”
Adams tried to cheer him. “Bet you five bucks that for every letter you get calling you a tramp, you get a dozen telling you you’re okay,” he said.
It didn’t work. Cochrane began listing his team’s failures. Before he got far, Kipke cut him off. “It’s a mystery to me why a manager like you with a team in third place in a tough league should worry. . . . Here’s what I’m worrying about: Where will I crawl next fall after Michigan takes a beating from Ohio State, Illinois, and Minnesota? Now, there’s something to worry about.” (He was right to be worried; the Wolverines would lose all of those games and more, scoring only twenty-one points all season.)
At the banquet in front of a thousand club members, Mack talked of Cochrane without mentioning the encounter in the lobby. Mack recalled how he had motivated his team during a slump years ago. Cochrane was the hardest-working player on the Athletics and all of his teammates knew it. Mack contrived to rally the others by scolding Cochrane publicly for the team’s flop. He figured the lecture would force Cochrane’s teammates to reflect on their own lackluster contributions. In that long-ago outburst, he placed the blame squarely on Cochrane.
“I want to apologize for saying that to Mickey,” he told the crowd on Belle Isle. Mack noted, however, that that the ploy had worked and the team had rebounded. More seriously, he added, “I let Mickey come to Detroit because I didn’t want to stand between him and a career as a manager. That
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