Ty Cobb as Detroit

The old liquor store on Trumbull Avenue was abandoned until a handyman turned it into a hip bar about three years ago. Motor City Ghettoblaster is now on tap at Woodbridge Pub, located on the outer edge of the once-crumbling Detroit neighborhood that bears its name. The Woodbridge Community Garden is across the way, home to tomatoes, lettuces, and outdoor art. Not far from here, at the corner of Commonwealth and WillisAlexandrine, you’ll find the Charbonneau house: A shabby but regal place, rich with gables and terraces, built by a turn-of-the-century condiment magnate. It overwhelms the pretty but forgettable red-brick duplex next door, the one with wooden swings hanging from the roofed porch. On one side of that duplex lives the young co-founder of City Bird, a shop that sells handmade wares from Rust Belt cities. On the other, the memory of Ty Cobb.

One hundred years ago, Cobb moved into the north side of the three-story duplex on Commonwealth. The fields of Woodbridge were filling fast with an eclectic collection of Victorian homes, built densely to accommodate the city’s booming population. The star center fielder brought with him his pale and plump-cheeked wife, Charlie, and their son, Ty Jr., who was barely a year old. Daughter Shirley would be born that June. Ash and elm trees, front porches and expansive windows: These were treasured by the aspiring middle and upper-middle class families moving into Woodbridge, including the Cobbs. Developed as a “streetcar suburb,” Woodbridge was only a short ride on the rail to downtown. And their Commonwealth home was close enough to the Tigers ballpark for Cobb to make a habit of walking his dogs down Trumbull to home games.

It was a good year for Cobb, who died 50 years ago this month. In 1911, he was in the middle of a three-year contract with the Tigers for one of the highest salaries in the league. Cobb had just begun buying stock in General Motors, a shrewd business move that would make him a millionaire within the decade. His face was appearing on Coca-Cola advertisements and tobacco cards. And he was on the brink of his greatest season in baseball. He became the first American League MVP and reached 1,000 hits. He was 24 years old.

The brick duplex on Commonwealth wasn’t Cobb’s only Detroit home, but other structures in which he lived are long gone. Even locals are forgiven for not knowing a thing about the house in Woodbridge. The only indications that Cobb lived here are the framed black-and-white photos in the dining room: Cobb with his bat, Cobb with his family, Cobb almost smiling on a promotional poster for a home tour. These are part of the collection of Cindy Lozon, the social worker who owns Cobb’s half of the house. A tidy and talkative woman, she long supplemented her salary by selling beer and greeting fans at the Kansas City and Detroit ballparks. She moved into the Cobb house in 2001, tried to sell it, rented it to a couple she now calls “the pigs,” and moved back in this June, bringing along Harley and Rudy, her Bassett hounds. Lozon plans to stay for good. “Let’s face it,” she says. “I’ll die here.”

The ballclub, however, played its final game at the corner of Michigan and Trumbull in 1999. Outside their new home in downtown Detroit, pristine Comerica Park, you can find a bronze plaque honoring Cobb, the original member of the National Baseball Hall of Fame. First displayed nearly 50 years ago, the plaque reads: “Greatest Tiger of All. A Genius in Spikes.” A statue captures Cobb in a slide. His numberless jersey is as “retired” as it logically can be.

Although Cobb lived at the Commonwealth home through the three most monumental years of his career, neither the Tigers franchise nor the city of Detroit has ever approached Lozon about elevating its legacy. Its history instead spreads through word of mouth — if it spreads at all. Contradictory details percolate in online message boards. Lozon herself found out about its past when she overheard the previous owner mention it at a party hosted by her employer. Two tourists from Japan got word, and showed up on Lozon’s porch to pose for photos. Someone left a photo of Cobb at her doorstep; she displayed it because “I feel like I owe it to the house to do that.” When a workman came to the house, he was struck still when he learned of its history. “Do you think those are spike marks on the stairs?” he asked Lozon, wide-eyed. “I hardly think his wife would allow him in the house with his spikes!” she huffed. The man refused to finish his job. He considered the walls sacred, and wouldn’t disfigure them with a drill. He left the house quietly.

The red-brick duplex on Commonwealth Street remains one of those curious little secrets in a city that is proud of its secrets.

Bennett Park was in its last year of life in 1911. The single-deck wooden structure sat 14,000 and it hosted World Series games in 1907, 1908, and 1909 (none of which t